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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..84067f4 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #60402 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60402) diff --git a/old/60402-8.txt b/old/60402-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ff2cc25..0000000 --- a/old/60402-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5076 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 1), by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 1) - -Author: Various - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: October 1, 2019 [EBook #60402] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, MARCH *** - - - - -Produced by Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was -produced from images made available by the Modernist Journal -Project, Brown and Tulsa Universities, -http://www.modjourn.org. - - - - - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Literature Drama Music Art - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - MARCH, 1914 - - A Letter John Galsworthy 3 - Five Japanese Prints Arthur Davison Ficke 3 - "The Dark Flower" and the "Moralists" Margaret C. Anderson 5 - A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama DeWitt C. Wing 8 - The Lost Joy Floyd Dell 10 - Paderewski and the New Gods The Editor 11 - The Major Symphony George Soule 13 - The Prophet of a New Culture George Burman Foster 14 - How a Little Girl Danced Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 18 - The New Note Sherwood Anderson 23 - Rahel Varnhagen: Feminist Margery Currey 25 - Tagore as a Dynamic George Soule 32 - The Meaning of Bergsonism Llewellyn Jones 38 - Rupert Brooke's Poetry 29 - Ethel Sidgwick's "Succession" 34 - Letters of William Vaughn Moody 24 - Emerson's Journals 42 - The Critics' Critic 20 - New York Letter 43 - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - Fine Arts Building - CHICAGO - - Volume 1 Number 1 - - Copyright, 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson - - 25 cents a copy $2.50 a year - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - MARCH, 1914 - - - - - Announcement - - - "The realm of art is prodigious; next to life itself the vastest - realm of man's experience." - -Appreciation has its outlet in art; and art (to complete the circle and -the figure) has its source in--owes its whole current--to appreciation. -That is, the tides of art would cease to ebb and flow were it not for -the sun and moon of appreciation. - -This function of the sun and moon is known as criticism. But criticism -as an art has not flourished in this country. We live too swiftly to -have time to be appreciative; and criticism, after all, has only one -synonym: appreciation. In a world whose high splendor is our chief -preoccupation the quality of our appreciation is the important thing. - -Life is a glorious performance: quite apart from its setting, in spite -of the kind of "part" one gets, everybody is given at least his chance -to act. We may do our simple best with the roles we receive; we may -change our "lines" if we're inventive enough to think of something -better; we may alter our "business" to get our personalities across more -effectively; or we may boldly accost the stage manager, hand back the -part he'd cast us for, and prove our right to be starred. The player who -merely holds madame's cloak may do it with dignity and grace; and he who -changes his role, with a fine freedom and courage, discovers that he's -not acting but living his part! For this reason we feel that we needn't -be accused of an unthinking "all's-right-with-the-world" attitude when -we assert that life is glorious. - -And close to Life--so close, from our point of view, that it keeps -treading on Life's heels--is this eager, panting Art who shows us the -wonder of the way as we rush along. We may as well acknowledge right -here that we've never had a friend (except in one or two rare instances) -who hasn't shaken his head at us paternally about this attitude toward -art. "It's purely transitional," he says, tolerantly; "life is so much -more interesting, you see, that you're bound to substitute people for -art, eventually. It really doesn't matter so much that Alice Meynell -wrote 'Renouncement' as that Mrs. Jones next door has left her husband." -Well, he's wrong; at least, he can't speak for us. Wells said to save -the kitten and let the Mona Lisa burn; who would consider anything else? -We think it's rather silly in our paternal friend to argue with us so -heatedly--beside the point! It's not a question as to which is more -important--"Renouncement" or Mrs. Jones. We're merely trying to say that -we're intensely interested in Mrs. Jones, but that Mrs. Meynell has made -our lives more wonderful--permanently. - -THE LITTLE REVIEW means to reflect this attitude toward life and art. -Its ambitious aim is to produce criticism of books, music, art, drama, -and life that shall be fresh and constructive, and intelligent from the -artist's point of view. For the instinct of the artist to distrust -criticism is as well founded as the mother's toward the sterile woman. -More so, perhaps; for all women have some sort of instinct for -motherhood, and all critics haven't an instinct for art. Criticism that -is creative--that is our high goal. And criticism is never a merely -interpretative function; it _is_ creation: it gives birth! It's not -necessary to cite the time-worn illustration of Da Vinci and Pater to -prove it. - -Books register the ideas of an age; this is perhaps their chief claim to -immortality. But much that passes for criticism ignores this aspect of -the case and deals merely with a question of literary values. To be -really interpretative--let alone creative--criticism must be a blend of -philosophy and poetry. We shall try very hard to achieve this difficult -combination. - -Also, we mean to print articles, poems, stories that seem to us -definitely interesting, or--to use a much-abused adjective--vital. Our -point of view shall not be restrictive; we may present the several -judgments of our various enthusiastic contributors on one subject in the -same issue. The net effect we hope will be stimulating and what we like -to call releasing. - -Feminism? A clear-thinking magazine can have only one attitude; the -degree of ours is ardent! - -Finally, since THE LITTLE REVIEW, which is neither directly nor -indirectly connected in any way with any organization, society, company, -cult or movement, is the personal enterprise of the editor, it shall -enjoy that untrammelled liberty which is the life of Art. - -And now that we've made our formal bow we may say confidentially that we -take a certain joyous pride in confessing our youth, our perfectly -inexpressible enthusiasm, and our courage in the face of a serious -undertaking; for those qualities mean freshness, reverence, and victory! -At least we have got to the age when we realize that all beautiful -things make a place for themselves sooner or later in the world. And we -_hope_ to be very beautiful! - -If you've ever read poetry with a feeling that it was your religion, -your very life; if you've ever come suddenly upon the whiteness of a -Venus in a dim, deep room; if you've ever felt music replacing your -shabby soul with a new one of shining gold; if, in the early morning, -you've watched a bird with great white wings fly from the edge of the -sea straight up into the rose-colored sun--if these things have happened -to you and continue to happen till you're left quite speechless with the -wonder of it all, then you'll understand our hope to bring them nearer -to the common experience of the people who read us. - - The more I see of academicism, the more I distrust it. If I had - approached painting as I have approached book-writing and music, - that is to say, by beginning at once to do what I wanted ... I - should have been all right.--_The Note-Books of Samuel Butler._ - - Poetry is in Nature just as much as carbon is.--Emerson's - _Journals_ (1856-1863). - - Life is like music; it must be composed by ear, feeling and - instinct, not by rule.--_The Note-Books of Samuel Butler._ - - - - - A Letter from Galsworthy - - - Written from Taormina, February 23, 1914. - -MY DEAR MADAM: - -You ask me to bid your magazine good speed; and so far as I have any -right, I do indeed. It seems you are setting out to watch the street of -Life from a high balcony, where at all events the air should be fresh -and sunrise sometimes visible. I hope you will decide to sleep out there -under the stars, for what kills most literary effort is the hothouse air -of temples, clubs, and coteries, that, never changed, breeds in us by -turn febrility and torpor. Enthusiasms are more convincing from those -who have not told their loves too often. And criticism more poignant -from one who has been up at dawn, seen for himself and put down his -impression before he goes on 'Change. There is a saying of de Maupassant -about a writer sitting down before an object until he has seen it in the -way that he alone can see it, seen it with the part of him which makes -him This man and not That. For the creative artist and the creative -critic there is no rule, I think, so golden. And I did seem to notice in -America that there was a good deal of space and not much time; and that -without too much danger of becoming "Yogis" people might perhaps sit -down a little longer in front of things than they seemed to do. But I -noticed too a great energy and hope. These will be your servants to -carry through what will not, surely, be just an exploit or adventure, -but a true and long comradeship with effort that is worth befriending. - -So all good fortune! - - Very faithfully yours, - JOHN GALSWORTHY. - - - - - Five Japanese Prints - - - ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE - - - I KIYONOBU SPEAKS - - The actor on his little stage - Struts with a mimic rage.-- - Across my page - My passion in his form shall tower from age to age. - - What he so crudely dreams - In vague and fitful gleams, - The crowd esteems.-- - Well! let the future judge, if his or mine this seems-- - - This calm Titanic mould - Stalking in colours bold - Fold upon fold-- - This lord of dark, this dream I dreamed of old! - - - II FIGURE BY OKUMURA MASANOBU - - Garbed in flowing folds of light, - Azure, emerald, rose, and white, - Watchest thou across the night. - - Crowned with splendor is thine head: - All the princes great and dead - Round thy limbs their state have shed-- - - Calm, immutable to stand-- - Gracious head and poisèd hand-- - O'er the years that flow like sand. - - - III PILLAR-PRINT BY KIYOMITSU - - A place for giant heads to take their rest - Seems her pale breast. - - Her sweeping robe trails like the cloud and wind - Storms leave behind. - - The ice of the year, and its Aprilian part, - Sleep in her heart. - - Wherefore, small marvel that her footsteps be - Like strides of Destiny! - - - IV PILLAR-PRINT BY TOYONOBU - - O lady of the long robes, the slow folds flowing-- - Lady of the white breast, the dark and lofty head-- - Dwells there any wonder, the way that thou art going-- - Or goest thou toward the dead? - - So calm thy solemn steps, so slow the long lines sweeping - Of garments pale and ghostly, of limbs as grave as sleep-- - I know not if thou, spectre, hast love or death in keeping, - Or goest toward which deep. - - Thou layest thy robes aside with gesture large and flowing-- - Is it for love or sleep--is it for life or death? - I would my feet might follow the path that thou art going, - And thy breath be my breath. - - - V PILLAR-PRINT BY HARUNOBU - - From an infinite distance, the ghostly music! - Few and slender the tones, of delicate silver, - As stars are broidered on the veil of evening.... - - He passes by, the flute and the dreaming player-- - Slow are his steps, his eyes are gravely downcast; - His pale robes sway in long folds with his passing. - - Out of the infinite distance, a ghostly music - Returns--in slender tones of delicate silver, - As stars are broidered on the veil of evening. - - - - - "The Dark Flower" and the "Moralists" - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - - _The Dark Flower_, by John Galsworthy. (Charles Scribner's Sons, New - York.) - -A book that has beauty as it's given to few books to achieve it has been -the innocent cause of more ignorant, naïve, and stupid condemnation than -anything published for a long time. Even the English critics--who -usually avoid these shallows--in several cases hit the rocks with awful -force. And all because a man with the soul of the old gods chose to -tell, quite simply and with inexpressible beauty, the truth about an -artist. _The Dark Flower_ was everybody's opportunity to deepen his -vision, but nearly everybody decided to look upon it as an emotional -redundancy. Perhaps this doesn't do some of them justice: I believe a -good many of them considered it positively dangerous! - -My quite spontaneous tribute to Galsworthy's Mark Lennan--before I'd -heard anyone discuss him--was that here was a man a woman would be glad -to trust her soul to. And, in view of how silly it is for a woman to -trust her soul to anyone but herself, I still insisted that one could do -it with Mark Lennan: because he'd not take charge of anyone's soul!--his -wife's least of all. Of course, to love a man of his sort would mean -unhappiness; but women who face life with any show of bravery face -unhappiness as part of the day's work. It remains to decide whether one -will reach high and break a bone or two over something worth having, or -play safe and take a pale joy in one's unscarred condition. With Mark -Lennan a woman would have had--à la Browning--her perfect moment; and -such things are rare enough to pay well for, if necessary. - -All of which is making a very personal issue of _The Dark Flower_; but -it's the kind of book you've got to be personal about; you revise your -list of friends on a basis of their attitude toward Galsworthy. - -After I'd finished _The Dark Flower_--and it had never occurred to my -naïve mind that anyone would disagree with me about it--various persons -began to tell me how wrong I was. Mark Lennan was a cad and a -weakling--decidedly the kind of person to be kept out of a good novel. -The very beauty of the book made it insidious, someone said; such art -expended in defense of immorality would soon tend to confuse our -standards. Someone else remarked patronizingly: "Oh, _The Dark Flower_ -may be well done and all that, but personally I've always had a passion -for the normal!" But, most maddening of all, I think, were those readers -of thrillers, of sweet, sentimental stories--those persons who patronize -comic opera exclusively because they "see enough tragedy in life to -avoid it in the theater"--who asked earnestly: "But, after all, what's -the use of such books? What possible _good do they do_?" - -On another page of this review such questions are answered with a -poignancy I dare not compete with. I want to try, instead, to tell why -_The Dark Flower_ seems to me an altogether extraordinary piece of work. - -In the first place, constructively. The story covers three episodes of a -man's love life: Spring, with its awakening; Summer, with its deep -passion; and Autumn, with its desperate longing for another Spring. But -the handling of the episodes is so unepisodic that you feel you've been -given the man's whole life, day by day, from Oxford to that final going -down the years--_sans_ youth, _sans_ spring, _sans_ beauty, _sans_ -passion; _sans_ everything save that "faint, glimmering light--far out -there beyond...." This effect of completeness is achieved, I think, by -the remarkable intensity of the writing, by the clever (and by no means -easy) method of sometimes allowing the characters the author's -prerogative of addressing the audience directly. Highly subjective in -everything that he does, Galsworthy has reached a climax of subjectivity -here: _The Dark Flower_ is as personal in its medium as music. - -In the second place--the great matter of style. Every page shows the -very poetry of prose writing; there's an inevitability about its choice -of beautiful and simple words that makes them seem a part of the nature -they describe. For instance, to choose at random from a multitude of -exquisite things: "... under the stars of this warm Southern night, -burning its incense of trees and flowers"; or, "And he sat for a long -time that evening under a large lime-tree on a knoll above the -Serpentine. There was very little breeze, just enough to keep alive a -kind of whispering. What if men and women, when they had lived their -gusty lives, became trees! What if someone who had burned and ached were -now spreading over him this leafy peace--this blue-black shadow against -the stars? Or were the stars, perhaps, the souls of men and women -escaped for ever from love and longing? ... If only for a moment he -could desert his own heart, and rest with the trees and stars!" With a -single clause like "for ever part of the stillness and the passion of a -summer night" Galsworthy gets effects that some poets need three or four -verses for. In one place he defines for all time a Chopin mazurka as "a -little dancing dirge of summer"; in another gives you with one stroke an -impression of his hero that it's impossible to forget: "He looks as if -he were seeing sands and lions." - -In the third place, Galsworthy's psychology is profound--impregnable. -One simple characterization will serve to illustrate: he describes a -man's face as having the candour of one at heart a child--"that simple -candour of those who have never known how to seek adventures of the -mind, and have always sought adventures of the body." - -As to the lesson of _The Dark Flower_--its philosophy, its "moral"--I -can only say that it hasn't any such thing; that is, while it's full to -the brim of philosophy, it doesn't attempt to force a philosophy upon -you. It offers you the truth about a human being and lets it go at -that--which seems to be the manner of not a few who have written -greatly. For the other sort of thing, go to any second-rate novelist you -happen to admire; he'll give you characters who have a hard time of it -and tell you just where they're right and where they're wrong. I can see -how you feel you're getting more for your money. - -I can't help feeling that everything Galsworthy has done has had its -special function in making _The Dark Flower_ possible. The sociology of -_Fraternity_, the passionate pleading of _Justice_ and _Strife_, the -incomparable emotional experiments of _A Commentary_, the -intellectuality of _The Patrician_--all these have contributed to the -noble simplicities and the noble beauty of _The Dark Flower_. - - - - - The Garden - - - My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, - Into thy garden; thine be happy hours - Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, - From root to crowning petal thine alone. - - Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown - Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers. - But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers - To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown. - - For as these come and go, and quit our pine - To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers, - Sing one song only from our alder-trees, - - My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine, - Flit to the silent world and other summers, - With wings that dip beyond the silver seas. - - --_Alice Meynell's Poems._ (Charles Scribner's Sons.) - - - - - A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama - - - DEWITT C. WING - - _Mr. Faust_, by Arthur Davison Ficke. (Mitchell Kennerley, New - York.) - - Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme? There can - be any number of Supremes.--Whitman. - -Mr. Faust is the embodiment of the Nietzschean attitude toward the -universe. This characterization consciously ignores the legendary Faust -of Goethe as having no vital kinship with his namesake. There is of -course a skeletal likeness one to the other, but the hero in Mr. Ficke's -drama is incarnated with modern flesh and endued with a supreme will. -His unconquerable spirit is not that of Goethe's _Faust_ but of -Friedrich Nietzsche. Incidentally and singularly it is the spirit of -Whitman. And these two men, more than any other two or twenty in the -realm of literature, represent the undying god Pan, or the spirit of -Youth. Nietzsche and Whitman are the understanding comrades of the -young-hearted and open-minded. - -_Mr. Faust's_ creator may have no conscious knowledge of Whitman's -poetry, which is a matter of no moment, but he has read Nietzsche, and -that is momentous--indispensable--in relation to this splendid result of -white-heat intellection. I say intellection because _Mr. Faust_ is not -so much a work of art as a remarkable example of reproduction. I know -that, although the thought and feeling of the work rise in places to the -power of an inspiration wholly personal to the author, never "Thus Spake -Zarathustra." For that is an original, authentic voice which, like -everything else in nature, has no substitute or duplicate. - -I can fancy a strong, healthy, organically cultured young man, just -beginning to feel his way into the realities that lie outside the -American cornbelt, by chance taking a peep into one of Nietzsche's great -books, and, fascinated and quickened by that marvelously contagious god, -leaping to new heights of his own manhood. I should guess that in this -instance the young man, who happens to be a lawyer, thirty-one years -old, living at Davenport, Ia., was temporarily Christianized by bad -luck, illness or something of the sort, and in this extremity, kicked by -Nietzsche, experienced the feeling of personal adequacy to which Mr. -Faust gives utterance. Recovering himself, he avowed his own godhood, -even to the last ditch! And that is the triumphant Youth--the -Nietzsche--of the thing. - -A day or two subsequent to the appearance of Mr. Ficke's book upon the -market I had the pleasure of hearing it read, with well-nigh perfect -sympathy and appreciation, by the foremost Nietzschean expositor in this -country. Like other listeners I was amazed, charmed and aroused. Were -these results referable to the play alone or in part to the reader, or -to both? To what extent, I was compelled to ask, was the effect illusory -or hypnotic? I had read some of Ficke's verse, which had given no -intimation of anything in its author so heroically Nietzschean as _Mr. -Faust_. I had consequently tabbed Ficke as probably a poetic -possibility, provided he lived a dozen years in an involuntary hell, -undergoing a new birth. Entertaining the doubts indicated by my -questions, I read _Mr. Faust_ to myself, trying it in my fashion by the -trees, the stars and the lake. Subjected to this test the play did not -have the ring and lift which I had heard and felt when it was -read--perhaps I should say given an added vitality--by a Nietzschean -philosopher. It now impressed me as an extraordinary _tour de force_, -reaching in some of its passages a species of accidental -trans-Nietzscheanism. - -Written in blank verse, the superior quality of which is admirably -sustained, the style of the drama is undeniably poetical, as Edwin -Björkman, the editor of Mr. Kennerley's Modern Drama Series, states in -an interesting biographical sketch; but where there is so much -consciousness of workmanship--so much preoccupation with an imported -idea instead of sweeping control by an inner, personal urge like that, -for example, which produced _Thus Spake Zarathustra_--poetry is not to -be expected. What surprises me is that, despite this restriction, Mr. -Ficke strides upward in many lines to the borderland of the gods. In the -first three acts he writes as one possessed--as an intellectualist -furiously interested in Americanizing, if you please, the racial -implications of the philosophy of a superhumanity which will always be -associated with the name of his temporary master, Nietzsche. In these -acts there is a deal of amazing revealment of insight; of aspiration for -transcendent goals; of the spiritual insatiability of man. And there is -a cold humor. Underneath the whole thing lies its own by-product: social -dynamite! - -I think that Mr. Ficke finished his play in three acts, but he added two -more--to make it five, I was about to say, but in the fifth he achieves -a measurable justification, for the last sentence, "Touch me across the -dusk," is poetry--the wonderful words of the dying Faust, addressed to -Midge, the only person who understood him. - -Near the middle of the opening act, Faust, roused by an inquiring mind -to an analytical protest against things as they are, says, - - ... I would go - Out to some golden sun-lighted land - Of silence. - -That is poetical; it is cosmic in its feeling. Looking at a bust of -Washington, he enviously--no, compassionately--remarks, - - ... Not a star - In all the vaults of heaven could trouble you - With whisperings of more transcendent goals. - -At this juncture Satan appears, gains recognition by recalling an -incident involving Faust with a blackmailing woman in a college during -his youth, and thereafter tempts him into empty, unsatisfying paradises. -In his wandering and winding pilgrimage through the world Faust makes -the footprints that we recognize as those of our own humanity, seeking -its way--somewhither. He is offered but rejects peace, happiness, -salvation and all the rest of their related consolations, knowing that -none of them could satisfy his restless heart. To his uncomprehending -friends he is lost, and Satan himself, to whom in such circumstances he -is obviously resigned by society, fails to claim him. But Midge, the -heroine, knew him; she could touch him across the dusk, which was his -kind of immortality. And so Faust, with a vague consciousness of his own -godhood, a sense of his own supremacy, an unshakable faith in one -thing--himself--passed from the earthly freedom of his will into the -great release. - -It is altogether too early in the morning of humanity to expect to see -this play or one like it on the stage. That it should be written by a -young American and published by a young Englishman is enough to satisfy -those who would enjoy its presentation, and those to whom it would be -Greek or "unpleasant," whether they saw it or read it, must wait for its -truth through their children--across the dusk! - - - - - The Lost Joy - - - FLOYD DELL - -There was once a lady (I forget her name) who said that love was for -women one of the most important things in the world. She made the remark -and let it go at that. She did not write a book about it. If she had -considered it necessary she would doubtless have written such a book. - -Consider the possibility--a book entitled _Woman and Love_, a book -proving with logic and eloquence that woman ought to love, and that, -unless she loved, the highest self-development was impossible to her and -to the race! - -It is not entirely absurd. Such a book might have been necessary. If -half of all womankind, through some change in our social and ethical -arrangements, refrained from love as something at once disagreeable and -ungenteel, and if the other half loved under conditions disastrous to -health and spirit, then there might have been need for a book preaching -to women the gospel of love. It would have been time to urge that, -hateful as the conditions might be, love was for women, nevertheless, a -good thing, a fine thing, a wonderful and necessary thing. It would have -been time to break down the prejudice which made one-half of womankind -lead incomplete and futile lives, and to raise love itself to its proper -dignity. - -Well, we are in a condition like that today, only it is not love, it is -work that has lost its dignity in the lives of women. It is not love, it -is work from which one-half of womankind refrains as from something at -once disagreeable and ungenteel, while the other half of womankind -performs it under conditions disastrous to health and spirit. - -There is need today for a book preaching to women the gospel of work. It -is time to break down the prejudice which makes one-half of womankind -lead incomplete and futile, because idle, lives. We need a book to show -women what work should mean to them. - -And, curiously enough, the book exists. It is Olive Schreiner's _Woman -and Labor_. It is a wise book and a beautiful book. There are statistics -in it, but there is eloquence flaming on every page. It is a book of the -joy and the significance of work for women. - -When Olive Schreiner says "work," she means it. She does not refer to -the makeshifts which masquerade under the term of "social usefulness." -She means work done with the hands and the brain, work done for money, -work that sets the individual free from dependence on any other -individual. It is a theme worth all her eloquence. For work and love, -and not either of them alone, are the most important things in the -world--the supremest expressions of individual life. - - - - - H. G. Wells on America - - - I came to America balancing between hope and skepticism. The - European world is full of the criticism of America; and, for the - matter of that, America, too, is full of it; hostility and - depreciation prevail--overmuch; for, in spite of rawness and - vehemence and a scum of blatant, oh! quite asinine, folly, the - United States of America remains the greatest country in the - world and the living hope of mankind. It is the supreme break - with the old tradition; it is the freshest and most valiant - beginning that has ever been made in human life.--_The Passionate - Friends._ - - - - - Paderewski and the New Gods - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -I shall keep always, as my most unforgettable memory, the thought of a -certain afternoon during Paderewski's tour this year when he walked -quietly back across the stage, in response to an encore, and played -Schumann's _Warum_. It was somehow heart-breaking. It was a more -poignant questioning to me, than Arnold's - - "unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- - Say, will it never heal?" - -Nothing that I have ever heard or seen has given me so vivid a sense of -being in the presence of an art that is immortal. - -It seems to have become hideously "popular" to love Paderewski. The -critics will tell you that it's only done in America; that Europeans -have any number of idols they put before him; and that we who persist in -calling him "the greatest" are simply under the spell of an old -hypnotism. There was a time, they'll concede, when he came like a -conqueror, royally deserving the flowers we strewed. But now--there's -Bauer, there's Godowsky, and Hofman, and Gans, and Busoni! One local -critic has even gone to the length of saying that since the American -public has sat at the feet of these men and learned sanity in piano -playing it has no enthusiasm for Paderewski's "neurotic, disordered, -incoherent" music--"his woeful exaggerations of sentiment and hysterical -rhapsody." I should say some unpublishable things to that critic if we -should ever discuss the subject. - -The three most interesting human faces I know are Forbes-Robertson's, -Kreisler's, and Paderewski's. In the English actor's there is a meeting -of strength and spirituality (not the anæmic "spirituality" of certain -new cults, but a quality of soul that makes him "a prince, a -philosopher, a lover, a soldier, a sad humorist," all in the limits of -one personality) that means utter nobility. It can be as cold as a -graven image, or as hot with feeling as a poet's. Depth upon depth of -subtlety plays across it--not the hypnotic subtlety of the Orientalist, -but the austere subtlety of an English scholar and a great gentleman. In -Kreisler's there is a meeting of strength and sensuousness that means -utter fascination to the artist who would paint him--utter revealment to -the musician who would analyze his art. For the secret of Kreisler's -personality and his music lies in that finely balanced combination of -qualities: a sensuousness that would be a little overpowering, a little -drugging, without the gigantic strength that seems to hold it in leash. -That balance makes possible his little air of military jauntiness, of -sad Vienna gayety; it gives him that huge effect of power that always -makes me feel I'm watching the king of the forest stride through his -kingdom. You need never expect emotionalism from this musician; he's too -strong to give you anything but passion. In Paderewski's face there is a -meeting of strength and two other predominant qualities: sentience, I -think, and suffering. It's difficult to express his great, interesting -head in a series of nouns; but there are some that come near to it: -mystery, melancholy, weariness, a sort of shattering sorrow; always the -sense of struggle and pain, and always the final releasement--in music. -For while you can conceive a Forbes-Robertson away from the stage, and a -Kreisler apart from his violin, you can never for a moment think of -Paderewski without his piano. Not that he's less of a man, but that he's -the most sensitized human instrument that ever dedicated itself to an -art. - -To resort to the most overworked phrase in the language, Paderewski has -a temperament. Somebody has said that no fat person ever possessed one; -and after you've speculated about this till you begin to wonder what -temperament really is, you can come back to Paderewski as the most -adequate illustration. Ysaye is the best example I know of the opposite. -When strength turns to fat ... well, we'll not go into that; but to make -my point--and there's certainly nothing of personal maliciousness in -it--it's necessary to reflect that obesity has some insidious influence -upon artistic utterance. (Schumann-Heink is an artist in the best -meaning of the word; but no one ever talked of her and temperament in -the same breath, so she doesn't negate the issue.) But Ysaye's tepid, -wingless, uninspired music--his utterly sweet but _fat_ music--that -appears to attract thousands of people, is as lazily inadequate as its -creator would be in a marathon. It's as though his vision had dropped -slowly away with every added pound of avoirdupois. Or perhaps it's -because vision has a fashion of dropping away with age.... - -Ah!--but Paderewski has the years, too, now, and his playing is -as virile, as flaming, as it ever was. An artist--with a -temperament--doesn't get old, any more than Peter Pan does. Paderewski's -furrowed face shows the artist's eternal striving; his music shows his -eternal youth, his faithfulness to the vision that furnishes his answer -to the eternal "Warum?" - -This is the secret of Paderewski's white magic. He's still the supreme -god! Bauer plays perfectly within the rules--exquisitely and -powerfully--and misses the top height by the mere fraction of a mood, -the simple lack of a temperament; or, as O. Henry might have explained -it, by the unfortunate encumbrance of a forty-two-inch belt. Hofman has -an impatience with his medium, apparently, that leaves his hearer -unsatisfied with the piano; while Paderewski, though he transcends the -instrument, does so because of his love for the piano as a medium, and -forces his hearer to agree with him that it's the supreme one. Godowsky -forces things into the piano--pushes them in and makes them stay there; -Paderewski draws things out, always, and fills the world with them. - -I can think of no comparison from which he doesn't emerge unscathed. If -I were a musical reactionary, this judgment would have no value here; -but I'm not. Classical perfection is no longer interesting; Beethoven -seems no longer to comprehend all music--in fact, the people who have no -rebellions about the sterility of the old symphonies are quite beyond my -range of understanding. But Paderewski plays the old music in a new way, -gives it such vitality of meaning that you feel it's just been born--or, -better, perhaps, that its composers have been triumphantly revalued, -rejustified in their claim for eternal life. His Beethoven is as full of -color as his Chopin; and who, by the way, ever started the popular -nonsense about De Pachmann or anyone else being the supreme Chopin -exponent? No one has ever played Chopin like Paderewski; no one has ever -made such simple, haunting melodies of the nocturnes; no one has ever -struck such ringing Polish music out of the polonaises, or such -wind-swept cadences from the Berceuse; no one has ever played the -Funeral March so like a cosmic procession--the mighty moving of humanity -from birth to death and new life; no one has ever so visualized those -"orchestras of butterflies that played to Chopin in the sun." - -I have still one great wish in the world: that some time I may hear -Paderewski play on a Mason and Hamlin--that piano of unutterable depth -and richness. The fact that he's never used it is the one flaw in his -performances, for no other instrument that I've heard gives you the same -sense of drowning in great waves of warm sound. The combination would -convince even the followers of the new gods. But, old or new, and even -on his cold Steinway, no one has ever drawn from the piano the same -quality of golden tone or dared such simplicity of singing as -Paderewski. To put his genius into a sentence: no one has ever built so -strong a bridge across the gulf that yawns between vision and -accomplishment. - - - - - The Major Symphony - - - GEORGE SOULE - - Round splendor of the harp's entonéd gold - Throbbing beneath the pleading violins-- - That hundred-choiring voice that wins and wins - To over-filling song; the bright and bold - Clamor of trumpets; 'cellos that enfold - Richly the flutes; and basses that like djinns - Thunder their clumsy threatening, as begins - The oboe's mystic plaint of sorrows old:-- - - Are these the symphony? No, it is will - In passion striving to surmount the world, - Growing in sensuous dalliance, sudden whirled - To ecstasies of shivering joy, and still - Marching and mastering, singing mightily, - Consummate when the silence makes it free. - - - - - The Prophet of a New Culture - - - GEORGE BURMAN FOSTER - -A profound unrest tortures the heart of the modern man. The world, -slaughtering the innocents, is meaningless; life, bruised and -bewildered, is worthless--such is the melancholy mood of modernity. -Today life is a burden to many to whom it was once a joy. Decadents, -they call themselves, who rediscover the elements of their most personal -life in everything that is weary and ailing. We are all more or less -infected with this weariness and ennui. The blows which the spirit -experiences from opposing sides today are so powerful that no one is in -a position to endure them with equanimity. The forces resident within -the soul no longer suffice to give support and stability to life. Hence -our culture has lost faith in itself. Our civilization is played out. -What the Germans call _Weltschmerz_ has come over us. Philosophers have -fashioned it into systems; singers, into song--the sad but not sweet -music of humanity; sufferers all, into a sharp cry for redemption. -Deniers of the malady must have their eyes opened by physicians, -scurrying around curatively in this humanity. - -First of all, there are those who borrow their panacea from religion. -They demand a reform of the ecclesiastical life according to the sense -and spirit of primitive Christianity. They propose to recover the -religion of Jesus, and to find in it healing for all the diseases of the -times. But this remedy is so complicated that it reveals rather than -heals the whole disunity and distraction of our present life. It was -Tolstoi, in garb of desert prophet, who would restore original -Christianity. He preached a radical reversal of our cultural life--a -monastic asceticism, a warfare against all life's impulses, on whose -development our culture is founded. And ecclesiastical liberals would do -virtually the same thing when they try to extract from the religion of -Jesus a food that shall be palatable to modern taste, and then call -their _ragout_, compounded according to their own recipe, "original" -Christianity. - -There are other voices, noisier and more numerous. These hold -Christianity in all its forms to be the hereditary evil of humanity, and -see the salvation of the world only in a purification of life from every -Christian memory. Owing to the brisk international interchange of ideas -today, Buddhism has awakened a momentary hope, as if from the religion -of far-off India a purer spiritual atmosphere might be wafted to us, in -which we could convalesce from the Christian malady. - -Now, what shall we say of all these strivings to heal the hurt of the -modern mind? - -All of them have one adverse thing in common: They would tear up an old -tree by its roots, and put in its place another tree equally as old and -equally as rotten. There is something reactionary in all of them. They -want to cure the present by the past. It is precisely this that cannot -be done. If Christianity was once original, spontaneous, creative, it is -so no more. We cannot lead an age back to Jesus, which has grown out -beyond him. And the Buddha-religion is no more youthful and life-giving -than the Jesus-religion. It is indicative of the depth of the disgust -and the extent of the confusion on the part of the man of today that -such a hoary thing as Buddhism can make so great an impression upon him. -A revived, renascent heathenism, even as compared with Christianity, -would mean a reactionary and outlived form of life. That men of moral -endeavor and scientific vision could hope for a substitute for -Christianity, a conquest over Christianity, in a rebirth of paganism, is -a new riddle of the Sphinx. - -One way only remains out of the aberration and dividedness of our -present life: not _backward_, but _forward_! No winning of a religious -view of the world in any other way! No pursuit of the tasks of the moral -life by those who seek a real part and place in the modern world, in any -other way! - -Hence, a man is coming to be leader--a man who, as no other, embodies in -himself all the pain and all the pleasure, all the sickness and all the -convalescence, all the age and all the youth, of our tumultuous and -tortured times: _Friedrich Nietzsche_! - -I do not know how many of you know the poet of _Zarathustra_. But if you -do not know him, if you have never even heard his name, yet you do know -him, for a part of him is in your own heart and hope. If you have ever -thought seriously about yourself, if you have even tried to think -seriously about yourself, you have taken up into yourself a part of -Nietzsche as you have so thought. Even without your knowledge or -intention, you have passed into the world of thought for which the name -of Nietzsche stands. It has been only now and then, in quite significant -turning points in human history, and only in the case of the rarest of -men, that such an influence has gone forth as from this man. Once in the -horizon of his power, and you are held there as by magic. And yet not in -centuries has a name been so reviled and blasphemed as his. -Anathematized from the pulpit, ridiculed from the stage, demolished by -any champion of blatant and blind _bourgeoisie_, refuted regularly by -pedants, he is still Friedrich Nietzsche, and, unlike most preachers, -his congregation grows from year to year. Newspapers, always sensitive -to the pulse-beat of mediocrity, tell us that "the man is dead"; that he -belongs to the past; that he is already forgotten. But he is more alive, -now that he is dead, than he was when he was living. Dead in the flesh, -he is alive in the spirit, as is so often the case. Superficial -misunderstandings, transient externals, regrettable excrescences--these -were interred with his bones. The real and true Nietzsche lives, and has -the keys of death and of hell. Who has the youth has the future--and -this is why the future belongs to Nietzsche; for no contemporary so -gathers the youth under his shining banner. And it is because the moral -seething of our time, our struggle with questions of the moral life, are -recapitulated and epitomized in Nietzsche, that he stands out, like an -Alpine apocalypse, as the new prophet of our new day. The mysterious -need of a man to find himself in another, another in himself, as deep -calls unto deep or star shines unto star, is met in the resources of the -great personality of Nietzsche. - -The new day whose billows bear us afar began with doubt. First, a doubt -of the Church and its divine authority. A violent, devastating storm -swept over popular life. The storm was speedily exorcised. Again-- - - "The sea of faith - Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore - Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled." - -A new faith emerged from the old doubt, like sweet waters in a bitter -sea, and kept man a living soul. - - "The sea is calm tonight; - The tide is full." - -But the calm proves to be treacherous. The tide of the new faith now in -the bible, and in the doctrine derived from the bible, went back to sea, -and now I only hear - - "Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, - Retreating to the breath - Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear - And naked shingles of the world." - -The human spirit urged a new, mightier protest against the "It is -written," which was said to put an end to all doubt. The new doubt, as -free inquiry, as protestant science, flung down the gauntlet to the -bible faith. No page of the sacred book remained untouched. Only one -certainty sprang from this new doubt--the certainty that the sacred book -was a human book. Therefore it had no right to rule over man. Man was -its judge; it was not man's judge. It must be measured by man's truth, -man's conscience. - -How, now, should the timorous heart of man be quieted in the presence of -this new doubt? At once new props were offered him--truth and the state. -What science recognized as "true," what morals and _bourgeoise_ customs -and civil law sanctioned as "good"--these were now proffered man, that -he might brace up his tottering life thereby. "Trust the light of -science, and you shall indeed have the light of life; do what is 'good,' -and you shall be crowned with the crown of life." This was the -watchword. Then there stirred in the womb of present-day humanity the -last, ultimate, uncanniest doubt. If we doubt the Church, why not doubt -the state, too? If we doubt faith, why not doubt science, too? If we -doubt the bible, why not doubt reason, doubt knowledge, doubt morality? -Even if what we call "true" be really true, can it make us happy? Can -the men who have all the knowledge of our time at their disposal, can -the scholars, can the cultivated, really become fit leaders of humanity -through life's little day? Is not that which is called "good" grievous -impediment in our pilgrimage? Law, morals--are not these perhaps a -blunder of history, an old hereditary woe with which humanity is -weighted down? - -This doubt--long and ominously maturing throughout the spiritual -evolution of our new time--finds its most radical, most conscious, and -most eloquent expression in Friedrich Nietzsche. He launches this doubt -not only against all that has been believed and thought and done, but -against all that men believe and think and do today. He shakes every -position which men have held to be unshakable. An irresistible, -diabolical curiosity impels him to transvalue all values with which men -have reckoned, and to inquire whether they are values at all; whether -"good" must not be called evil, "truth" error. As Nietzsche ventures -upon this experiment of his curiosity, as he advances farther and -farther with it, suddenly he laughs with an ironic, uproarious laughter. -The experiment is a success! In the new illumination all the colors of -life change. Light is dark, dark is light. What men had appraised as -food, as medicine, evinced itself to be dangerous poison, miserably -encompassing their doom. And since men believed that all the forces -present, dying, poisoned culture, were resident in their "morals" and -their "Christianity," it was necessary to smash the tables of these old -values. In full consciousness of his calling as destroyer of these old -tables, Nietzsche called himself the immoralist, the anti-Christ. Morals -and Christianity signified to him the most dangerous maladies with which -men were suffering. He considered it to be his high calling as savior to -heal men of these maladies. He sprang into the breach as -anti-Christ. Like Voltaire, he was the apostle and genius of -disrespect--respectability was the only disgrace, popularity the only -perdition. - -Nietzsche the Immoralist, Nietzsche the Antichrist! Dare we write his -name and name his writings without calling down upon our much-pelted -heads the wrath of the gods? Does he not blaspheme what is sacred, and -must we not, then, give him a wide berth? There are the familiar words -concerning false prophets in sheep's clothing, but ravening wolves -within. Such wolves there are--smooth, sleek men, paragons of "virtue," -and "morals," and "faith," but revolting enough in their inner rawness -as soon as you get a glimpse of their true disposition. Conversely, -might there not be men who come to us in wolves' clothing, but whose -hearts are tender and rich and intimate with a pure and noble humanity? -We know such men. Friedrich Nietzsche was one of them. He was a true -prophet. All his transvaluations dealt deadly blows at the old, false, -man-poisoning prophetism. What if more morals matured in this -immoralist, more Christianity in this anti-Christ, more divinity in this -atheist, than in all the pronouncements of all those who today still are -so swift to despise and damn what they do not understand? - -Even Christianity, at its origin, in its young and heroic militancy, was -not so amiable and harmless as we are wont to think. It, too, was born -of the doubt of that whole old culture; of the most radical protest -again _status quo_. It, too, leagued with all the revolutionary spirits -of humanity. And it, too, revalued all the values of "faith" and -"morals." What if this new Nietzschean spirit of life's universal -reform, this creative, forward-striving genius of humanity, be once yet -again embodiment and representative of life's essential element of -rejuvenescence and growth? What if true prophets are always men of -_Sturm und Drang_, men of divine discontent, fellow-conspirators with -the Future? Anti-Christs? These are they who blaspheme the holy spirit -of humanity. Immoralists? These are they who say that life is good as it -is, and therefore should stay as it "is" forever. Faith? This is -directed, not to the past, but to the future; not to the certain, but to -the uncertain. Faith is the venturesomeness of moral knighthood. -Nietzsche was a Knight of the Future. - -Why, then, should not a magazine of the Future interpret Nietzsche the -prophet of a new culture? Man as the goal, beauty as the form, life as -the law, eternity as the content of our new day--this is Nietzsche's -message to the modern man. In such an interpretation, Man and Superman -should be the subject of the next article. - - - - - How a Little Girl Danced - - - NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY - - _Being a Reminiscence of Certain Private Theatricals_ - - (Dedicated to Lucy Bates) - - Oh, cabaret dancer, - _I_ know a dancer - Whose eyes have not looked - On the feasts that are vain. - _I_ know a dancer, - _I_ know a dancer, - Whose soul has no bond - With the beasts of the plain: - Judith the dancer, - Judith the dancer, - With foot like the snow - And with step like the rain. - - Oh, thrice-painted dancer, - Vaudeville dancer, - Sad in your spangles, - With soul all astrain: - _I_ know a dancer, - _I_ know a dancer, - Whose laughter and weeping - Are spiritual gain; - A pure-hearted, high-hearted - Maiden evangel - With strength the dark cynical - Earth to disdain. - - Flowers of bright Broadway! - You of the chorus - Who sing in the hope - Of forgetting your pain: - I turn to a sister - Of sainted Cecelia, - A white bird escaping - The earth's tangled skein!-- - The music of God - In her innermost brooding! - The whispering angels - Her footsteps sustain! - - Oh, proud Russian dancer: - Praise for your dancing! - No clean human passion - My rhyme would arraign. - You dance for Apollo - With noble devotion: - A high-cleansing revel - To make the heart sane. - But Judith the dancer - Prays to a spirit - More white than Apollo - And all of his train. - - _I_ know a dancer - Who finds the true God-head; - Who bends o'er a brazier - In Heaven's clear plain. - _I_ know a dancer, - _I_ know a dancer, - Who lifts us toward peace - From this Earth that is vain:-- - Judith the dancer, - Judith the dancer, - With foot like the snow, - And with step like the rain. - - - - - The Dream of the Children - - - The children awoke in their dreaming - While earth lay dewy and still: - They followed the rill in its gleaming - To the heart-light of the hill. - - From their feet as they strayed in the meadow - It led through caverned aisles, - Filled with purple and green light and shadow - For mystic miles on miles. - - --_From A. E.'s Collected Poems._ - - - - - The Critics' Critic - - - GALSWORTHY AS A GREEK - -Do you read Arthur Guiterman's rhymed reviews? They are not to be taken -too seriously, of course, though they are generally sane; but in the one -on _The Dark Flower_ he asks if such things don't tend to weaken our -moral fiber! Wow! Probably Homer might be said to do the same thing; -we'd better take it out of the schools, hadn't we? There's an episode I -recall about a female person named Helen, who was torn from her adoring -husband, etc., etc. You know I don't believe in weakening moral fiber, -but beauty _is_ beauty. All I could think of, in reading _The Dark -Flower_, was Greek classics. Do you remember that exquisite thing (is it -Euripides?)-- - - "This Cyprian - She is a million, million changing things; - She brings more joy than any god, - She brings - More pain. I cannot judge her; may it be - An hour of mercy when she looks on me." - -Galsworthy's hero was just a Greek, swayed by Aphrodite. There's no -question of morals. And besides, he behaved pretty well--for a man! - - - THE CASE OF RUPERT BROOKE - -I can't share THE LITTLE REVIEW'S estimate of Rupert Brooke. I'm -reminded immediately of something I found not long ago by Herbert -Trench: - - "Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I, - Seeing that our footing on the earth is brief, - Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die - Mocking at all that passes their belief. - For standard of our love not theirs we take - If we go hence today - Fill the high cup that is so soon to break - With richer wine than they. - - Ay, since beyond these walls no heavens there be, - Joy to revive or wasted youth repair, - I'll not bedim the lovely flame in thee - Nor sully the sad splendor that we wear. - Great be the love, if with the lover dies - Our greatness past recall; - And nobler for the fading of those eyes - The world seen once for all." - -Swinburne's - - "From too much love of living, - From hope and fear set free" - -I like better so far as the music of it is concerned; and fully as well, -perhaps, as far as ideas go. There is something rather conscious and -posing in Mr. Trench's effort. And you see why I think of him when I -read Rupert Brooke. There is the same _memento mori_, the same -hopelessness of outlook. It seems a pity to me, when a man can write as -well as Brooke does in _The Hill_ and in that exquisite sonnet beginning -"Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire of watching you," that he -should waste his time on stupid, unpleasant cynicisms like _Wagner_ and -that _Channel Passage_, in which he doesn't know which pain to -choose--nausea or memory. I believe an Englishman can't achieve just the -right degree of mockery and brutality necessary for such an effort. Take -Heine, if you will--(I'm a Heine enthusiast); _he_ could do it with -supreme artistry. Do you remember the sea poems--especially the one -where he looks into the depths of the sea, catches sight of buried -cities and sees his lost love ("ein armes, vergessenes Kind")? It -finishes with the captain pulling him in by the heels, crying, "Doktor, -sind Sie des Teufels?" Heine can touch filth and offer it to you, and -you are rather amused--as at a child. But Englishmen are too -self-conscious for anything of that sort. You are shocked and ashamed -when they try it, feeling in a way defiled yourself by reading. It -irritates me, and I wish Mr. Brooke would stop it, right away. He's too -worth while to waste himself. - - - THE FEMINIST DISCUSSIONS - -Do you know the story of the man, elected by some political pull to a -judgeship in Indiana, who, after listening to the argument for the -plaintiff, refused to hear anything further. "That feller wins," he said -decisively. On being told that it was customary and necessary to hear -the defendant's side also, he duly listened, with growing amazement. -"Don't it beat all?" he said, pathetically, at the close; "now the other -feller wins." - -In much the same frame of mind I read the articles that are appearing in -the current magazines on the subject of feminism and militancy. Edna -Kenton's in _The Century_ is the only one that is content to give one -side of the case. Decidedly, you will say on reading it, "That feller -wins." _The Atlantic_ prints an admirable article by W. L. George on -Feminist Intentions, and follows it hastily with a rebuttal by E. S. -Martin (_Much Ado About Women_), fearing, I imagine, lest it would seem -to be bowing its venerable head before new, profane altars. _Life_ gets -out a really excellent suffrage number, sane and logical and reasonable, -and has followed it up ever since with all the flings it can collect -against suffrage, militancy, or feminism in any form. A recent amusing -instance of this is a letter by one Thomas H. Lipscomb, who signs -himself, alack! A Modern Man, and adds that his name is legion. Judging -by the terror in the communication Mr. Lipscomb's modernity goes back as -far as the Old Testament Proverbs, and the womanly ideal he so -passionately upholds is in all respects the one the writer of this -particular proverb acclaims. I have heard it used as a text so often, -and have had it grounded into the very framework of my being so -consistently, that it seems almost strange and irreverent to regard it -with an alien and critical eye. And yet--just see what is expected of -the poor thing: She - - Seeketh wool and flax and worketh willingly with her hands. - Bringeth her food from afar. - Riseth while it is yet night and giveth meat to her household; - Considereth a field, and buyeth it; with the fruit of her hands - planteth a vineyard. - Her candle goeth not out by night. - -She - - Layeth her hands to the spindle; and her hands hold the - distaff. - Maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles unto the - merchant.... - -together with a few other airy trifles such as bearing and rearing -children, I suppose. But most significant of all-- - - Her husband is known in the gates where he sitteth among the - elders of the land. - -I should think so indeed! There seems to be little else left for him to -do. - -I can almost hear the writer smacking his lips over this description, -which no doubt tallies closely with Mr. Lipscomb's own notions. - -For all this she is to - - Receive of the fruit of her own hands, and her own works shall - praise her. - -Possibly women have tired a little of letting their own works praise -them--and nothing else! But I am taking the letter too seriously. - -To go back to _The Atlantic_, I find Mr. George, who is in full sympathy -with the movement of which he writes, classifying the demands of the -feminists as follows: Economically, they intend to open every occupation -to women; they intend to level the wages of women; in general, they wish -to change the attitude of those who regard women's present inferiority -to men (they frankly admit that there is inferiority in many respects) -as inherent and insuperable, by demonstrating that it is due merely to -long lack of thorough training--(an old friend, apparently, in a new -dress!) They wish also gradually to modify and change existing marriage -laws so that they will be equally fair to both sexes. - -A careful re-reading of Mr. Martin's article fails to reveal much in the -way of counter argument to Mr. George's forcible appeal. There's a great -deal of courteous agreement and some rather good satire, but against the -specific counts of the feminists' intentions Mr. Martin raises no -telling argument. We hear that whereas fathers wish all earthly -blessings for their daughters, mothers do not, as women are jealous of -women; also that mothers fear the modern woman on account of their sons, -for whom they in turn wish all possible good: the modern woman will not -make a good wife! Angels and ministers of grace defend us! In a double -quality as daughter to a devoted and loving mother, and as a devoted and -loving mother to a most precious daughter, I throw down my glove. - -I am sure Mr. Martin has never acted in either of these capacities, so -precious little he knows about it! Besides, I do want my son to have -everything that the world provides in the way of blessings and -happiness, so I want him to have as a wife a thoroughly modern woman -with an awakened soul and a high ideal, to finish the good work in him -which I have at least endeavored to begin. - -As I read further, however, the cat begins to poke a cautious head out -of the bag. Women, Mr. Martin argues, are not responsible for the -blessings the feminist movement is trying to bring them. It is men! That -is why he is so particular to tell us of the careful solicitude of a -father for his daughters. Men, right along, have procured all happiness -for women; or, if not men exactly, at least a sort of _Zeit Geist_--I -believe he calls it "necessity." And the poor deluded feminists are -simply the little boys running along by the side of the procession and -hollering. The procession is made up of vague forces, "working nowadays -for the enlargement and betterment of life for women"--forces, he -quaintly complains, that are "making things go too fast their way -already." - -So we must take all credit from Luther and Knox and Calvin and the -reformers of all times and give it to the _Zeit Geist_. They, too, are -little boys, I suppose, who ran along and hollered. At least they -hollered lustily and well, and the feminists are in good company. - -And the peroration--every true woman will appreciate this: "What a -husband sees in forty years, maybe, of the good and bad of life for a -woman; what a father sees in his daughters and the conditions of modern -life as they affect girls--those are the things which count in forming -or changing the convictions of men about woman's errand in this current -world." - -Well! However far the _Zeit Geist_ has progressed in other directions, -it is plain that it has not made inroads on Mr. Martin's consciousness -of the present state of affairs. Who has given men the power and right -to decide about woman's errand in the world? For lo! these many years we -have been letting husbands, fathers, and brothers decide for us just -what it were best for us to do; and if the new idea has any significance -at all it is just this: that we feel able to decide for ourselves what -we most want and need. - - M. H. P. - - - - - The New Note - - - SHERWOOD ANDERSON - -The new note in the craft of writing is in danger, as are all new and -beautiful things born into the world, of being talked to death in the -cradle. Already a cult of the new has sprung up, and doddering old -fellows, yellow with their sins, run here and there crying out that they -are true prophets of the new, just as, following last year's exhibit, -every age-sick American painter began hastily to inject into his own -work something clutched out of the seething mass of new forms and new -effects scrawled upon the canvases by the living young cubists and -futurists. Confused by the voices, they raised also their voices, -multiplying the din. Forgetting the soul of the workman, they grasped at -lines and solids, getting nothing. - -In the trade of writing the so-called new note is as old as the world. -Simply stated, it is a cry for the reinjection of truth and honesty into -the craft; it is an appeal from the standards set up by money-making -magazine and book publishers in Europe and America to the older, sweeter -standards of the craft itself; it is the voice of the new man, come into -a new world, proclaiming his right to speak out of the body and soul of -youth, rather than through the bodies and souls of the master craftsmen -who are gone. - -In all the world there is no such thing as an old sunrise, an old wind -upon the cheeks, or an old kiss from the lips of your beloved; and in -the craft of writing there can be no such thing as age in the souls of -the young poets and novelists who demand for themselves the right to -stand up and be counted among the soldiers of the new. That there are -such youths is brother to the fact that there are ardent young cubists -and futurists, anarchists, socialists, and feminists; it is the promise -of a perpetual sweet new birth of the world; it is as a strong wind come -out of the virgin west. - -One does not talk of his beloved even among the friends of his beloved; -and so the talk of the new note in writing will be heard coming from the -mouths of the aged and from the lips of oily ones who do not know of -what they talk, but run about in circles, making noise and clamor. Do -not be confused by them. They but follow the customs of their kind. They -are the stript priests of the falling temples, piling stone on stone to -build a new temple, that they may exact tribute as before. - -Something has happened in the world of men. Old standards and old ideas -tumble about our heads. In the dust and confusion of the falling of the -timbers of the temple many voices are raised. Among the voices of the -old priests who weep are raised also the voices of the many who cry, -"Look at us! We are the new! We are the prophets; follow us!" - -Something has happened in the world of men. Temples have been wrecked -before only to be rebuilt, and destroying youth has danced only to -become in turn a builder and in time a priest, muttering old words. -Nothing in all of this new is new except this--that beside the youth -dancing in the dust of the falling timbers is a maiden also dancing and -proclaiming herself. "We will have a world not half new but all new!" -cry the youth and the maiden, dancing together. - -Do not be led aside by the many voices crying of the new. Be ready to -accept hardship for the sake of your craft in America--that is craft -love. - - - - - Some Letters of William Vaughn Moody - - - Edited, with introduction, by Daniel Gregory Mason. (Houghton - Mifflin Company, Boston.) - -I shall never forget how, at sixteen, I read Stevenson's letters and -thought them the most beautiful things in the world. I shall never -forget similar experiences with Keats and Browning, and finally with -Meredith; and now comes another volume of letters by the man who might -be called the American Henley (though that only does him half justice) -to keep one up at night and teach him unforgettable things. People have -been saying that this collection doesn't represent the best letters -Moody wrote. Certainly if he wrote more interesting ones the world ought -to be allowed to see them, for these are valuable enough to become an -American tradition. - -The following is typical: - - _To Daniel Gregory Mason._ - - DEAR DAN: - - I have just heard from your sister-in-law of your enforced - furlough. I am not going to help you curse your luck, knowing - your native capabilities in that direction to be perfectly - adequate, but my Methodist training urges me to give you an - epistolary hand-shake, the purport of which is "_Keep your - sand._" I could say other things, not utterly pharisaical. I - could say what I have often said to myself, with a rather reedy - tremolo perhaps, but swelling sometimes into a respectable - diapason. "The dark cellar ripens the wine." And meanwhile, after - one's eyes get used to the dirty light, and one's feet to the - mildew, a cellar has its compensations. I have found beetles of - the most interesting proclivities, mice altogether comradely and - persuadable, and forgotten potatoes that sprouted toward the - crack of sunshine with a wan maiden grace not seen above. I don't - want to pose as resourceful, but I have seen what I have seen. - - The metaphor is however happily inexact in your case, with Milton - to retire to and Cambridge humming melodiously on the horizon. If - you can only throttle your Daemon, or make him forgoe his leonine - admonition "Accomplish," and roar you as any sucking dove the - sweet vocable "Be"--you ought to live. I have got mine trained to - that, pardee! and his voice grows not untunable. I pick up shreds - of comfort out of this or that one of God's ashbarrels. Yesterday - I was skating on a patch of ice in the park, under a poverty - stricken sky flying a pitiful rag of sunset. Some little muckers - were guying a slim raw-boned Irish girl of fifteen, who circled - and darted under their banter with complete unconcern. She was in - the fledgling stage, all legs and arms, tall and adorably - awkward, with a huge hat full of rusty feathers, thin skirts - tucked up above spindling ankles, and a gay aplomb and swing in - the body that was ravishing. We caught hands in midflight, and - skated for an hour, almost alone and quite silent, while the rag - of sunset rotted to pieces. I have had few sensations in life - that I would exchange for the warmth of her hand through the - ragged glove, and the pathetic curve of the half-formed breast - where the back of my wrist touched her body. I came away - mystically shaken and elate. It is thus the angels converse. She - was something absolutely authentic, new, and inexpressible, - something which only nature could mix for the heart's - intoxication, a compound of ragamuffin, pal, mistress, nun, - sister, harlequin, outcast, and bird of God,--with something else - bafflingly suffused, something ridiculous and frail and savage - and tender. With a world offering such rencontres, such aery - strifes and adventures, who would not live a thousand years stone - dumb? I would, for one--until my mood changes and I come to think - on the shut lid and granite lip of him who has had done with - sunsets and skating, and has turned away his face from all manner - of Irish. I am supported by a conviction that at an auction on - the steps of the great white throne, I should bring more in the - first mood than the second--by several harps and a stray - dulcimer. - - I thoroughly envy you your stay at Milton--wrist, Daemon, and - all. You must send me a lengthy account of the state of things at - Cambridge.... If the wrist forbids writing, employ a typewriter - of the most fashionable tint--I will pay all expenses and stand - the breakage. I stipulate that you shall avoid blonds, however, - they are fragile. - - WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY. - -There are over a hundred letters here, written to Mr. Mason, Percy -MacKaye, Richard Watson Gilder, Josephine Preston Peabody, Edmund -Clarence Stedman, Henry Miller, Robert Morss Lovett, Ferdinand Schevill, -and others; and every one of them shows Moody's remarkable gift of -metaphor, his constant striving to "win for language some new swiftness, -some rare compression," his belief in the positive acceptance of life, -his paganism, "deeply spiritual, and as far as possible removed from the -sensualism the thoughtless have found in it." Mr. Mason furnishes an -introduction that is masterly; and the first and final drafts of -_Heart's Wild Flower_ are included, proving vividly how this poet -disciplined his rich imaginative gifts, training away from a native -tendency to the rococo to the high, pure dignity that marks his finished -verse. This volume is invaluable. Certainly with two such authentic -voices to boast of as Whitman's and Moody's this young country of ours -has reason to be proud. - - M. C. A. - - - - - A Feminist of a Hundred Years Ago - - - MARGERY CURREY - - _Rahel Varnhagen_: A Portrait, by Ellen Key. Translated from the - Swedish by Arthur G. Chater; with an introduction by Havelock - Ellis. (G. P. Putman's Sons, New York.) - -For certain distinctive women Rahel Varnhagen lived; for the same women -Ellen Key has written this appreciation of Rahel. By the woman to whom -fine freedom of living and fearlessness and directness of thought are -the only possible terms on which she may deal with the social situation -in which she finds herself this book will be read and re-read, and -pencil-marked along the margins of its pages. - -The rare woman, here and there, who worships simple, direct thinking -(which, after all, takes the most courage) will know how to value Rahel. -Always she thought truthfully. The woman who has been filled with joyful -new amazement on finding that her only reliance is on herself--that she -may not depend upon this person or that convention to preserve her -happiness--will know how to value her. Just so far as any woman of today -has become interested in her own thoughts and work, is the originator of -ideas, and knows the joy of making or doing something that more than all -else in the world she wants to make or do, so far she is nearer to -becoming of the size of this great woman. - -Such a woman will share with Rahel Varnhagen the certainty that higher -morality is reached only through higher liberty; such a woman must -demand, as did Rahel, periods of that recuperative and strengthening -solitude, both of thought and mode of living, which only the -self-reliant and fearless can endure. She knows that she herself, not -convention, must furnish the answer to questions of right and wrong by -earnest, free inquiry and by testing every experience. The acceptance of -no convention was inevitable to Rahel, as she thought of it. She put it -to the best of scrutiny. What value was there in it? It was not -violating conventions which she set out to do, but meeting them with a -quiet, sincere inquiry of the reason and truth they contained. - -Rahel Varnhagen lived in Berlin a hundred years ago and was probably the -most beloved and much-visited woman of those whose salons attracted the -notable men of the day--Fichte, Hegel, Prince Louis Ferdinand, Fouqué, -the Humboldts, the Schlegels, Schleiermacher, and other giants of the -time. Rahel was a woman--the lamentable rarity of them!--whose influence -was not through her literary work (her letters to friends are all that -we have of her writing), not through brilliancy of speech alone, nor -through her munificent patronage of the artists and literary men of her -day (she was not rich, and we read of the garret in which she -entertained her friends), but through the richness of her personality, -the glowing warmth of her sympathy, her understanding, and the wisdom of -her heart. - -And the value of Rahel to us lies in the calm directness, the -"innocence," as she herself calls it, of her thinking. To her went the -acclaimed wise men of the day for the comfort of her fearlessness and -simplicity of thought upon their questions. She was said to be -brilliant. She was not brilliant in the sense of being learned, or of -being capable of mere intellectual jugglery and fantastic adroitness of -thinking; she was brilliant in the crystal clearness and the sure -rapidity of her thinking. The unexpectedness and strangeness of the -simple truth she spoke bewildered people. For this reason she could say, -"I am as much alone of my kind as the greatest manifestation here on -earth. The greatest artist, philosopher, or poet is not above me." - -This passion for truth in her own thinking was the origin of her social -value. Its stimulus to others was immediate, and her recognition through -it of the important things in life made her detect at once those people -and things that were original and valuable in themselves. - -"Rahel's most comprehensive significance," writes Ellen Key, "lay in -augmenting the productiveness, humanity and culture of her time by -herself everywhere seeking and teaching others to seek the truth; by -everywhere encouraging them to manifest their own culture; by imparting -to others her profound way of looking at religion, men and women, -literature and art; by judging everything according to its intrinsic -value, not according to its deficiencies; by everywhere understanding, -because she loved, and giving life, because she believed in liberty." - -Think always, ceaselessly!--this was Rahel's cry. This, she said, is the -only duty, the only happiness. To a young friend she wrote, begging that -he keep ploughing through things afresh, telling him that he "must -always have the courage to hurt himself with questioning and doubts; to -destroy the most comfortable and beautiful edifice of thought--one that -might have stood for life--if honesty demands it." And so, having -thought out things in the most utter freedom, unhampered by old -preconceptions, and finally unafraid of the starkness of the truths -which she faced, she let nothing prescribed be her unchallenged guide or -stand as a substitute for her own vigor and hardness of thinking. This -is why she said that she was revived by downright brutality, after being -wearied by insincerity. - -A virtue, so called, had to give a very good accounting of itself to -Rahel. She demanded that it answer a certain test before it could be -called a piece of goodness. For instance, in many cases she recognized -in "performance of duty" mere acquiescence--a laziness of mind which -does not bestir itself to ask what right this duty has to impose itself. -Patience to her was often lack of courage to seize upon a situation and -change it to suit the imperative demand to express oneself. "The more I -see and meditate upon the strivings of this world," wrote Rahel, "the -more insane it appears to me day by day not to live according to one's -inmost heart. To do so has such a bad name, because simulacra of it are -in circulation." Of these "simulacra" we are familiar in every age--the -amazing antics of certain self-styled "radicals," the unaccountable -manifestations of those who, while professing liberality of view, seem -to have no standards of values in their extravagances of living. Rahel -could understand every nature except the insincere and unnatural. - -While we mourn or exult over the eager efforts of women in our day to -evolve completely human personalities, it is interesting to read Rahel's -summing-up of the feminist movement: "Has it been proved by her -organization that a woman cannot think and express her ideas? If such -were the case, it would nevertheless be her duty to renew the attempt -continually." "And how," exclaims Ellen Key, "would Rahel have abhorred -the tyrannical treatment of each other's opinions, the cramping -narrow-mindedness, the envious jostling, the petty importance of -nobodies, which the woman's cause now exhibits everywhere, since, from -being a movement for liberty in great women's souls, like Rahel's own, -it has become a movement of leagues and unions, in which the small souls -take the lead." - -Since it is reality and not appearance that alone could stand before -Rahel's devastating scrutiny of human things, and since to her the -highest personal morality consisted in being true, coercive marriage -seemed to her the great social lie. How could one of her simple clarity -of thinking be anything but outraged by the vulgarities of an average -marriage? "Is not an intimacy without charm or transport more indecent -than ecstasy of what kind so ever?" she demands. "Is not a state of -things in which truth, amenity, and innocence are impossible, to be -rejected for these reasons alone?" Of the evils in Europe she cries, -"Slavery, war, marriage--and they go on wondering and patching and -mending!" Rahel believed that in the existing institution of marriage it -was almost impossible to find a union in which full, clear truth and -mutual love prevailed. - -Of Rahel's nature, warm, richly exuberant with a healthy sensuousness -and desire for sunlight, Jean Paul's letter to her gives us the essence. -"Wingéd one--in every sense--" he wrote, "you treat life poetically and -consequently life treats you in the same way. You bring the lofty -freedom of poetry into the sphere of reality, and expect to find again -the same beauties here as there." - -Biographical facts are negligible here. Even comment on the interpretive -insight of Ellen Key seems not to be essential, though without it this -book could not be. It is the personality of Rahel Varnhagen that -matters, and the influence of that personality on the men of her day. - -Rahel is distinctive as a challenger of the worn-out social and ethical -baggage that somehow, in all its shabbiness, has been reverently, with -ritual and with authority, given into our keeping by those who were as -oppressed by it as we in turn are expected to be. With the simplicity of -her questioning the honesty of these conventions, Rahel has made worship -of some of them less inevitable. - - - - - Some Contemporary Opinions of Rahel Varnhagen - - - CORNELIA L. ANDERSON - -Heine said: "I should wear a dog collar inscribed: 'I belong to Frau -Varnhagen.'" - -Rahel's power over the brilliant minds of her day lay in her own -wonderful personality. She was unique, knew it and gloried in it. She -wrote to Varnhagen, her husband and lover: "You will not soon see my -like again." She understood thoroughly the limitations of her sex. "They -are so surprisingly feeble," she says; "almost imbecile from lack of -coherence. They lie, too, since they are often obliged to, and since the -truth demands intelligence." ... "I know women: what is noble in their -composition keeps together stupidity or madness." ... And she speaks of -their "clumsy, terrible stupidity in lying." But, despite Rahel's -opinion of women, or because of her understanding of their needs, she -was a true feminist and looked toward their liberation through -development and self-expression. - -Ellen Key writes: "How Rahel, with her lucidity of thought, would have -exposed the modern superstition that it is in _outward_ departments of -work that woman gives expression to her human 'individuality.' She says -by true economy 'nature keeps woman nearer to the plant'! This 'economy' -is easily understood; it is because the tender life is woman's creation -and because that life requires tranquillity for its genesis and growth; -because a woman taken up by the problems of external life ... no longer -possesses the psychological qualifications which are indispensable in -order that a child's soul may grow in peace and joy; because, in other -words, _children_ need _mothers_, not only for their physical birth but -for their human bringing-up. Rahel hits the very center of the spiritual -task of motherhood when she says that if she had a child she would help -it to learn to listen to its own inmost ego; everything else she would -sacrifice to this.... The progress or ruin of humanity depends, in -Rahel's prophetic view, upon the capacity of the mothers for performing -their task." - -How Rahel had listened to her own inmost ego is shown by the following -characterization by Ellen Key. "Rahel probably did not know a single -date in the history of Greece, but she read Homer in Voss's translation; -it made her declare that 'the Odyssey seems to me so beautiful that it -is positively painful,' and she discovered that Homer is always great -when he speaks of water, as Goethe is when he speaks of the stars. -Probably she could not enumerate the rivers of Spain, but she knew _Don -Quixote_. In a word, she was the very opposite of the kind of talent -that passes brilliant examinations and is capable of carrying -'completely undigested sentences in its head.' What Rahel could not -transform into blood of her blood did not concern her at all. There was -such an indestructible 'connection between her abilities,' such an -intimate 'co-operation between her temperament and her intelligence,' -that there was no room in her for all the unoriginal ballast of which -the views and opinions of most other people are made up: she could only -keep and only give what was her own." - -What Rahel's power over her contemporaries was we may gather from what -they say of her who was "Rahel and nothing more:" - -Heine describes her as "the most inspired woman in the universe." T. -Mundt calls her "the sympathetic nerve of the time." The Austrian -dramatist, Grillparzer, relates: "Varnhagen went home with me. As we -passed his house, it occurred to him to introduce me to his wife, the -afterwards so celebrated Rahel, of whom I then knew nothing. I had been -strolling about all day and felt tired to death, and was, therefore, -heartily glad when we were told that Frau Varnhagen was not at home. But -as we came down the stairs, she met us and I submitted to my fate. But -now the lady,--elderly, perhaps never handsomer, shriveled by illness, -reminding me rather of a fairy, not to say a witch,--began to talk, and -I was altogether enchanted. My weariness disappeared, or perhaps, -rather, gave way to intoxication. She talked and talked till nearly -midnight, and I don't know whether they turned me out or whether I went -away of my own accord. Never in my life have I heard anyone talk more -interestingly. Unfortunately it was near the end of my stay, and I could -not repeat the visit." - - - - - The Poetry of Rupert Brooke - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - - _Poems_, by Rupert Brooke. (Sidgwick and Jackson, London.) - -The unusual thing about Rupert Brooke--the young Oxford don whose poetry -is just finding its way in this country--is that he has graduated from -the French school without having taken a course in decadence. The result -is a type of English poetry minus those qualities we think of as typical -of "the British mind" and plus those that stand as the highest -expression of the French spirit. There is nothing of self-conscious -reserve about Mr. Brooke; and yet it is not so obvious a quality as his -frank, unashamed revealment that places him definitely with the French -type. It is rather a matter of form--that quality of saying a thing in -the most economic way it can be said, of finding the simple and the -inevitable word. Mr. Brooke stands very happily between a poet like -Alfred Noyes, in whom one rarely finds that careful selection, and the -esthetes whose agony in that direction becomes monotonous. For example, -in the first sonnet of this collection: - - Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire - Of watching you; and swing me suddenly - Into the shade and loneliness and mire - Of the last land! There, waiting patiently, - - One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing, - See a slow light across the Stygian tide, - And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing, - And tremble. And I shall know that you have died, - - And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream, - Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host, - Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam-- - Most individual and bewildering ghost!-- - - And turn, and toss your brown delightful head - Amusedly, among the ancient Dead. - -There are about eighteen words in this one sonnet chosen with infinite -pains; and yet the effect of the whole is quite unlabored--an effect of -spontaneity reduced to its simplest terms. - -Perhaps the point can be made more emphatically by a miscellaneous -quotation of single lines, because the poignancy of Rupert Brooke's -phrasing leaves me in a torment of inexpressiveness, forced to quote him -rather than talk about him. Here are a few: "Like hills at noon or -sunlight on a tree"; "And dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky"; "The -soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player"; "Some gaunt eventual limit of -our light"; "Red darkness of the heart of roses"; "And long noon in the -hot calm places"; "My wild sick blasphemous prayer"; "Further than -laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming"; "Against the black and -muttering trees"; "And quietness crept up the hill"; "When your swift -hair is quiet in death"; "Savage forgotten drowsy hymns"; "And dance as -dust before the sun"; "The swift whir of terrible wings"; "Like flies on -the cold flesh"; "Clear against the unheeding sky"; "So high a beauty in -the air"; "Amazed with sorrow"; "Haggard with virtue"; "Frozen smoke"; -"Mist-garlanded," and a thousand other things that somehow have a -fashion of striking twelve. There's a long poem about a fish, beginning - - In a cool curving world he lies - And ripples with dark ecstasies. - -that flashes through every tone of the stream's "drowned colour" from -"blue brilliant from dead starless skies" to "the myriad hues that lie -between darkness and darkness." And there's one about Menelaus and Helen -containing this description: - - High sat white Helen, lonely and serene. - He had not remembered that she was so fair, - And that her neck curved down in such a way; - -The simplicity of that last line--but what a picture it is! - -The important things about Mr. Brooke, however--and of course this -should have been said in the first paragraph--are his sense of life and -his feeling for nature. Of the first it might be said that he is strong -and radiant and sure--and at the same time reverently impotent. _The -Hill_, which I like better than anything in this collection, will -illustrate: - - Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, - Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. - You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass; - Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still, - When we are old, are old...." "And when we die - All's over that is ours; and life burns on - Through other lovers, other lips," said I, - --"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!" - - "We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here. - Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said; - "We shall go down with unreluctant tread - Rose-crowned into the darkness!" ... Proud we were, - And laughed, that had such brave true things to say. - --And then you suddenly cried, and turned away. - -Everything in it--with the exception of "kissed the lovely grass," which -might easily be spared--is fine; "with unreluctant tread Rose-crowned -into the darkness!" is vivid with beauty; and when the simple dignity of -"such brave true things to say" has swung you to its great height, the -drop in that sudden last line comes with the most moving wistfulness. -There are several poems, too long to quote here, which show Mr. Brooke's -affinity with the outdoors; but perhaps even five lines from one of them -will suggest it: - - Then from the sad west turning wearily, - I saw the pines against the white north sky, - Very beautiful, and still, and bending over - Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky - And there was peace in them.... - -Not long ago I asked a poet in whose judgment I have a profound belief, -to read these poems of Rupert Brooke's and give me his opinion. After -looking at two or three he said he was afraid he wasn't going to like -them, but the next day he reported that he wished to retract, making the -magnificent concession that "_some_ of Brooke's moods are healthy!" Of -course there are a number of things in this volume that can easily be -interpreted as unhealthy or repulsive, like the _Wagner_: - - Creeps in half wanton, half asleep, - One with a fat wide hairless face. - He likes love music that is cheap; - Likes women in a crowded place; - And wants to hear the noise they're making. - - His heavy eyelids droop half-over, - Great pouches swing beneath his eyes. - He listens, thinks himself the lover, - Heaves from his stomach wheezy sighs; - He likes to feel his heart's a-breaking. - - The music swells. His gross legs quiver. - His little lips are bright with slime. - The music swells. The women shiver, - And all the while, in perfect time - His pendulous stomach hangs a-shaking. - -But it seems something more than that to me. As an attack on German -emotionalism--however unjustly, from my point of view, through -Wagner--the poem struck me as an exercise of extraordinary cleverness. I -don't know that anyone has ever said so effectively the things that -ought be said about that type of emotion which feeds not upon life but, -inversely, upon emotion. - -Mr. Brooke's pictures have much of the quality of Böcklin's. That first -sonnet can be imagined in the same tone values as Böcklin's wonderful -_Isle of the Dead_, and the closing lines of _Victory_ need the same -medium: - - Down the supernal roads, - With plumes a-tossing, purple flags far flung, - Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving, - Thundered the black battalions of the Gods. - -_Seaside_ needs an artist like Leon Dabo: - - Swiftly out from the friendly lilt of the band, - The crowd's good laughter, the loved eyes of men, - I am drawn nightward; I must turn again - Where, down beyond the low untrodden strand, - There curves and glimmers outward to the unknown - The old unquiet ocean. All the shade - Is rife with magic and movement. I stray alone - Here on the edge of silence, half afraid, - - Waiting a sign. In the deep heart of me - The sullen waters swell towards the moon, - And all my tides set seaward. - From inland - Leaps a gay fragment of some mocking tune, - That tinkles and laughs and fades along the sand, - And dies between the seawall and the sea. - -How perfect those last three lines are! How skilful, in painting the -sea, to concentrate upon something from inland, making the ocean twice -as old and vast and unquiet because of that little tinkling tune. - -One will find in Rupert Brooke various kinds of things, but never -attitudinizing and never insincerity. He is one of the most important of -those young Englishmen who are doing so much for modern poetry. He is -essentially a poet's poet, and yet his feet are deep in the common soil. -Swinburne would have liked him, but the significant thing is that -Whitman would, too. There are several poems I have not mentioned that -Whitman would have loved. - - - - - Tagore As a Dynamic - - - GEORGE SOULE - - [We do not agree that _Tagore_ is a dynamic; we find him a poet - whose music is more important than his thinking. But we are glad - to print this interesting analysis.] - -In _The Crescent Moon_, with its ravishing beauty of childhood, in _The -Gardener_, with its passion of love, and especially in _Gitanjali_ and -_Sadhana_ (Macmillan), with their life universal and all-permeating, we -have found the poet Tagore and been grateful. It remains to ask: What -has Tagore done to us? What is he likely to do for the future? What has -been his answer to the promise and the challenge of the world? - -Religions have provided one answer. In his zeal of affirmation the -prophet has declared that the individual lives after death; that in some -unseen world completion shall be attained. Yet increasing millions find -this explanation fading into unreality. If one living organism is -perpetuated after its physical dissolution, why not another? We can -account for every particle of life which the blossom loses by its death. -Some has passed to the seed; the rest finds its chemical reaction, which -in turn produces other forms of life--in entirely new individuals. To -assert that the original blossom lives in an unseen form outside the -realm of thought is preposterous. Why should it? Its function has been -accomplished. The sentimentality behind this thinking is a weak prop for -a vigorous mind. And exactly the same reasoning applies to all living -organisms, including man. - -The more intelligent part of mankind has also outgrown the conception of -a definite heaven. It is impossible to imagine a satisfactory heaven for -the individual. A place where there is no strife, where everything is -perfection and completion--what joy is to be found there? The essence of -life as we know it is growth and survival; its happiness comes from the -exercise of a function. Growth and survival postulate extinction; in -heaven an individual would evaporate. - -Some thinkers have made a substitute "religion of humanity." They find -solace in action tending to make the world a better place; they have -been gratified by an imaginative conception of a future heaven on earth. -As a religion of morality and action this is magnificent. Yet its dogma -does not satisfy. A heaven on earth is no more conceivable than a heaven -anywhere else. If we find our happiness in action, how shall our -descendants find happiness when there are no more evils to conquer? -Though a static condition of blessedness be the goal of humanitarian -endeavor, it is the progress toward it which furnishes the joy. - -The Oriental thinker has looked for his answer in a different direction. -Though the individual is partial and unsuccessful, life as a whole is -always triumphant. Cannot the individual by contemplation identify -himself with the world-soul? Can he not tack himself on to this -all-inclusive life by denial and forgetfulness of himself? Brahmin -saints have done so imaginatively. But such an answer is no answer. We -are individuals, after all, and thinking of Nirvana will not rob us of -our separate bodies and minds. Contemplation is not a substitute for -living. - -The doctrine of transmigration is equally unsatisfying. If an individual -never succeeds in any single life, innumerable chances will be mere -repetitions of tragedy. The only hope of such a process would be a final -"heaven on earth," which is just as inconceivable as that of the -humanitarians. - -We cannot now be satisfied with theological answers. Nor will the world -ever find an answer permanently satisfactory. Is not this as it should -be? A fixed system of thought which answers every spiritual craving must -be a shell around the individual, preventing growth. It finally ceases -to be a dynamic and becomes a wall in the way of the feelers which -mankind is constantly sending into his spiritual environment. It forces -him to rest. It eventually turns all his expansion into the lower planes -of life. It is deadening, suffocating, as soon as he reaches its limits. - -Of what nature, then, must be the religion of the modern man and woman? -First of all, it must not be imposed from without; it must grow through -the personality and find its being there. It must not only square with -every known fact of science and thought; it must stimulate to a fervent -desire for new understanding. It must not deny or destroy life; it must -be life's essence. It must ring with a call to the individual to assume -his proper dignity of life. It must harmonize with the laughter of -children and with the bitter beauty of a winter sea. It must flame with -emotion, yet be keen and hard as a sword. And it must be not a -self-constituted standard with which every other thing is arbitrarily -compared, but a principle of growth making necessary in us vision, -strength, freedom, and fearlessness. - -It is my feeling that Tagore will suggest to the modern man such a -religion. He gives expression, though not, of course, perfect -expression, to a synthesis of many latent instincts of the modern mind. -He glories in understanding, not only facts and truth, but emotions and -all manifestations of life. He calls us to see vivid beauty wherever it -is found. He acclaims the aid of science in extending man's personality -throughout the universe. He sees the oneness of all life, and bids man -stand erect on account of this eternal and timeless force coursing -through him. He sees the oneness of humanity, and the necessity of -perfecting human relations. He depicts purity without asceticism, vigor -without brutality. He emphasizes joy and action. He does not blink the -fact of death, but robs it of horror by showing it as the natural end of -a victorious life. While he encourages by the idea of an ultimate goal, -he inspires by the conception of a real connection with infinity here -and now. Revering the universal life, he sees that it finds expression -only in individuals, and that the law of our being must be to live as -completely as possible. - -Many before Tagore have said these things partially. But it remained for -a poet who combines the intelligence of the Orient with that of the -Occident to say them all, and to say them with such beauty and -simplicity that a large part of the world listens. If he succeeds in -making us conscious of such a religion, he will have quickened life and -made it potent as few artists can. - - - - - Ethel Sidgwick's "Succession" - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - - _Succession_: A Comedy of the Generations, by Ethel Sidgwick. - (Small, Maynard and Company, Boston.) - -Ethel Sidgwick is the world's next great woman novelist. Though I -confess eagerly that I enjoy her novels more than any novels I've ever -read--I mean it literally--it isn't on so personal a basis that I offer -the judgment. But I'm confident that within ten years the critical -perspective will show her on this pinnacle. Since George Eliot and the -Brontës, I can think of no woman who has focused art and life so -intensely into novel writing--though even as I say this _Ethan Frome_ -looms up and leaves me a little uncomfortable. But the important thing -is that Ethel Sidgwick is going to count--enormously. - -People who aren't yet aware of her (and there seem to be a lot of them) -can be easily explained as that body of the public that neglects a -masterpiece until it has become the fashion to acclaim it. But Ethel -Sidgwick has written a novel that's more important than any number of -our traditional masterpieces. For instance, it's a much more important -story than _Vanity Fair_; just as _Jean Christophe_ is more valuable -than _Ivanhoe_. The novel of manners has its delightful place, and so -has the historical romance; but the novel that chronicles with subtlety -the intellectual or artistic temper of an age is as much more important -than these as Greek drama is than the moving picture show. - -I know there are people who'll read _Succession_ and continue to prefer -Thackeray's geniality to Miss Sidgwick's brilliant seriousness and her -humor that's not at all genial--but rapid, sophisticated, impatient of -comedy in the accepted sense. Ethel Sidgwick might write a radiant -tragedy, or a wistful satire, or a sad comedy; I can never imagine her -being anything so obvious as merely comic--or genial! She doesn't laugh; -she _couldn't_ chuckle; she has just the flash of a smile, and then she -hurries on dazzlingly, as though things were too important to be -anything but passionate about. She doesn't "warm the cockles of your -heart"--or whatever that silly phrase is; and she doesn't do crude, raw -things to show you that she "knows life." She goes down into the -darkness rose-crowned, in Rupert Brooke's gorgeous phrase; when she goes -into the sunlight it is always with something of remembered agony. -That's the fine quality of her vitalism. She's too strong to be hard, -too steel-like to be robust. She's like fire and keen air--to borrow -another poet's phrase. She reflects life through the mirror of a vivid -personality--which is one way of being an important artist. She assumes -that you're also vivid, and quick, and subtle, and this gives her -writing the most beautiful quality of nervousness--the kind you mean -when you're not talking about nerves. In short, Ethel Sidgwick is the -most definitely magnetic personality I've ever felt through a book's -pages. - -_Succession_, though complete in itself, is really a sequel to -_Promise_, published a year ago. The sub-title presents the idea, and -can be concretely expanded in a sentence: Antoine, child-wonder -violinist, and the youngest of the celebrated Lemaures, revolts against -the musical ideas of his grandfather. Here it is again--the battle of -youth and age, made particularly interesting because it's a purely -intellectual warfare, and particularly charming because its participants -are such delightful people. - -The first glimpse of Antoine is irresistible. After a series of concerts -in England, he is being taken by his uncle to their home in France. M. -Lucien Lemaure has chosen the long route because his nephew has an odd -habit of sleeping better on the water than in any house or hotel on -shore; and while he doesn't understand this nephew, he has vital reasons -for considering him: for upon Antoine's delicate shoulders rests the -musical honor of the family. - - "Sleep well, mon petit," he said, in the tiny cabin. "We are - going home." - - Antoine, who had no immediate intention of sleeping, was staring - out of the dim porthole of a fascinating space of the unknown. - "That is home to you?" he asked vaguely. - - "To be sure. My first youth was passed there, like thine." - - After an interval passed spent in a vain effort to imagine his - uncle with no hair on his face, Antoine gave it up and recurred - to the window. "I wish I lived on the sea," he murmured. - -In the train, flying toward Paris, Lucien refers to the last London -recital, when Antoine had made both his uncle's and his conductor's -lives a burden by his indifferent rehearsal of his grandfather's latest -composition. Antoine's outburst had outraged Lucien, to whom faith in -his father's character and genius had, all his life, amounted to a -religion. - - "What will you tell him then?" said Antoine, turning his dark - eyes without deranging his languid attitude along the seat. "Just - that I said some 'sottises,' the same as always?" - - "He is not a child," thought Lucien instantly. "He is clever, - maddening. Of course, my action will have to be explained. I - shall say," he said aloud, with deliberation, "that we differed - about the concerto. That you were difficult and headstrong over - that, which is certainly true. You have admitted since that it - was too much for you, eh?" - - "Yes," said the boy. "It is an awful thing, but I played it. I - had to have something real that night." - - "You imply my father's composition is not real?" - - "Oh, do not," said the boy, under his breath. "I have remembered - he is your father now." - - "To be sure," said M. Lucien, with stateliness. "And have you no - duty to him as well?" - - "I shall see him soon. I shall remember then." Antoine diverted - his eyes, to his uncle's private relief. "Do you think I do not - want to remember, after that?" - - "I should think you would be ashamed," said Lucien, by way of the - last word in argument, and retired to his paper. - - "You like me to be ashamed," said Antoine, snatching the last - word from him, though still with a manner of extreme languor. - "Good, then, I have been. It is not"--he watched the trees of - Normandy sleepily--"a very nice feeling." - - "I am glad you know what it is like, at least," growled his uncle - into the paper. - - "Don't you?" said his nephew. "What it is like, is to make you - feel rather sick--all the time--especially while you are playing - it." - - "What?" - - "The thing you are ashamed of." - -How I wanted to hug him! - - "Antoine," said Lucien, rising and discarding the paper, "do not - be absurd. Here, look at me. You suffered that night at the - concert, eh? You excited yourself so much, little imbecile. Are - you tired now?" - - "No, thank you--this is France," replied Antoine. "That is a - French cow," he murmured, "not so fat. That is a French tree, not - so thick. The sky is different, and the sun. The concerts will be - easier, I expect." - -But the first glimpse of M. Lemaure, the grandfather, is reassuring. In -fact, he's almost as irresistible as Antoine, making you realize -immediately that the battle is going to be a subtle one, and that it may -be difficult to know which side to take, after all. - -The old musician asks about the last recital. - - "I was not at the last orchestral," Lucien answers. "I left him - in Wurst's charge, and went to the country, ... I should not - easily desert my post, as you know; but the boy made it clear - enough he had no use for me. He clung to that sacré concerto of - Tschedin, which he knows you detest, and which I never thought in - a condition to perform. He mocked himself of my objections, - contradicted me, eluded me, and twisted Wurst round his finger at - rehearsals." - - "And Wurst?" - - "Wurst found him charming. He has Russian blood himself, and had - known the composer. He has encouraged Antoine's revolutionary - tendencies from the first. The pair of them took the last concert - so completely out of my hands that it seemed fruitless to - remain." - - "Bébé forgot himself," pronounced M. Lemaure, still quite at - ease. Indeed the situation so reminded him of Antoine's childhood - that he longed to laugh. "What did he say, and when?" - - "We will not revive it," said Lucien. "When he came to his - senses, he apologized sufficiently. Perhaps he was not well ... - when is the first engagement--Sunday?" - - "Let him be for a time. There is no harm." - - Lucien grunted. "I shall not disturb him while he is seasick, if - that is what you mean. It would do him no harm to play scales all - the week." - - "Scales--as you will, but not persons. Not Dmitri Tschedin, I - mean, nor even me. It is intrusive personality, always, that - disturbs the current of Antoine's philosophy." - - "Father! How absurd." - - "But I have long remarked it. His own individuality fights the - alien matter, and it is not till he has either rejected it or - absorbed that he is steady again. Wurst and his Russians have - excited him--nothing more natural. For me," said M. Lemaure, - plunging into memory, as he stood by his son's side at the - window, "at his age, the realm of music did not hold such - petulant passions, any more than it held flat heresy, like that - of Sorbier and Duchâtel." - - "Antoine adores Duchâtel," remarked Lucien. "There is no fighting - there." - - "Bon!" The old man laughed. "Heresy on the hearth then, if it - must be so. So long as he does not play the stuff in my hearing." - -There are over six hundred pages in the story, and they cover just a -year and a half of Antoine's life. This appears to be an impossible -literary feat; any orthodox novelist will tell you that you can't hold a -reader through six hundred pages with the story of a fourteen-year-old -boy. But Miss Sidgwick's holding power is--well, I read _Succession_ -during a brief trip to Boston, and much as I longed to absorb Concord -and all its charms, I found I only had half my capacity with me; the -rest was with Antoine, and it stayed there till in desperation I shut -myself up in a hotel room and saw him safely off to America with his -nice, wholesome, inartistic father. Then came the awful realization that -I'd have to wait a whole year for the next volume--for surely Miss -Sidgwick intends to make a trilogy. - -The explanation of this absorption is simply that Antoine is so -interesting. His professional life is dramatic; but even in the -commonest experiences of every day his world is as vivid as it can only -be to a dramatic nature. For instance, in this little scene with his -brother: - - "There was a little thing on legs," he announced, "that went - under the carpet just now. It was rather horrible, and I have not - looked for it." - - "A blackbeetle, I presume," said Philip. - - "It was not black," said Antoine. "It was pink--a not-clean pink, - you understand. I found it"--a pause--"disagreeable." - - "How could you find it when you had not looked for it?" said - Philip. Another pause, Antoine considering the point, which was - an old one. - - "You will catch it," he suggested, shooting a soft glance at his - brother. - - "Why should I?" said Philip. "They're perfectly harmless." - - "I shall dream of it," said Antoine, shutting his eyes. "It was - too long, do you see, and pink as well." His brow contracted, and - he finished with gentle conviction. "If it comes upon my bed in - the night, I shall be sick." - -Of course, most interesting of all is his musical development, in which -are involved several personalities of striking character: Duchâtel, the -revolutionary, more a son, after the French fashion, than a man or a -musician; Savigny, the celebrated alienist, who treats the child -hypnotically in his severe illnesses; Lemonski, a rival child wonder, -who is like a pig, and vulgar--which it is silly to say, because he is a -beautiful artist, according to Antoine; Reuss, the great German -conductor, and the boy's staunch friend, who hates "the cursed French -training" of making life weigh so heavily on its youth; Jacques -Charretteur, the vagabond violinist, "a man to play French music in -France"; Cécile, the aunt, who has the perception to understand the -little genius with the dark eyes, whose "expression was so beautiful -that she could hardly bear it"; and Ribiera, the famous Spanish pianist, -who "warms" the piano, in Antoine's words, and calls the boy an -intelligent ape, by way of expressing his admiration. All these people -are drawn with consummate skill. - -I think one of the most poignant passages in the book, to me, is -Antoine's description of how he had _raté_ the solo at a London concert. -It was at the end of the season, and he had been harassed by a thousand -needless frictions: - - "The first part had gone pretty well, though I did not like how - the Duchâtel sounded. I thought that was the violin, perhaps--and - a new room. It was a bad room, pretty, but stupid for the sound. - I heard much too much, so I was sure _they_ were not hearing - properly. _They_ were extremely still, and made a little clapping - at the end. I did not find it a good concert, but Wurst in the - interval said it was very well, and I should not excite myself. - So when I did not, then I was tired, and it seemed stupider than - before. And at last that thing came, the Mirski 'Caprice,' which - you know how detestable. The passages are hard in that thing, but - I know them. Every morning I played them to Moricz, so now I do - not trouble.... And then, in the middle of it, I heard Peter Axel - playing wrong.... And I was frightened horribly.... And I made - him an awful frown for forgetting it, and Peter was looking at - me. His face was not happy like it generally is. It was like one - of those worst dreams. And, of course, I stopped playing, because - it cannot be like that. And Peter said 'Go back,' very quietly, - making a lot of little passages and returning for me to find, do - you see?" - - "He gave you a chance to pick up, eh?" said Philip. "And you - couldn't." - - "Couldn't! I _would_ not. I was furious--awful.... I said a rude - thing to Axel in passing, and went off the estrade. And _they_ - all clapped together down there, bah!--though they knew it was - not finished. They were sorry I had stopped--because they were - people who like a difficult Caprice, to be amused by it. But I - was not amused. Nor Peter, very much." He laughed sharply. - - "Don't, I say," said Philip. "It's all over now. It doesn't - matter, really. Everybody forgets, now and then" ... - - "I do not," said Antoine. "I do not know how it is to forget. I - know that thing--I know all the little notes, long ago, before - Moricz--since years. It is not possible to _forget_ a little - concert piece that you _know_...." - - "Did you go on again?" - - "Yes. After Wurst had finished talking, I had to. I should not - have for my uncle, but I had to for him. He was violent, Wurst. - He said it was indigne and lôche if I stopped, and a lot of other - words. He was like a little dog barking. A man like Wurst does - not 'rater.' He does not know how that is done. His head has all - the big scores inside.... He did not see how it was for me to - stand up on the estrade again, with quantities of beautiful - people looking kind. It would have been so better if they had - siffli, like here in Paris." - -The book closes on an unexpected and suggestive note. Antoine, who had -always realized that his grandfather couldn't bear his being "different" -in music, had taken quietly to composing the kind of things he loved. He -"made" a quintet in which Ribiera was given a brilliant piano part, and -which he thought beautiful--extremely. But when they played it for him, -though he was moved to cry, he found its "ideas" not so good as he had -thought. Whereupon he plans to produce better ones in his new overture. - -_Succession_ is a masterpiece of art, and Antoine is the most lovable -and interesting character in new fiction. - - - - - The Meaning of Bergsonism - - - LLEWELLYN JONES - -Bergson's philosophy is the antithesis of the natural-science view of -the universe as mechanism. In that view the laws of nature are fixed -sequences controlling matter, or energy, and the more complicated and -faultless the mechanism the higher the life. Just how this mechanism -became conscious of the fact that it was a mechanism--caught itself at -itself, so to speak, and announced the laws of its own being--is a -question as puzzling as the old theological one of the aseity of -God--which is simply a Latinized way of asking how the deity could, -being infinite, turn himself inside out in such a manner as to become -aware of his own existence and attributes. In fact, the two questions -are one and the same. According to Bergson, mechanism not only cannot -explain consciousness, but it is the very antithesis of conscious life. -Behind mechanism he places an inextinguishable but not uncheckable vital -urge with endless potentialities and with no fixed goal. The progress of -this "elan vital" is through resistance to matter, which is simply the -reversal of its own movement. The onward urge is what Bergson calls -"pure duration" or motion, and its collision with its own reverse -movement is what appears to us as space. The actual situation of life at -any given time is simply a _modus vivendi_ between this spiritual -activity striving to be free, and the reverse movement. - -We know, of course, that the physical universe is simply energy running -down. Just as a glass of water cools off, so the sun dissipates its -heat, and so, we are learning, the elements break up into simpler forms, -giving off their contained energy in the forms of heat and electricity -as they do so. But on the other hand the plant takes unto itself that -energy of the sun, and with it builds up again the inorganic salts from -its soil into higher forms with a greater content of stored energy. What -the plant does, says Bergson, is typical and symbolical of what all life -does at all times: sets up a reverse current to the running-down -tendency of the universe of matter. - -Life cannot do this easily, but has to adapt itself to the resistance of -the downward flow. It does this through its motor reactions, its sense -organs, and above all through its intelligence when that is evolved. The -evolution of these things gives us our ideas of space. The insect cuts -up its environment into spatial forms easy for it to deal with. Man with -different sense organs probably lives in a different space world. As "a -thing is where it acts," it is obvious that the boundaries of things in -the material realm would be quite different if we had, for example, some -sort of sense organ adapted to identify things by their electrical -properties. But this identifying of things by spatial and material -concepts--the mathematical order--is instrumental to the ends of action, -and the original consciousness of life, while it included the -potentialities of intellectual knowledge, was instinctive. Instinct, -according to Bergson, is first-hand knowledge, but knowledge incapable -of conceptual extension. It is therefore no use in the practical affairs -of life, but certain and immediate in its apprehension of the actual -flow of life itself. In its broadened form of intuition it is -responsible for all the valid and original insights of the philosophers -and poets. The structural and dialectic forms in which philosophies have -been given to the world are simply the intellectualizing process which -philosophers have used to buttress--and which they have often thought -produced--the insight which was prior to and independent of the system. - -Bergson's doctrine has been seized upon by apologists for every creed -and for every iconoclasm. Bergson has been accused of every intellectual -crime, from being the intellectual father of syndicalism to being the -last rich relative of struggling obscurantism. The protestant -theologians talk glibly of Bergson's idea of God, and use him as a stick -with which to beat the hated materialist. Bergson himself would never -apply his philosophy to the uses of the syndicalists. The argument of -the syndicalists themselves is simply an ingenious parody of the -Bergsonian philosophy, as it is so far developed. As mechanism and the -mathematical order, they say, do not represent life, we cannot by the -means of natural and sociological sciences predict in advance what life -will do, and what forms it will take. We cannot base revolutionary -action, for instance, along Marxian lines, because the whole Marxist -philosophy rests upon the assumption that life is the slave of material -forces--chemical firstly, and economical in the human drama--and that it -will therefore follow along predetermined lines. If life is an "elan -vital," breaking its path as it goes, and only able to think in terms of -the past, then revolutionary activity must cut loose from the -reactionary intellect, and trust itself to its instincts; fight its way -to that freedom which is impossible in the mathematically determined -intellectual realm, and which is equally impossible of achievement by -mere intellectual foresight. So the syndicalist in the name of Bergson -cuts loose from all theories of the future he wishes to bring in, -preaches the "general strike" for its stimulating effect on the emotions -of the proletarian constituents of his social "elan vital"--quite -careless of whether it would ever be a practical success or not--and -deliberately cuts loose from all forms of "bourgeoise culture." - -But the anti-revolutionists point out that Bergson does believe in the -intellect as a guide to the practical affairs of life; and industry and -production--the field of the syndicalist--are far more mechanical than -they are vital. In man's industrial relations he has to approximate -himself as much to the machine as possible, and for Bergson's -anti-intellectualism to be applied to this particular realm of life is -as great a calamity as could happen to the doctrine. And then these -conservatives proceed, less justifiably perhaps, to train the captured -gun of intuition upon the syndicalists. The racial intuitions, they say, -are older than the race's newly-found intellectual conceptions. For -generations the race has lived by certain instinctive rules of conduct. -Religion, custom, and patriotism, these are all sacred because they are -extra-intellectual, and they dare us to disturb these sacred things. It -is a strange sight--this most revolutionary philosophical doctrine being -used to support all the prejudices that the ages have handed down--but -we cannot deny that it is a plausible use of intuitionism, and a more -legitimate use than that to which Sorel and his followers have put the -teachings emanating from the College of France. - -Perhaps the most detailed application that Bergson has yet made of his -philosophy to the affairs of life is his application of its principles -to the puzzling æsthetic problem of laughter and the comic. His theory -is that laughter is a social corrective directed against the man who -allows the dogging steps of mechanism to overtake him and imprison his -spirit in a web of meaningless action. The man who is walking along the -street should be going in a determinate direction with a determinate end -in view, and with the ability to get there in spite of reasonable -obstacles. So says society. When he becomes abstracted, walks -mechanically, and in consequence falls over a brick, we laugh at him. He -has permitted himself to become a machine for the nonce instead of a -self-conscious spirit, and society cannot afford to have its interests -jeopardized in that way. - -_The International Journal of Ethics_ for January, 1914, contains an -article by J. W. Scott, who accuses Bergson of ethical pessimism on the -grounds of his view of the comic. He points out that the psychology of -comic action, as Bergson works it out, is precisely that of moral -action. For in moral action, too, a man does what is habitual, what is -against his own self-conscious impulse, what is mechanical in that it is -a fixed course of conduct pursued without reference to the favor or -disfavor of the environment. The life impulse must be, he convicts -Bergson of saying, adaptable to its circumstances; it must insert itself -between the determinisms of matter; it must pursue the crooked path -where the straight path is too difficult. It cannot follow its moral -ideal without making itself ridiculous, as indeed in real life moral -people are always doing. - -This criticism hangs on the acceptance of a moral ideal, and if we must -have an ideal in the sense of a goal beckoning us from the future, then -the criticism is well founded and Bergson is an ethical pessimist. But -systematic ethics have been denied by other philosophers before Bergson, -and most people of modern temperament are quite willing to let the whole -question of _a priori_ ethics drop. They might not be willing to -exchange it for the very unpoetic utilitarianism which has so often been -offered in its place, but Bergson offers something more than that. If he -be an ethical pessimist, he is not a religious pessimist. Of religion he -has not yet spoken, except incidentally. Obviously so long as he uses -the scientific method in his philosophy, proceeding from facts to their -subordination in a picture whose values are given by intuitions, he -cannot present a systematic philosophy. But in spite of the fact that -pessimism--not only in ethics but in his view of the content of -personality and its relations with the universe--is charged against him, -Bergson means to be decidedly optimistic in his treatment of -personality. In his article in _The Hibbert Journal_ for October, 1911, -occur these remarkable words: - - If then, in every province, the triumph of life is expressed by - creation, ought we not to think that the ultimate reason of human - life is a creation which, in distinction from that of the artist - or man of science, can be pursued at every moment and by all men - alike? I mean the creation of self by self, the continual - enrichment of personality by elements which it does not draw from - outside but causes to spring forth from itself.... If we admit - that with man consciousness has finally left the tunnel; that - everywhere else consciousness has remained imprisoned; that every - other species corresponds to the arrest of something which in man - succeeded in overcoming resistance and in expanding almost - freely, thus displaying itself in true personalities capable of - remembering all and willing all and controlling their past and - their future, we shall have no repugnance in admitting that in - man, though perhaps in man alone, consciousness pursues its path - beyond this earthly life. - -On the other suppositions of Bergson's philosophy this is by no means so -far-fetched as are most theories of immortality. For the consciousness -which cuts out the patterns of our spatial life here could easily cut -out others in the beyond, like enough to our present ones to carry on -the continuity of our active existence. The idea of survival, or an idea -that may be applied to transmundane survival, is suggested by Laurence -Binyon in a recent volume of poems entitled "Auguries." He writes: - - And because in my heart is a flowing no hour can bind - Because through the wrongs of the world looking forth and behind - I find for my thoughts not a close, not an end, - With you will I follow, nor crave the strength of the strong - Nor a fortress of time to enshield me from storms that rend. - This is life, this is home, to be poured as a stream as a song. - -This is quoted not only because it represents the poetical realization -of Bergson's message, but because it points to one reason why the charge -of pessimism has been brought against Bergson even in this connection. - -If only progress is our home, if there be no stability, how is that -permanence of values to be achieved which Höffding declares to be the -essential axiom of religion? We may love our faithful dog, but according -to Bergson it represents an evolutionary blind alley. We may create as -we will, but we shall survive our creations. Here, after all, is at the -best a tempered optimism. No reunions are promised in the Bergsonian -paradise. Only a perpetual streaming that does not, so far as Bergson -has yet told us (and that is an important point) ever wind safely home -to sea. - - - - - Instinct and Intelligence - - - Clarence Darrow recently echoed that high estimate of instinct at - the expense of intelligence which has been the fashion since - Bergson. Some of these days, when that case has been overstated - often enough, there will be a return swing of that pendulum. The - instinctive wasp who, in order to paralyze it, knows how to sting - a caterpillar "as though she knew its anatomy" may not always - seem in all respects superior to the human surgeon who does - actually know anatomy and can apply that knowledge in a thousand - ways--versus the wasp's one. Some day it will strike some one - that no creature has an instinct against poison comparable in - delicacy, subtlety, and fullness with a chemist's noninstinctive, - intelligent knowledge of poisons--and nonpoisons. So with a - number of things. The pragmatic objection to our present - glorification of instinct is that it tends to become a - glorification of intellectual whim.--George Cram Cook in _The - Chicago Evening Post_. - - - - - The Jewels of a Lapidary - - - _Emerson's Journals_, Volume IX, 1856-1863. (Houghton Mifflin - Company, Boston.) - -At least nine events of permanent historic interest have occurred in -American literature within the past few years: they are represented by -the publication of nine volumes of Emerson's _Journals_. Those who are -trying to achieve a personal religion, which acknowledges God as an -immanence instead of a proposition, hail with a quiet joy every -extraction from the great mine in which Emerson stored the jewels of his -life. If we do not recognize them as lapidarious we must perceive them -as the better metals of ourselves, for this "friend and aider of those -who would live in the spirit" inhumed those spiritual values which all -men at some time or another seek as their own. Emerson buoys us up for -our common struggles and makes us conscious of that aid which is the -awakening of latent power. He composed the bricks which thousands of -builders have used in fashioning beautiful personal temples. "I dot -evermore in my endless journal," he wrote to Carlyle; "... the -arrangement loiters long, and I get a brick-kiln instead of a house." -Speaking of his philosophical work he confesses a "formidable tendency -to the lapidary style," and adds, "I build my house of boulders." - -Emerson's published journals are kilns and quarries from which the -foundation materials for the edifice of character have been obtained by -countless builders. If he could not construct a system of philosophy, as -Arnold alleges, he could and did provide the "boulders" and indicate the -pattern which others have used. He is a part of every well-read -American, and, chiefly through Carlyle, still lives in the land of his -forefathers. He was an inspiration to Whitman, one of whose "specimen -days" closed with "a long and blessed evening with Emerson." Such -evenings are as real now as in Whitman's time, and are more commonly -experienced, for Emerson is westward-bound. He has traveled slowly in -this direction: "boulders" are not carried by exploiters and pioneers -who build and live in a world not of "the spirit" but of the senses. -With the establishing of easier communication between centers of thought -and fields of action in America, New England "boulders" were brought -hither, to chink the crude walls of western life; and it is a token of -Emerson's vitality and spiritual universality that his "bricks" and -"boulders" are discoverable in all sorts of shacks which men are trying -to improve. Lumber decays, but "boulders" remain, and some of them -become talismanic. - -In reading and re-reading Emerson's _Journals_ one is impressed with -their remarkable quotability, and in this mechanical handiness of his -work we have a partial explanation of the slowness with which it has -been assimilated. "Boulders" are fated to be knocked about before they -are appreciated. We throw them at one another with a sort of physical -dexterity until, burnished and transformed, they are recognized as -adapted to higher uses. We do not flippantly quote or mention the -authors who have become personal to us; I quote Emerson's _Journal_ as a -blessed soliloquy. - - D. C. W. - - - - - New York Letter - - - GEORGE SOULE - -The most interesting hours of the last week I have spent in listening to -discussions of the futurists. Someone told of a superb incident recently -reported of a speech by Marinetti, the enunciator of the futurist -philosophy. Marinetti, after denouncing the past in his usual method, -proceeded to eliminate women from his world. "But," said someone, "how -will you continue the human race?" "We will _not_ continue the human -race," rejoined Marinetti, with superb _éclat_. Daring and magnificent -utterance! But, after all, perhaps he is the only sane one, and the norm -of human intelligence quite insane. That fits in well with the recently -reported discovery of a Paris scientist, that all variations in the -course of evolution are the result of disease, and that there would have -been no man had not some ape had a parasite in his thyroid gland. All of -which goes to show that I was right in my statement (which Chesterton -probably has said before me) that all logical extremes are illogical, -since the world is based on an eternal paradox. - -Really it is quite simple to follow the futurist line of thought once -you get the hang of it. For instance--two developments of painting -predicted at the Troubetzkoys. In the first, each plane in the cubist -picture, instead of being colored, is to be numbered, and the numbers -printed in a catalogue opposite the names of the colors for which they -stand. Thus any approach to the vulgar intrusion of realism would be -avoided, and abstract beauty furthered. What chances for the -imagination! And think of the subtle possibilities in the mathematics of -color! One could surely express by some abstruse quadratic a color quite -beyond the realm of visual possibility, and thus man by one gigantic tug -at his bootstraps would pull his soul out of its finite limitations. - -The second school was aptly named the auto-symbolists. In this school -Nietzschean individualism attains its sublime extreme. The artist, -instead of expressing his spirit in the vulgar symbols understood by -everybody, arbitrarily chooses a symbol known only to himself. If he -wishes to depict a determined man going up a mountain on a mule's back -he may paint a mouse-trap. To him the mouse-trap perfectly expresses the -particular feeling he has when viewing his own mental image of the -picture he has decided to paint. What matter about anybody else? If you -ask him _cui bono_?--he will reply: why any _bono_ at all? And, of -course, he is perfectly logical. And the satisfying aristocratic -aloofness of his position! If people--as they surely will--study his -mouse-trap and discuss in vain what it portends, if they pay vast sums -for his pictures and start a literature of criticisms to guess his -unguessable riddles, so much the better. He can laugh at them with -diabolical glee. Everybody is a fool but himself, and he can go on -creating in the seventh circle of his own soul undisturbed by the -barnyard cackle of the world. - -Has the cubist literature of Gertrude Stein awakened echoes in Chicago? -I have read it without understanding before this. But one night my -host--a great, strong, humorous, intelligent hulk of a man, himself a -scoffer at cubism--read part of her essay on Matisse so that it was -almost intelligible. His inflection and punctuation did it. Her chief -characteristics seem to be an aversion to personal pronouns and a strict -adherence to simple declarative statements, untroubled by subordinate -clauses or phrases of any kind. Her thought, therefore, resolves itself -awkwardly in a four-square way. The multiplicity of her planes becomes -confusing after a page, but each plane stands alone. Thus--(I quote -inaccurately)--"Some ones knew this one to be expressing something being -struggling. Some ones knew this one not to be expressing something being -struggling. This one expressed something being struggling. This one did -not express something being struggling." Which, of course, is the cubist -way of saying that "Some thought he was trying to express struggle in an -object, others thought the contrary. As a matter of fact, he sometimes -did express struggle; sometimes he did not." - -But it seems her early work is now getting too obvious, so she is in the -throes of a later phase. In her "Portrait of Miss Dodge" she has -eliminated verbs and sentence structure entirely, flinging a succession -of image-nouns at the reader. One can surely not accuse her of -"prettiness." - -The craze for colored wigs is, of course, an outgrowth of futurism. Why -should a man be any color except that which his will dictates? This has -long (a few months) been the cry of the painter, and the smart set has -echoed: Why should he? Women in green and blue wigs have been seen in -New York already. But, of course, it would be senseless to stop there; -if one has an orange toupé he should surely have a mauve face. Yellow -complexions are worn with indigo hair. We have long been accustomed to -blue powdered noses on Fifth Avenue, and the setting of diamonds in the -teeth is an old story. The only trouble with this epoch-making idea is -that it is old. Phoenician women did it! And wasn't it Edward Lear who -wrote of _The Jumblies_: - - "Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, - And they went to sea in a sieve"? - -Of course, if one doesn't believe in this new development of art, but is -naturalistic, he should be brave enough to chase his idea to its lair -and act upon it, like Lady Constance Stewart Richardson, who is now -tripping about the homes of the rich in New York with nothing at all -on--or worse than nothing. - -Forgive my preposterosities! But the ridiculous seriousness with which -everything unfamiliar is taken by a sensation-sated _haute monde_ is -such a brilliant target for satire. I think with immense relief of a -wonderful bit of sky, and a long stretch of beach, and of all things -tangible and--yes, though it may be bourgeois--_healthy_. - - - - - To a Lost Friend - - - EUNICE TIETJENS - - Across the tide of years you come to me, - You whom I knew so long ago. - A poignant letter kept half carelessly, - A faded likeness, dull and gray to see.... - And now I know. - - . . . . . . - - Strange that I knew not then,--that when you stood - In warm, sweet flesh beneath my hand, - Your soul tumultuous as a spring-time flood - And life's new wonder pulsing in your blood, - I could not understand. - - I could not see your soul like thin red fire - Flash downward to my gaze, - Nor guess the strange, half-understood desire, - The tumult and the question and the ire - Of those far days. - - I saw your soul stretch longing arms to love - In adolescent shyness bound, - And passionately storm the gods above. - Yet, since my own young heart knew naught thereof, - You never found. - - It is too late now. You have dropped away - In formless silence from my ken, - And youth's high hopes turn backward to decay. - Yet, oh, my heart were very fain to-day - To love you then! - - Culture has one great passion--the passion for sweetness and - light. It has one even yet greater!--the passion for making them - _prevail_.--Matthew Arnold in _Culture and Anarchy_. - - - - - The Irish Players: An Impression - - - A small, low room with walls of cool green-grey; in the center an - old brown fire-place with a great black chimney; on the hearth a - light like a deep raspberry; at each end a chair of smudgy brown; - near the front a table toned with the walls; on it two black mugs - and a stein; in one corner at the back, piled against the - green-grey, flour sacks the color of dirty straw; and standing in - the foreground, balanced as Whistler would have done it, a miller - in a suit of brown, a thin widow in rusty black, a fat widow with - bustles in rusty black and dirty white.--Somehow one planned - beauty in that place. - - - - - The Novel of Manners - - - ... And yet, even into Mrs. Wharton's work is creeping slowly a - part of the tremendous socializing spirit of today--the - realization that group backgrounds, unlighted by a sense of their - relativity to other groups, and to life, do not amount to much - more than painted scenery. Over in England, Wells, with all his - tremendous burden of national background and customs, manages, - often with a desperate wrenching of impedimenta, but always with - a great resolve that commands admiration, to inject into his - massive English settings a humanized world atmosphere as well. - Wells writes not of Englishmen and England, but of Englishmen and - the world. And Galsworthy, his soul permeated by this new social - sense, writes down, in his English men and women, all humanity, - with all the tragedy and plaintive joys of human life, with the - desires and hampered fruition of the desires of all living - things, as his background. Not the world alone, but life, is the - stage.--Edna Kenton in _The Bookman_. - - A man should always obey the law with his body and always disobey - it with his mind.--James Stephens in _The Crock of Gold_. - - There are two great rules of life, the one general and the other - particular. The first is that everyone can, in the end, get what - he wants if he only tries. This is the general rule. The - particular rule is that every individual is, more or less, an - exception to the general rule.--_The Note-Books of Samuel - Butler._ - - - - - Forbes-Robertson's Hamlet - - - All my life I seem to have been asking my friends, those I loved - best, those who valued the dearest, the kindest, the greatest, - and the strongest, in our strange human life, to come with me and - see Forbes-Robertson die in _Hamlet_. I asked them because, as - that strange young dead king sat upon his throne, there was - something, whatever it meant--death, life, immortality, what you - will--of a surpassing loneliness, something transfiguring the - poor passing moment of trivial, brutal murder into a beauty to - which it was quite natural that that stern Northern warrior, with - his winged helmet, should bend the knee. I would not exchange - anything I have ever read or seen for Forbes-Robertson as he sits - there so still and starlit upon the throne of Denmark.--Richard - Le Gallienne in _The Century_. - - To feel, to do, to stride forward in elation, chanting a poem of - triumphant life!--James Stephens in _The Crock of Gold_. - - Why is it that in some places there is such a feeling of life - being all one; not merely a long picture-show for human eyes, but - a single breathing, glowing, growing thing, of which we are no - more important a part than the swallows and magpies, the foals - and sheep in the meadows, the sycamores and ash trees and flowers - in the fields, the rocks and little bright streams, or even than - the long fleecy clouds and their soft-shouting drivers, the - winds?--John Galsworthy in _The Atlantic Monthly_. - - - - - The Dying Pantheist to the Priest - - - Henry A. Beers, the author of this dynamic poem from which we - quote only a part, is a professor of literature at Yale--a man - supposedly conventional and soft spoken! - - Take your ivory Christ away: - No dying god shall have my knee, - While live gods breathe in this wild wind - And shout from yonder dashing sea. - - O no, the old gods are not dead: - I think that they will never die; - But I, who lie upon this bed - In mortal anguish--what am I? - - A wave that rises with a breath - Above the infinite watery plain, - To foam and sparkle in the sun - A moment ere it sink again. - - The eternal undulation runs: - A man, I die; perchance to be, - Next life, a white-throat on the wind, - A daffodil on Tempe's lea. - - They lied who said that Pan was dead: - Life was, life is, and life shall be. - So take away your crucifix-- - The ever-living gods for me! - - --_The Yale Review._ - - - - - Interesting New or Forthcoming Books - - - [Classification in this list implies a review in an early issue.] - -_Notes of a Son and Brother_, by Henry James. - -_Collected Essays of Rudolph Eucken._ - -_The Fugitive_, by John Galsworthy. - -_Plays_, by Tchekoff and Andreyeff. - -_Stories of Russian Life_, by Tchekoff. - -_Selected Essays of Alice Meynell._ - -_Second Nights_, by Arthur Ruhl. - - --Scribner. - -_Stories of Red Hanrahan_, by William Butler Yeats. - -_The Tragedy of Pompey_, by John Masefield. - -_Chitra_, by Rabindranath Tagore. - -_The Possessed_, by Dostoevsky. - -_The Flight and Other Poems_, by George E. Woodberry. - - --Macmillan. - -_When Ghost Meets Ghost_, by William De Morgan. - -_Nowadays_, by George Middleton. - -_Angel Island_, by Inez Haynes Gillmore. - -_Euripides and His Age_, by Gilbert Murray. - -_Social Insurance_, by I. M. Rubinow. - - --Holt. - -_The World Set Free_, by H. G. Wells. - -_The Way of All Flesh_, by Samuel Butler (new edition). - -_Wagner as Man and Artist_, by Ernest Newman. - -_The Philosophy of Ruskin_, by Andre Chevrillon. - - --Dutton. - -_Little Essays in Literature and Life_, by Richard Burton. - -_Beaumont, the Dramatist_, by Charles M. Gayley. - -_Arthur Rackham's Book of Pictures._ - -_Prostitution in Europe_, by Abraham Flexner. - - --Century. - -_The Poems of Francois Villon._ - -_Knave of Hearts_, by Arthur Symons. - -_Essays of Francis Grierson_ (new editions). - -_The Fortunate Youth_, by William J. Locke. - - --Lane. - -_The Making of an Englishman_, by W. L. George. - -_The Truth About Women_, by C. Gasquoine Hartley. - - --Dodd, Mead. - -_Our Friend, John Burroughs_, by Clara Barrus. - -_Paul Verlaine_, by Wilfred Thorley. - -_The Japanese Empire_, by T. Philip Terry. - - --Houghton Mifflin. - -_Knowledge and Life_, by Rudolf Eucken. - -_The Science of Happiness_, by Jean Finot. - - --Putnam. - -_Florian Mayr_, by Baron von Wolzogen. - -_Socialism and Motherhood_, by John Spargo. - - --Huebsch. - -_Richard Wagner_, by Oliver Huckel. - -_The Education of Karl Witte_, translated by Leo Wiener. - - --Crowell. - -_Crowds, Jr._, by Gerald Stanley Lee. - -_A Thousand Years Ago_, by Percy MacKaye. - - --Doubleday. - -_The Masque of Saint Louis_, by Percy MacKaye. - - --Stokes. - -_Old Mole_, by Gilbert Cannan. - - --Appleton. - -_Poems_, by Brian Hooker. - - --Yale University. - -_The Clean Heart_, by M. A. Hutchinson. - - --Little, Brown. - - - - - Some Scribner Spring Books - - - Notes of a Son and Brother - - By HENRY JAMES - - _Illustrated, $2.50 net; postage extra_ - - This is the continuation of the account, in "A Small Boy and - Others," of the early years of William and Henry James and their - brothers, with much about their father and their friends. The - story of the life in Switzerland and Geneva, and later on in - Newport and Cambridge, tells not only their own experiences but a - great deal about such men as John LaFarge, Hunt, Professor - Norton, Professor Childs, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was a - close friend of Henry James, Senior. The description of the Civil - War time and of Wilkinson James's experiences with Colonel Shaw's - colored regiment are particularly interesting. The illustrations - are from drawings made by William James in the early part of his - career when he was studying to be a painter. - - Shallow Soil - - By KNUT HAMSUN - - _Translated from the Norwegian by Carl Chr. Hyllested. - $1.35 net; postage extra_ - - Introduces to the English-speaking world a writer already a - classic not only in his own country but throughout continental - Europe. - - The publication of "Shallow Soil" is accordingly a literary event - of the first magnitude in the sphere of fiction. Hamsun is the - greatest living Scandinavian novelist and this work alone - justifies his fame. It is a social picture of Christiania, and - indeed of generally modern life. - - A Village Romeo and Juliet - - By GOTTFRIED KELLER - - _With a Biographical and Critical Introduction by Edith - Wharton. Translated by A. C. Bahlmann, $1.00 net; - postage extra_ - - This love story of Swiss peasant life--whose title conveys the - character of its plot--is generally regarded as the finest and - most representative production of the great Swiss novelist. But - it has a still further element of interest beyond that which - necessarily attaches to so fine a piece of writing--the - singularly modern spirit which actuates the characters and - inspires the writer. - - Plays by Björnstjerne Björnson - - _Translated from the Norwegian, with Introductions, by - Edwin Björkman. Each with Frontispiece. $1.50 net; postage - extra_ - - - Second Series - - "Love and Geography" - "Beyond Human Might" - "Laboremus" - - Plays by Björnstjerne Björnson - - - _First Series_ - - "The New System" - "The Gauntlet" - "Beyond Our Power" - - _Translated from the Norwegian, with an Introduction, by - Edwin Björkman. Frontispiece. $1.50 net; by mail $1.65_ - - Second Nights - - By ARTHUR RUHL, author of "The Other Americans," etc. - _$1.50 net; by mail, $1.64_ - - A perfectly charming chronicle of the chief features and phases - of the metropolitan theater within the past few years. The point - of view is wholly unprofessional, and the text, unweighted by the - responsibilities of the first-night critic, is intimate and - familiar. - - The Fugitive: A Play in Four Acts - - By JOHN GALSWORTHY - - _60 cents net; postage extra_ - - This is the tragic story of a woman who tries to escape from the - bondage of social conventions. Clare, the heroine, strikes the - key-note of the whole play when, in the last act, she says to the - young man she has never seen before: - - "You see: I'm too fine, and not fine enough! My best friend said - that. Too fine, and not fine enough. I couldn't be a saint and - martyr, and I wouldn't be a soulless doll. 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Most of the scenes are laid in the big - out-of-doors; it fairly breathes the spirit of the open. It is - swift in movement, full of constant surprises, unusual - situations, bright and witty in dialogue; through it all runs an - absorbing romance deftly woven. Diane of the Green Van is - wholesome and clean--with stirring action and striking drama. - It's a big fine story! - - Standard novel size; 440 pages. Handsome cloth binding, - stamped in gold; characteristic jacket printed in four colors; - delightful illustrations in colortone by REGINALD BIRCH. - - At All Dealers--Price $1.35 Net - - Publishers *Reilly & Britton* Chicago - - - - - Transcriber's Notes - - -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. Further corrections are listed here -(before/after): - - [p. 28]: - ... and intimate 'co-operation between her ... - ... an intimate 'co-operation between her ... - - [p. 31]: - ... healthy!" Of course there is a number ... - ... healthy!" Of course there are a number ... - - [p. 32]: - ... definite heaven. It is impossible to imaging ... - ... definite heaven. It is impossible to imagine ... - - [p. 34]: - ... (and there seems to be a lot of them) can ... - ... (and there seem to be a lot of them) can ... - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, -No. 1), by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, MARCH *** - -***** This file should be named 60402-8.txt or 60402-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/4/0/60402/ - -Produced by Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 1) - -Author: Various - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: October 1, 2019 [EBook #60402] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, MARCH *** - - - - -Produced by Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was -produced from images made available by the Modernist Journal -Project, Brown and Tulsa Universities, -http://www.modjourn.org. - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="frontmatter chapter"> -<h1 class="title"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</h1> - -<p class="subt"> -Literature Drama Music Art -</p> - -<p class="ed"> -<span class="line1">MARGARET C. ANDERSON</span><br /> -<span class="line2">EDITOR</span> -</p> - -<p class="issue"> -MARCH, 1914 -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="toc" summary="TOC"> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1">A Letter</td> - <td class="col2">John Galsworthy</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-3">3</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Five Japanese Prints</td> - <td class="col2">Arthur Davison Ficke</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-3">3</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">“The Dark Flower” and the “Moralists”</td> - <td class="col2">Margaret C. Anderson</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-5">5</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama</td> - <td class="col2">DeWitt C. Wing</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-8">8</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">The Lost Joy</td> - <td class="col2">Floyd Dell</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-10">10</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Paderewski and the New Gods</td> - <td class="col2">The Editor</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-11">11</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">The Major Symphony</td> - <td class="col2">George Soule</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-13">13</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">The Prophet of a New Culture</td> - <td class="col2">George Burman Foster</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-14">14</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">How a Little Girl Danced</td> - <td class="col2">Nicholas Vachel Lindsay</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-18">18</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">The New Note</td> - <td class="col2">Sherwood Anderson</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-23">23</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Rahel Varnhagen: Feminist</td> - <td class="col2">Margery Currey</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-25">25</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Tagore as a Dynamic</td> - <td class="col2">George Soule</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-32">32</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">The Meaning of Bergsonism</td> - <td class="col2">Llewellyn Jones</td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-38">38</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Rupert Brooke’s Poetry</td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-29">29</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Ethel Sidgwick’s “Succession”</td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-34">34</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Letters of William Vaughn Moody</td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-24">24</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Emerson’s Journals</td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-42">42</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">The Critics’ Critic</td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-20">20</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">New York Letter</td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - <td class="col_page"><a href="#page-43">43</a></td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> -<p class="pub"> -THE LITTLE REVIEW<br /> -Fine Arts Building<br /> -CHICAGO -</p> - - <div class="table"> - <div class="footer"> -<p class="issue"> -Volume 1<br /> -Number 1 -</p> - -<p class="cop"> -Copyright, 1914, by<br /> -Margaret C. Anderson -</p> - -<p class="price"> -25 cents a copy<br /> -$2.50 a year -</p> - - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="frontmatter chapter"> -<p class="tit"> -<a id="page-1" class="pagenum" title="1"></a> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</p> - -<p class="issue"> -MARCH, 1914 -</p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="article1" id="chapter-0-1"> -Announcement -</h2> - -<p class="epi"> -“The realm of art is prodigious; next to life itself the vastest -realm of man’s experience.” -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span><span class="postfirstchar">ppreciation</span> has its outlet in -art; and art (to complete the circle -and the figure) has its source in—owes -its whole current—to appreciation. -That is, the tides of art would cease to -ebb and flow were it not for the sun and -moon of appreciation. -</p> - -<p> -This function of the sun and moon -is known as criticism. But criticism as -an art has not flourished in this country. -We live too swiftly to have time to -be appreciative; and criticism, after all, -has only one synonym: appreciation. -In a world whose high splendor is our -chief preoccupation the quality of our -appreciation is the important thing. -</p> - -<p> -Life is a glorious performance: quite -apart from its setting, in spite of the -kind of “part” one gets, everybody is -given at least his chance to act. We -may do our simple best with the roles -we receive; we may change our “lines” -if we’re inventive enough to think of -something better; we may alter our -“business” to get our personalities -across more effectively; or we may -boldly accost the stage manager, hand -back the part he’d cast us for, and prove -our right to be starred. The player -who merely holds madame’s cloak may -do it with dignity and grace; and he -who changes his role, with a fine -freedom and courage, discovers that he’s -not acting but living his part! For this -reason we feel that we needn’t be accused -of an unthinking “all’s-right-with-the-world” -attitude when we assert that life -is glorious. -</p> - -<p> -And close to Life—so close, from -our point of view, that it keeps treading -on Life’s heels—is this eager, panting -Art who shows us the wonder of the -way as we rush along. We may as -well acknowledge right here that we’ve -never had a friend (except in one or two -rare instances) who hasn’t shaken his -head at us paternally about this attitude -toward art. “It’s purely transitional,” -he says, tolerantly; “life is so -much more interesting, you see, that -you’re bound to substitute people for -art, eventually. It really doesn’t matter -so much that Alice Meynell wrote -‘Renouncement’ as that Mrs. Jones -next door has left her husband.” Well, -he’s wrong; at least, he can’t speak for -us. Wells said to save the kitten and -let the Mona Lisa burn; who would consider -anything else? We think it’s -rather silly in our paternal friend to -argue with us so heatedly—beside the -point! It’s not a question as to which -is more important—“Renouncement” -or Mrs. Jones. We’re merely trying to -say that we’re intensely interested in -Mrs. Jones, but that Mrs. Meynell -has made our lives more wonderful—permanently. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> means to reflect -this attitude toward life and art. Its -ambitious aim is to produce criticism of -books, music, art, drama, and life that -shall be fresh and constructive, and -intelligent from the artist’s point of -view. For the instinct of the artist to -distrust criticism is as well founded as -the mother’s toward the sterile woman. -More so, perhaps; for all women have -some sort of instinct for motherhood, -and all critics haven’t an instinct for -art. Criticism that is creative—that is -our high goal. And criticism is never -a merely interpretative function; it <em>is</em> -creation: it gives birth! It’s not necessary -to cite the time-worn illustration -of Da Vinci and Pater to prove it. -</p> - -<p> -Books register the ideas of an age; -this is perhaps their chief claim to immortality. -But much that passes for -criticism ignores this aspect of the case -and deals merely with a question of literary -values. To be really interpretative—let -alone creative—criticism must be -a blend of philosophy and poetry. We -shall try very hard to achieve this difficult -combination. -</p> - -<p> -Also, we mean to print articles, -poems, stories that seem to us definitely -interesting, or—to use a much-abused -adjective—vital. Our point of view -shall not be restrictive; we may present -the several judgments of our various -enthusiastic contributors on one subject -in the same issue. The net effect we -hope will be stimulating and what we -like to call releasing. -</p> - -<p> -Feminism? A clear-thinking magazine -can have only one attitude; the -degree of ours is ardent! -</p> - -<p> -Finally, since <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, -which is neither directly nor indirectly -connected in any way with any organization, -society, company, cult or movement, -is the personal enterprise of the -editor, it shall enjoy that untrammelled -liberty which is the life of Art. -</p> - -<p> -And now that we’ve made our formal -bow we may say confidentially that we -take a certain joyous pride in confessing -our youth, our perfectly inexpressible -enthusiasm, and our courage in the face -of a serious undertaking; for those -qualities mean freshness, reverence, and -victory! At least we have got to the -age when we realize that all beautiful -things make a place for themselves -sooner or later in the world. And we -<em>hope</em> to be very beautiful! -</p> - -<p> -If you’ve ever read poetry with a -feeling that it was your religion, your -very life; if you’ve ever come suddenly -upon the whiteness of a Venus in a dim, -deep room; if you’ve ever felt music -replacing your shabby soul with a new -one of shining gold; if, in the early -morning, you’ve watched a bird with -great white wings fly from the edge of -the sea straight up into the rose-colored -sun—if these things have happened to -you and continue to happen till you’re -left quite speechless with the wonder of it -all, then you’ll understand our hope to -bring them nearer to the common experience -of the people who read us. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -The more I see of academicism, the more I -distrust it. If I had approached painting as I -have approached book-writing and music, that -is to say, by beginning at once to do what I -wanted ... I should have been all right.—<em>The -Note-Books of Samuel Butler.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Poetry is in Nature just as much as carbon -is.—Emerson’s <em>Journals</em> (1856-1863). -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Life is like music; it must be composed by -ear, feeling and instinct, not by rule.—<em>The -Note-Books of Samuel Butler.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-2"> -<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> -A Letter from Galsworthy -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -Written from Taormina, February 23, 1914. -</p> - -<p class="addr"> -<span class="smallcaps">My Dear Madam</span>: -</p> - -<p> -You ask me to bid your magazine -good speed; and so far as I have any -right, I do indeed. It seems you are -setting out to watch the street of Life -from a high balcony, where at all events -the air should be fresh and sunrise sometimes -visible. I hope you will decide to -sleep out there under the stars, for what -kills most literary effort is the hothouse -air of temples, clubs, and coteries, that, -never changed, breeds in us by turn -febrility and torpor. Enthusiasms are -more convincing from those who have -not told their loves too often. And -criticism more poignant from one who -has been up at dawn, seen for himself -and put down his impression before he -goes on ’Change. There is a saying of -de Maupassant about a writer sitting -down before an object until he has seen -it in the way that he alone can see it, -seen it with the part of him which makes -him This man and not That. For the -creative artist and the creative critic -there is no rule, I think, so golden. And -I did seem to notice in America that -there was a good deal of space and not -much time; and that without too much -danger of becoming “Yogis” people -might perhaps sit down a little longer -in front of things than they seemed to -do. But I noticed too a great energy -and hope. These will be your servants -to carry through what will not, surely, -be just an exploit or adventure, but a -true and long comradeship with effort -that is worth befriending. -</p> - -<p> -So all good fortune! -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -Very faithfully yours,<br /> -<span class="smallcaps">John Galsworthy</span>. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-3"> -Five Japanese Prints -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Arthur Davison Ficke</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="subchap-0-3-1"> -I KIYONOBU SPEAKS -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">The actor on his little stage</p> - <p class="verse">Struts with a mimic rage.—</p> - <p class="verse">Across my page</p> - <p class="verse">My passion in his form shall tower from age to age.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">What he so crudely dreams</p> - <p class="verse">In vague and fitful gleams,</p> - <p class="verse">The crowd esteems.—</p> - <p class="verse">Well! let the future judge, if his or mine this seems—</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">This calm Titanic mould</p> - <p class="verse">Stalking in colours bold</p> - <p class="verse">Fold upon fold—</p> - <p class="verse">This lord of dark, this dream I dreamed of old!</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="subchap-0-3-2"> -<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> -II FIGURE BY OKUMURA MASANOBU -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">Garbed in flowing folds of light,</p> - <p class="verse">Azure, emerald, rose, and white,</p> - <p class="verse">Watchest thou across the night.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">Crowned with splendor is thine head:</p> - <p class="verse">All the princes great and dead</p> - <p class="verse">Round thy limbs their state have shed—</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">Calm, immutable to stand—</p> - <p class="verse">Gracious head and poisèd hand—</p> - <p class="verse">O’er the years that flow like sand.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="subchap-0-3-3"> -III PILLAR-PRINT BY KIYOMITSU -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">A place for giant heads to take their rest</p> - <p class="verse">Seems her pale breast.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">Her sweeping robe trails like the cloud and wind</p> - <p class="verse">Storms leave behind.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">The ice of the year, and its Aprilian part,</p> - <p class="verse">Sleep in her heart.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">Wherefore, small marvel that her footsteps be</p> - <p class="verse">Like strides of Destiny!</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="subchap-0-3-4"> -IV PILLAR-PRINT BY TOYONOBU -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">O lady of the long robes, the slow folds flowing—</p> - <p class="verse">Lady of the white breast, the dark and lofty head—</p> - <p class="verse">Dwells there any wonder, the way that thou art going—</p> - <p class="verse2">Or goest thou toward the dead?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">So calm thy solemn steps, so slow the long lines sweeping</p> - <p class="verse">Of garments pale and ghostly, of limbs as grave as sleep—</p> - <p class="verse">I know not if thou, spectre, hast love or death in keeping,</p> - <p class="verse2">Or goest toward which deep.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">Thou layest thy robes aside with gesture large and flowing—</p> - <p class="verse">Is it for love or sleep—is it for life or death?</p> - <p class="verse">I would my feet might follow the path that thou art going,</p> - <p class="verse2">And thy breath be my breath.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="subchap-0-3-5"> -<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> -V PILLAR-PRINT BY HARUNOBU -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">From an infinite distance, the ghostly music!</p> - <p class="verse">Few and slender the tones, of delicate silver,</p> - <p class="verse">As stars are broidered on the veil of evening....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">He passes by, the flute and the dreaming player—</p> - <p class="verse">Slow are his steps, his eyes are gravely downcast;</p> - <p class="verse">His pale robes sway in long folds with his passing.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">Out of the infinite distance, a ghostly music</p> - <p class="verse">Returns—in slender tones of delicate silver,</p> - <p class="verse">As stars are broidered on the veil of evening.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-4"> -“The Dark Flower” and the “Moralists” -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Dark Flower</em>, by John Galsworthy. (Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York.) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span> book that has beauty as it’s given -to few books to achieve it has been -the innocent cause of more ignorant, -naïve, and stupid condemnation than -anything published for a long time. -Even the English critics—who usually -avoid these shallows—in several cases -hit the rocks with awful force. And all -because a man with the soul of the old -gods chose to tell, quite simply and with -inexpressible beauty, the truth about an -artist. <em>The Dark Flower</em> was everybody’s -opportunity to deepen his vision, -but nearly everybody decided to look -upon it as an emotional redundancy. -Perhaps this doesn’t do some of them -justice: I believe a good many of them -considered it positively dangerous! -</p> - -<p> -My quite spontaneous tribute to Galsworthy’s -Mark Lennan—before I’d -heard anyone discuss him—was that -here was a man a woman would be glad -to trust her soul to. And, in view of -how silly it is for a woman to trust her -soul to anyone but herself, I still insisted -that one could do it with Mark Lennan: -because he’d not take charge of anyone’s -soul!—his wife’s least of all. Of course, -to love a man of his sort would mean -unhappiness; but women who face life -with any show of bravery face unhappiness -as part of the day’s work. It remains -to decide whether one will reach -high and break a bone or two over something -worth having, or play safe and -take a pale joy in one’s unscarred condition. -With Mark Lennan a woman -would have had—à la Browning—her -perfect moment; and such things are -rare enough to pay well for, if necessary. -</p> - -<p> -All of which is making a very personal -issue of <em>The Dark Flower</em>; but it’s -the kind of book you’ve got to be personal -about; you revise your list of -friends on a basis of their attitude toward -Galsworthy. -</p> - -<p> -After I’d finished <em>The Dark Flower</em>—and -it had never occurred to my naïve -mind that anyone would disagree with -me about it—various persons began to -tell me how wrong I was. Mark Lennan -was a cad and a weakling—decidedly -the kind of person to be kept out of a -good novel. The very beauty of the -<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> -book made it insidious, someone said; -such art expended in defense of immorality -would soon tend to confuse our standards. -Someone else remarked patronizingly: -“Oh, <em>The Dark Flower</em> may be -well done and all that, but personally -I’ve always had a passion for the normal!” -But, most maddening of all, I -think, were those readers of thrillers, of -sweet, sentimental stories—those persons -who patronize comic opera exclusively -because they “see enough tragedy -in life to avoid it in the theater”—who -asked earnestly: “But, after all, what’s -the use of such books? What possible -<em>good do they do</em>?” -</p> - -<p> -On another page of this review such -questions are answered with a poignancy -I dare not compete with. I want to try, -instead, to tell why <em>The Dark Flower</em> -seems to me an altogether extraordinary -piece of work. -</p> - -<p> -In the first place, constructively. The -story covers three episodes of a man’s -love life: Spring, with its awakening; -Summer, with its deep passion; and -Autumn, with its desperate longing for -another Spring. But the handling of -the episodes is so unepisodic that you -feel you’ve been given the man’s whole -life, day by day, from Oxford to that -final going down the years—<em>sans</em> youth, -<em>sans</em> spring, <em>sans</em> beauty, <em>sans</em> passion; -<em>sans</em> everything save that “faint, glimmering -light—far out there beyond....” -This effect of completeness is -achieved, I think, by the remarkable intensity -of the writing, by the clever (and -by no means easy) method of sometimes -allowing the characters the author’s prerogative -of addressing the audience directly. -Highly subjective in everything -that he does, Galsworthy has reached a -climax of subjectivity here: <em>The Dark -Flower</em> is as personal in its medium as -music. -</p> - -<p> -In the second place—the great matter -of style. Every page shows the very -poetry of prose writing; there’s an inevitability -about its choice of beautiful -and simple words that makes them seem -a part of the nature they describe. For -instance, to choose at random from a -multitude of exquisite things: “... -under the stars of this warm Southern -night, burning its incense of trees and -flowers”; or, “And he sat for a long -time that evening under a large lime-tree -on a knoll above the Serpentine. There -was very little breeze, just enough to -keep alive a kind of whispering. What -if men and women, when they had lived -their gusty lives, became trees! What -if someone who had burned and ached -were now spreading over him this leafy -peace—this blue-black shadow against -the stars? Or were the stars, perhaps, -the souls of men and women escaped for -ever from love and longing? ... If -only for a moment he could desert his -own heart, and rest with the trees and -stars!” With a single clause like “for -ever part of the stillness and the passion -of a summer night” Galsworthy gets -effects that some poets need three or four -verses for. In one place he defines for -all time a Chopin mazurka as “a little -dancing dirge of summer”; in another -gives you with one stroke an impression -of his hero that it’s impossible to forget: -“He looks as if he were seeing sands and -lions.” -</p> - -<p> -In the third place, Galsworthy’s psychology -is profound—impregnable. -One simple characterization will serve -to illustrate: he describes a man’s face -as having the candour of one at heart -a child—“that simple candour of those -who have never known how to seek adventures -of the mind, and have always -sought adventures of the body.” -</p> - -<p> -As to the lesson of <em>The Dark Flower</em>—its -philosophy, its “moral”—I can -only say that it hasn’t any such thing; -that is, while it’s full to the brim of -philosophy, it doesn’t attempt to force -<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> -a philosophy upon you. It offers you -the truth about a human being and lets -it go at that—which seems to be the -manner of not a few who have written -greatly. For the other sort of thing, go -to any second-rate novelist you happen -to admire; he’ll give you characters who -have a hard time of it and tell you just -where they’re right and where they’re -wrong. I can see how you feel you’re -getting more for your money. -</p> - -<p> -I can’t help feeling that everything -Galsworthy has done has had its special -function in making <em>The Dark Flower</em> -possible. The sociology of <em>Fraternity</em>, -the passionate pleading of <em>Justice</em> and -<em>Strife</em>, the incomparable emotional experiments -of <em>A Commentary</em>, the intellectuality -of <em>The Patrician</em>—all these -have contributed to the noble simplicities -and the noble beauty of <em>The Dark -Flower</em>. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<h2 class="filler" id="chapter-0-5"> -The Garden -</h2> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own,</p> - <p class="verse2">Into thy garden; thine be happy hours</p> - <p class="verse3">Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers,</p> - <p class="verse">From root to crowning petal thine alone.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown</p> - <p class="verse2">Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers.</p> - <p class="verse3">But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers</p> - <p class="verse">To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">For as these come and go, and quit our pine</p> - <p class="verse2">To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers,</p> - <p class="verse3">Sing one song only from our alder-trees,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine,</p> - <p class="verse2">Flit to the silent world and other summers,</p> - <p class="verse3">With wings that dip beyond the silver seas.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza attr"> - <p class="verse">—<em>Alice Meynell’s Poems.</em> (Charles Scribner’s Sons.)</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-6"> -<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> -A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">DeWitt C. Wing</span> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Mr. Faust</em>, by Arthur Davison Ficke. (Mitchell Kennerley, New York.) -</p> - -<p class="epi"> -Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme? -There can be any number of Supremes.—Whitman. -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">M</span><span class="postfirstchar">r.</span> Faust is the embodiment of -the Nietzschean attitude toward -the universe. This characterization consciously -ignores the legendary Faust of -Goethe as having no vital kinship with -his namesake. There is of course a -skeletal likeness one to the other, but the -hero in Mr. Ficke’s drama is incarnated -with modern flesh and endued with a -supreme will. His unconquerable spirit -is not that of Goethe’s <em>Faust</em> but of -Friedrich Nietzsche. Incidentally and -singularly it is the spirit of Whitman. -And these two men, more than any other -two or twenty in the realm of literature, -represent the undying god Pan, or the -spirit of Youth. Nietzsche and Whitman -are the understanding comrades of -the young-hearted and open-minded. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Mr. Faust’s</em> creator may have no conscious -knowledge of Whitman’s poetry, -which is a matter of no moment, but he -has read Nietzsche, and that is momentous—indispensable—in -relation to this -splendid result of white-heat intellection. -I say intellection because <em>Mr. Faust</em> is -not so much a work of art as a remarkable -example of reproduction. I know -that, although the thought and feeling -of the work rise in places to the power -of an inspiration wholly personal to the -author, never “Thus Spake Zarathustra.” -For that is an original, authentic -voice which, like everything else in -nature, has no substitute or duplicate. -</p> - -<p> -I can fancy a strong, healthy, organically -cultured young man, just beginning -to feel his way into the realities -that lie outside the American cornbelt, -by chance taking a peep into one of -Nietzsche’s great books, and, fascinated -and quickened by that marvelously contagious -god, leaping to new heights of -his own manhood. I should guess that -in this instance the young man, who -happens to be a lawyer, thirty-one years -old, living at Davenport, Ia., was temporarily -Christianized by bad luck, illness -or something of the sort, and in this -extremity, kicked by Nietzsche, experienced -the feeling of personal adequacy -to which Mr. Faust gives utterance. -Recovering himself, he avowed his own -godhood, even to the last ditch! And -that is the triumphant Youth—the -Nietzsche—of the thing. -</p> - -<p> -A day or two subsequent to the appearance -of Mr. Ficke’s book upon the -market I had the pleasure of hearing it -read, with well-nigh perfect sympathy -and appreciation, by the foremost Nietzschean -expositor in this country. Like -other listeners I was amazed, charmed -and aroused. Were these results referable -to the play alone or in part to the -reader, or to both? To what extent, I -was compelled to ask, was the effect -illusory or hypnotic? I had read some -of Ficke’s verse, which had given no -intimation of anything in its author so -heroically Nietzschean as <em>Mr. Faust</em>. I -had consequently tabbed Ficke as probably -a poetic possibility, provided he -lived a dozen years in an involuntary -hell, undergoing a new birth. Entertaining -the doubts indicated by my questions, -I read <em>Mr. Faust</em> to myself, trying -it in my fashion by the trees, the stars -and the lake. Subjected to this test the -play did not have the ring and lift which -<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> -I had heard and felt when it was read—perhaps -I should say given an added -vitality—by a Nietzschean philosopher. -It now impressed me as an extraordinary -<em>tour de force</em>, reaching in some of its -passages a species of accidental trans-Nietzscheanism. -</p> - -<p> -Written in blank verse, the superior -quality of which is admirably sustained, -the style of the drama is undeniably -poetical, as Edwin Björkman, the editor -of Mr. Kennerley’s Modern Drama Series, -states in an interesting biographical -sketch; but where there is so much -consciousness of workmanship—so -much preoccupation with an imported -idea instead of sweeping control by an -inner, personal urge like that, for example, -which produced <em>Thus Spake -Zarathustra</em>—poetry is not to be expected. -What surprises me is that, despite -this restriction, Mr. Ficke strides -upward in many lines to the borderland -of the gods. In the first three acts he -writes as one possessed—as an intellectualist -furiously interested in Americanizing, -if you please, the racial -implications of the philosophy of a -superhumanity which will always be associated -with the name of his temporary -master, Nietzsche. In these acts there is -a deal of amazing revealment of insight; -of aspiration for transcendent goals; of -the spiritual insatiability of man. And -there is a cold humor. Underneath the -whole thing lies its own by-product: -social dynamite! -</p> - -<p> -I think that Mr. Ficke finished his -play in three acts, but he added two -more—to make it five, I was about to -say, but in the fifth he achieves a measurable -justification, for the last sentence, -“Touch me across the dusk,” is poetry—the -wonderful words of the dying -Faust, addressed to Midge, the only -person who understood him. -</p> - -<p> -Near the middle of the opening act, -Faust, roused by an inquiring mind to -an analytical protest against things as -they are, says, -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">... I would go</p> - <p class="verse">Out to some golden sun-lighted land</p> - <p class="verse">Of silence.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -That is poetical; it is cosmic in its feeling. -Looking at a bust of Washington, -he enviously—no, compassionately—remarks, -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">... Not a star</p> - <p class="verse">In all the vaults of heaven could trouble you</p> - <p class="verse">With whisperings of more transcendent goals.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -At this juncture Satan appears, gains -recognition by recalling an incident involving -Faust with a blackmailing -woman in a college during his youth, -and thereafter tempts him into empty, -unsatisfying paradises. In his wandering -and winding pilgrimage through the -world Faust makes the footprints that -we recognize as those of our own humanity, -seeking its way—somewhither. He -is offered but rejects peace, happiness, -salvation and all the rest of their related -consolations, knowing that none of them -could satisfy his restless heart. To his -uncomprehending friends he is lost, and -Satan himself, to whom in such circumstances -he is obviously resigned by -society, fails to claim him. But Midge, -the heroine, knew him; she could touch -him across the dusk, which was his kind -of immortality. And so Faust, with a -vague consciousness of his own godhood, -a sense of his own supremacy, an unshakable -faith in one thing—himself—passed -from the earthly freedom of his -will into the great release. -</p> - -<p> -It is altogether too early in the morning -of humanity to expect to see this -play or one like it on the stage. That -it should be written by a young American -and published by a young Englishman -is enough to satisfy those who would -enjoy its presentation, and those to -whom it would be Greek or “unpleasant,” -whether they saw it or read it, must -wait for its truth through their children—across -the dusk! -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-7"> -<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> -The Lost Joy -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Floyd Dell</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">here</span> was once a lady (I forget -her name) who said that love was -for women one of the most important -things in the world. She made the remark -and let it go at that. She did not -write a book about it. If she had considered -it necessary she would doubtless -have written such a book. -</p> - -<p> -Consider the possibility—a book entitled -<em>Woman and Love</em>, a book proving -with logic and eloquence that woman -ought to love, and that, unless she loved, -the highest self-development was impossible -to her and to the race! -</p> - -<p> -It is not entirely absurd. Such a book -might have been necessary. If half of -all womankind, through some change in -our social and ethical arrangements, refrained -from love as something at once -disagreeable and ungenteel, and if the -other half loved under conditions disastrous -to health and spirit, then there -might have been need for a book preaching -to women the gospel of love. It -would have been time to urge that, hateful -as the conditions might be, love was -for women, nevertheless, a good thing, a -fine thing, a wonderful and necessary -thing. It would have been time to break -down the prejudice which made one-half -of womankind lead incomplete and futile -lives, and to raise love itself to its proper -dignity. -</p> - -<p> -Well, we are in a condition like that -today, only it is not love, it is work that -has lost its dignity in the lives of women. -It is not love, it is work from which -one-half of womankind refrains as from -something at once disagreeable and ungenteel, -while the other half of womankind -performs it under conditions disastrous -to health and spirit. -</p> - -<p> -There is need today for a book preaching -to women the gospel of work. It -is time to break down the prejudice -which makes one-half of womankind lead -incomplete and futile, because idle, lives. -We need a book to show women what -work should mean to them. -</p> - -<p> -And, curiously enough, the book exists. -It is Olive Schreiner’s <em>Woman and -Labor</em>. It is a wise book and a beautiful -book. There are statistics in it, but there -is eloquence flaming on every page. It -is a book of the joy and the significance -of work for women. -</p> - -<p> -When Olive Schreiner says “work,” -she means it. She does not refer to the -makeshifts which masquerade under the -term of “social usefulness.” She means -work done with the hands and the brain, -work done for money, work that sets -the individual free from dependence on -any other individual. It is a theme -worth all her eloquence. For work and -love, and not either of them alone, are -the most important things in the world—the -supremest expressions of individual -life. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<h2 class="filler" id="chapter-0-8"> -H. G. Wells on America -</h2> - -<p class="noindent"> -I came to America balancing between hope -and skepticism. The European world is full -of the criticism of America; and, for the matter -of that, America, too, is full of it; hostility -and depreciation prevail—overmuch; for, in -spite of rawness and vehemence and a scum of -blatant, oh! quite asinine, folly, the United -States of America remains the greatest country -in the world and the living hope of mankind. -It is the supreme break with the old tradition; -it is the freshest and most valiant -beginning that has ever been made in human -life.—<em>The Passionate Friends.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-9"> -<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> -Paderewski and the New Gods -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> shall keep always, as my most -unforgettable memory, the thought -of a certain afternoon during Paderewski’s -tour this year when he walked -quietly back across the stage, in response -to an encore, and played Schumann’s -<em>Warum</em>. It was somehow heart-breaking. -It was a more poignant questioning to -me, than Arnold’s -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain—</p> - <p class="verse">Say, will it never heal?”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Nothing that I have ever heard or seen -has given me so vivid a sense of being -in the presence of an art that is immortal. -</p> - -<p> -It seems to have become hideously -“popular” to love Paderewski. The -critics will tell you that it’s only done -in America; that Europeans have any -number of idols they put before him; -and that we who persist in calling him -“the greatest” are simply under the -spell of an old hypnotism. There was -a time, they’ll concede, when he came -like a conqueror, royally deserving the -flowers we strewed. But now—there’s -Bauer, there’s Godowsky, and Hofman, -and Gans, and Busoni! One local critic -has even gone to the length of saying -that since the American public has sat at -the feet of these men and learned sanity -in piano playing it has no enthusiasm -for Paderewski’s “neurotic, disordered, -incoherent” music—“his woeful exaggerations -of sentiment and hysterical -rhapsody.” I should say some unpublishable -things to that critic if we should -ever discuss the subject. -</p> - -<p> -The three most interesting human -faces I know are Forbes-Robertson’s, -Kreisler’s, and Paderewski’s. In the -English actor’s there is a meeting of -strength and spirituality (not the anæmic -“spirituality” of certain new cults, -but a quality of soul that makes him “a -prince, a philosopher, a lover, a soldier, -a sad humorist,” all in the limits of one -personality) that means utter nobility. -It can be as cold as a graven image, or -as hot with feeling as a poet’s. Depth -upon depth of subtlety plays across it—not -the hypnotic subtlety of the Orientalist, -but the austere subtlety of an English -scholar and a great gentleman. In -Kreisler’s there is a meeting of strength -and sensuousness that means utter fascination -to the artist who would paint him—utter -revealment to the musician who -would analyze his art. For the secret of -Kreisler’s personality and his music lies -in that finely balanced combination of -qualities: a sensuousness that would be -a little overpowering, a little drugging, -without the gigantic strength that seems -to hold it in leash. That balance makes -possible his little air of military jauntiness, -of sad Vienna gayety; it gives him -that huge effect of power that always -makes me feel I’m watching the king of -the forest stride through his kingdom. -You need never expect emotionalism -from this musician; he’s too strong to -give you anything but passion. In -Paderewski’s face there is a meeting of -strength and two other predominant -qualities: sentience, I think, and suffering. -It’s difficult to express his great, -interesting head in a series of nouns; but -there are some that come near to it: mystery, -melancholy, weariness, a sort of -shattering sorrow; always the sense of -struggle and pain, and always the final -releasement—in music. For while you -can conceive a Forbes-Robertson away -from the stage, and a Kreisler apart from -<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> -his violin, you can never for a moment -think of Paderewski without his piano. -Not that he’s less of a man, but that -he’s the most sensitized human instrument -that ever dedicated itself to an art. -</p> - -<p> -To resort to the most overworked -phrase in the language, Paderewski has -a temperament. Somebody has said that -no fat person ever possessed one; and -after you’ve speculated about this till -you begin to wonder what temperament -really is, you can come back to Paderewski -as the most adequate illustration. -Ysaye is the best example I know of the -opposite. When strength turns to fat -... well, we’ll not go into that; but to -make my point—and there’s certainly -nothing of personal maliciousness in it—it’s -necessary to reflect that obesity -has some insidious influence upon artistic -utterance. (Schumann-Heink is an artist -in the best meaning of the word; but -no one ever talked of her and temperament -in the same breath, so she doesn’t -negate the issue.) But Ysaye’s tepid, -wingless, uninspired music—his utterly -sweet but <em>fat</em> music—that appears to -attract thousands of people, is as lazily -inadequate as its creator would be in a -marathon. It’s as though his vision had -dropped slowly away with every added -pound of avoirdupois. Or perhaps it’s -because vision has a fashion of dropping -away with age.... -</p> - -<p> -Ah!—but Paderewski has the years, -too, now, and his playing is as virile, as -flaming, as it ever was. An artist—with -a temperament—doesn’t get old, any -more than Peter Pan does. Paderewski’s -furrowed face shows the artist’s -eternal striving; his music shows his eternal -youth, his faithfulness to the vision -that furnishes his answer to the eternal -“Warum?” -</p> - -<p> -This is the secret of Paderewski’s -white magic. He’s still the supreme god! -Bauer plays perfectly within the rules—exquisitely -and powerfully—and misses -the top height by the mere fraction of a -mood, the simple lack of a temperament; -or, as O. Henry might have explained it, -by the unfortunate encumbrance of a -forty-two-inch belt. Hofman has an impatience -with his medium, apparently, -that leaves his hearer unsatisfied with the -piano; while Paderewski, though he transcends -the instrument, does so because of -his love for the piano as a medium, and -forces his hearer to agree with him that -it’s the supreme one. Godowsky forces -things into the piano—pushes them in -and makes them stay there; Paderewski -draws things out, always, and fills the -world with them. -</p> - -<p> -I can think of no comparison from -which he doesn’t emerge unscathed. If -I were a musical reactionary, this judgment -would have no value here; but I’m -not. Classical perfection is no longer -interesting; Beethoven seems no longer -to comprehend all music—in fact, the -people who have no rebellions about the -sterility of the old symphonies are quite -beyond my range of understanding. But -Paderewski plays the old music in a new -way, gives it such vitality of meaning -that you feel it’s just been born—or, -better, perhaps, that its composers have -been triumphantly revalued, rejustified -in their claim for eternal life. His -Beethoven is as full of color as his -Chopin; and who, by the way, ever -started the popular nonsense about -De Pachmann or anyone else being the -supreme Chopin exponent? No one has -ever played Chopin like Paderewski; no -one has ever made such simple, haunting -melodies of the nocturnes; no one has -ever struck such ringing Polish music -out of the polonaises, or such wind-swept -cadences from the Berceuse; no -one has ever played the Funeral March -so like a cosmic procession—the mighty -moving of humanity from birth to death -and new life; no one has ever so visualized -those “orchestras of butterflies that -<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> -played to Chopin in the sun.” -</p> - -<p> -I have still one great wish in the -world: that some time I may hear Paderewski -play on a Mason and Hamlin—that -piano of unutterable depth and -richness. The fact that he’s never used -it is the one flaw in his performances, -for no other instrument that I’ve heard -gives you the same sense of drowning in -great waves of warm sound. The combination -would convince even the followers -of the new gods. But, old or -new, and even on his cold Steinway, no -one has ever drawn from the piano the -same quality of golden tone or dared -such simplicity of singing as Paderewski. -To put his genius into a sentence: no -one has ever built so strong a bridge -across the gulf that yawns between vision -and accomplishment. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-10"> -The Major Symphony -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Soule</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Round splendor of the harp’s entonéd gold</p> - <p class="verse1">Throbbing beneath the pleading violins—</p> - <p class="verse1">That hundred-choiring voice that wins and wins</p> - <p class="verse">To over-filling song; the bright and bold</p> - <p class="verse">Clamor of trumpets; ’cellos that enfold</p> - <p class="verse1">Richly the flutes; and basses that like djinns</p> - <p class="verse1">Thunder their clumsy threatening, as begins</p> - <p class="verse">The oboe’s mystic plaint of sorrows old:—</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Are these the symphony? No, it is will</p> - <p class="verse1">In passion striving to surmount the world,</p> - <p class="verse1">Growing in sensuous dalliance, sudden whirled</p> - <p class="verse">To ecstasies of shivering joy, and still</p> - <p class="verse1">Marching and mastering, singing mightily,</p> - <p class="verse1">Consummate when the silence makes it free.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-11"> -<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> -The Prophet of a New Culture -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Burman Foster</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span> profound unrest tortures the -heart of the modern man. The -world, slaughtering the innocents, is -meaningless; life, bruised and bewildered, -is worthless—such is the melancholy -mood of modernity. Today life is -a burden to many to whom it was once -a joy. Decadents, they call themselves, -who rediscover the elements of their most -personal life in everything that is weary -and ailing. We are all more or less infected -with this weariness and ennui. -The blows which the spirit experiences -from opposing sides today are so powerful -that no one is in a position to endure -them with equanimity. The forces resident -within the soul no longer suffice to -give support and stability to life. Hence -our culture has lost faith in itself. Our -civilization is played out. What the -Germans call <em>Weltschmerz</em> has come over -us. Philosophers have fashioned it into -systems; singers, into song—the sad -but not sweet music of humanity; sufferers -all, into a sharp cry for redemption. -Deniers of the malady must have their -eyes opened by physicians, scurrying -around curatively in this humanity. -</p> - -<p> -First of all, there are those who borrow -their panacea from religion. They -demand a reform of the ecclesiastical life -according to the sense and spirit of primitive -Christianity. They propose to recover -the religion of Jesus, and to find -in it healing for all the diseases of the -times. But this remedy is so complicated -that it reveals rather than heals the -whole disunity and distraction of our -present life. It was Tolstoi, in garb of -desert prophet, who would restore original -Christianity. He preached a radical -reversal of our cultural life—a monastic -asceticism, a warfare against all life’s -impulses, on whose development our culture -is founded. And ecclesiastical liberals -would do virtually the same thing -when they try to extract from the religion -of Jesus a food that shall be palatable -to modern taste, and then call their -<em>ragout</em>, compounded according to their -own recipe, “original” Christianity. -</p> - -<p> -There are other voices, noisier and -more numerous. These hold Christianity -in all its forms to be the hereditary evil -of humanity, and see the salvation of the -world only in a purification of life from -every Christian memory. Owing to the -brisk international interchange of ideas -today, Buddhism has awakened a momentary -hope, as if from the religion of far-off -India a purer spiritual atmosphere -might be wafted to us, in which we could -convalesce from the Christian malady. -</p> - -<p> -Now, what shall we say of all these -strivings to heal the hurt of the modern -mind? -</p> - -<p> -All of them have one adverse thing in -common: They would tear up an old -tree by its roots, and put in its place -another tree equally as old and equally -as rotten. There is something reactionary -in all of them. They want to cure -the present by the past. It is precisely -this that cannot be done. If Christianity -was once original, spontaneous, creative, -it is so no more. We cannot lead an age -back to Jesus, which has grown out beyond -him. And the Buddha-religion is -no more youthful and life-giving than -the Jesus-religion. It is indicative of the -depth of the disgust and the extent of -the confusion on the part of the man of -today that such a hoary thing as Buddhism -can make so great an impression -upon him. A revived, renascent heathenism, -even as compared with Christianity, -<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> -would mean a reactionary and outlived -form of life. That men of moral endeavor -and scientific vision could hope -for a substitute for Christianity, a conquest -over Christianity, in a rebirth of -paganism, is a new riddle of the Sphinx. -</p> - -<p> -One way only remains out of the aberration -and dividedness of our present -life: not <em>backward</em>, but <em>forward</em>! No -winning of a religious view of the world -in any other way! No pursuit of the -tasks of the moral life by those who seek -a real part and place in the modern world, -in any other way! -</p> - -<p> -Hence, a man is coming to be leader—a -man who, as no other, embodies in -himself all the pain and all the pleasure, -all the sickness and all the convalescence, -all the age and all the youth, of our -tumultuous and tortured times: <em>Friedrich -Nietzsche</em>! -</p> - -<p> -I do not know how many of you know -the poet of <em>Zarathustra</em>. But if you do -not know him, if you have never even -heard his name, yet you do know him, -for a part of him is in your own heart -and hope. If you have ever thought -seriously about yourself, if you have -even tried to think seriously about yourself, -you have taken up into yourself a -part of Nietzsche as you have so thought. -Even without your knowledge or intention, -you have passed into the world of -thought for which the name of Nietzsche -stands. It has been only now and then, -in quite significant turning points in -human history, and only in the case of -the rarest of men, that such an influence -has gone forth as from this man. Once -in the horizon of his power, and you are -held there as by magic. And yet not in -centuries has a name been so reviled and -blasphemed as his. Anathematized from -the pulpit, ridiculed from the stage, demolished -by any champion of blatant and -blind <em>bourgeoisie</em>, refuted regularly by -pedants, he is still Friedrich Nietzsche, -and, unlike most preachers, his congregation -grows from year to year. Newspapers, -always sensitive to the pulse-beat -of mediocrity, tell us that “the man is -dead”; that he belongs to the past; that -he is already forgotten. But he is more -alive, now that he is dead, than he was -when he was living. Dead in the flesh, -he is alive in the spirit, as is so often -the case. Superficial misunderstandings, -transient externals, regrettable excrescences—these -were interred with his -bones. The real and true Nietzsche lives, -and has the keys of death and of hell. -Who has the youth has the future—and -this is why the future belongs to -Nietzsche; for no contemporary so gathers -the youth under his shining banner. -And it is because the moral seething of -our time, our struggle with questions of -the moral life, are recapitulated and epitomized -in Nietzsche, that he stands out, -like an Alpine apocalypse, as the new -prophet of our new day. The mysterious -need of a man to find himself in another, -another in himself, as deep calls unto -deep or star shines unto star, is met in -the resources of the great personality of -Nietzsche. -</p> - -<p> -The new day whose billows bear us -afar began with doubt. First, a doubt -of the Church and its divine authority. -A violent, devastating storm swept over -popular life. The storm was speedily -exorcised. Again— -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse4">“The sea of faith</p> - <p class="verse">Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore</p> - <p class="verse">Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -A new faith emerged from the old doubt, -like sweet waters in a bitter sea, and kept -man a living soul. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“The sea is calm tonight;</p> - <p class="verse">The tide is full.”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -But the calm proves to be treacherous. -The tide of the new faith now in the -bible, and in the doctrine derived from -<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> -the bible, went back to sea, and now I -only hear -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,</p> - <p class="verse">Retreating to the breath</p> - <p class="verse">Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear</p> - <p class="verse">And naked shingles of the world.”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -The human spirit urged a new, mightier -protest against the “It is written,” which -was said to put an end to all doubt. The -new doubt, as free inquiry, as protestant -science, flung down the gauntlet to the -bible faith. No page of the sacred book -remained untouched. Only one certainty -sprang from this new doubt—the certainty -that the sacred book was a human -book. Therefore it had no right to rule -over man. Man was its judge; it was -not man’s judge. It must be measured -by man’s truth, man’s conscience. -</p> - -<p> -How, now, should the timorous heart -of man be quieted in the presence of this -new doubt? At once new props were -offered him—truth and the state. What -science recognized as “true,” what morals -and <em>bourgeoise</em> customs and civil law -sanctioned as “good”—these were now -proffered man, that he might brace up -his tottering life thereby. “Trust the -light of science, and you shall indeed -have the light of life; do what is ‘good,’ -and you shall be crowned with the crown -of life.” This was the watchword. Then -there stirred in the womb of present-day -humanity the last, ultimate, uncanniest -doubt. If we doubt the Church, why not -doubt the state, too? If we doubt faith, -why not doubt science, too? If we doubt -the bible, why not doubt reason, doubt -knowledge, doubt morality? Even if -what we call “true” be really true, can -it make us happy? Can the men who -have all the knowledge of our time at -their disposal, can the scholars, can the -cultivated, really become fit leaders of -humanity through life’s little day? Is -not that which is called “good” grievous -impediment in our pilgrimage? Law, -morals—are not these perhaps a blunder -of history, an old hereditary woe -with which humanity is weighted down? -</p> - -<p> -This doubt—long and ominously maturing -throughout the spiritual evolution -of our new time—finds its most -radical, most conscious, and most eloquent -expression in Friedrich Nietzsche. -He launches this doubt not only against -all that has been believed and thought -and done, but against all that men believe -and think and do today. He shakes -every position which men have held to -be unshakable. An irresistible, diabolical -curiosity impels him to transvalue all -values with which men have reckoned, -and to inquire whether they are values at -all; whether “good” must not be called -evil, “truth” error. As Nietzsche ventures -upon this experiment of his curiosity, -as he advances farther and farther -with it, suddenly he laughs with an -ironic, uproarious laughter. The experiment -is a success! In the new illumination -all the colors of life change. Light -is dark, dark is light. What men had -appraised as food, as medicine, evinced -itself to be dangerous poison, miserably -encompassing their doom. And since -men believed that all the forces present, -dying, poisoned culture, were resident -in their “morals” and their “Christianity,” -it was necessary to smash the tables -of these old values. In full consciousness -of his calling as destroyer of these -old tables, Nietzsche called himself the -immoralist, the anti-Christ. Morals and -Christianity signified to him the most -dangerous maladies with which men were -suffering. He considered it to be his -high calling as savior to heal men of -these maladies. He sprang into the -breach as anti-Christ. Like Voltaire, he -was the apostle and genius of disrespect—respectability -was the only disgrace, -popularity the only perdition. -</p> - -<p> -Nietzsche the Immoralist, Nietzsche -the Antichrist! Dare we write his name -<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> -and name his writings without calling -down upon our much-pelted heads the -wrath of the gods? Does he not blaspheme -what is sacred, and must we not, -then, give him a wide berth? There -are the familiar words concerning false -prophets in sheep’s clothing, but ravening -wolves within. Such wolves there are—smooth, -sleek men, paragons of “virtue,” -and “morals,” and “faith,” but -revolting enough in their inner rawness -as soon as you get a glimpse of their -true disposition. Conversely, might there -not be men who come to us in wolves’ -clothing, but whose hearts are tender and -rich and intimate with a pure and noble -humanity? We know such men. Friedrich -Nietzsche was one of them. He was -a true prophet. All his transvaluations -dealt deadly blows at the old, false, man-poisoning -prophetism. What if more -morals matured in this immoralist, more -Christianity in this anti-Christ, more divinity -in this atheist, than in all the pronouncements -of all those who today still -are so swift to despise and damn what -they do not understand? -</p> - -<p> -Even Christianity, at its origin, in its -young and heroic militancy, was not so -amiable and harmless as we are wont to -think. It, too, was born of the doubt of -that whole old culture; of the most radical -protest again <em>status quo</em>. It, too, -leagued with all the revolutionary spirits -of humanity. And it, too, revalued all -the values of “faith” and “morals.” -What if this new Nietzschean spirit of -life’s universal reform, this creative, forward-striving -genius of humanity, be -once yet again embodiment and representative -of life’s essential element of -rejuvenescence and growth? What if -true prophets are always men of <em>Sturm -und Drang</em>, men of divine discontent, -fellow-conspirators with the Future? -Anti-Christs? These are they who blaspheme -the holy spirit of humanity. Immoralists? -These are they who say that -life is good as it is, and therefore should -stay as it “is” forever. Faith? This is -directed, not to the past, but to the -future; not to the certain, but to the -uncertain. Faith is the venturesomeness -of moral knighthood. Nietzsche was a -Knight of the Future. -</p> - -<p> -Why, then, should not a magazine -of the Future interpret Nietzsche the -prophet of a new culture? Man as the -goal, beauty as the form, life as the law, -eternity as the content of our new day—this -is Nietzsche’s message to the modern -man. In such an interpretation, Man -and Superman should be the subject of -the next article. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-12"> -<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> -How a Little Girl Danced -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Nicholas Vachel Lindsay</span> -</p> - -<p class="subt"> -<em>Being a Reminiscence of Certain Private Theatricals</em> -</p> - -<p class="ded"> -(Dedicated to Lucy Bates) -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Oh, cabaret dancer,</p> - <p class="verse"><em>I</em> know a dancer</p> - <p class="verse">Whose eyes have not looked</p> - <p class="verse">On the feasts that are vain.</p> - <p class="verse"><em>I</em> know a dancer,</p> - <p class="verse"><em>I</em> know a dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">Whose soul has no bond</p> - <p class="verse">With the beasts of the plain:</p> - <p class="verse">Judith the dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">Judith the dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">With foot like the snow</p> - <p class="verse">And with step like the rain.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Oh, thrice-painted dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">Vaudeville dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">Sad in your spangles,</p> - <p class="verse">With soul all astrain:</p> - <p class="verse"><em>I</em> know a dancer,</p> - <p class="verse"><em>I</em> know a dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">Whose laughter and weeping</p> - <p class="verse">Are spiritual gain;</p> - <p class="verse">A pure-hearted, high-hearted</p> - <p class="verse">Maiden evangel</p> - <p class="verse">With strength the dark cynical</p> - <p class="verse">Earth to disdain.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Flowers of bright Broadway!</p> - <p class="verse">You of the chorus</p> - <p class="verse">Who sing in the hope</p> - <p class="verse">Of forgetting your pain:</p> - <p class="verse">I turn to a sister</p> - <p class="verse">Of sainted Cecelia,</p> - <p class="verse">A white bird escaping</p> - <p class="verse">The earth’s tangled skein!—</p> - <p class="verse">The music of God</p> - <p class="verse">In her innermost brooding!</p> - <p class="verse">The whispering angels</p> - <p class="verse">Her footsteps sustain!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> - <p class="verse">Oh, proud Russian dancer:</p> - <p class="verse">Praise for your dancing!</p> - <p class="verse">No clean human passion</p> - <p class="verse">My rhyme would arraign.</p> - <p class="verse">You dance for Apollo</p> - <p class="verse">With noble devotion:</p> - <p class="verse">A high-cleansing revel</p> - <p class="verse">To make the heart sane.</p> - <p class="verse">But Judith the dancer</p> - <p class="verse">Prays to a spirit</p> - <p class="verse">More white than Apollo</p> - <p class="verse">And all of his train.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse"><em>I</em> know a dancer</p> - <p class="verse">Who finds the true God-head;</p> - <p class="verse">Who bends o’er a brazier</p> - <p class="verse">In Heaven’s clear plain.</p> - <p class="verse"><em>I</em> know a dancer,</p> - <p class="verse"><em>I</em> know a dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">Who lifts us toward peace</p> - <p class="verse">From this Earth that is vain:—</p> - <p class="verse">Judith the dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">Judith the dancer,</p> - <p class="verse">With foot like the snow,</p> - <p class="verse">And with step like the rain.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<h2 class="filler" id="chapter-0-13"> -The Dream of the Children -</h2> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The children awoke in their dreaming</p> - <p class="verse1">While earth lay dewy and still:</p> - <p class="verse">They followed the rill in its gleaming</p> - <p class="verse1">To the heart-light of the hill.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">From their feet as they strayed in the meadow</p> - <p class="verse1">It led through caverned aisles,</p> - <p class="verse">Filled with purple and green light and shadow</p> - <p class="verse1">For mystic miles on miles.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza attr"> - <p class="verse">—<em>From A. E.’s Collected Poems.</em></p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-14"> -<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> -The Critics’ Critic -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="subchap-0-14-1"> -<span class="smallcaps">Galsworthy as a Greek</span> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">D</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> you read Arthur Guiterman’s -rhymed reviews? They are not to -be taken too seriously, of course, though -they are generally sane; but in the one -on <em>The Dark Flower</em> he asks if such -things don’t tend to weaken our moral -fiber! Wow! Probably Homer might be -said to do the same thing; we’d better -take it out of the schools, hadn’t we? -There’s an episode I recall about a female -person named Helen, who was torn -from her adoring husband, etc., etc. -You know I don’t believe in weakening -moral fiber, but beauty <em>is</em> beauty. All I -could think of, in reading <em>The Dark -Flower</em>, was Greek classics. Do you remember -that exquisite thing (is it Euripides?)— -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“This Cyprian</p> - <p class="verse">She is a million, million changing things;</p> - <p class="verse">She brings more joy than any god,</p> - <p class="verse">She brings</p> - <p class="verse">More pain. I cannot judge her; may it be</p> - <p class="verse">An hour of mercy when she looks on me.”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Galsworthy’s hero was just a Greek, -swayed by Aphrodite. There’s no question -of morals. And besides, he behaved -pretty well—for a man! -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="subchap-0-14-2"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Case of Rupert Brooke</span> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -I can’t share <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review’s</span> -estimate of Rupert Brooke. I’m reminded -immediately of something I -found not long ago by Herbert Trench: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I,</p> - <p class="verse1">Seeing that our footing on the earth is brief,</p> - <p class="verse">Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die</p> - <p class="verse1">Mocking at all that passes their belief.</p> - <p class="verse">For standard of our love not theirs we take</p> - <p class="verse2">If we go hence today</p> - <p class="verse">Fill the high cup that is so soon to break</p> - <p class="verse2">With richer wine than they.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Ay, since beyond these walls no heavens there be,</p> - <p class="verse1">Joy to revive or wasted youth repair,</p> - <p class="verse">I’ll not bedim the lovely flame in thee</p> - <p class="verse1">Nor sully the sad splendor that we wear.</p> - <p class="verse">Great be the love, if with the lover dies</p> - <p class="verse2">Our greatness past recall;</p> - <p class="verse">And nobler for the fading of those eyes</p> - <p class="verse2">The world seen once for all.”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Swinburne’s -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“From too much love of living,</p> - <p class="verse">From hope and fear set free”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -I like better so far as the music of it is -concerned; and fully as well, perhaps, as -far as ideas go. There is something rather -conscious and posing in Mr. Trench’s -effort. And you see why I think of him -when I read Rupert Brooke. There is -the same <em>memento mori</em>, the same hopelessness -of outlook. It seems a pity to -me, when a man can write as well as -Brooke does in <em>The Hill</em> and in that exquisite -sonnet beginning “Oh! Death -will find me, long before I tire of watching -you,” that he should waste his -time on stupid, unpleasant cynicisms like -<em>Wagner</em> and that <em>Channel Passage</em>, in -which he doesn’t know which pain to -choose—nausea or memory. I believe -an Englishman can’t achieve just the -right degree of mockery and brutality -necessary for such an effort. Take -Heine, if you will—(I’m a Heine enthusiast); -<em>he</em> could do it with supreme artistry. -Do you remember the sea poems—especially -the one where he looks into -the depths of the sea, catches sight of -buried cities and sees his lost love (“ein -armes, vergessenes Kind”)? It finishes -with the captain pulling him in by the -heels, crying, “Doktor, sind Sie des -Teufels?” Heine can touch filth and -offer it to you, and you are rather -amused—as at a child. But Englishmen -<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> -are too self-conscious for anything -of that sort. You are shocked and -ashamed when they try it, feeling in a -way defiled yourself by reading. It irritates -me, and I wish Mr. Brooke would -stop it, right away. He’s too worth while -to waste himself. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="subchap-0-14-3"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Feminist Discussions</span> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Do you know the story of the man, -elected by some political pull to a judgeship -in Indiana, who, after listening to -the argument for the plaintiff, refused -to hear anything further. “That feller -wins,” he said decisively. On being told -that it was customary and necessary to -hear the defendant’s side also, he duly listened, -with growing amazement. “Don’t -it beat all?” he said, pathetically, at the -close; “now the other feller wins.” -</p> - -<p> -In much the same frame of mind I -read the articles that are appearing in -the current magazines on the subject of -feminism and militancy. Edna Kenton’s -in <em>The Century</em> is the only one that is -content to give one side of the case. -Decidedly, you will say on reading it, -“That feller wins.” <em>The Atlantic</em> prints -an admirable article by W. L. George on -Feminist Intentions, and follows it hastily -with a rebuttal by E. S. Martin -(<em>Much Ado About Women</em>), fearing, I -imagine, lest it would seem to be bowing -its venerable head before new, profane -altars. <em>Life</em> gets out a really excellent -suffrage number, sane and logical -and reasonable, and has followed it up -ever since with all the flings it can collect -against suffrage, militancy, or feminism -in any form. A recent amusing instance -of this is a letter by one Thomas H. -Lipscomb, who signs himself, alack! A -Modern Man, and adds that his name is -legion. Judging by the terror in the -communication Mr. Lipscomb’s modernity -goes back as far as the Old Testament -Proverbs, and the womanly ideal he -so passionately upholds is in all respects -the one the writer of this particular proverb -acclaims. I have heard it used as a -text so often, and have had it grounded -into the very framework of my being so -consistently, that it seems almost strange -and irreverent to regard it with an alien -and critical eye. And yet—just see what -is expected of the poor thing: She -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Seeketh wool and flax and worketh willingly with her hands.</p> - <p class="verse">Bringeth her food from afar.</p> - <p class="verse">Riseth while it is yet night and giveth meat to her household;</p> - <p class="verse">Considereth a field, and buyeth it; with the fruit of her hands planteth a vineyard.</p> - <p class="verse">Her candle goeth not out by night.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -She -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Layeth her hands to the spindle; and her hands hold the distaff.</p> - <p class="verse">Maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles unto the merchant....</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -together with a few other airy trifles -such as bearing and rearing children, I -suppose. But most significant of all— -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Her husband is known in the gates where he sitteth among the elders of the land.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -I should think so indeed! There seems to -be little else left for him to do. -</p> - -<p> -I can almost hear the writer smacking -his lips over this description, which no -doubt tallies closely with Mr. Lipscomb’s -own notions. -</p> - -<p> -For all this she is to -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Receive of the fruit of her own hands, and her own works shall praise her.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Possibly women have tired a little of letting -their own works praise them—and -nothing else! But I am taking the letter -too seriously. -</p> - -<p> -To go back to <em>The Atlantic</em>, I find -Mr. George, who is in full sympathy -with the movement of which he writes, -classifying the demands of the feminists -as follows: Economically, they intend to -<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> -open every occupation to women; they -intend to level the wages of women; in -general, they wish to change the attitude -of those who regard women’s present -inferiority to men (they frankly admit -that there is inferiority in many respects) -as inherent and insuperable, by -demonstrating that it is due merely to -long lack of thorough training—(an -old friend, apparently, in a new dress!) -They wish also gradually to modify and -change existing marriage laws so that -they will be equally fair to both sexes. -</p> - -<p> -A careful re-reading of Mr. Martin’s -article fails to reveal much in the way of -counter argument to Mr. George’s forcible -appeal. There’s a great deal of -courteous agreement and some rather -good satire, but against the specific counts -of the feminists’ intentions Mr. Martin -raises no telling argument. We hear -that whereas fathers wish all earthly -blessings for their daughters, mothers do -not, as women are jealous of women; -also that mothers fear the modern woman -on account of their sons, for whom they -in turn wish all possible good: the modern -woman will not make a good wife! -Angels and ministers of grace defend us! -In a double quality as daughter to a -devoted and loving mother, and as a devoted -and loving mother to a most precious -daughter, I throw down my glove. -</p> - -<p> -I am sure Mr. Martin has never acted -in either of these capacities, so precious -little he knows about it! Besides, I do -want my son to have everything that the -world provides in the way of blessings -and happiness, so I want him to have as -a wife a thoroughly modern woman with -an awakened soul and a high ideal, to -finish the good work in him which I have -at least endeavored to begin. -</p> - -<p> -As I read further, however, the cat -begins to poke a cautious head out of -the bag. Women, Mr. Martin argues, -are not responsible for the blessings the -feminist movement is trying to bring -them. It is men! That is why he is so -particular to tell us of the careful solicitude -of a father for his daughters. Men, -right along, have procured all happiness -for women; or, if not men exactly, at -least a sort of <em>Zeit Geist</em>—I believe he -calls it “necessity.” And the poor deluded -feminists are simply the little boys -running along by the side of the procession -and hollering. The procession is -made up of vague forces, “working nowadays -for the enlargement and betterment -of life for women”—forces, he -quaintly complains, that are “making -things go too fast their way already.” -</p> - -<p> -So we must take all credit from Luther -and Knox and Calvin and the reformers -of all times and give it to the <em>Zeit Geist</em>. -They, too, are little boys, I suppose, who -ran along and hollered. At least they -hollered lustily and well, and the feminists -are in good company. -</p> - -<p> -And the peroration—every true woman -will appreciate this: “What a husband -sees in forty years, maybe, of -the good and bad of life for a woman; -what a father sees in his daughters and -the conditions of modern life as they -affect girls—those are the things which -count in forming or changing the convictions -of men about woman’s errand in -this current world.” -</p> - -<p> -Well! However far the <em>Zeit Geist</em> has -progressed in other directions, it is plain -that it has not made inroads on Mr. Martin’s -consciousness of the present state of -affairs. Who has given men the power -and right to decide about woman’s errand -in the world? For lo! these many -years we have been letting husbands, -fathers, and brothers decide for us just -what it were best for us to do; and if the -new idea has any significance at all it is -just this: that we feel able to decide for -ourselves what we most want and need. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -M. H. P. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-15"> -<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> -The New Note -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Sherwood Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> new note in the craft of writing -is in danger, as are all new and -beautiful things born into the world, of -being talked to death in the cradle. Already -a cult of the new has sprung up, -and doddering old fellows, yellow with -their sins, run here and there crying out -that they are true prophets of the new, -just as, following last year’s exhibit, -every age-sick American painter began -hastily to inject into his own work something -clutched out of the seething mass -of new forms and new effects scrawled -upon the canvases by the living young -cubists and futurists. Confused by the -voices, they raised also their voices, multiplying -the din. Forgetting the soul -of the workman, they grasped at lines -and solids, getting nothing. -</p> - -<p> -In the trade of writing the so-called -new note is as old as the world. Simply -stated, it is a cry for the reinjection of -truth and honesty into the craft; it is -an appeal from the standards set up by -money-making magazine and book publishers -in Europe and America to the -older, sweeter standards of the craft itself; -it is the voice of the new man, come -into a new world, proclaiming his right -to speak out of the body and soul of -youth, rather than through the bodies -and souls of the master craftsmen who -are gone. -</p> - -<p> -In all the world there is no such thing -as an old sunrise, an old wind upon the -cheeks, or an old kiss from the lips of -your beloved; and in the craft of writing -there can be no such thing as age in the -souls of the young poets and novelists -who demand for themselves the right to -stand up and be counted among the soldiers -of the new. That there are such -youths is brother to the fact that there -are ardent young cubists and futurists, -anarchists, socialists, and feminists; it is -the promise of a perpetual sweet new -birth of the world; it is as a strong wind -come out of the virgin west. -</p> - -<p> -One does not talk of his beloved even -among the friends of his beloved; and -so the talk of the new note in writing will -be heard coming from the mouths of the -aged and from the lips of oily ones who -do not know of what they talk, but run -about in circles, making noise and clamor. -Do not be confused by them. They but -follow the customs of their kind. They -are the stript priests of the falling temples, -piling stone on stone to build a new -temple, that they may exact tribute as -before. -</p> - -<p> -Something has happened in the world -of men. Old standards and old ideas -tumble about our heads. In the dust and -confusion of the falling of the timbers -of the temple many voices are raised. -Among the voices of the old priests who -weep are raised also the voices of the -many who cry, “Look at us! We are the -new! We are the prophets; follow us!” -</p> - -<p> -Something has happened in the world -of men. Temples have been wrecked before -only to be rebuilt, and destroying -youth has danced only to become in turn -a builder and in time a priest, muttering -old words. Nothing in all of this new -is new except this—that beside the youth -dancing in the dust of the falling timbers -is a maiden also dancing and proclaiming -herself. “We will have a world -not half new but all new!” cry the youth -and the maiden, dancing together. -</p> - -<p> -Do not be led aside by the many voices -crying of the new. Be ready to accept -hardship for the sake of your craft in -America—that is craft love. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-16"> -<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> -Some Letters of William Vaughn Moody -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="book"> -Edited, with introduction, by Daniel Gregory Mason. -(Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> shall never forget how, at sixteen, -I read Stevenson’s letters and -thought them the most beautiful things -in the world. I shall never forget similar -experiences with Keats and Browning, -and finally with Meredith; and now -comes another volume of letters by the -man who might be called the American -Henley (though that only does him half -justice) to keep one up at night and -teach him unforgettable things. People -have been saying that this collection -doesn’t represent the best letters Moody -wrote. Certainly if he wrote more interesting -ones the world ought to be -allowed to see them, for these are valuable -enough to become an American -tradition. -</p> - -<p> -The following is typical: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="center"> -<em>To Daniel Gregory Mason.</em> -</p> - -<p class="addr"> -<span class="smallcaps">Dear Dan</span>: -</p> - -<p> -I have just heard from your sister-in-law of -your enforced furlough. I am not going to -help you curse your luck, knowing your native -capabilities in that direction to be perfectly -adequate, but my Methodist training urges me -to give you an epistolary hand-shake, the purport -of which is “<em>Keep your sand.</em>” I could -say other things, not utterly pharisaical. I -could say what I have often said to myself, -with a rather reedy tremolo perhaps, but swelling -sometimes into a respectable diapason. -“The dark cellar ripens the wine.” And meanwhile, -after one’s eyes get used to the dirty -light, and one’s feet to the mildew, a cellar -has its compensations. I have found beetles -of the most interesting proclivities, mice altogether -comradely and persuadable, and forgotten -potatoes that sprouted toward the crack -of sunshine with a wan maiden grace not seen -above. I don’t want to pose as resourceful, -but I have seen what I have seen. -</p> - -<p> -The metaphor is however happily inexact -in your case, with Milton to retire to and Cambridge -humming melodiously on the horizon. If -you can only throttle your Daemon, or make -him forgoe his leonine admonition “Accomplish,” -and roar you as any sucking dove the -sweet vocable “Be”—you ought to live. I have -got mine trained to that, pardee! and his voice -grows not untunable. I pick up shreds of -comfort out of this or that one of God’s ashbarrels. -Yesterday I was skating on a patch -of ice in the park, under a poverty stricken sky -flying a pitiful rag of sunset. Some little -muckers were guying a slim raw-boned Irish -girl of fifteen, who circled and darted under -their banter with complete unconcern. She was -in the fledgling stage, all legs and arms, tall -and adorably awkward, with a huge hat full -of rusty feathers, thin skirts tucked up above -spindling ankles, and a gay aplomb and swing -in the body that was ravishing. We caught -hands in midflight, and skated for an hour, -almost alone and quite silent, while the rag of -sunset rotted to pieces. I have had few sensations -in life that I would exchange for the -warmth of her hand through the ragged glove, -and the pathetic curve of the half-formed -breast where the back of my wrist touched her -body. I came away mystically shaken and -elate. It is thus the angels converse. She -was something absolutely authentic, new, and -inexpressible, something which only nature -could mix for the heart’s intoxication, a compound -of ragamuffin, pal, mistress, nun, sister, -harlequin, outcast, and bird of God,—with -something else bafflingly suffused, something -ridiculous and frail and savage and tender. -With a world offering such rencontres, such -aery strifes and adventures, who would not live -a thousand years stone dumb? I would, for one—until -my mood changes and I come to think -on the shut lid and granite lip of him who has -had done with sunsets and skating, and has -turned away his face from all manner of Irish. -I am supported by a conviction that at an auction -on the steps of the great white throne, -I should bring more in the first mood than the -second—by several harps and a stray dulcimer. -</p> - -<p> -I thoroughly envy you your stay at Milton—wrist, -Daemon, and all. You must send me a -lengthy account of the state of things at Cambridge.... -If the wrist forbids writing, -employ a typewriter of the most fashionable -tint—I will pay all expenses and stand the -<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> -breakage. I stipulate that you shall avoid -blonds, however, they are fragile. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">William Vaughn Moody.</span> -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -There are over a hundred letters here, -written to Mr. Mason, Percy MacKaye, -Richard Watson Gilder, Josephine Preston -Peabody, Edmund Clarence Stedman, -Henry Miller, Robert Morss -Lovett, Ferdinand Schevill, and others; -and every one of them shows Moody’s -remarkable gift of metaphor, his constant -striving to “win for language -some new swiftness, some rare compression,” -his belief in the positive acceptance -of life, his paganism, “deeply -spiritual, and as far as possible removed -from the sensualism the thoughtless have -found in it.” Mr. Mason furnishes an -introduction that is masterly; and the -first and final drafts of <em>Heart’s Wild -Flower</em> are included, proving vividly -how this poet disciplined his rich imaginative -gifts, training away from a native -tendency to the rococo to the high, -pure dignity that marks his finished -verse. This volume is invaluable. Certainly -with two such authentic voices to -boast of as Whitman’s and Moody’s -this young country of ours has reason -to be proud. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -M. C. A. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-17"> -A Feminist of a Hundred Years Ago -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margery Currey</span> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Rahel Varnhagen</em>: A Portrait, by Ellen Key. Translated from the Swedish by Arthur G. Chater; -with an introduction by Havelock Ellis. (G. P. Putman’s Sons, New York.) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">F</span><span class="postfirstchar">or</span> certain distinctive women Rahel -Varnhagen lived; for the same -women Ellen Key has written this appreciation -of Rahel. By the woman to -whom fine freedom of living and fearlessness -and directness of thought are -the only possible terms on which she may -deal with the social situation in which she -finds herself this book will be read and -re-read, and pencil-marked along the -margins of its pages. -</p> - -<p> -The rare woman, here and there, who -worships simple, direct thinking (which, -after all, takes the most courage) will -know how to value Rahel. Always she -thought truthfully. The woman who -has been filled with joyful new amazement -on finding that her only reliance is -on herself—that she may not depend -upon this person or that convention to -preserve her happiness—will know how -to value her. Just so far as any woman -of today has become interested in her -own thoughts and work, is the originator -of ideas, and knows the joy of making -or doing something that more than all -else in the world she wants to make or do, -so far she is nearer to becoming of the -size of this great woman. -</p> - -<p> -Such a woman will share with Rahel -Varnhagen the certainty that higher -morality is reached only through higher -liberty; such a woman must demand, as -did Rahel, periods of that recuperative -and strengthening solitude, both of -thought and mode of living, which only -the self-reliant and fearless can endure. -She knows that she herself, not convention, -must furnish the answer to questions -of right and wrong by earnest, free -inquiry and by testing every experience. -The acceptance of no convention was -inevitable to Rahel, as she thought of it. -She put it to the best of scrutiny. What -value was there in it? It was not violating -conventions which she set out to do, -<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> -but meeting them with a quiet, sincere -inquiry of the reason and truth they contained. -</p> - -<p> -Rahel Varnhagen lived in Berlin a -hundred years ago and was probably the -most beloved and much-visited woman of -those whose salons attracted the notable -men of the day—Fichte, Hegel, Prince -Louis Ferdinand, Fouqué, the Humboldts, -the Schlegels, Schleiermacher, -and other giants of the time. Rahel -was a woman—the lamentable rarity of -them!—whose influence was not through -her literary work (her letters to friends -are all that we have of her writing), not -through brilliancy of speech alone, nor -through her munificent patronage of the -artists and literary men of her day (she -was not rich, and we read of the garret -in which she entertained her friends), -but through the richness of her personality, -the glowing warmth of her sympathy, -her understanding, and the wisdom -of her heart. -</p> - -<p> -And the value of Rahel to us lies in -the calm directness, the “innocence,” as -she herself calls it, of her thinking. To -her went the acclaimed wise men of the -day for the comfort of her fearlessness -and simplicity of thought upon their -questions. She was said to be brilliant. -She was not brilliant in the sense of -being learned, or of being capable of -mere intellectual jugglery and fantastic -adroitness of thinking; she was brilliant -in the crystal clearness and the sure -rapidity of her thinking. The unexpectedness -and strangeness of the simple -truth she spoke bewildered people. For -this reason she could say, “I am as much -alone of my kind as the greatest manifestation -here on earth. The greatest -artist, philosopher, or poet is not above -me.” -</p> - -<p> -This passion for truth in her own -thinking was the origin of her social -value. Its stimulus to others was immediate, -and her recognition through it of -the important things in life made her -detect at once those people and things -that were original and valuable in themselves. -</p> - -<p> -“Rahel’s most comprehensive significance,” -writes Ellen Key, “lay in augmenting -the productiveness, humanity -and culture of her time by herself everywhere -seeking and teaching others to -seek the truth; by everywhere encouraging -them to manifest their own culture; -by imparting to others her profound -way of looking at religion, men and -women, literature and art; by judging -everything according to its intrinsic -value, not according to its deficiencies; -by everywhere understanding, because -she loved, and giving life, because she -believed in liberty.” -</p> - -<p> -Think always, ceaselessly!—this was -Rahel’s cry. This, she said, is the only -duty, the only happiness. To a young -friend she wrote, begging that he keep -ploughing through things afresh, telling -him that he “must always have the -courage to hurt himself with questioning -and doubts; to destroy the most comfortable -and beautiful edifice of thought—one -that might have stood for life—if -honesty demands it.” And so, having -thought out things in the most utter -freedom, unhampered by old preconceptions, -and finally unafraid of the starkness -of the truths which she faced, she -let nothing prescribed be her unchallenged -guide or stand as a substitute -for her own vigor and hardness of thinking. -This is why she said that she was -revived by downright brutality, after -being wearied by insincerity. -</p> - -<p> -A virtue, so called, had to give a very -good accounting of itself to Rahel. She -demanded that it answer a certain test -before it could be called a piece of goodness. -For instance, in many cases she -recognized in “performance of duty” -mere acquiescence—a laziness of mind -which does not bestir itself to ask what -<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> -right this duty has to impose itself. -Patience to her was often lack of courage -to seize upon a situation and change -it to suit the imperative demand to express -oneself. “The more I see and -meditate upon the strivings of this -world,” wrote Rahel, “the more insane -it appears to me day by day not to live -according to one’s inmost heart. To do -so has such a bad name, because simulacra -of it are in circulation.” Of these “simulacra” -we are familiar in every age—the -amazing antics of certain self-styled -“radicals,” the unaccountable manifestations -of those who, while professing liberality -of view, seem to have no standards -of values in their extravagances of living. -Rahel could understand every -nature except the insincere and unnatural. -</p> - -<p> -While we mourn or exult over the -eager efforts of women in our day to -evolve completely human personalities, -it is interesting to read Rahel’s summing-up -of the feminist movement: -“Has it been proved by her organization -that a woman cannot think and express -her ideas? If such were the case, -it would nevertheless be her duty to renew -the attempt continually.” “And -how,” exclaims Ellen Key, “would Rahel -have abhorred the tyrannical treatment -of each other’s opinions, the cramping -narrow-mindedness, the envious jostling, -the petty importance of nobodies, which -the woman’s cause now exhibits everywhere, -since, from being a movement -for liberty in great women’s souls, like -Rahel’s own, it has become a movement -of leagues and unions, in which the small -souls take the lead.” -</p> - -<p> -Since it is reality and not appearance -that alone could stand before Rahel’s -devastating scrutiny of human things, -and since to her the highest personal -morality consisted in being true, coercive -marriage seemed to her the great social -lie. How could one of her simple clarity -of thinking be anything but outraged -by the vulgarities of an average marriage? -“Is not an intimacy without -charm or transport more indecent than -ecstasy of what kind so ever?” she demands. -“Is not a state of things in -which truth, amenity, and innocence are -impossible, to be rejected for these reasons -alone?” Of the evils in Europe -she cries, “Slavery, war, marriage—and -they go on wondering and patching and -mending!” Rahel believed that in the -existing institution of marriage it was -almost impossible to find a union in which -full, clear truth and mutual love prevailed. -</p> - -<p> -Of Rahel’s nature, warm, richly exuberant -with a healthy sensuousness and -desire for sunlight, Jean Paul’s letter to -her gives us the essence. “Wingéd one—in -every sense—” he wrote, “you -treat life poetically and consequently life -treats you in the same way. You bring -the lofty freedom of poetry into the -sphere of reality, and expect to find -again the same beauties here as there.” -</p> - -<p> -Biographical facts are negligible here. -Even comment on the interpretive insight -of Ellen Key seems not to be essential, -though without it this book could -not be. It is the personality of Rahel -Varnhagen that matters, and the influence -of that personality on the men of -her day. -</p> - -<p> -Rahel is distinctive as a challenger of -the worn-out social and ethical baggage -that somehow, in all its shabbiness, has -been reverently, with ritual and with -authority, given into our keeping by -those who were as oppressed by it as we -in turn are expected to be. With the -simplicity of her questioning the honesty -of these conventions, Rahel has made -worship of some of them less inevitable. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-18"> -<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> -Some Contemporary Opinions of -Rahel Varnhagen -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Cornelia L. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">eine</span> said: “I should wear a dog -collar inscribed: ‘I belong to Frau -Varnhagen.’” -</p> - -<p> -Rahel’s power over the brilliant minds -of her day lay in her own wonderful -personality. She was unique, knew it -and gloried in it. She wrote to Varnhagen, -her husband and lover: “You -will not soon see my like again.” She -understood thoroughly the limitations of -her sex. “They are so surprisingly -feeble,” she says; “almost imbecile from -lack of coherence. They lie, too, since -they are often obliged to, and since the -truth demands intelligence.” ... “I -know women: what is noble in their composition -keeps together stupidity or madness.” ... -And she speaks of their -“clumsy, terrible stupidity in lying.” -But, despite Rahel’s opinion of women, -or because of her understanding of their -needs, she was a true feminist and looked -toward their liberation through development -and self-expression. -</p> - -<p> -Ellen Key writes: “How Rahel, with -her lucidity of thought, would have exposed -the modern superstition that it is -in <em>outward</em> departments of work that -woman gives expression to her human -‘individuality.’ She says by true economy -‘nature keeps woman nearer to the -plant’! This ‘economy’ is easily understood; -it is because the tender life is -woman’s creation and because that life -requires tranquillity for its genesis and -growth; because a woman taken up by -the problems of external life ... no -longer possesses the psychological qualifications -which are indispensable in order -that a child’s soul may grow in peace and -joy; because, in other words, <em>children</em> -need <em>mothers</em>, not only for their physical -birth but for their human bringing-up. -Rahel hits the very center of the spiritual -task of motherhood when she says -that if she had a child she would help -it to learn to listen to its own inmost -ego; everything else she would sacrifice -to this.... The progress or ruin of -humanity depends, in Rahel’s prophetic -view, upon the capacity of the mothers -for performing their task.” -</p> - -<p> -How Rahel had listened to her own -inmost ego is shown by the following -characterization by Ellen Key. “Rahel -probably did not know a single date in -the history of Greece, but she read -Homer in Voss’s translation; it made her -declare that ‘the Odyssey seems to me -so beautiful that it is positively painful,’ -and she discovered that Homer is always -great when he speaks of water, as Goethe -is when he speaks of the stars. Probably -she could not enumerate the rivers of -Spain, but she knew <em>Don Quixote</em>. In -a word, she was the very opposite of the -kind of talent that passes brilliant examinations -and is capable of carrying ‘completely -undigested sentences in its head.’ -What Rahel could not transform into -blood of her blood did not concern her -at all. There was such an indestructible -‘connection between her abilities,’ such -<a id="corr-2"></a>an intimate ‘co-operation between her -temperament and her intelligence,’ that -there was no room in her for all the unoriginal -ballast of which the views and -opinions of most other people are made -up: she could only keep and only give -what was her own.” -</p> - -<p> -What Rahel’s power over her contemporaries -was we may gather from what -<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> -they say of her who was “Rahel and -nothing more:” -</p> - -<p> -Heine describes her as “the most inspired -woman in the universe.” T. Mundt -calls her “the sympathetic nerve of the -time.” The Austrian dramatist, Grillparzer, -relates: “Varnhagen went home -with me. As we passed his house, it occurred -to him to introduce me to his wife, -the afterwards so celebrated Rahel, of -whom I then knew nothing. I had been -strolling about all day and felt tired to -death, and was, therefore, heartily glad -when we were told that Frau Varnhagen -was not at home. But as we came down -the stairs, she met us and I submitted to -my fate. But now the lady,—elderly, -perhaps never handsomer, shriveled by -illness, reminding me rather of a fairy, -not to say a witch,—began to talk, and -I was altogether enchanted. My weariness -disappeared, or perhaps, rather, -gave way to intoxication. She talked -and talked till nearly midnight, and I -don’t know whether they turned me out -or whether I went away of my own accord. -Never in my life have I heard -anyone talk more interestingly. Unfortunately -it was near the end of my -stay, and I could not repeat the visit.” -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-19"> -The Poetry of Rupert Brooke -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Poems</em>, by Rupert Brooke. (Sidgwick and Jackson, London.) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> unusual thing about Rupert -Brooke—the young Oxford don whose -poetry is just finding its way in this -country—is that he has graduated from -the French school without having taken -a course in decadence. The result is a -type of English poetry minus those -qualities we think of as typical of “the -British mind” and plus those that stand -as the highest expression of the French -spirit. There is nothing of self-conscious -reserve about Mr. Brooke; and -yet it is not so obvious a quality as his -frank, unashamed revealment that places -him definitely with the French type. It -is rather a matter of form—that quality -of saying a thing in the most economic -way it can be said, of finding the simple -and the inevitable word. Mr. Brooke -stands very happily between a poet like -Alfred Noyes, in whom one rarely finds -that careful selection, and the esthetes -whose agony in that direction becomes -monotonous. For example, in the first -sonnet of this collection: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire</p> - <p class="verse1">Of watching you; and swing me suddenly</p> - <p class="verse">Into the shade and loneliness and mire</p> - <p class="verse1">Of the last land! There, waiting patiently,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">One day, I think, I’ll feel a cool wind blowing,</p> - <p class="verse1">See a slow light across the Stygian tide,</p> - <p class="verse">And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing,</p> - <p class="verse1">And tremble. And I shall know that you have died,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream,</p> - <p class="verse1">Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host,</p> - <p class="verse">Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam—</p> - <p class="verse1">Most individual and bewildering ghost!—</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And turn, and toss your brown delightful head</p> - <p class="verse">Amusedly, among the ancient Dead.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -There are about eighteen words in -this one sonnet chosen with infinite pains; -and yet the effect of the whole is quite -<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> -unlabored—an effect of spontaneity reduced -to its simplest terms. -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps the point can be made more -emphatically by a miscellaneous quotation -of single lines, because the poignancy -of Rupert Brooke’s phrasing -leaves me in a torment of inexpressiveness, -forced to quote him rather than -talk about him. Here are a few: “Like -hills at noon or sunlight on a tree”; -“And dumb and mad and eyeless like -the sky”; “The soft moan of any -grey-eyed lute-player”; “Some gaunt -eventual limit of our light”; “Red -darkness of the heart of roses”; “And -long noon in the hot calm places”; -“My wild sick blasphemous prayer”; -“Further than laughter goes, or tears, -further than dreaming”; “Against the -black and muttering trees”; “And -quietness crept up the hill”; “When -your swift hair is quiet in death”; -“Savage forgotten drowsy hymns”; -“And dance as dust before the sun”; -“The swift whir of terrible wings”; -“Like flies on the cold flesh”; “Clear -against the unheeding sky”; “So high -a beauty in the air”; “Amazed with -sorrow”; “Haggard with virtue”; -“Frozen smoke”; “Mist-garlanded,” -and a thousand other things that somehow -have a fashion of striking twelve. -There’s a long poem about a fish, beginning -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">In a cool curving world he lies</p> - <p class="verse">And ripples with dark ecstasies.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -that flashes through every tone of the -stream’s “drowned colour” from “blue -brilliant from dead starless skies” to -“the myriad hues that lie between darkness -and darkness.” And there’s one -about Menelaus and Helen containing -this description: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">High sat white Helen, lonely and serene.</p> - <p class="verse1">He had not remembered that she was so fair,</p> - <p class="verse">And that her neck curved down in such a way;</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -The simplicity of that last line—but -what a picture it is! -</p> - -<p> -The important things about Mr. -Brooke, however—and of course this -should have been said in the first paragraph—are -his sense of life and his -feeling for nature. Of the first it might -be said that he is strong and radiant -and sure—and at the same time reverently -impotent. <em>The Hill</em>, which I like -better than anything in this collection, -will illustrate: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,</p> - <p class="verse1">Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.</p> - <p class="verse1">You said, “Through glory and ecstasy we pass;</p> - <p class="verse">Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,</p> - <p class="verse">When we are old, are old....” “And when we die</p> - <p class="verse1">All’s over that is ours; and life burns on</p> - <p class="verse">Through other lovers, other lips,” said I,</p> - <p class="verse">—“Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!”</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.</p> - <p class="verse">Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!” we said;</p> - <p class="verse1">“We shall go down with unreluctant tread</p> - <p class="verse">Rose-crowned into the darkness!” ... Proud we were,</p> - <p class="verse">And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.</p> - <p class="verse">—And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Everything in it—with the exception -of “kissed the lovely grass,” which -might easily be spared—is fine; “with -unreluctant tread Rose-crowned into the -darkness!” is vivid with beauty; and -when the simple dignity of “such brave -true things to say” has swung you to its -great height, the drop in that sudden -last line comes with the most moving -wistfulness. There are several poems, -too long to quote here, which show Mr. -Brooke’s affinity with the outdoors; but -<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> -perhaps even five lines from one of them -will suggest it: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Then from the sad west turning wearily,</p> - <p class="verse">I saw the pines against the white north sky,</p> - <p class="verse">Very beautiful, and still, and bending over</p> - <p class="verse">Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky</p> - <p class="verse">And there was peace in them....</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Not long ago I asked a poet in whose -judgment I have a profound belief, to -read these poems of Rupert Brooke’s -and give me his opinion. After looking -at two or three he said he was afraid -he wasn’t going to like them, but the -next day he reported that he wished to -retract, making the magnificent concession -that “<em>some</em> of Brooke’s moods are -healthy!” Of course there <a id="corr-4"></a>are a number -of things in this volume that can easily -be interpreted as unhealthy or repulsive, -like the <em>Wagner</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Creeps in half wanton, half asleep,</p> - <p class="verse1">One with a fat wide hairless face.</p> - <p class="verse">He likes love music that is cheap;</p> - <p class="verse1">Likes women in a crowded place;</p> - <p class="verse2">And wants to hear the noise they’re making.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">His heavy eyelids droop half-over,</p> - <p class="verse1">Great pouches swing beneath his eyes.</p> - <p class="verse">He listens, thinks himself the lover,</p> - <p class="verse1">Heaves from his stomach wheezy sighs;</p> - <p class="verse2">He likes to feel his heart’s a-breaking.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The music swells. His gross legs quiver.</p> - <p class="verse1">His little lips are bright with slime.</p> - <p class="verse">The music swells. The women shiver,</p> - <p class="verse1">And all the while, in perfect time</p> - <p class="verse2">His pendulous stomach hangs a-shaking.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -But it seems something more than that -to me. As an attack on German emotionalism—however -unjustly, from my -point of view, through Wagner—the -poem struck me as an exercise of extraordinary -cleverness. I don’t know -that anyone has ever said so effectively -the things that ought be said about that -type of emotion which feeds not upon -life but, inversely, upon emotion. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Brooke’s pictures have much of -the quality of Böcklin’s. That first sonnet -can be imagined in the same tone -values as Böcklin’s wonderful <em>Isle of the -Dead</em>, and the closing lines of <em>Victory</em> -need the same medium: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse4">Down the supernal roads,</p> - <p class="verse1">With plumes a-tossing, purple flags far flung,</p> - <p class="verse">Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving,</p> - <p class="verse1">Thundered the black battalions of the Gods.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<em>Seaside</em> needs an artist like Leon -Dabo: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Swiftly out from the friendly lilt of the band,</p> - <p class="verse1">The crowd’s good laughter, the loved eyes of men,</p> - <p class="verse1">I am drawn nightward; I must turn again</p> - <p class="verse">Where, down beyond the low untrodden strand,</p> - <p class="verse">There curves and glimmers outward to the unknown</p> - <p class="verse1">The old unquiet ocean. All the shade</p> - <p class="verse">Is rife with magic and movement. I stray alone</p> - <p class="verse1">Here on the edge of silence, half afraid,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Waiting a sign. In the deep heart of me</p> - <p class="verse">The sullen waters swell towards the moon,</p> - <p class="verse">And all my tides set seaward.</p> - <p class="verse10">From inland</p> - <p class="verse">Leaps a gay fragment of some mocking tune,</p> - <p class="verse">That tinkles and laughs and fades along the sand,</p> - <p class="verse">And dies between the seawall and the sea.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -How perfect those last three lines are! -How skilful, in painting the sea, to concentrate -upon something from inland, -making the ocean twice as old and vast -and unquiet because of that little tinkling -tune. -</p> - -<p> -One will find in Rupert Brooke various -kinds of things, but never attitudinizing -and never insincerity. He is -one of the most important of those -young Englishmen who are doing so -much for modern poetry. He is essentially -a poet’s poet, and yet his feet are -deep in the common soil. Swinburne -would have liked him, but the significant -thing is that Whitman would, too. -There are several poems I have not mentioned -that Whitman would have loved. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-20"> -<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> -Tagore As a Dynamic -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Soule</span> -</p> - -<p class="note"> -[We do not agree that <em>Tagore</em> is a dynamic; we find him a poet whose music is more important -than his thinking. But we are glad to print this interesting analysis.] -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> <em>The Crescent Moon</em>, with its ravishing -beauty of childhood, in <em>The -Gardener</em>, with its passion of love, and -especially in <em>Gitanjali</em> and <em>Sadhana</em> -(Macmillan), with their life universal -and all-permeating, we have found the -poet Tagore and been grateful. It remains -to ask: What has Tagore done to -us? What is he likely to do for the -future? What has been his answer to -the promise and the challenge of the -world? -</p> - -<p> -Religions have provided one answer. -In his zeal of affirmation the prophet has -declared that the individual lives after -death; that in some unseen world completion -shall be attained. Yet increasing -millions find this explanation fading into -unreality. If one living organism is -perpetuated after its physical dissolution, -why not another? We can account -for every particle of life which the blossom -loses by its death. Some has passed -to the seed; the rest finds its chemical reaction, -which in turn produces other -forms of life—in entirely new individuals. -To assert that the original blossom -lives in an unseen form outside the realm -of thought is preposterous. Why should -it? Its function has been accomplished. -The sentimentality behind this thinking -is a weak prop for a vigorous mind. And -exactly the same reasoning applies to all -living organisms, including man. -</p> - -<p> -The more intelligent part of mankind -has also outgrown the conception of a -definite heaven. It is impossible to <a id="corr-5"></a>imagine -a satisfactory heaven for the individual. -A place where there is no strife, -where everything is perfection and completion—what -joy is to be found there? -The essence of life as we know it is -growth and survival; its happiness comes -from the exercise of a function. Growth -and survival postulate extinction; in -heaven an individual would evaporate. -</p> - -<p> -Some thinkers have made a substitute -“religion of humanity.” They find -solace in action tending to make the -world a better place; they have been -gratified by an imaginative conception -of a future heaven on earth. As a religion -of morality and action this is magnificent. -Yet its dogma does not satisfy. -A heaven on earth is no more conceivable -than a heaven anywhere else. If -we find our happiness in action, how -shall our descendants find happiness -when there are no more evils to conquer? -Though a static condition of blessedness -be the goal of humanitarian endeavor, -it is the progress toward it which -furnishes the joy. -</p> - -<p> -The Oriental thinker has looked for -his answer in a different direction. -Though the individual is partial and -unsuccessful, life as a whole is always -triumphant. Cannot the individual by -contemplation identify himself with the -world-soul? Can he not tack himself -on to this all-inclusive life by denial -and forgetfulness of himself? Brahmin -saints have done so imaginatively. But -such an answer is no answer. We are -individuals, after all, and thinking of -Nirvana will not rob us of our separate -bodies and minds. Contemplation is not -a substitute for living. -</p> - -<p> -The doctrine of transmigration is -equally unsatisfying. If an individual -<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> -never succeeds in any single life, innumerable -chances will be mere repetitions -of tragedy. The only hope of -such a process would be a final “heaven -on earth,” which is just as inconceivable -as that of the humanitarians. -</p> - -<p> -We cannot now be satisfied with theological -answers. Nor will the world ever -find an answer permanently satisfactory. -Is not this as it should be? A fixed system -of thought which answers every spiritual -craving must be a shell around the -individual, preventing growth. It finally -ceases to be a dynamic and becomes a -wall in the way of the feelers which mankind -is constantly sending into his spiritual -environment. It forces him to rest. -It eventually turns all his expansion into -the lower planes of life. It is deadening, -suffocating, as soon as he reaches its -limits. -</p> - -<p> -Of what nature, then, must be the religion -of the modern man and woman? -First of all, it must not be imposed from -without; it must grow through the personality -and find its being there. It must -not only square with every known fact -of science and thought; it must stimulate -to a fervent desire for new understanding. -It must not deny or destroy -life; it must be life’s essence. -It must ring with a call to the individual -to assume his proper dignity -of life. It must harmonize with the -laughter of children and with the bitter -beauty of a winter sea. It must flame -with emotion, yet be keen and hard as -a sword. And it must be not a self-constituted -standard with which every other -thing is arbitrarily compared, but a -principle of growth making necessary -in us vision, strength, freedom, and fearlessness. -</p> - -<p> -It is my feeling that Tagore will suggest -to the modern man such a religion. -He gives expression, though not, of -course, perfect expression, to a synthesis -of many latent instincts of the modern -mind. He glories in understanding, not -only facts and truth, but emotions and -all manifestations of life. He calls us -to see vivid beauty wherever it is found. -He acclaims the aid of science in extending -man’s personality throughout the -universe. He sees the oneness of all life, -and bids man stand erect on account of -this eternal and timeless force coursing -through him. He sees the oneness of -humanity, and the necessity of perfecting -human relations. He depicts purity -without asceticism, vigor without brutality. -He emphasizes joy and action. -He does not blink the fact of death, but -robs it of horror by showing it as the -natural end of a victorious life. While -he encourages by the idea of an ultimate -goal, he inspires by the conception of a -real connection with infinity here and -now. Revering the universal life, he sees -that it finds expression only in individuals, -and that the law of our being must -be to live as completely as possible. -</p> - -<p> -Many before Tagore have said these -things partially. But it remained for a -poet who combines the intelligence of -the Orient with that of the Occident to -say them all, and to say them with such -beauty and simplicity that a large part -of the world listens. If he succeeds in -making us conscious of such a religion, -he will have quickened life and made it -potent as few artists can. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-21"> -<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> -Ethel Sidgwick’s “Succession” -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Succession</em>: A Comedy of the Generations, by Ethel Sidgwick. -(Small, Maynard and Company, Boston.) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">E</span><span class="postfirstchar">thel</span> Sidgwick is the world’s -next great woman novelist. Though -I confess eagerly that I enjoy her novels -more than any novels I’ve ever read—I -mean it literally—it isn’t on so personal -a basis that I offer the judgment. But -I’m confident that within ten years the -critical perspective will show her on this -pinnacle. Since George Eliot and the -Brontës, I can think of no woman who -has focused art and life so intensely into -novel writing—though even as I say -this <em>Ethan Frome</em> looms up and leaves -me a little uncomfortable. But the important -thing is that Ethel Sidgwick is -going to count—enormously. -</p> - -<p> -People who aren’t yet aware of her -(and there <a id="corr-6"></a>seem to be a lot of them) can -be easily explained as that body of the -public that neglects a masterpiece until -it has become the fashion to acclaim it. -But Ethel Sidgwick has written a novel -that’s more important than any number -of our traditional masterpieces. For -instance, it’s a much more important -story than <em>Vanity Fair</em>; just as <em>Jean -Christophe</em> is more valuable than <em>Ivanhoe</em>. -The novel of manners has its delightful -place, and so has the historical -romance; but the novel that chronicles -with subtlety the intellectual or artistic -temper of an age is as much more important -than these as Greek drama is than -the moving picture show. -</p> - -<p> -I know there are people who’ll read -<em>Succession</em> and continue to prefer Thackeray’s -geniality to Miss Sidgwick’s brilliant -seriousness and her humor that’s -not at all genial—but rapid, sophisticated, -impatient of comedy in the accepted -sense. Ethel Sidgwick might -write a radiant tragedy, or a wistful satire, -or a sad comedy; I can never imagine -her being anything so obvious as -merely comic—or genial! She doesn’t -laugh; she <em>couldn’t</em> chuckle; she has just -the flash of a smile, and then she hurries -on dazzlingly, as though things were too -important to be anything but passionate -about. She doesn’t “warm the cockles -of your heart”—or whatever that silly -phrase is; and she doesn’t do crude, raw -things to show you that she “knows -life.” She goes down into the darkness -rose-crowned, in Rupert Brooke’s gorgeous -phrase; when she goes into the -sunlight it is always with something of -remembered agony. That’s the fine quality -of her vitalism. She’s too strong to -be hard, too steel-like to be robust. She’s -like fire and keen air—to borrow another -poet’s phrase. She reflects life -through the mirror of a vivid personality—which -is one way of being an important -artist. She assumes that you’re also -vivid, and quick, and subtle, and this -gives her writing the most beautiful -quality of nervousness—the kind you -mean when you’re not talking about -nerves. In short, Ethel Sidgwick is the -most definitely magnetic personality I’ve -ever felt through a book’s pages. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Succession</em>, though complete in itself, -is really a sequel to <em>Promise</em>, published -a year ago. The sub-title presents the -idea, and can be concretely expanded in -a sentence: Antoine, child-wonder violinist, -and the youngest of the celebrated -Lemaures, revolts against the musical -ideas of his grandfather. Here it is -<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> -again—the battle of youth and age, -made particularly interesting because it’s -a purely intellectual warfare, and particularly -charming because its participants -are such delightful people. -</p> - -<p> -The first glimpse of Antoine is irresistible. -After a series of concerts in -England, he is being taken by his uncle -to their home in France. M. Lucien -Lemaure has chosen the long route because -his nephew has an odd habit of -sleeping better on the water than in any -house or hotel on shore; and while he -doesn’t understand this nephew, he has -vital reasons for considering him: for -upon Antoine’s delicate shoulders rests -the musical honor of the family. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -“Sleep well, mon petit,” he said, in the -tiny cabin. “We are going home.” -</p> - -<p> -Antoine, who had no immediate intention of -sleeping, was staring out of the dim porthole -of a fascinating space of the unknown. “That -is home to you?” he asked vaguely. -</p> - -<p> -“To be sure. My first youth was passed -there, like thine.” -</p> - -<p> -After an interval passed spent in a vain -effort to imagine his uncle with no hair on his -face, Antoine gave it up and recurred to the -window. “I wish I lived on the sea,” he -murmured. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -In the train, flying toward Paris, Lucien -refers to the last London recital, -when Antoine had made both his uncle’s -and his conductor’s lives a burden by his -indifferent rehearsal of his grandfather’s -latest composition. Antoine’s outburst -had outraged Lucien, to whom faith in -his father’s character and genius had, all -his life, amounted to a religion. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -“What will you tell him then?” said Antoine, -turning his dark eyes without deranging -his languid attitude along the seat. “Just -that I said some ‘sottises,’ the same as always?” -</p> - -<p> -“He is not a child,” thought Lucien instantly. -“He is clever, maddening. Of course, -my action will have to be explained. I shall -say,” he said aloud, with deliberation, “that -we differed about the concerto. That you were -difficult and headstrong over that, which is -certainly true. You have admitted since that -it was too much for you, eh?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said the boy. “It is an awful -thing, but I played it. I had to have something -real that night.” -</p> - -<p> -“You imply my father’s composition is not -real?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, do not,” said the boy, under his -breath. “I have remembered he is your father -now.” -</p> - -<p> -“To be sure,” said M. Lucien, with stateliness. -“And have you no duty to him as -well?” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall see him soon. I shall remember -then.” Antoine diverted his eyes, to his -uncle’s private relief. “Do you think I do not -want to remember, after that?” -</p> - -<p> -“I should think you would be ashamed,” -said Lucien, by way of the last word in argument, -and retired to his paper. -</p> - -<p> -“You like me to be ashamed,” said Antoine, -snatching the last word from him, -though still with a manner of extreme languor. -“Good, then, I have been. It is not”—he -watched the trees of Normandy sleepily—“a -very nice feeling.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad you know what it is like, at -least,” growled his uncle into the paper. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you?” said his nephew. “What it -is like, is to make you feel rather sick—all -the time—especially while you are playing -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“What?” -</p> - -<p> -“The thing you are ashamed of.” -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -How I wanted to hug him! -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -“Antoine,” said Lucien, rising and discarding -the paper, “do not be absurd. Here, look -at me. You suffered that night at the concert, -eh? You excited yourself so much, little -imbecile. Are you tired now?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, thank you—this is France,” replied -Antoine. “That is a French cow,” he murmured, -“not so fat. That is a French tree, -not so thick. The sky is different, and the sun. -The concerts will be easier, I expect.” -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -But the first glimpse of M. Lemaure, -the grandfather, is reassuring. In fact, -he’s almost as irresistible as Antoine, -making you realize immediately that the -battle is going to be a subtle one, and -that it may be difficult to know which -side to take, after all. -</p> - -<p> -The old musician asks about the last -recital. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -“I was not at the last orchestral,” Lucien -answers. “I left him in Wurst’s charge, and -<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> -went to the country, ... I should not -easily desert my post, as you know; but the -boy made it clear enough he had no use for -me. He clung to that sacré concerto of -Tschedin, which he knows you detest, and -which I never thought in a condition to perform. -He mocked himself of my objections, -contradicted me, eluded me, and twisted -Wurst round his finger at rehearsals.” -</p> - -<p> -“And Wurst?” -</p> - -<p> -“Wurst found him charming. He has Russian -blood himself, and had known the composer. -He has encouraged Antoine’s revolutionary -tendencies from the first. The pair of -them took the last concert so completely out of -my hands that it seemed fruitless to remain.” -</p> - -<p> -“Bébé forgot himself,” pronounced M. -Lemaure, still quite at ease. Indeed the situation -so reminded him of Antoine’s childhood -that he longed to laugh. “What did he -say, and when?” -</p> - -<p> -“We will not revive it,” said Lucien. -“When he came to his senses, he apologized -sufficiently. Perhaps he was not well ... -when is the first engagement—Sunday?” -</p> - -<p> -“Let him be for a time. There is no harm.” -</p> - -<p> -Lucien grunted. “I shall not disturb him -while he is seasick, if that is what you mean. -It would do him no harm to play scales all the -week.” -</p> - -<p> -“Scales—as you will, but not persons. Not -Dmitri Tschedin, I mean, nor even me. It is -intrusive personality, always, that disturbs the -current of Antoine’s philosophy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Father! How absurd.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I have long remarked it. His own -individuality fights the alien matter, and it is -not till he has either rejected it or absorbed -that he is steady again. Wurst and his Russians -have excited him—nothing more natural. -For me,” said M. Lemaure, plunging into -memory, as he stood by his son’s side at the -window, “at his age, the realm of music did -not hold such petulant passions, any more than -it held flat heresy, like that of Sorbier and -Duchâtel.” -</p> - -<p> -“Antoine adores Duchâtel,” remarked Lucien. “There -is no fighting there.” -</p> - -<p> -“Bon!” The old man laughed. “Heresy -on the hearth then, if it must be so. So long -as he does not play the stuff in my hearing.” -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -There are over six hundred pages in -the story, and they cover just a year and -a half of Antoine’s life. This appears -to be an impossible literary feat; any -orthodox novelist will tell you that you -can’t hold a reader through six hundred -pages with the story of a fourteen-year-old -boy. But Miss Sidgwick’s holding -power is—well, I read <em>Succession</em> during -a brief trip to Boston, and much as I -longed to absorb Concord and all its -charms, I found I only had half my -capacity with me; the rest was with Antoine, -and it stayed there till in desperation -I shut myself up in a hotel room -and saw him safely off to America with -his nice, wholesome, inartistic father. -Then came the awful realization that I’d -have to wait a whole year for the next -volume—for surely Miss Sidgwick intends -to make a trilogy. -</p> - -<p> -The explanation of this absorption is -simply that Antoine is so interesting. -His professional life is dramatic; but -even in the commonest experiences of -every day his world is as vivid as it -can only be to a dramatic nature. For -instance, in this little scene with his -brother: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -“There was a little thing on legs,” he announced, -“that went under the carpet just -now. It was rather horrible, and I have not -looked for it.” -</p> - -<p> -“A blackbeetle, I presume,” said Philip. -</p> - -<p> -“It was not black,” said Antoine. “It was -pink—a not-clean pink, you understand. I -found it”—a pause—“disagreeable.” -</p> - -<p> -“How could you find it when you had not -looked for it?” said Philip. Another pause, -Antoine considering the point, which was an -old one. -</p> - -<p> -“You will catch it,” he suggested, shooting -a soft glance at his brother. -</p> - -<p> -“Why should I?” said Philip. “They’re -perfectly harmless.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall dream of it,” said Antoine, shutting -his eyes. “It was too long, do you see, -and pink as well.” His brow contracted, and -he finished with gentle conviction. “If it -comes upon my bed in the night, I shall be -sick.” -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Of course, most interesting of all is -his musical development, in which are -involved several personalities of striking -character: Duchâtel, the revolutionary, -more a son, after the French fashion, -<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> -than a man or a musician; Savigny, the -celebrated alienist, who treats the child -hypnotically in his severe illnesses; Lemonski, -a rival child wonder, who is like -a pig, and vulgar—which it is silly to -say, because he is a beautiful artist, according -to Antoine; Reuss, the great -German conductor, and the boy’s staunch -friend, who hates “the cursed French -training” of making life weigh so heavily -on its youth; Jacques Charretteur, -the vagabond violinist, “a man to play -French music in France”; Cécile, the -aunt, who has the perception to understand -the little genius with the dark eyes, -whose “expression was so beautiful that -she could hardly bear it”; and Ribiera, -the famous Spanish pianist, who -“warms” the piano, in Antoine’s words, -and calls the boy an intelligent ape, by -way of expressing his admiration. All -these people are drawn with consummate -skill. -</p> - -<p> -I think one of the most poignant passages -in the book, to me, is Antoine’s -description of how he had <em>raté</em> the solo at -a London concert. It was at the end of -the season, and he had been harassed by -a thousand needless frictions: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -“The first part had gone pretty well, though -I did not like how the Duchâtel sounded. I -thought that was the violin, perhaps—and a -new room. It was a bad room, pretty, but -stupid for the sound. I heard much too much, -so I was sure <em>they</em> were not hearing properly. -<em>They</em> were extremely still, and made a little -clapping at the end. I did not find it a good -concert, but Wurst in the interval said it was -very well, and I should not excite myself. So -when I did not, then I was tired, and it -seemed stupider than before. And at last that -thing came, the Mirski ‘Caprice,’ which you -know how detestable. The passages are hard -in that thing, but I know them. Every morning -I played them to Moricz, so now I do not -trouble.... And then, in the middle of -it, I heard Peter Axel playing wrong.... -And I was frightened horribly.... And I -made him an awful frown for forgetting it, -and Peter was looking at me. His face was -not happy like it generally is. It was like one -of those worst dreams. And, of course, I -stopped playing, because it cannot be like that. -And Peter said ‘Go back,’ very quietly, making -a lot of little passages and returning for -me to find, do you see?” -</p> - -<p> -“He gave you a chance to pick up, eh?” -said Philip. “And you couldn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“Couldn’t! I <em>would</em> not. I was furious—awful.... -I said a rude thing to Axel -in passing, and went off the estrade. And <em>they</em> -all clapped together down there, bah!—though -they knew it was not finished. They were sorry -I had stopped—because they were people who -like a difficult Caprice, to be amused by it. -But I was not amused. Nor Peter, very much.” -He laughed sharply. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t, I say,” said Philip. “It’s all over -now. It doesn’t matter, really. Everybody -forgets, now and then” ... -</p> - -<p> -“I do not,” said Antoine. “I do not -know how it is to forget. I know that thing—I -know all the little notes, long ago, before -Moricz—since years. It is not possible to <em>forget</em> -a little concert piece that you <em>know</em>....” -</p> - -<p> -“Did you go on again?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. After Wurst had finished talking, I -had to. I should not have for my uncle, but I -had to for him. He was violent, Wurst. He -said it was indigne and lôche if I stopped, and -a lot of other words. He was like a little dog -barking. A man like Wurst does not ‘rater.’ -He does not know how that is done. His head -has all the big scores inside.... He did -not see how it was for me to stand up on the -estrade again, with quantities of beautiful people -looking kind. It would have been so better -if they had siffli, like here in Paris.” -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -The book closes on an unexpected -and suggestive note. Antoine, who had -always realized that his grandfather -couldn’t bear his being “different” in -music, had taken quietly to composing -the kind of things he loved. He “made” -a quintet in which Ribiera was given -a brilliant piano part, and which he -thought beautiful—extremely. But -when they played it for him, though he -was moved to cry, he found its “ideas” -not so good as he had thought. Whereupon -he plans to produce better ones in -his new overture. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Succession</em> is a masterpiece of art, and -Antoine is the most lovable and interesting -character in new fiction. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-22"> -<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> -The Meaning of Bergsonism -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Llewellyn Jones</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">B</span><span class="postfirstchar">ergson’s</span> philosophy is the antithesis -of the natural-science view of -the universe as mechanism. In that view -the laws of nature are fixed sequences -controlling matter, or energy, and the -more complicated and faultless the mechanism -the higher the life. Just how this -mechanism became conscious of the fact -that it was a mechanism—caught itself -at itself, so to speak, and announced the -laws of its own being—is a question as -puzzling as the old theological one of -the aseity of God—which is simply a -Latinized way of asking how the deity -could, being infinite, turn himself inside -out in such a manner as to become aware -of his own existence and attributes. In -fact, the two questions are one and the -same. According to Bergson, mechanism -not only cannot explain consciousness, -but it is the very antithesis of conscious -life. Behind mechanism he places an -inextinguishable but not uncheckable -vital urge with endless potentialities and -with no fixed goal. The progress of this -“elan vital” is through resistance to -matter, which is simply the reversal of -its own movement. The onward urge is -what Bergson calls “pure duration” or -motion, and its collision with its own reverse -movement is what appears to us as -space. The actual situation of life at -any given time is simply a <em>modus vivendi</em> -between this spiritual activity striving to -be free, and the reverse movement. -</p> - -<p> -We know, of course, that the physical -universe is simply energy running down. -Just as a glass of water cools off, so the -sun dissipates its heat, and so, we are -learning, the elements break up into simpler -forms, giving off their contained -energy in the forms of heat and electricity -as they do so. But on the other hand -the plant takes unto itself that energy -of the sun, and with it builds up again -the inorganic salts from its soil into -higher forms with a greater content of -stored energy. What the plant does, -says Bergson, is typical and symbolical -of what all life does at all times: sets up -a reverse current to the running-down -tendency of the universe of matter. -</p> - -<p> -Life cannot do this easily, but has to -adapt itself to the resistance of the downward -flow. It does this through its motor -reactions, its sense organs, and above all -through its intelligence when that is -evolved. The evolution of these things -gives us our ideas of space. The insect -cuts up its environment into spatial -forms easy for it to deal with. Man -with different sense organs probably lives -in a different space world. As “a thing -is where it acts,” it is obvious that -the boundaries of things in the material -realm would be quite different if we had, -for example, some sort of sense organ -adapted to identify things by their electrical -properties. But this identifying -of things by spatial and material concepts—the -mathematical order—is instrumental -to the ends of action, and the -original consciousness of life, while it included -the potentialities of intellectual -knowledge, was instinctive. Instinct, according -to Bergson, is first-hand knowledge, -but knowledge incapable of conceptual -extension. It is therefore no use -in the practical affairs of life, but certain -and immediate in its apprehension of the -actual flow of life itself. In its broadened -form of intuition it is responsible -for all the valid and original insights of -the philosophers and poets. The structural -and dialectic forms in which philosophies -have been given to the world -<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> -are simply the intellectualizing process -which philosophers have used to buttress—and -which they have often thought -produced—the insight which was prior -to and independent of the system. -</p> - -<p> -Bergson’s doctrine has been seized -upon by apologists for every creed and -for every iconoclasm. Bergson has been -accused of every intellectual crime, from -being the intellectual father of syndicalism -to being the last rich relative of -struggling obscurantism. The protestant -theologians talk glibly of Bergson’s -idea of God, and use him as a stick -with which to beat the hated materialist. -Bergson himself would never apply his -philosophy to the uses of the syndicalists. -The argument of the syndicalists themselves -is simply an ingenious parody of -the Bergsonian philosophy, as it is so far -developed. As mechanism and the mathematical -order, they say, do not represent -life, we cannot by the means of -natural and sociological sciences predict -in advance what life will do, and what -forms it will take. We cannot base revolutionary -action, for instance, along -Marxian lines, because the whole Marxist -philosophy rests upon the assumption -that life is the slave of material forces—chemical -firstly, and economical in the -human drama—and that it will therefore -follow along predetermined lines. -If life is an “elan vital,” breaking its -path as it goes, and only able to think -in terms of the past, then revolutionary -activity must cut loose from the reactionary -intellect, and trust itself to its -instincts; fight its way to that freedom -which is impossible in the mathematically -determined intellectual realm, and which -is equally impossible of achievement by -mere intellectual foresight. So the syndicalist -in the name of Bergson cuts -loose from all theories of the future he -wishes to bring in, preaches the “general -strike” for its stimulating effect on the -emotions of the proletarian constituents -of his social “elan vital”—quite careless -of whether it would ever be a practical -success or not—and deliberately -cuts loose from all forms of “bourgeoise -culture.” -</p> - -<p> -But the anti-revolutionists point out -that Bergson does believe in the intellect -as a guide to the practical affairs of life; -and industry and production—the field -of the syndicalist—are far more mechanical -than they are vital. In man’s -industrial relations he has to approximate -himself as much to the machine as -possible, and for Bergson’s anti-intellectualism -to be applied to this particular -realm of life is as great a calamity as -could happen to the doctrine. And then -these conservatives proceed, less justifiably -perhaps, to train the captured gun -of intuition upon the syndicalists. The -racial intuitions, they say, are older than -the race’s newly-found intellectual conceptions. -For generations the race has -lived by certain instinctive rules of conduct. -Religion, custom, and patriotism, -these are all sacred because they are -extra-intellectual, and they dare us to -disturb these sacred things. It is a -strange sight—this most revolutionary -philosophical doctrine being used to support -all the prejudices that the ages have -handed down—but we cannot deny that -it is a plausible use of intuitionism, and -a more legitimate use than that to which -Sorel and his followers have put the -teachings emanating from the College of -France. -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps the most detailed application -that Bergson has yet made of his philosophy -to the affairs of life is his application -of its principles to the puzzling -æsthetic problem of laughter and the -comic. His theory is that laughter is a -social corrective directed against the man -who allows the dogging steps of mechanism -to overtake him and imprison his -spirit in a web of meaningless action. -The man who is walking along the street -<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> -should be going in a determinate direction -with a determinate end in view, and -with the ability to get there in spite of -reasonable obstacles. So says society. -When he becomes abstracted, walks mechanically, -and in consequence falls over -a brick, we laugh at him. He has permitted -himself to become a machine for -the nonce instead of a self-conscious -spirit, and society cannot afford to have -its interests jeopardized in that way. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The International Journal of Ethics</em> -for January, 1914, contains an article -by J. W. Scott, who accuses Bergson of -ethical pessimism on the grounds of his -view of the comic. He points out that -the psychology of comic action, as Bergson -works it out, is precisely that of -moral action. For in moral action, too, -a man does what is habitual, what is -against his own self-conscious impulse, -what is mechanical in that it is a fixed -course of conduct pursued without reference -to the favor or disfavor of the -environment. The life impulse must be, -he convicts Bergson of saying, adaptable -to its circumstances; it must insert itself -between the determinisms of matter; it -must pursue the crooked path where the -straight path is too difficult. It cannot -follow its moral ideal without making -itself ridiculous, as indeed in real life -moral people are always doing. -</p> - -<p> -This criticism hangs on the acceptance -of a moral ideal, and if we must have an -ideal in the sense of a goal beckoning us -from the future, then the criticism is -well founded and Bergson is an ethical -pessimist. But systematic ethics have -been denied by other philosophers before -Bergson, and most people of modern -temperament are quite willing to let the -whole question of <em>a priori</em> ethics drop. -They might not be willing to exchange -it for the very unpoetic utilitarianism -which has so often been offered in its -place, but Bergson offers something -more than that. If he be an ethical pessimist, -he is not a religious pessimist. Of -religion he has not yet spoken, except -incidentally. Obviously so long as he -uses the scientific method in his philosophy, -proceeding from facts to their subordination -in a picture whose values are -given by intuitions, he cannot present a -systematic philosophy. But in spite of -the fact that pessimism—not only in -ethics but in his view of the content of -personality and its relations with the universe—is -charged against him, Bergson -means to be decidedly optimistic in his -treatment of personality. In his article -in <em>The Hibbert Journal</em> for October, -1911, occur these remarkable words: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -If then, in every province, the triumph of -life is expressed by creation, ought we not to -think that the ultimate reason of human life is -a creation which, in distinction from that of the -artist or man of science, can be pursued at -every moment and by all men alike? I mean -the creation of self by self, the continual -enrichment of personality by elements which -it does not draw from outside but causes to -spring forth from itself.... If we admit -that with man consciousness has finally left the -tunnel; that everywhere else consciousness has -remained imprisoned; that every other species -corresponds to the arrest of something which -in man succeeded in overcoming resistance and -in expanding almost freely, thus displaying -itself in true personalities capable of remembering -all and willing all and controlling their -past and their future, we shall have no repugnance -in admitting that in man, though perhaps -in man alone, consciousness pursues its -path beyond this earthly life. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -On the other suppositions of Bergson’s -philosophy this is by no means so -far-fetched as are most theories of immortality. -For the consciousness which -cuts out the patterns of our spatial life -here could easily cut out others in the -beyond, like enough to our present ones -to carry on the continuity of our active -existence. The idea of survival, or an -idea that may be applied to transmundane -survival, is suggested by Laurence -<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> -Binyon in a recent volume of poems entitled -“Auguries.” He writes: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And because in my heart is a flowing no hour can bind</p> - <p class="verse">Because through the wrongs of the world looking forth and behind</p> - <p class="verse">I find for my thoughts not a close, not an end,</p> - <p class="verse">With you will I follow, nor crave the strength of the strong</p> - <p class="verse">Nor a fortress of time to enshield me from storms that rend.</p> - <p class="verse">This is life, this is home, to be poured as a stream as a song.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -This is quoted not only because it represents -the poetical realization of Bergson’s -message, but because it points to -one reason why the charge of pessimism -has been brought against Bergson even -in this connection. -</p> - -<p> -If only progress is our home, if there -be no stability, how is that permanence -of values to be achieved which Höffding -declares to be the essential axiom of religion? -We may love our faithful dog, -but according to Bergson it represents -an evolutionary blind alley. We may -create as we will, but we shall survive our -creations. Here, after all, is at the best -a tempered optimism. No reunions are -promised in the Bergsonian paradise. -Only a perpetual streaming that does -not, so far as Bergson has yet told us -(and that is an important point) ever -wind safely home to sea. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<h2 class="filler" id="chapter-0-23"> -Instinct and Intelligence -</h2> - -<p class="noindent"> -Clarence Darrow recently echoed that high -estimate of instinct at the expense of intelligence -which has been the fashion since Bergson. -Some of these days, when that case has -been overstated often enough, there will be a -return swing of that pendulum. The instinctive -wasp who, in order to paralyze it, knows -how to sting a caterpillar “as though she -knew its anatomy” may not always seem in -all respects superior to the human surgeon -who does actually know anatomy and can apply -that knowledge in a thousand ways—versus -the wasp’s one. Some day it will strike some -one that no creature has an instinct against -poison comparable in delicacy, subtlety, and -fullness with a chemist’s noninstinctive, intelligent -knowledge of poisons—and nonpoisons. -So with a number of things. The pragmatic -objection to our present glorification of instinct -is that it tends to become a glorification -of intellectual whim.—George Cram Cook in -<em>The Chicago Evening Post</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-24"> -<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> -The Jewels of a Lapidary -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Emerson’s Journals</em>, Volume IX, 1856-1863. -(Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston.) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> least nine events of permanent -historic interest have occurred in -American literature within the past few -years: they are represented by the publication -of nine volumes of Emerson’s -<em>Journals</em>. Those who are trying to -achieve a personal religion, which acknowledges -God as an immanence instead -of a proposition, hail with a quiet -joy every extraction from the great mine -in which Emerson stored the jewels of -his life. If we do not recognize them -as lapidarious we must perceive them as -the better metals of ourselves, for this -“friend and aider of those who would -live in the spirit” inhumed those spiritual -values which all men at some time -or another seek as their own. Emerson -buoys us up for our common struggles -and makes us conscious of that aid which -is the awakening of latent power. He -composed the bricks which thousands of -builders have used in fashioning beautiful -personal temples. “I dot evermore -in my endless journal,” he wrote to Carlyle; -“... the arrangement loiters -long, and I get a brick-kiln instead of -a house.” Speaking of his philosophical -work he confesses a “formidable -tendency to the lapidary style,” and -adds, “I build my house of boulders.” -</p> - -<p> -Emerson’s published journals are kilns -and quarries from which the foundation -materials for the edifice of character -have been obtained by countless builders. -If he could not construct a system of -philosophy, as Arnold alleges, he could -and did provide the “boulders” and -indicate the pattern which others have -used. He is a part of every well-read -American, and, chiefly through Carlyle, -still lives in the land of his forefathers. -He was an inspiration to Whitman, one -of whose “specimen days” closed with -“a long and blessed evening with Emerson.” -Such evenings are as real now as -in Whitman’s time, and are more commonly -experienced, for Emerson is westward-bound. -He has traveled slowly in -this direction: “boulders” are not carried -by exploiters and pioneers who build -and live in a world not of “the spirit” -but of the senses. With the establishing -of easier communication between centers -of thought and fields of action in -America, New England “boulders” -were brought hither, to chink the crude -walls of western life; and it is a token -of Emerson’s vitality and spiritual universality -that his “bricks” and “boulders” -are discoverable in all sorts of -shacks which men are trying to improve. -Lumber decays, but “boulders” remain, -and some of them become talismanic. -</p> - -<p> -In reading and re-reading Emerson’s -<em>Journals</em> one is impressed with their remarkable -quotability, and in this mechanical -handiness of his work we have a partial -explanation of the slowness with -which it has been assimilated. “Boulders” -are fated to be knocked about before -they are appreciated. We throw -them at one another with a sort of physical -dexterity until, burnished and transformed, -they are recognized as adapted -to higher uses. We do not flippantly -quote or mention the authors who have -become personal to us; I quote Emerson’s -<em>Journal</em> as a blessed soliloquy. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -D. C. W. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-25"> -<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> -New York Letter -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Soule</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> most interesting hours of the -last week I have spent in listening -to discussions of the futurists. Someone -told of a superb incident recently reported -of a speech by Marinetti, the -enunciator of the futurist philosophy. -Marinetti, after denouncing the past in -his usual method, proceeded to eliminate -women from his world. “But,” -said someone, “how will you continue -the human race?” “We will <em>not</em> continue -the human race,” rejoined Marinetti, -with superb <em>éclat</em>. Daring and -magnificent utterance! But, after all, -perhaps he is the only sane one, and the -norm of human intelligence quite insane. -That fits in well with the recently reported -discovery of a Paris scientist, that -all variations in the course of evolution -are the result of disease, and that there -would have been no man had not some -ape had a parasite in his thyroid gland. -All of which goes to show that I was -right in my statement (which Chesterton -probably has said before me) that all -logical extremes are illogical, since the -world is based on an eternal paradox. -</p> - -<p> -Really it is quite simple to follow the -futurist line of thought once you get -the hang of it. For instance—two developments -of painting predicted at the -Troubetzkoys. In the first, each plane -in the cubist picture, instead of being -colored, is to be numbered, and the numbers -printed in a catalogue opposite the -names of the colors for which they stand. -Thus any approach to the vulgar intrusion -of realism would be avoided, and -abstract beauty furthered. What chances -for the imagination! And think of the -subtle possibilities in the mathematics of -color! One could surely express by some -abstruse quadratic a color quite beyond -the realm of visual possibility, and thus -man by one gigantic tug at his bootstraps -would pull his soul out of its finite -limitations. -</p> - -<p> -The second school was aptly named -the auto-symbolists. In this school Nietzschean -individualism attains its sublime -extreme. The artist, instead of expressing -his spirit in the vulgar symbols -understood by everybody, arbitrarily -chooses a symbol known only to himself. -If he wishes to depict a determined man -going up a mountain on a mule’s back -he may paint a mouse-trap. To him the -mouse-trap perfectly expresses the particular -feeling he has when viewing his -own mental image of the picture he has -decided to paint. What matter about -anybody else? If you ask him <em>cui bono</em>?—he -will reply: why any <em>bono</em> at all? -And, of course, he is perfectly logical. -And the satisfying aristocratic aloofness -of his position! If people—as they -surely will—study his mouse-trap and -discuss in vain what it portends, if they -pay vast sums for his pictures and start -a literature of criticisms to guess his -unguessable riddles, so much the better. -He can laugh at them with diabolical -glee. Everybody is a fool but himself, -and he can go on creating in the seventh -circle of his own soul undisturbed by -the barnyard cackle of the world. -</p> - -<p> -Has the cubist literature of Gertrude -Stein awakened echoes in Chicago? I -have read it without understanding before -this. But one night my host—a -great, strong, humorous, intelligent hulk -of a man, himself a scoffer at cubism—read -part of her essay on Matisse so -that it was almost intelligible. His inflection -and punctuation did it. Her -chief characteristics seem to be an aversion -<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> -to personal pronouns and a strict -adherence to simple declarative statements, -untroubled by subordinate clauses -or phrases of any kind. Her thought, -therefore, resolves itself awkwardly in a -four-square way. The multiplicity of -her planes becomes confusing after a -page, but each plane stands alone. Thus—(I -quote inaccurately)—“Some ones -knew this one to be expressing something -being struggling. Some ones knew this -one not to be expressing something being -struggling. This one expressed -something being struggling. This one -did not express something being struggling.” -Which, of course, is the cubist -way of saying that “Some thought he -was trying to express struggle in an -object, others thought the contrary. As -a matter of fact, he sometimes did express -struggle; sometimes he did not.” -</p> - -<p> -But it seems her early work is now -getting too obvious, so she is in the -throes of a later phase. In her “Portrait -of Miss Dodge” she has eliminated -verbs and sentence structure entirely, -flinging a succession of image-nouns at -the reader. One can surely not accuse -her of “prettiness.” -</p> - -<p> -The craze for colored wigs is, of -course, an outgrowth of futurism. Why -should a man be any color except that -which his will dictates? This has long -(a few months) been the cry of the -painter, and the smart set has echoed: -Why should he? Women in green and -blue wigs have been seen in New York -already. But, of course, it would be -senseless to stop there; if one has an -orange toupé he should surely have a -mauve face. Yellow complexions are -worn with indigo hair. We have long -been accustomed to blue powdered noses -on Fifth Avenue, and the setting of diamonds -in the teeth is an old story. The -only trouble with this epoch-making idea -is that it is old. Phœnician women did it! -And wasn’t it Edward Lear who wrote of -<em>The Jumblies</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,</p> - <p class="verse">And they went to sea in a sieve”?</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Of course, if one doesn’t believe in this -new development of art, but is naturalistic, -he should be brave enough to chase -his idea to its lair and act upon it, like -Lady Constance Stewart Richardson, who -is now tripping about the homes of the -rich in New York with nothing at all on—or -worse than nothing. -</p> - -<p> -Forgive my preposterosities! But the -ridiculous seriousness with which everything -unfamiliar is taken by a sensation-sated -<em>haute monde</em> is such a brilliant target -for satire. I think with immense -relief of a wonderful bit of sky, and a -long stretch of beach, and of all things -tangible and—yes, though it may be -bourgeois—<em>healthy</em>. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-26"> -<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> -To a Lost Friend -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Eunice Tietjens</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Across the tide of years you come to me,</p> - <p class="verse2">You whom I knew so long ago.</p> - <p class="verse">A poignant letter kept half carelessly,</p> - <p class="verse">A faded likeness, dull and gray to see....</p> - <p class="verse2">And now I know.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza center"> - <p class="verse">. . . . . .</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Strange that I knew not then,—that when you stood</p> - <p class="verse2">In warm, sweet flesh beneath my hand,</p> - <p class="verse">Your soul tumultuous as a spring-time flood</p> - <p class="verse">And life’s new wonder pulsing in your blood,</p> - <p class="verse2">I could not understand.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I could not see your soul like thin red fire</p> - <p class="verse2">Flash downward to my gaze,</p> - <p class="verse">Nor guess the strange, half-understood desire,</p> - <p class="verse">The tumult and the question and the ire</p> - <p class="verse2">Of those far days.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I saw your soul stretch longing arms to love</p> - <p class="verse2">In adolescent shyness bound,</p> - <p class="verse">And passionately storm the gods above.</p> - <p class="verse">Yet, since my own young heart knew naught thereof,</p> - <p class="verse2">You never found.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">It is too late now. You have dropped away</p> - <p class="verse2">In formless silence from my ken,</p> - <p class="verse">And youth’s high hopes turn backward to decay.</p> - <p class="verse">Yet, oh, my heart were very fain to-day</p> - <p class="verse2">To love you then!</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Culture has one great passion—the passion -for sweetness and light. It has one even yet -greater!—the passion for making them <em>prevail</em>.—Matthew -Arnold in <em>Culture and Anarchy</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<h2 class="filler" id="chapter-0-27"> -<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> -The Irish Players: An Impression -</h2> - -<p class="noindent"> -A small, low room with walls of cool -green-grey; in the center an old brown -fire-place with a great black chimney; -on the hearth a light like a deep raspberry; -at each end a chair of smudgy -brown; near the front a table toned -with the walls; on it two black mugs -and a stein; in one corner at the back, -piled against the green-grey, flour sacks -the color of dirty straw; and standing -in the foreground, balanced as Whistler -would have done it, a miller in a suit -of brown, a thin widow in rusty black, -a fat widow with bustles in rusty black -and dirty white.—Somehow one planned -beauty in that place. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<h2 class="filler" id="chapter-0-28"> -The Novel of Manners -</h2> - -<p class="noindent"> -... And yet, even into Mrs. Wharton’s -work is creeping slowly a part of the tremendous -socializing spirit of today—the realization -that group backgrounds, unlighted by a sense -of their relativity to other groups, and to life, -do not amount to much more than painted -scenery. Over in England, Wells, with all his -tremendous burden of national background and -customs, manages, often with a desperate -wrenching of impedimenta, but always with a -great resolve that commands admiration, to -inject into his massive English settings a humanized -world atmosphere as well. Wells -writes not of Englishmen and England, but of -Englishmen and the world. And Galsworthy, -his soul permeated by this new social sense, -writes down, in his English men and women, -all humanity, with all the tragedy and plaintive -joys of human life, with the desires and hampered -fruition of the desires of all living -things, as his background. Not the world -alone, but life, is the stage.—Edna Kenton in -<em>The Bookman</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -A man should always obey the law with his -body and always disobey it with his mind.—James -Stephens in <em>The Crock of Gold</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -There are two great rules of life, the one -general and the other particular. The first is -that everyone can, in the end, get what he -wants if he only tries. This is the general rule. -The particular rule is that every individual is, -more or less, an exception to the general rule.—<em>The -Note-Books of Samuel Butler.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<h2 class="filler" id="chapter-0-29"> -Forbes-Robertson’s Hamlet -</h2> - -<p class="noindent"> -All my life I seem to have been asking my -friends, those I loved best, those who valued -the dearest, the kindest, the greatest, and the -strongest, in our strange human life, to come -with me and see Forbes-Robertson die in -<em>Hamlet</em>. I asked them because, as that strange -young dead king sat upon his throne, there was -something, whatever it meant—death, life, immortality, -what you will—of a surpassing -loneliness, something transfiguring the poor -passing moment of trivial, brutal murder into -a beauty to which it was quite natural that that -stern Northern warrior, with his winged helmet, -should bend the knee. I would not exchange -anything I have ever read or seen for Forbes-Robertson -as he sits there so still and starlit -upon the throne of Denmark.—Richard Le Gallienne -in <em>The Century</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -To feel, to do, to stride forward in elation, -chanting a poem of triumphant life!—James -Stephens in <em>The Crock of Gold</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Why is it that in some places there is such -a feeling of life being all one; not merely a -long picture-show for human eyes, but a single -breathing, glowing, growing thing, of which -we are no more important a part than the -swallows and magpies, the foals and sheep in -the meadows, the sycamores and ash trees and -flowers in the fields, the rocks and little bright -streams, or even than the long fleecy clouds -and their soft-shouting drivers, the winds?—John -Galsworthy in <em>The Atlantic Monthly</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-30"> -<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> -The Dying Pantheist to the Priest -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="note"> -Henry A. Beers, the author of this dynamic poem from which we quote -only a part, is a professor of literature at Yale—a man -supposedly conventional and soft spoken! -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Take your ivory Christ away:</p> - <p class="verse1">No dying god shall have my knee,</p> - <p class="verse">While live gods breathe in this wild wind</p> - <p class="verse1">And shout from yonder dashing sea.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O no, the old gods are not dead:</p> - <p class="verse1">I think that they will never die;</p> - <p class="verse">But I, who lie upon this bed</p> - <p class="verse1">In mortal anguish—what am I?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">A wave that rises with a breath</p> - <p class="verse1">Above the infinite watery plain,</p> - <p class="verse">To foam and sparkle in the sun</p> - <p class="verse1">A moment ere it sink again.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The eternal undulation runs:</p> - <p class="verse1">A man, I die; perchance to be,</p> - <p class="verse">Next life, a white-throat on the wind,</p> - <p class="verse1">A daffodil on Tempe’s lea.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">They lied who said that Pan was dead:</p> - <p class="verse1">Life was, life is, and life shall be.</p> - <p class="verse">So take away your crucifix—</p> - <p class="verse1">The ever-living gods for me!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza attr"> - <p class="verse">—<em>The Yale Review.</em></p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="chapter-0-31"> -Interesting New or Forthcoming Books -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="note"> -[Classification in this list implies a review in an early issue.] -</p> - -<div class="booklist"> - <div class="row"> - <div class="column"> -<p> -<em>Notes of a Son and Brother</em>, by Henry -James. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Collected Essays of Rudolph Eucken.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Fugitive</em>, by John Galsworthy. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Plays</em>, by Tchekoff and Andreyeff. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Stories of Russian Life</em>, by Tchekoff. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Selected Essays of Alice Meynell.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>Second Nights</em>, by Arthur Ruhl. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Scribner. -</p> - - </div> - <div class="column"> -<p> -<em>Stories of Red Hanrahan</em>, by William -Butler Yeats. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Tragedy of Pompey</em>, by John -Masefield. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Chitra</em>, by Rabindranath Tagore. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Possessed</em>, by Dostoevsky. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Flight and Other Poems</em>, by George -E. Woodberry. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Macmillan. -</p> - - </div> - </div> - <div class="row"> - <div class="column"> -<p> -<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a> -<em>When Ghost Meets Ghost</em>, by William -De Morgan. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Nowadays</em>, by George Middleton. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Angel Island</em>, by Inez Haynes Gillmore. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Euripides and His Age</em>, by Gilbert Murray. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Social Insurance</em>, by I. M. Rubinow. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Holt. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The World Set Free</em>, by H. G. Wells. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Way of All Flesh</em>, by Samuel Butler -(new edition). -</p> - -<p> -<em>Wagner as Man and Artist</em>, by Ernest -Newman. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Philosophy of Ruskin</em>, by Andre -Chevrillon. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Dutton. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Little Essays in Literature and Life</em>, by -Richard Burton. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Beaumont, the Dramatist</em>, by Charles M. -Gayley. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Arthur Rackham’s Book of Pictures.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>Prostitution in Europe</em>, by Abraham -Flexner. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Century. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Poems of Francois Villon.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>Knave of Hearts</em>, by Arthur Symons. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Essays of Francis Grierson</em> (new editions). -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Fortunate Youth</em>, by William J. -Locke. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Lane. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Making of an Englishman</em>, by W. -L. George. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Truth About Women</em>, by C. Gasquoine -Hartley. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Dodd, Mead. -</p> - - </div> - <div class="column"> -<p> -<em>Our Friend, John Burroughs</em>, by Clara -Barrus. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Paul Verlaine</em>, by Wilfred Thorley. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Japanese Empire</em>, by T. Philip -Terry. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Houghton Mifflin. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Knowledge and Life</em>, by Rudolf Eucken. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Science of Happiness</em>, by Jean -Finot. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Putnam. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Florian Mayr</em>, by Baron von Wolzogen. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Socialism and Motherhood</em>, by John -Spargo. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Huebsch. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Richard Wagner</em>, by Oliver Huckel. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Education of Karl Witte</em>, translated -by Leo Wiener. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Crowell. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Crowds, Jr.</em>, by Gerald Stanley Lee. -</p> - -<p> -<em>A Thousand Years Ago</em>, by Percy MacKaye. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Doubleday. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Masque of Saint Louis</em>, by Percy -MacKaye. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Stokes. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Old Mole</em>, by Gilbert Cannan. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Appleton. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Poems</em>, by Brian Hooker. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Yale University. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Clean Heart</em>, by M. A. Hutchinson. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—Little, Brown. -</p> - - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -Some Scribner Spring Books -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Notes of a -Son and -Brother -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Henry James</span> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated, $2.50 net; postage -extra</em> -</p> - -<p> -This is the continuation of -the account, in “A Small Boy -and Others,” of the early -years of William and Henry -James and their brothers, with -much about their father and -their friends. The story of the -life in Switzerland and Geneva, -and later on in Newport and -Cambridge, tells not only their -own experiences but a great -deal about such men as John -LaFarge, Hunt, Professor Norton, -Professor Childs, and Ralph -Waldo Emerson, who was a -close friend of Henry James, -Senior. The description of the -Civil War time and of Wilkinson -James’s experiences with -Colonel Shaw’s colored regiment -are particularly interesting. -The illustrations are from -drawings made by William -James in the early part of his -career when he was studying to -be a painter. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Shallow Soil -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Knut Hamsun</span> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Translated from the Norwegian -by Carl Chr. Hyllested. -$1.35 net; postage extra</em> -</p> - -<p> -Introduces to the English-speaking -world a writer already -a classic not only in his own -country but throughout continental -Europe. -</p> - -<p> -The publication of “Shallow -Soil” is accordingly a literary -event of the first magnitude in -the sphere of fiction. Hamsun -is the greatest living Scandinavian -novelist and this work alone -justifies his fame. It is a social -picture of Christiania, and indeed -of generally modern life. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -A Village Romeo -and Juliet -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Gottfried Keller</span> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>With a Biographical and -Critical Introduction by -Edith Wharton. Translated -by A. C. Bahlmann, $1.00 -net; postage extra</em> -</p> - -<p> -This love story of Swiss peasant -life—whose title conveys -the character of its plot—is -generally regarded as the finest -and most representative production -of the great Swiss -novelist. But it has a still -further element of interest beyond -that which necessarily -attaches to so fine a piece of -writing—the singularly modern -spirit which actuates the characters -and inspires the writer. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Plays by -Björnstjerne -Björnson -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Translated from the Norwegian, -with Introductions, by -Edwin Björkman. Each with -Frontispiece. $1.50 net; postage -extra</em> -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -Second Series -</p> - - <div class="list-block"> -<p class="list"> -“Love and Geography”<br /> -“Beyond Human Might”<br /> -“Laboremus” -</p> - - </div> -<p class="adb"> -Plays by -Björnstjerne Björnson -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<em>First Series</em> -</p> - - <div class="list-block"> -<p class="list"> -“The New System”<br /> -“The Gauntlet”<br /> -“Beyond Our Power” -</p> - - </div> -<p class="adp"> -<em>Translated from the Norwegian, -with an Introduction, -by Edwin Björkman. Frontispiece. -$1.50 net; by mail -$1.65</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Second Nights -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Arthur Ruhl</span>, author of -“The Other Americans,” etc. -<em>$1.50 net; by mail, $1.64</em> -</p> - -<p> -A perfectly charming chronicle -of the chief features and -phases of the metropolitan -theater within the past few -years. The point of view is -wholly unprofessional, and the -text, unweighted by the responsibilities -of the first-night -critic, is intimate and familiar. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Fugitive: -A Play in Four Acts -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">John Galsworthy</span> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>60 cents net; postage extra</em> -</p> - -<p> -This is the tragic story of a -woman who tries to escape -from the bondage of social conventions. -Clare, the heroine, -strikes the key-note of the -whole play when, in the last -act, she says to the young man -she has never seen before: -</p> - -<p> -“You see: I’m too fine, and -not fine enough! My best -friend said that. Too fine, -and not fine enough. I couldn’t -be a saint and martyr, and I -wouldn’t be a soulless doll. -Neither one thing nor the -other—that’s the tragedy.” -</p> - -<p> -It has a deep significance -when taken in connection with -the feminist movement of today. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Mural Painting -in America -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Edwin H. Blashfield</span> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated, $2.00 net; postage -extra</em> -</p> - -<p> -“The entire volume shows -clearness of thought, careful -analysis of the topics discussed, -and a facility of expression -that is seldom found in books -written by men of action rather -than words. Its perusal will -repay any one of culture.” -</p> - -<p> -—<em>The American Architect.</em> -</p> - -<p class="s ade"> -Charles Scribner’s Sons -<span class="centerpic"><img src="images/scribner.jpg" alt="" /></span> -Fifth Avenue, New York -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<div class="centerpic fl"> -<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a><img src="images/houghtonl.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<div class="centerpic fr"> -<img src="images/houghtonr.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h1 adh"> -Two Important Biographies -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -Published by Houghton Mifflin Company -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<em>Two Americans, great in the world of politics and illustrious in their citizenship, have -lately come into their full stature of fame through the lives of LYMAN -TRUMBULL and HARRISON GRAY OTIS.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“THE LIFE OF LYMAN TRUMBULL” is the work of Horace -White, ex-editor of the <em>New York Evening Post</em>. Whoever reads it will -lay it down not merely with new knowledge concerning Lyman Trumbull -but with a broader and surer grasp of the essential facts and philosophy -of the war and the reconstruction period. Mr. White was an -intimate friend of Trumbull, and it is evidence of his conscientious work -that, in the preface, he admits that the careful study forced upon him -by the composition of the book convinced him that his views upon one -important point had been wrong from the beginning. Such open-mindedness -could result only in what the book is—a fair and clean-cut -presentation of the subject and, aside from its intrinsic interest, a valuable -addition to American history and literature. -</p> - -<p> -HARRISON GRAY OTIS was a conscientious public servant, but -so deep and instinctive was his devotion to Massachusetts that his -loyalty to the national government was more than once seriously questioned. -His biography disproves conclusively the accusation that he -was ever concerned in any attempt to secede from the Union, and gives, -for the first time, a full account of the famous Hartford convention, -with illuminating paragraphs on the psychology of its leaders. The -book is, in fact, an inside history of the Federalist party from 1796 to -1823. The author, Samuel Eliot Morison, is a descendant of Mr. Otis, -and through his unusual opportunities of access to private correspondence -has produced a work that is not only valuable as history, but -fascinating in the gossip and personalities of the time. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE LIFE OF LYMAN TRUMBULL, by Horace White -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated. $3.00 net. Postage extra</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -HARRISON GRAY OTIS; His Life and Correspondence, -1765-1848 -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Illustrated. 2 Vols. $6.00 net. Postage extra</em> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -Our Bulletins, issued several times each -year, will be sent FREE on request -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -Houghton Mifflin Company, 4 Park St., Boston -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -<a id="page-50" class="pagenum" title="50"></a> -The Novels of Ethel Sidgwick -</p> - -<p> -“Ethel Sidgwick is one of the half-dozen women writers who are contributing -work of real value to modern English fiction.”—<em>Sunday Times.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -PROMISE -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<em>$1.35 net, carriage extra</em> -</p> - -<p> -“She appears to us to possess that true imaginative gift, as distinguished -from the mere power of vivid reporting, which is the necessary qualification -for continuing to produce work of permanent value in fiction.”—<em>Times.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“For a first novel ‘Promise’ is exceptionally able—one that should have -notable successors.”—<em>Nation.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“We are left to hope that the life of this English Jean Christophe will -continue through at least another volume, filled with people as variegated -and attractive as those to whom we are introduced in this.”—<em>Spectator.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“It is difficult to imagine anything being better in its kind than -‘Promise.’ It is the account of a human life from infancy up to the early -beginning of a public career—one only wishes it were to be continued in -another volume!”—<em>Chicago Evening Post.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -LE GENTLEMAN: -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -An Idyll of the Quarter -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -<em>$1.25 net, carriage extra</em> -</p> - -<p> -“‘Promise’ was a work which lived up to its name. 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Mr. Dell’s is very readable. -</p> - -<p> -An exhilarating book, truly young with the strength and daring of youth, and as heartening -to the women actors in this new, vivid drama of unknown documents as the applause of -many hands in a darkened theatre.—<em>Chicago Tribune.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -Price, 50 cts. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Man And The Woman -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Arthur L. Salmon -</p> - -<p> -A delightful book that wins the heart and the mind of the reader -with its charming treatment of love and friendship. The true -relationship of men and women is considered in a sane, healthful -spirit free from sentimentality. -</p> - -<p> -A new volume by Arthur L. 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Dearborn Street, <b>Chicago</b> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="adb"> -<a id="page-59" class="pagenum" title="59"></a> -The Meaning of God in Human Experience -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By WILLIAM ERNEST HOCKING, Ph.D. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The profound impression which THE MEANING OF GOD IN HUMAN EXPERIENCE, -by W. E. Hocking, continues to make encourages its publishers to bring it to the attention -of readers of this journal with the firm conviction that in doing so they are rendering -thoughtful students of religion and life no slight service.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“These words also convey something of the sustained and convincing -eloquence of thought—not enthusiastic, but simply vast and strong and careless, -because sure.” -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—J. W. Scott in The Hibbert Journal. -</p> - -<p> -“A vital, logical presentation of the human conception and interpretation -of God in present and past experience and of the foundations of religion. The -author discusses with originality of thought the important trends of philosophy, -pragmatic, realistic, idealistic and mystical, now touching religion, yet his -conclusions are definite and constructive. Will interest students of philosophy -and religion. Excellent index.” -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—American Library Association Booklist. -</p> - -<p> -“Every page bears evidence of years of patient study and thought, and -every chapter brings one face to face with some of the great problems of -psychology, philosophy or theology.... The student of the psychology of -religion will find much of value in these sections. But the book is meant not -for the psychologist chiefly, but for the human being, in a large sense, who is -reflecting seriously over the problems of nature and destiny.” -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—The Nation. -</p> - -<p class="s c"> -(Circular on request.) -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Crown 8vo. Cloth binding. Gilt top. 586 pages. Index. -Price $3.00 net; carriage extra.</em> -</p> - -<p class="u ade"> -New Haven, Conn.<br /> -<b>Yale University Press</b><br /> -225 Fifth Ave., New York City -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="adb"> -THE DRAMATIC WORKS OF -GERHART HAUPTMANN -</p> - -<p> -¶ Four volumes of this edition, epoch-making in dramatic -literature, authorized by Hauptmann, and published with his -co-operation, are ready. The set will consist of six or more -volumes. The editor, Professor Ludwig Lewisohn, supplies -an introduction to each. -</p> - -<div class="centerpic fl"> -<img src="images/huebsch.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - <div class="list-block"> -<p class="h3 adh"> -VOLUME I -</p> - -<p class="list"> -BEFORE DAWN<br /> -THE WEAVERS<br /> -THE BEAVER COAT<br /> -THE CONFLAGRATION -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -VOLUME II -</p> - -<p class="list"> -DRAYMAN HENSCHEL<br /> -ROSE BERND<br /> -THE RATS -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -VOLUME III -</p> - -<p class="list"> -THE RECONCILIATION<br /> -LONELY LIVES<br /> -COLLEAGUE CRAMPTON<br /> -MICHAEL KRAMER -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -VOLUME IV -</p> - -<p class="list"> -HANNELE<br /> -THE SUNKEN BELL<br /> -HENRY OF AUE -</p> - - </div> -<p class="adp"> -<em>At all bookstores. Each, 12mo., cloth, $1.50 net; each weighs about 24 ounces.</em> -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -B. W. HUEBSCH, Publisher, 225 Fifth Avenue, New York -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -<a id="page-60" class="pagenum" title="60"></a> -NEW BOOKS OF<br /> -PERMANENT VALUE -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -<span class="underline">ORIENTAL RUGS</span> -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -By WALTER A. HAWLEY. With 11 Color Plates, 80 Half-Tone Engravings, including 4 -Maps. 4to. Cloth. $7.50 net. -</p> - -<p> -“The book is of especial importance to American readers because of its reference to the carpets -on exhibition in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City.... For the student of art -the book is of real value also.”—<em>The Outlook.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“Covers familiar ground, but with more thoroughness than any previous English work on the -subject.... 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STOKES COMPANY, New York -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="adb"> -<a id="page-62" class="pagenum" title="62"></a> -NIETZSCHE -<em>and other</em> -Exponents of Individualism -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>by</em> -PAUL CARUS -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -Illustrated. Cloth, $1.25 -</p> - -<p> -“Of books on Nietzsche, we doubt whether any will be found more simple -in its analysis and interpretation of the writings of ‘The mad philosopher’ than -the present work.”—<em>Pittsburgh Journal.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“A two-fold purpose is served by this book—a study of philosophical anarchism -and an interpretation of the theories of Nietzsche.”—<em>Brooklyn Eagle.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“A brilliant refutation of the mad philosopher’s doctrine.”—<em>Toronto Globe.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“This exposition of Nietzsche’s life and philosophy is probably both truthful -and fair and as nearly just as any that can be made.”—<em>Chicago Daily News.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“The book is so incisive and clear that it may be taken as an introduction to -the study of philosophy.”—<em>Trenton Times.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“Nietzsche, to the average man, has been little more than a name—a sort of -synonym for turbulence—and violence of a nature not clearly understood. To -such, this book will be welcome. It gives enough of both sides of the question -of individualism to enable the reader to judge intelligently the principle of the -‘Overman’.”—<em>Greensboro Daily News.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -NIETZSCHE -</p> - -<p> -“The appearance of a philosopher like Nietzsche is a symptom of the times. -He is one representative among several others of an anti-scientific tendency. The -author here characterizes him as a poet rather than a thinker, as a leader and -an exponent of certain unruly and immature minds. Though his philosophy is -severely criticised, though it is weighed and found wanting, his personality is -described not without sympathy and with an appreciation of his genius. His -predecessor, Max Stirner, and other kindred spirits less known than Nietzsche -are also introduced, and if the reader adopts the author’s views he will condemn -the tendencies and thoughts of these erratic philosophers but at the same time -appreciate their aspirations and love them in their very errors. The fundamental -error of them all is an extreme individualism which regards every single person -as an absolute autonomous sovereign being, while a consideration of the origin -of personality proves them to have originated within and under the influence of -the social surroundings of communities from which they cannot be separated -and of which they are and will forever remain parts. In this relation of the -individual to society lie the roots of ethics. 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DORAN COMPANY, New York<br /> -Publishers in America for HODDER & STOUGHTON -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -<a id="page-64" class="pagenum" title="64"></a> -The Book Hit of the Year! -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<em>Over 75,000 Copies Sold in Advance of Publication.</em> -</p> - -<div class="centerpic fr"> -<img src="images/i064diane.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p> -This prize winning novel is -justifying the verdict of the -judges (Miss Ida M. Tarbell -and Mr. S. S. McClure) -in awarding it first prize in -competition with more than -500 manuscripts. It stands -out pre-eminently as the -book hit of the year and is -receiving a cordial reception -from book lovers everywhere. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Diane of the Green Van -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>by Leona Dalrymple</em> -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<span class="underline">The Novel That Won The $10,000 Prize</span> -</p> - -<p> -If you delight in a well written romance that will hold your interest -from start to finish, by all means buy a copy of this fascinating novel. -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -A Breezy Story—Entertainingly Told -</p> - -<p> -It is not a “problem” or “sex” novel; it does not deal with woman suffrage; it does -not argue. Diane of the Green Van is frankly a story for entertainment. Most of the -scenes are laid in the big out-of-doors; it fairly breathes the spirit of the open. It is swift -in movement, full of constant surprises, unusual situations, bright and witty in dialogue; -through it all runs an absorbing romance deftly woven. Diane of the Green Van -is wholesome and clean—with stirring action and striking drama. It’s a big fine story! -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -Standard novel size; 440 pages. Handsome cloth binding, -stamped in gold; characteristic jacket printed in four colors; -delightful illustrations in colortone by <span class="smallcaps">Reginald Birch</span>. -</p> - -<p class="b c"> -At All Dealers—Price $1.35 Net -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -Publishers <b>Reilly & Britton</b> Chicago -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="trnote chapter"> -<p class="transnote"> -Transcriber’s Notes -</p> - -<p> -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. -</p> - -<p> -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors -were silently corrected. Further corrections are listed here (before/after): -</p> - - - -<ul> - -<li> -... <span class="underline">and</span> intimate ‘co-operation between her ...<br /> -... <a href="#corr-2"><span class="underline">an</span></a> intimate ‘co-operation between her ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... healthy!” Of course there <span class="underline">is</span> a number ...<br /> -... healthy!” Of course there <a href="#corr-4"><span class="underline">are</span></a> a number ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... definite heaven. It is impossible to <span class="underline">imaging</span> ...<br /> -... definite heaven. It is impossible to <a href="#corr-5"><span class="underline">imagine</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... (and there <span class="underline">seems</span> to be a lot of them) can ...<br /> -... (and there <a href="#corr-6"><span class="underline">seem</span></a> to be a lot of them) can ...<br /> -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, -No. 1), by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, MARCH *** - -***** This file should be named 60402-h.htm or 60402-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/4/0/60402/ - -Produced by Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll -have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using -this ebook. - - - -Title: The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 1) - -Author: Various - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: October 1, 2019 [EBook #60402] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, MARCH *** - - - - -Produced by Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was -produced from images made available by the Modernist Journal -Project, Brown and Tulsa Universities, -http://www.modjourn.org. - - - - - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Literature Drama Music Art - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - MARCH, 1914 - - A Letter John Galsworthy 3 - Five Japanese Prints Arthur Davison Ficke 3 - "The Dark Flower" and the "Moralists" Margaret C. Anderson 5 - A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama DeWitt C. Wing 8 - The Lost Joy Floyd Dell 10 - Paderewski and the New Gods The Editor 11 - The Major Symphony George Soule 13 - The Prophet of a New Culture George Burman Foster 14 - How a Little Girl Danced Nicholas Vachel Lindsay 18 - The New Note Sherwood Anderson 23 - Rahel Varnhagen: Feminist Margery Currey 25 - Tagore as a Dynamic George Soule 32 - The Meaning of Bergsonism Llewellyn Jones 38 - Rupert Brooke's Poetry 29 - Ethel Sidgwick's "Succession" 34 - Letters of William Vaughn Moody 24 - Emerson's Journals 42 - The Critics' Critic 20 - New York Letter 43 - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - Fine Arts Building - CHICAGO - - Volume 1 Number 1 - - Copyright, 1914, by Margaret C. Anderson - - 25 cents a copy $2.50 a year - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - MARCH, 1914 - - - - - Announcement - - - "The realm of art is prodigious; next to life itself the vastest - realm of man's experience." - -Appreciation has its outlet in art; and art (to complete the circle and -the figure) has its source in--owes its whole current--to appreciation. -That is, the tides of art would cease to ebb and flow were it not for -the sun and moon of appreciation. - -This function of the sun and moon is known as criticism. But criticism -as an art has not flourished in this country. We live too swiftly to -have time to be appreciative; and criticism, after all, has only one -synonym: appreciation. In a world whose high splendor is our chief -preoccupation the quality of our appreciation is the important thing. - -Life is a glorious performance: quite apart from its setting, in spite -of the kind of "part" one gets, everybody is given at least his chance -to act. We may do our simple best with the roles we receive; we may -change our "lines" if we're inventive enough to think of something -better; we may alter our "business" to get our personalities across more -effectively; or we may boldly accost the stage manager, hand back the -part he'd cast us for, and prove our right to be starred. The player who -merely holds madame's cloak may do it with dignity and grace; and he who -changes his role, with a fine freedom and courage, discovers that he's -not acting but living his part! For this reason we feel that we needn't -be accused of an unthinking "all's-right-with-the-world" attitude when -we assert that life is glorious. - -And close to Life--so close, from our point of view, that it keeps -treading on Life's heels--is this eager, panting Art who shows us the -wonder of the way as we rush along. We may as well acknowledge right -here that we've never had a friend (except in one or two rare instances) -who hasn't shaken his head at us paternally about this attitude toward -art. "It's purely transitional," he says, tolerantly; "life is so much -more interesting, you see, that you're bound to substitute people for -art, eventually. It really doesn't matter so much that Alice Meynell -wrote 'Renouncement' as that Mrs. Jones next door has left her husband." -Well, he's wrong; at least, he can't speak for us. Wells said to save -the kitten and let the Mona Lisa burn; who would consider anything else? -We think it's rather silly in our paternal friend to argue with us so -heatedly--beside the point! It's not a question as to which is more -important--"Renouncement" or Mrs. Jones. We're merely trying to say that -we're intensely interested in Mrs. Jones, but that Mrs. Meynell has made -our lives more wonderful--permanently. - -THE LITTLE REVIEW means to reflect this attitude toward life and art. -Its ambitious aim is to produce criticism of books, music, art, drama, -and life that shall be fresh and constructive, and intelligent from the -artist's point of view. For the instinct of the artist to distrust -criticism is as well founded as the mother's toward the sterile woman. -More so, perhaps; for all women have some sort of instinct for -motherhood, and all critics haven't an instinct for art. Criticism that -is creative--that is our high goal. And criticism is never a merely -interpretative function; it _is_ creation: it gives birth! It's not -necessary to cite the time-worn illustration of Da Vinci and Pater to -prove it. - -Books register the ideas of an age; this is perhaps their chief claim to -immortality. But much that passes for criticism ignores this aspect of -the case and deals merely with a question of literary values. To be -really interpretative--let alone creative--criticism must be a blend of -philosophy and poetry. We shall try very hard to achieve this difficult -combination. - -Also, we mean to print articles, poems, stories that seem to us -definitely interesting, or--to use a much-abused adjective--vital. Our -point of view shall not be restrictive; we may present the several -judgments of our various enthusiastic contributors on one subject in the -same issue. The net effect we hope will be stimulating and what we like -to call releasing. - -Feminism? A clear-thinking magazine can have only one attitude; the -degree of ours is ardent! - -Finally, since THE LITTLE REVIEW, which is neither directly nor -indirectly connected in any way with any organization, society, company, -cult or movement, is the personal enterprise of the editor, it shall -enjoy that untrammelled liberty which is the life of Art. - -And now that we've made our formal bow we may say confidentially that we -take a certain joyous pride in confessing our youth, our perfectly -inexpressible enthusiasm, and our courage in the face of a serious -undertaking; for those qualities mean freshness, reverence, and victory! -At least we have got to the age when we realize that all beautiful -things make a place for themselves sooner or later in the world. And we -_hope_ to be very beautiful! - -If you've ever read poetry with a feeling that it was your religion, -your very life; if you've ever come suddenly upon the whiteness of a -Venus in a dim, deep room; if you've ever felt music replacing your -shabby soul with a new one of shining gold; if, in the early morning, -you've watched a bird with great white wings fly from the edge of the -sea straight up into the rose-colored sun--if these things have happened -to you and continue to happen till you're left quite speechless with the -wonder of it all, then you'll understand our hope to bring them nearer -to the common experience of the people who read us. - - The more I see of academicism, the more I distrust it. If I had - approached painting as I have approached book-writing and music, - that is to say, by beginning at once to do what I wanted ... I - should have been all right.--_The Note-Books of Samuel Butler._ - - Poetry is in Nature just as much as carbon is.--Emerson's - _Journals_ (1856-1863). - - Life is like music; it must be composed by ear, feeling and - instinct, not by rule.--_The Note-Books of Samuel Butler._ - - - - - A Letter from Galsworthy - - - Written from Taormina, February 23, 1914. - -MY DEAR MADAM: - -You ask me to bid your magazine good speed; and so far as I have any -right, I do indeed. It seems you are setting out to watch the street of -Life from a high balcony, where at all events the air should be fresh -and sunrise sometimes visible. I hope you will decide to sleep out there -under the stars, for what kills most literary effort is the hothouse air -of temples, clubs, and coteries, that, never changed, breeds in us by -turn febrility and torpor. Enthusiasms are more convincing from those -who have not told their loves too often. And criticism more poignant -from one who has been up at dawn, seen for himself and put down his -impression before he goes on 'Change. There is a saying of de Maupassant -about a writer sitting down before an object until he has seen it in the -way that he alone can see it, seen it with the part of him which makes -him This man and not That. For the creative artist and the creative -critic there is no rule, I think, so golden. And I did seem to notice in -America that there was a good deal of space and not much time; and that -without too much danger of becoming "Yogis" people might perhaps sit -down a little longer in front of things than they seemed to do. But I -noticed too a great energy and hope. These will be your servants to -carry through what will not, surely, be just an exploit or adventure, -but a true and long comradeship with effort that is worth befriending. - -So all good fortune! - - Very faithfully yours, - JOHN GALSWORTHY. - - - - - Five Japanese Prints - - - ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE - - - I KIYONOBU SPEAKS - - The actor on his little stage - Struts with a mimic rage.-- - Across my page - My passion in his form shall tower from age to age. - - What he so crudely dreams - In vague and fitful gleams, - The crowd esteems.-- - Well! let the future judge, if his or mine this seems-- - - This calm Titanic mould - Stalking in colours bold - Fold upon fold-- - This lord of dark, this dream I dreamed of old! - - - II FIGURE BY OKUMURA MASANOBU - - Garbed in flowing folds of light, - Azure, emerald, rose, and white, - Watchest thou across the night. - - Crowned with splendor is thine head: - All the princes great and dead - Round thy limbs their state have shed-- - - Calm, immutable to stand-- - Gracious head and poised hand-- - O'er the years that flow like sand. - - - III PILLAR-PRINT BY KIYOMITSU - - A place for giant heads to take their rest - Seems her pale breast. - - Her sweeping robe trails like the cloud and wind - Storms leave behind. - - The ice of the year, and its Aprilian part, - Sleep in her heart. - - Wherefore, small marvel that her footsteps be - Like strides of Destiny! - - - IV PILLAR-PRINT BY TOYONOBU - - O lady of the long robes, the slow folds flowing-- - Lady of the white breast, the dark and lofty head-- - Dwells there any wonder, the way that thou art going-- - Or goest thou toward the dead? - - So calm thy solemn steps, so slow the long lines sweeping - Of garments pale and ghostly, of limbs as grave as sleep-- - I know not if thou, spectre, hast love or death in keeping, - Or goest toward which deep. - - Thou layest thy robes aside with gesture large and flowing-- - Is it for love or sleep--is it for life or death? - I would my feet might follow the path that thou art going, - And thy breath be my breath. - - - V PILLAR-PRINT BY HARUNOBU - - From an infinite distance, the ghostly music! - Few and slender the tones, of delicate silver, - As stars are broidered on the veil of evening.... - - He passes by, the flute and the dreaming player-- - Slow are his steps, his eyes are gravely downcast; - His pale robes sway in long folds with his passing. - - Out of the infinite distance, a ghostly music - Returns--in slender tones of delicate silver, - As stars are broidered on the veil of evening. - - - - - "The Dark Flower" and the "Moralists" - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - - _The Dark Flower_, by John Galsworthy. (Charles Scribner's Sons, New - York.) - -A book that has beauty as it's given to few books to achieve it has been -the innocent cause of more ignorant, naive, and stupid condemnation than -anything published for a long time. Even the English critics--who -usually avoid these shallows--in several cases hit the rocks with awful -force. And all because a man with the soul of the old gods chose to -tell, quite simply and with inexpressible beauty, the truth about an -artist. _The Dark Flower_ was everybody's opportunity to deepen his -vision, but nearly everybody decided to look upon it as an emotional -redundancy. Perhaps this doesn't do some of them justice: I believe a -good many of them considered it positively dangerous! - -My quite spontaneous tribute to Galsworthy's Mark Lennan--before I'd -heard anyone discuss him--was that here was a man a woman would be glad -to trust her soul to. And, in view of how silly it is for a woman to -trust her soul to anyone but herself, I still insisted that one could do -it with Mark Lennan: because he'd not take charge of anyone's soul!--his -wife's least of all. Of course, to love a man of his sort would mean -unhappiness; but women who face life with any show of bravery face -unhappiness as part of the day's work. It remains to decide whether one -will reach high and break a bone or two over something worth having, or -play safe and take a pale joy in one's unscarred condition. With Mark -Lennan a woman would have had--a la Browning--her perfect moment; and -such things are rare enough to pay well for, if necessary. - -All of which is making a very personal issue of _The Dark Flower_; but -it's the kind of book you've got to be personal about; you revise your -list of friends on a basis of their attitude toward Galsworthy. - -After I'd finished _The Dark Flower_--and it had never occurred to my -naive mind that anyone would disagree with me about it--various persons -began to tell me how wrong I was. Mark Lennan was a cad and a -weakling--decidedly the kind of person to be kept out of a good novel. -The very beauty of the book made it insidious, someone said; such art -expended in defense of immorality would soon tend to confuse our -standards. Someone else remarked patronizingly: "Oh, _The Dark Flower_ -may be well done and all that, but personally I've always had a passion -for the normal!" But, most maddening of all, I think, were those readers -of thrillers, of sweet, sentimental stories--those persons who patronize -comic opera exclusively because they "see enough tragedy in life to -avoid it in the theater"--who asked earnestly: "But, after all, what's -the use of such books? What possible _good do they do_?" - -On another page of this review such questions are answered with a -poignancy I dare not compete with. I want to try, instead, to tell why -_The Dark Flower_ seems to me an altogether extraordinary piece of work. - -In the first place, constructively. The story covers three episodes of a -man's love life: Spring, with its awakening; Summer, with its deep -passion; and Autumn, with its desperate longing for another Spring. But -the handling of the episodes is so unepisodic that you feel you've been -given the man's whole life, day by day, from Oxford to that final going -down the years--_sans_ youth, _sans_ spring, _sans_ beauty, _sans_ -passion; _sans_ everything save that "faint, glimmering light--far out -there beyond...." This effect of completeness is achieved, I think, by -the remarkable intensity of the writing, by the clever (and by no means -easy) method of sometimes allowing the characters the author's -prerogative of addressing the audience directly. Highly subjective in -everything that he does, Galsworthy has reached a climax of subjectivity -here: _The Dark Flower_ is as personal in its medium as music. - -In the second place--the great matter of style. Every page shows the -very poetry of prose writing; there's an inevitability about its choice -of beautiful and simple words that makes them seem a part of the nature -they describe. For instance, to choose at random from a multitude of -exquisite things: "... under the stars of this warm Southern night, -burning its incense of trees and flowers"; or, "And he sat for a long -time that evening under a large lime-tree on a knoll above the -Serpentine. There was very little breeze, just enough to keep alive a -kind of whispering. What if men and women, when they had lived their -gusty lives, became trees! What if someone who had burned and ached were -now spreading over him this leafy peace--this blue-black shadow against -the stars? Or were the stars, perhaps, the souls of men and women -escaped for ever from love and longing? ... If only for a moment he -could desert his own heart, and rest with the trees and stars!" With a -single clause like "for ever part of the stillness and the passion of a -summer night" Galsworthy gets effects that some poets need three or four -verses for. In one place he defines for all time a Chopin mazurka as "a -little dancing dirge of summer"; in another gives you with one stroke an -impression of his hero that it's impossible to forget: "He looks as if -he were seeing sands and lions." - -In the third place, Galsworthy's psychology is profound--impregnable. -One simple characterization will serve to illustrate: he describes a -man's face as having the candour of one at heart a child--"that simple -candour of those who have never known how to seek adventures of the -mind, and have always sought adventures of the body." - -As to the lesson of _The Dark Flower_--its philosophy, its "moral"--I -can only say that it hasn't any such thing; that is, while it's full to -the brim of philosophy, it doesn't attempt to force a philosophy upon -you. It offers you the truth about a human being and lets it go at -that--which seems to be the manner of not a few who have written -greatly. For the other sort of thing, go to any second-rate novelist you -happen to admire; he'll give you characters who have a hard time of it -and tell you just where they're right and where they're wrong. I can see -how you feel you're getting more for your money. - -I can't help feeling that everything Galsworthy has done has had its -special function in making _The Dark Flower_ possible. The sociology of -_Fraternity_, the passionate pleading of _Justice_ and _Strife_, the -incomparable emotional experiments of _A Commentary_, the -intellectuality of _The Patrician_--all these have contributed to the -noble simplicities and the noble beauty of _The Dark Flower_. - - - - - The Garden - - - My heart shall be thy garden. Come, my own, - Into thy garden; thine be happy hours - Among my fairest thoughts, my tallest flowers, - From root to crowning petal thine alone. - - Thine is the place from where the seeds are sown - Up to the sky enclosed, with all its showers. - But ah, the birds, the birds! Who shall build bowers - To keep these thine? O friend, the birds have flown. - - For as these come and go, and quit our pine - To follow the sweet season, or, new-comers, - Sing one song only from our alder-trees, - - My heart has thoughts, which, though thine eyes hold mine, - Flit to the silent world and other summers, - With wings that dip beyond the silver seas. - - --_Alice Meynell's Poems._ (Charles Scribner's Sons.) - - - - - A Remarkable Nietzschean Drama - - - DEWITT C. WING - - _Mr. Faust_, by Arthur Davison Ficke. (Mitchell Kennerley, New - York.) - - Have you thought there could be but a single Supreme? There can - be any number of Supremes.--Whitman. - -Mr. Faust is the embodiment of the Nietzschean attitude toward the -universe. This characterization consciously ignores the legendary Faust -of Goethe as having no vital kinship with his namesake. There is of -course a skeletal likeness one to the other, but the hero in Mr. Ficke's -drama is incarnated with modern flesh and endued with a supreme will. -His unconquerable spirit is not that of Goethe's _Faust_ but of -Friedrich Nietzsche. Incidentally and singularly it is the spirit of -Whitman. And these two men, more than any other two or twenty in the -realm of literature, represent the undying god Pan, or the spirit of -Youth. Nietzsche and Whitman are the understanding comrades of the -young-hearted and open-minded. - -_Mr. Faust's_ creator may have no conscious knowledge of Whitman's -poetry, which is a matter of no moment, but he has read Nietzsche, and -that is momentous--indispensable--in relation to this splendid result of -white-heat intellection. I say intellection because _Mr. Faust_ is not -so much a work of art as a remarkable example of reproduction. I know -that, although the thought and feeling of the work rise in places to the -power of an inspiration wholly personal to the author, never "Thus Spake -Zarathustra." For that is an original, authentic voice which, like -everything else in nature, has no substitute or duplicate. - -I can fancy a strong, healthy, organically cultured young man, just -beginning to feel his way into the realities that lie outside the -American cornbelt, by chance taking a peep into one of Nietzsche's great -books, and, fascinated and quickened by that marvelously contagious god, -leaping to new heights of his own manhood. I should guess that in this -instance the young man, who happens to be a lawyer, thirty-one years -old, living at Davenport, Ia., was temporarily Christianized by bad -luck, illness or something of the sort, and in this extremity, kicked by -Nietzsche, experienced the feeling of personal adequacy to which Mr. -Faust gives utterance. Recovering himself, he avowed his own godhood, -even to the last ditch! And that is the triumphant Youth--the -Nietzsche--of the thing. - -A day or two subsequent to the appearance of Mr. Ficke's book upon the -market I had the pleasure of hearing it read, with well-nigh perfect -sympathy and appreciation, by the foremost Nietzschean expositor in this -country. Like other listeners I was amazed, charmed and aroused. Were -these results referable to the play alone or in part to the reader, or -to both? To what extent, I was compelled to ask, was the effect illusory -or hypnotic? I had read some of Ficke's verse, which had given no -intimation of anything in its author so heroically Nietzschean as _Mr. -Faust_. I had consequently tabbed Ficke as probably a poetic -possibility, provided he lived a dozen years in an involuntary hell, -undergoing a new birth. Entertaining the doubts indicated by my -questions, I read _Mr. Faust_ to myself, trying it in my fashion by the -trees, the stars and the lake. Subjected to this test the play did not -have the ring and lift which I had heard and felt when it was -read--perhaps I should say given an added vitality--by a Nietzschean -philosopher. It now impressed me as an extraordinary _tour de force_, -reaching in some of its passages a species of accidental -trans-Nietzscheanism. - -Written in blank verse, the superior quality of which is admirably -sustained, the style of the drama is undeniably poetical, as Edwin -Bjoerkman, the editor of Mr. Kennerley's Modern Drama Series, states in -an interesting biographical sketch; but where there is so much -consciousness of workmanship--so much preoccupation with an imported -idea instead of sweeping control by an inner, personal urge like that, -for example, which produced _Thus Spake Zarathustra_--poetry is not to -be expected. What surprises me is that, despite this restriction, Mr. -Ficke strides upward in many lines to the borderland of the gods. In the -first three acts he writes as one possessed--as an intellectualist -furiously interested in Americanizing, if you please, the racial -implications of the philosophy of a superhumanity which will always be -associated with the name of his temporary master, Nietzsche. In these -acts there is a deal of amazing revealment of insight; of aspiration for -transcendent goals; of the spiritual insatiability of man. And there is -a cold humor. Underneath the whole thing lies its own by-product: social -dynamite! - -I think that Mr. Ficke finished his play in three acts, but he added two -more--to make it five, I was about to say, but in the fifth he achieves -a measurable justification, for the last sentence, "Touch me across the -dusk," is poetry--the wonderful words of the dying Faust, addressed to -Midge, the only person who understood him. - -Near the middle of the opening act, Faust, roused by an inquiring mind -to an analytical protest against things as they are, says, - - ... I would go - Out to some golden sun-lighted land - Of silence. - -That is poetical; it is cosmic in its feeling. Looking at a bust of -Washington, he enviously--no, compassionately--remarks, - - ... Not a star - In all the vaults of heaven could trouble you - With whisperings of more transcendent goals. - -At this juncture Satan appears, gains recognition by recalling an -incident involving Faust with a blackmailing woman in a college during -his youth, and thereafter tempts him into empty, unsatisfying paradises. -In his wandering and winding pilgrimage through the world Faust makes -the footprints that we recognize as those of our own humanity, seeking -its way--somewhither. He is offered but rejects peace, happiness, -salvation and all the rest of their related consolations, knowing that -none of them could satisfy his restless heart. To his uncomprehending -friends he is lost, and Satan himself, to whom in such circumstances he -is obviously resigned by society, fails to claim him. But Midge, the -heroine, knew him; she could touch him across the dusk, which was his -kind of immortality. And so Faust, with a vague consciousness of his own -godhood, a sense of his own supremacy, an unshakable faith in one -thing--himself--passed from the earthly freedom of his will into the -great release. - -It is altogether too early in the morning of humanity to expect to see -this play or one like it on the stage. That it should be written by a -young American and published by a young Englishman is enough to satisfy -those who would enjoy its presentation, and those to whom it would be -Greek or "unpleasant," whether they saw it or read it, must wait for its -truth through their children--across the dusk! - - - - - The Lost Joy - - - FLOYD DELL - -There was once a lady (I forget her name) who said that love was for -women one of the most important things in the world. She made the remark -and let it go at that. She did not write a book about it. If she had -considered it necessary she would doubtless have written such a book. - -Consider the possibility--a book entitled _Woman and Love_, a book -proving with logic and eloquence that woman ought to love, and that, -unless she loved, the highest self-development was impossible to her and -to the race! - -It is not entirely absurd. Such a book might have been necessary. If -half of all womankind, through some change in our social and ethical -arrangements, refrained from love as something at once disagreeable and -ungenteel, and if the other half loved under conditions disastrous to -health and spirit, then there might have been need for a book preaching -to women the gospel of love. It would have been time to urge that, -hateful as the conditions might be, love was for women, nevertheless, a -good thing, a fine thing, a wonderful and necessary thing. It would have -been time to break down the prejudice which made one-half of womankind -lead incomplete and futile lives, and to raise love itself to its proper -dignity. - -Well, we are in a condition like that today, only it is not love, it is -work that has lost its dignity in the lives of women. It is not love, it -is work from which one-half of womankind refrains as from something at -once disagreeable and ungenteel, while the other half of womankind -performs it under conditions disastrous to health and spirit. - -There is need today for a book preaching to women the gospel of work. It -is time to break down the prejudice which makes one-half of womankind -lead incomplete and futile, because idle, lives. We need a book to show -women what work should mean to them. - -And, curiously enough, the book exists. It is Olive Schreiner's _Woman -and Labor_. It is a wise book and a beautiful book. There are statistics -in it, but there is eloquence flaming on every page. It is a book of the -joy and the significance of work for women. - -When Olive Schreiner says "work," she means it. She does not refer to -the makeshifts which masquerade under the term of "social usefulness." -She means work done with the hands and the brain, work done for money, -work that sets the individual free from dependence on any other -individual. It is a theme worth all her eloquence. For work and love, -and not either of them alone, are the most important things in the -world--the supremest expressions of individual life. - - - - - H. G. Wells on America - - - I came to America balancing between hope and skepticism. The - European world is full of the criticism of America; and, for the - matter of that, America, too, is full of it; hostility and - depreciation prevail--overmuch; for, in spite of rawness and - vehemence and a scum of blatant, oh! quite asinine, folly, the - United States of America remains the greatest country in the - world and the living hope of mankind. It is the supreme break - with the old tradition; it is the freshest and most valiant - beginning that has ever been made in human life.--_The Passionate - Friends._ - - - - - Paderewski and the New Gods - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -I shall keep always, as my most unforgettable memory, the thought of a -certain afternoon during Paderewski's tour this year when he walked -quietly back across the stage, in response to an encore, and played -Schumann's _Warum_. It was somehow heart-breaking. It was a more -poignant questioning to me, than Arnold's - - "unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain-- - Say, will it never heal?" - -Nothing that I have ever heard or seen has given me so vivid a sense of -being in the presence of an art that is immortal. - -It seems to have become hideously "popular" to love Paderewski. The -critics will tell you that it's only done in America; that Europeans -have any number of idols they put before him; and that we who persist in -calling him "the greatest" are simply under the spell of an old -hypnotism. There was a time, they'll concede, when he came like a -conqueror, royally deserving the flowers we strewed. But now--there's -Bauer, there's Godowsky, and Hofman, and Gans, and Busoni! One local -critic has even gone to the length of saying that since the American -public has sat at the feet of these men and learned sanity in piano -playing it has no enthusiasm for Paderewski's "neurotic, disordered, -incoherent" music--"his woeful exaggerations of sentiment and hysterical -rhapsody." I should say some unpublishable things to that critic if we -should ever discuss the subject. - -The three most interesting human faces I know are Forbes-Robertson's, -Kreisler's, and Paderewski's. In the English actor's there is a meeting -of strength and spirituality (not the anaemic "spirituality" of certain -new cults, but a quality of soul that makes him "a prince, a -philosopher, a lover, a soldier, a sad humorist," all in the limits of -one personality) that means utter nobility. It can be as cold as a -graven image, or as hot with feeling as a poet's. Depth upon depth of -subtlety plays across it--not the hypnotic subtlety of the Orientalist, -but the austere subtlety of an English scholar and a great gentleman. In -Kreisler's there is a meeting of strength and sensuousness that means -utter fascination to the artist who would paint him--utter revealment to -the musician who would analyze his art. For the secret of Kreisler's -personality and his music lies in that finely balanced combination of -qualities: a sensuousness that would be a little overpowering, a little -drugging, without the gigantic strength that seems to hold it in leash. -That balance makes possible his little air of military jauntiness, of -sad Vienna gayety; it gives him that huge effect of power that always -makes me feel I'm watching the king of the forest stride through his -kingdom. You need never expect emotionalism from this musician; he's too -strong to give you anything but passion. In Paderewski's face there is a -meeting of strength and two other predominant qualities: sentience, I -think, and suffering. It's difficult to express his great, interesting -head in a series of nouns; but there are some that come near to it: -mystery, melancholy, weariness, a sort of shattering sorrow; always the -sense of struggle and pain, and always the final releasement--in music. -For while you can conceive a Forbes-Robertson away from the stage, and a -Kreisler apart from his violin, you can never for a moment think of -Paderewski without his piano. Not that he's less of a man, but that he's -the most sensitized human instrument that ever dedicated itself to an -art. - -To resort to the most overworked phrase in the language, Paderewski has -a temperament. Somebody has said that no fat person ever possessed one; -and after you've speculated about this till you begin to wonder what -temperament really is, you can come back to Paderewski as the most -adequate illustration. Ysaye is the best example I know of the opposite. -When strength turns to fat ... well, we'll not go into that; but to make -my point--and there's certainly nothing of personal maliciousness in -it--it's necessary to reflect that obesity has some insidious influence -upon artistic utterance. (Schumann-Heink is an artist in the best -meaning of the word; but no one ever talked of her and temperament in -the same breath, so she doesn't negate the issue.) But Ysaye's tepid, -wingless, uninspired music--his utterly sweet but _fat_ music--that -appears to attract thousands of people, is as lazily inadequate as its -creator would be in a marathon. It's as though his vision had dropped -slowly away with every added pound of avoirdupois. Or perhaps it's -because vision has a fashion of dropping away with age.... - -Ah!--but Paderewski has the years, too, now, and his playing is -as virile, as flaming, as it ever was. An artist--with a -temperament--doesn't get old, any more than Peter Pan does. Paderewski's -furrowed face shows the artist's eternal striving; his music shows his -eternal youth, his faithfulness to the vision that furnishes his answer -to the eternal "Warum?" - -This is the secret of Paderewski's white magic. He's still the supreme -god! Bauer plays perfectly within the rules--exquisitely and -powerfully--and misses the top height by the mere fraction of a mood, -the simple lack of a temperament; or, as O. Henry might have explained -it, by the unfortunate encumbrance of a forty-two-inch belt. Hofman has -an impatience with his medium, apparently, that leaves his hearer -unsatisfied with the piano; while Paderewski, though he transcends the -instrument, does so because of his love for the piano as a medium, and -forces his hearer to agree with him that it's the supreme one. Godowsky -forces things into the piano--pushes them in and makes them stay there; -Paderewski draws things out, always, and fills the world with them. - -I can think of no comparison from which he doesn't emerge unscathed. If -I were a musical reactionary, this judgment would have no value here; -but I'm not. Classical perfection is no longer interesting; Beethoven -seems no longer to comprehend all music--in fact, the people who have no -rebellions about the sterility of the old symphonies are quite beyond my -range of understanding. But Paderewski plays the old music in a new way, -gives it such vitality of meaning that you feel it's just been born--or, -better, perhaps, that its composers have been triumphantly revalued, -rejustified in their claim for eternal life. His Beethoven is as full of -color as his Chopin; and who, by the way, ever started the popular -nonsense about De Pachmann or anyone else being the supreme Chopin -exponent? No one has ever played Chopin like Paderewski; no one has ever -made such simple, haunting melodies of the nocturnes; no one has ever -struck such ringing Polish music out of the polonaises, or such -wind-swept cadences from the Berceuse; no one has ever played the -Funeral March so like a cosmic procession--the mighty moving of humanity -from birth to death and new life; no one has ever so visualized those -"orchestras of butterflies that played to Chopin in the sun." - -I have still one great wish in the world: that some time I may hear -Paderewski play on a Mason and Hamlin--that piano of unutterable depth -and richness. The fact that he's never used it is the one flaw in his -performances, for no other instrument that I've heard gives you the same -sense of drowning in great waves of warm sound. The combination would -convince even the followers of the new gods. But, old or new, and even -on his cold Steinway, no one has ever drawn from the piano the same -quality of golden tone or dared such simplicity of singing as -Paderewski. To put his genius into a sentence: no one has ever built so -strong a bridge across the gulf that yawns between vision and -accomplishment. - - - - - The Major Symphony - - - GEORGE SOULE - - Round splendor of the harp's entoned gold - Throbbing beneath the pleading violins-- - That hundred-choiring voice that wins and wins - To over-filling song; the bright and bold - Clamor of trumpets; 'cellos that enfold - Richly the flutes; and basses that like djinns - Thunder their clumsy threatening, as begins - The oboe's mystic plaint of sorrows old:-- - - Are these the symphony? No, it is will - In passion striving to surmount the world, - Growing in sensuous dalliance, sudden whirled - To ecstasies of shivering joy, and still - Marching and mastering, singing mightily, - Consummate when the silence makes it free. - - - - - The Prophet of a New Culture - - - GEORGE BURMAN FOSTER - -A profound unrest tortures the heart of the modern man. The world, -slaughtering the innocents, is meaningless; life, bruised and -bewildered, is worthless--such is the melancholy mood of modernity. -Today life is a burden to many to whom it was once a joy. Decadents, -they call themselves, who rediscover the elements of their most personal -life in everything that is weary and ailing. We are all more or less -infected with this weariness and ennui. The blows which the spirit -experiences from opposing sides today are so powerful that no one is in -a position to endure them with equanimity. The forces resident within -the soul no longer suffice to give support and stability to life. Hence -our culture has lost faith in itself. Our civilization is played out. -What the Germans call _Weltschmerz_ has come over us. Philosophers have -fashioned it into systems; singers, into song--the sad but not sweet -music of humanity; sufferers all, into a sharp cry for redemption. -Deniers of the malady must have their eyes opened by physicians, -scurrying around curatively in this humanity. - -First of all, there are those who borrow their panacea from religion. -They demand a reform of the ecclesiastical life according to the sense -and spirit of primitive Christianity. They propose to recover the -religion of Jesus, and to find in it healing for all the diseases of the -times. But this remedy is so complicated that it reveals rather than -heals the whole disunity and distraction of our present life. It was -Tolstoi, in garb of desert prophet, who would restore original -Christianity. He preached a radical reversal of our cultural life--a -monastic asceticism, a warfare against all life's impulses, on whose -development our culture is founded. And ecclesiastical liberals would do -virtually the same thing when they try to extract from the religion of -Jesus a food that shall be palatable to modern taste, and then call -their _ragout_, compounded according to their own recipe, "original" -Christianity. - -There are other voices, noisier and more numerous. These hold -Christianity in all its forms to be the hereditary evil of humanity, and -see the salvation of the world only in a purification of life from every -Christian memory. Owing to the brisk international interchange of ideas -today, Buddhism has awakened a momentary hope, as if from the religion -of far-off India a purer spiritual atmosphere might be wafted to us, in -which we could convalesce from the Christian malady. - -Now, what shall we say of all these strivings to heal the hurt of the -modern mind? - -All of them have one adverse thing in common: They would tear up an old -tree by its roots, and put in its place another tree equally as old and -equally as rotten. There is something reactionary in all of them. They -want to cure the present by the past. It is precisely this that cannot -be done. If Christianity was once original, spontaneous, creative, it is -so no more. We cannot lead an age back to Jesus, which has grown out -beyond him. And the Buddha-religion is no more youthful and life-giving -than the Jesus-religion. It is indicative of the depth of the disgust -and the extent of the confusion on the part of the man of today that -such a hoary thing as Buddhism can make so great an impression upon him. -A revived, renascent heathenism, even as compared with Christianity, -would mean a reactionary and outlived form of life. That men of moral -endeavor and scientific vision could hope for a substitute for -Christianity, a conquest over Christianity, in a rebirth of paganism, is -a new riddle of the Sphinx. - -One way only remains out of the aberration and dividedness of our -present life: not _backward_, but _forward_! No winning of a religious -view of the world in any other way! No pursuit of the tasks of the moral -life by those who seek a real part and place in the modern world, in any -other way! - -Hence, a man is coming to be leader--a man who, as no other, embodies in -himself all the pain and all the pleasure, all the sickness and all the -convalescence, all the age and all the youth, of our tumultuous and -tortured times: _Friedrich Nietzsche_! - -I do not know how many of you know the poet of _Zarathustra_. But if you -do not know him, if you have never even heard his name, yet you do know -him, for a part of him is in your own heart and hope. If you have ever -thought seriously about yourself, if you have even tried to think -seriously about yourself, you have taken up into yourself a part of -Nietzsche as you have so thought. Even without your knowledge or -intention, you have passed into the world of thought for which the name -of Nietzsche stands. It has been only now and then, in quite significant -turning points in human history, and only in the case of the rarest of -men, that such an influence has gone forth as from this man. Once in the -horizon of his power, and you are held there as by magic. And yet not in -centuries has a name been so reviled and blasphemed as his. -Anathematized from the pulpit, ridiculed from the stage, demolished by -any champion of blatant and blind _bourgeoisie_, refuted regularly by -pedants, he is still Friedrich Nietzsche, and, unlike most preachers, -his congregation grows from year to year. Newspapers, always sensitive -to the pulse-beat of mediocrity, tell us that "the man is dead"; that he -belongs to the past; that he is already forgotten. But he is more alive, -now that he is dead, than he was when he was living. Dead in the flesh, -he is alive in the spirit, as is so often the case. Superficial -misunderstandings, transient externals, regrettable excrescences--these -were interred with his bones. The real and true Nietzsche lives, and has -the keys of death and of hell. Who has the youth has the future--and -this is why the future belongs to Nietzsche; for no contemporary so -gathers the youth under his shining banner. And it is because the moral -seething of our time, our struggle with questions of the moral life, are -recapitulated and epitomized in Nietzsche, that he stands out, like an -Alpine apocalypse, as the new prophet of our new day. The mysterious -need of a man to find himself in another, another in himself, as deep -calls unto deep or star shines unto star, is met in the resources of the -great personality of Nietzsche. - -The new day whose billows bear us afar began with doubt. First, a doubt -of the Church and its divine authority. A violent, devastating storm -swept over popular life. The storm was speedily exorcised. Again-- - - "The sea of faith - Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore - Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled." - -A new faith emerged from the old doubt, like sweet waters in a bitter -sea, and kept man a living soul. - - "The sea is calm tonight; - The tide is full." - -But the calm proves to be treacherous. The tide of the new faith now in -the bible, and in the doctrine derived from the bible, went back to sea, -and now I only hear - - "Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, - Retreating to the breath - Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear - And naked shingles of the world." - -The human spirit urged a new, mightier protest against the "It is -written," which was said to put an end to all doubt. The new doubt, as -free inquiry, as protestant science, flung down the gauntlet to the -bible faith. No page of the sacred book remained untouched. Only one -certainty sprang from this new doubt--the certainty that the sacred book -was a human book. Therefore it had no right to rule over man. Man was -its judge; it was not man's judge. It must be measured by man's truth, -man's conscience. - -How, now, should the timorous heart of man be quieted in the presence of -this new doubt? At once new props were offered him--truth and the state. -What science recognized as "true," what morals and _bourgeoise_ customs -and civil law sanctioned as "good"--these were now proffered man, that -he might brace up his tottering life thereby. "Trust the light of -science, and you shall indeed have the light of life; do what is 'good,' -and you shall be crowned with the crown of life." This was the -watchword. Then there stirred in the womb of present-day humanity the -last, ultimate, uncanniest doubt. If we doubt the Church, why not doubt -the state, too? If we doubt faith, why not doubt science, too? If we -doubt the bible, why not doubt reason, doubt knowledge, doubt morality? -Even if what we call "true" be really true, can it make us happy? Can -the men who have all the knowledge of our time at their disposal, can -the scholars, can the cultivated, really become fit leaders of humanity -through life's little day? Is not that which is called "good" grievous -impediment in our pilgrimage? Law, morals--are not these perhaps a -blunder of history, an old hereditary woe with which humanity is -weighted down? - -This doubt--long and ominously maturing throughout the spiritual -evolution of our new time--finds its most radical, most conscious, and -most eloquent expression in Friedrich Nietzsche. He launches this doubt -not only against all that has been believed and thought and done, but -against all that men believe and think and do today. He shakes every -position which men have held to be unshakable. An irresistible, -diabolical curiosity impels him to transvalue all values with which men -have reckoned, and to inquire whether they are values at all; whether -"good" must not be called evil, "truth" error. As Nietzsche ventures -upon this experiment of his curiosity, as he advances farther and -farther with it, suddenly he laughs with an ironic, uproarious laughter. -The experiment is a success! In the new illumination all the colors of -life change. Light is dark, dark is light. What men had appraised as -food, as medicine, evinced itself to be dangerous poison, miserably -encompassing their doom. And since men believed that all the forces -present, dying, poisoned culture, were resident in their "morals" and -their "Christianity," it was necessary to smash the tables of these old -values. In full consciousness of his calling as destroyer of these old -tables, Nietzsche called himself the immoralist, the anti-Christ. Morals -and Christianity signified to him the most dangerous maladies with which -men were suffering. He considered it to be his high calling as savior to -heal men of these maladies. He sprang into the breach as -anti-Christ. Like Voltaire, he was the apostle and genius of -disrespect--respectability was the only disgrace, popularity the only -perdition. - -Nietzsche the Immoralist, Nietzsche the Antichrist! Dare we write his -name and name his writings without calling down upon our much-pelted -heads the wrath of the gods? Does he not blaspheme what is sacred, and -must we not, then, give him a wide berth? There are the familiar words -concerning false prophets in sheep's clothing, but ravening wolves -within. Such wolves there are--smooth, sleek men, paragons of "virtue," -and "morals," and "faith," but revolting enough in their inner rawness -as soon as you get a glimpse of their true disposition. Conversely, -might there not be men who come to us in wolves' clothing, but whose -hearts are tender and rich and intimate with a pure and noble humanity? -We know such men. Friedrich Nietzsche was one of them. He was a true -prophet. All his transvaluations dealt deadly blows at the old, false, -man-poisoning prophetism. What if more morals matured in this -immoralist, more Christianity in this anti-Christ, more divinity in this -atheist, than in all the pronouncements of all those who today still are -so swift to despise and damn what they do not understand? - -Even Christianity, at its origin, in its young and heroic militancy, was -not so amiable and harmless as we are wont to think. It, too, was born -of the doubt of that whole old culture; of the most radical protest -again _status quo_. It, too, leagued with all the revolutionary spirits -of humanity. And it, too, revalued all the values of "faith" and -"morals." What if this new Nietzschean spirit of life's universal -reform, this creative, forward-striving genius of humanity, be once yet -again embodiment and representative of life's essential element of -rejuvenescence and growth? What if true prophets are always men of -_Sturm und Drang_, men of divine discontent, fellow-conspirators with -the Future? Anti-Christs? These are they who blaspheme the holy spirit -of humanity. Immoralists? These are they who say that life is good as it -is, and therefore should stay as it "is" forever. Faith? This is -directed, not to the past, but to the future; not to the certain, but to -the uncertain. Faith is the venturesomeness of moral knighthood. -Nietzsche was a Knight of the Future. - -Why, then, should not a magazine of the Future interpret Nietzsche the -prophet of a new culture? Man as the goal, beauty as the form, life as -the law, eternity as the content of our new day--this is Nietzsche's -message to the modern man. In such an interpretation, Man and Superman -should be the subject of the next article. - - - - - How a Little Girl Danced - - - NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY - - _Being a Reminiscence of Certain Private Theatricals_ - - (Dedicated to Lucy Bates) - - Oh, cabaret dancer, - _I_ know a dancer - Whose eyes have not looked - On the feasts that are vain. - _I_ know a dancer, - _I_ know a dancer, - Whose soul has no bond - With the beasts of the plain: - Judith the dancer, - Judith the dancer, - With foot like the snow - And with step like the rain. - - Oh, thrice-painted dancer, - Vaudeville dancer, - Sad in your spangles, - With soul all astrain: - _I_ know a dancer, - _I_ know a dancer, - Whose laughter and weeping - Are spiritual gain; - A pure-hearted, high-hearted - Maiden evangel - With strength the dark cynical - Earth to disdain. - - Flowers of bright Broadway! - You of the chorus - Who sing in the hope - Of forgetting your pain: - I turn to a sister - Of sainted Cecelia, - A white bird escaping - The earth's tangled skein!-- - The music of God - In her innermost brooding! - The whispering angels - Her footsteps sustain! - - Oh, proud Russian dancer: - Praise for your dancing! - No clean human passion - My rhyme would arraign. - You dance for Apollo - With noble devotion: - A high-cleansing revel - To make the heart sane. - But Judith the dancer - Prays to a spirit - More white than Apollo - And all of his train. - - _I_ know a dancer - Who finds the true God-head; - Who bends o'er a brazier - In Heaven's clear plain. - _I_ know a dancer, - _I_ know a dancer, - Who lifts us toward peace - From this Earth that is vain:-- - Judith the dancer, - Judith the dancer, - With foot like the snow, - And with step like the rain. - - - - - The Dream of the Children - - - The children awoke in their dreaming - While earth lay dewy and still: - They followed the rill in its gleaming - To the heart-light of the hill. - - From their feet as they strayed in the meadow - It led through caverned aisles, - Filled with purple and green light and shadow - For mystic miles on miles. - - --_From A. E.'s Collected Poems._ - - - - - The Critics' Critic - - - GALSWORTHY AS A GREEK - -Do you read Arthur Guiterman's rhymed reviews? They are not to be taken -too seriously, of course, though they are generally sane; but in the one -on _The Dark Flower_ he asks if such things don't tend to weaken our -moral fiber! Wow! Probably Homer might be said to do the same thing; -we'd better take it out of the schools, hadn't we? There's an episode I -recall about a female person named Helen, who was torn from her adoring -husband, etc., etc. You know I don't believe in weakening moral fiber, -but beauty _is_ beauty. All I could think of, in reading _The Dark -Flower_, was Greek classics. Do you remember that exquisite thing (is it -Euripides?)-- - - "This Cyprian - She is a million, million changing things; - She brings more joy than any god, - She brings - More pain. I cannot judge her; may it be - An hour of mercy when she looks on me." - -Galsworthy's hero was just a Greek, swayed by Aphrodite. There's no -question of morals. And besides, he behaved pretty well--for a man! - - - THE CASE OF RUPERT BROOKE - -I can't share THE LITTLE REVIEW'S estimate of Rupert Brooke. I'm -reminded immediately of something I found not long ago by Herbert -Trench: - - "Come, let us make love deathless, thou and I, - Seeing that our footing on the earth is brief, - Seeing that her multitudes sweep out to die - Mocking at all that passes their belief. - For standard of our love not theirs we take - If we go hence today - Fill the high cup that is so soon to break - With richer wine than they. - - Ay, since beyond these walls no heavens there be, - Joy to revive or wasted youth repair, - I'll not bedim the lovely flame in thee - Nor sully the sad splendor that we wear. - Great be the love, if with the lover dies - Our greatness past recall; - And nobler for the fading of those eyes - The world seen once for all." - -Swinburne's - - "From too much love of living, - From hope and fear set free" - -I like better so far as the music of it is concerned; and fully as well, -perhaps, as far as ideas go. There is something rather conscious and -posing in Mr. Trench's effort. And you see why I think of him when I -read Rupert Brooke. There is the same _memento mori_, the same -hopelessness of outlook. It seems a pity to me, when a man can write as -well as Brooke does in _The Hill_ and in that exquisite sonnet beginning -"Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire of watching you," that he -should waste his time on stupid, unpleasant cynicisms like _Wagner_ and -that _Channel Passage_, in which he doesn't know which pain to -choose--nausea or memory. I believe an Englishman can't achieve just the -right degree of mockery and brutality necessary for such an effort. Take -Heine, if you will--(I'm a Heine enthusiast); _he_ could do it with -supreme artistry. Do you remember the sea poems--especially the one -where he looks into the depths of the sea, catches sight of buried -cities and sees his lost love ("ein armes, vergessenes Kind")? It -finishes with the captain pulling him in by the heels, crying, "Doktor, -sind Sie des Teufels?" Heine can touch filth and offer it to you, and -you are rather amused--as at a child. But Englishmen are too -self-conscious for anything of that sort. You are shocked and ashamed -when they try it, feeling in a way defiled yourself by reading. It -irritates me, and I wish Mr. Brooke would stop it, right away. He's too -worth while to waste himself. - - - THE FEMINIST DISCUSSIONS - -Do you know the story of the man, elected by some political pull to a -judgeship in Indiana, who, after listening to the argument for the -plaintiff, refused to hear anything further. "That feller wins," he said -decisively. On being told that it was customary and necessary to hear -the defendant's side also, he duly listened, with growing amazement. -"Don't it beat all?" he said, pathetically, at the close; "now the other -feller wins." - -In much the same frame of mind I read the articles that are appearing in -the current magazines on the subject of feminism and militancy. Edna -Kenton's in _The Century_ is the only one that is content to give one -side of the case. Decidedly, you will say on reading it, "That feller -wins." _The Atlantic_ prints an admirable article by W. L. George on -Feminist Intentions, and follows it hastily with a rebuttal by E. S. -Martin (_Much Ado About Women_), fearing, I imagine, lest it would seem -to be bowing its venerable head before new, profane altars. _Life_ gets -out a really excellent suffrage number, sane and logical and reasonable, -and has followed it up ever since with all the flings it can collect -against suffrage, militancy, or feminism in any form. A recent amusing -instance of this is a letter by one Thomas H. Lipscomb, who signs -himself, alack! A Modern Man, and adds that his name is legion. Judging -by the terror in the communication Mr. Lipscomb's modernity goes back as -far as the Old Testament Proverbs, and the womanly ideal he so -passionately upholds is in all respects the one the writer of this -particular proverb acclaims. I have heard it used as a text so often, -and have had it grounded into the very framework of my being so -consistently, that it seems almost strange and irreverent to regard it -with an alien and critical eye. And yet--just see what is expected of -the poor thing: She - - Seeketh wool and flax and worketh willingly with her hands. - Bringeth her food from afar. - Riseth while it is yet night and giveth meat to her household; - Considereth a field, and buyeth it; with the fruit of her hands - planteth a vineyard. - Her candle goeth not out by night. - -She - - Layeth her hands to the spindle; and her hands hold the - distaff. - Maketh fine linen, and selleth it, and delivereth girdles unto the - merchant.... - -together with a few other airy trifles such as bearing and rearing -children, I suppose. But most significant of all-- - - Her husband is known in the gates where he sitteth among the - elders of the land. - -I should think so indeed! There seems to be little else left for him to -do. - -I can almost hear the writer smacking his lips over this description, -which no doubt tallies closely with Mr. Lipscomb's own notions. - -For all this she is to - - Receive of the fruit of her own hands, and her own works shall - praise her. - -Possibly women have tired a little of letting their own works praise -them--and nothing else! But I am taking the letter too seriously. - -To go back to _The Atlantic_, I find Mr. George, who is in full sympathy -with the movement of which he writes, classifying the demands of the -feminists as follows: Economically, they intend to open every occupation -to women; they intend to level the wages of women; in general, they wish -to change the attitude of those who regard women's present inferiority -to men (they frankly admit that there is inferiority in many respects) -as inherent and insuperable, by demonstrating that it is due merely to -long lack of thorough training--(an old friend, apparently, in a new -dress!) They wish also gradually to modify and change existing marriage -laws so that they will be equally fair to both sexes. - -A careful re-reading of Mr. Martin's article fails to reveal much in the -way of counter argument to Mr. George's forcible appeal. There's a great -deal of courteous agreement and some rather good satire, but against the -specific counts of the feminists' intentions Mr. Martin raises no -telling argument. We hear that whereas fathers wish all earthly -blessings for their daughters, mothers do not, as women are jealous of -women; also that mothers fear the modern woman on account of their sons, -for whom they in turn wish all possible good: the modern woman will not -make a good wife! Angels and ministers of grace defend us! In a double -quality as daughter to a devoted and loving mother, and as a devoted and -loving mother to a most precious daughter, I throw down my glove. - -I am sure Mr. Martin has never acted in either of these capacities, so -precious little he knows about it! Besides, I do want my son to have -everything that the world provides in the way of blessings and -happiness, so I want him to have as a wife a thoroughly modern woman -with an awakened soul and a high ideal, to finish the good work in him -which I have at least endeavored to begin. - -As I read further, however, the cat begins to poke a cautious head out -of the bag. Women, Mr. Martin argues, are not responsible for the -blessings the feminist movement is trying to bring them. It is men! That -is why he is so particular to tell us of the careful solicitude of a -father for his daughters. Men, right along, have procured all happiness -for women; or, if not men exactly, at least a sort of _Zeit Geist_--I -believe he calls it "necessity." And the poor deluded feminists are -simply the little boys running along by the side of the procession and -hollering. The procession is made up of vague forces, "working nowadays -for the enlargement and betterment of life for women"--forces, he -quaintly complains, that are "making things go too fast their way -already." - -So we must take all credit from Luther and Knox and Calvin and the -reformers of all times and give it to the _Zeit Geist_. They, too, are -little boys, I suppose, who ran along and hollered. At least they -hollered lustily and well, and the feminists are in good company. - -And the peroration--every true woman will appreciate this: "What a -husband sees in forty years, maybe, of the good and bad of life for a -woman; what a father sees in his daughters and the conditions of modern -life as they affect girls--those are the things which count in forming -or changing the convictions of men about woman's errand in this current -world." - -Well! However far the _Zeit Geist_ has progressed in other directions, -it is plain that it has not made inroads on Mr. Martin's consciousness -of the present state of affairs. Who has given men the power and right -to decide about woman's errand in the world? For lo! these many years we -have been letting husbands, fathers, and brothers decide for us just -what it were best for us to do; and if the new idea has any significance -at all it is just this: that we feel able to decide for ourselves what -we most want and need. - - M. H. P. - - - - - The New Note - - - SHERWOOD ANDERSON - -The new note in the craft of writing is in danger, as are all new and -beautiful things born into the world, of being talked to death in the -cradle. Already a cult of the new has sprung up, and doddering old -fellows, yellow with their sins, run here and there crying out that they -are true prophets of the new, just as, following last year's exhibit, -every age-sick American painter began hastily to inject into his own -work something clutched out of the seething mass of new forms and new -effects scrawled upon the canvases by the living young cubists and -futurists. Confused by the voices, they raised also their voices, -multiplying the din. Forgetting the soul of the workman, they grasped at -lines and solids, getting nothing. - -In the trade of writing the so-called new note is as old as the world. -Simply stated, it is a cry for the reinjection of truth and honesty into -the craft; it is an appeal from the standards set up by money-making -magazine and book publishers in Europe and America to the older, sweeter -standards of the craft itself; it is the voice of the new man, come into -a new world, proclaiming his right to speak out of the body and soul of -youth, rather than through the bodies and souls of the master craftsmen -who are gone. - -In all the world there is no such thing as an old sunrise, an old wind -upon the cheeks, or an old kiss from the lips of your beloved; and in -the craft of writing there can be no such thing as age in the souls of -the young poets and novelists who demand for themselves the right to -stand up and be counted among the soldiers of the new. That there are -such youths is brother to the fact that there are ardent young cubists -and futurists, anarchists, socialists, and feminists; it is the promise -of a perpetual sweet new birth of the world; it is as a strong wind come -out of the virgin west. - -One does not talk of his beloved even among the friends of his beloved; -and so the talk of the new note in writing will be heard coming from the -mouths of the aged and from the lips of oily ones who do not know of -what they talk, but run about in circles, making noise and clamor. Do -not be confused by them. They but follow the customs of their kind. They -are the stript priests of the falling temples, piling stone on stone to -build a new temple, that they may exact tribute as before. - -Something has happened in the world of men. Old standards and old ideas -tumble about our heads. In the dust and confusion of the falling of the -timbers of the temple many voices are raised. Among the voices of the -old priests who weep are raised also the voices of the many who cry, -"Look at us! We are the new! We are the prophets; follow us!" - -Something has happened in the world of men. Temples have been wrecked -before only to be rebuilt, and destroying youth has danced only to -become in turn a builder and in time a priest, muttering old words. -Nothing in all of this new is new except this--that beside the youth -dancing in the dust of the falling timbers is a maiden also dancing and -proclaiming herself. "We will have a world not half new but all new!" -cry the youth and the maiden, dancing together. - -Do not be led aside by the many voices crying of the new. Be ready to -accept hardship for the sake of your craft in America--that is craft -love. - - - - - Some Letters of William Vaughn Moody - - - Edited, with introduction, by Daniel Gregory Mason. (Houghton - Mifflin Company, Boston.) - -I shall never forget how, at sixteen, I read Stevenson's letters and -thought them the most beautiful things in the world. I shall never -forget similar experiences with Keats and Browning, and finally with -Meredith; and now comes another volume of letters by the man who might -be called the American Henley (though that only does him half justice) -to keep one up at night and teach him unforgettable things. People have -been saying that this collection doesn't represent the best letters -Moody wrote. Certainly if he wrote more interesting ones the world ought -to be allowed to see them, for these are valuable enough to become an -American tradition. - -The following is typical: - - _To Daniel Gregory Mason._ - - DEAR DAN: - - I have just heard from your sister-in-law of your enforced - furlough. I am not going to help you curse your luck, knowing - your native capabilities in that direction to be perfectly - adequate, but my Methodist training urges me to give you an - epistolary hand-shake, the purport of which is "_Keep your - sand._" I could say other things, not utterly pharisaical. I - could say what I have often said to myself, with a rather reedy - tremolo perhaps, but swelling sometimes into a respectable - diapason. "The dark cellar ripens the wine." And meanwhile, after - one's eyes get used to the dirty light, and one's feet to the - mildew, a cellar has its compensations. I have found beetles of - the most interesting proclivities, mice altogether comradely and - persuadable, and forgotten potatoes that sprouted toward the - crack of sunshine with a wan maiden grace not seen above. I don't - want to pose as resourceful, but I have seen what I have seen. - - The metaphor is however happily inexact in your case, with Milton - to retire to and Cambridge humming melodiously on the horizon. If - you can only throttle your Daemon, or make him forgoe his leonine - admonition "Accomplish," and roar you as any sucking dove the - sweet vocable "Be"--you ought to live. I have got mine trained to - that, pardee! and his voice grows not untunable. I pick up shreds - of comfort out of this or that one of God's ashbarrels. Yesterday - I was skating on a patch of ice in the park, under a poverty - stricken sky flying a pitiful rag of sunset. Some little muckers - were guying a slim raw-boned Irish girl of fifteen, who circled - and darted under their banter with complete unconcern. She was in - the fledgling stage, all legs and arms, tall and adorably - awkward, with a huge hat full of rusty feathers, thin skirts - tucked up above spindling ankles, and a gay aplomb and swing in - the body that was ravishing. We caught hands in midflight, and - skated for an hour, almost alone and quite silent, while the rag - of sunset rotted to pieces. I have had few sensations in life - that I would exchange for the warmth of her hand through the - ragged glove, and the pathetic curve of the half-formed breast - where the back of my wrist touched her body. I came away - mystically shaken and elate. It is thus the angels converse. She - was something absolutely authentic, new, and inexpressible, - something which only nature could mix for the heart's - intoxication, a compound of ragamuffin, pal, mistress, nun, - sister, harlequin, outcast, and bird of God,--with something else - bafflingly suffused, something ridiculous and frail and savage - and tender. With a world offering such rencontres, such aery - strifes and adventures, who would not live a thousand years stone - dumb? I would, for one--until my mood changes and I come to think - on the shut lid and granite lip of him who has had done with - sunsets and skating, and has turned away his face from all manner - of Irish. I am supported by a conviction that at an auction on - the steps of the great white throne, I should bring more in the - first mood than the second--by several harps and a stray - dulcimer. - - I thoroughly envy you your stay at Milton--wrist, Daemon, and - all. You must send me a lengthy account of the state of things at - Cambridge.... If the wrist forbids writing, employ a typewriter - of the most fashionable tint--I will pay all expenses and stand - the breakage. I stipulate that you shall avoid blonds, however, - they are fragile. - - WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY. - -There are over a hundred letters here, written to Mr. Mason, Percy -MacKaye, Richard Watson Gilder, Josephine Preston Peabody, Edmund -Clarence Stedman, Henry Miller, Robert Morss Lovett, Ferdinand Schevill, -and others; and every one of them shows Moody's remarkable gift of -metaphor, his constant striving to "win for language some new swiftness, -some rare compression," his belief in the positive acceptance of life, -his paganism, "deeply spiritual, and as far as possible removed from the -sensualism the thoughtless have found in it." Mr. Mason furnishes an -introduction that is masterly; and the first and final drafts of -_Heart's Wild Flower_ are included, proving vividly how this poet -disciplined his rich imaginative gifts, training away from a native -tendency to the rococo to the high, pure dignity that marks his finished -verse. This volume is invaluable. Certainly with two such authentic -voices to boast of as Whitman's and Moody's this young country of ours -has reason to be proud. - - M. C. A. - - - - - A Feminist of a Hundred Years Ago - - - MARGERY CURREY - - _Rahel Varnhagen_: A Portrait, by Ellen Key. Translated from the - Swedish by Arthur G. Chater; with an introduction by Havelock - Ellis. (G. P. Putman's Sons, New York.) - -For certain distinctive women Rahel Varnhagen lived; for the same women -Ellen Key has written this appreciation of Rahel. By the woman to whom -fine freedom of living and fearlessness and directness of thought are -the only possible terms on which she may deal with the social situation -in which she finds herself this book will be read and re-read, and -pencil-marked along the margins of its pages. - -The rare woman, here and there, who worships simple, direct thinking -(which, after all, takes the most courage) will know how to value Rahel. -Always she thought truthfully. The woman who has been filled with joyful -new amazement on finding that her only reliance is on herself--that she -may not depend upon this person or that convention to preserve her -happiness--will know how to value her. Just so far as any woman of today -has become interested in her own thoughts and work, is the originator of -ideas, and knows the joy of making or doing something that more than all -else in the world she wants to make or do, so far she is nearer to -becoming of the size of this great woman. - -Such a woman will share with Rahel Varnhagen the certainty that higher -morality is reached only through higher liberty; such a woman must -demand, as did Rahel, periods of that recuperative and strengthening -solitude, both of thought and mode of living, which only the -self-reliant and fearless can endure. She knows that she herself, not -convention, must furnish the answer to questions of right and wrong by -earnest, free inquiry and by testing every experience. The acceptance of -no convention was inevitable to Rahel, as she thought of it. She put it -to the best of scrutiny. What value was there in it? It was not -violating conventions which she set out to do, but meeting them with a -quiet, sincere inquiry of the reason and truth they contained. - -Rahel Varnhagen lived in Berlin a hundred years ago and was probably the -most beloved and much-visited woman of those whose salons attracted the -notable men of the day--Fichte, Hegel, Prince Louis Ferdinand, Fouque, -the Humboldts, the Schlegels, Schleiermacher, and other giants of the -time. Rahel was a woman--the lamentable rarity of them!--whose influence -was not through her literary work (her letters to friends are all that -we have of her writing), not through brilliancy of speech alone, nor -through her munificent patronage of the artists and literary men of her -day (she was not rich, and we read of the garret in which she -entertained her friends), but through the richness of her personality, -the glowing warmth of her sympathy, her understanding, and the wisdom of -her heart. - -And the value of Rahel to us lies in the calm directness, the -"innocence," as she herself calls it, of her thinking. To her went the -acclaimed wise men of the day for the comfort of her fearlessness and -simplicity of thought upon their questions. She was said to be -brilliant. She was not brilliant in the sense of being learned, or of -being capable of mere intellectual jugglery and fantastic adroitness of -thinking; she was brilliant in the crystal clearness and the sure -rapidity of her thinking. The unexpectedness and strangeness of the -simple truth she spoke bewildered people. For this reason she could say, -"I am as much alone of my kind as the greatest manifestation here on -earth. The greatest artist, philosopher, or poet is not above me." - -This passion for truth in her own thinking was the origin of her social -value. Its stimulus to others was immediate, and her recognition through -it of the important things in life made her detect at once those people -and things that were original and valuable in themselves. - -"Rahel's most comprehensive significance," writes Ellen Key, "lay in -augmenting the productiveness, humanity and culture of her time by -herself everywhere seeking and teaching others to seek the truth; by -everywhere encouraging them to manifest their own culture; by imparting -to others her profound way of looking at religion, men and women, -literature and art; by judging everything according to its intrinsic -value, not according to its deficiencies; by everywhere understanding, -because she loved, and giving life, because she believed in liberty." - -Think always, ceaselessly!--this was Rahel's cry. This, she said, is the -only duty, the only happiness. To a young friend she wrote, begging that -he keep ploughing through things afresh, telling him that he "must -always have the courage to hurt himself with questioning and doubts; to -destroy the most comfortable and beautiful edifice of thought--one that -might have stood for life--if honesty demands it." And so, having -thought out things in the most utter freedom, unhampered by old -preconceptions, and finally unafraid of the starkness of the truths -which she faced, she let nothing prescribed be her unchallenged guide or -stand as a substitute for her own vigor and hardness of thinking. This -is why she said that she was revived by downright brutality, after being -wearied by insincerity. - -A virtue, so called, had to give a very good accounting of itself to -Rahel. She demanded that it answer a certain test before it could be -called a piece of goodness. For instance, in many cases she recognized -in "performance of duty" mere acquiescence--a laziness of mind which -does not bestir itself to ask what right this duty has to impose itself. -Patience to her was often lack of courage to seize upon a situation and -change it to suit the imperative demand to express oneself. "The more I -see and meditate upon the strivings of this world," wrote Rahel, "the -more insane it appears to me day by day not to live according to one's -inmost heart. To do so has such a bad name, because simulacra of it are -in circulation." Of these "simulacra" we are familiar in every age--the -amazing antics of certain self-styled "radicals," the unaccountable -manifestations of those who, while professing liberality of view, seem -to have no standards of values in their extravagances of living. Rahel -could understand every nature except the insincere and unnatural. - -While we mourn or exult over the eager efforts of women in our day to -evolve completely human personalities, it is interesting to read Rahel's -summing-up of the feminist movement: "Has it been proved by her -organization that a woman cannot think and express her ideas? If such -were the case, it would nevertheless be her duty to renew the attempt -continually." "And how," exclaims Ellen Key, "would Rahel have abhorred -the tyrannical treatment of each other's opinions, the cramping -narrow-mindedness, the envious jostling, the petty importance of -nobodies, which the woman's cause now exhibits everywhere, since, from -being a movement for liberty in great women's souls, like Rahel's own, -it has become a movement of leagues and unions, in which the small souls -take the lead." - -Since it is reality and not appearance that alone could stand before -Rahel's devastating scrutiny of human things, and since to her the -highest personal morality consisted in being true, coercive marriage -seemed to her the great social lie. How could one of her simple clarity -of thinking be anything but outraged by the vulgarities of an average -marriage? "Is not an intimacy without charm or transport more indecent -than ecstasy of what kind so ever?" she demands. "Is not a state of -things in which truth, amenity, and innocence are impossible, to be -rejected for these reasons alone?" Of the evils in Europe she cries, -"Slavery, war, marriage--and they go on wondering and patching and -mending!" Rahel believed that in the existing institution of marriage it -was almost impossible to find a union in which full, clear truth and -mutual love prevailed. - -Of Rahel's nature, warm, richly exuberant with a healthy sensuousness -and desire for sunlight, Jean Paul's letter to her gives us the essence. -"Winged one--in every sense--" he wrote, "you treat life poetically and -consequently life treats you in the same way. You bring the lofty -freedom of poetry into the sphere of reality, and expect to find again -the same beauties here as there." - -Biographical facts are negligible here. Even comment on the interpretive -insight of Ellen Key seems not to be essential, though without it this -book could not be. It is the personality of Rahel Varnhagen that -matters, and the influence of that personality on the men of her day. - -Rahel is distinctive as a challenger of the worn-out social and ethical -baggage that somehow, in all its shabbiness, has been reverently, with -ritual and with authority, given into our keeping by those who were as -oppressed by it as we in turn are expected to be. With the simplicity of -her questioning the honesty of these conventions, Rahel has made worship -of some of them less inevitable. - - - - - Some Contemporary Opinions of Rahel Varnhagen - - - CORNELIA L. ANDERSON - -Heine said: "I should wear a dog collar inscribed: 'I belong to Frau -Varnhagen.'" - -Rahel's power over the brilliant minds of her day lay in her own -wonderful personality. She was unique, knew it and gloried in it. She -wrote to Varnhagen, her husband and lover: "You will not soon see my -like again." She understood thoroughly the limitations of her sex. "They -are so surprisingly feeble," she says; "almost imbecile from lack of -coherence. They lie, too, since they are often obliged to, and since the -truth demands intelligence." ... "I know women: what is noble in their -composition keeps together stupidity or madness." ... And she speaks of -their "clumsy, terrible stupidity in lying." But, despite Rahel's -opinion of women, or because of her understanding of their needs, she -was a true feminist and looked toward their liberation through -development and self-expression. - -Ellen Key writes: "How Rahel, with her lucidity of thought, would have -exposed the modern superstition that it is in _outward_ departments of -work that woman gives expression to her human 'individuality.' She says -by true economy 'nature keeps woman nearer to the plant'! This 'economy' -is easily understood; it is because the tender life is woman's creation -and because that life requires tranquillity for its genesis and growth; -because a woman taken up by the problems of external life ... no longer -possesses the psychological qualifications which are indispensable in -order that a child's soul may grow in peace and joy; because, in other -words, _children_ need _mothers_, not only for their physical birth but -for their human bringing-up. Rahel hits the very center of the spiritual -task of motherhood when she says that if she had a child she would help -it to learn to listen to its own inmost ego; everything else she would -sacrifice to this.... The progress or ruin of humanity depends, in -Rahel's prophetic view, upon the capacity of the mothers for performing -their task." - -How Rahel had listened to her own inmost ego is shown by the following -characterization by Ellen Key. "Rahel probably did not know a single -date in the history of Greece, but she read Homer in Voss's translation; -it made her declare that 'the Odyssey seems to me so beautiful that it -is positively painful,' and she discovered that Homer is always great -when he speaks of water, as Goethe is when he speaks of the stars. -Probably she could not enumerate the rivers of Spain, but she knew _Don -Quixote_. In a word, she was the very opposite of the kind of talent -that passes brilliant examinations and is capable of carrying -'completely undigested sentences in its head.' What Rahel could not -transform into blood of her blood did not concern her at all. There was -such an indestructible 'connection between her abilities,' such an -intimate 'co-operation between her temperament and her intelligence,' -that there was no room in her for all the unoriginal ballast of which -the views and opinions of most other people are made up: she could only -keep and only give what was her own." - -What Rahel's power over her contemporaries was we may gather from what -they say of her who was "Rahel and nothing more:" - -Heine describes her as "the most inspired woman in the universe." T. -Mundt calls her "the sympathetic nerve of the time." The Austrian -dramatist, Grillparzer, relates: "Varnhagen went home with me. As we -passed his house, it occurred to him to introduce me to his wife, the -afterwards so celebrated Rahel, of whom I then knew nothing. I had been -strolling about all day and felt tired to death, and was, therefore, -heartily glad when we were told that Frau Varnhagen was not at home. But -as we came down the stairs, she met us and I submitted to my fate. But -now the lady,--elderly, perhaps never handsomer, shriveled by illness, -reminding me rather of a fairy, not to say a witch,--began to talk, and -I was altogether enchanted. My weariness disappeared, or perhaps, -rather, gave way to intoxication. She talked and talked till nearly -midnight, and I don't know whether they turned me out or whether I went -away of my own accord. Never in my life have I heard anyone talk more -interestingly. Unfortunately it was near the end of my stay, and I could -not repeat the visit." - - - - - The Poetry of Rupert Brooke - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - - _Poems_, by Rupert Brooke. (Sidgwick and Jackson, London.) - -The unusual thing about Rupert Brooke--the young Oxford don whose poetry -is just finding its way in this country--is that he has graduated from -the French school without having taken a course in decadence. The result -is a type of English poetry minus those qualities we think of as typical -of "the British mind" and plus those that stand as the highest -expression of the French spirit. There is nothing of self-conscious -reserve about Mr. Brooke; and yet it is not so obvious a quality as his -frank, unashamed revealment that places him definitely with the French -type. It is rather a matter of form--that quality of saying a thing in -the most economic way it can be said, of finding the simple and the -inevitable word. Mr. Brooke stands very happily between a poet like -Alfred Noyes, in whom one rarely finds that careful selection, and the -esthetes whose agony in that direction becomes monotonous. For example, -in the first sonnet of this collection: - - Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire - Of watching you; and swing me suddenly - Into the shade and loneliness and mire - Of the last land! There, waiting patiently, - - One day, I think, I'll feel a cool wind blowing, - See a slow light across the Stygian tide, - And hear the Dead about me stir, unknowing, - And tremble. And I shall know that you have died, - - And watch you, a broad-browed and smiling dream, - Pass, light as ever, through the lightless host, - Quietly ponder, start, and sway, and gleam-- - Most individual and bewildering ghost!-- - - And turn, and toss your brown delightful head - Amusedly, among the ancient Dead. - -There are about eighteen words in this one sonnet chosen with infinite -pains; and yet the effect of the whole is quite unlabored--an effect of -spontaneity reduced to its simplest terms. - -Perhaps the point can be made more emphatically by a miscellaneous -quotation of single lines, because the poignancy of Rupert Brooke's -phrasing leaves me in a torment of inexpressiveness, forced to quote him -rather than talk about him. Here are a few: "Like hills at noon or -sunlight on a tree"; "And dumb and mad and eyeless like the sky"; "The -soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player"; "Some gaunt eventual limit of -our light"; "Red darkness of the heart of roses"; "And long noon in the -hot calm places"; "My wild sick blasphemous prayer"; "Further than -laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming"; "Against the black and -muttering trees"; "And quietness crept up the hill"; "When your swift -hair is quiet in death"; "Savage forgotten drowsy hymns"; "And dance as -dust before the sun"; "The swift whir of terrible wings"; "Like flies on -the cold flesh"; "Clear against the unheeding sky"; "So high a beauty in -the air"; "Amazed with sorrow"; "Haggard with virtue"; "Frozen smoke"; -"Mist-garlanded," and a thousand other things that somehow have a -fashion of striking twelve. There's a long poem about a fish, beginning - - In a cool curving world he lies - And ripples with dark ecstasies. - -that flashes through every tone of the stream's "drowned colour" from -"blue brilliant from dead starless skies" to "the myriad hues that lie -between darkness and darkness." And there's one about Menelaus and Helen -containing this description: - - High sat white Helen, lonely and serene. - He had not remembered that she was so fair, - And that her neck curved down in such a way; - -The simplicity of that last line--but what a picture it is! - -The important things about Mr. Brooke, however--and of course this -should have been said in the first paragraph--are his sense of life and -his feeling for nature. Of the first it might be said that he is strong -and radiant and sure--and at the same time reverently impotent. _The -Hill_, which I like better than anything in this collection, will -illustrate: - - Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill, - Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass. - You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass; - Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still, - When we are old, are old...." "And when we die - All's over that is ours; and life burns on - Through other lovers, other lips," said I, - --"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!" - - "We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here. - Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said; - "We shall go down with unreluctant tread - Rose-crowned into the darkness!" ... Proud we were, - And laughed, that had such brave true things to say. - --And then you suddenly cried, and turned away. - -Everything in it--with the exception of "kissed the lovely grass," which -might easily be spared--is fine; "with unreluctant tread Rose-crowned -into the darkness!" is vivid with beauty; and when the simple dignity of -"such brave true things to say" has swung you to its great height, the -drop in that sudden last line comes with the most moving wistfulness. -There are several poems, too long to quote here, which show Mr. Brooke's -affinity with the outdoors; but perhaps even five lines from one of them -will suggest it: - - Then from the sad west turning wearily, - I saw the pines against the white north sky, - Very beautiful, and still, and bending over - Their sharp black heads against a quiet sky - And there was peace in them.... - -Not long ago I asked a poet in whose judgment I have a profound belief, -to read these poems of Rupert Brooke's and give me his opinion. After -looking at two or three he said he was afraid he wasn't going to like -them, but the next day he reported that he wished to retract, making the -magnificent concession that "_some_ of Brooke's moods are healthy!" Of -course there are a number of things in this volume that can easily be -interpreted as unhealthy or repulsive, like the _Wagner_: - - Creeps in half wanton, half asleep, - One with a fat wide hairless face. - He likes love music that is cheap; - Likes women in a crowded place; - And wants to hear the noise they're making. - - His heavy eyelids droop half-over, - Great pouches swing beneath his eyes. - He listens, thinks himself the lover, - Heaves from his stomach wheezy sighs; - He likes to feel his heart's a-breaking. - - The music swells. His gross legs quiver. - His little lips are bright with slime. - The music swells. The women shiver, - And all the while, in perfect time - His pendulous stomach hangs a-shaking. - -But it seems something more than that to me. As an attack on German -emotionalism--however unjustly, from my point of view, through -Wagner--the poem struck me as an exercise of extraordinary cleverness. I -don't know that anyone has ever said so effectively the things that -ought be said about that type of emotion which feeds not upon life but, -inversely, upon emotion. - -Mr. Brooke's pictures have much of the quality of Boecklin's. That first -sonnet can be imagined in the same tone values as Boecklin's wonderful -_Isle of the Dead_, and the closing lines of _Victory_ need the same -medium: - - Down the supernal roads, - With plumes a-tossing, purple flags far flung, - Rank upon rank, unbridled, unforgiving, - Thundered the black battalions of the Gods. - -_Seaside_ needs an artist like Leon Dabo: - - Swiftly out from the friendly lilt of the band, - The crowd's good laughter, the loved eyes of men, - I am drawn nightward; I must turn again - Where, down beyond the low untrodden strand, - There curves and glimmers outward to the unknown - The old unquiet ocean. All the shade - Is rife with magic and movement. I stray alone - Here on the edge of silence, half afraid, - - Waiting a sign. In the deep heart of me - The sullen waters swell towards the moon, - And all my tides set seaward. - From inland - Leaps a gay fragment of some mocking tune, - That tinkles and laughs and fades along the sand, - And dies between the seawall and the sea. - -How perfect those last three lines are! How skilful, in painting the -sea, to concentrate upon something from inland, making the ocean twice -as old and vast and unquiet because of that little tinkling tune. - -One will find in Rupert Brooke various kinds of things, but never -attitudinizing and never insincerity. He is one of the most important of -those young Englishmen who are doing so much for modern poetry. He is -essentially a poet's poet, and yet his feet are deep in the common soil. -Swinburne would have liked him, but the significant thing is that -Whitman would, too. There are several poems I have not mentioned that -Whitman would have loved. - - - - - Tagore As a Dynamic - - - GEORGE SOULE - - [We do not agree that _Tagore_ is a dynamic; we find him a poet - whose music is more important than his thinking. But we are glad - to print this interesting analysis.] - -In _The Crescent Moon_, with its ravishing beauty of childhood, in _The -Gardener_, with its passion of love, and especially in _Gitanjali_ and -_Sadhana_ (Macmillan), with their life universal and all-permeating, we -have found the poet Tagore and been grateful. It remains to ask: What -has Tagore done to us? What is he likely to do for the future? What has -been his answer to the promise and the challenge of the world? - -Religions have provided one answer. In his zeal of affirmation the -prophet has declared that the individual lives after death; that in some -unseen world completion shall be attained. Yet increasing millions find -this explanation fading into unreality. If one living organism is -perpetuated after its physical dissolution, why not another? We can -account for every particle of life which the blossom loses by its death. -Some has passed to the seed; the rest finds its chemical reaction, which -in turn produces other forms of life--in entirely new individuals. To -assert that the original blossom lives in an unseen form outside the -realm of thought is preposterous. Why should it? Its function has been -accomplished. The sentimentality behind this thinking is a weak prop for -a vigorous mind. And exactly the same reasoning applies to all living -organisms, including man. - -The more intelligent part of mankind has also outgrown the conception of -a definite heaven. It is impossible to imagine a satisfactory heaven for -the individual. A place where there is no strife, where everything is -perfection and completion--what joy is to be found there? The essence of -life as we know it is growth and survival; its happiness comes from the -exercise of a function. Growth and survival postulate extinction; in -heaven an individual would evaporate. - -Some thinkers have made a substitute "religion of humanity." They find -solace in action tending to make the world a better place; they have -been gratified by an imaginative conception of a future heaven on earth. -As a religion of morality and action this is magnificent. Yet its dogma -does not satisfy. A heaven on earth is no more conceivable than a heaven -anywhere else. If we find our happiness in action, how shall our -descendants find happiness when there are no more evils to conquer? -Though a static condition of blessedness be the goal of humanitarian -endeavor, it is the progress toward it which furnishes the joy. - -The Oriental thinker has looked for his answer in a different direction. -Though the individual is partial and unsuccessful, life as a whole is -always triumphant. Cannot the individual by contemplation identify -himself with the world-soul? Can he not tack himself on to this -all-inclusive life by denial and forgetfulness of himself? Brahmin -saints have done so imaginatively. But such an answer is no answer. We -are individuals, after all, and thinking of Nirvana will not rob us of -our separate bodies and minds. Contemplation is not a substitute for -living. - -The doctrine of transmigration is equally unsatisfying. If an individual -never succeeds in any single life, innumerable chances will be mere -repetitions of tragedy. The only hope of such a process would be a final -"heaven on earth," which is just as inconceivable as that of the -humanitarians. - -We cannot now be satisfied with theological answers. Nor will the world -ever find an answer permanently satisfactory. Is not this as it should -be? A fixed system of thought which answers every spiritual craving must -be a shell around the individual, preventing growth. It finally ceases -to be a dynamic and becomes a wall in the way of the feelers which -mankind is constantly sending into his spiritual environment. It forces -him to rest. It eventually turns all his expansion into the lower planes -of life. It is deadening, suffocating, as soon as he reaches its limits. - -Of what nature, then, must be the religion of the modern man and woman? -First of all, it must not be imposed from without; it must grow through -the personality and find its being there. It must not only square with -every known fact of science and thought; it must stimulate to a fervent -desire for new understanding. It must not deny or destroy life; it must -be life's essence. It must ring with a call to the individual to assume -his proper dignity of life. It must harmonize with the laughter of -children and with the bitter beauty of a winter sea. It must flame with -emotion, yet be keen and hard as a sword. And it must be not a -self-constituted standard with which every other thing is arbitrarily -compared, but a principle of growth making necessary in us vision, -strength, freedom, and fearlessness. - -It is my feeling that Tagore will suggest to the modern man such a -religion. He gives expression, though not, of course, perfect -expression, to a synthesis of many latent instincts of the modern mind. -He glories in understanding, not only facts and truth, but emotions and -all manifestations of life. He calls us to see vivid beauty wherever it -is found. He acclaims the aid of science in extending man's personality -throughout the universe. He sees the oneness of all life, and bids man -stand erect on account of this eternal and timeless force coursing -through him. He sees the oneness of humanity, and the necessity of -perfecting human relations. He depicts purity without asceticism, vigor -without brutality. He emphasizes joy and action. He does not blink the -fact of death, but robs it of horror by showing it as the natural end of -a victorious life. While he encourages by the idea of an ultimate goal, -he inspires by the conception of a real connection with infinity here -and now. Revering the universal life, he sees that it finds expression -only in individuals, and that the law of our being must be to live as -completely as possible. - -Many before Tagore have said these things partially. But it remained for -a poet who combines the intelligence of the Orient with that of the -Occident to say them all, and to say them with such beauty and -simplicity that a large part of the world listens. If he succeeds in -making us conscious of such a religion, he will have quickened life and -made it potent as few artists can. - - - - - Ethel Sidgwick's "Succession" - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - - _Succession_: A Comedy of the Generations, by Ethel Sidgwick. - (Small, Maynard and Company, Boston.) - -Ethel Sidgwick is the world's next great woman novelist. Though I -confess eagerly that I enjoy her novels more than any novels I've ever -read--I mean it literally--it isn't on so personal a basis that I offer -the judgment. But I'm confident that within ten years the critical -perspective will show her on this pinnacle. Since George Eliot and the -Brontes, I can think of no woman who has focused art and life so -intensely into novel writing--though even as I say this _Ethan Frome_ -looms up and leaves me a little uncomfortable. But the important thing -is that Ethel Sidgwick is going to count--enormously. - -People who aren't yet aware of her (and there seem to be a lot of them) -can be easily explained as that body of the public that neglects a -masterpiece until it has become the fashion to acclaim it. But Ethel -Sidgwick has written a novel that's more important than any number of -our traditional masterpieces. For instance, it's a much more important -story than _Vanity Fair_; just as _Jean Christophe_ is more valuable -than _Ivanhoe_. The novel of manners has its delightful place, and so -has the historical romance; but the novel that chronicles with subtlety -the intellectual or artistic temper of an age is as much more important -than these as Greek drama is than the moving picture show. - -I know there are people who'll read _Succession_ and continue to prefer -Thackeray's geniality to Miss Sidgwick's brilliant seriousness and her -humor that's not at all genial--but rapid, sophisticated, impatient of -comedy in the accepted sense. Ethel Sidgwick might write a radiant -tragedy, or a wistful satire, or a sad comedy; I can never imagine her -being anything so obvious as merely comic--or genial! She doesn't laugh; -she _couldn't_ chuckle; she has just the flash of a smile, and then she -hurries on dazzlingly, as though things were too important to be -anything but passionate about. She doesn't "warm the cockles of your -heart"--or whatever that silly phrase is; and she doesn't do crude, raw -things to show you that she "knows life." She goes down into the -darkness rose-crowned, in Rupert Brooke's gorgeous phrase; when she goes -into the sunlight it is always with something of remembered agony. -That's the fine quality of her vitalism. She's too strong to be hard, -too steel-like to be robust. She's like fire and keen air--to borrow -another poet's phrase. She reflects life through the mirror of a vivid -personality--which is one way of being an important artist. She assumes -that you're also vivid, and quick, and subtle, and this gives her -writing the most beautiful quality of nervousness--the kind you mean -when you're not talking about nerves. In short, Ethel Sidgwick is the -most definitely magnetic personality I've ever felt through a book's -pages. - -_Succession_, though complete in itself, is really a sequel to -_Promise_, published a year ago. The sub-title presents the idea, and -can be concretely expanded in a sentence: Antoine, child-wonder -violinist, and the youngest of the celebrated Lemaures, revolts against -the musical ideas of his grandfather. Here it is again--the battle of -youth and age, made particularly interesting because it's a purely -intellectual warfare, and particularly charming because its participants -are such delightful people. - -The first glimpse of Antoine is irresistible. After a series of concerts -in England, he is being taken by his uncle to their home in France. M. -Lucien Lemaure has chosen the long route because his nephew has an odd -habit of sleeping better on the water than in any house or hotel on -shore; and while he doesn't understand this nephew, he has vital reasons -for considering him: for upon Antoine's delicate shoulders rests the -musical honor of the family. - - "Sleep well, mon petit," he said, in the tiny cabin. "We are - going home." - - Antoine, who had no immediate intention of sleeping, was staring - out of the dim porthole of a fascinating space of the unknown. - "That is home to you?" he asked vaguely. - - "To be sure. My first youth was passed there, like thine." - - After an interval passed spent in a vain effort to imagine his - uncle with no hair on his face, Antoine gave it up and recurred - to the window. "I wish I lived on the sea," he murmured. - -In the train, flying toward Paris, Lucien refers to the last London -recital, when Antoine had made both his uncle's and his conductor's -lives a burden by his indifferent rehearsal of his grandfather's latest -composition. Antoine's outburst had outraged Lucien, to whom faith in -his father's character and genius had, all his life, amounted to a -religion. - - "What will you tell him then?" said Antoine, turning his dark - eyes without deranging his languid attitude along the seat. "Just - that I said some 'sottises,' the same as always?" - - "He is not a child," thought Lucien instantly. "He is clever, - maddening. Of course, my action will have to be explained. I - shall say," he said aloud, with deliberation, "that we differed - about the concerto. That you were difficult and headstrong over - that, which is certainly true. You have admitted since that it - was too much for you, eh?" - - "Yes," said the boy. "It is an awful thing, but I played it. I - had to have something real that night." - - "You imply my father's composition is not real?" - - "Oh, do not," said the boy, under his breath. "I have remembered - he is your father now." - - "To be sure," said M. Lucien, with stateliness. "And have you no - duty to him as well?" - - "I shall see him soon. I shall remember then." Antoine diverted - his eyes, to his uncle's private relief. "Do you think I do not - want to remember, after that?" - - "I should think you would be ashamed," said Lucien, by way of the - last word in argument, and retired to his paper. - - "You like me to be ashamed," said Antoine, snatching the last - word from him, though still with a manner of extreme languor. - "Good, then, I have been. It is not"--he watched the trees of - Normandy sleepily--"a very nice feeling." - - "I am glad you know what it is like, at least," growled his uncle - into the paper. - - "Don't you?" said his nephew. "What it is like, is to make you - feel rather sick--all the time--especially while you are playing - it." - - "What?" - - "The thing you are ashamed of." - -How I wanted to hug him! - - "Antoine," said Lucien, rising and discarding the paper, "do not - be absurd. Here, look at me. You suffered that night at the - concert, eh? You excited yourself so much, little imbecile. Are - you tired now?" - - "No, thank you--this is France," replied Antoine. "That is a - French cow," he murmured, "not so fat. That is a French tree, not - so thick. The sky is different, and the sun. The concerts will be - easier, I expect." - -But the first glimpse of M. Lemaure, the grandfather, is reassuring. In -fact, he's almost as irresistible as Antoine, making you realize -immediately that the battle is going to be a subtle one, and that it may -be difficult to know which side to take, after all. - -The old musician asks about the last recital. - - "I was not at the last orchestral," Lucien answers. "I left him - in Wurst's charge, and went to the country, ... I should not - easily desert my post, as you know; but the boy made it clear - enough he had no use for me. He clung to that sacre concerto of - Tschedin, which he knows you detest, and which I never thought in - a condition to perform. He mocked himself of my objections, - contradicted me, eluded me, and twisted Wurst round his finger at - rehearsals." - - "And Wurst?" - - "Wurst found him charming. He has Russian blood himself, and had - known the composer. He has encouraged Antoine's revolutionary - tendencies from the first. The pair of them took the last concert - so completely out of my hands that it seemed fruitless to - remain." - - "Bebe forgot himself," pronounced M. Lemaure, still quite at - ease. Indeed the situation so reminded him of Antoine's childhood - that he longed to laugh. "What did he say, and when?" - - "We will not revive it," said Lucien. "When he came to his - senses, he apologized sufficiently. Perhaps he was not well ... - when is the first engagement--Sunday?" - - "Let him be for a time. There is no harm." - - Lucien grunted. "I shall not disturb him while he is seasick, if - that is what you mean. It would do him no harm to play scales all - the week." - - "Scales--as you will, but not persons. Not Dmitri Tschedin, I - mean, nor even me. It is intrusive personality, always, that - disturbs the current of Antoine's philosophy." - - "Father! How absurd." - - "But I have long remarked it. His own individuality fights the - alien matter, and it is not till he has either rejected it or - absorbed that he is steady again. Wurst and his Russians have - excited him--nothing more natural. For me," said M. Lemaure, - plunging into memory, as he stood by his son's side at the - window, "at his age, the realm of music did not hold such - petulant passions, any more than it held flat heresy, like that - of Sorbier and Duchatel." - - "Antoine adores Duchatel," remarked Lucien. "There is no fighting - there." - - "Bon!" The old man laughed. "Heresy on the hearth then, if it - must be so. So long as he does not play the stuff in my hearing." - -There are over six hundred pages in the story, and they cover just a -year and a half of Antoine's life. This appears to be an impossible -literary feat; any orthodox novelist will tell you that you can't hold a -reader through six hundred pages with the story of a fourteen-year-old -boy. But Miss Sidgwick's holding power is--well, I read _Succession_ -during a brief trip to Boston, and much as I longed to absorb Concord -and all its charms, I found I only had half my capacity with me; the -rest was with Antoine, and it stayed there till in desperation I shut -myself up in a hotel room and saw him safely off to America with his -nice, wholesome, inartistic father. Then came the awful realization that -I'd have to wait a whole year for the next volume--for surely Miss -Sidgwick intends to make a trilogy. - -The explanation of this absorption is simply that Antoine is so -interesting. His professional life is dramatic; but even in the -commonest experiences of every day his world is as vivid as it can only -be to a dramatic nature. For instance, in this little scene with his -brother: - - "There was a little thing on legs," he announced, "that went - under the carpet just now. It was rather horrible, and I have not - looked for it." - - "A blackbeetle, I presume," said Philip. - - "It was not black," said Antoine. "It was pink--a not-clean pink, - you understand. I found it"--a pause--"disagreeable." - - "How could you find it when you had not looked for it?" said - Philip. Another pause, Antoine considering the point, which was - an old one. - - "You will catch it," he suggested, shooting a soft glance at his - brother. - - "Why should I?" said Philip. "They're perfectly harmless." - - "I shall dream of it," said Antoine, shutting his eyes. "It was - too long, do you see, and pink as well." His brow contracted, and - he finished with gentle conviction. "If it comes upon my bed in - the night, I shall be sick." - -Of course, most interesting of all is his musical development, in which -are involved several personalities of striking character: Duchatel, the -revolutionary, more a son, after the French fashion, than a man or a -musician; Savigny, the celebrated alienist, who treats the child -hypnotically in his severe illnesses; Lemonski, a rival child wonder, -who is like a pig, and vulgar--which it is silly to say, because he is a -beautiful artist, according to Antoine; Reuss, the great German -conductor, and the boy's staunch friend, who hates "the cursed French -training" of making life weigh so heavily on its youth; Jacques -Charretteur, the vagabond violinist, "a man to play French music in -France"; Cecile, the aunt, who has the perception to understand the -little genius with the dark eyes, whose "expression was so beautiful -that she could hardly bear it"; and Ribiera, the famous Spanish pianist, -who "warms" the piano, in Antoine's words, and calls the boy an -intelligent ape, by way of expressing his admiration. All these people -are drawn with consummate skill. - -I think one of the most poignant passages in the book, to me, is -Antoine's description of how he had _rate_ the solo at a London concert. -It was at the end of the season, and he had been harassed by a thousand -needless frictions: - - "The first part had gone pretty well, though I did not like how - the Duchatel sounded. I thought that was the violin, perhaps--and - a new room. It was a bad room, pretty, but stupid for the sound. - I heard much too much, so I was sure _they_ were not hearing - properly. _They_ were extremely still, and made a little clapping - at the end. I did not find it a good concert, but Wurst in the - interval said it was very well, and I should not excite myself. - So when I did not, then I was tired, and it seemed stupider than - before. And at last that thing came, the Mirski 'Caprice,' which - you know how detestable. The passages are hard in that thing, but - I know them. Every morning I played them to Moricz, so now I do - not trouble.... And then, in the middle of it, I heard Peter Axel - playing wrong.... And I was frightened horribly.... And I made - him an awful frown for forgetting it, and Peter was looking at - me. His face was not happy like it generally is. It was like one - of those worst dreams. And, of course, I stopped playing, because - it cannot be like that. And Peter said 'Go back,' very quietly, - making a lot of little passages and returning for me to find, do - you see?" - - "He gave you a chance to pick up, eh?" said Philip. "And you - couldn't." - - "Couldn't! I _would_ not. I was furious--awful.... I said a rude - thing to Axel in passing, and went off the estrade. And _they_ - all clapped together down there, bah!--though they knew it was - not finished. They were sorry I had stopped--because they were - people who like a difficult Caprice, to be amused by it. But I - was not amused. Nor Peter, very much." He laughed sharply. - - "Don't, I say," said Philip. "It's all over now. It doesn't - matter, really. Everybody forgets, now and then" ... - - "I do not," said Antoine. "I do not know how it is to forget. I - know that thing--I know all the little notes, long ago, before - Moricz--since years. It is not possible to _forget_ a little - concert piece that you _know_...." - - "Did you go on again?" - - "Yes. After Wurst had finished talking, I had to. I should not - have for my uncle, but I had to for him. He was violent, Wurst. - He said it was indigne and loche if I stopped, and a lot of other - words. He was like a little dog barking. A man like Wurst does - not 'rater.' He does not know how that is done. His head has all - the big scores inside.... He did not see how it was for me to - stand up on the estrade again, with quantities of beautiful - people looking kind. It would have been so better if they had - siffli, like here in Paris." - -The book closes on an unexpected and suggestive note. Antoine, who had -always realized that his grandfather couldn't bear his being "different" -in music, had taken quietly to composing the kind of things he loved. He -"made" a quintet in which Ribiera was given a brilliant piano part, and -which he thought beautiful--extremely. But when they played it for him, -though he was moved to cry, he found its "ideas" not so good as he had -thought. Whereupon he plans to produce better ones in his new overture. - -_Succession_ is a masterpiece of art, and Antoine is the most lovable -and interesting character in new fiction. - - - - - The Meaning of Bergsonism - - - LLEWELLYN JONES - -Bergson's philosophy is the antithesis of the natural-science view of -the universe as mechanism. In that view the laws of nature are fixed -sequences controlling matter, or energy, and the more complicated and -faultless the mechanism the higher the life. Just how this mechanism -became conscious of the fact that it was a mechanism--caught itself at -itself, so to speak, and announced the laws of its own being--is a -question as puzzling as the old theological one of the aseity of -God--which is simply a Latinized way of asking how the deity could, -being infinite, turn himself inside out in such a manner as to become -aware of his own existence and attributes. In fact, the two questions -are one and the same. According to Bergson, mechanism not only cannot -explain consciousness, but it is the very antithesis of conscious life. -Behind mechanism he places an inextinguishable but not uncheckable vital -urge with endless potentialities and with no fixed goal. The progress of -this "elan vital" is through resistance to matter, which is simply the -reversal of its own movement. The onward urge is what Bergson calls -"pure duration" or motion, and its collision with its own reverse -movement is what appears to us as space. The actual situation of life at -any given time is simply a _modus vivendi_ between this spiritual -activity striving to be free, and the reverse movement. - -We know, of course, that the physical universe is simply energy running -down. Just as a glass of water cools off, so the sun dissipates its -heat, and so, we are learning, the elements break up into simpler forms, -giving off their contained energy in the forms of heat and electricity -as they do so. But on the other hand the plant takes unto itself that -energy of the sun, and with it builds up again the inorganic salts from -its soil into higher forms with a greater content of stored energy. What -the plant does, says Bergson, is typical and symbolical of what all life -does at all times: sets up a reverse current to the running-down -tendency of the universe of matter. - -Life cannot do this easily, but has to adapt itself to the resistance of -the downward flow. It does this through its motor reactions, its sense -organs, and above all through its intelligence when that is evolved. The -evolution of these things gives us our ideas of space. The insect cuts -up its environment into spatial forms easy for it to deal with. Man with -different sense organs probably lives in a different space world. As "a -thing is where it acts," it is obvious that the boundaries of things in -the material realm would be quite different if we had, for example, some -sort of sense organ adapted to identify things by their electrical -properties. But this identifying of things by spatial and material -concepts--the mathematical order--is instrumental to the ends of action, -and the original consciousness of life, while it included the -potentialities of intellectual knowledge, was instinctive. Instinct, -according to Bergson, is first-hand knowledge, but knowledge incapable -of conceptual extension. It is therefore no use in the practical affairs -of life, but certain and immediate in its apprehension of the actual -flow of life itself. In its broadened form of intuition it is -responsible for all the valid and original insights of the philosophers -and poets. The structural and dialectic forms in which philosophies have -been given to the world are simply the intellectualizing process which -philosophers have used to buttress--and which they have often thought -produced--the insight which was prior to and independent of the system. - -Bergson's doctrine has been seized upon by apologists for every creed -and for every iconoclasm. Bergson has been accused of every intellectual -crime, from being the intellectual father of syndicalism to being the -last rich relative of struggling obscurantism. The protestant -theologians talk glibly of Bergson's idea of God, and use him as a stick -with which to beat the hated materialist. Bergson himself would never -apply his philosophy to the uses of the syndicalists. The argument of -the syndicalists themselves is simply an ingenious parody of the -Bergsonian philosophy, as it is so far developed. As mechanism and the -mathematical order, they say, do not represent life, we cannot by the -means of natural and sociological sciences predict in advance what life -will do, and what forms it will take. We cannot base revolutionary -action, for instance, along Marxian lines, because the whole Marxist -philosophy rests upon the assumption that life is the slave of material -forces--chemical firstly, and economical in the human drama--and that it -will therefore follow along predetermined lines. If life is an "elan -vital," breaking its path as it goes, and only able to think in terms of -the past, then revolutionary activity must cut loose from the -reactionary intellect, and trust itself to its instincts; fight its way -to that freedom which is impossible in the mathematically determined -intellectual realm, and which is equally impossible of achievement by -mere intellectual foresight. So the syndicalist in the name of Bergson -cuts loose from all theories of the future he wishes to bring in, -preaches the "general strike" for its stimulating effect on the emotions -of the proletarian constituents of his social "elan vital"--quite -careless of whether it would ever be a practical success or not--and -deliberately cuts loose from all forms of "bourgeoise culture." - -But the anti-revolutionists point out that Bergson does believe in the -intellect as a guide to the practical affairs of life; and industry and -production--the field of the syndicalist--are far more mechanical than -they are vital. In man's industrial relations he has to approximate -himself as much to the machine as possible, and for Bergson's -anti-intellectualism to be applied to this particular realm of life is -as great a calamity as could happen to the doctrine. And then these -conservatives proceed, less justifiably perhaps, to train the captured -gun of intuition upon the syndicalists. The racial intuitions, they say, -are older than the race's newly-found intellectual conceptions. For -generations the race has lived by certain instinctive rules of conduct. -Religion, custom, and patriotism, these are all sacred because they are -extra-intellectual, and they dare us to disturb these sacred things. It -is a strange sight--this most revolutionary philosophical doctrine being -used to support all the prejudices that the ages have handed down--but -we cannot deny that it is a plausible use of intuitionism, and a more -legitimate use than that to which Sorel and his followers have put the -teachings emanating from the College of France. - -Perhaps the most detailed application that Bergson has yet made of his -philosophy to the affairs of life is his application of its principles -to the puzzling aesthetic problem of laughter and the comic. His theory -is that laughter is a social corrective directed against the man who -allows the dogging steps of mechanism to overtake him and imprison his -spirit in a web of meaningless action. The man who is walking along the -street should be going in a determinate direction with a determinate end -in view, and with the ability to get there in spite of reasonable -obstacles. So says society. When he becomes abstracted, walks -mechanically, and in consequence falls over a brick, we laugh at him. He -has permitted himself to become a machine for the nonce instead of a -self-conscious spirit, and society cannot afford to have its interests -jeopardized in that way. - -_The International Journal of Ethics_ for January, 1914, contains an -article by J. W. Scott, who accuses Bergson of ethical pessimism on the -grounds of his view of the comic. He points out that the psychology of -comic action, as Bergson works it out, is precisely that of moral -action. For in moral action, too, a man does what is habitual, what is -against his own self-conscious impulse, what is mechanical in that it is -a fixed course of conduct pursued without reference to the favor or -disfavor of the environment. The life impulse must be, he convicts -Bergson of saying, adaptable to its circumstances; it must insert itself -between the determinisms of matter; it must pursue the crooked path -where the straight path is too difficult. It cannot follow its moral -ideal without making itself ridiculous, as indeed in real life moral -people are always doing. - -This criticism hangs on the acceptance of a moral ideal, and if we must -have an ideal in the sense of a goal beckoning us from the future, then -the criticism is well founded and Bergson is an ethical pessimist. But -systematic ethics have been denied by other philosophers before Bergson, -and most people of modern temperament are quite willing to let the whole -question of _a priori_ ethics drop. They might not be willing to -exchange it for the very unpoetic utilitarianism which has so often been -offered in its place, but Bergson offers something more than that. If he -be an ethical pessimist, he is not a religious pessimist. Of religion he -has not yet spoken, except incidentally. Obviously so long as he uses -the scientific method in his philosophy, proceeding from facts to their -subordination in a picture whose values are given by intuitions, he -cannot present a systematic philosophy. But in spite of the fact that -pessimism--not only in ethics but in his view of the content of -personality and its relations with the universe--is charged against him, -Bergson means to be decidedly optimistic in his treatment of -personality. In his article in _The Hibbert Journal_ for October, 1911, -occur these remarkable words: - - If then, in every province, the triumph of life is expressed by - creation, ought we not to think that the ultimate reason of human - life is a creation which, in distinction from that of the artist - or man of science, can be pursued at every moment and by all men - alike? I mean the creation of self by self, the continual - enrichment of personality by elements which it does not draw from - outside but causes to spring forth from itself.... If we admit - that with man consciousness has finally left the tunnel; that - everywhere else consciousness has remained imprisoned; that every - other species corresponds to the arrest of something which in man - succeeded in overcoming resistance and in expanding almost - freely, thus displaying itself in true personalities capable of - remembering all and willing all and controlling their past and - their future, we shall have no repugnance in admitting that in - man, though perhaps in man alone, consciousness pursues its path - beyond this earthly life. - -On the other suppositions of Bergson's philosophy this is by no means so -far-fetched as are most theories of immortality. For the consciousness -which cuts out the patterns of our spatial life here could easily cut -out others in the beyond, like enough to our present ones to carry on -the continuity of our active existence. The idea of survival, or an idea -that may be applied to transmundane survival, is suggested by Laurence -Binyon in a recent volume of poems entitled "Auguries." He writes: - - And because in my heart is a flowing no hour can bind - Because through the wrongs of the world looking forth and behind - I find for my thoughts not a close, not an end, - With you will I follow, nor crave the strength of the strong - Nor a fortress of time to enshield me from storms that rend. - This is life, this is home, to be poured as a stream as a song. - -This is quoted not only because it represents the poetical realization -of Bergson's message, but because it points to one reason why the charge -of pessimism has been brought against Bergson even in this connection. - -If only progress is our home, if there be no stability, how is that -permanence of values to be achieved which Hoeffding declares to be the -essential axiom of religion? We may love our faithful dog, but according -to Bergson it represents an evolutionary blind alley. We may create as -we will, but we shall survive our creations. Here, after all, is at the -best a tempered optimism. No reunions are promised in the Bergsonian -paradise. Only a perpetual streaming that does not, so far as Bergson -has yet told us (and that is an important point) ever wind safely home -to sea. - - - - - Instinct and Intelligence - - - Clarence Darrow recently echoed that high estimate of instinct at - the expense of intelligence which has been the fashion since - Bergson. Some of these days, when that case has been overstated - often enough, there will be a return swing of that pendulum. The - instinctive wasp who, in order to paralyze it, knows how to sting - a caterpillar "as though she knew its anatomy" may not always - seem in all respects superior to the human surgeon who does - actually know anatomy and can apply that knowledge in a thousand - ways--versus the wasp's one. Some day it will strike some one - that no creature has an instinct against poison comparable in - delicacy, subtlety, and fullness with a chemist's noninstinctive, - intelligent knowledge of poisons--and nonpoisons. So with a - number of things. The pragmatic objection to our present - glorification of instinct is that it tends to become a - glorification of intellectual whim.--George Cram Cook in _The - Chicago Evening Post_. - - - - - The Jewels of a Lapidary - - - _Emerson's Journals_, Volume IX, 1856-1863. (Houghton Mifflin - Company, Boston.) - -At least nine events of permanent historic interest have occurred in -American literature within the past few years: they are represented by -the publication of nine volumes of Emerson's _Journals_. Those who are -trying to achieve a personal religion, which acknowledges God as an -immanence instead of a proposition, hail with a quiet joy every -extraction from the great mine in which Emerson stored the jewels of his -life. If we do not recognize them as lapidarious we must perceive them -as the better metals of ourselves, for this "friend and aider of those -who would live in the spirit" inhumed those spiritual values which all -men at some time or another seek as their own. Emerson buoys us up for -our common struggles and makes us conscious of that aid which is the -awakening of latent power. He composed the bricks which thousands of -builders have used in fashioning beautiful personal temples. "I dot -evermore in my endless journal," he wrote to Carlyle; "... the -arrangement loiters long, and I get a brick-kiln instead of a house." -Speaking of his philosophical work he confesses a "formidable tendency -to the lapidary style," and adds, "I build my house of boulders." - -Emerson's published journals are kilns and quarries from which the -foundation materials for the edifice of character have been obtained by -countless builders. If he could not construct a system of philosophy, as -Arnold alleges, he could and did provide the "boulders" and indicate the -pattern which others have used. He is a part of every well-read -American, and, chiefly through Carlyle, still lives in the land of his -forefathers. He was an inspiration to Whitman, one of whose "specimen -days" closed with "a long and blessed evening with Emerson." Such -evenings are as real now as in Whitman's time, and are more commonly -experienced, for Emerson is westward-bound. He has traveled slowly in -this direction: "boulders" are not carried by exploiters and pioneers -who build and live in a world not of "the spirit" but of the senses. -With the establishing of easier communication between centers of thought -and fields of action in America, New England "boulders" were brought -hither, to chink the crude walls of western life; and it is a token of -Emerson's vitality and spiritual universality that his "bricks" and -"boulders" are discoverable in all sorts of shacks which men are trying -to improve. Lumber decays, but "boulders" remain, and some of them -become talismanic. - -In reading and re-reading Emerson's _Journals_ one is impressed with -their remarkable quotability, and in this mechanical handiness of his -work we have a partial explanation of the slowness with which it has -been assimilated. "Boulders" are fated to be knocked about before they -are appreciated. We throw them at one another with a sort of physical -dexterity until, burnished and transformed, they are recognized as -adapted to higher uses. We do not flippantly quote or mention the -authors who have become personal to us; I quote Emerson's _Journal_ as a -blessed soliloquy. - - D. C. W. - - - - - New York Letter - - - GEORGE SOULE - -The most interesting hours of the last week I have spent in listening to -discussions of the futurists. Someone told of a superb incident recently -reported of a speech by Marinetti, the enunciator of the futurist -philosophy. Marinetti, after denouncing the past in his usual method, -proceeded to eliminate women from his world. "But," said someone, "how -will you continue the human race?" "We will _not_ continue the human -race," rejoined Marinetti, with superb _eclat_. Daring and magnificent -utterance! But, after all, perhaps he is the only sane one, and the norm -of human intelligence quite insane. That fits in well with the recently -reported discovery of a Paris scientist, that all variations in the -course of evolution are the result of disease, and that there would have -been no man had not some ape had a parasite in his thyroid gland. All of -which goes to show that I was right in my statement (which Chesterton -probably has said before me) that all logical extremes are illogical, -since the world is based on an eternal paradox. - -Really it is quite simple to follow the futurist line of thought once -you get the hang of it. For instance--two developments of painting -predicted at the Troubetzkoys. In the first, each plane in the cubist -picture, instead of being colored, is to be numbered, and the numbers -printed in a catalogue opposite the names of the colors for which they -stand. Thus any approach to the vulgar intrusion of realism would be -avoided, and abstract beauty furthered. What chances for the -imagination! And think of the subtle possibilities in the mathematics of -color! One could surely express by some abstruse quadratic a color quite -beyond the realm of visual possibility, and thus man by one gigantic tug -at his bootstraps would pull his soul out of its finite limitations. - -The second school was aptly named the auto-symbolists. In this school -Nietzschean individualism attains its sublime extreme. The artist, -instead of expressing his spirit in the vulgar symbols understood by -everybody, arbitrarily chooses a symbol known only to himself. If he -wishes to depict a determined man going up a mountain on a mule's back -he may paint a mouse-trap. To him the mouse-trap perfectly expresses the -particular feeling he has when viewing his own mental image of the -picture he has decided to paint. What matter about anybody else? If you -ask him _cui bono_?--he will reply: why any _bono_ at all? And, of -course, he is perfectly logical. And the satisfying aristocratic -aloofness of his position! If people--as they surely will--study his -mouse-trap and discuss in vain what it portends, if they pay vast sums -for his pictures and start a literature of criticisms to guess his -unguessable riddles, so much the better. He can laugh at them with -diabolical glee. Everybody is a fool but himself, and he can go on -creating in the seventh circle of his own soul undisturbed by the -barnyard cackle of the world. - -Has the cubist literature of Gertrude Stein awakened echoes in Chicago? -I have read it without understanding before this. But one night my -host--a great, strong, humorous, intelligent hulk of a man, himself a -scoffer at cubism--read part of her essay on Matisse so that it was -almost intelligible. His inflection and punctuation did it. Her chief -characteristics seem to be an aversion to personal pronouns and a strict -adherence to simple declarative statements, untroubled by subordinate -clauses or phrases of any kind. Her thought, therefore, resolves itself -awkwardly in a four-square way. The multiplicity of her planes becomes -confusing after a page, but each plane stands alone. Thus--(I quote -inaccurately)--"Some ones knew this one to be expressing something being -struggling. Some ones knew this one not to be expressing something being -struggling. This one expressed something being struggling. This one did -not express something being struggling." Which, of course, is the cubist -way of saying that "Some thought he was trying to express struggle in an -object, others thought the contrary. As a matter of fact, he sometimes -did express struggle; sometimes he did not." - -But it seems her early work is now getting too obvious, so she is in the -throes of a later phase. In her "Portrait of Miss Dodge" she has -eliminated verbs and sentence structure entirely, flinging a succession -of image-nouns at the reader. One can surely not accuse her of -"prettiness." - -The craze for colored wigs is, of course, an outgrowth of futurism. Why -should a man be any color except that which his will dictates? This has -long (a few months) been the cry of the painter, and the smart set has -echoed: Why should he? Women in green and blue wigs have been seen in -New York already. But, of course, it would be senseless to stop there; -if one has an orange toupe he should surely have a mauve face. Yellow -complexions are worn with indigo hair. We have long been accustomed to -blue powdered noses on Fifth Avenue, and the setting of diamonds in the -teeth is an old story. The only trouble with this epoch-making idea is -that it is old. Phoenician women did it! And wasn't it Edward Lear who -wrote of _The Jumblies_: - - "Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, - And they went to sea in a sieve"? - -Of course, if one doesn't believe in this new development of art, but is -naturalistic, he should be brave enough to chase his idea to its lair -and act upon it, like Lady Constance Stewart Richardson, who is now -tripping about the homes of the rich in New York with nothing at all -on--or worse than nothing. - -Forgive my preposterosities! But the ridiculous seriousness with which -everything unfamiliar is taken by a sensation-sated _haute monde_ is -such a brilliant target for satire. I think with immense relief of a -wonderful bit of sky, and a long stretch of beach, and of all things -tangible and--yes, though it may be bourgeois--_healthy_. - - - - - To a Lost Friend - - - EUNICE TIETJENS - - Across the tide of years you come to me, - You whom I knew so long ago. - A poignant letter kept half carelessly, - A faded likeness, dull and gray to see.... - And now I know. - - . . . . . . - - Strange that I knew not then,--that when you stood - In warm, sweet flesh beneath my hand, - Your soul tumultuous as a spring-time flood - And life's new wonder pulsing in your blood, - I could not understand. - - I could not see your soul like thin red fire - Flash downward to my gaze, - Nor guess the strange, half-understood desire, - The tumult and the question and the ire - Of those far days. - - I saw your soul stretch longing arms to love - In adolescent shyness bound, - And passionately storm the gods above. - Yet, since my own young heart knew naught thereof, - You never found. - - It is too late now. You have dropped away - In formless silence from my ken, - And youth's high hopes turn backward to decay. - Yet, oh, my heart were very fain to-day - To love you then! - - Culture has one great passion--the passion for sweetness and - light. It has one even yet greater!--the passion for making them - _prevail_.--Matthew Arnold in _Culture and Anarchy_. - - - - - The Irish Players: An Impression - - - A small, low room with walls of cool green-grey; in the center an - old brown fire-place with a great black chimney; on the hearth a - light like a deep raspberry; at each end a chair of smudgy brown; - near the front a table toned with the walls; on it two black mugs - and a stein; in one corner at the back, piled against the - green-grey, flour sacks the color of dirty straw; and standing in - the foreground, balanced as Whistler would have done it, a miller - in a suit of brown, a thin widow in rusty black, a fat widow with - bustles in rusty black and dirty white.--Somehow one planned - beauty in that place. - - - - - The Novel of Manners - - - ... And yet, even into Mrs. Wharton's work is creeping slowly a - part of the tremendous socializing spirit of today--the - realization that group backgrounds, unlighted by a sense of their - relativity to other groups, and to life, do not amount to much - more than painted scenery. Over in England, Wells, with all his - tremendous burden of national background and customs, manages, - often with a desperate wrenching of impedimenta, but always with - a great resolve that commands admiration, to inject into his - massive English settings a humanized world atmosphere as well. - Wells writes not of Englishmen and England, but of Englishmen and - the world. And Galsworthy, his soul permeated by this new social - sense, writes down, in his English men and women, all humanity, - with all the tragedy and plaintive joys of human life, with the - desires and hampered fruition of the desires of all living - things, as his background. Not the world alone, but life, is the - stage.--Edna Kenton in _The Bookman_. - - A man should always obey the law with his body and always disobey - it with his mind.--James Stephens in _The Crock of Gold_. - - There are two great rules of life, the one general and the other - particular. The first is that everyone can, in the end, get what - he wants if he only tries. This is the general rule. The - particular rule is that every individual is, more or less, an - exception to the general rule.--_The Note-Books of Samuel - Butler._ - - - - - Forbes-Robertson's Hamlet - - - All my life I seem to have been asking my friends, those I loved - best, those who valued the dearest, the kindest, the greatest, - and the strongest, in our strange human life, to come with me and - see Forbes-Robertson die in _Hamlet_. I asked them because, as - that strange young dead king sat upon his throne, there was - something, whatever it meant--death, life, immortality, what you - will--of a surpassing loneliness, something transfiguring the - poor passing moment of trivial, brutal murder into a beauty to - which it was quite natural that that stern Northern warrior, with - his winged helmet, should bend the knee. I would not exchange - anything I have ever read or seen for Forbes-Robertson as he sits - there so still and starlit upon the throne of Denmark.--Richard - Le Gallienne in _The Century_. - - To feel, to do, to stride forward in elation, chanting a poem of - triumphant life!--James Stephens in _The Crock of Gold_. - - Why is it that in some places there is such a feeling of life - being all one; not merely a long picture-show for human eyes, but - a single breathing, glowing, growing thing, of which we are no - more important a part than the swallows and magpies, the foals - and sheep in the meadows, the sycamores and ash trees and flowers - in the fields, the rocks and little bright streams, or even than - the long fleecy clouds and their soft-shouting drivers, the - winds?--John Galsworthy in _The Atlantic Monthly_. - - - - - The Dying Pantheist to the Priest - - - Henry A. Beers, the author of this dynamic poem from which we - quote only a part, is a professor of literature at Yale--a man - supposedly conventional and soft spoken! - - Take your ivory Christ away: - No dying god shall have my knee, - While live gods breathe in this wild wind - And shout from yonder dashing sea. - - O no, the old gods are not dead: - I think that they will never die; - But I, who lie upon this bed - In mortal anguish--what am I? - - A wave that rises with a breath - Above the infinite watery plain, - To foam and sparkle in the sun - A moment ere it sink again. - - The eternal undulation runs: - A man, I die; perchance to be, - Next life, a white-throat on the wind, - A daffodil on Tempe's lea. - - They lied who said that Pan was dead: - Life was, life is, and life shall be. - So take away your crucifix-- - The ever-living gods for me! - - --_The Yale Review._ - - - - - Interesting New or Forthcoming Books - - - [Classification in this list implies a review in an early issue.] - -_Notes of a Son and Brother_, by Henry James. - -_Collected Essays of Rudolph Eucken._ - -_The Fugitive_, by John Galsworthy. - -_Plays_, by Tchekoff and Andreyeff. - -_Stories of Russian Life_, by Tchekoff. - -_Selected Essays of Alice Meynell._ - -_Second Nights_, by Arthur Ruhl. - - --Scribner. - -_Stories of Red Hanrahan_, by William Butler Yeats. - -_The Tragedy of Pompey_, by John Masefield. - -_Chitra_, by Rabindranath Tagore. - -_The Possessed_, by Dostoevsky. - -_The Flight and Other Poems_, by George E. Woodberry. - - --Macmillan. - -_When Ghost Meets Ghost_, by William De Morgan. - -_Nowadays_, by George Middleton. - -_Angel Island_, by Inez Haynes Gillmore. - -_Euripides and His Age_, by Gilbert Murray. - -_Social Insurance_, by I. M. Rubinow. - - --Holt. - -_The World Set Free_, by H. G. Wells. - -_The Way of All Flesh_, by Samuel Butler (new edition). - -_Wagner as Man and Artist_, by Ernest Newman. - -_The Philosophy of Ruskin_, by Andre Chevrillon. - - --Dutton. - -_Little Essays in Literature and Life_, by Richard Burton. - -_Beaumont, the Dramatist_, by Charles M. Gayley. - -_Arthur Rackham's Book of Pictures._ - -_Prostitution in Europe_, by Abraham Flexner. - - --Century. - -_The Poems of Francois Villon._ - -_Knave of Hearts_, by Arthur Symons. - -_Essays of Francis Grierson_ (new editions). - -_The Fortunate Youth_, by William J. Locke. - - --Lane. - -_The Making of an Englishman_, by W. L. George. - -_The Truth About Women_, by C. Gasquoine Hartley. - - --Dodd, Mead. - -_Our Friend, John Burroughs_, by Clara Barrus. - -_Paul Verlaine_, by Wilfred Thorley. - -_The Japanese Empire_, by T. Philip Terry. - - --Houghton Mifflin. - -_Knowledge and Life_, by Rudolf Eucken. - -_The Science of Happiness_, by Jean Finot. - - --Putnam. - -_Florian Mayr_, by Baron von Wolzogen. - -_Socialism and Motherhood_, by John Spargo. - - --Huebsch. - -_Richard Wagner_, by Oliver Huckel. - -_The Education of Karl Witte_, translated by Leo Wiener. - - --Crowell. - -_Crowds, Jr._, by Gerald Stanley Lee. - -_A Thousand Years Ago_, by Percy MacKaye. - - --Doubleday. - -_The Masque of Saint Louis_, by Percy MacKaye. - - --Stokes. - -_Old Mole_, by Gilbert Cannan. - - --Appleton. - -_Poems_, by Brian Hooker. - - --Yale University. - -_The Clean Heart_, by M. A. Hutchinson. - - --Little, Brown. - - - - - Some Scribner Spring Books - - - Notes of a Son and Brother - - By HENRY JAMES - - _Illustrated, $2.50 net; postage extra_ - - This is the continuation of the account, in "A Small Boy and - Others," of the early years of William and Henry James and their - brothers, with much about their father and their friends. The - story of the life in Switzerland and Geneva, and later on in - Newport and Cambridge, tells not only their own experiences but a - great deal about such men as John LaFarge, Hunt, Professor - Norton, Professor Childs, and Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was a - close friend of Henry James, Senior. The description of the Civil - War time and of Wilkinson James's experiences with Colonel Shaw's - colored regiment are particularly interesting. The illustrations - are from drawings made by William James in the early part of his - career when he was studying to be a painter. - - Shallow Soil - - By KNUT HAMSUN - - _Translated from the Norwegian by Carl Chr. Hyllested. - $1.35 net; postage extra_ - - Introduces to the English-speaking world a writer already a - classic not only in his own country but throughout continental - Europe. - - The publication of "Shallow Soil" is accordingly a literary event - of the first magnitude in the sphere of fiction. Hamsun is the - greatest living Scandinavian novelist and this work alone - justifies his fame. It is a social picture of Christiania, and - indeed of generally modern life. - - A Village Romeo and Juliet - - By GOTTFRIED KELLER - - _With a Biographical and Critical Introduction by Edith - Wharton. Translated by A. C. 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Most of the scenes are laid in the big - out-of-doors; it fairly breathes the spirit of the open. It is - swift in movement, full of constant surprises, unusual - situations, bright and witty in dialogue; through it all runs an - absorbing romance deftly woven. Diane of the Green Van is - wholesome and clean--with stirring action and striking drama. - It's a big fine story! - - Standard novel size; 440 pages. Handsome cloth binding, - stamped in gold; characteristic jacket printed in four colors; - delightful illustrations in colortone by REGINALD BIRCH. - - At All Dealers--Price $1.35 Net - - Publishers *Reilly & Britton* Chicago - - - - - Transcriber's Notes - - -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. Further corrections are listed here -(before/after): - - [p. 28]: - ... and intimate 'co-operation between her ... - ... an intimate 'co-operation between her ... - - [p. 31]: - ... healthy!" Of course there is a number ... - ... healthy!" Of course there are a number ... - - [p. 32]: - ... definite heaven. It is impossible to imaging ... - ... definite heaven. It is impossible to imagine ... - - [p. 34]: - ... (and there seems to be a lot of them) can ... - ... (and there seem to be a lot of them) can ... - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Little Review, March 1914 (Vol. 1, -No. 1), by Various - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, MARCH *** - -***** This file should be named 60402.txt or 60402.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/0/4/0/60402/ - -Produced by Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. 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