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diff --git a/old/66054-0.txt b/old/66054-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b7a3c46..0000000 --- a/old/66054-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3548 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, April 1915 (Vol. 2, -No. 2), by Margaret C. Anderson - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Little Review, April 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 2) - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: August 13, 2021 [eBook #66054] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images - made available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and - Tulsa Universities. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, APRIL 1915 -(VOL. 2, NO. 2) *** - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - _Literature_ _Drama_ _Music_ _Art_ - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - APRIL, 1915 - - Etchings (Not to Be Read Aloud) William Saphier - Mr. Comstock and the Resourceful Police Margaret C. Anderson - Wild Songs Skipwith Cannéll - The Poetry of Paul Fort Richard Aldington - The Subman Alexander S. Kaun - Hunger George Franklin - Poems David O’Neil - Musik or Music? James Whittaker - The Critics’ Catastrophe Herman Schuchert - A Shorn Strindberg Marguerite Swawite - Vers Libre and Advertisements John Gould Fletcher - Extreme Unction Mary Aldis - The Schoolmaster George Burman Foster - My Friend, the Incurable Ibn Gabirol - Gabrilowitsch and the New Standard M. C. A. - Bauer and Casals Herman Schuchert - Book Discussion - John Cowper Powys on Henry James - The Reader Critic - - Published Monthly - - 15 cents a copy - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher - Fine Arts Building - CHICAGO - - $1.50 a year - - Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Vol. II - - APRIL, 1915 - - No. 2 - - Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson - - - - - Etchings Not to Be Read Aloud - - - WILLIAM SAPHIER - - - LIGHTS IN FOG - - Weak sparkling assertions - In an opal, opaque atmosphere - Sharp suffering and - Kindly whispering eyes - In a wan, olive grey face. - - You mean all to a few - And nothing to the rest. - - - THE OLD PRIZE FIGHTER - - A rosy, I-dare-you nose - On a twisted steel-trellice face, - Just some knotty lumber - Without a hint of flower or fruit. - - You tingled many a passion, - But never a single soul. - - - - - Mr. Comstock and the Resourceful Police - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -I want to write about so many things this time that I don’t know where -to begin. At first I had planned to do five or six pages on the crime of -musical criticism in this country—particularly as focused in the -critics’ antics with Scriabin’s beautiful _Prometheus_ recently played -by the Chicago Symphony. Truly that was an opportunity for the American -music critic! He could be as righteously bourgeois as he wished and his -readers would credit him with “sanity” and a clear vision; or he could -be as ignorantly facetious as he wished and increase his reputation for -wit. It didn’t occur to him that there might be something wrong with his -imagination rather than with Scriabin’s art. How exciting it would be to -find a music critic whose auditory nerves were as sensitive as his -visual or gustatory nerves! Surely it’s not asking too much of people -engaged in the business of sound that they be able not only to listen -but to hear. Well ... there were many other matters I wanted to write -of: For instance, the absurdity of our music schools; the pest of -writers who begin their sentences “But, however,”; the so-far unnoticed -strength of _Sanin_; the fault with George Middleton’s _Criminals_; the -antics of the Drama League; the stunning things in _The Egoist_; -exaggeration as a possible basis of art; the supremacy of Form; the -undefinable standard of those of us who hate standardizations, etc., -etc. But for the moment I have found something more important to talk -about: Mr. Anthony Comstock. - -Of course there is nothing new to say about him—and nothing awful -enough. The best thing I’ve heard lately is this: “Anthony Comstock not -only doesn’t know anything, but he doesn’t suspect anything.” Francis -Hackett can write about Billy Sunday and resist the temptation of -invective. Perhaps he’s too much an artist to feel the temptation. I -wonder if he could do the same about Anthony Comstock. Certainly I -can’t. Even the thought of Billy Sunday’s mammoth sentimentalizations -and the 35,135 people who, according to the last reports, had been -soothed thereby, fills me with shudders of hopelessness for the eventual -education of men. And the thought of Anthony Comstock is ten times more -horrible. His latest outrage is well-known by this time—his arrest of -William Sanger for giving to a Comstock detective a copy of Mrs. -Sanger’s pamphlet, _Family Limitation_. The charge was “circulating -obscene literature.” I have seen that pamphlet, read it carefully, and -given it to all the people I know well enough to be sure they are not -Comstock detectives. There is not an obscene word in it, naturally. -Margaret Sanger couldn’t be obscene—she’s a gentle, serious, -well-informed woman writing in a way that any high-minded physician -might. I have also seen her pamphlet called _English Methods of Birth -Control_, which practically duplicates the leaflet (_Hygienic Methods of -Family Limitation_) adopted by the Malthusian League of England and is -sent “to all persons married or about to be married, who apply for it, -in all countries of the world, except to applicants from the United -States of America, where the Postal Laws will not allow of its -delivery.” These pamphlets tell in simple language all the known methods -for the prevention of conception—methods practised everywhere by the -educated and the rich and unknown only to the poor and the ignorant who -need such knowledge most. Mrs. Sanger says in her preface: “Today, in -nearly all countries of the world, most educated people practise some -method of limiting their offspring. Educated people are usually able to -discuss at leisure the question of contraceptives with the professional -men and women of their class, and benefit by the knowledge which science -has advanced. The information which this class obtains is usually clean -and harmless. In these same countries, however, there is a larger number -of people who are kept in ignorance of this knowledge: it is said by -physicians who work among these people that as soon as a woman rises out -of the lowest stages of ignorance and poverty, her first step is to seek -information of some practical means to limit her family. Everywhere the -woman of this class seeks for knowledge on this subject. Seldom can she -find it, because the medical profession refuses to give it, and because -she comes in daily contact with those only who are as ignorant as -herself of the subject. The consequence is, she must accept the stray -bits of information given by neighbors, relatives, and friends, gathered -from sources wholly unreliable and uninformed. She is forced to try -everything and take anything, with the result that quackery thrives on -her innocence and ignorance is perpetuated.” - -The result of this propaganda was Margaret Sanger’s arrest last fall. -I’ve forgotten the various steps by which “that blind, heavy, stupid -thing we call government” came to its lumbering decision that she ought -to spend ten or fifteen years in jail for her efforts to spread this -knowledge. But Mrs. Sanger left the country—thank heaven! However, I -understand that when she has finished her work of making these pamphlets -known she means to come back and face the imprisonment. I pray she -doesn’t mean anything of the kind. Why should she go to jail for ten -years because we haven’t suppressed Anthony Comstock? Last year his -literary supervision was given its first serious jolt when Mitchel -Kennerley won the _Hagar Revelly_ suit. But that was not nearly so -important as the present issue, because _Hagar Revelly_ was rather -negative literature and birth control is one of the milestones by which -civilization will measure its progress. The science of eugenics has -always seemed to me fundamentally a sentimentalization—something that a -man might have conceived in the frame of mind Stevenson was in when he -wrote _Olalla_. Because there is no such thing, really, as the -scientific restriction of love and passion. These things don’t belong in -the realm of science any more than one’s reactions to a sunrise do. But -the restriction of the birth-rate does belong there, and science should -make this one of its big battles. Many people who used to believe that -love was only a means to an end, that procreation was the only -justification for cohabitation, now realize that if there is any force -in the world that doesn’t _need justification_ it is love. And these -people are the ones who refuse to bring children into the world unless -they can be born free of disease and stand a chance of being fed and -educated and loved. Havelock Ellis sums it up well: “In order to do away -with the need for abortion, and to counteract the propaganda in its -favor, our main reliance must be placed, on the one hand, on increased -foresight in the determination of conception and increased knowledge of -the means for preventing conception; and on the other hand, on a better -provision by the State for the care of pregnant women, married and -unmarried alike, and a practical recognition of the qualified mother’s -claim on society. There can be no doubt that in many a charge of -criminal abortion the real offence lies at the door of those who failed -to exercise their social and professional duty of making known the more -natural and harmless methods for preventing conception, or else by their -social attitude have made the pregnant woman’s position intolerable.” - -But the immediate concern is William Sanger and his trial, which is to -take place some time in April, I believe. His friends are trying to -raise $500 for legal expenses, and contributions may be sent to Leonard -D. Abbott, President of the Free Speech League, 241 East 201st Street, -New York City; to the Sanger Fund, _The Masses_ Publishing Company, 87 -Greenwich Avenue, New York City; to _Mother Earth_, 20 East 125th -Street, New York City, or to _The Little Review_. - - * * * * * - -Another thing that must not be forgotten is the “dramatic” attempt to -blow up St. Patrick’s Cathedral last month, and all the deep plots to -destroy the rich men of that city—what was it the headlines said? -Everybody of normal intelligence who read those headlines suspected a -police frame-up—which it proved to be. The psychology of the police is -something I don’t understand, let alone being able to write about it so -that any one else will understand. So I will quote the story of this -quite unbelievable crime—police crime, I mean—as it appeared in _The -Masses_. (_The Masses_, by the way, is one of the magazines -indispensable to the living of an intelligent life). The story is called -“Putting One over on Woods”: - - When Commissioner Woods took office as head of the New York - police force a year ago, he brought with him some enlightened - ideas about the relation of the police to the public. A week - before a meeting had been held at Union Square which by police - interference had been turned into a bloody riot. A week later - another Union Square meeting took place, with the police under - orders to “let them talk.” The meeting passed off peaceably. - - Thus the enlightened views of the new commissioner of police were - vindicated. The right of free speech, and of free opinion, was - conceded as not being a menace to civilization. - - But a police force which is enabled to exist and enjoy its - peculiar privileges by virtue of protecting the public against - imaginary dangers, could not see its position undermined in this - way. It was necessary to persuade the public that Socialists, - Anarchists, and I. W. W.’s were plotting murder and destruction. - The public was prone to accept this melodramatic view, but - Commissioner Woods, being an intelligent man, was inclined to be - cynical. So it became necessary to “put one over on Woods.” - - They framed it up in the regular police fashion. A clever young - Italian detective named Pulignano, it appears from the evidence, - was promised a raise of salary and a medal if he would engineer a - bomb-plot. Pulignano got hold of two Italian boys—not anarchists - or socialists, but religious fanatics—and urged them on to blow - up St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He planned the deed, bought the - materials of destruction for them, and shamed them when they - wanted to pull out of the plot the night before. The next - morning, at great risk to an innocent public, the bomb was - carried into the cathedral, _lighted_, and then the dozens of - policemen and detectives, disguised as scrubwomen, etc., rushed - in to save civilization. - - And Woods fell for it. He swallowed the whole sensational - business. They have got him. He is their dupe, and henceforth - their faithful tool. - - Reaction is in the saddle. “All radicals to be expelled from the - city,” says a headline. A card catalogue of I. W. W. - sympathizers. Socialism under the official ban. Free speech - doomed. - - So they hope. At the least it means that the fight has for the - lovers of liberty begun again. But one wonders a little about - Arthur Woods. He is on their side now—the apologist of as - infamous and criminal an _agent provocateur_ as ever sent a - foolish boy to the gallows. But will Woods fail to see how he has - been used by the police in this latest attempt to crush freedom - in the interest of a privileged group? Is he as much a fool as - they think? - -Giovannitti’s Italian magazine, _Il Fuoco_, states that the bomb was -made of caps and gravel—the kind of thing children use on the fourth of -July. I know that _Mother Earth_ has started a fund to prevent the two -boys from being railroaded. Will there never be an end of these ghastly -things?... - - - As too much light may blind the vision, so too much intellect may - hinder the understanding. - - —_Romain Rolland._ - - - - - Wild Songs - - - (_From “Monoliths”_) - - SKIPWITH CANNELL - - - IN THE FOREST - - I am not alone, for there are eyes - Stealthy and curious, - And they turn to me. - I will shout loudly to the forest, - I will shout and with a sob - Griping my throat I will cower - Quickly - Beneath my cloak. - - For the old gods stand silently - Behind the silent trees, - And when I shout they step forth - And I dare not - Look upon their faces. - - - THE FLOOD TIDE - - The red in me - Lives too near my throat. - My heart is choked with blood, - And a rage drives it upward - As the moon drags the flood tide - Raging - Across the marshes. - - I will dance - Somberly, - In a ritual - Terrible and soothing; - I will dance that I may not - Tear out his throat - In murder. - - - THE DANCE - - With wide flung arms, - With feet clinging to the earth - I will dance. - My breath sobs in my belly - For an old sorrow that has put out the sun, - An old, furious sorrow ... - - I will grin, - I will bare my gums and grin - Like a grey wolf who has come upon a bear. - - - - - The Poetry of Paul Fort - - - RICHARD ALDINGTON - -It is said that there are only three honors in the world really worth -accepting. The first is that of Pope of Rome, the second Prime Minister -of England and the third Prince des Poètes. Monsieur Paul Fort is Prince -des poètes, a sort of unofficial title conferred upon him by the -affection and admiration of the young poets of Paris. Paul Verlaine, -Stephen Mallarmé and Leon Dierx were M. Fort’s successors, and in the -ballot which took place when he was elected M. Henry de Régnier was an -excellent second. - -Paul Fort is indeed a prince of poets, the essence and the type of the -poetic personality, princely in the extraordinary generosity with which -he scatters largess of poetry and princely in his disdain for any -occupation but that of poet. If I were king of England I believe I would -ask Paul Fort to be my Prime Minister, but he would refuse, for he has a -better and more interesting kingdom of his own. He should have been -Grand Vizier to Haroun-al-Raschid, and when the Sultan went to war or to -love, when he was idle or busy, vainglorious or craven, happy or sad, -wanton or grave, M. Fort, Grand Vizier, would have made a poem to -express or correct the Sultan’s mood. - -Critics are fond of making epigrams on Paul Fort. They say he is “genius -pure and simple”; that he has a nature continually active and awake. It -would be simpler to say he is a poet. Everything he lives, everything he -sees, everything he hears or smells or touches or experiences is matter -for poetry. Everything from Louis XI. to the “joli crottin d’or” goes -into his varied subtle rhythms. He is the only living poet who can -gracefully introduce his own name into a poem without appearing -ridiculous. He is continually interested in himself and notes with -pleasure the interest of others: - - “Cinq, six, sept, huit enfants me suivent très curieux du long - nez éclairant la cape au noir velours, ‘de ce monsieur tombé de - la lune, avec des yeux de merlan frit!’ dit l’un d’entre eux.” - -He writes that in the midst of a poem describing a visit to the village -of Coucy-le-Chateau. I have no doubt thousands of other people have been -to Coucy-le-Chateau, among them many poets, but Paul Fort is the first -to make a poem of it: - - Les sires d’autrefois portaient: _Fascé de vair et de - gueules._ Pour supports: _deux lions d’or_. Au cimier: _un - lion issu du même_. — Or voici que, premier, notre gai - souverain, missire le soleil, - porte un écu vivant! “_Sur champ de vert gazon_, Paul Fort couché - près d’une amoureuse Suzon mêle distraitement cent douze - violettes à sa barbe, et Suzon rêve sous sa voilette.” - -There you have the “familiar style” over which so many gallons of ink -have been shed. Observe how perfectly naturally the author speaks of -“Paul Fort”; can you hear Tennyson doing it, or Keats or Francis -Thompson or the disciples of Brunetière? One might make a pleasant -little literary sketch on poets who possess the familiar style to the -extent of using their own names in their verse. Thus, that admirable -man, Browning: - - And Robert Browning, you writer of plays, - Here’s a subject made to your hand. - -And old Walt: - - I, Walt Whitman, a Cosmos, turbulent, fleshly, sensual, - Eating, drinking and breeding. - -It is, at least, agreeable to find poets who consider themselves as -human beings instead of very inflated, somewhat simian demi-gods. Better -a thousand times have desperate vulgarity than the New England pose au -Longfellow and Emerson, or the still more horrible old England pose au -Wordsworth, Tennyson, Shelley. Heaven preserve me from saying M. Fort is -vulgar, but if to hate pomposity and moral pretentiousness be vulgar, -then let us be vulgar, as M. Fort is. Better be obscene than a ninny. - -Those who have not read M. Fort’s work and who suspect from the -foregoing quotations that he is really a prose writer impudently palming -off his productions as “sweet poesy,” are asked to read the following -poem with attention: - - - LA RONDE - - Si toutes les filles du monde voulaient s’ donner la main, - tout autour de la mer - elles pourraient faire une ronde. - - Si tous les gars du monde voulaient bien êtr’ marins, ils - f’raient avec leurs - barques un joli pont sur l’onde. - - Alors on pourrait faire une ronde autour du monde, si tous les - gens du monde - voulaient s’ donner la main. - -That is said, I don’t know with what truth, to be the most popular of M. -Fort’s poems. It certainly was, I am told, in everybody’s mouth in Paris -when it was first published—rather as _Dolores_ was in London in the -sixties. The cadence of the poem is, of course, obvious and marked, as -it should be in a “chanson.” It is rather a good poem to start on, as M. -Fort’s way of printing rhymed and accented verse as prose is there -forcibly exemplified. M. Fort has not abandoned the Alexandrine; but he -is not its slave. Confident in his theory that most poetry is a matter -of typography he writes rhymed alexandrines, rhymed vers libres and -rhymed and unrhymed prose in exactly the same manner; the effect is -curious and charming. It is of course not the very commonplace device of -daily newspapers when they want to be funny, but a genuine artistic -principle. The effect is very different from that received from a -perusal of tedious quatrains written as prose; in the latter case one is -disgusted immediately, knowing that no man, not even a paid journalist, -is such a fool as to write such stuff in prose; in M. Fort’s case the -typographical arrangement prevents the ear becoming fatigued with the -stressed rhymes of linear verse and at the same time gives a richness to -the apparent prose that no real prose possesses. - -For example, this quotation from the Roman de Louis XI., one of Paul -Fort’s finest poem-novels. - - Comtes, barons, chevaliers, capitaines, tous gentilshommes de - grand façon, et le plus fier, le plus grand, le plus beau, - Charles de Charolais, qui les dépassait tous, entrèrent un beau - matin d’azur pure et de cloches, dans Rouen, la bonne ville, et - c’était doux plaisir de voir briller les casques, les cuirasses - et les housses; les belles housses, de fin drap d’or étaient, et - d’autres de velours, fourrées de pennes d’hermine, et d’autres de - damas, fourrées de zibeline, et d’autres, qui coûtaient moult - cher, d’orfèvrerie; et c’était doux plaisir de voir courir les - pages, les beaux jeunes enfants bien richement vêtus, et le voir - danser, devant les personnages, des hommes en sauvages et de - belles femmes nues, et sautiller autour des chevaux, en cadence, - des nains rouges, roses, verts, et des filles en bergère, et de - voir flotter aux toits les étandards bleus, semés de feux d’or, - rouges, avec un lion noir, qui se mêlaient avec les bannières - toutes blanches, et de voir venir de la cathédrale, sur le - parvis, le clergé violet, venir à la rencontre du roi Louis le - pâle, que représentait un si beau comte, et le ciel bleu passait - dans les clochers à jour, toutes les cloches battaient, de joie - ou de douleur, que les crosses luisaient! que les lances étaient - belles!... et c’était doux plaisir d’aller voir les fontaines - jeter vin, hypocras, dont chacun buvait; et y avait encore trois - belles sirènes, nues sur une estrade, comme Ève au paradis, et - jouaient d’instruments doux, jolis et graves, qui rendaient de - suaves et grandes mélodies; et c’étaient sur le grand pont, sur - la Seine, écuyers lâchant oisels peints en bleu, et dans toute la - ville c’étaient moult plaisances, dont le tout avait coûté moult - finance. - -I quote that long passage in full to give a clear notion of M. Fort’s -extraordinary fertility and precision in description. It is better than -Hugo’s descriptions in _Notre Dame de Paris_, chiefly because it is more -natural and familiar. - -In this little article I have barely touched the rim of Paul Fort’s -work. He is prodigious; he is not one poet, he is twelve, a whole school -of poets; he is his own disciples, for none dares to imitate him, just -as none dares to imitate Browning. He is the poet who has written -everything: Chansons, Romans, Petites Epopées, Lieds, Elégies, Hymnes, -Hymnes Héroiques, Eglogues et Idylles, Chants Paniques, Poèmes Marins, -Odes et Odelettes, Fantaisies à la Gauloise, Complaintes et Dits, -Madrigaux et Romances, Epigrammes à Moi-même. If he has not written -plays, he has been a theater director, producing work which delighted -literary Paris and annoyed the “boulevardiers”—this at a fabulously -early age. - -It may interest some readers to know what M. Fort has been doing since -the war. He is an inhabitant of Rheims, born opposite the beautiful -“cathédrale assassinée”; and he sits in a room at 125 Boulevard St. -Germain writing, writing, poems against the invading Germans, poems to -cheer on his heroic countrymen, poems mourning friends fallen on the -battlefield, poems against H. I. M. the Kaiser, against the Prussian -officers, against the “Monstrueux général baron von Plattenberg” -(commanding the army which bombarded Rheims), poems to the English, to -Joffre, and on the Battle of the Marne. The odd thing is that they are -so good. I quote this one, from national vanity: - - - LA MANIERE[1] - - ON meurt: l’Anglais s’élance et le Français le suit.... Il - bondit, le Français!... L’Anglais court apres lui.... L’Anglais - vif le rattrape. Qui, c’est même vaillance. Il me revient un mot, - la fleur des mots guerriers. L’Anglais stoppe, et avec une grâce - de France: “Messieurs de France, à vous de tirer les premiers.” - - [1] This poem is printed by permission of M. Fort, from his - periodical, “Poèmes de France,” published fortnightly at 25 - centimes the number, 125 Boulevard St. Germain, Paris. - - - - - The Subman - - -Life and Literature in Russia are interdependent forces to such a degree -that in approaching a phenomenon, whether in book-form or in reality, we -can hardly discern the line of demarcation between cause and effect. If -it is true that a number of Russian writers have mirrored actual life in -their works, it is more significantly true that many powerful authors -have influenced life and have moulded it in accordance with their views -and ideas. And it is to be noticed that the less artistic the writers -have been, the more obvious has been their tendency to preach and -sermonize, the stronger their influence upon the young minds; more than -Gogol and Dostoyevsky have such second-rate writers as Chernyshevsky and -Stepnyak succeeded in shaping the creeds of their readers. We must -remember that literature in Russia, although gagged by bigoted -censorship, has been the only medium for expressing and moulding public -opinion throughout the past century, and to a great extent this holds -true to our very day. Revolutionism, terrorism, socialism, have been -propagated through the mouths of novel heroes and heroines for the -ardent emulation of the seeking susceptible youth. - -The furor produced in Russia by the appearance of Artzibashev’s _Sanin_ -some eight years ago has had no parallel even in that country, where a -new word in belles-lettres has always taken on the significance of a -national event. The importance of this novel is partly due to -chronological circumstances—the fact that it came as a luring will o’ -the wisp in the post-revolutionary gloom of Russian life. The young -generation was on the verge of despondency; the collapse of the -Revolution brought to nought the long struggle, the thousands of -sacrificed lives, the high aspirations; the Constitution, which had been -the ideal of generations, the religion of all pure-minded Russia, had -degenerated into a mocking buffonade, the subservient Duma. At such a -time Artzibashev steps forward offering the disillusioned youth a new -type—the strong, sane Sanin, who derides the altruistic strivings of his -compatriots and advocates simple animalistic life, sans principles, sans -standards, with the sole aim of satisfying one’s impulses. So strong and -timely was the appeal that it immediately created a large following; -clubs and societies were formed for the promulgation of the new -religion, Sanin’s ideas were hotly discussed from the lecture platform -and in the press—in short, such a formidable movement burst forth that -the government, which has usually welcomed any sign of deviation from -revolutionary thought, became alarmed and withdrew the book from -circulation. - -But the importance of _Sanin_ has been far more than local. In Germany -it was translated and even dramatized, and has created a literature. -Even France, oversatiated with pornography, was for a moment stirred at -the appearance of the sensational novel, until a new scandal captured -the limelight. Finally, with the customary Anglo-Saxon retardation, we -have the book in English.[2] The universality of Artzibashev’s appeal is -thus evident, and the question arises: What is the underlying force that -makes the book arouse interest, admiration, and indignation in various -tongues and countries? To my mind, this is the answer: The author, a -typical representative of our age, has performed a purely subjective, -introspective study—hence he has voiced the ideas of his contemporaries, -hence he is so readily understood and appreciated by the children of our -civilization. - -Francis Hackett, who, when he writes on books, has no equal in this -country, has remarked with his usual insight: “It is plain that for -himself Artzibashev has made not a man, but a hero, a god.” To this true -statement I wish to add that when we humans erect a god, we endow him -with those qualities and virtues which we ourselves lack, which to us -are but unattainable desiderata. Artzibashev glorifies Sanin because he -himself is Sanin’s antipode, the whining, impotent Yourii, whom he -paints with obvious disgust. This is no sheer presumption; I have -followed the author’s career since his early short stories written in a -Tolstoyan, idealistic vein, where he revealed a restless, -self-questioning, self-analyzing spirit of the sort that he -caricaturizes in Yourii: “Perpetual sighing and groaning, or incessant -questionings such as ‘I sneezed just now. Was that the right thing to -do? Will it not cause harm to some one? Have I, in sneezing, fulfilled -my destiny?’” But the idealist-Artzibashev-Yourii lived not in the -clouds, but in the midst of the St. Petersburg Bohème, with the decadent -crowd of the restaurant “Vienna”—a life of questionable virtuousness and -of dubious hygiene. He conceived the idea of _Sanin_ when he had become -almost a physical wreck, forced to spend his time, when not in “Vienna,” -in a resort in Crimea. Incapable of enjoying carnal life any longer, yet -morbidly craving to empty the cup of sensuous pleasures to the dregs, he -creates for himself a fetish, an ideal male, stripped of all human -weaknesses, doubtings, and questionings, free of all principles but the -principle of professing no principles, living to the full the life of a -healthy animal. - -In order to accentuate the superiority of his god, Sanin, the author -surrounds him with sentimental weaklings, vegetating in a small -provincial town, engaged in petty philosophizing and whimpering, bored -with one another and with the general ennui of their life, aimlessly -pining, striving purposelessly. In such a setting the figure of Sanin -naturally looms up as the least boring individual. But try to transfer -the hero from this stage of marionettes into real Russian, or, for that -matter, into any life full of struggle and love and passion, and what a -platitudinous, uninteresting figure he will make! In what he says is -nothing strikingly new; his discourses on Christianity or on morality -could have been borrowed from any modern rank-and-file radical. As to -what he does—well, it is zoology. A witty critic has endeavored to pin -to him the label of Superman; what an insult for our hero, who after a -feast of vodka, cucumbers, and cheap cigarettes, “undressed and got into -bed, where he tried to read _Thus spake Zarathustra_ which he found -among Lida’s books” (an interesting detail about the intellectual status -of the provincials who read Ibsen, Hamsun, Nietzsche). “But the first -few pages were enough to irritate him. Such inflated imagery left him -unmoved. He spat, flung the volume aside, and soon fell fast asleep.” - -Artzibashev is obviously an erotomaniac. His men and women think of one -another only in sexual terms, dream of possessing and being possessed. -Broad shoulders, strong muscles, intense virility; ample bosoms, swaying -hips, supple bodies—these are the _ne plus ultra_ attractions of his -heroes and heroines. Even nature appears to his characters through a -pathological prism; under the influence of moonlight or sunshine they -dream of nude bodies, white limbs, yielding mates. - -I repeat my statement: _Sanin_, or rather Artzibashev, is typical of his -age—the age of the oversatiated enervated urbanite, the age of -civilization overdeveloped at the expense of culture. You see them in -the big cities (perhaps to a lesser degree in this young country), on -the streets, among society, among professionals—those over-ripe men and -women whose senses have become dull, who are driven by ennui and -imbecility to seek the piquant, the bestial, the “healthy.” But the true -healthy men and women do not talk health, sex, muscles, virility, for as -long as our natural faculties are sound we are hardly aware of them. The -healthy, those who are pulsating with life, strive to surpass -themselves, strive towards the Superman; it is the pathological, the -incapacitated, the withered, who impotently yearn for a retrogradation -towards the Subman-Sanin. - - [2] _Sanine, by Michael Artzibashef._ [_B. W. Huebsch, New - York._] - - There is hardly any danger of the book being persecuted by - Anthony Comstock, for whatever pernicious influence it might have - had has been splendidly neutralized through the wretched - translation which evidently was rendered from the French version, - in its turn a poor translation from the German; this - explains—does it justify—the cosmopolitan transliteration of the - proper names and the numerous nonsensical errors. The publisher - threatens to present the public with Artzibashev’s _Millionaire_; - let us hope that this time the author will be spared the - atrocious mutilation by the hands of the humoristic Percy - Pinkerton. - - - - - Hunger - - - GEORGE FRANKLIN - -The moment seems due. Fashion had better take care. Beggars can spit -very venomously. Weird-looking jumbles of bones in rags are leering and -grinning, jostling and hustling very defiantly. Men are blowing their -noses on doorsteps and wearing their hats in church. Hunger is no more -passive. Time comes, and with it the fulfillment of every destiny -prophesied by a fact. Hunger is sickly till Frenzy quickens it. Hunger -has no brain, and does not consider. It curses and swears, is blear-eyed -and croaks. It sneers, mocks, jeers, coughs. It spits and throws filth -on fine linen. It pours out from cesspool haunts and stinks out the most -respectable of neighborhoods. Hunger has no morality—is devoid of all -shame. In highest moods hungry knaves will hurl stones, smash windows, -pinch, eat, drink, tear down altars, stretch the necks of the -Respectable between the head and the shoulders, use guns, laugh, grin, -joke, mock, stick grass in mouths of their victims, use pikes, uproot -bastiles, and without ceremony lop off heads with every consecutive -second of the clock. Hunger startles the world from its slumber, with a -shock. Beware, Friends! Hunger is lynx-eyed and sees behind every fact. -It sniffs and can smell out anything suspicious. Hunger will hurt no man -except he smell or look a little of Tyranny. Does Tyranny wear a -powdered wig, talk good French and say “Monsieur”—Hunger looks, sniffs, -finds it, and sends its head rolling into a bushel basket. Does it look -like a New York banker, have crease in pants, talk grammatical English, -wear gold chain, wipe nose with clean handkerchief, wear feathered -plumes and fashionable gowns—Hunger noses it out and despatches it -without delay. Respectability with its disdain; Education with its -stupidity; Fashion with its vanity; Wealth with its luxury; all exhale -the same odor to the sniffings of Hunger. When Hunger sniffs, it is time -for Fashion to drape itself in rags and give to its body a smell of -dung. If Hunger cannot taste food, it will drink blood. There is only -one passion stronger than Love—Hatred. Love will Sacrifice, but Hatred -will live, though it torture the world with all the machinations of -hell. Hatred and Hunger are dogs of the same kennel.... Hunger Hounds, -starved, snarling, bloodshot eyes, fangs bared, straining at their -chains—Friends, Beware!... Hunger—lean, bony, naked, and grimy—with -talons and claws. Hunger with fever and mad. Hunger goaded. Hunger -grinning. Hunger in consort with Death. Hunger—hideous, impalpable. -Hunger that cannot die. Hunger, blood-smeared, ghastly, and sallow, with -rotting teeth. Hunger that spits and leers. Hunger—devilish nightmare to -all Tyrannies. Hunger, the fiendish torment of all Fashions and -Respectabilities. Hunger without Reason—mad and demoniac. Hunger! -Hunger! Hunger! Hunger! Friends, Beware! The moment seems due. Time will -fulfill the destiny of a Fact. - - - To follow the impulses of my heart is my supreme law; what I can - accomplish by obeying my instincts, is what I ought to do. Is - that voice of instinct cursed or blessed? I do not know; but I - yield to it, and never force myself to run counter to my - inclination. - - —_Richard Wagner._ - - - - - Poems - - - DAVID O’NEIL - - - APATHY - - The bodies of soldiers - Come floating down the river - To the green sea, - Rich in amber, - Waiting to embalm them; - All is splendid silence - In this pageantry of wanton glory - Awed - By the setting sun. - - - ONE WAY OUT - - In this terror of blood-spilling lust, - Why throw it in a ditch, - This boy’s beautiful body, - When his spirit might rise like steam from the soup - And stir the live ones to vengeance? - Disease will deter you? - Ah, but boil it well - And the thought will give it a spice. - Cannibalism, you say? - Why stop when you have gone so far? - He that died - Would rather his body - Gave life to his fellows, - Than be trampled over, - Shot over, - Shoveled like offal away. - Why throw it in a ditch? - - - VICTORY - - I see captured shot-rent flags - Dancing with the wind, - Flying high to glory. - Why not anchor them - With a pyramid of bones, - Those of our own men? - It would tell - Of the price that was paid - To have these flags here, - Whipping in the wind. - - - OUR SON JACK - - Our son Jack, - Wild with life, - Went through - When law and nature - Said, “Go around.” - Thus he died. - - - THE OAK - - Gaunt, - Stripped of leaves, - Death-defiant, - Yet triumphant - In this thought: - There is nothing more to lose. - - - MOODS AND MOMENTS - - - I. - - In dreams - I have been swept through space - On a star-hung swing, - Like a silkworm - Upheld by a slender strand, - Tossed about in the gale. - - - II. - - His life was well ordered - And monotonously clean - As an orchard with white-washed trees. - But he felt not the cool - Of the sun-splotched woods - Nor the mad blue brilliance - Of the sea. - - - III. - - I see green fields - In the first flush of the spring, - And little children playing, - Clustered as patches of white flowers. - - - - - Musik or Music? - - - JAMES WHITTAKER - -Despite its two world-cities our America is still a vast unattached -province, subject now to the influence of London, now to that of Berlin -or Paris, and again in a period of disaffection and unrestraint. Our -taste is childish,—a capricious, intermittent taste—good once in a -while, never lasting, and by no means frequent. Such a taste gives a few -pleasures but not the developed one of judgment. It never lasts long -enough to be imposed. We are unable to pair two congenial traditions and -get a tendency. There is nothing for it but to welcome another -generation of incomprehensible foreigners in the hope that among them -will be found a mate for our very real desire for fine things. - -One country has sent us little inspiration. Her natives do not willingly -leave her soft sky for our harsh brilliant western sun. They have a -proverbial preference for her gentle manner and speech. For our youth -she has the admiration and envy of age, for our red knuckles and large -ankles she has the indulgence of one who has been beautiful for many -lovers, but for our loud-mouthed demand for adulation she has the -aloofness of one who has still many courtiers. If we go fearfully as -befits our youth and humbly as befits our awkwardness to Paris, instead -of waiting for Paris the beautiful to come to us, perhaps we shall -receive what Berlin and London have not yet given us. - -London came to us willingly with a scholarly something that was better -than our previous nothing. Berlin forced on us a manner of strong -professionalism that was better than our previous weakness. Now we are -beyond the age of facile conquests and we must, at the risk of being -rebuffed and made unhappy, seek the favor of a lady who stays at home. - -Since the spirit of Mozart and Beethoven and Schubert left Vienna, Music -has loved no city. We shall soon agree that she did not love Weimar -greatly nor Munich at all nor Leipzig enough. As for the lusty person -who flaunts a passion for Berlin, we must call her a maid masquerading -in her mistress’s cloak if, indeed, we concede her a resemblance to -music at all. - -The joy of loveliness admired, the frankness and naivete, the “jeu -perle” and natural melodiousness that were the life of Viennese Music -vanished utterly with the death of Schubert unknown. It seemed that he -and his predecessors must have brought music into a cul-de-sac from -which it would have to extricate itself. German music did and received -new impetus from the professionalism of Weber, the literary romanticism -of Liszt, the savoir-vivre of Chopin, and the cosmicality of Wagner. -France, meanwhile, entertained loyally the older manner, nursing it -through its unpopularity into the convalescence it now enjoys. When we -come to discover that the spirit of Berlin is rather of something -hyphenated to “Kultur” than of music purely, we shall also discover the -spirit of Vienna,—vigorous and slightly Frenchified, in the -Conservatoire and the Schola Cantorum. - -Somehow, without the least effort or merit, we have strolled into the -position of the “distinguished amateur.” It is an eminence from which -one may see everything if one but keep a clear eye and a doubting mind. -What fools we should be to view the road before us as we can only this -once, wearing a prejudice like a pair of smoked goggles. To doubt is a -privilege which the wise will make a duty. We should doubt what has -given us our artistic existence, and if it can only stand by our faith -it will fall—but we shall not fall with it. We should doubt the things -we desire so that when we abandon them we cannot be reproached with -broken faith. We _must_ doubt the strength of organized professionalism -that Berlin would teach us, the value of hard work the contrapunctalists -of the Royal Academy preach;—we _must_ doubt the superiority of art and -the artist, the inviolability of tradition, the legitimacy of the -Beethoven-Wagner-Strauss succession for the reason that they have been -so freely offered if for no other. Surely such eagerness to be accepted -does not prove great worth. Let us pooh-pooh all these magnificent -“Pooh-Bahs” of music to see if their threats to have our heads off are -real or bluff. Then with our tongues still in our cheeks, let us -continue on to other courts. - -If we have enjoyed the simple and fine art with which Beethoven and -Schubert enlivened and refined the salons of Vienna, we shall enjoy -Franck. If we should prefer our Mozart livelier by a notch of the -metronome and lighter by one-half of the strings than we hear it now, we -should be pleased by Chabrier and Faure and the way they are played by -the half-dozen youngsters who get their premier prix at the end of each -year’s work in the Conservatoire. From pure inertia we have out-stayed -our pleasure in modern German music. A bit of animation and on to Paris! - - - - - The Critics’ Catastrophe - - - (A Probable Possibility) - - HERMAN SCHUCHERT - - The scene is a dining-room of the “Cave Dwellers,” Chicago’s most - exclusively stupid club. At one table are seated four musical - critics, and one ex-critic, of the daily papers. That this - gathering is unique is attested by numerous hushed conversations - at other tables; the critics’ table is a center of half-concealed - interest. A waiter has just cleared away the dishes; cigars are - brought. The youngest critic, of the Worst Glaring Nuisance (witness - the yellow acre of illuminated sign at the foot of Michigan avenue) - speaks as if to reassure his natural timidity: - -DONALD WORCESTER. I suppose it will be eminently respectable. (The -others appear not to have heard his remark, until a reply is carefully -chosen by - -CARBON HATCHETT. Her advance notices would lead one to suppose that she -has something of a prestige. - -EDWARD MORLESS. That guff! I saw it. Awful! What I want to know is: what -the devil does she mean by beginning her program with Debussy. I just -wonder what’s become of Beethoven—ha, ha! - -DONALD WORCESTER. I suppose she imagines she’s going to revolutionize -program-making. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Gentlemen, when I give my piano recital on March -twentieth, you’ll hear the best possible way to start a program. Debussy -is altogether too weak to lead; he’s scarcely able to get in at all -(chuckle) but I’ve found a leader that is a leader—Archibald Shanks. If -I know anything, and I do, this Shanks is going to become _the_ American -composer. Why, he’s so much better than MacDowell with all his Scotchy -junk that there’s no comparison. I found Shanks in Rolling Prairie, -South Dakota; and when I play his _March of the Rock-Spirits_ at my -recital on March the twentieth, you’ll hear the real thing—it’s music, I -tell you. - -XILEF BOWOWSKI. Hmh! Ah-hmh! I remember looking over compositions by -Archibald Shanks, sent me by a certain New York publisher, to get my -opinion before taking them; and in one of them—I forget the title—I -think it was _Through the Marsh_—some such title—hmh!—it doesn’t really -matter—I found seven consecutive fifths and twelve parallel octaves -within the space of a few bars. Positively inexcusable! - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-h! That belongs to his early period. _Through -the Marsh_ is simply a practice-stunt, done when he was about fifteen—a -mere youthful exercise. You can’t judge by—blgh-h! - -DONALD WORCESTER. I read in the _Artists’ News_ that young Shanks is -only seventeen at the present time. - -EDWARD MORLESS. Probably means his son—Waiter!—What do you want, boys? -I’m dry as a bone. And we’ve got a long afternoon before us. However, -for my part, I shan’t be in any hurry about getting there. What’ll it -be? - -XILEF BOWOWSKI. A little plum brandy for me. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Bring me some Haig and Haig. - -CARBON HATCHETT. Manhattan cocktail. - -DONALD WORCESTER. A large beer. - -EDWARD MORLESS. Good! Let’s have some Green River, Tim. Krupp, do you -think she’ll be any good at all? - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. A woman? From Budapest? On a Thimble piano? Starting -in with Debussy? And you ask if she’ll be good! How could she be? - -DONALD WORCESTER. I was reading the other day—— - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. All she plays is trash, of one kind or another. -Debussy never does anything but move up and down the whole-tone scale; -no melody, no counterpoint, no music at all. And take the Tchaikowsky -thing, for instance. Everybody knows that Tchaikowsky always carried a -whip in one hand and a gun in the other, and when he wasn’t using one, -it was the other. It’s proverbial, and makes such a handy remark when -thinking would take too long. And his piano-style: he simply hasn’t got -any; it’s pathetic. I see you don’t get my joke on the sixth -symphony—the Pathetique. I say, America won’t stand for that sort of -thing. Some kindly person should have informed this Madame Frizza -Bonjoline before she made a complete fool of herself. - -CARBON HATCHETT. She hasn’t played yet, and maybe it won’t be so bad -after all. - -DONALD WORCESTER. A friend of mine tells me that Mr. Debussy is one of -the greatest living melodists. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-h! - - No further imbecility is displayed for the time being. Soon the - party breaks up, and a natural modesty prevents the critics from - seeing each other again until after the piano recital by Madame - Frizza Bonjoline, an artist who is but slightly known in the - United States, but one who has achieved recognition throughout - Europe, South America, and Australia. She has just given an - unusual program, which she could not close with less than seven - encores. While the five critics wait outside the green-room, they - hold a restrained conversation. - -HATCHETT TO KRUPP. It’s good to have you among us again, Krupp. Although -I do have a terrible time steering my thoughts through the mazes of the -English language I feel like the only live one left, since the Trib -dropped you. The town needs you, and I’m glad you have an opportunity -again to mould public opinion. We need more strong-minded men like you. - -KRUPP (fiercely). I know it, but the cattle don’t recognize good -criticism when they see it. - -HATCHETT TO KRUPP. How did the Madame strike you? Plenty of emotion, I -thought. - -KRUPP (to all). Impossible program—good God!—did you ever hear such a -medley? And she hasn’t the strength of a kitten. - -HATCHETT TO KRUPP. Of course, she didn’t seem quite vital enough, but -that may have been because of her choice of numbers. They were somewhat -“outre.” - -KRUPP (sourly). Altogether too girlish, I say. - -EDWARD MORLESS. Splendid personality, but a rotten technic, don’t you -think? - -DONALD WORCESTER. As near as I can tell, she wears marvelous silk hose. -They were the most striking thing about the whole concert. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Blgh-ggh-h! - -XILEF BOWOWSKI. I suppose then, Mr. Worcester, one doesn’t require any -ears to get the good or bad out of a concert—only eyes. - -EDWARD MORLESS. Well, Bowowski, ears were a nuisance today, at any rate, -don’t you think? The optic impressions were far the best—easily. I -wonder when we’re going to get in here. - - Xilef Bowowski has been tramping up and down the corridor, his - ultra-distinguished chin a trifle elevated, his hands locked - behind his back. He is evidently searching for words. In a - moment, the door of the green-room swings open and a well-dressed - man is seen bidding good-bye to Madame Frizza. The stranger takes - no notice of the group of critics as he brushes past and hurries - away. Then a most charming voice welcomes the five critics. The - Madame is greeted by four blushes and one scowl. The scowling one, - Mr. Krupp, is the first one to enter the green-room. Close behind - him come the embarrassed four. - -MADAME BONJOLINE. Gentlemen, this is so good of you. And how did you -like my recital? I hope it pleased you—yes? - - There is a moment of silence which, as it becomes awkward, is broken - by - -DONALD WORCESTER. Some concert, all right. - -MADAME BONJOLINE. How good of you. I am happy. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. I confess I find myself unable to understand the -judgment which places Debussy at the first of a program. Now why did -you—— - -MADAME BONJOLINE. Ah,—ho, ho, ha, ha—that is our little joke, gentlemen, -is it not? I suppose no one knew that I played Rachmaninoff instead of -Debussy at the start—no one but ourselves. I changed my mind after I was -out on the platform. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. I was—blgh-h!—that is, Mr. Stalk was at my office to -see me about my coming American orchestra concert, at which I myself -conduct, and so I was detained, and did not get to hear your opening -number. - -DONALD WORCESTER. How did you manage to get along without Brahms, -Madame. I should be interested—— - -MADAME BONJOLINE. Oh, you did not hear my third encore, then—the Brahms -B-minor Capriccio. I am so sorry you missed it. - -DONALD WORCESTER. Oh, was that Brahms? I thought it sounded rather -chunky, now that I recall it. - -EDWARD MORLESS. Would it seem too—well, let us say—American to you if I -were to ask you to lunch with me, Madame Bonjoline? I should be -extremely happy to have that pleasure. - -MADAME BONJOLINE. Ah, but the pleasure is mine. I shall be delighted to -accept—that is, if there is time. I make that condition only. - -EDWARD MORLESS. Thank you, thank you, Madame. - -XILEF BOWOWSKI. Madame Bonjoline, do you remember the date of -publication of the Gliere Prelude which you played today? It has -completely slipped my mind. - -MADAME (laughing). My good sir, I could not recall it to save my soul. - -DONALD WORCESTER. I wish your playing sounded as good as it looks, -Madame. - -MADAME BONJOLINE. How delightfully American you are! So frank, so -utterly frank! But that reminds me: my friend, James Shooneker—perhaps -you saw him; he left just as you came in—told me that my playing looked -as good as it sounded. How strange a coincidence! You all know him, of -course. For Europe, he is the great critic. He is in Chicago for a short -time, and he is going to review my recital for a magazine here—I believe -it is called _Le Petit Revue_, or something like that. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Oh, yes; that effusive young lady’s journal, _The -Little Review_. I have heard of it. Ha! - -DONALD WORCESTER. Their poor musical writer was in your audience this -afternoon, Madame. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. He’s one of those chaps you can meet three or four -times and still never recognize on the street. - -MADAME BONJOLINE. So? At any rate, James Shooneker is going to “write -up” (I believe you say) my recital. I understand that this number of -_The Little Review_ is coming from the press in the morning, and his -article will appear in it. - -CARBON HATCHETT. So, indeed. This Mr. Shooneker, if I remember -correctly, has written a book—what is the title of it? - -MADAME BONJOLINE. Och! He has written so many, many books! I do not know -which one you mean. - - The charms of the woman, her little moues, smiles, and quick - gestures, are entangling the five men. Conversation becomes - increasingly difficult. The writers leave the green-room and, on - the outside with the door closed, they glance nervously at one - another. - -EDWARD MORLESS. Say: this James Shooneker,—who’s he? - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Who cares who he is? His stuff won’t get far in that -sheet. - -EDWARD MORLESS. Of course not. I just wondered. For my part, I’ve had a -terrible afternoon. - -DONALD WORCESTER. But Ed, think of tonight. You’ve got to listen to -Walter Spratt’s piano-playing. - -CARBON HATCHETT. Do you call that playing? - - Nothing seems to relieve the collective nervousness of the five - judges. At the outer door, they separate. Ben Dullard Krupp makes - his way to McChug’s book-store and, after one swift glance up the - street and another down the street, he pushes strenuously through - the whirling doors. With swinging tread, he marches down the - broad center aisle and hails a busy clerk. Yes, the clerk has - sometimes heard of James Shooneker and—yes,—they have a book or - two of his—just a minute. Then a convulsive terror seizes Ben - Dullard Krupp, for on the other side of the same counter stands - Donald Worcester. The younger approaches the elder with - unaccustomed familiarity, having him, at the moment, on the hip, - as it were. - -DONALD WORCESTER. Looking up Shooneker? Here’s one of his -things,—_Half-tones in Modern Music_. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Oh, yes; that. I remember reading it when I was -scarcely more than a boy. - -DONALD WORCESTER. It was published in 1909, I see. - -BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Must be a later edition, then. Oh, pshaw! What’s the -use of waiting for that clerk? I think I have a complete set of -Shooneker packed away at home. - -DONALD WORCESTER. That so? Well, I’ll tell the clerk you couldn’t wait. -Maybe I’d like the book myself, if it’s worth anything at all. - - The presence in Chicago of one James Shooneker is like some - fearfully disturbing shadow behind each of the five writers. - Bowowski, within half an hour after the recital, has three - helpers in the Public Library searching for every printed word of - Shooneker. After a tasteless dinner, Ben Dullard Krupp scares - three piano pupils out of their wits by an unusual amount of - shouting and stamping; this, also, should be attributed to the - visiting author. Worcester seeks his desk in the editorial room - and crams on “Pathetic Spaces”—Shooneker’s latest book, according - to the clerk. But the young critic’s attention strays from the - pages of print to the lady in the green-room ... lovely person, - if she can’t play the piano. Worcester has an impulse to use - the telephone, and soon it masters him. He calls up Madame - Bonjoline’s hotel and, as she is out, leaves a message—he will - call in person at eight o’clock. Then a note is written, which he - despatches to her by messenger. After that, there is time to - think things over. Was there ever anyone as charming as she? And - she has expressed her admiration for his frank manner and open - criticism. Perhaps——Now the Madame is not willing to admit him at - first; but he is insistent, and she permits him to enter. James - Shooneker is seated by the window. Worcester, like a guilty boy, - shakes hands with him and mumbles acknowledgement. But soon the - celebrated critic has him at his ease, and the young journalist - is talking with his accustomed candor. Then, continuing in the - same friendly manner, - -JAMES SHOONEKER. Mr. Worcester, you might be interested in knowing the -reason for my Chicago visit. In fact, it is only fair you should know. - -DONALD WORCESTER. Sure! - -JAMES SHOONEKER. Very well then. Your paper, the Worst Glaring Nuisance, -as its catch-word has it, has sent for me to fill the vacancy created by -your resignation. - -DONALD WORCESTER. Who’s bluff is this? - -JAMES SHOONEKER. It is true. I have your place offered me. Now, I don’t -want to seem arbitrary, but here’s my proposition: In the first place, -cut out your infatuation for Madame Bonjoline. That’s the main -condition, if you want me to leave Chicago. The second thing is perhaps -more important to yourself, and that is that you promise to take a long -course in counterpoint and musical history under some good authority, if -you can find one in the United States. Perhaps you would do well to tap -the boundless information of your friend, Bowowski. These are my only -demands. I don’t want your job. I’ll drop a note to your editor and tell -him he doesn’t appreciate you. But you will have to forget your -aspirations for the Madame, and behave yourself with a dignity becoming -your position. You mustn’t make yourself ridiculous over Frizza, and for -her sake— - -DONALD WORCESTER. Shooneker, you certainly are a brick! You certainly -are! I can’t help being a bit dazed with Madame, but I’ll keep it all to -myself. You’re a peach! - -MADAME BONJOLINE. See, James, how perfectly American he is! I told you -he would be. Isn’t he a dear boy? - -JAMES SHOONEKER. You like the conditions, then? - -DONALD WORCESTER. Bully! I appreciate them. And say, didn’t you write a -book once called _The Insane Melons_? - -JAMES SHOONEKER. Yes, I have a book with a title something like that. -Why do you ask? - -DONALD WORCESTER. If you’ve got one with you, I’d like a signed copy. - -JAMES SHOONEKER. I’m very sorry, but I didn’t bring any with me. Perhaps -I can send you one later. - -DONALD WORCESTER. Fine! I wish you would. That’s treating me mighty -good. - -MADAME BONJOLINE. You deserve it, my boy. - - In a confusion of thanks, apologies, and compliments, Worcester - leaves the room and returns to the office, where an article is - written which harbors no doubt that Madame Frizza is a great - pianist. About the same hour, Mr. Morless is passing in a copy of - his own criticism, stating that the Madame is a fairly promising - amateur. The menacing cloud of Shooneker seems to hang over him; - it has nearly prevented his passing in the article. And Ben - Dullard Krupp, without a regular post, mails his lengthy and - scathing opinion of the Madame to a weekly paper, in the hope of - securing a steady allotment of their space. To him, also, the - thought of an “outside” critic in their midst is irritating and, - at times, threatening. What was HE going to say about her? His - word might have weight. Suppose ... and Krupp wishes now he could - reach into the mail-box and pull out his article. But the panic - passes; he recalls several of his pet phrases, and this restores - full confidence in his own finality. - - Again—the same dining-room in the “Cave Dwellers,” with three of - the critics disposing of an early lunch, almost early enough to be - called breakfast. - -BOWOWSKI. They can’t print more than a couple hundred. - -HATCHETT. Somebody told me they had several thousand paid subscriptions, -and then printed a bunch of extras. - -KRUPP. What difference does that make? The point is: what will they sell -for? I’m good for my share, but there’s a limit, you know. Do you -suppose that if I offered to do their musical criticism, they would -destroy this issue as it stands? - -HATCHETT. You can’t tell. It isn’t “they” but “she.” You’re dealing with -a woman, a young one at that. - -KRUPP. Oh, Hell; I can get around that difficulty. Waiter! Bring me a -telephone! Hurry up! - -BOWOWSKI. Do you realize, gentlemen, that it is more than possible, in -fact it is even likely, considerably more than probable, that we are -right in the case of Madame Bonjoline, and that one James Shooneker is -in error? - -HATCHETT. By George! That’s so, isn’t it! - -KRUPP. There’s no question about it. Just wait a minute now, while I -call up this “Little Revolt”—ha! ha!—and see how they jump at the -mention of my name. - - Ben Dullard Krupp is informed over the wire that the new issue of_ - THE LITTLE REVIEW _in large quantities is already in the mails, etc. - In fact, at the same moment, the famous Shooneker is glancing - through his own contribution; he swears at a misprint and puts - the magazine in his suitcase, to read on the train. Madame - Bonjoline does not open her copy, having read the article - concerning herself from manuscript, two weeks before. - -KRUPP. Rank insolence, I call it! - -HATCHETT. What’s the matter? Won’t they sell? - -KRUPP. She says the mails are flooded with the impudent sheet. - -BOWOWSKI. Horrible! Horrible, indeed! - -KRUPP. It’s a great pity somebody couldn’t loosen up and say something -about this Shooneker. How did I know who he was, or that his opinion was -worth anything? Fine chance I’ll have now of getting on The Saturday -Blade! - -BOWOWSKI. Perhaps if you had been able to curb your unfounded hatred of -Tchaikowsky for a moment, we wouldn’t have been placed in this -ridiculous position. - -KRUPP. Blgh-gg-h! It’s bad music, rotten! and I don’t care who knows I -said it. This country is simply spineless when it comes to having an -opinion about music. Why, I’ve got enough opinion to supply the nation, -and they need it. That’s why I put on my American concerts. They’ve got -to learn that I’m the only prophet in America’s musical future. I feel -that it’s my duty— - -HATCHETT. Tchaikowsky has written some very good— - -KRUPP. Tchaikowsky! Man! if you mention that mediocrity’s unhallowed -name again, I’ll go completely mad! - -BOWOWSKI. Great Heavens! Tim is coming to put us out, just on account of -your infernal shouting. And look! With him! Shooneker! How perfectly -horrible! - -KRUPP. Blgh-gh-h! - - Abashed and silent, the three judges leave the table and get into - their coats with more celerity than is comfortable. They glimpse - a faint smile on the face of their jinx as they hasten out. The - waiter, Tim, conceals his own mirth. Two critics rush down the - street without a word. Calling after them is - -KRUPP. I don’t care who he is. I know I was right in saying— - - - - - A Shorn Strindberg - - - MARGUERITE SWAWITE. - -Had Mme. Strindberg deliberately planned to revenge herself upon him who -was once her husband, she could have devised no subtler way of wounding -that redoubtable sham-hater than the manner in which she chose to speak -of him before the Chicago public. As I sat in the prickly darkness, with -its accompanying rumble of Beethoven, I half-expected the musty -atmosphere of legerdemain to be scattered by the great August’s derisive -laughter. But the promise of occult things was not fulfilled, for with -the cessation of the music came a rosy glow, and then a gracious lady -with a wistful presence. And she seemed quite at ease in her mise en -scène. - -She read to us of herself, of Prince Hassan’s feast in Paris, of her -theatrical meeting with Strindberg, and of how he talked with her all -the evening and later walked home with her; of how she stopped on the -bridge to toss snowballs and Strindberg dried her hands upon his -handkerchief; and of how she dreamed of him that memorable night—a -strange symbolic dream. And as she read, her face was as quiet water -rippled by gentle vagrant breezes. - -The remainder of the meeting was distinguished by the fact that there -was light, but the spirit of the seance persisted. Madame pleaded for -questions, but the little audience seemed frozen into inarticulateness. -Those few who did venture stammered for a moment and then drooped into -silence. Madame, however, was not discouraged. She read us Strindberg’s -views on divorce. In reply to the mumbled questions she replied that she -considered eugenics impractical and indelicate, that her husband had -believed intensely in peace and had written a beautiful story in its -favor, which she had meant to read us but to which an accident had -occurred; that Strindberg was a democrat in theory but an aristocrat in -feeling; that he was not a misogynist, but had reviled bad women because -he loved good women; that _The Father_ was a plea for the sanctity of -the home, the sanctity of woman.... Until it seemed that she was not -speaking of the bitter-tongued, fiery-souled Swede, but of some -complacent American, say, Augustus Thomas. And then someone said that it -was past ten, and Madame thanked us and disappeared. - -As we swung down Michigan Avenue in the fresh night air I smiled to -think that over across the water they still thought of us as the -“hayseed” among the nations to whom the “gold brick” might be disposed -with impunity—and with exceeding profit. But we are learning.... - - - - - Vers Libre and Advertisements - - - JOHN GOULD FLETCHER - -In common with all the judicious readers of American magazines and -newspapers, I have learned to look on the advertising pages for the best -examples of news the journalist can offer. It is only reasonable that -this should be the case. Advertisement writers are the best-paid, least -rewarded, and best-trained authors that America possesses. Compared to -these, even the income of a Robert Chambers pales into insignificance. -Moreover, they understand the public thoroughly and do not attempt to -overstrain its attention by overseriousness, or exhaust its nerves by -sentimentality. That is, the best ones do not. There may be some -exceptions, but in the main I have found American advertisements -refreshingly readable. - -It had never occurred to me, however, that there might be gems of poetic -ability hidden away in these tantalizing concoctions—these cocktails of -prose. But I must revise my estimate. Without wishing to boom or -discourage anyone’s products I cannot resist quoting some recent -advertisements that I and I alone have discovered, seized, and gloated -upon. After all, I approach the subject purely from the angle of form. -What student of poetic form could afford to ignore the following: - - - SERVE A HOT MUFFIN SUPPER - - Light flaky muffins, _oven hot_ and _golden topped_, a suppertime - goody that certainly will strike that hungry _spot_. Serve them - with the finest, richest syrup you can buy anywhere. That’s - “Velva,” with the best of flavor, nourishing goodness and the - satisfying elements that put real strength into growing children. - Give them Velva three times a _day_. They’ll say, “_Great_,” when - they eat it on your _flaky_ hot biscuits or on _waffles_ or - _batter cakes_. - -I hope the unknown author of this little masterpiece will excuse my -italics. The public simply will not see beauties that are not pushed -under its nose. If the public could realize how much more difficult as -well as more musical this style of writing, with its rich assonances and -rhymes on _day_, _say_, _great_, _flaky_, _cakes_, is, than the insipid -tinklings of the lyrists who feebly strum in pathetically threadbare -metres through the pages of most magazines, then we would have a -revolution in verse-writing. That we have not yet arrived at the -revolution is proved by the fact that a talent of this order confines -itself to writing syrup advertisements. - -Take another case. The following appeared in a well known monthly. The -editor doubtless looks on free verse as the rankest heresy: - - A pipe, a maid, - A sheet of ice, - The glow of life— - And that glow doubled - By the glow of “Lady Strike” - Cuddling warm in the bowl; - This is the life - In the good old winter-time! - -I do not say this is without faults. With the substance I have, -naturally, nothing to do. But as regards form, which of your scribblers -of cosmic bathos and “uplift stuff” could more cunningly weave _pipe_, -_ice_, _life_, _strike_, and _time_ into a stanza that has half as much -swing and verve, as this? Note also the absence of adjectives. In short, -here is poetry with a “punch” to it. - -My last example is the most ambitious of all. I present it exactly as it -was written without comment. It appeared in _The North American Review_: - - - _Univernish_ - - Compared with old-method varnishes, - it is convenience and certainty. - - It means one finishing varnish - for the job, instead of two or three. - It does away with the extra cans - and the extra cleanings of brushes. - It avoids mistakes and accidents. - It is safe and sure and fool-proof. - Compared with other new-method varnishes, - it is a vital improvement. - - It is the new-method varnish - which does not thicken in the can - nor clog the painter’s brush. - It remains a clear, pure liquid. - It is easy working and free-flowing. - It requires vastly less labor. - It gives a smooth, clean finish - which is especially beautiful - and durable. - We think we are quite conservative - in saying that it saves twenty per cent - of the finishing cost. - -Gentlemen of the poets’ profession, be ashamed of yourselves! How can -you expect to find readers by lazily sticking to your antiquated -formulas, when even the advertisement writers in the very magazines you -do your work for, are getting quite up-to-date? - - - - - Extreme Unction - - - MARY ALDIS - - - CHARACTERS: - - A DYING PROSTITUTE - A SOCIETY LADY - A SALVATION ARMY LASSIE - A DOCTOR - A NURSE - - - SCENE: - - The screened space around a high narrow bed in a Hospital ward. - Record-card hanging above. The Screens have antiseptic white sheets - over them. - - When the curtain rises the nurse is straightening and tucking in - with uncomfortable tightness the white counterpane of the bed. On - the bed, with eyes closed, lies what is left of a girl of 18 or - 20. The nurse takes the thermometer from the girl’s mouth, looks - at it, shakes her head and makes a record note on the chart. She - gives the girl water to drink and leaves her with a final pull to - straighten the bed clothes. The girl tosses restlessly—moans a - little and impatiently kicks at and pulls the bed clothes out at the - foot, exclaiming “God, I wish they’d lemme ’lone!” - - (The Lady enters) - -THE LADY. Hattie dear, were you sleeping? No? See, I’ve brought you some -roses. Aren’t they fresh and sweet? Shall I put them in water? - -THE GIRL. I don’ want ’em! - -THE LADY. All right dear. We’ll just put them aside. I know sometimes -the perfume is too strong if one isn’t quite oneself. Shall I read to -you? - -THE GIRL. If you want to. - -THE LADY. What shall I read? - -THE GIRL. I don’ care. - -THE LADY. A story perhaps? - -THE GIRL. All right—Fire it off. - -THE LADY. And then afterward, Hattie dear, perhaps if you’d let me, the -twenty-third psalm. It’s so gentle and quiet! You might go to sleep—and -when you awakened you’d hear those comforting words. - -THE GIRL. Is that the one about the valley? God, but I’m sick of it! -Gives me the jimmies. Got a story? - - (THE LADY puts the flowers back in their box—takes off her wrap and - settles herself to read aloud from a magazine): - - Marianna Lane swung back and forth, back and forth, in the - hammock, tapping her small, brown toe on the porch as she swung. - It was a charming porch, framed in clematis and woodbine, but - Marianna had no eye for its good points. She was lying with two - slim arms clasped behind her head, staring vacantly up at the - ceiling and composing a poem. On the wicker table beside her - stood a glass of malted milk and a teaspoon. They were not the - subject of the poem, but they were nevertheless responsible for - it. In the first place, Marianna would _not_ drink her - twelve-o’clock malted milk, and as she was forbidden to go off - the porch until she had done so, there seemed to be nothing - better to do than to cultivate the muse in the hammock. After - patiently sipping malted milk for eight years, Marianna had - suddenly rebelled. In the second place, her cousin Frank, who - lived in the next house, had been inspired by this beverage to - make up an insulting ditty. - - “Grocerman, bring a can - Baby-food for Mary Ann!” - - The girl listens for a moment with a faint show of interest, then - goes back to her restless tossing. - -THE GIRL (interrupting). Say,—d’ye know I’m done for? - -THE LADY. Oh no! You’re getting better every day. - -THE GIRL. Oh quit it—I’m goin’! I tell ye. I’ve got a head piece on me, -haven’t I? I can tell—they’ve stopped doin’ all them things to me. The -doctor just sets down there where you are and looks at me—and say—he’s -got gump that doctor. He’s the only one knows I know. - -THE LADY. You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re going to get well -(girl makes an angry snort). Now try and lie quiet. You mustn’t get -excited, you know, it isn’t good for sick people. I’ll go on with the -story. You’ll see. Now listen, will you, dear? It’s quite interesting. -(Reads.) - - “Grocerman, bring a can - Baby-food for Mary Ann!” - - he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he caught sight of - Marianna’s middy blouse and yellow pigtails. That was yesterday. - To-day the malted milk was standing untouched upon the wicker - table, and Marianna in the hammock was trying to think up an - offensive rhyme for Frank. When she found it, she intended to go - around on the other side of the house and shout it as loud as - ever she could in the direction of her uncle’s garden. This, it - is true, was a tame revenge. What Marianna really wanted to do - was to go over and pinch her cousin Frank; but that, unhappily, - was out of the question, as Frank had a cold, and she was - strictly forbidden to go near anybody with a cold.[3] - -THE GIRL (interrupting). Lady, where d’ you think you’re goin’ to when -you kick it? Tell me! - -THE LADY. Why—I don’t know—To Heaven, I hope—but you mustn’t— - -THE GIRL. What makes you think you’re goin’ to Heaven? - -THE LADY. Well—I think so because—well—because I’ve always tried to do -right—no, no—I didn’t mean that exactly. Of course I’ve done millions of -wrong things—but I mean—Oh Hattie dear, Heaven is such a vague term! All -we know is that it is a beautiful place where we’ll be happy, and that -we’re going there. - -THE GIRL. How do you know we’re goin’? - -THE LADY. I don’t know, I believe. - -THE GIRL. But how do you know the wrong things you done won’t keep you -out? - -THE LADY. Now I’m afraid you’re exciting yourself— - -THE GIRL. Oh Lord, cut that out! I’m excited all right, all right! Guess -you’d be if you had the thoughts I got goin’ ’round in your head all the -time—but there’s no sense talking them out. Nobody can’t do nothin’ for -me now! - -THE LADY. Oh you mustn’t say that! - -THE GIRL. Well, can ye? - -THE LADY. I’ll try if you will tell me what is troubling you. - -THE GIRL. Oh Gawd! She wants to know what’s troubling me, she does! - -THE LADY. Can’t you tell me? Perhaps I could help you. - -THE GIRL. You said you done wrong things.—What was they? - -THE LADY. I—I don’t know exactly. - -THE GIRL. You don’t _know_? - -THE LADY. Why I suppose I could think of lots of things but— - -THE GIRL. She could “think of lots o’ things”! Has to stop to remember—O -gee—guess she’ll get in. - -THE LADY. Oh _please_ don’t laugh like that! Listen—Whatever you have -done, no matter how dreadful, if you are sorry it will be all -right—Don’t be afraid. - -THE GIRL. Is that true? - -THE LADY. Yes. - -THE GIRL. I don’t believe it. - -THE LADY. It is true nevertheless. - -THE GIRL. Well, if you aint sorry? - -THE LADY. But surely you are—You must be! - -THE GIRL. No I aint. It was better dead. - -THE LADY. What do you mean? - -THE GIRL. I tell ye, it was better to be dead. Say, Lady—in them wrong -things you done you _can’t remember_ did ye—did ye ever kill a kid that -hadn’t hardly breathed—Say, did ye—did ye? - -THE LADY. Oh, oh—What shall I do? Hattie! Hattie! Try and stop crying. -I’m so grieved for you. Tell me what you wish—only don’t cry so! - -THE GIRL. I aint sorry. - -THE LADY. No, no, never mind that. Tell me if you want to, tell me—about -it. - -THE GIRL. An’ I aint sorry for what cum first—him—it was all I ever had; -that time, that little weeny time! - -THE LADY. Wait a moment—wouldn’t you rather have a clergyman? - -THE GIRL. _No!_ There’s one comes ’round here. I don’ want to tell him -nothin’. - -THE LADY. Very well—go on. - -THE GIRL. It was so little, and it squawked! It squawked awful! - -THE LADY. Oh—don’t! - -THE GIRL. You don’t want me to tell ye? - -THE LADY. Yes, yes. - -THE GIRL. Oh what’s the use? What’s the use? You can’t do nothin’. -Nobody kin. I aint sorry! The kid’s better dead, lots better. It’s what -cum after—I’m so dirty! I’m so dirty! I’ll never get clean! Oh, what’s -gona happen when I die? What’s gona happen? An’ I gotta die soon! - -THE LADY. You mustn’t feel so, you mustn’t! God is kind and good and -merciful. He will forgive you—Ask Him to! - -THE GIRL. I did ask Him to—lots o’ times. It don’ do no good. I aint -sorry! Everybody says you gotta feel sorry, an’ I aint. A girl kid’s -better dead, I tell ye! That’s why I done it. I loved it, ’fore it came, -’cause it was hisn. After I done it nothin’ mattered—nothin’! So I—And I -gotta die soon—what’s gona happen? - - (During the preceding the sound of a tambourine and singing has been - heard outside. As the girl cries out the last words, the Lady, - finding no answer, goes to the window. She has a sudden thought.) - -THE LADY. I’ll be back in a moment! (She goes out.) - - (Nothing is heard but the girl’s sobs for a moment. Then the Lady - ushers in a Salvation Army Lassie—her tambourine held tightly, but - jingling a little. She stands embarrassed by the foot of the bed. - The Girl stares at her.) - -THE GIRL. I know them kind too. - -THE LASSIE. Can’t I do something for you? - -THE GIRL. No—not now—You’re a good sort enough—but—I aint sorry—I tell -ye—I aint, I aint! - -THE LASSIE (to Lady). What d’ye want me for? What’ll I do? - -THE LADY. Couldn’t you sing something brave and cheerful? You were -singing so nicely out there. - -THE LASSIE (to Girl). Shall I? - -THE GIRL. No—they won’t let ye. It ’ud make a noise. - -THE LADY. Sing it low. - -THE LASSIE. (In a sing-song voice—swaying, half chanting, half -speaking:) “Shall we gather at the river—the beautiful, the beautiful -river, etc.” - -THE GIRL (after trying to listen for a stanza or two). Oh cut it out! I -don’ want ye to sing to me—I want ye to tell me what’s gona happen. Oh, -don’ nobody know? I’m so afraid—so ’fraid! (As her voice rises the -nurse, who has, unobserved, looked in during the singing, enters with -the doctor. He bows slightly to the Lady and the Lassie, then goes -quickly to the girl, putting his hand on her forehead.) - -THE DOCTOR. Why child—what troubles you? - -THE GIRL (clinging to his hand). Doctor! Everybody says I got to be -sorry to get in. I aint sorry, an’ I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid. - -THE DOCTOR. To get in where? - -THE GIRL. Heaven, where you’ll be happy. - -THE DOCTOR. That is very interesting, how do you suppose they found that -out? How do they know, I mean? - -THE LADY. Doctor, I didn’t tell her that. - -THE DOCTOR. Didn’t you? She seems strangely excited. (He seats himself -by the bed.) Come child, let’s talk about it. (He motions—to the nurse -that she is not needed. She goes out. The Salvation Army Lassie, makes -an awkward little bow and gets herself out. The Lady stands at the foot -of the bed listening for a few moments, then slips quietly out.) - -THE DOCTOR. Now, tell me what is on your mind, but try and stop crying -and speak plainly, for I want to understand what you say. - -THE GIRL. I’m gona die, aint I? - -THE DOCTOR. Yes. - -THE GIRL. When? - -THE DOCTOR. I don’t know. - -THE GIRL. _Soon?_ - -THE DOCTOR. Yes. - -THE GIRL. How soon? Tomorrow? - -THE DOCTOR. No, not tomorrow. Perhaps in a month, perhaps longer. - -THE GIRL. Will I get sorry ’fore I go? - -THE DOCTOR. How can I tell? But what does it matter? Why do you want to -be sorry especially? What good would it do? It is all passed, isn’t it? -Nothing can change that. - -THE GIRL. But I gotta be—to get in. - -THE DOCTOR. You seem very sure on that point. - -THE GIRL. But everybody says I gotta be. - -THE DOCTOR. What is the use saying it or thinking it when nobody knows? - -THE GIRL. What you sayin’? - -THE DOCTOR. You and I can believe differently if we want to. But why in -the world should you be asking me all these hard questions? I’ve never -been to Heaven have I? I don’t know whether you have to be sorry to get -in or not. How do you suppose _they_ found all that out? - -THE GIRL. But aint I gotta be punished somewhere till I git sorry? - -THE DOCTOR. Do you remember the other night when the pain was so bad? - -THE GIRL. Yep. - -THE DOCTOR. And I told you you would have to bear it, that I could do -nothing for you, and that you must be quiet not to disturb the others? - -THE GIRL. Oh, don’t I remember! - -THE DOCTOR. I guess that’s about enough punishment for one little girl. -You’ve been pretty unhappy lately, haven’t you, with the pain and the -terrible thoughts? I think it’s about time something else turned up for -you that would be nicer, don’t you? - -THE GIRL. Turned up? - -THE DOCTOR. Yes, something that would make up for all this. Do you know, -child, as I’ve gone through these wards day after day ’tending to all -you sick folks, I’ve about come to the conclusion that there must -be—something nicer— - -THE GIRL. Tell me more about it. - -THE DOCTOR. Well now—there’s another queer question. Didn’t I tell you I -don’t know anything to tell? I’ve never been there. I should think _you_ -would have found out a _little_ something since you’re planning to go so -soon. But no, I don’t suppose you know much more than the rest of us. -And when you get there you will probably forget all about me and how -much I’d like to know what’s happening to my little patient. No use I -suppose asking you to tie a red string on your finger and say “that’s to -send Dr. Carroll a little message.” Is there any way, do you think you -could remember? - -THE GIRL. You’re kiddin’ me! - -THE DOCTOR. Indeed I am not. I long to know with all my heart, and I -suppose it will be years and years before I do. Why just think, you, you -are going to have a great adventure—You are going on a journey to a far -country where you’ll find out lots of things, and here am I, jogging -along up and down, to and fro, between my office and this hospital and -wondering and wondering and wondering! What a lucky little girl you are! - -THE GIRL. And I don’t have to be sorry—to get in? - -THE DOCTOR. Didn’t I tell you you were going soon anyway? You can be -sorry if you want to—but I think it is more interesting to dream about -the strange things there will be to discover, at the end of the journey. - -THE GIRL. Will there be gates of gold that open wide, and angels -standin’ by with shinin’ wings? - -THE DOCTOR. Wouldn’t you like to know? And so would I. You mustn’t -forget to send that message, will you? Do be careful to be accurate and -try to speak distinctly. You know that a great many wise men have -promised to send messages back, yet all that seems to come are foolish -words. If you will look at everything carefully and find a way of -telling me, I’ll write it down for all the world to ponder. Oh—then we -should really _know_ something—not just be groping—groping—groping in -the dark. If you only could, if you only could! I wonder— (In his turn -he gazes at her intently, then rises abruptly.) Well, child, I must go -on. Shall I teach you a few questions before you go, so you’ll be sure -and find out for me the most important things? - -THE GIRL. Oh Doctor! - -THE DOCTOR. You’d like to do something for me, wouldn’t you child? - - (The girl reaches out for his hand and kisses it humbly, then gazes - at him.) - -THE DOCTOR. Well, that would be the most wonderful thing in the world, -only you must be very very careful and you must do a lot of thinking -before you go, about what I’ve said. It is important to understand. -Don’t waste any time thinking about what is passed, will you? - -THE GIRL. No, Doctor. - -THE DOCTOR. We must talk it all over. There aren’t many people I could -trust to remember exactly all the things I want to know. But you can if -you try hard. (He touches the bell, the nurse appears.) Now, Miss -Bryant, Miss Hattie and I have several important things to discuss and -there isn’t much time left, so if she wants me at any time call me and -I’ll come. And I think while she has so much thinking on hand about what -I’m asking her to do for me, she had better not see other visitors. You -don’t mind, do you? - -THE GIRL. No no! I don’ want ’em! Doctor, when will it come? Doctor, -will I know soon? - -THE DOCTOR. Soon I think—Very soon. (He takes her hand a second, then -goes out, motioning the nurse to precede him.) - -THE GIRL (raptly). Soon! He said it would be very soon—and I’m so tired! -I’d like something nicer. - - (She settles herself with a little sigh, and falls asleep.) - - CURTAIN. - - [3] From _The Century, March, 1914_. - - - - - The Schoolmaster - - - GEORGE BURMAN FOSTER - -The history of the world has not known a greater movement than that -which seized the hearts of men when the old culture was borne to its -grave, _and a new fresh Spring-life,—the Christ-life_, as it came to be -called,—of humanity, welled up from hidden and mysterious sources of -power. In the commerce of thought diverse folk-spirits were -cross-fertilized and bounds once held to be insurmountable were -transcended as vision grew wider. Customs came to be more human. Man -himself grew greater, deeper, freer. Man learned to practice virtues -which hitherto he had hated as vices: mercifulness, meekness, -peaceableness. Man prayed to a new God who made his sun to shine upon -the evil and the good. He ever created sacreder names for his God. -Taking his cue from the adorable will of this new God he framed ever -more earnest and more sacred rules of life. These were radical and -revolutionary novelties to the old culture, which speedily scented the -dangers menacing it, and as speedily dispatched executioners to the -rescue. In the language of its old theology, the language of St. -Augustine, this was called the war of the Kingdom of the World against -the Kingdom of God. Any well-informed scholar can recall what were said -to be the hindrances which the Kingdom of God had at first to overcome, -and how today these hindrances still offer the same resistance; -degenerate paganism, with its powers of unbelief, and with its supremacy -of the “flesh”; judaism, apostate from God, with its priests and -scribes. - -It is not within the scope of my task to inquire how far this -traditional _schema_ of the upheavals at the tumultuous beginnings of -our era coincide with the facts. Only one consideration concerns me at -this time, and that one is not open to question: change as the phenomena -of history may, the _laws_ of those phenomena remain ever the same. -Accordingly, even the resistances which time’s new unfolding life has to -surmount, ever return—usually under a changed name, indeed,—and they -will continue to do so as long as there is a history of human culture in -the life of the world. - -Passing on, now, to speak of the forces which the most modern prophet of -a new culture, _Friedrich Nietzsche_, looks upon as the most grievous -hindrances to a _new kind of man_, we shall surely expect to see first -of all, quite other faces than those which the pious fathers of the old -church saw in the foes of the _civitas die_; still, we shall -re-discover, significantly enough, many an old acquaintance behind the -strange re-modeled mask. As in that old day, so in ours, we shall -perceive in these foes of a new life, nothing of their hostility to -life. In part, they appear quite harmless; in part, they are the -universally dined and wined celebrities of the day at whom the masses -stare as the special pioneers of our culture, and in whom the masses -applaud the bearers and promoters of the best achievements of our -culture. It would be certainly a very one-sided and unhistorical way of -looking at things were we to hold those particular individuals, who did -duty in the olden days in synagogues of the scribe’s learning, primarily -responsible for the warfare which ancient Christianity had to sustain -against the dominant religious parties, especially against the scribes -and their followers. The war was not waged against _persons_, but -against a _system_. The synagogue was the _school_ of the Jews; the -scribes were the _masters_ in that school. Viewed from this side, -Christianity seemed to be rebellion against the authority of the school, -and an emancipation of humanity from the influence which the toasted -masters of the school exercised over spirits. - -Approaching the problem, then, as to how far such an emancipation would -be serviceable today, one need scarcely say that one does not at all -have in mind the institutions which, in a narrower sense, we now have -come to call “schools.” As, for broad gauge philosophers, the concept -priesthood is by no means identical with a definite office, the -so-called clerical office, so what we understand by school and its -masters, in Nietzsche’s sense, embraces a much wider circle than we are -wont to think. There are schoolmasters in all vocations and callings and -positions, not alone among scholars, but also among artists, -politicians, laborers and merchants. We find them in the household and -in the nursery; for schoolmaster-ism is a _certain kind of spirit_, and -it is this kind of spirit which, under various names, Nietzsche pursues -with his bitterest scorn and ridicule; which he stigmatizes as the most -perilous hindrance in the path of the new culture. - -We modern men must concede that Nietzsche is right at this point; that -mastery on the part of “school” signifies decay, stuntedness, of the -very human essence itself. - -School gives _knowledge_. In all knowledge, man confronts nature. Man -elaborates nature in his thoughts, and thus lifts himself _above_ -nature. With his rules, he becomes master of nature. But, now, if a man -abides in his school, a time comes, irremediably, when he is estranged -from nature, estranged from life. His knowledge grows, indeed, his world -of thought enlarges; but the “thoughts” which he calls his “knowledge” -narrow and cramp him! The more he learns to work exclusively with his -thoughts, the more he mislearns whence he derives his thoughts. He -thinks about things, but he no longer finds his way into things, right -into the innermost life of things. He thinks _after_, not _with_, not -before. He thinks the alien, not his own. He knows names, not souls. -Yes, life is so great, so infinite; and the school, our knowledge of -life, is so paltry, so limited! Once man stood with his soul in this big -wide world. Intimations of its abysses, unfathomable and awful, haunted -him. Once man felt his hot cheeks fanned by the breezes of an eternal -life of the world, by a divine breath that breathed and blew through the -world. Once on some calm crest where mountain kissed sky, one of those -blissful moments came over him when he felt himself so small, so great, -so alone, so companioned,—inwardly seized by the miracle and mystery of -life surrounding him, pervading him, at once bowing him down and lifting -him up. Now all this is changed. Now he hears voices, loud, raucous, -zealous, parading their wisdom as regards this august wealth of God. -They speak, these voices, so wisely and cleverly, concerning that which -no man’s wisdom and sagacity has ever plumbed. They out-trump each other -with their oceanic learnedness. But once yet again let the soul take a -deep breath, and cry, “I am a man, not a scholar. I dare to be a man, -not a knower, the masters of the school smother and deaden me with their -science of the sublime and free world of the deep and the divine and the -eternal,”—let the soul that “thought” has kept from _seeing_ and -_hearing_ and _feeling_, so cry, and how childish, how ridiculously -petty, how weak and pathological, will all schoolmasterism come to seem! - -Nature is also _Art_, genuine, true art. It is an inner nature, a -soul-nature, a soul-life. This art-life which gushes forth like a spring -from secret depths, this enraptures the heart glowing with Dionysiac -enthusiasm, and steals over men like sweet images of a dream, which will -not fade even from his waking soul. Then it sings in us in a wonderful -way, in an unheard-of manner,—in jubilant bliss, aye, in heartbreaking -lamentations, longing for death! Life smites the strings of our soul, -life itself, and makes them resound in secret and hidden depths. It is -this rich, overflowing life which mirrors all its colorful magnificence -in the soul, and reveals to us its height and depth in dazzling light or -midnight darkness. - -But even here, here most of all perhaps, even out of this art men have -made a “school” and a schoolmasterism. Men try to measure according to -rules—measure what most of all mocks rules. Rules for poetry, rules for -song, rules for color, for light and shade, rules for the creation -(copying?) of pencil and brush and chisel and square, rules, rules, ever -rules—until one would think that art was for the sake of the rules of -the school, and not _vice versa_. There was a time—and for the matter of -that, there still is—when the born master had a slim chance and short -shrift among the “learned” masters. Who did not know a “school” by whose -name he could proudly name himself, thus guaranteeing his art to be -artistic; who beheld the world with his own free eyes, unfitted with -spectacles by some one of the “masters”; who with listening soul -eavesdropped life, asking never what was “written in the law” of art’s -scribes and pharisees upon the subject, let him set his house in order, -for he must die and not live, at least he must be cast out of the -synagogue, excluded from the artists’ guild, he must expect the -“masters” to pounce upon him—at least with the hoary weapons of obloquy -and ridicule and ostracism and starvation—until all the joy has gone out -of his life. _Vers libre_—did not, does not, the “master” antecedently -and dogmatically know how “rotten” that is? Ah, but what if that -attitude of the finishedness and finality of art, especially in its -form, should replace art and artists with schools and scholars? Are we -to have only “masters” of schools, or also _Masters_ who belong to no -school, and who cannot be tagged as scholars of another “master.” - -Nature, life, this is also _religion_, genuine, true religion at least. -We have not created it in us yet—this overpowering longing and striving -to surrender ourselves to another, a higher. To be sure, we have -received it as a heritage from our mother. At first a flood of love and -longing flowed through our souls from her eyes and heart. But her gift -to us was in turn a gift to her. In that gift all love’s beams focused, -gathered together, from all the ends of the earth and the eternities. In -that gift all life was wedded to the waking spirit—all life, sleeping -and dreaming, found its existence. And as this life awoke in us, we -called it “inspiration,” we felt that a Stronger had come upon us, -against which we could do nothing; we called it happiness, heart, love, -God—the name was noise and sound—and yet it was all feeling, veiled in -heavenly glow. - -Then the name became everything. On this name scribes exercised their -wits. They wrote it in their books and taught it in their schools. Then -the schoolmasters became the lords of faith. What was once original life -was now to be taught and learned—forgetting that while the psychology, -or history, or philosophy of religion can be taught, _religion_ cannot -be, any more than you can teach grass to grow, or flowers to bloom, or -birds to sing, or lovers to love. So, religion came to be a thing of -grades, like the “grades” of a school—the more grades, the more -religion! At last the scholar in turn becomes a master! Verily, nowhere -in the world has schoolmasterism done so much harm as in religion. No -scoff of the scoffer, and no sword of the executioner, has dealt so deep -and deadly wounds upon the religious life, as has the folly of the wise -and the understanding who press their school knowledge and their school -system upon men as religious faith, and so overspin the entrance to the -garden of the heart with their spider-webs that no one can find the path -any more to its bloom and fragrance. - -To be sure, objections to all this bristle. Is not the blessing of the -school—so this or that objector might urge—so manifest that, on account -of the blessing, all its evils might be very well put up with? The -school makes the unintelligible intelligible. The school widens the bed -of the spiritual life, so that its stream no longer devastatingly -overflows its banks. The school builds canals everywhere, that the -watering of the land of the human may be as extensive as possible, and -the spirit of life be universally fertilized with the achievements of -civilization and culture. We may thank our schools that all the world -today has learned to read and write. And, for him who can read and -write, the way is open to all the treasures of the human spirit—and -where is there a civilization that equals ours in the effort to provide -schools corresponding to all the spheres of life? Ought we not to bless -such effort, promote and support it, with all the means in our power? - -Now, looking upon life more seriously and profoundly, we shall not be -able to show that the censor of these schools is entirely in the wrong, -when he declares that the spirit is perverted and corrupted by them. -School is model, is a uniform of the spirit which all individuals are to -don and wear. Hence as this school business spreads there is a dying-out -of spiritual originality, a monotony of manufactured personality. - -Everything that belongs to the average is best conserved by school. The -most proper average man is always the best scholar. But all that is -above or below the average—this is often the best in a man—decays and -finds no nourishment. We have but to look at the whole state of our -literature in this country, to see what has become of the art of -writing, of authorship, in an age bursting with pride over everybody’s -being able to read and write. All the nameless insipidity and -thoughtlessness written and printed today, all the mendacity and -perversity of feeling, which in novels find their way into hut and salon -alike might be happily spared us did not everybody think he could read, -and especially write! There is no denying it, a serious question stares -at us in the name of the school today. This question is above all -questions of school-reform, which seem so important to us, for the -improved, nay, the best school remains just—school! And something of -schoolmasterism and scholasticism cleaves to school! And therefore -Nietzsche was its so bitter foe because he would have _men_, men who -spoke and thought and felt powerfully and not as the scribes! Nietzsche -was its foe because he would have among men, personalities, -individualities, diversities, not uniformity and identity of spiritual -life. - -If, now, we have rightly comprehended the force of this censure against -the school and its master, we are already in the way to overcome and to -heal this school malady. The malady does not inhere in the school as -such, but in the false evaluation which we of today attribute to it, and -in the dominion which the school exercises over human spirits, by virtue -of this false appraisal. We think we can read if we have learned to read -in school. But this learning to read has yet to begin! Whoever does not -begin it his own self, will never truly learn it at all. We call our -schools educational institutions and yet they are altogether -_imitational_ institutions, _after_ which the true human education first -begins. We do not think of this, that this man whose knowledge still -tastes of his school, whose art shows his school, is still stuck in his -school, and has not made proper use of his school—which is to apply it; -especially to overcome it! Or, rather we think still less! We rest on -the laurels of our school, and if we won them we think that we have -carried off the warrior’s prize of life. But it is _our_ fault, not the -school’s, if the school narrows rather than broadens our vision; if it -binds us to its rules instead of releasing us from them. Where are the -men who still learn after school, nay, who first begin then to learn -what after all is the main thing of all learning—how they can become -greater, freer men, independent personalities? How does it come that all -stirring and moving of the modern spirit is at the same time an -insurrection against some kind of school? How does it come that all -creative, path-breaking spirits can begin to create, to live, only when -they have snapped the fetters of some school? And how does it come that -great discoveries of unknown islands of the human have never been made -within, but only without, the schools? Most of all, how does it come -that a Christ can speak with power only when he has learned not to speak -as the scribes and schoolmasters? The answer in every case is that we -are accustomed to expect of the school what, according to its very -nature, it cannot do, namely: to give life, to create life. Therefore, -it is all-important that we keep the path open, wide open, to the -fountain of life in the abyss of the human heart, in the -unfathomableness of the world, so that we too may learn to speak with -power and not as the scribes; so that our schools may not be diseases to -be overcome, for many never overcome during an entire life—but a staff -with which we may learn to walk until we shall need staff no more, -because our feet have grown strong to bear us on our way during the -brief years of our pilgrimage. - - - - - My Friend, the Incurable - - - VI. - - CHOLERIC COMMENTS ON CACOPHONIES - - - _On the G String_ - -We are sailing in a gondola along exotic shores. Crystal castles, dewy -meadows, weeping cypresses, glowing craters.... We pass through the -dreamy regions of Shelley and Keats, we envisage the gigantic cosmos of -Shakespeare, of Dante, of Milton, of Goethe, we perceive in a haze the -purple-crimson crucifixion of Nietzsche, the cruel gloom of Dostoyevsky, -the dizzy abysses of Poe, the all-human chaos of Whitman.... - -We sail on—but ah, our picturesque gondolier! He is so excited, so -restless, so loud—we are forced to turn our eyes from the grandiose -landscape and follow bewildered our conscientious cicerone. In his -anxiety lest we fail to notice the passing “places of importance,” our -industrious guide shrieks and yells, wriggles and gesticulates, beats -upon our senses, pricks and tickles, and all this he performs to the -accompaniment of a mellow mandolin, so sweet, so touching, so -exasperating. - -We are weary. - - * * * * * - -With some apprehension I looked forward to Mr. Powys’s book of “Literary -Devotions,”[4] for I had the good luck of listening to his lectures. -They are unforgettable, those bewitched moments in the darkened Little -Theater, where we sat hypnotized by “the galvanized demi-god vibrating -in the green light of the stage,” invoking the spirits of the Great. How -will those invocations appear, I worried, when congealed in the static -book-form, minus the catacomb-atmosphere, minus the serpent-like, -mesmerizing cant of the meteoric sorcerer, minus Raymond Johnson’s -light-effects? “And, ah! sweet, tender reader,” to use Mr. Powys’s -style, my fears came true: the book is a libretto, sans orchestra, sans -singer. I know that many of the lecturer’s devotees, especially the -worshipping young ladies, will find little difficulty in mentally -supplying the libretto with the dynamic personality of the performer; -but my imagination is dewinged at the sight of the motionless symmetric -lines, and I fail to vocalize the legions of exclamation-marks, the -innumerable capital-letters, the profuse superlatives. With a -kaleidoscopic velocity the author displays his personal reflections upon -the greatest minds of the world; he bends them, he liquifies them, he -moulds them, recreates them according to his whim—good, bravissimo! I am -the last person to depreciate subjective criticism; I am tolerant enough -to digest even such a statement as that Goethe was typically and -intrinsically German, or that Nietzsche was thoroughly Christian. It is -not Mr. Powys’s What that nauseates me, but his How, his butaforial -Grand Style, his monotonous tremolo, his constant air of discovering new -planets, his Pateresque worship of beauty which lacks Pater’s -aristocratic calm and reservedness, his Oscaresque paradoxicalness -deprived of Wilde’s chiselled wit, his continuous ruminating of a -limited stock of long, high words, of dizzying adjectives, of saccharine -adverbs. - -Pray, “sweet, tender reader,” how long could you endure Mischa Elman -playing the Minuet in G? - - [4] _Visions and Revisions, by John Cowper Powys._ [_G. Arnold - Shaw, New York_] - - - _And Pippa Dances_ - -Yet there are some who complain about the lack of musical devotion among -Americans. Nay, music is getting absolutely too popular—witness the -crowded concert-halls, especially the ten-cent-Sunday-concerts arranged -by philanthropists for the uplift of the masses. It is significant to -observe that the so-called Submerged have learned not only to applaud, -but also to hiss, not only to accept with gratitude any sort of “divine” -music, but to demand a certain kind of music. And, surely, they well -know what they want. - -Hauptmann’s Huhn, the personification of the mob, wants the fragile -Pippa, the symbol of beauty, to dance for him. She is forced to obey, -and is of course crushed to death. And Pippa dances. That omnipotent -Huhn who can call down all the muses to come and entertain him, to amuse -him, to serve him, to degenerate or to perish! Watch that wonderful -creature, the amalgamated American Huhn, making love to music, hugging -and caressing her; I shudder at the thought of what will become of -gentle Pippa in the choking embrace of her boorish suitor. - -Yes, Huhn knows what he wants. He expects of music the same service that -he gets from illustrations in popular magazine novels. He comes into an -ice-cream parlor and orders Banana-Split plus _William Tell_ on the -victrola—so digestible and understandable. Last Sunday I observed a -crowd at a ten-cent concert enjoying the _Meditation_, good-humoredly -assisting the soloist by humming and whistling the familiar tune, their -faces expressing the satisfaction of victors. And the night before I -witnessed the thousands at Orchestra Hall, the Huhns in sweaters and in -décolleté-gowns and in dress-suits, going mad over that vulgarity, Mr. -Carpenter’s precise reproduction of barking dogs and of a policeman’s -heavy walk. Huhn demands music which he is capable of interpreting in -every-day terms, which transparently reflects his little emotions, his -petty joys, his sirupy sorrows, his after-meal dreams. Is it to be -wondered that Huhn hisses and grumbles when the conductor hesitatingly -smuggles in such a risky novelty as Scriabin’s _Prometheus_? What is to -Huhn the Poem in Fire, the emerging of a dazed humanity out of Chaos, -the collision of gloom and light, the birth of the Winged Man? What is -Hecuba to him! And since Pippa must dance, the obliging conductor -hastens to appease the growling Huhn by the taffy of Bruch’s concerto. - -In recent years some inspired rebels among painters and sculptors have -striven towards the elevating of their arts to the highest level, that -of music, the noblest medium for the expression of aesthetic emotions, -nobler than words or brush or chisel. Recall Kandinsky’s -color-symphonies. Alas, music is not any longer a daughter of Olympus; -she has been dragged by Huhn from the pure atmosphere of the mountain -summit down into the damp valley. Wagner began the prostitution of music -by making it subservient to words; he has won the sanction and -acclamation of the crowd. Then followed the orgy of Program-music, those -wood-cut illustrations, those rich gravies that were invented to sweeten -Mr. Huhn’s meals. Now an enterprising Chicago merchant, Mr. Carpenter, -has presented us with an apotheosis of vulgarity to the hilarious -triumph of the appreciative crowd, to the delight of our “independent” -music-critics—“that strange creature, the American music-critic,” to -quote a naive English journal. - -And Pippa dances. - - IBN GABIROL. - - - - - Music - - - GABRILOWITSCH AND THE NEW STANDARD - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -Ideas make their impressions very slowly, but they travel very fast. -That is why Gabrilowitsch’s playing of the piano on March 21 was two -different kinds of revelation to two different kinds of people. To a -great many it was a rich fulfillment of promise; to a few it was the end -of something that had had a great beginning. - -The trouble is that there’s a new standard to reckon with. We used to -argue that what a man had to say was more important than the way he said -it. Then we reversed that, claiming that a man may say anything provided -he say it well. Then the socialistic school tried to go back to the -first premise, but what they were really groping for was the new -standard—which is simply this: A man may still say anything he wishes -and if he says it well it will be art—_provided he really has something -to say_. Tennyson knew how to say things well, but he missed being an -artist because he had nothing to say. On what basis do we establish such -a criterion? Not merely on that of “ideas,” because you may have no -ideas at all and yet have profound reactions; and not merely on that of -“socialism” or sincerity or ideals; and not—oh well, I mean to get -through this discussion without dragging in the artist’s alleged -monopoly of the eternal verities. B. Russell Herts got very close to -what I mean when he said that Arnold Bennett missed real bigness because -he had only a great and mighty skill without having a great and mighty -soul. - -Well—you can’t make Art, we think now, unless you belong in the -great-and-mighty-soul class. And what does that mean, exactly? Perhaps -the whole thing can be explained under the term “enlarged -consciousness.” I wish Dora Marsden would discuss it in one of those -clear-headed articles she writes for _The Egoist_. The confusion in all -our discussions of matter and manner, of subject and form, of what -determines genius, has come about in two main ways: first, because we -have made Taste a synonym for Art—so that if we like Beethoven or Mozart -we don’t accept Wagner or Max Reger, or if we like classic rules we call -romanticism “bad art”; and second, because we have decided who had great -and mighty souls on an ethical basis. We said that Browning and Tennyson -had them—chiefly because they talked a great deal about God, I suppose; -which only shows how confusing it is to judge that way; it leaves no -room for the distinction that Browning had and Tennyson hadn’t. It’s all -as silly as insisting that the cubists ought to be considered great if -they are sincere. Grant that they are. To be sincere is easy; to say -what you believe is simple; but to believe something worth saying is the -test of an art. Sincere stupid people are as bad as any other stupid -ones—and more boring. - -I don’t know what else to say about it; but I know you can recognize -that “enlarged consciousness” in the first bars of a pianist’s playing, -or in a singer’s beginning of a song. Paderewski has it to such a degree -that he can play wrong notes and it doesn’t matter; and Duse has it, and -Kreisler, and Isadora Duncan, and Ludwig Wüllner, who breaks your heart -with his songs though he hasn’t even a singing voice. And the -disappointment in Gabrilowitsch is that he hasn’t. - -I went to hear him play Chopin and Schumann with positive excitement. -Godowsky, with all his perfectly worked-out theories, always leaves me -with the feeling that he would be an artist if he weren’t an empty -shell; and Bauer, with all his beautiful work, leaves me with a sense of -how he _might_ play if a fire could be started inside him. I expected -that fire in Gabrilowitsch—partly because I heard him play ten years ago -and partly, I suppose, because he is Russian. But the ten years have -left him unstirred. It’s as though the man in him had stood curiously -still; as though life had passed him. He is like a poet who has somehow -escaped unhurt; or a technician who perfects his expression and then -wonders what he shall express. As for his form, he does many exquisite -things; for instance, his _Des Abends_, which was extremely poetic and -which seems to be the type of thing he likes to play most. And he played -the D Flat Prelude with an exquisite perspective—and then a Chopin Waltz -without any perspective at all. Technically his worst feature is his -chord-work—Bauer’s chords sound like an organ in comparison. But Bauer -knows how to touch the piano for deep, “dark” effects, and Gabrilowitsch -appears to like “bright” sounds. He takes his chords with a high, tight -wrist and brings them out by pounding. These things are not done any -more; the piano has shown new tone-capacities since a few of the moderns -abandoned, or modified, what is supposed to be the “straight” -Letschitizky method. - -Well, all this wouldn’t matter so much if Gabrilowitsch had the ultimate -inspiration.... Somehow I keep feeling that the world is waiting for its -next great pianist. - - - BAUER AND CASALS - -Two sorts of listeners heard the second Bauer-Casals recital at -Orchestra Hall: Those who love great music and those who love to babble -about great music. Intermediate classes of the mildly interested, the -botching amateurs, the self-adoring students, et al., stayed away, for -Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Cesar Franck, in sonata form, have nothing -for them. Would that the critics and the exuberant school-girls might -forever remain away on such occasions, and choose for their frothing -something less than the best. - -Beethoven was not “dry” for a moment. One suspects that this composer is -perpetually slandered by the “traditional” handling of zealous -academics; for Bauer and Casals, with their wonted beauty of piano- and -violoncello-playing, made his music warm and pleasantly expansive, with -no sacrifice of dignity. He sounded almost romantic in the best sense of -the word. This was an experience. And Mendelssohn—what is more truly -elegant than his musical grace, or more delightful than his delicate -humour—a playfulness so seldom discovered by performers! Humour that -becomes subtler than a horse-laugh is beyond the ken of “professional” -musicians, although first-rank composers never lack a refined sense of -fun, a keen relish for jollity, for all that it may be in ethereal -realms. In Cesar Franck there is perhaps the very sublimate of humour, -the mystic smile of faith. One cannot escape a feeling of the deeply -religious in this French master. A new word should be coined to -designate his music; it might be formed by transposing the “passionate” -of passionate love and the “fervent” of fervent piety, and by some such -amalgamation of cool, impersonal, austere love with deepest faith become -sensuous, impassioned, and lovely, the characterizing word is secured. -Franck’s music, surcharged with intense experience, renders unnecessary -any apology for this left-handed use of English. It is but poorly spoken -of in orthodox terms, since it embodies strange blendings of emotion, -both common and uncommon—emotions unified and crystallized into the -expression of a genius. Cesar Franck’s love, apparently, flowed as -readily and as warmly toward God as toward ravishing, although possibly -abstract, woman. - -This is doubtless a considerable, if not impossible, reach for the -imagination of the patiently-groping reader, but it would have been less -difficult with Bauer and Casals for interpreters. The ’cellist’s playing -was at once sane and poetic, clean-cut and well-rounded; it was chaste -without chill, voluptuous without a debauch. And Bauer, master-pianist -indeed, as his press-agent styles him, brought from the piano more than -enough kinds of tone to shame the monochromatic theory about the -restricted nature of the piano. The most individual feature of his art -is the production of solemn, organ-like chords in the lower -register—chords wonderfully sonorous and rich, powerful enough to -obliterate the memory of bedlam. Who cares if he smudges a “run?” This -god can sound chords. He redeems a host of piano-jolters. - - HERMAN SCHUCHERT. - - - - - Book Discussion - - - AUTUMNAL GORKY - - _Tales of Two Countries, by Maxim Gorky._ [_B. W. Huebsch, New - York._] - -Gorky’s genius was meteoric. It flashed in the nineties for a brief -period with an extraordinary brilliance, illuminating a theretofore -unknown world of “has beens,” of Nietzschean _Bosyaki_. Gorky’s genius, -we may say, was elemental and local; it revealed a great spontaneous -force on the part of the writer in a peculiar atmosphere, on “the -bottom” of life, in the realm of care-free vagabonds. As soon as Gorky -trespassed his circle he fell into the pit of mediocrity and began to -produce second rate plays, sermon-novels, political sketches, and -similar writings that may serve as excellent material for the -propaganda-lecturer. The present volume may be looked upon as Gorky’s -swan-song, if we consider his ill health; in fact he outlived himself -long ago as an artist, and in these _Tales_ we witness the hectic flush -of the autumn of his career. The exotic beauty of Italy appears under -the pen of the Capri invalid in a morbid, consumptive aspect; the author -is too self-conscious, too much aware of the fact of his moribund -existence to see the intrinsic in life. The tendency to preach socialism -further augments his artistic daltonism, which is particularly evident -in the _Russian Tales_. The doomed man casts a weary glance over his -distant native land, and he sees there nothing but dismal black, -hopeless pettiness and retrogression. The satire is blunt and fails the -mark; the allegories are of the vulgar, wood-cut variety. Gorky has been -dead for many years. - - - BREAKING INTO AN OPEN DOOR - - _Plaster Saints, by Israel Zangwill._ [_The Macmillan Company, - New York._] - -The old situation: A revered priest, saint abroad, sinner at home; the -old sin—adultery; the old moral about casting the first stone. What is -new is the clergyman’s point of view that a “plaster saint” has no right -to preach righteousness, that only one who has gone through temptation, -sin, and contrition may be fit for the post of God’s shepherd. - - A sea captain who has never made a voyage—the perfection of - ignorance—and you trust him with the ship. You take a youth—the - fool of the family for choice—keep him in cotton-wool under a - glass case, cram him with Greek and Latin, constrict his neck - with a white choker, clap a shovel hat on his sconce, and lo! he - is God’s minister! - - ... When I look at my old sermons, I blush at the impudence and - ignorance with which I, an innocent at home, dared to speak of - sin to my superiors in sinfulness. - -It is all very well, if we grant that society is still in need of -sermons on chastity, if the Hebraic ideal of monogamy is still the most -important problem in the life of a community, to be discussed and -advocated from the pulpit, while ignoring the economic and social -complexities of the present age. But can we grant this anachronism? Is -it not high time to follow the policy of _laisser faire_ in regard to -individual morals? Mr. Zangwill appears in the unenvious position of one -quixotically breaking into an open door; yet he has been accused of -possessing a sense of humor. - - - MAGAZINE VERSE - - _Anthology of Magazine Verse, 1914; selected and published by - William S. Braithwaite._ - -The proper way to review this collection of verse would be, no doubt, to -quote some of the best and some of the worst, make a learned and -perfectly empty comment upon so-and-so, and say that the book was better -or worse than last year’s compilation. But Mr. Braithwaite has sifted -and re-sifted the entire crop of poems until there is in his book -nothing but the best, such as it is. And the general trend of the volume -is scarcely a matter for enthusiasm. A fair conclusion must be that -magazine editors were frequently hard pressed for copy. As a faithful -and stupidly patriotic American, one should ponder long over certain -attempts to found new “American” verse-forms; but it is to be regretted, -possibly, that the most enjoyable poems in the collection are written -upon foreign or mediaeval topics. As a true aesthete, one ought to reek -with admiration for nameless or badly-labelled sonnets that, for some -reason, fail to delight. And, as an exponent of politico-poetic -modernity, there should be wild raving over the “radical” art of -formless form; but this also is shamefully wanting in one’s reaction to -this anthology. A number of intelligent humans have been observed in -their expectant approach to this collection; they closed the book with -neither smiles nor frowns. It is difficult to forget that good poetry -will bear re-reading, or prove its worth by clinging to the memory; and -it is still more difficult to remember that art has only to be new, -rude, or extreme to be called wonderful. Why is this? - - - - - John Cowper Powys on Henry James - - - (_Some more jottings from one of Mr. Powys’s lectures._) - -Henry James is a revealer of secrets, but never does he entirely draw -the veil. He has the most reluctance, the most reverence of all the -great novelists. He is always reluctant to draw the last veil. This -great, plump-handed moribund figure, waits—afraid. All of his work is a -mirror—never a softening or blurring of outlines, but a medium through -which one sees the world as he sees it. In reading his works one never -forgets the author. All his people speak in his character. All is -attuned to his tone from beginning to end. - -He uses slang with a curious kind of condescension,—all kinds of -slang,—with a tacit implicit apology to the reader. So fine a spirit—he -is not at home with slang. - -His work divides itself into three periods—best between 1900 and 1903. -In reading him approximate 1900 as the climacteric period. - -His character delineation is superb. Ralph in _The Portrait of a Lady_, -is the type of those who have difficulty in asserting themselves and are -in a peculiar way hurt by contact with the world. Osborne—in the same -book—is one of those peculiarly hard, selfish, artistic, super-refined -people who turn into ice whatever they touch. He personifies the cruelty -of a certain type of egoism—the immorality of laying a dead hand upon -life. Poe has that tendency to lay a dead hand upon what he cares for -and stop it from changing. Who of us with artistic sensibilities is not -afflicted with this immorality? This is the unpardonable sin—more than -lust—more than passion—a “necrophilism,” to lay the dead hand of eternal -possession upon a young head. - -Nothing exists but civilization for H. J. There has been no such -writer since Vergil. And for him (H. J.) there is but one -civilization—European. He is the cosmopolitan novelist. He describes -Paris as no Frenchman does! Not only Paris, but America, Italy, anywhere -the reader falls into a delicious passivity to the synthesis of nations. -He knows them all and is at home in all. He is the novelist of society. -Society—which is the one grand outrage; it is not pain—it is not pity; -it is society which is the outrage upon personality, the permanent -insult, the punishment to life. As ordinary people we hate it often—as -philosophers and artists we are bitter against it, as hermits we are -simply on the rack. But it is through their little conventionalities -that H. J. discovers people, human beings, in society. He uses these -conventionalities to portray his characters. He hears paeans of -liberation, hells of pity and sorrow, and distress as people signal to -one another across these little conventionalities. He fills the social -atmosphere with rumors and whispers of people toward one another. - -In describing city and country he is equally great. He does not paint -with words, but simply transports you there. Read _The Ambassadors_ for -French scenery! Everything is treated sacramentally. He is the Walter -Pater of novelists with an Epicurean sense for little things—for little -things that happen every day. - -There is another element in his work that is psychic and beyond—magnetic -and beyond. His people are held together by its vibrations. Read _The -Two Magics_. - -H. J. is the apostle to the rich. Money! that accursed thing! He -understands its importance. It lends itself in every direction to the -tragedy of being. He understands the art of the kind of life in which -one can do what one wants. He understands the rich American gentleman in -Europe—touches his natural chastity, his goodness, the single-hearted -crystalline depths of his purity. Read _The Reverberator_. - -In the _Two Hemispheres_ we find a unique type of woman—a lady from the -top of her shining head to the tips of her little feet—exquisite, and -yet an adventuress. - -This noble, distinguished, massive intelligence is extraordinarily -refined and yet has a mania for reality. He risks the verge of vulgarity -and never falls into it. He redeems the commonplace. - -To appreciate the mise en scène of his books—his descriptions of -homes—read _The Great Good Place_. He has a profound bitterness for -stupid people. He understands amorous, vampirish women who destroy a -man’s work. Go to H. J. for artist characters—for the baffled atrophied -artists who have souls but will never do anything. - -Read _The Tragic Muse_. Note the character of Gabriel Nash, who is -Whistler, Oscar, Pater all together and something added—the arch -ghost—the moth of the cult of art. - -The countenance of H. J. says that he might have been the cruelest and -is the tenderest of human beings. To him no one is so poor, so unwanted -a spirit but could fill a place that archangels might strive for. James -is a Sennacherib of Assyria, a Solomon, a pasha before whom ivory-browed -vassals prostrate themselves. He is the Solomon to whom many Queens of -Sheba have come and been rejected, the lover of chastity, of purity in -the natural state. - -He is difficult to read, this grand, massive, unflinching, shrewd old -realist, because of his intellect—a distinguished, tender, subtle spirit -like a plant. And in the end I sometimes wonder whether H. J. himself in -imagination does not stroll beyond the garden gate up the little hill -and over to the churchyard, where, under the dank earth he knows that -the changing lineaments mold themselves into the sardonic grin of -humanity. - - - - - The Reader Critic - - -_William Thurston Brown, Chicago_: - -I have just read your article on Mrs. Ellis’s lecture, and I wish to -congratulate you upon its sentiments. Although I did not hear Mrs. -Ellis, some of my friends did, and their report quite agrees with your -judgment. - -I must confess I did not expect much from her to begin with. From -interviews and quotations it seemed clear that she was simply one who -had never faced realities frankly. Besides, her rather mawkish -“religiousness” betrayed a mind unfitted to deal adequately with such a -problem. - -I wish also to congratulate you upon your recognition of the genuine -worth of Emma Goldman. I had thought you were in danger of making a -fetich of her, but this article shows that you appreciate the things for -which she stands. - -I cannot believe that the superiority of Emma Goldman to such people as -Mrs. Ellis—I mean in the discernment of real values—is due to a -difference of psychology, or rather of temperament, but rather to the -difference of point of view from which Miss Goldman has seen the -problems of human life. Her experience as a protagonist of Labor in its -struggle for freedom from exploitation has been a vital factor, I think, -in her development. - -All good wishes to THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -_Albrecht C. Kipp, Indianapolis_: - -Some time ago a friend of yours, and mine, under guise of a Yuletide -remembrance, innocently and unapprehensive of the consequences no doubt, -presented me with a year’s subscription to the magazine which you -purport to edit. Our mutual acquaintance made some point of the fact -that you were, as I aspire to be, a Truth-Seeker, and also alluded, in -passing, to a feminine pulchritude which you possessed, not ordinarily a -concomitant of an intellectual curiosity sufficiently keen to delve to -the bottom of things material and spiritual. I therefore looked forward -with undeniable expectation to a gratification of an insatiable desire -to view the remains of many idols and statues still unbroken, which have -been laboriously erected by the prejudice, credulity and ignorance of -mankind for eons. Permit me to apprise you of my keen disappointment in -perusing what I have found ensconced between the covers of your -magazine. - -I was given to understand that you were a quasi-missionary, in the most -elastic sense of that word, and as one who is sincerely trying to fathom -your mission, if one you have, I am writing to ascertain what it may be, -because, owing either to an utter failure of a somewhat impoverished -sense of humor or a too ordinary quantum of common sense, I seem to miss -what you are driving at. If your magazine is designed to interest a -coterie of semi-crazed, halfbaked, “fin de siècle” ideologists, I would -appreciate a recognition of your object. To be quite frank with you, -however, I do not yet consider myself in the proper frame of mind to be -classified in that category of readers without demur. I am only a humble -Searcher for the Truth in Life in all its phases and being congenitally -opposed to the baleful spreading of “Buschwa,” I seem to find my mental -equipoise disturbed by an attempt to diagnose by any rational standard -most of the alleged literary ebullitions which find place in your -REVIEW. - -If we were still living in the Stone Age and reading matter of any sort -were still a scarce article, it might be necessary to put up with the -poetical balderdash which you publish. But having the daily newspapers -to contend with and other pernicious thiefs of valuable time, it seems a -heinous offense to a perfectly respectable mind to offer it, the unripe -or overripe, mayhap, products of insane mentalities. - -No doubt the fault is entirely that of an unschooled intellect, but at -that, I have to take my mind as it is. Just as it is unable to fathom -this Christian Science drivel, in that same measure does it utterly fail -to be touched by what has appeared in THE LITTLE REVIEW of the past four -months. - -Let me assure you that I have made an honest effort to understand your -viewpoint. Unless, however, I am cleared up as to what your aim and goal -may be, I am compelled, in self defense, to request you to kindly -discontinue sending your magazine to me. It may deflour my joy of life -and ruin a saving and virtuous sense of the funny. You are too -kindhearted, I am sure, as our mutual acquaintance informs me, to be an -accessory before the fact to such an ungracious crime. - -_Sada Cowan, New York_: - -Your article on Mrs. Havelock Ellis was wonderful! Mrs. Ellis failed -here ... just as in Chicago. I admire the clear and concise way in which -you illumined the reason of her failure. - -There is so much work to be done it seems wicked that a woman, to whom -the world is so ready and willing to listen, who has the gift of poetic -expression and direct logical thinking, should waste her powers. It is -as though she held understanding and wisdom in her hands—tightly -clenched—then when she should hold out those gifts to the world, she -opened wide her fingers ... here a flash—there a glimmer!—And all -vanishes! - -_E. C. A. Smith, Grosse Ile, Michigan_: - -I was delighted with your critique on Mrs. Ellis, not that I feel she -fell as short as you seem to think, but because your own article made a -beginning on things which must be said. I also emphatically endorse your -views on enabling the poor to restrict their birthrate, not on -sentimental grounds, but because I know by experience it would be a wise -economy for the state. It is natural for wholesome people to want -children; the rise in the labor market caused by the dropping off in -production by the cowardly and incompetent would be amply compensated by -the reduction in the ranks of economically valueless dependents. It -would take less, per capita, to support orphan and insane asylums, -dispensaries, and jails—not to speak of the wasteful drain of -unestimated sporadic charity. The contention that it would contribute to -immorality is absolutely absurd to anyone who has tried rescue -work—girls have child after child, undeterred by pain or shame, just as -the mentally deficient in other lines injure themselves in their -frenzies. - -The only way one has a right to judge life is to look at it from the -inside. Before I read Havelock Ellis I was unable to take this view of -the subjects you so sanely and clearly project on our imaginations. -After laying down his book I found my only shock came from some of the -methods employed in “curing” these unfortunates. From the histories of -cases he cites, I should consider it fair to conclude that the nervous -organization of inverts tended to average below par—as is the usual -medical view. This may be a psychic, not physical, result. Personally, I -cannot see any effect the reading of that material has had on me except -to make me more wisely charitable in my views. It has broadened my -ideals, without weakening them. It has put a new value on normality. It -has not modified my personal theory of love any more than the -not-entirely aesthetic conditions of carrying and bearing my children -did. There are points about that sort of experience—especially the -attitude of the inexperienced—which makes the prude’s attitude to the -whole broad question ridiculous. Another generation will regard ours as -we do the Victorians—my shade will grind its spirit teeth to hear them -laugh. - -I am not sure your point of view as a writer rather than a speaker does -not make you overlook legitimate limitations in Mrs. Ellis’s position. A -speaker can often suggest far more than she actually utters; the -conclusions people are inspired to make for themselves are of far -greater value than if they were cast forth with inspired eloquence. To -antagonize an audience by forcing your point is to lose efficiency. In -print one has not the personal element so strongly and immediately to -consider. Perhaps she was subtler than Emma Goldman, but not so much -weaker as you think. - -THE LITTLE REVIEW is the most satisfactory source of mental stimulation -I have yet discovered. If I do not always agree with it I at least have -the sense of arguing with a friend whose intellect I respect—never did I -feel that for any other publication. And I love freshness and freedom -and enthusiasm as I love youth itself—they’re the qualities that promise -growth. - -_Stella Worden Smith, Monte Vista Heights, Cal._: - -For six months or so I have been blessed with the presense of your -LITTLE REVIEW. Many times I have wanted to tell you so. It is a matter -of deep gratitude that at last one can open the pages of a magazine and -feel that sense of freedom and incomparable beauty that one does in, -say, looking out at a sunset across the mountains—and no more hampering! -You give new horizons, fresh inspiration, and revive the creative -impulse that is more likely to be snuffed out than stimulated when one -peruses the majority of our “best” magazines. Forgive me if I seem over -enthusiastic, but it springs from a gratitude born of great need. And -you have filled it. - -Your review of Mr. Powys’s lectures have carried me back four years into -a period when I was studying music in New York with a Norwegian singer, -and she and I listened to him at the Brooklyn Institute week by week! -Never will I forget it. And she—well, she is a genius herself, an -interpreter of Norwegian folk songs—and Powys lit her soul until it -flamed forth like a beacon! If you heard his Shelley, I think you saw -the veritable incarnation of that transcendent spirit.... - -Then I listened to him again in Buffalo, last year, on Keats. And the -audience, mostly women (God forgive them!) seemed like school -children—no, I will not confound such innocent souls with the inert mass -that confronted him! And this is our culture! - -I think the spirit of your magazine is to other magazines what Powys is -to other lecturers. He makes you forget that he is such. You become part -of his theme, or is it, _himself_? And so it is I seem both to lose and -find myself when I read the pages of THE LITTLE REVIEW. - - - The “Little Review” Gives a Party! - - On April 27, at 8:15 P. M., the desperados who have helped to - perpetrate THE LITTLE REVIEW will entertain those who have - subscribed to it—and any others who are interested—in the Fine - Arts Building. Having bored you in print for over a year, they - are eager to do so in person. - - _Admission 50 cents_ — _Programs ready soon_ - - _Two Worthwhile Novels for the Thinking Reader_ - - By the Author of “Carnival” - - Sinister Street - - By Compton Mackenzie - - The story of Michael Fane, Oxford graduate, and his experiences - in London’s moral bypaths. 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S. Flint. - - - SPECIAL IMAGIST NUMBER - May, 1915 - - This Number will be entirely devoted—apart from the Editorial—to - the works of the young Anglo-American group of poets, known as - “The Imagists,” and will contain: - - Poems by Richard Aldington, H. D., J. G, Fletcher, F. S. Flint, - D. H. Lawrence, Amy Lowell, Harold Monro, Marianne Moore, May - Sinclair, Clara Shanafelt. - - A History of Imagism by F. S. Flint. - - A Review of “Some Imagist Poets, 1915,” by Harold Monro. - - Essays on and Appreciations of the Work of H. D., J. G. Fletcher, - F. S. Flint, D. H. Lawrence, Amy Lowell, and Ezra Pound. - - A thousand extra copies of this Number are being printed. - - Subscription rates: A year, $1.60; six months, $.80; three - months, $.40; single copy, $.15; post free. - - OAKLEY HOUSE, BLOOMSBURY STREET, LONDON, W. C. - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. - -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect -correctly the headings in this issue of THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -In “Extreme Unction”, the line “THE GIRL. You don’t _know_?” was -obviously duplicated. After comparison with another edition, the second -occurrence was removed. - -In the letters to the Editor (“The Reader Critic”), the Editor seems to -have left spelling variations uncorrected. They are not corrected here -either. - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here -(before/after): - - [p. 32]: - ... he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he cause sight of - Marianna’s middy ... - ... he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he caught sight of - Marianna’s middy ... - - [p. 33]: - ... wrong things you dont you can’t remember did ye—did ye - ever kill a kid ... - ... wrong things you done you can’t remember did ye—did ye - ever kill a kid ... - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, APRIL 1915 -(VOL. 2, NO. 2) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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