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} - - div.ads { max-width:inherit; border:0; border-top:1px solid black; padding:0; - padding-top:0.5em; } - - div.ads div.ib { clear:both; display:block; } - - a.pagenum { display:none; } - a.pagenum:after { display:none; } - - .trnote { margin:0; } - - span.firstchar { clear:left; float:left; } - div.ads .fl { float:left; } - div.ads .fr { float:right; } -} - -</style> -</head> - -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, April 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 2), by Margaret C. Anderson</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. 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. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Little Review, April 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 2)</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Margaret C. Anderson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 13, 2021 [eBook #66054]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>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.</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, APRIL 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 2) ***</div> - -<div class="frontmatter chapter"> -<h1 class="title"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</h1> - -<p class="subt"> -<em>Literature</em> <em>Drama</em> <em>Music</em> <em>Art</em> -</p> - -<p class="ed"> -<span class="line1">MARGARET C. ANDERSON</span><br /> -<span class="line2">EDITOR</span> -</p> - -<p class="issue"> -APRIL, 1915 -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="tocn" summary="TOC"> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#ETCHINGSNOTTOBEREADALOUD">Etchings (Not to Be Read Aloud)</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>William Saphier</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#MRCOMSTOCKANDTHERESOURCEFULPOLICE">Mr. Comstock and the Resourceful Police</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Margaret C. Anderson</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#WILDSONGS">Wild Songs</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Skipwith Cannéll</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEPOETRYOFPAULFORT">The Poetry of Paul Fort</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Richard Aldington</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THESUBMAN">The Subman</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Alexander S. Kaun</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#HUNGER">Hunger</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>George Franklin</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#POEMS">Poems</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>David O’Neil</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#MUSIKORMUSIC">Musik or Music?</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>James Whittaker</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THECRITICSCATASTROPHE">The Critics’ Catastrophe</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Herman Schuchert</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#ASHORNSTRINDBERG">A Shorn Strindberg</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Marguerite Swawite</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#VERSLIBREANDADVERTISEMENTS">Vers Libre and Advertisements</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>John Gould Fletcher</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EXTREMEUNCTION">Extreme Unction</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Mary Aldis</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THESCHOOLMASTER">The Schoolmaster</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>George Burman Foster</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#MYFRIENDTHEINCURABLE">My Friend, the Incurable</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Ibn Gabirol</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#GABRILOWITSCHANDTHENEWSTANDARD">Gabrilowitsch and the New Standard</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>M. C. A.</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#BAUERANDCASALS">Bauer and Casals</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Herman Schuchert</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#BOOKDISCUSSION">Book Discussion</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#JOHNCOWPERPOWYSONHENRYJAMES">John Cowper Powys on Henry James</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEREADERCRITIC">The Reader Critic</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> -<p class="monthly"> -Published Monthly -</p> - - <div class="table"> - <div class="footer"> -<p class="pricel"> -15 cents a copy -</p> - -<p class="pub"> -MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher<br /> -Fine Arts Building<br /> -CHICAGO -</p> - -<p class="pricer"> -$1.50 a year -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="postoffice"> -Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="frontmatter chapter"> -<a id="page-1" class="pagenum" title="1"></a> -<p class="tit"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</p> - - <div class="table"> - <div class="issue"> -<p class="vol"> -Vol. II -</p> - -<p class="issue"> -APRIL, 1915 -</p> - -<p class="number"> -No. 2 -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="cop"> -Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson -</p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="article1" id="ETCHINGSNOTTOBEREADALOUD"> -Etchings Not to Be Read Aloud -</h2> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">William Saphier</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="LIGHTSINFOG"> -LIGHTS IN FOG -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Weak sparkling assertions</p> - <p class="verse">In an opal, opaque atmosphere</p> - <p class="verse">Sharp suffering and</p> - <p class="verse">Kindly whispering eyes</p> - <p class="verse">In a wan, olive grey face.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">You mean all to a few</p> - <p class="verse">And nothing to the rest.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEOLDPRIZEFIGHTER"> -THE OLD PRIZE FIGHTER -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">A rosy, I-dare-you nose</p> - <p class="verse">On a twisted steel-trellice face,</p> - <p class="verse">Just some knotty lumber</p> - <p class="verse">Without a hint of flower or fruit.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">You tingled many a passion,</p> - <p class="verse">But never a single soul.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="MRCOMSTOCKANDTHERESOURCEFULPOLICE"> -<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a> -Mr. Comstock and the Resourceful Police -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> 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 <em>Prometheus</em> 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 <em>Sanin</em>; the fault with George -Middleton’s <em>Criminals</em>; the antics of the Drama League; the stunning things -in <em>The Egoist</em>; 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. -</p> - -<p> -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, <em>Family Limitation</em>. 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 -<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> -also seen her pamphlet called <em>English Methods of Birth Control</em>, which practically -duplicates the leaflet (<em>Hygienic Methods of Family Limitation</em>) -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.” -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>Hagar Revelly</em> -suit. But that was not nearly so important as the present issue, because -<em>Hagar Revelly</em> 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 <em>Olalla</em>. Because there is no such thing, really, as -the scientific restriction of love and passion. These things don’t belong in -<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> -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 -<em>need justification</em> 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.” -</p> - -<p> -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, <em>The Masses</em> Publishing Company, 87 Greenwich -Avenue, New York City; to <em>Mother Earth</em>, 20 East 125th Street, New -York City, or to <em>The Little Review</em>. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -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 <em>The Masses</em>. (<em>The Masses</em>, 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”: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -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, <em>lighted</em>, and then the dozens of -policemen and detectives, disguised as scrubwomen, etc., rushed in to save -civilization. -</p> - -<p> -And Woods fell for it. He swallowed the whole sensational business. They -have got him. He is their dupe, and henceforth their faithful tool. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>agent provocateur</em> 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? -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Giovannitti’s Italian magazine, <em>Il Fuoco</em>, states that the bomb was made -of caps and gravel—the kind of thing children use on the fourth of July. -I know that <em>Mother Earth</em> has started a fund to prevent the two boys from -being railroaded. Will there never be an end of these ghastly things?... -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -As too much light may blind the vision, so -too much intellect may hinder the understanding. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—<em>Romain Rolland.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="WILDSONGS"> -<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> -Wild Songs -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>From “Monoliths”</em>) -</p> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Skipwith Cannell</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="INTHEFOREST"> -IN THE FOREST -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I am not alone, for there are eyes</p> - <p class="verse">Stealthy and curious,</p> - <p class="verse">And they turn to me.</p> - <p class="verse">I will shout loudly to the forest,</p> - <p class="verse">I will shout and with a sob</p> - <p class="verse">Griping my throat I will cower</p> - <p class="verse">Quickly</p> - <p class="verse">Beneath my cloak.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">For the old gods stand silently</p> - <p class="verse">Behind the silent trees,</p> - <p class="verse">And when I shout they step forth</p> - <p class="verse">And I dare not</p> - <p class="verse">Look upon their faces.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEFLOODTIDE"> -THE FLOOD TIDE -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The red in me</p> - <p class="verse">Lives too near my throat.</p> - <p class="verse">My heart is choked with blood,</p> - <p class="verse">And a rage drives it upward</p> - <p class="verse">As the moon drags the flood tide</p> - <p class="verse">Raging</p> - <p class="verse">Across the marshes.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I will dance</p> - <p class="verse">Somberly,</p> - <p class="verse">In a ritual</p> - <p class="verse">Terrible and soothing;</p> - <p class="verse">I will dance that I may not</p> - <p class="verse">Tear out his throat</p> - <p class="verse">In murder.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEDANCE"> -<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> -THE DANCE -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">With wide flung arms,</p> - <p class="verse">With feet clinging to the earth</p> - <p class="verse">I will dance.</p> - <p class="verse">My breath sobs in my belly</p> - <p class="verse">For an old sorrow that has put out the sun,</p> - <p class="verse">An old, furious sorrow ...</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I will grin,</p> - <p class="verse">I will bare my gums and grin</p> - <p class="verse">Like a grey wolf who has come upon a bear.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEPOETRYOFPAULFORT"> -<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> -The Poetry of Paul Fort -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Richard Aldington</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt" lang="fr"> -<p class="noindent"> -“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.” -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -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: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt" lang="fr"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Les sires d’autrefois portaient: <em>Fascé de vair et de gueules.</em> Pour supports: <em>deux lions d’or</em>. Au cimier: <em>un lion issu du même</em>. — Or voici que, premier, notre gai souverain, missire le soleil,</p> - <p class="verse">porte un écu vivant! “<em>Sur champ de vert gazon</em>, Paul Fort couché près d’une amoureuse Suzon mêle distraitement cent douze violettes à sa barbe, et Suzon rêve sous sa voilette.”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> -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: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And Robert Browning, you writer of plays,</p> - <p class="verse">Here’s a subject made to your hand.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -And old Walt: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I, Walt Whitman, a Cosmos, turbulent, fleshly, sensual,</p> - <p class="verse">Eating, drinking and breeding.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt" lang="fr"> -<h3 class="excerpt" id="LARONDE"> -LA RONDE -</h3> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Si toutes les filles du monde voulaient s’ donner la main, tout autour de la mer</p> - <p class="verse">elles pourraient faire une ronde.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Si tous les gars du monde voulaient bien êtr’ marins, ils f’raient avec leurs</p> - <p class="verse">barques un joli pont sur l’onde.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Alors on pourrait faire une ronde autour du monde, si tous les gens du monde</p> - <p class="verse">voulaient s’ donner la main.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -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 <em>Dolores</em> 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; -<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -For example, this quotation from the Roman de Louis XI., one of Paul -Fort’s finest poem-novels. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt" lang="fr"> -<p class="noindent"> -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. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -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 <em>Notre Dame de Paris</em>, chiefly because it is more natural and -familiar. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 -<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> -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: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt" lang="fr"> -<h3 class="excerpt" id="LAMANIEREYAY"> -LA MANIERE<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -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.” -</p> - -</div> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> 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. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THESUBMAN"> -The Subman -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">L</span><span class="postfirstchar">ife</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -The furor produced in Russia by the appearance of Artzibashev’s <em>Sanin</em> -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 -<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -But the importance of <em>Sanin</em> 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.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-2" id="fnote-2">[2]</a> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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 -<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> -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 <em>Sanin</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>Thus spake Zarathustra</em> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>ne plus ultra</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -I repeat my statement: <em>Sanin</em>, or rather Artzibashev, is typical of his -age—the age of the oversatiated enervated urbanite, the age of civilization -<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> -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. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-2" id="footnote-2">[2]</a> <em>Sanine, by Michael Artzibashef.</em> [<em>B. W. Huebsch, New York.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="footnote2"> -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 <em>Millionaire</em>; -let us hope that this time the author will be spared the atrocious mutilation by the -hands of the humoristic Percy Pinkerton. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="HUNGER"> -Hunger -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Franklin</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> 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 -<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> -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. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -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. -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—<em>Richard Wagner.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="POEMS"> -<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> -Poems -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">David O’Neil</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="APATHY"> -APATHY -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The bodies of soldiers</p> - <p class="verse">Come floating down the river</p> - <p class="verse">To the green sea,</p> - <p class="verse">Rich in amber,</p> - <p class="verse">Waiting to embalm them;</p> - <p class="verse">All is splendid silence</p> - <p class="verse">In this pageantry of wanton glory</p> - <p class="verse">Awed</p> - <p class="verse">By the setting sun.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="ONEWAYOUT"> -ONE WAY OUT -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">In this terror of blood-spilling lust,</p> - <p class="verse">Why throw it in a ditch,</p> - <p class="verse">This boy’s beautiful body,</p> - <p class="verse">When his spirit might rise like steam from the soup</p> - <p class="verse">And stir the live ones to vengeance?</p> - <p class="verse">Disease will deter you?</p> - <p class="verse">Ah, but boil it well</p> - <p class="verse">And the thought will give it a spice.</p> - <p class="verse">Cannibalism, you say?</p> - <p class="verse">Why stop when you have gone so far?</p> - <p class="verse">He that died</p> - <p class="verse">Would rather his body</p> - <p class="verse">Gave life to his fellows,</p> - <p class="verse">Than be trampled over,</p> - <p class="verse">Shot over,</p> - <p class="verse">Shoveled like offal away.</p> - <p class="verse">Why throw it in a ditch?</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="VICTORY"> -VICTORY -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I see captured shot-rent flags</p> - <p class="verse">Dancing with the wind,</p> - <p class="verse">Flying high to glory.</p> - <p class="verse">Why not anchor them</p> - <p class="verse">With a pyramid of bones,</p> - <p class="verse">Those of our own men?</p> - <p class="verse">It would tell</p> - <p class="verse">Of the price that was paid</p> - <p class="verse">To have these flags here,</p> - <p class="verse">Whipping in the wind.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="OURSONJACK"> -<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> -OUR SON JACK -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Our son Jack,</p> - <p class="verse">Wild with life,</p> - <p class="verse">Went through</p> - <p class="verse">When law and nature</p> - <p class="verse">Said, “Go around.”</p> - <p class="verse">Thus he died.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEOAK"> -THE OAK -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Gaunt,</p> - <p class="verse">Stripped of leaves,</p> - <p class="verse">Death-defiant,</p> - <p class="verse">Yet triumphant</p> - <p class="verse">In this thought:</p> - <p class="verse">There is nothing more to lose.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="MOODSANDMOMENTS"> -MOODS AND MOMENTS -</h3> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="I"> -I. -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">In dreams</p> - <p class="verse">I have been swept through space</p> - <p class="verse">On a star-hung swing,</p> - <p class="verse">Like a silkworm</p> - <p class="verse">Upheld by a slender strand,</p> - <p class="verse">Tossed about in the gale.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="II"> -II. -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">His life was well ordered</p> - <p class="verse">And monotonously clean</p> - <p class="verse">As an orchard with white-washed trees.</p> - <p class="verse">But he felt not the cool</p> - <p class="verse">Of the sun-splotched woods</p> - <p class="verse">Nor the mad blue brilliance</p> - <p class="verse">Of the sea.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="III"> -III. -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I see green fields</p> - <p class="verse">In the first flush of the spring,</p> - <p class="verse">And little children playing,</p> - <p class="verse">Clustered as patches of white flowers.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="MUSIKORMUSIC"> -<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> -Musik or Music? -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">James Whittaker</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">D</span><span class="postfirstchar">espite</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 -<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>must</em> doubt the -strength of organized professionalism that Berlin would teach us, the value -of hard work the contrapunctalists of the Royal Academy preach;—we <em>must</em> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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! -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THECRITICSCATASTROPHE"> -<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> -The Critics’ Catastrophe -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -(A Probable Possibility) -</p> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Herman Schuchert</span> -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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: -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> I suppose it will be eminently respectable. (<span class="dir">The -others appear not to have heard his remark, until a reply is carefully chosen -by</span> -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Carbon Hatchett.</span> Her advance notices would lead one to suppose -that she has something of a prestige. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> 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! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> I suppose she imagines she’s going to revolutionize -program-making. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> 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 -(<span class="dir">chuckle</span>) 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 <em>the</em> 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 <em>March of the Rock-Spirits</em> at my recital on -March the twentieth, you’ll hear the real thing—it’s music, I tell you. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Xilef Bowowski.</span> 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 <em>Through the Marsh</em>—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! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> Blgh-h! That belongs to his early period. -<em>Through the Marsh</em> is simply a practice-stunt, done when he was about fifteen—a -mere youthful exercise. You can’t judge by—blgh-h! -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> I read in the <em>Artists’ News</em> that young Shanks -is only seventeen at the present time. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Xilef Bowowski.</span> A little plum brandy for me. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> Bring me some Haig and Haig. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Carbon Hatchett.</span> Manhattan cocktail. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> A large beer. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> Good! Let’s have some Green River, Tim. Krupp, -do you think she’ll be any good at all? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> A woman? From Budapest? On a Thimble -piano? Starting in with Debussy? And you ask if she’ll be good! How -could she be? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> I was reading the other day—— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Carbon Hatchett.</span> She hasn’t played yet, and maybe it won’t be so -bad after all. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> A friend of mine tells me that Mr. Debussy is one -of the greatest living melodists. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> Blgh-h! -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Hatchett to Krupp.</span> 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 -<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp</span> (<span class="dir">fiercely</span>). I know it, but the cattle don’t recognize good criticism -when they see it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Hatchett to Krupp.</span> How did the Madame strike you? Plenty of -emotion, I thought. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp</span> (<span class="dir">to all</span>). Impossible program—good God!—did you ever hear -such a medley? And she hasn’t the strength of a kitten. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Hatchett to Krupp.</span> Of course, she didn’t seem quite vital enough, but -that may have been because of her choice of numbers. They were somewhat -“outre.” -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp</span> (<span class="dir">sourly</span>). Altogether too girlish, I say. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> Splendid personality, but a rotten technic, don’t you -think? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> As near as I can tell, she wears marvelous silk -hose. They were the most striking thing about the whole concert. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> Blgh-ggh-h! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Xilef Bowowski.</span> I suppose then, Mr. Worcester, one doesn’t require -any ears to get the good or bad out of a concert—only eyes. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> Gentlemen, this is so good of you. And how did -you like my recital? I hope it pleased you—yes? -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -There is a moment of silence which, as it becomes awkward, is broken by -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> Some concert, all right. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> How good of you. I am happy. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> I confess I find myself unable to understand the -judgment which places Debussy at the first of a program. Now why did -you—— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> How did you manage to get along without -Brahms, Madame. I should be interested—— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> Oh, you did not hear my third encore, then—the -Brahms B-minor Capriccio. I am so sorry you missed it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> Oh, was that Brahms? I thought it sounded rather -chunky, now that I recall it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> Ah, but the pleasure is mine. I shall be delighted -to accept—that is, if there is time. I make that condition only. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> Thank you, thank you, Madame. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Xilef Bowowski.</span> Madame Bonjoline, do you remember the date of -publication of the Gliere Prelude which you played today? It has completely -slipped my mind. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame</span> (<span class="dir">laughing</span>). My good sir, I could not recall it to save my -soul. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> I wish your playing sounded as good as it looks, -Madame. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> 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 <em>Le Petit Revue</em>, or something like that. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> Oh, yes; that effusive young lady’s journal, -<em>The Little Review</em>. I have heard of it. Ha! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> Their poor musical writer was in your audience -this afternoon, Madame. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> He’s one of those chaps you can meet three -or four times and still never recognize on the street. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> So? At any rate, James Shooneker is going -to “write up” (I believe you say) my recital. I understand that this number -of <em>The Little Review</em> is coming from the press in the morning, and his article -will appear in it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Carbon Hatchett.</span> So, indeed. This Mr. Shooneker, if I remember -correctly, has written a book—what is the title of it? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> Och! He has written so many, many books! -I do not know which one you mean. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> Say: this James Shooneker,—who’s he? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> Who cares who he is? His stuff won’t get -far in that sheet. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Edward Morless.</span> Of course not. I just wondered. For my part, -I’ve had a terrible afternoon. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> But Ed, think of tonight. You’ve got to listen -to Walter Spratt’s piano-playing. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Carbon Hatchett.</span> Do you call that playing? -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> Looking up Shooneker? Here’s one of his -things,—<em>Half-tones in Modern Music</em>. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> Oh, yes; that. I remember reading it when -I was scarcely more than a boy. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> It was published in 1909, I see. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Ben Dullard Krupp.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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 -<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> -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, -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">James Shooneker.</span> Mr. Worcester, you might be interested in knowing -the reason for my Chicago visit. In fact, it is only fair you should know. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> Sure! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">James Shooneker.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> Who’s bluff is this? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">James Shooneker.</span> 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— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> 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! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> See, James, how perfectly American he is! I -told you he would be. Isn’t he a dear boy? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">James Shooneker.</span> You like the conditions, then? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> Bully! I appreciate them. And say, didn’t you -write a book once called <em>The Insane Melons</em>? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">James Shooneker.</span> Yes, I have a book with a title something like -that. Why do you ask? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> If you’ve got one with you, I’d like a signed -copy. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">James Shooneker.</span> I’m very sorry, but I didn’t bring any with me. -Perhaps I can send you one later. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> -<span class="character">Donald Worcester.</span> Fine! I wish you would. That’s treating me -mighty good. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Madame Bonjoline.</span> You deserve it, my boy. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Bowowski.</span> They can’t print more than a couple hundred. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Hatchett.</span> Somebody told me they had several thousand paid subscriptions, -and then printed a bunch of extras. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Hatchett.</span> You can’t tell. It isn’t “they” but “she.” You’re dealing -with a woman, a young one at that. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> Oh, Hell; I can get around that difficulty. Waiter! Bring -me a telephone! Hurry up! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Bowowski.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Hatchett.</span> By George! That’s so, isn’t it! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -Ben Dullard Krupp is informed over the wire that the new issue of<em> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> </em>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 -<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> -suitcase, to read on the train. Madame Bonjoline does not open her copy, -having read the article concerning herself from manuscript, two weeks before. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> Rank insolence, I call it! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Hatchett.</span> What’s the matter? Won’t they sell? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> She says the mails are flooded with the impudent sheet. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Bowowski.</span> Horrible! Horrible, indeed! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> 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! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Bowowski.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> 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— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Hatchett.</span> Tchaikowsky has written some very good— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> Tchaikowsky! Man! if you mention that mediocrity’s unhallowed -name again, I’ll go completely mad! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Bowowski.</span> Great Heavens! Tim is coming to put us out, just on -account of your infernal shouting. And look! With him! Shooneker! -How perfectly horrible! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> Blgh-gh-h! -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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 -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">Krupp.</span> I don’t care who he is. I know I was right in saying— -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="ASHORNSTRINDBERG"> -<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> -A Shorn Strindberg -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Marguerite Swawite.</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">ad</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 -<em>The Father</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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.... -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="VERSLIBREANDADVERTISEMENTS"> -<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> -Vers Libre and Advertisements -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">John Gould Fletcher</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h3 class="excerpt" id="SERVEAHOTMUFFINSUPPER"> -SERVE A HOT MUFFIN SUPPER -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Light flaky muffins, <em>oven hot</em> and <em>golden topped</em>, a suppertime goody that certainly -will strike that hungry <em>spot</em>. 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 <em>day</em>. They’ll say, “<em>Great</em>,” when they eat it on your <em>flaky</em> hot biscuits or -on <em>waffles</em> or <em>batter cakes</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -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 <em>day</em>, -<em>say</em>, <em>great</em>, <em>flaky</em>, <em>cakes</em>, 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. -</p> - -<p> -Take another case. The following appeared in a well known monthly. -The editor doubtless looks on free verse as the rankest heresy: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">A pipe, a maid,</p> - <p class="verse">A sheet of ice,</p> - <p class="verse">The glow of life—</p> - <p class="verse">And that glow doubled</p> - <p class="verse">By the glow of “Lady Strike”</p> - <p class="verse">Cuddling warm in the bowl;</p> - <p class="verse">This is the life</p> - <p class="verse">In the good old winter-time!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -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 <em>pipe</em>, <em>ice</em>, <em>life</em>, <em>strike</em>, -and <em>time</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -My last example is the most ambitious of all. I present it exactly as it -was written without comment. It appeared in <em>The North American Review</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h3 class="excerpt" id="UNIVERNISH"> -<em>Univernish</em> -</h3> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Compared with old-method varnishes,</p> - <p class="verse">it is convenience and certainty.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">It means one finishing varnish</p> - <p class="verse">for the job, instead of two or three.</p> - <p class="verse">It does away with the extra cans</p> - <p class="verse">and the extra cleanings of brushes.</p> - <p class="verse">It avoids mistakes and accidents.</p> - <p class="verse">It is safe and sure and fool-proof.</p> - <p class="verse">Compared with other new-method varnishes,</p> - <p class="verse">it is a vital improvement.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">It is the new-method varnish</p> - <p class="verse">which does not thicken in the can</p> - <p class="verse">nor clog the painter’s brush.</p> - <p class="verse">It remains a clear, pure liquid.</p> - <p class="verse">It is easy working and free-flowing.</p> - <p class="verse">It requires vastly less labor.</p> - <p class="verse">It gives a smooth, clean finish</p> - <p class="verse">which is especially beautiful</p> - <p class="verse">and durable.</p> - <p class="verse">We think we are quite conservative</p> - <p class="verse">in saying that it saves twenty per cent</p> - <p class="verse">of the finishing cost.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -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? -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="EXTREMEUNCTION"> -<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> -Extreme Unction -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Mary Aldis</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="CHARACTERS"> -CHARACTERS: -</h3> - -<div class="center"> -<p class="dpers"> -<span class="character">A Dying Prostitute</span><br /> -<span class="character">A Society Lady</span><br /> -<span class="character">A Salvation Army Lassie</span><br /> -<span class="character">A Doctor</span><br /> -<span class="character">A Nurse</span> -</p> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="SCENE"> -SCENE: -</h3> - -<p class="dir"> -The screened space around a high narrow bed in a Hospital ward. -Record-card hanging above. The Screens have antiseptic white sheets over -them. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -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!” -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -(<span class="dir">The Lady enters</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> I don’ want ’em! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> If you want to. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> What shall I read? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> I don’ care. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> A story perhaps? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> All right—Fire it off. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Is that the one about the valley? God, but I’m sick of it! -Gives me the jimmies. Got a story? -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -(<span class="character">The Lady</span> puts the flowers back in their box—takes off her wrap and -settles herself to read aloud from a magazine): -</p> - -<div class="citation"> -<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> -<p> -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 <em>not</em> 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. -</p> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Grocerman, bring a can</p> - <p class="verse">Baby-food for Mary Ann!”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="dir"> -The girl listens for a moment with a faint show of interest, then goes -back to her restless tossing. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl</span> (<span class="dir">interrupting</span>). Say,—d’ye know I’m done for? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Oh no! You’re getting better every day. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re going to get -well (<span class="dir">girl makes an angry snort</span>). 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. (<span class="dir">Reads.</span>) -</p> - -<div class="citation"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Grocerman, bring a can</p> - <p class="verse">Baby-food for Mary Ann!”</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -<p class="noindent"> -he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he <a id="corr-24"></a>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.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-3" id="fnote-3">[3]</a> -</p> - -</div> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl</span> (<span class="dir">interrupting</span>). Lady, where d’ you think you’re goin’ to -when you kick it? Tell me! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Why—I don’t know—To Heaven, I hope—but you -mustn’t— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> What makes you think you’re goin’ to Heaven? -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> How do you know we’re goin’? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> I don’t know, I believe. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> But how do you know the wrong things you done won’t -keep you out? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Now I’m afraid you’re exciting yourself— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> 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! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Oh you mustn’t say that! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Well, can ye? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> I’ll try if you will tell me what is troubling you. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Oh Gawd! She wants to know what’s troubling me, she -does! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Can’t you tell me? Perhaps I could help you. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> You said you done wrong things.—What was they? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> I—I don’t know exactly. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="removed"></a><span class="character">The Girl.</span> You don’t <em>know</em>? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Why I suppose I could think of lots of things but— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> She could “think of lots o’ things”! Has to stop to remember—O -gee—guess she’ll get in. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Oh <em>please</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Is that true? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Yes. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> I don’t believe it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> It is true nevertheless. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Well, if you aint sorry? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> But surely you are—You must be! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> No I aint. It was better dead. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> What do you mean? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> I tell ye, it was better to be dead. Say, Lady—in them -wrong things you <a id="corr-25"></a>done you <em>can’t remember</em> did ye—did ye ever kill a kid -that hadn’t hardly breathed—Say, did ye—did ye? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> 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! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> I aint sorry. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> No, no, never mind that. Tell me if you want to, tell -me—about it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> An’ I aint sorry for what cum first—him—it was all I -ever had; that time, that little weeny time! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Wait a moment—wouldn’t you rather have a clergyman? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> <em>No!</em> There’s one comes ’round here. I don’ want to -tell him nothin’. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Very well—go on. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> It was so little, and it squawked! It squawked awful! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Oh—don’t! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> You don’t want me to tell ye? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Yes, yes. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> 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! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> You mustn’t feel so, you mustn’t! God is kind and good -and merciful. He will forgive you—Ask Him to! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -(<span class="dir">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.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> I’ll be back in a moment! (<span class="dir">She goes out.</span>) -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -(<span class="dir">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.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> I know them kind too. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lassie.</span> Can’t I do something for you? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> No—not now—You’re a good sort enough—but—I aint -sorry—I tell ye—I aint, I aint! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lassie</span> (<span class="dir">to Lady</span>). What d’ye want me for? What’ll I do? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Couldn’t you sing something brave and cheerful? You -were singing so nicely out there. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lassie</span> (<span class="dir">to Girl</span>). Shall I? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> No—they won’t let ye. It ’ud make a noise. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Sing it low. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lassie.</span> (<span class="dir">In a sing-song voice—swaying, half chanting, half -speaking:</span>) “Shall we gather at the river—the beautiful, the beautiful river, -etc.” -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> -<span class="character">The Girl</span> (<span class="dir">after trying to listen for a stanza or two</span>). 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! (<span class="dir">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.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> Why child—what troubles you? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl</span> (<span class="dir">clinging to his hand</span>). Doctor! Everybody says I got to -be sorry to get in. I aint sorry, an’ I’m ’fraid, I’m ’fraid. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> To get in where? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Heaven, where you’ll be happy. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> That is very interesting, how do you suppose they found -that out? How do they know, I mean? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Lady.</span> Doctor, I didn’t tell her that. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> Didn’t you? She seems strangely excited. (<span class="dir">He seats -himself by the bed.</span>) Come child, let’s talk about it. (<span class="dir">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.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> Now, tell me what is on your mind, but try and stop -crying and speak plainly, for I want to understand what you say. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> I’m gona die, aint I? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> Yes. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> When? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> I don’t know. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> <em>Soon?</em> -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> Yes. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> How soon? Tomorrow? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> No, not tomorrow. Perhaps in a month, perhaps longer. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Will I get sorry ’fore I go? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> But I gotta be—to get in. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> You seem very sure on that point. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> But everybody says I gotta be. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> What is the use saying it or thinking it when nobody -knows? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> What you sayin’? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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 <em>they</em> found all that out? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> But aint I gotta be punished somewhere till I git sorry? -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> Do you remember the other night when the pain was -so bad? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Yep. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Oh, don’t I remember! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Turned up? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Tell me more about it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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 <em>you</em> would have found out a <em>little</em> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> You’re kiddin’ me! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> And I don’t have to be sorry—to get in? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Will there be gates of gold that open wide, and angels -standin’ by with shinin’ wings? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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 <em>know</em> -something—not just be groping—groping—groping in the dark. If you only -<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> -could, if you only could! I wonder— (<span class="dir">In his turn he gazes at her intently, -then rises abruptly.</span>) 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> Oh Doctor! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> You’d like to do something for me, wouldn’t you child? -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -(<span class="dir">The girl reaches out for his hand and kisses it humbly, then gazes at him.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> No, Doctor. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> 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. (<span class="dir">He touches the bell, the nurse appears.</span>) 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? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl.</span> No no! I don’ want ’em! Doctor, when will it come? -Doctor, will I know soon? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Doctor.</span> Soon I think—Very soon. (<span class="dir">He takes her hand a second, -then goes out, motioning the nurse to precede him.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="character">The Girl</span> (<span class="dir">raptly</span>). Soon! He said it would be very soon—and I’m -so tired! I’d like something nicer. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -(<span class="dir">She settles herself with a little sigh, and falls asleep.</span>) -</p> - -<p class="center dir"> -CURTAIN. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-3" id="footnote-3">[3]</a> From <em>The Century, March, 1914</em>. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THESCHOOLMASTER"> -The Schoolmaster -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Burman Foster</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> 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, <em>and a new fresh Spring-life,—the Christ-life</em>, 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 -<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -It is not within the scope of my task to inquire how far this traditional -<em>schema</em> 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 -<em>laws</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -Passing on, now, to speak of the forces which the most modern prophet -of a new culture, <em>Friedrich Nietzsche</em>, looks upon as the most grievous -hindrances to a <em>new kind of man</em>, 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 <em>civitas die</em>; 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 <em>persons</em>, but against a <em>system</em>. The synagogue -was the <em>school</em> of the Jews; the scribes were the <em>masters</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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 -<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> -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 -<em>certain kind of spirit</em>, 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -School gives <em>knowledge</em>. In all knowledge, man confronts nature. -Man elaborates nature in his thoughts, and thus lifts himself <em>above</em> 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 <em>after</em>, not <em>with</em>, 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 <em>seeing</em> and <em>hearing</em> and <em>feeling</em>, so cry, and how childish, how -ridiculously petty, how weak and pathological, will all schoolmasterism -come to seem! -</p> - -<p> -Nature is also <em>Art</em>, 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, -<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>vice versa</em>. 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. <em>Vers libre</em>—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 <em>Masters</em> -who belong to no school, and who cannot be tagged as scholars of another -“master.” -</p> - -<p> -Nature, life, this is also <em>religion</em>, 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. -</p> - -<p> -Then the name became everything. On this name scribes exercised -<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> -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, <em>religion</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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? -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 -<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> -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 <em>men</em>, -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>imitational</em> -institutions, <em>after</em> 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 <em>our</em> 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 -<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> -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. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="MYFRIENDTHEINCURABLE"> -My Friend, the Incurable -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section firstline" id="VICHOLERICCOMMENTSONCACOPHONIES"> -<span class="firstline">VI.</span><br /> -<span class="smallcaps">Choleric Comments on Cacophonies</span> -</h3> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="ONTHEGSTRING"> -<em>On the G String</em> -</h4> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">e</span> 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.... -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -We are weary. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -With some apprehension I looked forward to Mr. Powys’s book of -“Literary Devotions,”<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-4" id="fnote-4">[4]</a> 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 -<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -Pray, “sweet, tender reader,” how long could you endure Mischa Elman -playing the Minuet in G? -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-4" id="footnote-4">[4]</a> <em>Visions and Revisions, by John Cowper Powys.</em> [<em>G. Arnold Shaw, New York</em>] -</p> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="ANDPIPPADANCES"> -<em>And Pippa Dances</em> -</h4> - -<p class="noindent"> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>William Tell</em> on the -victrola—so digestible and understandable. Last Sunday I observed a crowd -at a ten-cent concert enjoying the <em>Meditation</em>, 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 -<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> -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 -<em>Prometheus</em>? 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -And Pippa dances. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Ibn Gabirol.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="MUSIC"> -<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> -Music -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="GABRILOWITSCHANDTHENEWSTANDARD"> -GABRILOWITSCH AND THE NEW STANDARD -</h3> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">deas</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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—<em>provided he really has something to say</em>. -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>The Egoist</em>. 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 -<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 -<em>might</em> 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 <em>Des Abends</em>, 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="BAUERANDCASALS"> -<span class="smallcaps">Bauer and Casals</span> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -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 -<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Herman Schuchert.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="BOOKDISCUSSION"> -<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a> -Book Discussion -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="AUTUMNALGORKY"> -AUTUMNAL GORKY -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Tales of Two Countries, by Maxim Gorky.</em> [<em>B. W. Huebsch, -New York.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">G</span><span class="postfirstchar">orky’s</span> 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 <em>Bosyaki</em>. 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 <em>Tales</em> 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 <em>Russian Tales</em>. 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. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="BREAKINGINTOANOPENDOOR"> -BREAKING INTO AN OPEN DOOR -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Plaster Saints, by Israel Zangwill.</em> [<em>The Macmillan Company, -New York.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -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. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -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! -</p> - -<p> -... 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. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-50" class="pagenum" title="50"></a> -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 -<em>laisser faire</em> 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. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="MAGAZINEVERSE"> -MAGAZINE VERSE -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Anthology of Magazine Verse, 1914; selected and published by -William S. Braithwaite.</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -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? -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="JOHNCOWPERPOWYSONHENRYJAMES"> -<a id="page-51" class="pagenum" title="51"></a> -John Cowper Powys on Henry James -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>Some more jottings from one of Mr. Powys’s lectures.</em>) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">enry</span> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -His work divides itself into three periods—best between 1900 and 1903. In reading -him approximate 1900 as the climacteric period. -</p> - -<p> -His character delineation is superb. Ralph in <em>The Portrait of a Lady</em>, 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -In describing city and country he is equally great. He does not paint with words, -but simply transports you there. Read <em>The Ambassadors</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -There is another element in his work that is psychic and beyond—magnetic and -beyond. His people are held together by its vibrations. Read <em>The Two Magics</em>. -</p> - -<p> -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 <em>The Reverberator</em>. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-52" class="pagenum" title="52"></a> -In the <em>Two Hemispheres</em> 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -To appreciate the mise en scène of his books—his descriptions of homes—read -<em>The Great Good Place</em>. 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. -</p> - -<p> -Read <em>The Tragic Muse</em>. 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<div class="letters"> -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC"> -The Reader Critic -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="from"> -<em>William Thurston Brown, Chicago</em>: -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -All good wishes to <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -<p class="from"> -<a id="page-53" class="pagenum" title="53"></a> -<em>Albrecht C. Kipp, Indianapolis</em>: -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <span class="smallcaps">Review</span>. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 <span class="smallcaps">The -Little Review</span> of the past four months. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p class="from"> -<em>Sada Cowan, New York</em>: -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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! -</p> - -<p class="from"> -<a id="page-54" class="pagenum" title="54"></a> -<em>E. C. A. Smith, Grosse Ile, Michigan</em>: -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> 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. -</p> - -<p class="from"> -<em>Stella Worden Smith, Monte Vista Heights, Cal.</em>: -</p> - -<p> -For six months or so I have been blessed with the presense of your <span class="smallcaps">Little Review</span>. -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. -</p> - -<p> -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 -<a id="page-55" class="pagenum" title="55"></a> -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.... -</p> - -<p> -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! -</p> - -<p> -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, <em>himself</em>? And so it is I seem both to lose and find myself when I read the pages -of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="vspace"> - -</p> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h2 adh"> -<span class="underline">The “Little Review” Gives a Party!</span> -</p> - -<p class="narrow"> -On April 27, at 8:15 P. M., the desperados who -have helped to perpetrate <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -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. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Admission 50 cents</em> — <em>Programs ready soon</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="c"> -<em>Two Worthwhile Novels for the Thinking Reader</em> -</p> - -<div class="centerpic appleton fr"> -<img src="images/appleton.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p> -By the Author of “Carnival” -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Sinister Street -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Compton Mackenzie -</p> - -<p> -The story of Michael Fane, Oxford graduate, and his experiences -in London’s moral bypaths. Readers of “Carnival” found in the -author an artist who was as original as he was unusual, and in -this new story by the same author will be found a strong study -of a man worth knowing. -</p> - -<p> -“It is just the book for those who have reached the age to appreciate -the god whom we do not know until we have ourselves -lost him forever—the divinity of youth.”—Truth. -</p> - -<p> -“The author not only visualizes for us, he creates the very air -and smell of the underworld, and above all he shows us more -clearly than anyone else has done that the lives of the people -generally classed as criminals not only negative our morality, but -create a morality of their own which is, in its own sphere, as -negative as our own.”—T. P.’s Weekly. -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.35 Net -</p> - -<p> -By the Author of “Old Mole” -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Young Earnest -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Gilbert Cannan -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Cannan’s new novel is a revelation in the art of character -delineation. It is the story of a young man in search of himself -and his place in the scheme of things. A search in which his -days are filled with intimate experiences with life in all its -kaleidoscopic coloring and variation. It is the kind of book one -likes to read slowly, for every page is full of charm, insight and -wisdom. -</p> - -<p> -“A fine imaginative insight and an honest facing of reality and -its problems combine to give unusual distinction to “Young -Earnest.”—The Chicago Evening Post. -</p> - -<p> -“Full of admirable observation, clearness of vision, subtle interpretation. -A work women should read, for they will learn -much about the other sex, reputed easy to understand.”—The -English Review. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Cannan is a master in the art of dissecting human emotion.”—The -New York Times. -</p> - -<div class="centerpic appleton fl"> -<img src="images/appleton.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.35 Net -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -D. APPLETON & COMPANY, Publishers, NEW YORK -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-56" class="pagenum" title="56"></a> -<div class="centerpic goodyear"> -<img src="images/goodyear.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h1 u adh"> -The Promise of<br /> -A Better Tire Day -</p> - -<p> -Goodyear Fortified Tires came, years ago, to promise men a better -tire day. And that promise was fulfilled. -</p> - -<p> -They made Goodyear the largest-selling tire in the world, a place it -has held ever since. Last year men bought 1,479,883—about one -for each car in use. -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -Not Magical -</p> - -<p> -Don’t expect in the Goodyear -a magical tire. It is not exempt -from mishap and misuse. -</p> - -<p> -It won top place because it -averaged best. It did that because, -in five great ways, it excels -every other tire. It combats -in five ways, exclusive to Goodyear, -these six major troubles— -</p> - -<p class="c u"> -<b>Rim-Cuts</b><br /> -<b>Blowouts</b><br /> -<b>Loose Treads</b><br /> -<b>Insecurity</b><br /> -<b>Punctures</b><br /> -<b>Skidding</b> -</p> - -<p> -One way—our “On-Air” -cure—costs us -$450,000 yearly. One -comes through forming -in each tire hundreds of -large rubber rivets. One -compels us to vulcanize -in each tire base 126 -braided piano wires. -</p> - -<p> -One comes through our double-thick -All-Weather tread, with its -sharp, tough, resistless grips. -These things together mean a -super-tire. -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -Lower Prices -</p> - -<p> -Yet these costly-built tires, in -the past two years, have been -thrice reduced in price. Our last -reduction—on February 1st—brings -the two-year total to -45%. -</p> - -<p> -Never has a tire given -so much for the money -as Fortified Tires do -now. We ask you, for -your own sake, to prove -it. Any dealer will supply -you. -</p> - - <div class="c"> - <div class="ib box"> -<div class="centerpic goodyear2"> -<img src="images/goodyear2.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h3 hidden u adh"> -<span class="smallcaps">Goodyear</span><br /> -AKRON, OHIO -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -Fortified Tires -</p> - -<p class="u s c"> -No-Rim-Cut Tires—“On-Air” Cured<br /> -With All-Weather Treads or Smooth -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="ade"> -The Goodyear Tire & Rubber Company, Akron, O. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-57" class="pagenum" title="57"></a> -<p> -If Civilization, Christianity, Governments, Education, and Culture have -failed to bring peace and well-being to humanity, isn’t it time for you to listen -to the message of Anarchy? -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Anarchism and Other Essays -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Emma Goldman -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.00; postpaid $1.15 -</p> - -<p> -With biographical sketch and twelve propaganda lectures showing the -attitude of Anarchism towards social questions—economics, politics, education, -and sex. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Social Significance of the -Modern Drama -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Emma Goldman -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.00; postpaid $1.15 -</p> - -<p> -A critical analysis of the Modern Drama in its relation to the social and -revolutionary tendencies of the age. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Alexander Berkman -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.25; postpaid $1.40 -</p> - -<p> -A powerful human document discussing revolutionary psychology and -portraying prison life. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Selected Works -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Voltaireine de Cleyre -</p> - -<p class="r adp"> -$1.00; postpaid $1.15 -</p> - -<p> -America’s foremost literary rebel and Anarchist propagandist. Poems, -short stories and essays. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Mother Earth Magazine -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -10c a copy — Anarchist Monthly — $1.00 a year -</p> - -<p class="c"> -FOR SALE BY -</p> - -<p class="s u ade"> -<span class="larger">Mother Earth Publishing Association</span><br /> -20 East 125th Street, New York, New York -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-58" class="pagenum" title="58"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -THE EGOIST -</p> - -<p class="u c"> -Every Number of THE EGOIST Contains an Admirable Editorial<br /> -by Dora Marsden -</p> - -<p> -In addition to the regular contributors, James Joyce, Muriel Ciolkowska -and Richard Aldington, the March Number contains an article -on James Elroy Flecker by Harold Monro and poems by Paul Fort, -prince des poètes, and F. S. Flint. -</p> - -<p class="h2 u adh"> -SPECIAL IMAGIST NUMBER<br /> -May, 1915 -</p> - -<p> -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: -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -A History of Imagism by F. S. Flint. -</p> - -<p> -A Review of “Some Imagist Poets, 1915,” by Harold Monro. -</p> - -<p> -Essays on and Appreciations of the Work of H. D., J. G. Fletcher, -F. S. Flint, D. H. Lawrence, Amy Lowell, and Ezra Pound. -</p> - -<p> -A thousand extra copies of this Number are being printed. -</p> - -<p> -Subscription rates: A year, $1.60; six months, $.80; three -months, $.40; single copy, $.15; post free. -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -OAKLEY HOUSE, BLOOMSBURY STREET, LONDON, W. C. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="trnote chapter"> -<p class="transnote"> -Transcriber’s Notes -</p> - -<p> -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. -</p> - -<p> -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the -headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -<p> -In “Extreme Unction”, the line “<a href="#removed"><span class="character">The Girl.</span> You don’t <em>know</em>?</a>” was -obviously duplicated. After comparison with another edition, the second occurrence was -removed. -</p> - -<p> -In the letters to the Editor (“The Reader Critic”), the Editor seems to have left -spelling variations uncorrected. They are not corrected here either. -</p> - -<p> -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors -were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after): -</p> - - - -<ul> - -<li> -... he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he <span class="underline">cause</span> sight of Marianna’s middy ...<br /> -... he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he <a href="#corr-24"><span class="underline">caught</span></a> sight of Marianna’s middy ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... wrong things you <span class="underline">dont</span> you can’t remember did ye—did ye ever kill a kid ...<br /> -... wrong things you <a href="#corr-25"><span class="underline">done</span></a> you can’t remember did ye—did ye ever kill a kid ...<br /> -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, APRIL 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 2) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -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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