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} - - .trnote { margin:0; } - - span.firstchar { clear:left; float:left; } - div.ads .fl { float:left; } - div.ads .fr { float:right; } -} - -</style> -</head> - -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, May 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 3), by Margaret C. Anderson</div> - -<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, May 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 3)</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Margaret C. Anderson</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: August 18, 2021 [eBook #66083]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>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.</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, MAY 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 3) ***</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"> -MAY, 1915 -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="tocn" summary="TOC"> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#POEMS">Poems</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Mitchell Dawson</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#WHATWEAREFIGHTINGFOR">What We Are Fighting For</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Margaret C. Anderson</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#ECHO">Echo (from the German of Fritz Schnack).</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#AMERICASIGNITION">America’s Ignition</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Will Levington Comfort</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SOLITUDE">Solitude</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>George Soule</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#REMYDEGOURMONT">Remy de Gourmont</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Richard Aldington</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#WHOWANTSBLUESILKROSES">Who Wants Blue Silk Roses?</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Sade Iverson</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#MOTHERJONESANDELIZABETHGURLEYFLYNN">“Mother Jones” and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>M. C. A.</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEPOETRYBOOKSHOP">The Poetry Bookshop</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Amy Lowell</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#AMERICA1915">America, 1915</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>John Gould Fletcher</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#POEMS2">Poems</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Maxwell Bodenheim</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SOMEIMAGISTPOETS">Some Imagist Poets</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>George Lane</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EDITORIALSANDANNOUNCEMENTS">Editorials and Announcements</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THESERMONINTHEDEPTHS">The Sermon in the Depths</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Ben Hecht</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SPOON">“The Spoon River Anthology”</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Carl Sandburg</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#POETRYANDTHEPANAMAPACIFIC">Poetry and the Panama-Pacific</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Eunice Tietjens</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEMOBGOD">The Mob-God</a></td> - <td class="col2">“<em>The Scavenger</em>”</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THETHEATRE">The Theatre</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#MUSIC">Music</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#BOOKDISCUSSION">Book Discussion</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"> -MAY, 1915 -</p> - -<p class="number"> -No. 3 -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="cop"> -Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson -</p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="article1" id="POEMS"> -Poems -</h2> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Mitchell Dawson</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="CANTINA"> -Cantina -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">You were the flame of a Pompeian lamp,</p> - <p class="verse">Wavering in the sea-wind,</p> - <p class="verse">Cosima,</p> - <p class="verse">And ever to the gale of me you danced,</p> - <p class="verse">Flickering out of reach....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I will return to Sorrento,</p> - <p class="verse">To the wine-room under the cliff.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="SANTAMARIADELCARMINE"> -Santa Maria del Carmine -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Here by the church door</p> - <p class="verse">A shriveled bat</p> - <p class="verse">Has folded his wings</p> - <p class="verse">And dreams of dead crepuscular delights,</p> - <p class="verse">Bat loves, bat orgies,</p> - <p class="verse">Tarantistic flittings through the dark.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O fragrant beggar blinking in the sun,</p> - <p class="verse">I will drop three soldi in your hat.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="HARPY"> -<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a> -Harpy -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O keen of scent,</p> - <p class="verse">You who have found me in my slough,</p> - <p class="verse">Not your beak, but your green eyes</p> - <p class="verse">Have torn to the center of me.</p> - <p class="verse">Ah, but I shall not slake them with a tremor.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="TERMAGGIO"> -Termaggio -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">In the asylum at Termaggio</p> - <p class="verse">Reside a dozen poets—</p> - <p class="verse">So many colored balloons bobbing against a black ceiling;</p> - <p class="verse">Will none of them be caught</p> - <p class="verse">By the arm of a strong wind,</p> - <p class="verse">Down and outward through the open window?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">We cannot remove the roof at Termaggio,</p> - <p class="verse">In the sun our balloons would burst....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Perhaps we had better close the window.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="UNDERTHECYPRESSES"> -Under the Cypresses -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Under the cypresses</p> - <p class="verse">No nightingales will sing this spring;</p> - <p class="verse">For I have strewn the ground</p> - <p class="verse">With the shards of broken illusions,</p> - <p class="verse">And I will build of them a citadel of austerity</p> - <p class="verse">With towers whence I can search the sky</p> - <p class="verse">For a rainbow that is stronger than painted china.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Dear nightingales,</p> - <p class="verse">There are still the saccharine gardens of Verona,</p> - <p class="verse">Where the moon-moth waves his fragile wings.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="WHATWEAREFIGHTINGFOR"> -<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> -What We Are Fighting For -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> have been much criticised for an article on Gabrilowitsch in the last -issue. I have been told rather violently that I didn’t know what I -was talking about; that to say Gabrilowitsch had stood still artistically or -that the music critics were deaf because they didn’t like Scriabin’s <em>Prometheus</em> -was simply to brand <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> again as the kind of magazine -which delights in any sort of snap-shot judgment that may sound startling -or “new.” But the fact of the matter is this: if <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -is ready to stand behind any of its judgments (and it is very ready), I can -think of nothing that has appeared which I will so eagerly and convincingly -defend as that article on Gabrilowitsch or my remark that <em>Prometheus</em> was -extraordinarily beautiful. I can “prove” the first in at least three ways, and -I have some one in mind (a Russian) who will write a poem on his reactions -to <em>Prometheus</em> that will make you all wish you had imaginations too. -</p> - -<p> -But this is not important. It merely leads me to an announcement of -a series of articles—a sort of campaign—that we have been planning for -the last two months. If we are to prove that we have a real “function” it -will be this of depreciating values that have ceased to be important and -appreciating new ones that have emerged—or, as I should say, values that -<em>are about to become unimportant</em> and those that <em>are about to emerge</em>. In -view of such a function I am quite willing to agree with my critics that the -Gabrilowitsch article wasn’t worth anything: it merely stated things that -are already quite well known, and a magazine that means to announce transvaluations -before the approximate ten-year period during which even the -uninspired come to accept them has no business to concern itself with mere -restatements. Of course the most frequent criticism brought against <span class="smallcaps">The -Little Review</span> is that it goes to artistic and emotional and intellectual -lengths no well-balanced person wants to go. I only wish this were true: -I mean, we haven’t gone any real <em>lengths</em>—and that is just what’s the matter -with us. We have made statements that seemed fearfully radical and new -to a lot of people who don’t know what’s going on in the world; and I’m -afraid we have listened to these people and tried to “convert” them. We -have wanted to convince everybody—particularly those who seemed to need -it most. And there is nothing more fatal: because what everybody thinks -doesn’t matter; what a few think matters tremendously. I was brought up -with a shock the other day, at an editors’ “meeting,” when Lucien Cary said -that though <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> had one of the requisites of the ideal magazine,—youth,—it -had the wrong kind of youth: the kind that has not yet -caught up instead of the kind that has gone ahead. After trying to face that -squarely for five awful minutes I was forced to decide that he was right. I -<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> -mean in this way: I know the quality of our youth is all right, just as I -know that people who write true things and live false ones are all wrong; -but the wisdom of it is quite another matter. And one of our big mistakes -has been a hope that preaching will help. -</p> - -<p> -There’s nothing pompous in saying that the thoughts of only a few -people matter. This has always been so and always will be. Every new -valuation has come about just that way—championed by a group and then -endorsed by a majority long after it has ceased to matter much. But for a -magazine that means to count—well, I can’t decide whether our predicament -of having got into a sort of Billy Sunday slump is humorous or very sad. -Hereafter we shall pretend that there are no impossibilists in our audience. -</p> - -<p> -But the announcement: In each of the future issues of <span class="smallcaps">The Little -Review</span>, beginning with June if possible, we shall have a special article -attacking current fallacies in the arts or in life—getting down to the foundations. -Each one will be written by a person who knows thoroughly what -he is talking about, and each will be “true and memorable,” to use Will -Comfort’s good phrase. For instance, suppose we begin with the modern -theatre. It will be interesting to find why Clayton Hamilton calls a play -as false, as distorted, as unwholesome and demoralizing as <em>The Shadow</em> a -great drama, and why Percy Hammond, who is looked upon even by some -of the discerning as a critic worthy to be trusted in the work of spreading -ideas, should have nothing but superlatives for the same outrage. (To do -him justice, Mr. Hammond did modify his praise with a single naive sentence: -“I could find some flaws in <em>The Shadow</em>”; and then, to put his other -foot in, “but the playing glossed them over until they were forgivable”—which -is precisely the crime and tragedy of such productions). This type of -intellectual blundering is apparent everywhere among the critics of literature, -of music, of art, of the drama, and among the strangest of all human -creatures—the historians (“men who reserve their judgments for a hundred -years”) and the philosophers (men whose judgments are good for everything -except to live by). If you happen to be equipped with knowledge -of the intricate hypocrisies of the music schools, or the way the newspapers -treat a competent art critic, or the methods of a manager in making a good -play a bad one, or how dissatisfied the railway employees really are -or ought to be—send us an article on the subject. The conditions of -acceptance are these: You must know English prose; you must write it -as though you are talking instead of writing; you must say quite frankly -and in detail the things you would not be allowed to say in the prostituted, -subsidized, or uninteresting magazines; and you must be true. This begins -our warfare. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="ECHO"> -<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> -Echo -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>Translated from the German of Fritz Schnack by William Saphier</em>) -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Into the forest your voice flew</p> - <p class="verse">Clear and light as a bird from its nest.</p> - <p class="verse">From your mouth the sound departed</p> - <p class="verse">Swinging gaily into the black forest.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">It flew</p> - <p class="verse">Through dusky deep solitude</p> - <p class="verse">Mysterious quiet, pale night,</p> - <p class="verse">Gravely-bent tree tops, fairy-tale flowers.</p> - <p class="verse">It danced past</p> - <p class="verse">Queer animals and strange things,</p> - <p class="verse">It touched them with quick moves</p> - <p class="verse">And they were frightened by the gay bird.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Green looks stared through the night</p> - <p class="verse">And angry phosphor glints pierced the foliage</p> - <p class="verse">Where owls were moving their beaks deceitfully.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Here your gay bird was frightened</p> - <p class="verse">And fearfully returned</p> - <p class="verse">Beaten by the envy of the black branches.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Shuddering it fell into the blue day</p> - <p class="verse">Tired, lame-winged, dead.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="AMERICASIGNITION"> -<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> -America’s Ignition -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Will Levington Comfort</span> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -... The quickened pulse of America did not appear with the outbreak -of war. It came with the winter cold, like all revival spirit—a strange -and fervent heat, breaking down the old, vitalizing the new everywhere. -No one doubts now—no one who can tear his eyes from the ground even -for a little—doubts now that the new social order is upon us. -</p> - -<p> -America, in opening her breasts to the agony of Europe, in her giving -of solids and sympathy, has stumbled upon the ancient and perfect formula -for receiving the greater good. In forgetting herself a little, her own -human spirit has been ignited. -</p> - -<p> -If someone announced that there lived in the Quattor Islands a man -who knew the exact way to bring into the world, not only the spirit, but the -action of <em>brotherhood</em> and <em>fatherland</em>, there would be some call for maps -and steamship passages. If the Quattor Islands were not already on the -maps, they would presently appear, but not before the earliest pilgrims -had set out. And if someone should add that all expression of the arts -so far in the world is wumbled and imperfect compared to that which is -about to be, if a certain formula is followed; and that this man in the Quattor -group has the formula—many more would start on the quest, or send -their most trusted secretaries. -</p> - -<p> -And yet the truth and the way is all here, and has been uttered again -and again by every voice that has lifted itself above the common din. -</p> - -<p> -The wise men carried gifts. You would expect to give something for -the secret. You might expect to be called upon to sell all you have and -give to the poor. You would not be surprised even if the magnetic Islander -said: -</p> - -<p> -“It is not your frankincense and myrrh that I want, though I thank -you. That which I have is for you. I am more anxious for you to know -and live it, than you can be to have and hold it. But the mystery is that -it will not come to abide with you, while you are passionate for possession. -The passion to give to others must be established within you before you -can adequately receive—” -</p> - -<p> -You are beginning to see how ancient is the gospel. It is old, older -than that. It belongs to the foundations. Personally and nationally, the law -works the same way. That which is true, is true in all its parts. There -is an adjustment by which that which is good for the whole is good for -the part; that which is good for the nation is good for the man; but each, -whole and part, nation and man, must have for the first thought not self-good -but the general good. One nation, so established in this conviction -that its actions are automatically founded upon the welfare of the world, -<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> -could bring about the true fatherland in a generation; and one human heart -so established begins to touch from the first moment the profound significances -of life. -</p> - -<p> -Personally and nationally, this plain but tremendous concept is beginning -to manifest itself here in America. I do not write as a patriot. It -is not <em>my country</em> that is of interest, but humankind. America’s political -interests, her trade, all her localizations as a separate and bounded people, -are inimical to the new enthusiasm. The new social order cannot concern -itself as a country apart. American predatory instincts, her self-worship, -her attempt at neutrality while supplying explosives for the European -slaughter arenas, her deepening confinement in matter during the past fifty -years, have prepared her for the outright demoralization of war, just as -surely as Europe is meeting today the red harvest from such instincts and -activities. For action invariably follows the thought. -</p> - -<p> -Yet the hearts of men in America are changing. I do not write as a -religionist, but as one very much of the world. For the hearts of men do -change, and it is only through such changes that the material stagnation -of a people can be relieved without deluges of blood. -</p> - -<p> -The high hope is upon us. In being apart from war, America has -been enabled to see. One must always remove himself from the ruck to -see its movement. In the past six months, within these western shores, the -voices of true inspiration have been heard. From a literary standpoint alone, -this is the most significant fact since Emerson, Whitman, and Thoreau, took -pen in hand forgetting themselves a little while each day. There is a peculiar -strength upon American production of all kinds, as a result of this very act -of getting out from under European influence. -</p> - -<p> -England and France and Germany are merely national voices now. The -voice of the partisan is but a weak treble against the basic rumble of war. -War is a confession, as suicide is a confession, as every act of blood and -rage is a confession, of the triumph of the animal in the human mind.... -If you have received letters from friends in England or Germany or France -since the war; friends whom formerly you admired for their culture and -acumen, you have been struck by the dullness and misery of the communications, -the uncentered points of view, the incapacity of human vision in the -midst of the heaviness and blackness of life there; if, indeed, you have read -the recent newspapers and periodicals of these countries, you will require -no further proof of the fact—that a nation at war is an obscene nation, -its consciousness all driven down into the physical, its voice tonally imperfect -from hate and fear, its eyes open to red illusion and not to truth. -</p> - -<p> -Even in America the voice of the nationalist is a part of the old and -the unclean. The new social order does not recognize the rights and desires -of any isolated people. Humankind is basically one in meaning, in aim and -in destiny. The difference of one nation from another in relation to the -sun’s rays, in character, country, environment, race, color and structure of -mind—these are primal values, the very values that will sum up into the -<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> -essential grandeur of the whole. Personally and nationally there are no -duplicates in the social scheme. The instruments of this magnificent orchestra -are of infinite diversity, but the harmony is one. -</p> - -<p> -The spiritual source of all human achievement is already a harmonic -whole. That globe is complete. It is our business as men to make a pattern -of it in matter—to make the dream come true in flesh, each man and each -nation bringing his labor, which can only be bent into a fitting arc, by the -loss of the love of self. -</p> - -<p> -It requires but a little vision to observe Nature at work upon this concept -in a thousand ways. She always seeks to preserve her balances. If -a certain plant, or bird, insect, beast, man or nation, rises by intrinsic force -and predation to dangerous increase, a destroying parasite is invariably -fostered within its shadow. In good time these two growths turn to rend -each other, a mutual cleansing. The Prussian war-office is a counter-growth -to British imperialism. That which survives will be humbler and wiser. -</p> - -<p> -I saw in a doctor’s office in Canada the picture of an English bull-dog -standing large against the background of a British flag, and beneath was -this line: -</p> - -<p> -“What we have, we’ll hold.” -</p> - -<p> -I found that the picture had a national acceptance in the British colonies -and at Home. Yet a child stopping to think would have seen breakers -ahead for a nation so lost in material things, as thus to challenge the Fates.... -There is a fairy-tale of a man building a great boat for the air. -It looked to win, and in the effrontery of achievement, he set forth to conquer -God. Just then a hornet stung him.... -</p> - -<p> -All this to suggest that the new dimension of life must come from America, -if it comes at all; and from this vantage-point, the reality is mightily -appearing—in the new poetry, in the new novels, in music, painting, and the -crafts. The generation just coming into its own, contains the builders whose -work is to follow the destroyers of war. They are not self-servers. They -do not believe in intellect. Their genius is <em>intuitionally</em> driven, not intellectually. -Just as steam has reached its final limitation as a force, and is -being superseded by electricity, the limitations of which <a id="corr-6"></a>have not been sensed -so far even by the most audacious, so the intellect as a producing medium, -has had its period—a period of style-worship, vanities of speech and action, -of self-service, or parading, of surface show and short-sightedness, without -parallel in the world. -</p> - -<p> -For the intellect is a product of sunlight, its energy supplied by human -blood which dies. The new dimension comes from the fountain-head of -energy, and its first realization is the unity of all nature. The intellect is -as old as your body is; the giant that is awakening from sleep in the breasts -of the rising generation is immortal. -</p> - -<p> -The thing that was called genius in the last generation met a destructive -force in the material world, almost as deadly and vindictive as that -encountered by Copernicus. The voices of the few heralds were scarcely -<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> -heard, but there is a battle-line of genius in the new generation, timed for -the great service years following the chaos of war. They will bring in the -liberation of religion from mammon; they will bring in the religion of work, -the equality of women, not on a mere suffrage matter alone, but in spirit -and truth; they will bring in their children un-accursed. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="SOLITUDE"> -Solitude -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Soule</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I was fretted with husks of men;</p> - <p class="verse">I cried out to be alone,</p> - <p class="verse">To be free,</p> - <p class="verse">To run in the wind.</p> - <p class="verse">Solitude was to me as the dream of a country well to a fevered man.</p> - <p class="verse">I ran away to be alone.</p> - <p class="verse">And there were the stars, and the sea, and the sun coming up out of the sea.</p> - <p class="verse">And I went mad with the wind’s song.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Then I chanted my ardor to the air—</p> - <p class="verse">But it came back clanging about my ears:</p> - <p class="verse">The stars were too near,</p> - <p class="verse">I was compressed between horizons;</p> - <p class="verse">I choked in the wind and the sun!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">In my wrath I strode back to men</p> - <p class="verse">And smote the husks asunder.</p> - <p class="verse">From them came forth</p> - <p class="verse">The whole of me that I had lacked.</p> - <p class="verse">For the first time I was alone,</p> - <p class="verse">Alone with all of myself,</p> - <p class="verse">In splendid peace.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="REMYDEGOURMONT"> -<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> -Remy De Gourmont -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">By Richard Aldington</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> work of Remy de Gourmont is known and read in all parts of the -civilized world. Yet he has not a large circulation and a purely commercial -writer would probably be disgusted at his profits, but he has an -influence, especially over the younger and more adventuresome spirits, which -few writers today possess. One can—or rather one could in the days before -the war—hardly pick up any French review without finding some reference -to his ideas or some criticism of his work. In Russia he appears to have -a more considerable reputation than anywhere else outside France. For, -though one sees criticism and translations of him even in languages like -Hungarian and Roumanian, it is in Russia alone that a word of praise from -Remy de Gourmont seems to make a man’s reputation. The English are -far slower in their international appreciations, and the Americans—quick -though they are to seize on new men—do not seem to have taken up -de Gourmont with much understanding. Mr. Ransome’s translation of -<em>Un Nuit au Luxembourg</em> was not received with either appreciation or enthusiasm -by English and American critics. And though a savant like Mr. -Havelock Ellis quotes from M. de Gourmont’s work, and has, I believe, a -great admiration for his personal intellectual qualities; though Mr. Sturge -Moore, in his book on Flaubert and Blake, quotes M. de Gourmont among -the great critics of France, it must be admitted that few English-speaking -critics have yet done him justice. I question if the larger public has heard -more of him than a vague rumour of his name. -</p> - -<p> -It may be that he is thought too “high-brow.” I suppose every man -who gives his life up to the task of expressing his ideas, his character, and -his genius in a purely disinterested manner is liable to this criticism. But -there is so great a fascination in his work, whether it be criticism or fiction, -philosophic dialogue or prose poem, that whenever he gains a reader it is -not for an hour but for life. In America especially he should find readers, -for America, whatever artistic faults and drawbacks it may have, has not, as -England has, a “ring” of reviewers who unanimously “queer” any book -whose originality or genius is any menace to their own stick-in-the-mud -critical methods. -</p> - -<p> -The Symbolist movement in France is now almost ancient history. -Unanimists, Futurists, Paroxysts, Fantasists, and all the other “ists” so -abundantly produced by this century now face the “ists” of Germany on -the battlefield. And while they are there fighting out by bodily force and -not by words the intellectual destinies of Europe we may perhaps consider -with free minds the Symbolist poets and authors who are now too old to -take the field for their country and can only sit at home “waiting for news.” -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> -Some of the “children of Mallarmé” are dead; others are forgotten; -a few still remain. Maeterlinck, Vielé-Griffin, Jammes, and Remy de Gourmont -occur first to one’s mind as the best living representatives of the great -Symbolist school, and of these the subtlest, the most fascinating, the most -modern is Remy de Gourmont. Along with M. Anatole France, though -very different from him, Remy de Gourmont is an example of the tradition -of European culture. Less derivative than M. France, or perhaps deriving -from less familiar sources, with as great an irony and with a faith that -seems more sceptical than scepticism itself, he has extracted from the literature -of each country and century that part which helped him to develop -and train his own character. He presents in one person the manifold and -often conflicting opinions and ideas of modern culture. Reading his books -one sees that there is a mystical sort of beauty even in science and under his -pen mysticism itself appears almost as exact as a science. -</p> - -<p> -I said just now that M. de Gourmont was an example of the tradition -of European culture, and since Paris, we are mostly agreed, is the centre -of European culture, and since Remy de Gourmont is a Parisian of Parisians, -we may count him, I think, as one of the best examples of Latin or -West European culture now living. I rather dwell upon this aspect of -Remy de Gourmont as the man of supreme culture since that quality has -so suddenly and so startlingly come into public discussion. It is extremely -difficult to say precisely what culture is; and a definition of culture naturally -varies with differences of race and temperaments. John Addington -Symonds, in his interesting and illuminating essay on this subject, defines -culture as “the raising of previously-educated faculties to their highest -potencies by the conscious effort of their possessors.” And it might be added -to this excellent definition that the feature of Latin or West European culture -which most distinguishes it from the culture of other countries is a -wideness of interest, a great general “cultivating” of all the faculties of the -mind and character as opposed to the extreme development of one single -faculty. -</p> - -<p> -Remy de Gourmont is indeed so admirable an example of the type of -culture I have briefly indicated that it is difficult to think of any form of -intellectual activity which has not at one time or another received his attention. -He has been a founder of reviews—among them the famous <em>Mercure -de France</em>—and an editor of reviews. He has written prefaces for modern -authors and for ancient authors—both poets and prose-writers. As a literary -critic it is perhaps not too much to say that in his time and generation he -ranks as Sainte-Beuve did in his. Under his name will be found five volumes -of <em>Promenades Littéraires</em>, collections of essays dealing with the widest -possible range of literary subjects—from Petronius to Guillaume de -Machaut, from the Goliardi to the latest “roman passionnel.” His <em>Livres des -Masques</em> are one of the most considerable acquisitions to the criticism of -French literature during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. In -<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> -these two books will be found amazingly penetrating studies of men so -diverse as the de Goncourt brothers and Maeterlinck, while American -readers should be especially interested in his studies of the two Franco-American -poets, Stuart Merrill and Francis Vielé-Griffin. As an admirer -of Huysmans, M. Remy de Gourmont was naturally interested in the mystic, -Christian Latin poets. And the fruit of several years’ study of these authors -was that notable and unique book <em>Le Latin Mystique</em>. It is no exaggeration -to say that hardly anyone else could have made these writers interesting to -anyone but the specialist. One can almost imagine M. de Gourmont being -challenged to produce a book which would appeal not only to savants but -to the lover of general culture. This mystic Latin poetry had, until Huysmans’ -day, been almost entirely neglected by students of beautiful things. -But Remy de Gourmont, treating the subject as a poet in love with poetry—not -as a pedant or a professor or a book-maker—has produced a work which -is at once a criticism and an anthology of the literature produced during -those thousand years which we ignorantly call the “Dark Ages.” -</p> - -<p> -These investigations into an almost forgotten and strangely attractive -literature were not without effect upon his purely creative work. This effect -can be best seen in his <em>Litanies</em>, a series of curious and, verbally, extremely -beautiful prose-poems, full of assonances, of internal rhymes, of strange -symbols, of sonorous rhythms and of fantastic images. Again in his prose, -in works like <em>Le Pèlerin du Silence</em> and <em>D’un Pays Lointain</em>; in his poetry—especially -in <em>Les Saints du Paradis</em>—this influence is most marked. -</p> - -<p> -In books like <em>La Physique de l’Amour</em>, <em>Le Chemin de Velours</em>, the series -of <em>Promenades Philosophiques</em> and <em>Epilogues</em>, we have an entirely different -kind of intellectual activity—lettered, it is true, but with that incisiveness -and clarity of style and thought which mark French prose as the finest in -the modern world. In these books problems of philosophy, of morals, of -everyday conduct and national and international affairs, problems of music, -of painting, of all the arts and sciences, are discussed with a brilliance and -an originality not always palatable to the gloomier and duller elements of -French society. -</p> - -<p> -One must not ask for too clear a definition of M. de Gourmont’s philosophy. -He is just sufficient of a mystic to enjoy being misunderstood, -and of a nature so ironical that his most innocent-looking statements are -traps for the unwary. He is an individualist—true to his type of culture. -Perhaps if he were very closely questioned he would smile and say that -he belonged to the “tradition des libres esprits.” -</p> - -<p> -In addition to these many works, of so diverse a character that they -might well be the result of the labours of several men rather than of one, he -has written several novels, one or two of which at their appearance were -the literary sensation of the hour; he has devoted much time to the study -of aesthetic questions and has published two or three volumes on the subject; -beyond all this he has produced a modern French rendering of Aucassin -<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> -and Nicolette, a translation from the Spanish and a couple of original -plays! And in his little flat on the rive gauche, not far from St. Sulpice, -among his books, he still writes every day words of encouragement for -anxious Paris, still finds time to observe and reflect and to let the rest of the -world know what is happening in France. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="WORDSOUTOFWAKING"> -Words Out of Waking -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Helen Hoyt</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">In the warm, fragrant darkness</p> - <p class="verse">We lay,</p> - <p class="verse">Side by side,</p> - <p class="verse">Straight;</p> - <p class="verse">And your voice</p> - <p class="verse">That had been silent</p> - <p class="verse">Came to me through the dark</p> - <p class="verse">Asking, <em>Do you smell the lilacs?</em></p> - <p class="verse">You, half in sleep,</p> - <p class="verse">Speaking softly,—</p> - <p class="verse">Indistinctly.</p> - <p class="verse">Then it seemed to me,</p> - <p class="verse">A sudden moment,</p> - <p class="verse">As if we lay in our graves,</p> - <p class="verse">And you were speaking across</p> - <p class="verse">From your mound to mine:</p> - <p class="verse">In the springtime,</p> - <p class="verse">Speaking of lilacs,—</p> - <p class="verse">With muffled voice through the grass.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="WHOWANTSBLUESILKROSES"> -<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> -Who Wants Blue Silk Roses? -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Sade Iverson</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The battlefields are very far away:</p> - <p class="verse">No friend of mine fights on them—and no foe.</p> - <p class="verse">I have not sickened at the battle stench,</p> - <p class="verse">Nor seen the tragic trenches where men die.</p> - <p class="verse">I am a woman, walking quietly,</p> - <p class="verse">And fond of peace and place and fireside cheer,</p> - <p class="verse">Yet here, afar from strife, the grey Uhlans</p> - <p class="verse">Have battered down my door, let in the rain,</p> - <p class="verse">And put me out, purse-empty, on the street.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Strange, say you?</p> - <p class="verse4">Chance of war! Samaritans,</p> - <p class="verse">I’m past all succor;—slain in my pocket-book.</p> - <p class="verse">My little shop for hats—chic hats, oddities—</p> - <p class="verse">Is shut as tight as Juliet Capulet’s tomb.</p> - <p class="verse">“Bad times” has stood me up against the wall:</p> - <p class="verse">“Bad times” in Uhlan gear, takes certain aim.</p> - <p class="verse">(And firing squads have always stone cold eyes.)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">All winter long, I’ve peeped out on the street,</p> - <p class="verse">To watch my little customers go by</p> - <p class="verse">In conscious rectitude and home-made hats;</p> - <p class="verse">Home-made to noble ends!</p> - <p class="verse4">Not that they’ve less</p> - <p class="verse">Than once they had. They’ve more—a bran new creed.</p> - <p class="verse">Economists approve: the fashion’s set.</p> - <p class="verse">“How fine and sensible the women are,”</p> - <p class="verse">You hear the men commenting on the train.</p> - <p class="verse">“My wife is trimming her own hats.” “And mine.”</p> - <p class="verse">“I like to see the women suit themselves</p> - <p class="verse">To present needs.” “And I. It’s fine, I say.</p> - <p class="verse">Some little good comes out of this sad war.”</p> - <p class="verse">(Ah, yes, but half a sausage and a roll,</p> - <p class="verse">Was all the food I’d had in twenty hours!)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> - <p class="verse"><em>Now</em> that would seem a feast. The cupboard’s bare.</p> - <p class="verse">Well, here’s a chance to put my luck to test.</p> - <p class="verse">Who goes a-roving when the pot is full?</p> - <p class="verse">Say, comrades, comrades, let’s set out tonight,</p> - <p class="verse">And brew our mulligan behind the ties.</p> - <p class="verse">No more I’ll sit alone to play propriety;</p> - <p class="verse">I sell no more blue roses, hear me swear</p> - <p class="verse">But when the snows are gone, I’ll scent mayweed</p> - <p class="verse">Beside the fences, till some purple noon,</p> - <p class="verse">I find the passion flower, in panoply,</p> - <p class="verse">Awaiting me, and I shall stoop and pick.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">But do not think I am without a friend!</p> - <p class="verse">I have my own familiar Imp for company—</p> - <p class="verse">The secret, mocking creature of my heart,</p> - <p class="verse">Which keeps me laughing when I’m set to cry,</p> - <p class="verse">And fleers the cautions I thought principles.</p> - <p class="verse">He’s captain now. We’ll see how he’ll provide,</p> - <p class="verse">For food and drink and thought, and company.</p> - <p class="verse">Let him advise what lens I’d best look through.</p> - <p class="verse">Nero, they say, chose green; fools like rose-red.</p> - <p class="verse">The Imp and I may stand for sun-bright truth,</p> - <p class="verse">And smoke our glasses if we prove too frail.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Come hunger, then, and want, or any shame.</p> - <p class="verse">If Chatterton dare starve, why should not we?</p> - <p class="verse">We’ll travel far—though without carfare, dears,</p> - <p class="verse">And with shoe-soles that let in pavement slush.</p> - <p class="verse">But now I shall find out if dry-shod feet</p> - <p class="verse">Discount the wet ones. Live down the superstitions,</p> - <p class="verse">So I say. Ducks think wet feet are best.</p> - <p class="verse">Come, come, my Imp. Let’s start. Our fat landlord</p> - <p class="verse">Has locked the door on us and taken the key.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">(When you are passing by the little shop,</p> - <p class="verse">Remember one who wanted you for friend;</p> - <p class="verse">A victim of the war, without a faith,</p> - <p class="verse">But carrying a banner—a white field,</p> - <p class="verse">And no word written on it.</p> - <p class="verse4">Yes, think of one,</p> - <p class="verse">Who lacks a watchword, and wears no disguise,</p> - <p class="verse">And arm in arm with impish laughter, seeks for Life.)</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="MOTHERJONESANDELIZABETHGURLEYFLYNN"> -<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> -“Mother Jones” and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">M</span><span class="postfirstchar">other</span> Jones and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn have been talking in Chicago -and I went to hear them both, expecting to be captivated by the -former and disappointed in the latter. But it turned out just the other way. -</p> - -<p> -Mother Jones is all the things you have heard her to be—vigorous, -almost sprightly in her eighty-two years, witty, shrewd, kindly, hopeful of -great social changes, with snappy little blue eyes and a complexion like a -girl of eighteen and a tongue like an automatic revolver. You feel you’d -rather have her get after you with fire crackers, as she did to a man in -some Western hotel when she wanted to drive him out of town (and succeeded), -than to have her side against you in an argument. Right or wrong, -she would make you appear to be hopelessly wrong; and certainly on any -practical matter you would have a suspicion that she was right anyhow. She -is consistent and convincing. But there is one thing none of the magazine -articles has said about her: Mother Jones is a completely simple human -being, in the least flattering sense of the word. She suffers because men -are sent to jail and children are killed in strikes, and she spends every day -of her life working toward the prevention of these things. But she lives -on no more subtle plane of adjustments to a difficult universe. You can’t -associate her with any sort of intense personal struggle. If temperament -is the capacity to react, as I heard some one define it the other day, then -Mother Jones is as untemperamental a person as I’ve ever seen. She acts; -she doesn’t react at all. She has neither a complex nor an interesting mind; -she has a well-informed one. She has read a lot—chiefly history and economics. -She hasn’t read philosophy or psychology, I think. She hasn’t needed -to: her knowledge of psychology is that sweeping and rather crude kind that -comes with years of hard experience in which there has been little time for -observation. If you asked her to sympathize with a man who had killed -himself because he loved too greatly, I can rather hear her say that if men -would keep busy they wouldn’t have time for such notions. Life to her is -reduced to a matter of two antagonisms: the struggle between Capital and -Labor. Other things, such as Art, for instance,—well, she makes you feel -it’s a little impertinent to expect her to waste time like that; she is too busy -trying to outwit the “damned sewer rats,” as she calls Burns’ detectives or -other obstacles to peace and freedom. Mother Jones has a lot of effective -phrases of that sort; I think she wants to see if she can make you blanch -before she decides really to trust you; and then of course, as she says, “My -boys wouldn’t understand me if I talked nice and ladylike all the time.” -Underneath all this there is a charming old gentlewoman, full of delicate -<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> -courtesies that win for her the splendid chivalry of the rough men she spends -her life among. -</p> - -<p> -The man who took me to see her made an unfortunate remark. He -told her that I wanted to write an article about her, and asked if she wouldn’t -tell me how she got started in her work. (I tried to stop him in time, but it -was no use.) She gave me one scornful look and then flashed at him: -“That’s a woman’s question. No man ever asks me such a fool thing, but -women always do. How do I know how I got started? I was always a -worker—that’s all.” Another of her simplifications is that there are two -kinds of people—those who work and those who don’t. She seemed to put -me with the latter, and it was my instinct from the first that she didn’t -approve of me. She just treated me politely, and it was rather awful. She -kept insisting that women know nothing about Labor—which is <em>almost</em> -quite true—and of course she didn’t neglect to mention her aversion for the -suffragists. But most of the time she told us stories, chuckling heartily whenever -she could say anything particularly explosive. She described her recent -trip to New York, and I remember her vivid account of a visit she made -the Colony Club. She said all the women came tripping in on high heels, -bent forward at an ominous angle that made her think of cats ready to -spring on a mouse. “I’ve got no time for such idiots,” she finished. “And -look at the crazy ones in this town, walking in a mayor’s parade and yelling -like wildcats instead of staying at home where they might be reading and -learning to educate their children.” -</p> - -<p> -That night we went to hear her talk to an organization of painters and -found her irresistible. But she did little except entertain them—particularly -with stories in which she herself figured as the white-haired heroine, -wading across streams in water up to her waist to outwit the police, or -forcibly throwing a Burns detective out of her audience. The painters -shrieked with joy at that, and it really was good to hear. She had suspected -a certain man who had been going to her meetings, so one night she asked -him to leave. He refused, but she insisted. He said, “I won’t go and I’d -like to see anybody who can make me.” “Well,” she answered, “we’ll see -about that”; and she stepped down from the platform, took him by the -throat, held him so tightly “that his tongue stuck out,” and marched him out -of the hall. He didn’t bother her any more. These things, told in her -blunt, snappy way, are overwhelmingly funny—and stirring too. But what -you like most about her is her sudden falling into seriousness, and the way -she says, “Now, my boys, <em>stick together</em>. Solidarity is the only method by -which we can beat the system.” -</p> - -<p> -Mother Jones has no patience with anarchism: “Don’t talk to me about -philosophies of an ideal society that will happen some time long after I’m -in my grave. What I’m after is to do something for my class while I’m -still alive. I believe in accomplishing things.” She has none of the anarchist’s -hatred of government; she merely wants our present system humanized. -<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> -And she has a lot of little prejudices about people and things: about -Bill Haywood, for instance, who “divides Labor against itself,” as she says—and -says untruly. -</p> - -<p> -On the whole she is just what you would have expected—except that -she’s more amusing. There is absolutely nothing of the artist in her. She -is imaginative in the large way a child is; in fact Mother Jones is a child -in the sense a grown-up can’t be without losing a lot. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, “the girl agitator,” has an even more consistent -point of view than Mother Jones, and she has the advantage of being without -prejudices. Her face has more subtlety, more interest for the analyst, -than Mother Jones’s obvious compressed mouth and quick eyes; but it has -little of that stamp of multiple reactions which make Emma Goldman’s face -such a fascinating “subject.” There is a touch of Irish poetry in it—something -wistful and something stern. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Flynn gave three talks—on Birth Control, on Violence in Relation -to the Labor Movement, and on Solidarity: Labor’s Road to Freedom—but -I could only hear the last one, which everyone said was the least interesting -of the three. There was only a handful of workers there, and she -was so informing that the place ought to have been crowded with all the -good people who think the I. W. W. is an organization of unintelligent -outcasts whose only competence lies in throwing hammers into printing -presses, etc., etc. Miss Flynn is more articulate than any I. W. W. I have -heard, and she is freer from the stock phrases that give so many of the -very earnest young workers in the movement something of pathos. I like -these I. W. W. people a lot. They are not only offering an efficient program -of labor; they are getting close to a workable philosophy of life. They are -even capable of a virtue no working-class organization is supposed to be -overburdened with: hardness of thought. As Miss Flynn said: “Don’t -pamper yourselves. It’s not a <em>sacrifice</em> to fight for your own freedom!” Of -course this group has its camp followers who do it no end of damage; but -then the Socialists have their “practical” fanatics who are so awfully practical -they always look at the trees instead of the forest, and the Anarchists -have their soulful members who yearn for martyrdom and blubber about the -duty of suffering for a cause. The best of the Industrial Workers are -neither visionless nor sentimental. They have no interest in being martyrs; -they are workers. Miss Flynn is of the best of these. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEPOETRYBOOKSHOP"> -<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> -The Poetry Bookshop -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>35 Devonshire Street, London</em>) -</p> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Amy Lowell</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> well remember the first time I went to the Poetry Bookshop. It was -in July, 1913. I had read of it in a stray number of <em>The Poetry Review</em> -that had drifted my way. The idea attracted me at once, and I determined -to have a look at it during the summer. There was something alluringly -crazy about anyone’s starting a bookshop for the sale of poetry alone. -Poetry is at once my trade and my religion. All decent poets worship their -art and slave at it, and I am no exception to the rule. But I have my -“afternoons out” with their temptations, and the greatest of these is a -bookshop. Here was the combination: a poetry bookshop. I turned to it as -inevitably as a magnet to the pole. -</p> - -<p> -It was after a visit to one of those large and flourishing establishments -where every sort of book is sold that you do not want to read; where rows -and rows of the classics you wish you could read again for the first time -flaunt from the shelves in gaudy leather bindings, and a whole counter -labours to support the newest and dullest novels, and another is covered -with monographs which instruct you minutely as to how to grow fruit-trees, -catch salmon, handle golf clubs, or bicycle through the home counties. It -was in one of these “emporiums,” after the usual “We can get it for you, -Madam,” that I broke into open revolt and started off to The Poetry -Bookshop. -</p> - -<p> -I knew it was somewhere near the British Museum. “Off Theobald’s -Road,” I told the taxi driver, and settled down to looking out of the window, -for London, whether on foot or driving, is a never-ending interest to me. -Theobald’s Road is one of those large, busy thoroughfares, which cut across -London in all directions, and off it, to the left in my case, we turned into a -quiet, rather run-down little street, Devonshire Street. A swinging sign -about half-way down it attracted me. It was shaped like a shield and blue, -if I remember rightly, and on it were painted three torches. All this was -determined as the taxi approached. That must be my place, I thought, -and it was. -</p> - -<p> -We drew up at the door of a shop—unmistakably a shop, because it -had a big shopwindow. It did not need the name, “The Poetry Bookshop” -in excellently designed, big, black letters over the window, to tell me that -I had arrived. -</p> - -<p> -I did not go in at once. I like to take my temptations gradually, nibbling -at them bit by bit and tasting, before gulping them down as full-fledged -crimes. I nibbled at that window. It was broad and high, and the books -<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> -were displayed in it in the singularly fascinating manner which American -booksellers jeer at and call “English window dressing.” All these books -were poetry, or about poetry; that is, of course, all the ones that were not -plays. There were long strips of ballads hanging down, like 18th century -broadsides, each one topped by a crude woodcut in glaring reds, and blues, -and yellows. The nibbling was so delightful that I collected quite a crowd -of street urchins about me, wondering what the lady was looking so long -into the window for, before I had done. -</p> - -<p> -Then I went in, but even the window had not prepared me for the -shop inside. It was a room rather than a shop, for there was a smart fire -burning in the grate, and there were chairs, and settles, and a big table -covered with the latest publications. The walls were lined with shelves, -and under the window was a little ledge entirely filled with reviews from -all over the world. The familiar cover of <em>Poetry</em> made me feel quite at -home, but the eclecticism of the proprietor was at once evidenced by the -presence of <em>The Poetry Journal</em> and <em>Poet Lore</em>, periodicals of whose existence -I should not have expected him to be aware. There was also <em>The Poetry -Review</em>, from which I knew he had severed himself, so it was obvious that -the proprietor cared very much to be fair. -</p> - -<p> -I turned to the shelves, and my surprise was even greater. There were -a lot of shelves, all round the room and even over the chimney-breast. Every -volume of poetry recently published was there. That I had expected, but -what I had not expected was that all the classics were there too. Not -bound into mausoleums, “handsome editions in handsome bindings, which -no gentleman’s library should be without,” but readable volumes, for the -reader who wants to read. -</p> - -<p> -There was not a bit of glass in the shop, all was open and touchable. -Of course I touched, and opened, and browsed. There were French books, -too, and Italian. It goes without saying that the book I wanted was there. -I know I bought it, and others, and came out laden and happy. -</p> - -<p> -I did not meet Mr. Monro on this first visit, and I do not now remember -exactly when I did meet him. My sojourns in the shop were many, and -at this distance have become confused. But I did meet him sometime, and -found an earnest, quiet gentleman, the very opposite from the crank. But -even at the first visit I had felt the bookshop to be not “crazy” at all, but -an answer to a very real need. -</p> - -<p> -It has been my experience that people who really do things (in contradistinction -to talking about them) are very straightforward, sensible persons, -without sentimentalism in the pursuit of their ideal. Mr. Monro was exactly -this. He was spending his energy to give poetry the dignity and charm of -presentation it had lost at the hands of the commercial booksellers; he was -encouraging poets and allowing their books a chance; but he did not talk -ideals, nor dress like a combination of a fool and a wild animal. He was -too busy to pose, he was just “on the job.” And what “on the job” meant -and means is best told by giving the history of his enterprise. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> -For some years Mr. Monro had lived abroad, in Switzerland and Italy. -But the nostalgia of home took possession of him, and he returned to -England. Shortly after his arrival The Poetry Society asked him to edit -a magazine for them, and he consented, and <em>The Poetry Review</em> began in -January, 1912. Mr. Monro not only edited the <em>Review</em>, but paid for it. -Now the Poetry Society, like all such bodies, is conservative, and Mr. Monro -is sown with the seeds of radicalism. So differences of policy began, and -at the end of a year, Mr. Monro seceded from <em>The Poetry Review</em> and -founded another review, <em>Poetry and Drama</em>, to be published quarterly. -</p> - -<p> -But I am anticipating. While editing <em>The Poetry Review</em> Mr. Monro -conceived the idea of having a bookshop, which should be at once the office -of the review and its various publications, and a shop. An old house in -Devonshire Street was leased and everything “en train,” when Mr. Monro -found that the inevitable breach with The Poetry Society on matters of -policy was imminent. He announced in <em>The Poetry Review</em> the foundation -of a new magazine, a quarterly, and relinquished <em>The Poetry Review</em> into -other hands after having founded it and edited it for twelve months. -</p> - -<p> -On January 8th, 1913, The Poetry Bookshop opened its doors to the -public, and the public, always caught by novelty, flocked in. Professor -Henry Newbolt gave the opening address. The first publication of the -Bookshop, <em>Georgian Poets</em>, an anthology of the work of Lascelles Abercrombie, -Rupert Brooke, W. H. Davies, Walter de la Mare, James Elroy -Flecker, Wilfred Wilson Gibson, D. H. Lawrence, John Masefield, James -Stephens, Harold Monro himself, and others, had already appeared. This -book has been extraordinarily successful, and, in two years, has gone through -ten editions. -</p> - -<p> -Of course the book helped the bookshop, and the bookshop helped the -book. So delighted were the amusement hunters with the idea, that there -was some danger of the venture being swamped in the tide of fashion. But -Mr. Monro was too genuinely in earnest to be elated by his success, or depressed -when it calmed down to a normal interest. The bookshop pegged -away at its work and in March, 1913, the first number of <em>Poetry and Drama</em> -appeared. This little quarterly is indispensable to anyone wishing to keep -abreast with what is being done in poetry abroad. The articles on French -poetry by F. S. Flint alone are worth the cost of subscription. But <em>Poetry -and Drama</em> also publishes original poetry, critical reviews, and English, -French, Italian, and American chronicles. It is an interesting paper, and -if I easily see how it could be bettered, that only means that I am an enthusiastic -reader. Was anyone ever sincerely devoted to a paper without -feeling that with a grain of his advice it could still be improved? -</p> - -<p> -Yet I have a sneaking feeling that Mr. Monro runs his paper better -than I should, better than any of us would. It requires a singularly unselfish -and dispassionate devotion to run a paper and have it favor all schools, and -criticise all cliques, equally. Nobody is quite pleased by that method, but -the public gets what it pays for, and I, for one, admire a man with this quality -of justice in him. <em>Poetry and Drama</em> ran until December of this year, when -<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> -it was suspended during the continuance of the war, and the lack of it is -so noticeable that it shows very well what a position it had already achieved. -</p> - -<p> -The Poetry Bookshop publishes as well as sells. <em>Georgian Poetry</em> was -followed by <em>Anthologie des Imagistes</em>, <em>Poems</em> by John Alford, <em>Anthology of -Futurist Poetry</em>, and various small ventures such as <em>The Rhyme Sheet</em> -(the broadsides I have spoken of before), and a number of little chap books -called <em>Flying Fame Publications</em>, of which one I have seen, <em>Eve</em> by Ralph -Hodgson, is enchanting. -</p> - -<p> -Many though Mr. Monro’s activities were, the house was too big for -them. So Mr. Monro fitted up some of the attic rooms as bedrooms, and -there his clientele of poets hailing from the country find a welcome and inexpensive -lodgings. Other rooms are used as reading rooms, for readings -are held every Tuesday and Thursday at 6 P. M. Sometimes the poets read -their own poems, sometimes other people read them. Verhaeren and Marinetti -have read there and many other poets, well-known and still unknown. -Mr. Monro invites those he desires, and as he runs his readings as he runs -his shop there is great and stimulating variety. The difficulty with this sort -of thing is the hangers-on, the horde of the sentimental of both sexes who -fasten upon an artistic endeavor and seriously hurt it. It is inevitable that -some of these parasites should drift into the readings, as I noticed on one -occasion that I was there. But time will weed them out, for such people -can never bear to realize that art is as hardworking as, say, stonecutting. -</p> - -<p> -Since the war The Poetry Bookshop has been printing chap books, published -at sixpence. Among them are Maurice <a id="corr-13"></a>Hewlett’s <em>Singsongs of the -War</em>, <em>Antwerp</em> by Ford Maddox Hueffer, <em>The King’s Highway</em> by Henry -Newbolt, <em>The Old Ships</em> by James Elroy Flecker; and for unmartial relief, -<em>Spring Morning</em> by Frances Cornford, <em>Songs</em> by Edward Shanks, <em>The Contemplative -Quarry</em> by Anna Wickham, and <em>Children of Love</em> by Harold -Monro. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Monro is so stern in his idealism that, although a poet of -originality and feeling, he willingly minimizes his own production for the sake -of advancing poetry “en masse.” That is remarkable, and his enterprise -deserves all the success which the poets and the general public can give it. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="AMERICA1915"> -<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> -America, 1915 -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">John Gould Fletcher</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">F</span><span class="postfirstchar">rom</span> the sea coast, from the bleak ravines of the hills that lift their -escarpments towards the sky that pours down pitiless threads of sunlight, -whirls over chill, clinging tentacles of rain, smashes hard buffets of huge -wind, sifts fine, quivering drifts of snow, thrashes with thunder and with -hail, uncurls its great sodden, flapping curtains before the gale—from the -marshlands, from the banks of slow rivers, from the still brown plateaus, -from the midst of steaming valleys, from the wide bays ringed with peaks, -a thousand cities reek into the sky. Through a million vents the smell of -cookery overflows. It rises upward day and night in strange, tragic black -rows of columns that glow and make the stars quiver and dance and darken -the sunlight. -</p> - -<p> -Green rivers of corn, golden seas of wheat, white lakes of cotton meet -and fuse and inter-cross. Cattle string across in frightened procession: -multitudes on multitudes of horses, black, dun, grey, gallop away after -them, jarring the earth with their hoofs, beating up dust in heavy, fluffy -masses. Far away the sun lies still over broad patches of silence, sparsely -green, where an eagle hovers, or an antelope starts up, or a sly, half-starving -coyote is seen. The sun looks into yellow castles wedged in the cliff that -were old when the first explorers saw them, and on white bulging palaces -tinselled with marble and gold. The sun sees engines that rattle and cough, -black derricks that wave their arms in arcs aloft, crazy log cabins that topple -into the marsh. On every side are symbols of man’s desire, made with his -hands, hurried, glorious, sordid, tragic, clashing, insane; the sun looks and -does not understand but pours over them its heat and cold, and rain and -light, and lightning, always the same. -</p> - -<p> -Immense machines are clamoring, rattling, battling, wheeling, screaming, -heaving, weaving. The wheels bound and groan and roar and waver -and snap—and go on as before. Between the cities, over plain and hill, -reel double paths of shining steel, where screaming locomotives pass like -black shuttles leaving great trails of smoke amid the wheat, the cattle, the -corn, the cotton, the sordid, hideous factory shafts, the fleet masses of -plunging and galloping stallions. Their forces are never spent or tired, for, -nervously above them, earth is laced and wired with crackling, chattering, -singing, whispering electricity. They fly from city to city, and the sky is -scribbled above them with childish grey gigantic scrawls, amid which the -sun wabbles and crawls. And over all shoot backward and forward words -that walk in air, and perhaps not long will the upper spaces be still, but soon -be filled with racing lines of strong black bird-machines bearing men on -<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> -their backs. Purring autos squawk and squeal, and spray and flutter, pale -flashes through the rack. Red, and black and yellow, the earth takes on -its coat of colors, from the struggle of a hundred million hands. It is a -palimpsest which no one reads or understands, which none has time to heed, -a loom-frame woven over with interspersed and tangled threads of which -the meaning is lost, from which the pattern hangs in shreds. -</p> - -<p> -Amid all this, men struggle, surge, call out, fall choking, toil with backs -bent over the earth in black arcs. Crowds of them clatter, scramble, bustle, -push, and drift away. They creep, black, greasy masses, out of the earth -like ants; they swing out on great frozen blocks of steel or marble; they -saunter in some forgotten place; they yawn with the weariness of little towns. -Men, brown, black, yellow, pallid with fatigue, ruddy with gluttony, blotched -with disease, swarm and waver back and forth, east, west, south, north. -Crackling twigs of dripping forests mark their feet. Red wet furrowed -plains receive their pains. Grey, hungry factory towns bellow out through -steam-filled lungs for them each morning. Prison gates grate slowly, hospital -beds spread stateliness, insane asylums gibber through their windows. -They hustle and shovel, piling heaps of hovels, and now and then, as if in -mockery, some coppery tower that seems as if it would split its sky with -its majesty. They are in a great shallow sea, crinkling uneasily as if some -giant’s body were wallowing beneath. Some single impulse creaks through -them, pouring out its breath through the chimneys, scattering itself over -the fields, closing itself in behind the doors. It is one great, vague, inchoate -organism, scarcely feeling its pulse as yet, rolling in the belly of the world, -waiting its hour of birth. Earth is heaped about it; still it eats the earth -away, red covering after red covering, day on day. Now it half timidly -peeps out, now withdraws itself again. And ever the sky pours on it heat -and rain, and wind, and light, and lightning, and hail, shaping it, making it -less frail, more fit to wake and take its place in the world. -</p> - -<p> -But over there, beyond the seas, where for years the war flags have -been stacked and furled, comes the crack of a pistol followed by faint cheers. -And now a smeary gloom appears; it seems to swell from out the earth; it -bulges in greenish folds above the horizon, and in its depths are flashes -from far-off guns. Suddenly from the heart of the cloud, which the cowed -world watches, holding its breath, come thick insensate hammer-blows -that split the core of earth asunder—the iron cannon unleashed for the dance -of death. Deeper and deeper the noise unrolls in a vast salute to the new -world from the old. It rises higher and higher, covering the sea with its -tumult, and filling the sky with gouts and spatters of crimson fire. North, -south, east, west, all the craters are emptying out their vitals on earth’s -breast. But the immensity of the troubled continent stirs not, nor gives to -the world the life that is restlessly heaving beneath it. -</p> - -<p> -The centuries sit with hands on their knees, wearing on weary foreheads -their iron-crowned destinies. The sun glares, the rain spatters, the -thunder tramples his drums, the wind, rushing, hums its scorn; but the -<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> -being—the thing that will master all the ages—still hesitates to be born. -The great derricks, black and frozen, lift their arms in mid air; the locomotives -hoot and mutter in despair; the shuttles clatter and clamor and -hammer at the woof day and night. The black flight of priceless instants -reels and rebounds and shivers and crawls, while without the uproar of the -cannon calls like black seas battering the earth, grinding, sweeping, flickering, -pounding, pounding, pounding, in the increasing throes of birth. But -still the thing will not arrive. Still it refuses at the very gates of life. -America—America—blood-stained and torn with choked, convulsive sighs, -perhaps too late thou shalt arise, perhaps in vain shalt seek to rule the earth! -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="POEMS2"> -Poems -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Maxwell Bodenheim</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="SILENCE"> -Silence -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The wordless dream of the fire;</p> - <p class="verse">The white clock dropping gray minutes from its placid lips;</p> - <p class="verse">The breathing of women, like the birth of little winds;</p> - <p class="verse">The muttering of the man in the next room, painting a landscape;</p> - <p class="verse">I threw them together with a jerk of my soul-wrist,</p> - <p class="verse">And had silence—a swaying sound</p> - <p class="verse">Made of the death of the others.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="AHEAD"> -A Head -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Her head was a morning in April.</p> - <p class="verse">Loose, livid mist arose from cold ground</p> - <p class="verse">And revealed two tired shepherds with lanterns,</p> - <p class="verse">Standing above the wrinkled red blankets they had lain on...</p> - <p class="verse">Then came the morning light—her smile.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEOPERATION"> -<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> -The Operation -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">With eyes of radium, and beard the color of wet sand,</p> - <p class="verse">The doctor unlocked his instrument case as carelessly</p> - <p class="verse">As a child opens an old box of blocks,</p> - <p class="verse">And almost silently whistled something out of “Aida.”</p> - <p class="verse">And the nurses—bits of sky with thick clouds—</p> - <p class="verse">Chattered about patients and hummed frayed songs.</p> - <p class="verse">But when the still body on the little cart came,</p> - <p class="verse">The lips of the doctor became stiff and trim</p> - <p class="verse">(Bows of ribbon turning to circles of stone)</p> - <p class="verse">And the nurses were no longer women:</p> - <p class="verse">Were sexless, with tapering fingers and metal eyes...</p> - <p class="verse">The doctor made the incision and checked the blood:</p> - <p class="verse">And I thought of a miner, half-reverently, half-wearily cutting soft earth,</p> - <p class="verse">Picking out lumps of dead silver...</p> - <p class="verse">But the picture changed when the doctor sewed up the wound,</p> - <p class="verse">And I saw a middle-aged woman gravely mending a limp rag...</p> - <p class="verse">The little cart disappeared,</p> - <p class="verse">And the doctor locked his instrument case as carelessly</p> - <p class="verse">As a child closes an old box of blocks:</p> - <p class="verse">And the nurses were once more bits of sky with thick clouds.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="SOMEIMAGISTPOETS"> -<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> -Some Imagist Poets -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">George Lane</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">ome</span> months ago, in these pages, Mr. Witter Bynner pointed out that -“Imagism” was derived from a Japanese poetical form, the name -of which Mr. Bynner regretted that he had forgotten. This name is -“Hokku,” and undoubtedly the Japanese Hokku poetry was the model upon -which much of the work in the first Imagist Anthology was formed, notably -the contributions of Mr. Ezra Pound. There was Greek influence, too, in -that first collection. But the whole volume showed a remarkable desire -towards perfection and clarity of utterance, and a delicate perception of -beauty. -</p> - -<p> -There were few poetry lovers who did not taste its fine, astringent -flavour, but its qualities were at once its faults. It was beautiful work, -but too tenuous ever to become a great art, said the objectors. It was incapable -of embracing many of the elements of life and poetry. The Imagists -must remain side-tracked, and therefore, clever though they were, they -could not be of real importance. -</p> - -<p> -But it seems that Imagism was more virile, more capable of growth, -than was supposed. The jejune maledictions and assertions of their chief -spokesman, Mr. Pound, have done so much to make the group ridiculous that -it is with a feeling of surprise that we find this volume a great advance -upon its predecessor. -</p> - -<p> -Here is the work of six poets, four of whom were represented in the -first anthology. In an interesting preface they state their poetical theories, -which are much the same as those printed so often in <em>Poetry</em>. But here the -tenets are soberly and sensibly presented, and the whole preface is dignified -and worthy of consideration. Clearly the Imagists are growing up. -</p> - -<p> -It is hardly necessary to rehearse here the Imagist creed. It has been -discussed, with more or less hostility, in many reviews. But certainly, in -reading this preface, the hostility suddenly vanishes, and the reviewer finds -himself wondering if perhaps, after all, this movement is not one of most -unusual significance. -</p> - -<p> -Briefly, these poets call themselves Imagists because their object is -to present an “image”; they believe “that poetry should render particulars -exactly and not deal in vague generalities, however magnificent and sonorous”; -<a id="corr-14"></a>they desire “to use the language of common speech,” and “to employ -always the <em>exact</em> word, not the nearly exact, nor the merely decorative word.” -They wish “to produce poetry that is hard and clear, never blurred nor -indefinite”; and, finally, they are convinced that “concentration is of the -very essence of poetry.” -</p> - -<p> -Brave words, excellent aims and hard enough of attainment. Again, -these poets agree to allow absolute freedom of subject, and, with a little dig -at some of their contemporaries, they say, “It is not good art to write badly -<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> -about aeroplanes and automobiles; nor is it necessarily bad art to write well -about the past. We believe passionately in the artistic value of modern life, -but we wish to point out that there is nothing so uninspiring nor so old-fashioned -as an aeroplane of the year 1911.” -</p> - -<p> -That is a wholesome point of view, but indeed the Imagists have hardly -erred on the side of too great a preoccupation with modern life. In fact -this volume is noteworthy as showing a more personal, a less literary, outlook -on life. -</p> - -<p> -The first Imagist Anthology contained the work of ten poets. Some -were represented by a number of poems, some by only one. In this new -volume only four of those poets are represented. But what is remarkable -is that they are not all the one poem authors. On the contrary, Richard -Aldington and H. D. had more poems in the first anthology than anyone -else in the volume, yet here are Richard Aldington and H. D. subscribing -to an arrangement which gives each poet approximately the same amount -of space. “Also,” says the preface, “to avoid any appearance of precedence, -they (the poets included) have been put in alphabetical order.” So art is -to come before self-advertisement. Happy omen! With such ideals the -group should go far. Six young poets with so much talent, devotion, and -singleness of purpose, is a phenomenon to be noticed. -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps this is the key to the “differences of taste and judgment” -which have divorced these poets from the others of the first anthology. -They go on to say that “growing tendencies are forcing them along different -paths.” We can only guess at the tendencies, as the poems in this book -show them, and it is not our business to probe farther into a schism which -is touched upon so lightly and quietly in this admirable preface. -</p> - -<p> -The six poets of this little anthology are: Richard Aldington, H. D., -John Gould Fletcher, F. S. Flint, D. H. Lawrence, and Amy Lowell. It -is quite easy to see why “mutual artistic sympathy” binds these young -people together. But how extraordinarily individual they are, just the -same! From the exquisite, gem-like poems of H. D., to the organ music -of Amy Lowell in <em>The Bombardment</em>, with the graceful, tender, often -humorous work of Richard Aldington and the tragic earnestness of D. H. -Lawrence, set off by the rich imagination of John Gould Fletcher, and the -poetic realism, touched with a charming intimateness, of F. S. Flint. -</p> - -<p> -Richard Aldington’s contributions begin with <em>Childhood</em>, a study of a -lonely little boy in a horribly dull English town. It is full of wistfulness, -for the little boy is very real, and the detail is admirably managed. The -little boy is shut up in the ugly town, like a chrysalis in a matchbox: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I hate that town; ...</p> - <p class="verse">There were always clouds, smoke, rain</p> - <p class="verse">In that dingy little valley.</p> - <p class="verse">It rained; it always rained.</p> - <p class="verse">I think I never saw the sun until I was nine—</p> - <p class="verse">And then it was too late;</p> - <p class="verse">Everything’s too late after the first seven years.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> -That is very vivid. So, too, is the description of the contents of the large -tin box in the attic. But Mr. Aldington never allows the descriptions to -usurp the poem; he keeps them properly subordinated to his theme, the -loneliness of the child. -</p> - -<p> -Fine as this poem is, it seems more experimental than Mr. Aldington’s -shorter work. Long poems require a different technique from short poems, -and perhaps Mr. Aldington has not yet become quite master of it. It is -in the short poems that he is so eminently successful. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Poplar</em> is an almost perfect poem of its kind. A complete “image,” -and with that fine, poetic imagination which is the hall-mark of Mr. Aldington’s -best work. What could be more beautiful than this: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I know that the white wind loves you,</p> - <p class="verse">Is always kissing you and turning up</p> - <p class="verse">The white lining of your green petticoat.</p> - <p class="verse">The sky darts through you like blue rain,</p> - <p class="verse">And the grey rain drips on your flanks</p> - <p class="verse">And loves you.</p> - <p class="verse">And I have seen the moon</p> - <p class="verse">Slip his silver penny into your pocket</p> - <p class="verse">As you straightened your hair;</p> - <p class="verse">And the white mist curling and hesitating</p> - <p class="verse">Like a bashful lover about your knees.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<em>The Poplar</em> is, on the whole, the best poem of Mr. Aldington’s in the -book, but <em>The Faun Sees Snow for the First Time</em> runs it close. And here -we have that divine gift of poetical humor which is another of Mr. Aldington’s -rare qualities. Space alone prevents me from quoting it. But if I -put these two first, where shall I put <em>Round-Pond</em>, with its sun “shining -upon the water like a scattering of gold crocus-petals”? -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Aldington has advanced in his art. In spite of the <em>Faun</em> and -<em>Lemures</em>, he has sloughed off much of the Greek mannerism which marred -his work in the first anthology. The training which his Greek studies have -given him, is here put to excellent and individual use. One looks for much -from him in the future. -</p> - -<p> -H. D.’s poems are undoubtedly the most perfect in the book. There -is nothing broad, nothing varied about her attempts, but what she tries -for she succeeds in doing, absolutely. But in her work, too, we find a grateful -change going on. The stage properties are no longer exclusively Greek. -In fact, only one poem of her seven has anything obviously Greek about it. -There is nothing specifically inartistic in this transplanting of the imagery -of another place and time into one’s work. But when an English poet fills -every poem full of Greek names and Greek devices, the result is intense -weariness on the part of the reader. The poems may be beautiful, but this -foreign flavour gives them a sort of chilling quality. One cannot help feeling -that the poet is straining after a poetical effect, and that stands in the way -of a complete sympathy between poet and reader. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> -H. D. is too much of an artist not to have realized this, and in these -new poems (with the exception I have mentioned), there is no hint of direct -preoccupation with the Greek in title or text. Yet the poems are so completely -Greek that they might be translations from some newly-discovered -papyrus. And still, in reading them, one feels that the sincerity of the artist -is not to be questioned. Here is no striving after effect, but a complete saturation -of a personality in a past mode. If one believed in reincarnations, -one could say, and be certain, that H. D. was the reincarnation of some dead -Greek singer. The Greek habit sits upon her as easily as a dress, loosened by -constant wear. It is undubitably hers. To adopt another speech would be an -unpardonable artificiality. Realizing this, and not making the mistake that -so many reviewers have done in considering her a copyist, we must admit -that H. D.’s poems attain a perfection which is not to be found in the work -of any other modern poet. This garland of sea flowers is a masterpiece of -pure beauty. I have only space to quote one of these poems, but it shall be -quoted entire. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h3 class="excerpt" id="SEAIRIS"> -Sea Iris -</h3> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Weed, moss-weed</p> - <p class="verse">root tangled in sand,</p> - <p class="verse">sea iris, brittle flower,</p> - <p class="verse">one petal like a shell</p> - <p class="verse">is broken,</p> - <p class="verse">and you print a shadow</p> - <p class="verse">like a thin twig.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Fortunate one,</p> - <p class="verse">scented and stinging,</p> - <p class="verse">rigid myrrh-bud,</p> - <p class="verse">camphor-flower,</p> - <p class="verse">sweet and salt—you are wind</p> - <p class="verse">in our nostrils.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -<h3 class="excerpt" id="II"> -II. -</h3> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Do the murex-fishers</p> - <p class="verse">drench you as they pass?</p> - <p class="verse">Do your roots drag up colour</p> - <p class="verse">from the sand?</p> - <p class="verse">Have they slipped gold under you;</p> - <p class="verse">rivets of gold?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Band of iris-flowers</p> - <p class="verse">above the waves,</p> - <p class="verse">you are painted blue,</p> - <p class="verse">painted like a fresh prow</p> - <p class="verse">stained among the salt weeds.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -H. D. has her limitations, as I said before. They are the most obvious thing -about her, except her perfection. But it is so ridiculous to cavil at them, -<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> -as it would be to deny the loveliness of one of the sea flowers she writes -about, because it is not a forest of lofty trees. -</p> - -<p> -To pass from H. D. to Mr. John Gould Fletcher is something in the -nature of a shock. It is a good deal like plunging into the ocean from a -warm, sunny cliff. One’s ears, and nose, and mouth, are filled with rushing -water. One feels in the grasp of an overwhelming power, and one struggles -to the surface, breathless, half-drowned, but wholly invigorated. -</p> - -<p> -To drop the figure, these two poems of Mr. Fletcher’s are so full of -potentialities, so large in suggestion, that one hardly knows what to say -about them. Does <em>The Blue Symphony</em> mean life? I confess I do not -know. Is it merely a series of pictures? No, there is a vague undercurrent -to the poem which makes that impossible. It is the sort of poem which a -mystic might ponder over indefinitely and find new meanings every hour. -And yet it is all done with the precision and clearness of the Imagist theory. -</p> - -<p> -It is impossible to give any idea of the poem as a whole by quoting bits -of it. But little pieces, even divorced from their context, have that succinct -epigrammatic quality which is the stamp of genius. Here are three lines: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I have heard and have seen</p> - <p class="verse">All the news that has been:</p> - <p class="verse">Autumn’s gold and Spring’s green!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -It is evident in this poem that Mr. Fletcher has been much influenced by -the Japanese. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And now the lowest pine-branch</p> - <p class="verse">Is drawn across the disk of the sun.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -is absolutely Japanese. But strangely enough it is a technique got from a -study of Japanese painting rather than from Japanese poetry. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Fletcher’s versatility is shown by turning from <em>The Blue Symphony</em>, -to his other poem, <em>London Excursion</em>. Here the note of mysticism of <em>The -Blue Symphony</em> is entirely abandoned, and there is no hint of Japanese influence. -If <em>London Excursion</em> follows any lead, it is the lead of the new -schools of poetry and painting in France. But I will not insult Mr. Fletcher -by suggesting that he is, in any way, a disciple of Marinetti and the Futurists. -It is nearer the truth to say that he has realized the vividness of some -of their methods, and modified them to his own use. -</p> - -<p> -<em>London Excursion</em> is one of the most interesting poems in this volume. -It is a poem of a man going into London in the morning by ’bus, spending -the day walking about the streets and going into shops, and coming home -at night by train. It sounds simple, but it is really the most amazing expression -of light, color, and unrelated impressions that one can conceive. -This is his impression of a street from his ’bus-top: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Black shapes bending,</p> - <p class="verse">Taxicabs crush in the crowd.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The tops are each a shining square</p> - <p class="verse">Shuttles that steadily press through wooly fabric</p> -<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> - <p class="verse">Drooping blossom,</p> - <p class="verse">Gas-standards over</p> - <p class="verse">Spray out jingling tumult</p> - <p class="verse">Of white-hot rays.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Monotonous domes of bowler-hats</p> - <p class="verse">Vibrate in the heat.</p> - <p class="verse">Silently, easily we sway through braying traffic,</p> - <p class="verse">Down the crowded street.</p> - <p class="verse">The tumult crouches over us,</p> - <p class="verse">Or suddenly drifts to one side.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Mr. Flint’s work is always delightful. He has a winning way of taking -his reader into his confidence. This, and his love of nature, which he paints -with real affection, gains our sympathy at once. It must be admitted that -none of Mr. Flint’s seven poems quite equal two of his in the first anthology, -<em>London My Beautiful</em> and <em>The Swan</em>. One feels in these two poems a groping -quality, as though the poet were not quite satisfied with them himself. -As though the first <em>élan</em> with which he adopted the <em>vers libre</em> medium were -passing away, and he were beginning to realize that the form has its limitations. -</p> - -<p> -If there is any truth in this, it is evident, however, that Mr. Flint has -not yet made up his mind to try anything else. It would be almost a pity if -he did, for few <em>vers librists</em> understand the manipulation of cadence as he -does. Perhaps the following is the one of these poems which has most of his -characteristic charm: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h3 class="excerpt" id="LUNCH"> -Lunch -</h3> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Frail beauty,</p> - <p class="verse">green, gold and incandescent whiteness,</p> - <p class="verse">narcissi, daffodils,</p> - <p class="verse">you have brought me Spring and longing,</p> - <p class="verse">wistfulness,</p> - <p class="verse">in your irradiance.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Therefore, I sit here</p> - <p class="verse">among the people,</p> - <p class="verse">dreaming,</p> - <p class="verse">and my heart aches</p> - <p class="verse">with all the hawthorn blossom,</p> - <p class="verse">the bees humming,</p> - <p class="verse">the light wind upon the poplars,</p> - <p class="verse">and your warmth and your love</p> - <p class="verse">and your eyes ...</p> - <p class="verse">they smile and know me.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<em>Malady</em> strikes a stronger note than anything of Mr. Flint’s that I have -read before. It is excellent psychology, and steadily, astringently done. -</p> - -<p> -It is this constant change and growth which makes the progress of this -little group so interesting to watch. Mr. Flint’s work in the first anthology -<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> -seemed quite successful and finished. He had done what he had done excellently, -and he would go on doing it to the end of the chapter. But here we -see Mr. Flint, dissatisfied with mere success, daring a wider horizon. From -the point of view of adequacy of technique, his poems suffer, as is natural; -but the technique is sure to follow the widened thought, before long. <em>Malady</em> -and the poem called <em>Fragment</em> show the direction in which Mr. Flint is moving. -His next work will be interesting to see. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. D. H. Lawrence is the best known of the poets in this book, although -a newcomer to the anthology. No modern writer is more vigorous -than he, and none is more entirely, almost brutally sincere. In Mr. Lawrence’s -novels this brutality is sometimes excessively evident, but always one -feels that the author inflicts pain upon himself as well as his readers; that -he says what he sees and is concerned not to shirk and be a coward for his -own comfort. -</p> - -<p> -In his poetry, Mr. Lawrence seems to be more lenient with himself. It -is as though he allowed the moralist in him a day out. Not that he ever -ceases to be a moralist, really. But he permits himself to lay a slight covering -over the stark nakedness of disagreeable facts. This covering is poetry, -and very beautiful and original poetry it is. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h3 class="excerpt" id="GREEN"> -Green -</h3> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The sky was apple-green</p> - <p class="verse">The sky was green wine held up in the sun,</p> - <p class="verse">The moon was a golden petal between.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">She opened her eyes, and green</p> - <p class="verse">They show, clear like flowers undone,</p> - <p class="verse">For the first time, now for the first time seen.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Mr. Lawrence has solved the problem of <em>vers libre</em> for himself, by writing -in a rhymed metre which usually defies all scansion, but which gives a queer, -and most satisfactory effect, of elasticity and strength. For this reason, and -for its novelty, Mr. Lawrence’s manner is very interesting, but his matter is -still more so. Read <em>The Mowers</em>, a common tragedy, but put so newly and -strikingly that it comes upon one with all its original force. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Fireflies in the Corn</em> and <em>A Woman to Her Dead Husband</em> are new in -subject as well as in presentation, and they have a bald reality about them -which I have never met in any other poem. But never once does Mr. Lawrence -make the mistake of being only a realist; he never ceases to be a poet. -In <em>Fireflies in the Corn</em> there are these lines: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And those bright fireflies wafting in between</p> - <p class="verse">And over the swaying cornstalks, just above</p> - <p class="verse">And all their dark-feathered helmets, like little green</p> - <p class="verse">Stars, come low and wandering here for love</p> - <p class="verse">Of this dark earth.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -The <em>Ballad of Another Ophelia</em> is probably his best poem. In it we see -his peculiar style at its very best. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> -Mr. Lawrence is the singer of truth, the lover of humanity. His inclusion -into the Imagist group shows that the school is broad and real enough -not to desire to shut itself up in the cupboard of precocity, as in the beginning -there was some fear of its doing. -</p> - -<p> -Where Mr. Lawrence gives us the broadest view of Imagism from an -English standpoint that this newer, more vital group has offered us, Miss -Lowell does the same service for the American side. The qualities that make -her work noteworthy are first, a virtuoso command of language that fits itself -to the most diverse themes, and second, a sort of fantastic, curious irony -that is essentially American. This irony is perhaps at its finest in <em>The Traveling -Bear</em> and <em>The Letter</em>, but these are too long to quote. I choose instead -<em>Bullion</em>, which may be taken for a very modern type of love poem, in which -love itself becomes a burden: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">My thoughts</p> - <p class="verse">Chink against my ribs</p> - <p class="verse">And roll about like silver hail-stones.</p> - <p class="verse">I should like to spill them out,</p> - <p class="verse">And pour them, all shining,</p> - <p class="verse">Over you.</p> - <p class="verse">But my heart is shut upon them</p> - <p class="verse">And holds them straitly.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Come, You! and open my heart;</p> - <p class="verse">That my thoughts torment me no longer,</p> - <p class="verse">But glitter in your hair.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Miss Lowell always looks at things from an angle. Her mind reflects -the unusual aspect and that most vividly. As she says of herself: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">When night drifts along the streets of the city,</p> - <p class="verse">And sifts down between the uneven roofs,</p> - <p class="verse">My mind begins to peek and peer.</p> - <p class="verse">It plays at ball in old, blue Chinese gardens,</p> - <p class="verse">And shakes wrought dice-cups in Pagan temples,</p> - <p class="verse">Amid the broken flutings of white pillars.</p> - <p class="verse">It dances with purple and yellow crocuses in its hair,</p> - <p class="verse">And its feet shine as they flutter over drenched grasses.</p> - <p class="verse">How light and laughing my mind is,</p> - <p class="verse">When all the good folk have put out their bed-room candles,</p> - <p class="verse">And the city is still!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Miss Lowell has the ability which is rare among present-day poets of recognizing -that beauty does not belong to an epoch or a period, but is always the -same, under whatever strange form it may present itself. -</p> - -<p> -Doubtless her most remarkable poem is that called <em>The Bombardment</em>. -Whether the technique adopted here by Miss Lowell is destined to work a -revolution in verse-writing remains for the future to settle. But here, at -least, it perfectly justifies itself. No one should permit, however, a question -of technique to obscure the deep tragedy, the splendid humanity, of this poem. -<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> -War has only one beauty: that of its terrible destructiveness of all beauty. -<em>The Bombardment</em> is the best statement of this aspect of war I know. It -must be read in its entirety, and so I will not attempt piecemeal quotation -of this most fitting conclusion to the volume. -</p> - -<p> -This book is so provocative of thought, the poets in it are so suggestive, -each one by him—or herself, that each really requires a separate review. -But I have said enough to show what an important volume this little book -is. We are told that it is to be an annual, and certainly we shall watch its -succeeding appearances with great interest. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -It is certainly best to separate an artist so -far from his work as not to take him as seriously -as his work.—<em>Nietzsche.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="editorials chapter"> -<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="EDITORIALSANDANNOUNCEMENTS"> -Editorials and Announcements -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEMURDEROFAPOET"> -<em>The Murder of a Poet</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> is reported that Rupert Brooke died of sun-stroke last month -in the Dardanelles. There is nothing to be said in the face of -such monster horrors.... And it is also reported that Sir -Johnston Forbes-Robertson has burned up his production of Shaw’s -<em>Caesar and Cleopatra</em>, not being able to bear the strain of acting in -a play written by his unpatriotic countryman who protested against -such horrors. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="EMMAGOLDMANSLECTURESINMAY"> -<em>Emma Goldman’s Lectures in May</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> a recent meeting of the Chicago Woman’s Club, when all the -editors of Chicago magazines explained the virtues of their -respective journals, Lucien Cary said, politely but in effect, that -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> was no good. “The only striking thing it has -done (beside coming out at all) is to discover Emma Goldman, a -nice woman with views less radical than Emerson’s and certainly -far less well expressed.” I quote this because it is so exhilarating -to catch Mr. Cary in a half-truth—the kind of thing that makes for -the confused thinking he is so valiantly in arms against. If <span class="smallcaps">The -Little Review</span> had been alive about twenty-five years ago I hope -we would have had the sense to discover that a great woman was -beginning to work in this country. As it is, we could only try to -point out how difficult and how fine has been Emma Goldman’s -living of the things Emerson thought it would be good to live. -It was not for the people who know their Emerson that we tried it, -but for those who have forgotten him, like Mr. Cary.... -Since we failed so miserably we shall have to try again. But in -the meantime you may hear Emma Goldman herself and discover -just how she is helping to make Emerson’s essays livable. She is -to lecture for a week in Chicago, in the most delightful lecture -room in the city—the Assembly Room in the Fine Arts Building. -Her subjects are as follows, at 8:15 in the evening: -</p> - - <div class="hang"> -<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> -<p class="u"> -<em>Sunday, May 9</em>:<br /> -“Friedrich Nietzsche, the Intellectual Storm Centre of the European War.” -</p> - -<p class="u"> -<em>Monday, May 10</em>:<br /> -“Is Man a Varietist or Monogamist”? -</p> - -<p class="u"> -<em>Tuesday, May 11</em>:<br /> -“Jealousy” (Its Cause and Possible Cure). -</p> - -<p class="u"> -<em>Wednesday, May 12</em>:<br /> -“Social Revolution vs. Social Reform.” -</p> - -<p class="u"> -<em>Thursday, May 13</em>:<br /> -“Feminism” (A Critique of the Modern Woman’s Movements). -</p> - -<p class="u"> -<em>Saturday, May 15</em>:<br /> -“The Intermediate Sex” (A Study of Homosexuality). -</p> - -<p class="u"> -<em>Sunday, May 16</em>:<br /> -“The Limitation of Offspring” (A Discussion of How and Why Small Families Are Desirable). -</p> - - </div> -<h3 class="section" id="DIONYSION"> -“<em>Dionysion</em>” -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">O</span><span class="postfirstchar">ne</span> of the most stirring things that has come to this office lately -is a small journal with the word “Dionysion” on its cover. -It is the first volume of a magazine for the furtherance of Isadora -Duncan’s work in America, and the committee that has helped -make this rather amazing thing possible includes such names as -John W. Alexander, Percy MacKaye, Theodore Dreiser, Will Levington -Comfort, Max Eastman, Robert Henri, Edith Wynne Mathison, -Julia Culp, Witter Bynner, John Drew, Walter Damrosch, and -many others. On the first page is Whitman, then Nietzsche on -Dionysian Art, and then Robert Henri with a little article on the -new education in which he says: “I was tremendously impressed -one day in Isadora Duncan’s studio, by the look in the faces of the -<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> -children. As they passed by me in the dance I saw great dignity, -balance, ease. I was impressed, too, throughout the entire time by -the fact that they seemed absolutely secure in their happiness. They -appeared to know unconsciously that they would receive a full -measure of praise and that in no case would there be blame or punishment. -In each little upturned face was a rare look of freedom—the -look of people on a higher plane of self-consciousness, an aloofness -from the common thought. I saw in their expression the -impress of the measures of great music.” And he goes on that “to -inspire courage in children, to stimulate them with the work of -those who have the courage to create, to make of them frank facers -of the emotional problems of life, to start them on the way toward -a great constructive life, we must take care not to impose our wisdom -and our ignorance on them, but to give them the benefit of the -best we have through a frank response to their natural interrogation.” -Isadora Duncan’s idea is that “the expression of the modern -school of ballet wherein each action is an end, and no movement, -pose, or rhythm is successive or can be made to evolve succeeding -action, is an expression of degeneration, of living death. All the -movements of our modern ballet school are sterile movements because -they are unnatural; their purpose is to create the delusion that -the law of gravitation does not exist for them.” I know a man -from Russia who came to this country knowing only two words of -English: “Isadora Duncan.” He had seen Miss Duncan dance -once in St. Petersburg and from that moment he looked forward to -America as the country of “highest intelligences in the freest bodies.” -We may sometime become worthy of this remarkable woman. -<em>Dionysion</em> ought to help.... -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="ISAACLOEBPERETZ"> -<em>Isaac Loeb Peretz</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">L</span><span class="postfirstchar">ast</span> month, under the strain of relief work for the Jewish -families driven from the war zone, there died in Warsaw a -great poet, Isaac Loeb Peretz, almost unknown to the English -reader, if we do not count one volume of his <em>Tales</em>, issued by the -Jewish Publication Society. His poetry, written in Hebrew and in -Yiddish, may be compared to that of Heine in its gracefulness, but -it bears in addition the melancholy of Polish skies. His sketches in -prose and his dramas are too subtle in their profound symbolism to -be appreciated by the Jewish masses, who nevertheless, worship -<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> -him as one of the few great artists who had not gone over to till -strange fields, richer and more remunerative. The Jewish stage in -America flourishes on Gordin’s melodramas and on cheap farces; -the theatrical managers are too business-like to produce such a high -play as Peretz’s <em>Golden Chain</em>. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THESTPATRICKSAFFAIR"> -<em>The St. Patrick’s Affair</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">E</span><span class="postfirstchar">mma</span> Goldman sent me this letter about the two Italian -boys, Abarno and Carbone, who have been found guilty of -trying to blow up St. Patrick’s Cathedral: “Our efforts for the -Italian victims were in vain. They were found guilty, although -every bit of evidence brought out how the provocateur induced, -urged the act, bought the material, made the bombs, and placed them -in the cathedral. But the judge said that an officer has the right -to do all this since he does it not out of criminal intent but ‘out of -duty.’ Imagine what sort of sentence the boys will get from this -cruel machine! I was in court all day until ten that night. I was -near a collapse, so terribly had the day impressed me. At midnight -they telephoned to tell me of the verdict. The horror of it all to me -is the material which Polgnani chose—two typical proletarian slaves, -one a boot black, the other a cobbler, both underdeveloped from -malnutrition, irresponsible in their youthful inexperience, like two -frightened deer driven at bay. To hear the lawyers refer to them -as ‘fools,’ ‘degenerates,’ ‘ignoramuses,’ without a sign of protest on -their part, almost drove me crazy. I had to restrain myself from -pulling them to their feet to cry out against the cruelty and humiliation -of it all. Life is terrible....” -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="MORECENSORSHIP"> -<em>More Censorship</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span> book called <em>Fewer and Better Babies: The Limitation of -Offspring by the Prevention of Conception</em>, by William J. Robinson, -has just been published by the Critic and Guide Company of -New York. In looking through it I came upon several mysterious -blank pages, and then found a foot-note explanation to the effect -that the chapters on preventives had been completely eliminated by -the censorship: “Not only are we not permitted to mention the -safe and harmless methods,” says the poor author; “we cannot even -discuss the unsafe and injurious methods.” But it probably won’t -be long before Mr. Comstock is suppressed.... -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THESERMONINTHEDEPTHS"> -<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> -The Sermon in the Depths -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>Phosphorescent Gleams of Spiritual Putrefactions</em>) -</p> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Ben Hecht</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">ince</span> reading the recent translation of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s book which -is called <em>The House of the Dead</em><a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a> I have suffered from a distressing -ambition. I would like to go to Russia and there commit some naive atrocity -and be sent to a Siberian prison for at least ten years. I have an unpatriotic -prejudice and a lack of illusion concerning American criminals or I would -commit my atrocity on American soil. They, American criminals, are as -a rule a petty lot given to sentimental regrets and griefs and reforms and -periodicals. There is nothing which reflects the smugness of a people so -much as the manner and temperament of its vice. And the temperament of -American vice is more distinctly and monotonously bourgeois than any of its -virtues. The American citizen even when about to be hanged is unable to -rise above the commonplace reactions “imagined” for his predicament by -such authors as belong to the Indiana Society. -</p> - -<p> -I have hunted the American criminal with the police, been present at -his confession, watched him at his trial, sat with him in his death cell and -listened to him recite psalms and sermonize as the nervous sheriff adjusted -the noose around his neck. He is an artificial and uninteresting disappointment. -It would be as extreme a punishment to spend ten years in his society -behind the bars as to live in a State Street Studio Building or join the -Y. M. C. A. for a similar period. -</p> - -<p> -But the “prison that stood at the edge of the fortress grounds close -to the fortress wall” and the primitive, debauched children who inhabited -it! The swaggering monstrosities that swilled on vodka and wept at the -stars. The bestial grotesques who delighted in the murder of infants for -the sake of the warm blood that bathed their hands. The filthy saints and -nonchalant parricides. The Herculean villains, the irritable gargoyles innocently -steeped in insatiable perversion and dripping with infamy. The -arrogant, sadistic artists of torture, human as children, with their pitifully -crippled souls; praying before the prison ikons, stealing their comrade’s -clothes and washing his feet; hating and loving with the simplicity of Pagan -gods and the ramified cunning of continental diplomats. The nerveless -flagellants, the heartbreaking humorists, the fierce, fanciful executioners. -There’s a company for you! A purifying company in the very dregs of its -depravities. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> -They stand alone in literature. Only Christ could have written of -them as well as Dostoevsky. Was Dostoevsky dreaming of a new religion -when he filled the pages with his human crucifixions? Probably not. But -his artistry and his painstaking, searching minute psychology have illumined -<em>The House of the Dead</em> so that for him who is not afraid it is as holy and -human a source of inspiration as the loving sacrifices of the Nazarene -Thaumaturgist. -</p> - -<p> -And yet it is a simple book. There are very few writings so direct -and simple, so easy to read and to understand. The terrifying lusts and -passions and distorted rages make the mind quiver, but they never mystify. -The harrowing morbidities pierce the intelligence like hot lances, but they -never blunt or deprave the moral senses. The fierce pathos so exquisitely -written, the blood-soaked restraints, the consumptive dying in his iron fetters -too weak to support the weight of the little cross on his chest, the wild, inhuman -humanness—they sizzle away the nerve cuticles and burn the emotions -with a strange fire. -</p> - -<p> -It is the peculiar paradox of reaction. I visited once a Home for -Crippled Children and came away happier and cleaner. There the little -misshapen bodies and the unconscious holiness of their suffering suddenly -revealed to me things I had scoffingly overlooked in the popular words of -accepted divines. And it is the same way with the company that writhes -through the pages of Dostoevsky’s book. A more material illustration of -this paradox is the very rhapsodics I have indulged in to convey what I -have read. There are no rhapsodies in the book. There is no “dramatic -action” at all in the book. It is the most inactive book I ever have read, -barring not certain memoirs and diaries. Nothing happens in the book, -yet from its start a demoralized pageant marches thunderingly across the -pages, and somehow, by a psychological process it would take Dostoevsky -again to reveal, lifts the spirit to heights as lofty as its itinerary is low. As -for the style of its writing, there are no secrets in the art for the great -Russian. And here he chooses the grim, gripping reiteration, the tragic calm -and human poesy of simple words to build up his staggering effects. -</p> - -<p> -What will Americans think of the book providing it becomes popular?—and -it may. (The idolatrous regard born in this country for Russian art -instances the possibilities of American hysteria directed in the proper channels.) -The great majority of them, however—particularly those with whom -I have mentioned my horror of spending ten years—will feel it incumbent -upon them to be outraged, none more so than the criminal fraternity. It is -perhaps stretching a point to say that even so were the highly and lowly -estimable backbones of an earlier period of less comparative moribund piety -outraged by the Sermon on the Mount. But there is a promising likelihood -that their ectypes will never read the volume and will thus be saved or lost -or whatever you will. And those who see the light from this Sermon in -the Depths can effect an exclusiveness which will merit them the flattering -curses and derisions of their fellow men for many sweet years to come. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> -The translation is by Constance Garnett and is excellently done. Mrs. -Garnett, more than any linguist, has in her work conveyed the atmosphere -and idiom and temperament of the Russian into English. She is responsible -for the remarkable translations of Turgeniev which have carried his art -unchanged into another tongue, as well as for the Dostoevsky novels. For -the benefit of readers who will be puzzled by her footnote on page 11, the -“Green Street” which she is unable to define is the avenue formed between -two ranks of prison soldiers through which the condemned convict is wheeled -and beaten. The soldiers stand armed with fresh, green sticks which flash -brightly in the sun as they swish down on the naked back—hence the jocular -name. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> <em>The Macmillan Company, New York.</em> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="SPOON"> -Notes For a Review of “The Spoon -River Anthology” -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Carl Sandburg</span> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Spoon River Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters. -(The Macmillan Company, New York)</em> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> saw Masters write this book. He wrote it in snatched moments between -fighting injunctions against a waitresses’ union striving for the right -to picket and gain one day’s rest a week, battling from court to court for -compensation to a railroad engineer rendered a loathsome cripple by the -defective machinery of a locomotive, having his life amid affairs as intense -as those he writes of. -</p> - -<p> -At The Book and Play Club one night Masters tried to tell how he -came to write the Anthology. Of course, he couldn’t tell. There are no -writers of great books able to tell the how and why of a dominating spirit -that seizes them and wrenches the flashing pages from them. But there -are a few forces known that play a part. And among these Masters said he -wanted emphasis placed on <em>Poetry</em>, voices calling “Unhand me,” verses and -lines from all manner and schools of writers welcomed in Harriet Monroe’s -magazine. -</p> - -<p> -Once in a while a man comes along who writes a book that has his -own heart-beats in it. The people whose faces look out from the pages of -the book are the people of life itself, each trait of them as plain or as mysterious -as in the old home valley where the writer came from. Such a writer -and book are realized here. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> -Masters’ home town is Lewiston, Illinois, on the banks of the Spoon -River. There actually is such a river where Masters waded bare-foot as a -boy, and where the dead and the living folk of his book have fished or swam, -or thrown pebbles and watched the widening circles. It is not far, less than -a few hours’ drive, from where Abraham Lincoln was raised. People who -knew Lincoln are living there today. -</p> - -<p> -Well, some two hundred and twenty portraits in free verse have been -etched by Masters from this valley. They are Illinois people. Also they -are the people of anywhere and everywhere in so-called civilization. -</p> - -<p> -Aner Clute is the immortal girl of the streets. Chase Henry is the -town drunkard of all time. The railroad lawyer, the corrupt judge, the -prohibitionist, the various adulterers and adulteresses, the Sunday School -superintendent, the mothers and fathers who lived for sacrifice in gratitude, -joy,—all these people look out from this book with haunting eyes, and there -are baffled mouths and brows calm in the facing of their destinies. -</p> - -<p> -When a few of the pieces in this book reached Ezra Pound, the judgment -he passed upon them was that they are real and great poetry from -the hand of a new and a genuine American poet. It was Alice Corbin Henderson -who was the first American critic to seize upon some of these poems -as they were running in <em>The St. Louis Mirror</em>, and put them forward in -<em>Poetry</em> as striking, indigenous, out of the soil of America as a home-land. -William Marion Reedy, editor of <em>The St. Louis Mirror</em>, is accredited by -Masters for the keen enthusiasm with which he helped him carry along -the work of writing. -</p> - -<p> -In the year 1914 Masters not only handled all of his regular law practice, -heavy and grilling. Besides, he wrote <em>The Spoon River Anthology</em>. -There were times when he was clean fagged with the day’s work. But a -spell was on him to throw into written form a picture gallery, a series of -short movies of individuals he had seen back home. Each page in the -anthology is a locked-up portrait now freed. -</p> - -<p> -The stress of this bore down on Masters. Just before the proof sheets -for his book came to his hands, he went down with fever and pneumonia -and a complex of physical ills. It was the first time in his life he was willing -to admit he was “sick abed.” -</p> - -<p> -There is vitality, drops of heart blood, poured into Lee Masters’ book. -He has other books in him as vivid and poignant. Let us hope luck holds -him by the hand and takes him along where he can write out these -other ones. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="POETRYANDTHEPANAMAPACIFIC"> -<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> -Poetry and the Panama-Pacific -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Eunice Tietjens</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">H</span><span class="postfirstchar">as</span> poetry, as an art, any meaning whatever for the American people, or -has all the recent ink which has been spilled in proclaiming a renascence -of American poetry gone only to water the roots of the publishing business? -These are questions which will be forced upon the mind of every admirer of -the lyric muse in contemplating the Panama-Pacific International Exposition -in San Francisco. For in spite of the millions of money and the acres -of ground at the disposal of the American sections there is nowhere, except -in the commercial exhibits of the publishers, any recognition of the existence -of contemporary poetry. -</p> - -<p> -When taxed with the fact that the art is unrepresented the heads of the -departments point deprecatingly to the fact that as a decorative feature of -certain architectural archways poetical quotations are used. There is a quotation -from Confucius, one from the Kalidasa, several from Edmund Spencer, -and one (O Triumph of Modernity!) from Walt Whitman. As no commercial -exhibit is accepted which was in existence at the time of the St. Louis -Exposition this answer is doubly enlightening. -</p> - -<p> -All the other arts are here. Architecture, music, sculpture, mural and -easel painting, drawing, prints and etching, landscape gardening, together -with the so-called “Liberal Arts” are adequately represented. But not poetry. -A perusal of the “P’s” of the official list in an attempt to discover it is significant. -“Poultry” is there with a large exhibit, so is “Plumbago,” “Plumbers’ -Implements,” “Pomology” and “Ponies.” Excellent exhibits all, but hardly -lyrical. -</p> - -<p> -It may be urged, of course, that other arts, such as the arts of the theatre, -acting and stagecraft, and the literary art of prose writing, are also omitted. -But although exhibitions of these things would be eminently desirable they -present great practical difficulties. And these arts have, after all, a commercial -side which is more or less adequately suggested. But with poetry -the case is different. The mere fact that commercially poetry is, like Perlmutter’s -automobile, a liability and not an asset, ought in our practical age -to prove that it is a “fine art!” And the practical difficulty of providing a -set of bookshelves and a competent jury to pass on admissions need hardly -stagger the directors of so colossal an undertaking. Add to this daily, or -even bi-weekly, readings of contemporary poetry and the result would be a -representation in proportion to the attention paid the other arts. -</p> - -<p> -It would be useless to urge that this Exposition is a private, or even a -local enterprise. It cannot stand as such. It represents in the face of the -warring world the development of our country, culturally as well as commercially. -And the fact that one of the oldest and most reverenced of the arts -<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> -is totally unrepresented must inevitably redound to the discredit of the executive -officers, and through them of the people at large. -</p> - -<p> -For the root of this cavalier treatment of poetry is, after all, in the -American people. As a nation, in spite of our complacency in the present -world crisis, we are still in the stage of culture in which we believe that man -can live by bread alone. And we can scarcely hope for more adequate recognition -of the art until those of us to whom poetry is a living fact, and not an -academic perception, have battled at greater length and with greater self-sacrifice -in the eternal struggle through commercialism to beauty. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEMOBGOD"> -The Mob-God -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> seats creak expectantly. The white whirr of the movie machine takes -on a special significance. In the murky gloom of the theater you can -watch row on row of backs becoming suddenly enthusiastic, necks growing -suddenly alive, heads rising to a fresh angle. Turning around you can -see the stupid masks falling, vacant eyes lighting up, lips parting and waiting -the smile, mouths opening waiting to laugh. A miracle is transpiring. A -sodden mass inclined toward protoplasmic atavism, a smear of dead nerves, -dead skin, fiberless flesh is beginning to quiver with an emotion. Laughter -is about to be born. The lights dance on the screen in front. Letters appear -in two short words and a gasp sweeps from mouth to mouth. -</p> - -<p> -The name of a Mob-God flashes before the eyes. Suddenly the screen -in front vanishes. In its place appears a road stretching away to the sky -and lined with trees. The sky is clear. The scene is cool and healthy. The -leaves of the trees flutter familiarly. The road smiles like an old friend. -And far in the distance a speck appears and moves slowly and jerkily. Wide -open mouths and freshened eyes watch the speck grow larger. It takes the -form of a man, a little man with a thin cane. At last his baggy trousers -and his slovenly shoes are visible. His thick curly hair under the battered -derby becomes clear. He walks along carelessly, quietly, with an infinite -philosophy. He walks with an indescribable step, kicking up one of his -feet, shuffling along. -</p> - -<p> -Laughter is born. The vapid faces respond magically to His presence. -Pure, childish delight sounds. The faces are bathed in a human light. A -noisy, wholesome din fills the theater. And the little man comes down the -road with his calm and solemn face, his sad eyes, his impossible mustache, -his ridiculous trousers, and his nervous, spasmodic gait amid the roars and -wild elation of idiots, prostitutes, crass, common churls, and empty souls -converted suddenly into a natural and mutual simplicity. The stuffy, maddening -<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> -“bathoes” that clings to the mob like a stink is dispelled, wiped out -of the air. Laughter, laughter, shrieks and peals, chuckles and smiles, the -broad permeating warmth of the simplest, deepest joy is everywhere. -</p> - -<p> -Charlie Chaplin is before them, Charles Chaplin with the wit of a vulgar -buffoon and the soul of a world artist. He walks, he stumbles, he dances, -he falls. His inimitable gyrations release torrents of mirth clean as spring -freshets. He is cruel. He is absurd; unmanly; tawdry; cheap; artificial. -And yet behind his crudities, his obscenities, his inartistic and outrageous -contortions, his “divinity” shines. He is the Mob-God. He is a child and a -clown. He is a gutter snipe and an artist. He is the incarnation of the -latent, imperfect, and childlike genius that lies buried under the fiberless -flesh of his worshippers. They have created Him in their image. He is -the Mob on two legs. They love him and laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“Fruits to Om.” -</p> - -<p> -“Glory to Zeus.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mercy, Jesus.” -</p> - -<p> -“Praised be Allah.” -</p> - -<p> -“Hats off to Charlie Chaplin.” -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -“<span class="smallcaps">The Scavanger</span>.” -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THETHEATRE"> -The Theatre -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="ROSMERSHOLM"> -“<span class="smallcaps">Rosmersholm</span>” -</h3> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>The Chicago Little Theatre</em>) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> don’t want to write about <em>Rosmersholm</em> or about Ibsen now. I want -to write about Mme. Borgny Hammer, who is great in the manner of -the great Norwegians. -</p> - -<p> -There is a lot of talk about the Russian soul just at present. I wish -the Norwegian soul might come in for its share of analysis and appreciation. -It is interesting not because of its dark shudderings but because of its intense -light and its clearness. It is like the sun; it is like wild flowers—not the -delicate but the hardy ones. -</p> - -<p> -Mme. Hammer is this sort of person. She is an actress because she -must act or die. She is so intense that the air about her is always “charged”; -and she is so natural and simple that you know right away she must be great. -There wasn’t a particle of difference between her presence on the stage as -the Ibsen heroine and her manner when she meets you on Michigan Avenue -and stops to say that Ibsen is so wonderful it’s impossible to cut a line of -<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> -his dialogue. In both situations she is the genius. Mrs. Fiske’s Rebecca -West was a stunningly-worked-out idea; Mme. Hammer’s was just—Rebecca -West. Mrs. Fiske had a theory of the character and presented it in a series -of subtle and powerful designs. But what did this wonderful woman do? -She didn’t act Rebecca West at all: she just gave you the impression that -she is Rebecca every day of her life. She made <em>Rosmersholm</em> a natural -scene in the life of some modern family, instead of making it a “study”—an -effect in a rather strained psychology. -</p> - -<p> -I wish I could describe Mme. Hammer’s stage conversations—especially -the parts where she listens. She is so busy feeling Rebecca West that she -has no time to waste in managing her eyes and voice and hands. They -take care of themselves just as they would in her own library. When our -best actresses “listen” they keep their eyes on the person who is talking with -the kind of look that says: “I know it would be bad art now to look at the -audience out of the tail of my eye. I must pay close attention to what this -actor is saying to me.” Mme. Hammer looks at Rosmer with the same -expression she would wear if he were about to say things she hadn’t heard -him rehearse every day for six weeks. If she should break out with some -dialogue of her own it couldn’t sound any more spontaneous than her reading -of the lines Ibsen gave to Rebecca. I know Rebecca’s lines, and yet I -forgot them and decided she must be making things up as she went along. -What richness of simplicity, and what a sturdy beauty! -</p> - -<p> -I have never seen an actress who cares less about herself than Mme. -Hammer and cares so deeply for the character she is presenting. The -expressions of her face are marvelous.... She said to me once that -she disagreed with critics who thought Hedda <a id="corr-24"></a>Gabler had nothing to give. -“She had so much, so very much to give,” she said passionately. No wonder -she thinks so: she is a big woman who herself has an infinity of things -to give. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">M. C. A.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THETROJANWOMEN"> -“<span class="smallcaps">The Trojan Women</span>” -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Of the production of <em>The Trojan Women</em> of Euripides by The Little -Theatre Company, at the Blackstone Theatre, Sunday, April 11th, one might -waste many, many words and much good space. One might make merry -over the quaint little mannikins trying their hardest to look like Spartan -soldiers. Or again, a whole column might be devoted to the insipid posturings -of the saintly-pretty lady who played Helen. Much sarcasm might be -expended on the flops done, in the approved French-tragedy style, by the -lady who played Andromache. A whole thesis might be written by an enterprising -student at some correspondence school on the use of the Vaudeville -Spotlight in Classic Greek Tragedy. And Hamlet’s advice to the players -might be quoted with some profit to a few of the company: pointed emphasis -<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a> -at the “do not <em>mouth</em> your words” part of the advice, to the lady who speaks -the speech beginning: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Lo, yonder ships: I ne’er set foot on one,</p> - <p class="verse">But tales and pictures tell, when over them</p> - <p class="verse">Breaketh a storm not all too strong to stem,</p> - <p class="verse">Each man strives hard, the tiller gripped, the mast</p> - <p class="verse">Manned, the hull baled, to face it, till at last</p> - <p class="verse">Too strong breaks the o’erwhelming sea: lo, then</p> - <p class="verse">They cease, and yield them up as broken men</p> - <p class="verse">To fate and the wild waters.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -And last of all one might say unkind things about the blending of the -voices in the chorus. -</p> - -<p> -All the above points, however, I know are very debatable. There are -two that cannot be debated. Two that outbalance by far all the other defects -of the production. -</p> - -<p> -If all the cast had voices like corncrakes, and used them after the manner -of country-town amateurs, the production would still be worth seeing for -the thrilling pictures of colour and line presented by individuals and the -ensemble. And rising, soaring away above all the petty little defects is the -wonderful, majestical verse of Euripides. What could be more beautiful -than the lyric: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Even as the sound of a song</p> - <p class="verse">Left by the way, but long</p> - <p class="verse">Remembered, a tune of tears</p> - <p class="verse">Falling where no man hears,</p> - <p class="verse">In the old house as rain,</p> - <p class="verse1">For things loved of yore:</p> - <p class="verse">But the dead hath lost his pain</p> - <p class="verse1">And weeps no more.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -It is greatly to be regretted that it has been thought fit to cut that lyric, -Cassandra’s Hymn to Hymen, and many of the other beautiful parts of the -play. -</p> - -<p> -The whole thing might have been better in a hundred ways—then again -it might have been worse in ten hundred ways. Let us be glad that we had -an opportunity of seeing the wonderful thing, even though the Carnegie -Peace Foundation is backing it up. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">D.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="MUSIC"> -<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a> -Music -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="BUSONI"> -<span class="smallcaps">Busoni</span> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">B</span><span class="postfirstchar">usoni—prophet.</span> Where Bauer is a priest, Hofmann a wonder-child, -Bachaus a poet, Ganz an efficient, Paderewski a magician, and Samaroff a -failure—Busoni is a prophet. His voice arrests the senses, throws a silence -over them. At first, the world is obscured; later the last trace of it is gone. -The song of the prophet vibrates through new spaces. Listening ones -follow without restraint, so great is the magnetic pull of it; they follow, -enchanted, through new spaces to new and miraculous realms of life, where -music is more real than ivory or pine. -</p> - -<p> -With one paragraph’s deference to the clay-members, let them be informed -that Ferruccio Busoni is a composer and concert-pianist, almost -fifty years old, who began his study and piano-practice at a most tender age, -and who is now considered to be something of an artist—that is, when he -isn’t off pursuing some new notion about quarter-tones, or his one hundred -and thirteen new scales for the pianoforte. He has these aberrations. But -then, musicians are crazy anyway. At a recent concert with the Chicago -Symphony Mr. Busoni played one concerto by Saint-Saëns and another one -which he himself composed. Incidentally, Mr. Busoni’s composition was -based on North America. It is the least bit regrettable that we are so busy -and hurried that Mr. Busoni could introduce us, through a work of art, -to the country we hurry over. He played these works on an inferior piano -and did several questionable things in his playing, such as let his wrist sag, -etc. His personal friends insist that he hates to play the piano. Let the -clay-members join the blessed minority in silent thanksgiving that he has -hated it hard enough to have scornfully brushed aside the limitations of wood -and wire, that his hatred is greater than a world of near-love. -</p> - -<p> -On his recent appearance here, at the very start, Busoni passed above -the norm of virtuosity in piano-manipulation, and the tonal explorations -began. It was quite bewildering. The mob thought it was fine. The -authorities had to admit that it was good. Young ladies considered it -divine. Professional musicians—always self-appointed and astute critics—were -prevented from indulging in their customary snap-judgments while -the artist played, and were held, opinionless, to the music. The listeners -who possessed not only sensitive ears but also receptive minds and fluent -imaginations were swung clear of earth, were lifted into a region where -no dead wall separated them from the strong voice of the prophet. He -was saying tremendous things. He forced upon smaller minds the rush, -the splendor, the glittering plunge of tones, such as they had never dreamed -of before. He gave them the dream. And this was what the yet smaller -<a id="page-50" class="pagenum" title="50"></a> -and the very smallest minds, down between the dead walls, admired, but -sanctioned grudgingly, as brilliant style. There were noisy hands and -exclamations, as at a cock-fight. But the blessed minority heard and recognized -the piano-playing of today, tomorrow, and the future. The instrument -had at last shaken off the curse of apartment houses, and had come -into its own. -</p> - -<p> -Wilhelm Bachaus sings the fancies of a dreamy young poet; Paderewski -thrills his audience whether he smiles or sulks at the keyboard; Bauer -intones the affirmation of a lovely faith in tonal beauty; Godowsky presents -necklaces of perfectly carven gems to the subtly responsive ones; these men -and a few others justify their own uses of the pianoforte. They are strongly -individual, and are not to be balanced, one against another. Ferruccio -Busoni, however, would cast a shadow if he traveled earthward from his -altitudes. He is solitary and unique. Others work up through human -difficulties in order to perfect their means of expressing tonal ideals. Busoni -takes their goal as a fresh starting-point, and tonal ideals become a further -means, to voice the surge of strength which he essentially is, to express the -resistless, flashing drive of the universe. His flying clusters of notes are -the tail of a comet, of some swift participator in cosmic rhythms. The -swirl of his music-fire is a glorious something for which the pianoforte must -providentially have been created—a genuine offering to the vigilant keepers -of Beauty. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Herman Schuchert.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="TWOCHICAGOPIANISTS"> -<span class="smallcaps">Two Chicago Pianists</span> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -I have not heard all the young Chicago musicians play, but of those -I have heard there are two who stand out as musicians and pianists instead -of merely good players of the piano. They are Carol Robinson and James -Whittaker. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Robinson is an Illinois girl who came to Chicago to be Fannie -Bloomfield Zeisler’s “artist pupil” (or something like that) and chief assistant. -A year ago she was playing the piano efficiently; this year she is -using that as a starting-point and proving that she has a real right to the -instrument. She has a technical foundation that cannot fail her; it is -already equal to practically all the tests she may need to put it to, and she -uses it as surely and unconsciously as one uses his feet to walk with. Her -playing at present has the clearness and innocence of a brook; if she can -get something of the sea into her feeling she will be big. The music Carol -Robinson gives is not so far the expression of some incredible longing to -make the piano serve as an outlet. It is natural and beautiful—and absolutely -untroubled. It is articulate and yet it has not acquired a meaning. -It is without a hint of intensity. Carol Robinson has the most interesting -part of the struggle before her—the part for which her genius for hard work -is merely a preparation: what does she want to say through the piano? -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-51" class="pagenum" title="51"></a> -James Whittaker’s music is very personal, very sensitive, very charming, -and very marked by good taste. It is by far the most musical playing -I have heard in Chicago. Mr. Whittaker went to Berlin to study and then -to Paris, where he finished and became an ardent exponent of the French -school. His technical equipment is not the perfect tool that Carol Robinson’s -is; by which I don’t mean that it is at all inadequate, but somehow -you feel that he is always conscious of the demands he puts upon it and that -it sometimes leaves him unsatisfied. His theory is that most of the methods -taught outside the French Conservatoire are “short cuts”; but his work -suggests that he succeeds in spite of his theory. For he does succeed in -the one great essential: in making music. His relation to the piano is a -dedication, and his music is vibrant with feeling. His tone production is -a pressure with a fine nervousness in it, and he has the real “pearl” quality -in his scales. His Chopin is perhaps, as he himself says, a little “scientific.” -His César Franck just misses being deep <em>enough</em>. He is at his best in quite -modern French music, or in a thing like Grieg’s Cradle Song which he plays -very, very beautifully. Brahms he doesn’t want to play, I imagine; but the -breadth that Brahms requires and gives is the very quality that would make -what James Whittaker has to say (and is saying very charmingly) a bigger -and deeper thing. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">M. C. A.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="WITHKREISLER"> -<a id="page-52" class="pagenum" title="52"></a> -<span class="smallcaps">With Kreisler</span> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Four weeks in the Trenches, by Fritz Kreisler.</em> [<em>Houghton -Mifflin Company, Boston.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -I had a big day with Ruby Davis, our Chicago little violinist, out in -the country, roaming, climbing, racing, conversing, but not talking. Talk -we left behind us, in the city drawing-rooms. Between pranks and escapades -we found rest in sitting side by side and reading Kreisler’s war impressions. -I knew that Ruby worshipped Fritz, but his reflections on the -book of the violinist have shown me that in addition to admiration he -possesses critical perception. We delighted in the pages written with spontaneous -beauty, without pose, without the banal superstructure of sentimental -colors, but revealing a tense, vibrating, virile artistic heart, reservedly -sensitive to bloody horrors as well as to imperceptible impressions of human -emotions concealed beneath the dehumanizing military uniform. Ruby -called my attention to the fact that only such an artist as Kreisler could -have had a broad non-professional outlook on men and things, an artist of -unusual versatility, of a wide education, of rich experiences in various fields -of life. Yet, he added, only the keen, delicate ear of a musician could have -perceived the symphonic sounds on the battle-field and in the trenches, as, -for instance, in this passage: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -My ear, accustomed to differentiate sounds of all kinds, had some time ago, while -we were still advancing, noted a remarkable discrepancy in the peculiar whine produced -by the different shells in their rapid flight through the air as they passed over -our heads, some sounding shrill, with a rising tendency, and the other rather dull, -with a falling cadence. A short observation revealed the fact that the passing of -a dull sounding shell was invariably preceded by a flash from one of our own cannon -in the rear on the hill, which conclusively proved it to be an Austrian shell. It must -be understood that as we were advancing between the positions of the Austrian and -Russian artillery, both kinds of shells were passing over our heads. As we advanced -the difference between shrill and dull shell grew less and less perceptible, until I could -hardly tell them apart. Upon nearing the hill the difference increased again more -and more until on the hill itself it was very marked. After our trench was finished -I crawled to the top of the hill until I could make out the flash of the Russian guns -on the opposite heights and by timing flash and actual passing of the shell, found to -my astonishment that now the Russian missiles had become dull, while on the other -hand, the shrill sound was invariably heralded by a flash from one of our guns, now -far in the rear. What had happened was this: Every shell describes in its course a -parabolic line, with the first half of the curve being ascending and the second one -descending. Apparently in the first half of its curve, that is, its course while ascending, -the shell produced a dull whine accompanied by a falling cadence, which changes -to a rising shrill as soon as the acme has been reached and the curve points downward -again. The acme for both kinds of shells naturally was exactly the half distance -between the Austrian and Russian artillery and this was the point where I had -noticed that the difference was the least marked. A few days later, in talking over -<a id="page-53" class="pagenum" title="53"></a> -my observation with an artillery officer, I was told the fact was known that the shells -sounded different going up than when going down, but this knowledge was not used -for practical purposes. When I told him that I could actually determine by the sound -the exact place where a shell coming from the opposing batteries was reaching its -acme, he thought that this would be of great value in a case where the position of the -opposing batteries was hidden and thus could be located. He apparently spoke to -his commander about me, for a few days later I was sent on a reconnoitering tour, -with the object of marking on the map the exact spot where I thought the hostile -shells were reaching their acme, and it was later on reported to me that I had succeeded -in giving to our batteries the almost exact range of the Russian guns. I have -gone into the matter at some length, because it is the only instance where my musical -ear was of value during my service. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Ruby kept on explaining Kreisler while we were making our way -through picturesque ravines. Then we stormed a steep bluff that made a -difficult climb, and I had to pull and push my gentle co-adventurer. “Be -brave, little Kreisler!” He turned to me with serious eyes, and proceeded -to point out the greatness of his god, who throughout the book does not -even once show any national narrowness or hatred for the enemy, who -speaks with equal sympathy of the Russians and of the Austrians, who relates -his terrible experiences in the swampy trenches in such a calm, modest -tone, making your heart bleed with sorrow for the hardships and suffering -of the belligerents. What a terrible calamity it would have been had the -Cossack slashed Kreisler’s hand instead of his leg! Ruby smiled with joy -reading the last page in which the violinist regrets that he had been pronounced -“invalid and physically unfit for armed duty” and had “to discard -his well-beloved uniform for the nondescript garb of the civilian.” Ruby -does not share his big brother’s regret. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="BOOKDISCUSSION"> -<a id="page-54" class="pagenum" title="54"></a> -Book Discussion -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="QUASIRATIONALISTICMORALIZING"> -<span class="smallcaps">Quasi-Rationalistic Moralizing</span> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Criticisms of Life, by Horace Bridges.</em> [<em>Houghton -Mifflin Company, Boston.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">ome</span> time ago, at a meeting of the Book and Play Club, Mr. Bridges -complained against <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> wherein a certain book was criticised -and labeled “naive and dull as the sermon of an Ethical Society preacher.” -“Ladies and gentlemen, <em>I am naive and dull</em>!” protested Mr. Bridges. The -reviewer of that unfortunate book, who happened to be present, expressed -his surprise at the complainer’s unmodest assumption that those epithets -were meant for him, as if he had monopolized the characteristic features of all -ethical preachers. Now that Mr. Bridges’ book is out, the reviewer wishes -to make amends and apologize; verily, the distinguished preacher was justified -in claiming the honorary titles. -</p> - -<p> -The author analyzes his problems through the prism of empirico-pragmatic -rationalism, if such a combination is thinkable. Whether it be Chesterton’s -theological views, or Ellen Key’s marriage theory, or Maeterlinck’s -mysticism, or Sir Lodge’s ideas on immortality—the author applies to them -the same apparatus for testing their validity and truth: Are they provable? -Are they workable? Are they in harmony with Mr. Bridges’s ethical standard? -A few citations will illustrate the critic’s method and sense of humor. -</p> - -<p> -He takes Gilbert Chesterton very seriously, and indignantly reproves -him for such typically Chestertonian offences as misquoting his opponents, -as paradoxical buffooneries, “unpardonable tricks” and “inexcusable mistakes”; -he offers him a few lessons in theology, explains to him in an earnest -tone the meaning of miracles, the Fall of Man, and finally comes to the -astounding discovery that the readers “will see in Mr. Chesterton’s amateur -apologetics nothing but a psychological curiosity, to be read, like his novels, -for amusement, in some slight degree perhaps for edification, but not at all -for instruction.” <a id="corr-26"></a>Horribile dictu! -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Bridges’s heaviest cannon are directed against Ellen Key. He -totally destroys her and Shaw’s opposition to marriage with one humorous -stroke, arguing that if that institution were really bad it would either have -destroyed humanity, or the revolted conscience of mankind would have -“risen and annihilated the abominable thing.” This optimistic argument -needs as little comment as the author’s logical conclusion that “free love” -is equivalent to prostitution and that free divorce is synonymous with adultery, -or as these pearls: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -I am decidedly of opinion that in a more enlightened age divorce will be as -completely obsolete as duelling is to-day in England. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-55" class="pagenum" title="55"></a> -I am opposed to divorce on this ground (incompatibility of temper) for two -reasons: first, because if people’s tempers are really so incompatible as to make their -lifelong companionship intolerable, they can, and therefore ought to, know this in -time to prevent their union. And, secondly, because such incompatibility as can remain -entirely concealed before marriage cannot possibly be so great but that it may be -overcome and harmonized after marriage by means of proper self-discipline and true -grasp of the idea of duty. -</p> - -<p> -No soldier would be pardoned for deserting from the army on the ground that -he found his temper hopelessly incompatible with that of his comrades and his officers. -No party to a business contract would be absolved from observing its terms upon -any such consideration. -</p> - -<p> -The right to renounce marriage because of unhappiness would logically involve -the right to commit suicide for the same reason.... Who are we that we should -repudiate the universe because it will not devote itself to securing our petty pleasures -and happinesses?... Marriage, like every other great social ordinance, is instituted -not primarily to secure our happiness, but to enable us to discharge our duty, in the -matter of the perpetuation and spiritual development of the human species. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -I am confident that the reader will appreciate the reviewer’s gallantry -in not taking issue with the quoted statements: it would be too easy a task -to exercise one’s humor over such threadbare niceties. My only apology -for devoting so much space to Mr. Bridges’s book is the fact that Mr. Bridges -is one of the moulders of public opinion in Chicago, hence ... I shall -owe one more apology for my unrestrainable desire to quote the closing lines -of the author’s sermon on the War: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -May she (this country) preserve her unity, and that nobly disinterested foreign -policy manifested, to the admiration of all Europe (indeed!!) in Cuba and Mexico: -so that, when the vials of apocalyptic wrath beyond the seas are spent, she may enter -to motion peace—the welcome arbitress of Europe’s dissensions, the trusted daughter, -first of England, but in lesser degree of all the nations now at strife, called in to -cover their shame and to mediate the purgation of their sins. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Hm—but I promised to refrain from comments. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="SOPHOMORICMAETERLINCK"> -<span class="smallcaps">Sophomoric Maeterlinck</span> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Poems, by Maurice Maeterlinck.</em> [<em>Dodd, Mead and Company, New York.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The publisher of Maeterlinck’s <em>Poems</em> states apologetically that there -has been a demand for a complete edition of the Belgian’s works, hence his -justification in publishing a translation of the poems that originally appeared -twenty years ago. The service rendered thereby to the author is of doubtful -value: great writers are inclined to forget their youthful follies; as far as -the English reading public is concerned the little book may be of some interest -as a pale suggestion of an early stage in the development of Maeterlinck’s -talent. I say a pale suggestion, for with all the conscientious labor -of the translator the poems Anglicised have lost their chief, if not sole value—their -<a id="page-56" class="pagenum" title="56"></a> -Verlainean musicalness. If as a verslibrist Maeterlinck was obviously -influenced by Whitman, his rhymed verses bear the unmistakable -stamp of the poet who preached: “De la musique avant toute chose.... -De la musique encore et toujours!” Back in the eighties Maeterlinck belonged -to the Belgian group of Symbolists, who, like Elskamp, Rodenbach, -van <a id="corr-29"></a>Lerberghe, Verhaeren, reflected the French school which began with -Baudelaire and culminated through Rimbaud and Verlaine in Mallarmé. -Yet, unlike his great friend, Verhaeren, the Mystic of Silence directed his -genius into a different channel and abandoned verse as a medium of expression. -In the collected poems, the <em>Serres Chaudes</em> and the <em>Chansons</em>, -despite the mentioned influences, we discover the Maeterlinckian key-note—the -languor of the oppressed soul, helplessly inactive in “a hot-house whose -doors are closed forever.” We are dazzled frequently with such beautiful -lines as “O blue monotony of my heart!”; “Green as the sea temptations -creep”; “the purple snakes of dream”; “O nights within my humid soul”; -“My hands, the lilies of my soul, Mine eyes, the heavens of my heart.” A -friend confessed to me that these <a id="corr-30"></a>similes reminded him of Bodenheim; to -be sure, this compliment should be laid at the door of the translator. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEGREATAMERICANNOVEL"> -“<span class="smallcaps">The Great American Novel.</span>” -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Harbor, by Ernest Poole.</em> [<em>The Macmillan Company, New York.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -In America today, other things being equal, that novelist first achieves -success who writes—let us say—of the social fabric, rather than of the -eternal verities. Thus, in the case of two undoubtedly great artists, John -Galsworthy and Joseph Conrad, the former had to wait but half the latter’s -time before he came to enjoy real popularity. -</p> - -<p> -And so it is not difficult to understand the noteworthy and deserved -success of <em>The Harbor</em>—a book so good that one would be inclined to wonder -if it <em>could become popular</em>. Mr. Poole writes with charm and a passionate -earnestness of the growth through young manhood of his hero. He knows -the New York water-front well and it furnishes an original and interesting -background. The boy goes through college, to Europe for a happy year or -two and returns to become a successful magazine writer—a worshipper at -the shrine of “big” men. Gradually his social conscience is awakened and -his entire life is transformed—his allegiance is transferred from the presidents -of the corporations who own the steamers to the striking stokers and -their fellows. On the whole the picture is impressively convincing and -Mr. Poole has caught in his pages much of the most glowing thought of -idealistic youth. -</p> - -<p> -His work is so very good that criticism may appear ungracious—still, -if one may be allowed: some of the young men at college speak Mr. Poole’s -<a id="page-57" class="pagenum" title="57"></a> -thoughts and not their own. College men do not think as Mr. Poole would -have you believe they do—at least not until a year or two after they have -graduated. And isn’t Eleanore, the hero’s wife, just a little too perfect—even -for the role she has to play? How well an amiable weakness would -become her! Finally, <em>The Harbor</em> has the commonest fault of almost all -first novels that have for their subject the social fabric: there is too much -thought (or too little action)—the author wants to give his opinion on all -the things he has ever seriously thought about. -</p> - -<p> -When Mr. Poole has tempered his fine seriousness with just a little more -of the creative artist’s austerity he will produce a greater novel than <em>The -Harbor</em>, and one that will fulfill the splendid promise of this first book. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Alfred A. Knopf.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THE10000PLAY"> -<span class="smallcaps">The $10,000 Play</span> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Children of Earth: A Play of New England, by Alice Brown.</em> -[<em>The Macmillan Company, New York.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Frankly, I do not like the spectacle of a collection of New Englanders, -well past middle age, splashing about in a puddle of sex. And that is what -<em>Children of Earth</em> is. Of course sex is interesting—most of the time; -New Englanders are interesting sometimes (especially when as skilfully -drawn as Miss Brown draws them); but the combination is rather too much. -</p> - -<p> -In the first place what happens to these people of Miss Brown’s play -never seems of any real importance—it isn’t simply that they are unsympathetic. -Nor need one believe for a moment in the old idea that in true -tragedy the great must suffer. But at least either the great or the typical -must, and I cannot feel that these children of earth are either. The play -is well enough done; it may be compounded of fact; but I doubt if it exhibits -that finer thing by far—truth. How much better work might Winthrop -Ames’ money have purchased. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Alfred A. Knopf.</span> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>American Thought, by Woodbridge Riley.</em> -[<em>Henry Holt and Company, New York.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -A historical analysis of American philosophical theories, from Puritanism -to New Realism, through the stages of Idealism, Deism, Materialism, -Realism, Transcendentalism, Evolutionism, and Pragmatism. The work -lacks the strict impartiality of a text-book, which it evidently intends to be. -The author reveals a tendency to prove that American thought has developed -independently of European influences; this appears to be true to a certain -extent in regard to Pragmatism, as the philosophy of practicality. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEPOETRYOFAE"> -<a id="page-58" class="pagenum" title="58"></a> -<span class="smallcaps">The Poetry of A. E.</span> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Collected Poems, by A. E.</em> [<em>The Macmillan Company, New York.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -A friend of mine once expressed pained surprise on hearing that A. E. -was among the poets I delighted to read. Having just heard me dissent -from occultism, he could not understand how one who did not believe in -theosophy, esoteric Buddhism, or any of the many modern forms of Mumbo-jumboism -could possibly take delight in a poet who, according to him, was -a theosophist, or revere poems which had first appeared in a theosophical -journal. -</p> - -<p> -Poetry, however, is not a record of one’s beliefs; it is a record of one’s -experiences; and while the existence of God may be asserted and just as -easily disproved, in the medium of rhyming language, there is no question -of poetry involved. But it is equally true that when a poet describes a spiritual -experience, though he may draw his images from Neo-Platonic philosophy, -Christian tradition or even the animatism of the primitive poets, there -is no question of theological belief implied. -</p> - -<p> -When, therefore, we open Mr. Russell’s book at random, as I actually -did when this volume reached me, and come across the following lines, we -must be blind to a wide-spread experience of mankind if we cannot see that -it expresses poetic truth as well as poetic beauty: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h4 class="excerpt" id="UNCONSCIOUS"> -Unconscious -</h4> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The winds, the stars, and the skies, though wrought</p> - <p class="verse">By the heavenly King, yet know it not;</p> - <p class="verse">And the man who moves in the twilight dim</p> - <p class="verse">Feels not the love that encircles him,</p> - <p class="verse">Though in heart, on bosom, and eyelids press</p> - <p class="verse">Lips of an infinite tenderness,</p> - <p class="verse">He turns away through the dark to roam</p> - <p class="verse">Nor heeds the fire in his hearth and home.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -But Mr. Russell’s mysticism—and mysticism, being an attitude rather -than an intellectual belief, is something that is legitimately expressible in -poetry, and is moreover something that Mr. Russell constantly and beautifully -expresses—is no mere world-flight. Even the Beatific Vision he would -only accept on terms becoming a man whose life is implicated in humanity. -Hence, under the title of <em>Love</em> we find him singing: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Ere I lose myself in the vastness and drowse myself with the peace,</p> - <p class="verse">While I gaze on the light and beauty afar from the dim homes of men,</p> - <p class="verse">May I still feel the heart-pang and pity, love-ties that I would not release;</p> - <p class="verse">May the voices of sorrow appealing call me back to their succor again.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Ere I storm with the tempest of power the thrones and dominions of old,</p> - <p class="verse">Ere the ancient enchantment allure me to roam through the star-misty skies,</p> - <p class="verse">I would go forth as one who has reaped well what harvest the earth may unfold;</p> - <p class="verse">May my heart be o’erbrimmed with compassion; on my brow be the crown of the wise.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-59" class="pagenum" title="59"></a> - <p class="verse">I would go as the dove from the ark, sent forth with wishes and prayers,</p> - <p class="verse">To return with the paradise blossoms that bloom in the Eden of light:</p> - <p class="verse">When the deep star-chant of the seraphs I hear in the mystical airs,</p> - <p class="verse">May I capture one tone of their joy for the sad ones discrowned in the night.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Not alone, not alone would I go to my rest in the heart of the love:</p> - <p class="verse">Were I tranced in the innermost beauty, the flame of its tenderest breath,</p> - <p class="verse">I would still hear the cry of the fallen recalling me back from above,</p> - <p class="verse">To go down to the side of the people who weep in the shadow of death.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -One of Mr. Russell’s poems suggests in its very first line a lyric from -Shelley’s <em>Hellas</em>, and the two poems form an interesting contrast between -the temperaments of the poet of sentimental Platonism and this later singer -who adds to Shelley’s lyric vision a firmer stationing on the substance of -earth. While Shelley began on a high note of joy that -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The world’s great age begins anew,</p> - <p class="verse1">The golden years return, ...</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -but ends on the note of disenchantment: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O, cease! must hate and death return?</p> - <p class="verse1">Cease! must men kill and die?</p> - <p class="verse">Cease! Drain not to its dregs the urn</p> - <p class="verse1">Of bitter prophecy.</p> - <p class="verse">The world is weary of the past;</p> - <p class="verse">Oh, might it die or rest at last!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -—while Shelley thus descends, Mr. Russell in <em>The Twilight of Earth</em> -begins more or less where Shelley left off with: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The wonder of the world is o’er,</p> - <p class="verse1">The magic from the sea is gone;</p> - <p class="verse">There is no unimagined shore,</p> - <p class="verse1">No islet yet to venture on.</p> - <p class="verse">The Sacred Hazel’s blooms are shed,</p> - <p class="verse">The Nuts of Knowledge harvested.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Oh, what is worth this lore of age</p> - <p class="verse1">If time shall never bring us back</p> - <p class="verse">Our battle with the gods to wage,</p> - <p class="verse1">Reeling along the starry track.</p> - <p class="verse">The battle rapture here goes by</p> - <p class="verse">In warring upon things that die.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Let be the tale of him whose love</p> - <p class="verse1">Was sighed between white Deidre’s breasts;</p> - <p class="verse">It will not lift the heart above</p> - <p class="verse1">The sodden clay on which it rests.</p> - <p class="verse">Love once had power the gods to bring</p> - <p class="verse">All rapt on its wild wandering.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -But while -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The Paradise of memories</p> - <p class="verse">Grows fainter day by day ...</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -there is no need to cease from life or from aspiration on that account: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<a id="page-60" class="pagenum" title="60"></a> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The power is ours to make or mar</p> - <p class="verse1">Our fate as on the earliest morn,</p> - <p class="verse">The Darkness and the Radiance are</p> - <p class="verse1">Creatures within the spirit born.</p> - <p class="verse">Yet, bathed in gloom too long, we might</p> - <p class="verse">Forget how we imagined light.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Not yet are fixed the prison bars;</p> - <p class="verse1">The hidden light the spirit owns</p> - <p class="verse">If blown to flame would dim the stars</p> - <p class="verse1">And they who rule them from their thrones:</p> - <p class="verse">And the proud sceptred spirits thence</p> - <p class="verse">Would bow to pay us reverence.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Oh, while the glory sinks within</p> - <p class="verse1">Let us not wait on earth behind,</p> - <p class="verse">But follow where it flies, and win</p> - <p class="verse1">The glow again, and we may find</p> - <p class="verse">Beyond the Gateways of the Day</p> - <p class="verse">Dominion and ancestral sway.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -While in few or none of these poems is mystic thought absent it is -never present at the expense of poetry, and many of the poems find in nature -both their occasion and their material. A. E.’s vision is preeminently for -the evanescent aspect of things, especially for the colors of the changes that -come over earth and firmament. The poem beginning -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,</p> - <p class="verse1">All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,</p> - <p class="verse">With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;</p> - <p class="verse1">I am one with the twilight’s dream.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -is typical of his response to the vision of the outer world. -</p> - -<p> -The same sturdy sense of actual values that leads Mr. Russell to write -prose works on co-operation and nationality, seeing in these matters no -less than in religious ecstasy the ground for the free life of man, is evident -in the poem <em>On Behalf of Some Irishmen not Followers of Tradition</em>. But -lest sturdy commonsense be thought a grotesque piece of praise for a poem, -let me add that it is a commonsense illuminated by the purest idealism. How -close to earth this idealism moves is shown in the little sketch <em>In Connemara</em> -describing the peasant girl: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">With eyes all untroubled she laughs as she passes,</p> - <p class="verse2">Bending beneath the creel with the seaweed brown ...</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -and enmeshing her in the nature mysticism of her race and country. -</p> - -<p> -William Morris somewhere speaks of the cultured man as one who is -in sympathy with past and present and future—a contrast indeed to much -latter-day doctrine—and one is reminded of the phrase by this poet who -with such lyrical skill not only embodies all three for us, but knits them -together in that unity which alone can bestow on man the values of life which -are timeless. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Llewellyn Jones.</span> -</p> - -<div class="letters"> -<a id="page-61" class="pagenum" title="61"></a> -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC"> -The Reader Critic -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="from"> -<em>A Chicago Reader</em>: -</p> - -<p> -I don’t like what <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> or any one else I have read says about -Sanine. Too analytic, too professional.... Whatever all the worthies say about -the book being dangerous, it will not affect any soul a jot if he is not already afflicted. -</p> - -<p> -What I can say is very inferior critically—only a hurried resume of images after -I had finished: -</p> - -<p> -A garden like a dull green cloud descended to earth, twilight skies with supple -moving figures, gardens kaleidoscopic, hills covered with woods, odors of leaves and -grasses, a dark abandoned slimy wolf cavern of counterfeiters, dew-laden grass, shadows, -dusk, whispers, eyes in the gloom, skies pale green with faint silver stars and dark -birds, night fluttering bats, gardens filled with the melody of nightingales, a little -dying frog, lush river banks with wet reeds bending, mysterious wood nymph smiles, -mystic rays of sunlight illuminating frail flowers, crimson morning-starred heavens, -woods and streams with lithe shining bodies of humans transformed into nymphs and -satyrs—a storm that almost breathes of the one in the Pastoral Symphony and Sanine -in a flash of lightning is revealed apostrophizing it. -</p> - -<p> -It hurts and one shrinks into one’s skeleton to think that perhaps a setting is -obviously made in order to be to the spirit of voluptuous indulgence. But that feeling -goes, because it is the objective thing after all—the colors and odors and atmosphere -remain. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THREEWOMEN"> -<span class="smallcaps">Three Women</span> -</h3> - -<p class="from"> -<em>F. Guy Davis, Chicago</em>: -</p> - -<p> -There is one kind of worker active in the life of today whose work is not often -regarded in the light of art. There is a good reason for this in the fact that the work -they are attempting is so vast and vague in character that many people do not even -know it is being undertaken. They cannot understand effort on such a scale that the -final completed work, if it is ever to be completed, will be nothing less than a new -social order, a new conception of social values, actualizing itself in the shape of finer -cities and grander and braver citizens on a world scale. -</p> - -<p> -There are various groups of men and women in this work of reconstruction, some -compactly organized, others not, some more militant in their attitude and some less -so, but all tending in the same direction toward a better, freer, and fuller social life. -This movement is confused and uncertain as far as a definite structural goal is concerned -because of the contradictory and sometimes seemingly antagonistic elements -that go to make it up. Some of the groups have specific architectural plans which -they defend with the artist’s passion against all other plans, or against no plan; but -the movement as a whole is pragmatic and makes its plans as it goes along, and -whatever may be the outcome the aim is at a better world, a world of beauty and -goodness in the deepest meaning of those terms. -</p> - -<p> -If the modern feminists understood great women, which they do not often do, -they would contend that there is a great significance in the fact that three women -stand out prominently in this movement and in a measure at least are representative -of three groups which more or less dominate the whole. Listing them according to -age,—for on any other basis comparisons are difficult, each being effective in her own -<a id="page-62" class="pagenum" title="62"></a> -sphere,—Mother Jones, Emma Goldman, and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn are social artists, -working in different directions, yet in the same direction, now seeming to exclude -each other entirely, and now, no doubt, sustaining each other in spirit across the -separating gaps in the common purpose, just as old age, middle age, and youth do -sometimes in life, or just as three mountains may have separate and distinct characters -and yet be a part of the same range. -</p> - -<p> -Old Mother Jones is a “character.” In her eighty-two years she has seen life’s -storm, has lived its hope, fear, love, and hate, and has mastered it. She will die -happy with the knowledge that she did her part in the fight for better things, which -she may not see but which she believes are coming. -</p> - -<p> -Emma Goldman is at the height of her creative effort, breaking down the stone -walls of prejudice and superstition, freeing minds from the grip of the past, preparing -the soil for new harvests of life and beauty. She sees mankind on the rack in -the agony of a herculean struggle. Giant social forces jostle each other in their -efforts for recognition in her consciousness. Her attitude toward the revolutionary -movement reminds one of the picture of the Earth in <a id="corr-32"></a>Meredith’s poem <em>Earth and -Man</em>—“Her fingers dint the breast which is his well of strength, his home of rest.” -She senses the stirring of new life in the race’s womb and she fears a bit, for she -sees clearly the possibilities of a tragic miscarriage or a premature birth. -</p> - -<p> -Elizabeth Gurley Flynn is the young Diana of the labor movement. Strong, full -of hope, past the fear which accompanies all beginnings, facing the future with the -courage and confidence of a youth fully launched on its career and enjoying the -sense of growing understanding and power. -</p> - -<p> -The redeemers of life are those in whose natures this spirit of the creator lives, -whether it expresses itself in the labor movement or in the studio; and there is a -significance in the fact that all three of these leaders come from one class, the -workers. The interest in the movement is not by any means confined to the laboring -classes, so-called, but the real dynamic power back of the movement, the steam which -drives it on, does come from this class; and it is more than a coincidence that these -three women should all belong to it, for the vital power, the staying quality which -is the condition of real leadership, seems to have been nearly cornered by the laboring -elements. -</p> - -<p> -Mother Jones has broad organizational affiliations. The great massive groups -which go to make up the American Federation of Labor are with her, generally -speaking, and lend her moral support and financial aid. Her own age and the splendid -organization of her mentality are in keeping with the corresponding qualities in the -A. F. of L. -</p> - -<p> -Emma Goldman stands alone as far as organizations are concerned, like so many -great artists in other fields, always an isolated figure of heroic beauty, always the -creator, lifting the world in spite of itself. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Flynn is a part of the Industrial Workers of the World, that body of roughneck -rebels which carries such promising seeds in its revolutionary young heart. Her -youth and promise symbolize the possibilities of the I. W. W. -</p> - -<p> -But to return to the idea of the social artist. What splendid compensations there -must be in their work! To feel that they are part of an historic movement for a -new world of beauty and harmony, such as the utopians have dreamed of through -all history from Plato to Bellamy and Howells, a work which accelerates its speed -and power as it draws more and more to its ranks the idealists of all countries and -all classes. Is it not better for them that they know they will probably not see its -completion, that it may take centuries? They will never be disillusioned as long as -they hold to the inner faith. “To travel hopefully is better than to arrive”—and here -surely is a journey, the end of which will not be reached tomorrow. As to the -ultimate outcome, why doubt it? The race has millions of years ahead of it. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-63" class="pagenum" title="63"></a> -On the personal side each one of the -three has her own unique charm. Mother -Jones is a mother indeed. Her attitude -toward “her boys” is more than motherly; -it is grand-motherly. The sweetness and -childishness of age, however, a sort of a -sunset glow of real warmth and virility -radiates from her. She enjoys the privileges -of age, and they are many to those -who know how to accept them gracefully -as she does. Miss Flynn enjoys the privileges -of youth, which she likewise accepts -with a poise and an ease all her own. -Emma Goldman has neither the privileges -of youth nor those of age. She is at that -point in her development when in the nature -of life she must meet the challenge -of the outer world alone, when “the soul -is on the waters and must sink or swim -of its own strength.” And yet, no doubt -because of this very fact, she craves companionship -with a passion that sometimes -has a quality of blue flame. Middle age -has few privileges and many responsibilities. -Life is fair, however, to the normal -individual. It pays in advance to youth -and afterward as well to age, but it demands -service of those who are in their -prime. -</p> - -<p> -To understand these personalities and -others of their kind is to understand much -of life, possibly as much as the individual -consciousness in its present form can ever -understand. To know of their struggles -is to feel that one knows history in the -making. It is not necessary to endorse, -but to fail to catch the spirit of their -work is to be unprepared for the possible -changes which seem to be more or less -imminent in the social and industrial U. S. -A. as in the world at large. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 ada"> -By FRITZ KREISLER -</p> - -<p class="h2 adb"> -<span class="smallcaps">FOUR WEEKS in the TRENCHES</span> -</p> - -<p> -The world’s greatest violinist served as lieutenant in the present war until -wounded by a Cossack’s lance in a hand-to-hand fight before Lemberg. This -book is the record of what he saw and experienced. It is the first account of -the fighting by a man who actually fought, a story of hardship and heroism -as graphic as it is thrilling. Illustrated from photographs. -</p> - -<p class="s"> -“The little book which breathes -the strongest loyalty to his country -but absolutely no bitterness -toward any other, will increase the -profound admiration and affection -in which the author is held by the -American public.”—Providence -Journal. -</p> - -<p class="s"> -“The record of the sensations -and reflections in his career of -warfare of a musician and a man -who is also a great gentleman and -a wise, poised and finely humanized -spirit.”—Boston Transcript. -</p> - -<p class="s"> -“The difference between the -books that have a permanent value -and those that are manufactured to -meet a supposed popular demand -may be noted in perusing this little -volume and comparing it with -the hurried impressions of war correspondents -who could not reach -the front.”—New York Sun. -</p> - -<p class="s u fl ade"> -At all bookstores<br /> -$1.00 net -</p> - -<p class="s u fr ade"> -4 Park Street<br /> -Boston -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -Radical Book Shop -</p> - -<p class="narrow"> -Headquarters for the sale of radical literature -representing all phases of libertarian thought in -religion, economics, philosophy, also revolutionary -fiction, poetry and drama. 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Lawrence, -and Amy Lowell. 75 cents net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Japanese Lyrics -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -Translated by LAFCADIO HEARN -</p> - -<p class="s"> -The jewel-like translations of Japanese lyrics -that are scattered through Hearn’s work, with -the Japanese originals, have here been gathered -into a volume of striking and exotic -beauty. While these lyrics are not the -work of contemporary poets, their impressionism -is akin to that of the Imagists and their -inclusion gives perspective and balance to the -series. 75 cents net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Irradiations: Sand and Spray -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By JOHN GOULD FLETCHER -</p> - -<p class="s"> -We have no hesitation in calling this one -of the most significant and satisfying volumes -of <em>vers libre</em> that has been produced by the -younger school of poets. 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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> -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> -... being superseded by electricity, the limitations of which <span class="underline">has</span> not been sensed ...<br /> -... being superseded by electricity, the limitations of which <a href="#corr-6"><span class="underline">have</span></a> not been sensed ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... at sixpence. Among them are Maurice <span class="underline">Hewlet’s</span> Singsongs of the ...<br /> -... at sixpence. Among them are Maurice <a href="#corr-13"><span class="underline">Hewlett’s</span></a> Singsongs of the ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... <span class="underline">thy</span> desire “to use the language of common speech,” and “to employ ...<br /> -... <a href="#corr-14"><span class="underline">they</span></a> desire “to use the language of common speech,” and “to employ ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... she disagreed with critics who thought Hedda <span class="underline">Gabbler</span> had nothing to give. ...<br /> -... she disagreed with critics who thought Hedda <a href="#corr-24"><span class="underline">Gabler</span></a> had nothing to give. ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... for instruction.” <span class="underline">Horrible</span> dictu! ...<br /> -... for instruction.” <a href="#corr-26"><span class="underline">Horribile</span></a> dictu! ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... van <span class="underline">Lerbergh</span>, Verhaeren, reflected the French school which began with ...<br /> -... van <a href="#corr-29"><span class="underline">Lerberghe</span></a>, Verhaeren, reflected the French school which began with ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... friend confessed to me that these <span class="underline">similies</span> reminded him of Bodenheim; to ...<br /> -... friend confessed to me that these <a href="#corr-30"><span class="underline">similes</span></a> reminded him of Bodenheim; to ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... movement reminds one of the picture of the Earth in <span class="underline">Meridith’s</span> poem Earth and ...<br /> -... movement reminds one of the picture of the Earth in <a href="#corr-32"><span class="underline">Meredith’s</span></a> poem Earth and ...<br /> -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, MAY 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 3) ***</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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