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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..35d0325 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66217 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66217) diff --git a/old/66217-0.txt b/old/66217-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 65bbbdd..0000000 --- a/old/66217-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3246 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, June-July 1915 (Vol. 2, -No. 4), by Margaret C. Anderson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Little Review, June-July 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 4) - -Author: Lucien Cary, Richard Aldington, Will Levington Comfort, Alexander S. Kaun, Margaret C. Anderson, Clara Shanafelt, Ben Hecht, Florence Kiper Frank, Arthur Davison Ficke, Eunice Tietjens and Witter Bynner - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: September 4, 2021 [eBook #66217] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - http://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images made - available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and Tulsa - Universities. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, JUNE-JULY 1915 -(VOL. 2, NO. 4) *** - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - _Literature_ _Drama_ _Music_ _Art_ - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - JUNE-JULY, 1915 - - Literary Journalism in Chicago Lucien Cary - Epigrams Richard Aldington - Education by Children Will Levington Comfort - Notes of a Cosmopolite Alexander S. Kaun - “The Artist in Life” Margaret C. Anderson - Poems Clara Shanafelt - Slobberdom, Sneerdom, and Boredom Ben Hecht - The Death of Anton Tarasovitch Florence Kiper Frank - Rupert Brooke (A Memory) Arthur Davison Ficke - A Photograph of Rupert Brooke by Eugene Hutchinson - To a West Indian Alligator Eunice Tietjens - Epitaphs Witter Bynner - Editorials and Announcements - The Submarine (from the Italian of Luciano Folgore by Anne Simon) - Blaa-Blaa-Blaa “The Scavenger” - The Nine!—Exhibit! - Book Discussion - The Reader Critic - - Published Monthly - - 15 cents a copy - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher - Fine Arts Building - CHICAGO - - $1.50 a year - - Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Vol. II - - JUNE-JULY, 1915 - - No. 4 - - - - - Literary Journalism in Chicago - - - LUCIAN CARY - -Nothing succeeds like an indiscretion. I was indiscreet enough last -winter to speak my mind (a little of it) about THE LITTLE REVIEW, _The -Dial_, _Poetry_, _The Drama_, and the audience to which these papers -appeal. The result is that I have been flattered or intimidated into -speaking it ever since. In the present instance both methods have been -used most charmingly—and shamelessly. You see, Miss Anderson and I live -in the same village. And yet I said nothing, and have nothing to say -about any paper except what everybody knows. - -Everybody knows that _The Friday Literary Review_ of _The Chicago -Evening Post_ under Mr. Francis Hackett and, later, under Mr. Floyd Dell -gave us the most alert, the most eager, the most intelligent, and the -best-written discussion of literature in the United States. That -eight-page supplement did what had hardly been done west of England -before: it made book reviews worth reading. There was almost as much -difference between the _Friday Review_ and _The Dial_ as there is -between Mr. George Bernard Shaw and Mr. Nicholas Murray Butler, almost -as much difference between the _Friday Review_ and _The New York Times -Literary Supplement_ as there is between M. Anatole France and Mr. Henry -Van Dyke. There was good writing in the _Friday Review_ and good -thinking behind it. It was almost never dull; and if it was young it was -not wholly unsophisticated; and if it was sometimes dead wrong it was -not stupid. If there were half as many persons interested in the -discussion of ideas as most of us like to believe the _Friday Review_ -would inevitably have continued. It would, that’s all. But as things are -it was fated. Neither the mechanics nor the economics of daily -journalism permitted it. The _Post_ could not continue to give us—it -quite literally gave us—eight pages of what so few of us wanted so much. - -Everybody knows that if a weekly paper dealing not only with literature -but with all the other arts in the spirit and with the journalistic -competence of the _Friday Review_ were established in Chicago everybody -would have to read it. - -That is the point I wished to make. It is perfectly obvious that THE -LITTLE REVIEW is not the kind of newspaper of the arts I have in mind. -THE LITTLE REVIEW is published only once a month. It is therefore not a -newspaper, but a magazine. It is three times as good as _The Drama_, -which is published only once a quarter. But my point is that we ought to -have something four times as good as THE LITTLE REVIEW: in short, a -weekly. It may be that THE LITTLE REVIEW has other failings than its -infrequency. But why consider these lesser matters? THE LITTLE REVIEW -has one virtue in addition to its eagerness. It is informal. Informality -is the breath of life to journalism. Nobody can write anything the way -people want him to unless he feels perfectly free to write the way he -wants to. It is far more a matter of manners than a matter of truth. A -journal which insists on formality almost never has any good writing in -it. Good writing is nothing but the artistic expression of a -personality. Scientifically speaking, it can be nothing else. Not that -one must be thinking about expressing his personality in order to write -well. The very point is that he must not be thinking about it. He has -got to be thinking about what he has to say and nothing else. Take the -use of “I” as an apparently trivial but actually significant example. If -the paper for which he is writing regards the use of “I” as a breach of -good form a man will find that one finger of his left hand is -mysteriously drawn to the shift key and one finger of his right hand to -the key between the “u” and the “o” in order to make an “I” all the time -he is punching his typewriter. The least excusable riot of “I’s” I ever -saw in print was in a journal of literary discussion which believes in -the reality of that invention of the old-fashioned logician, “objective -criticism,” and which regards the use of “I” by any but elderly -gentlemen of the walnuts and wine school as impossible. I did it myself -in the absence of the editor. In a paper which does not in the least -object to the use of “I” writers soon forget all about it, and when they -do that they begin to use it only when it is effective. It is the virtue -of THE LITTLE REVIEW that it permits its contributors to use “I” as -often as they please; that it permits them to make fools of themselves -occasionally. This means that it is not impossible to write well for THE -LITTLE REVIEW. I do not say that it is not possible to write badly for -THE LITTLE REVIEW. Perfect freedom to be idiotic does not inevitably -eliminate idiocy. - -But I have no more compliments for THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -_Poetry_ is another matter. Miss Monroe’s magazine has printed some bad -verse. But this is not, as its most envious critics imagine, its -distinction. Every magazine prints bad verse. _Poetry_ has printed -poetry that nobody else dared to print. _Poetry_ has boldly discussed -the poetic controversy when everybody else hid behind language. _Poetry_ -introduced us to Rabindranath Tagore, to Vachel Lindsay, in a way, to -Edgar Lee Masters. _Poetry_ printed Ford Hueffer’s poem _On Heaven_. -_Poetry_ has heard of Remy de Gourmont and the _Mercure de France_—an -incredible achievement for a Chicago literary journal. _Poetry_ has done -more than any other paper to furnish a meeting ground for writers in -Chicago. If _Poetry_ were concerned about novels it would not decide two -or three years after intelligent people had discovered _Jean Christophe_ -that M. Romain Rolland is a successor to Tolstoi and, for the first -time, print a few paragraphs about him. If _Poetry_ were interested in -psychology it would not ignore Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung. But _Poetry_ -is not interested in these things. Its great wealth is devoted only to -poetry and it comes out only once a month. - -It is a pity. For the spirit of _Poetry_ is nearer to the spirit of the -old _Friday Literary Review_ than anything else in Chicago. That is the -spirit I like, that seems suited to the place and the occasion. But it -needs a weekly paper of wide scope to express itself. - - - A man is an artist to the extent to which he regards everything - that inartistic people call “form” as the actual substance, as - the “principal” thing.—_Nietzsche._ - - - - - Epigrams - - - RICHARD ALDINGTON - - - Blue - - (_A Conceit_) - - The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail; - The sea, a parquet of coloured wood; - The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges; - Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames; - Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering, - Eyelids winking over watchet eyes. - - - The Retort Discourteous - - They say we like London—O Hell!— - They tell - Us we shall never sell - Our works (as if we cared). - We’re “high brow” and long-haired - Because we don’t - Cheat and cant. - We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme, - Just because their rag-time - Bores us. - - These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense; - So they chime, - Rhyme - And time, - And Slime, - All praise their virtuous impotence. - - - Christine - - I know a woman who is natural - As any simple cannibal; - This is a great misfortune, for her lot - Is to reside with people who are not. - - - - - Education by Children - - - WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT - -A little girl of eleven was working here in the study through the long -forenoon. In the midst of it, we each looked up and out through the -barred window to the nearest elm, where a song-sparrow had just finished -a perfect expression of the thing as he felt it. The song was more -elaborate, perhaps, because the morning was lofty and glorious. Old -Mother Nature smelled like a tea-rose that morning; one would know from -that without the sense of direction that the wind was from the south. -The song from the sunlight among the new elm leaves was so joyous that -it choked us. It stood out from all the songs of the morning, because it -was so near, and we had each been called by it from the pleasant mystery -of our tasks. - -The little girl leaned toward the window. We heard the other bird answer -from the distance, and then _ours_ sang again—and again. We sipped the -ecstacy in the hushes. Like a flicker the little bird was gone—a leaning -forward on the branch, and then a blur ... and presently the words in -the room: - - “... sang four songs and flew away.” - -It was a word-portrait, and told me much that I wanted. The number, of -course, was not mental, clearly a part of the inner impression. However, -no explanation will help if the art of the saying is not apparent. I -told the thing as it is here, to a class later in the day, and a woman -said: - -“Why, those six words make a Japanese poem.” - -I wonder if it is oriental? Rather I think it belongs especially to our -new generation, the elect of which seems to know innately that an -expression of truth in itself is a master-stroke. Somehow the -prison-house has not closed altogether upon the elect of the new -generation. There are lines in the new poetry that could come forth, and -have their being, only from the inner giant that heretofore has been -asleep except in the hearts of the rarest few whose mothers mated with -Gods, merely using men for a symbol and the gift of matter.... - -As I believe that the literary generation which has the floor in America -today is the weakest and the bleakest that ever made semi-darkness of -good sunlight, so I believe that the elect of the new generation -contains individuals who are true heaven-borns; that they bring their -own light with them and do not stand about stretched for reflection; -that they refuse to allow the world-lie to shut the passages of power -within them, between the zone of dreams and the more temperate zones of -matter. They have refused to accept us—that is the splendid truth. - -The new generation does not argue with us. They are not a race of -talkers. They do not accept what they find and begin to build upon that, -as all but the masters have done heretofore. They are making even their -own footings and abutments. And to such clean and sure beginnings magic -strength has come. The fashions and the mannerisms which we knew and -thought of as the heart of things; the artfulness of speech and written -word, the age of advertising which twisted its lie into the very -physical structure of our brains; the countless reserves and covers to -hide our want of inspiration (for light cannot pass through a twisted -passage)—all these, the new age has put away. It meets life face to -face—and a more subtle and formidable devil is required for its workers -than that which seduced us. - -The few great workmen heretofore have come up in the lie, and in -midlife, the sutures closing—they were warned because they had labored -like men. For their work’s sake and for their religion, which is the -same to great men, they perceived that they must tear the lie out of -their hearts, even if they bled to death. We call it their illumination, -but it was a very deep and dark passage for them. _Except that ye become -as little children_—that was all they knew, perhaps, but quite -enough.... And the old masters invariably put their story down for us to -read: Rodin, Puvis de Chavannes, Whitman, Balzac, Tolstoi—only to -mention a little group of the nearer names—all have told the story. In -their later years they told no other story. - -In the beginning they served men, as they fancied men wanted to be -served, but after they confronted the lie of it, they dared to listen to -reality from their own nature. They fought the fight for that cosmic -simplicity which is the natural flowering of the child mind, and which -modern education patronizingly dresses down at every appearance. The -masters wrenched open with all their remaining strength the doors of the -prison-house, and become more and more like children unto the end. - - * * * * * - -... I do not ask a finer fate than to write about the _New Age_ and -_Children_ and _Education by Children_ for THE LITTLE REVIEW. I think of -_you_ as one of its throbbing centers. I can say it better than that—I -think of you as a brown Arabian tent in which the world’s desire is just -rousing from sleep. I would like to be one of the larks of the morning, -whose song makes it impossible for you to doze again. I would not come -too near—lest you find me old, the brandings of past upon me. Yet -because of the years, I think I know what will be that “more formidable -and subtle devil” waiting to make you forget your way. - -He is not a stranger. He is always near when people dare to be simple. -There are many who call him a God still, but they do not use their eyes. -You who see so directly must never forget that bad curve of him below -the shoulders. Forever, the artists lying to themselves have tried to -cover that bad curve of Pan as it sweeps down into the haunches of a -goat. Pan is the first devil you meet when you reach that rectitude of -heart which dares to be naked and unashamed. - -Whole races of artists have lied about Pan because they listened to the -haunting music of his pipes. It calls sweetly, but does not satisfy. How -many Pan has called—and left them sitting among the rocks with mindless -eyes and hands that fiddle with emptiness!... Pan is so sad and -level-eyed. He does not explain. He does not promise—too wise for that. -He lures and enchants. He makes you pity him with a pity that is red as -the lusts of flesh. - -You know that red in the breast! It is the red that drives away the -dream of peace, yet the pity of him deludes you. You look again and -again, and the curve of his back does not break the dream, as before. -You think that because you pity him, you cannot fall; and all the pull -of the ground tells you that your _very thought of falling_ is a breath -from the old shames—your dead, but as yet unburied heritage, from -generations that learned the lie to itself. - -You touch the hair of the goat, and say it is Nature. But Pan is not -Nature—a hybrid, half of man’s making, rather. Your eyes fall to the -cloven hoof, but return to the level steady eye, smiling with such soft -sadness that your heart quickens for him, and you listen, as he says: -“All Gods have animal bodies and cloven hoofs, but I alone have dared to -reveal mine.” ... “How brave you are!” Your heart answers, and the throb -of him bewilders you with passion.... You who are so high must fall far, -when you let go. - -... And many of you will want to fall. Pan has come to you because you -_dare_.... You have murdered the old shames, you have torn down the -ancient and mouldering churches. You do not require the blood, the -thorn, the spikes, but I wonder if even you of a glorious generation, do -not still require the Cross?... It is because you see so surely and are -level-eyed that Pan is back in the world for you; and it is very strange -but true that you must first meet Pan and pass him by, before you can -enter into the woodlands with that valid God of Nature, whose back is a -challenge to aspiration, and whose feet are of the purity of the saints. - - - To M. - - Beautiful slave, - I kiss your lips abloom— - Do you not hear the surging voices - Beyond the tomb - Wherein you guard the candles of the dead? - - Do you not hear the winds that crown - The towers with clouds - Dancing up and down, - Fluttering your shrouds? - Do you not hear the music of the dawn, - The strong exultant voices swelling, - Welling like the sweep of eager birds - Beyond your somber dwelling - Where each somber wall enclosing flings - Back in your ear - The moaning passion of dead things? - - Beautiful slave, - I kiss your parted lips abloom. - O the splendor of the voids beyond - The stifling tomb - Wherein you keep your vigil by the dead. - You are too weary-spirited - To look at dawn, too tired-eyed to look upon the sun, - Too weak to stand against the winds. - What then? Farewell? No, let me— - I will find the face of God - With you among the worms. - - ANON. - - - - - Notes of a Cosmopolite - - - ALEXANDER S. KAUN - -Mit dem Nationalhaß ist es ein eigenes Ding. Auf den untersten Stufen -der Kultur wird man ihn immer am stärksten und heftigsten finden. Es -giebt aber eine Stufe, wo er ganz verschwindet, wo man gewissermaßen -über den Nationen steht und man ein Glück oder Weh seines Nachbarvolkes -fühlt, als wärs dem eigenen Volk begegnet.—_Goethe._ - - - _Uncle Sam vs. Onkel Michel_ - -You remember the story of the king parading every morning before his -meek subjects who expressed their great admiration for the sovereign’s -gorgeous raiment, until a certain simpleton shouted: “Why, the king is -nude!” I do not recall the end of the story, nor how the impudent -sceptic was punished; but the part I do remember recurs to me every time -some elemental power comes along and sweeps away the ephemeral figments -from the body of mankind. Mars has more than once played the part of the -rude simpleton; this god has neither tact nor manners; with his heavy -boot he dots the i’s and compels us to name pigs pigs. His first victim -falls the frail web of diplomatic niceties. Talleyrand’s cynicism about -the function of the diplomat’s tongue to conceal truth has become -bankrupt: who takes seriously nowadays the casuistry of the manicolored -Books issued by the belligerents? Even Tartuffian England has had to -doff the robe of idealism and to admit through the _Times_ that it would -have fought regardless of whether the neutrality of Belgium had been -infringed upon or not. Good. One of the salutary results of the war (let -us hope there will be more than one good result) has already been -realized in the wholesale unmasquing of international politics; it will -do immense good for mankind-Caliban to see his real image. - -The United States holds fast to its tradition of lagging behind the rest -of the world. Messrs. Wilson and Bryan still employ the rusty weapon of -“putting one over” through transparent bluff. “Too proud to fight” has -become a classic _mot_ the world over, to the sheer delight of European -humorists and cartoonists after their wits had been exhausted over the -memorable “Watchful Waiting.” The admirable English of the President has -demonstrated its effectiveness time and again: nearly each eloquent Note -has been responded to by a German torpedo. “America asks nothing for -herself but what she has a right to ask for humanity itself”—what -obsolete verbosity! Who is this Mme. Humanity in whose name we demand -the right to send shells to Europe unhampered by the intended victims of -those shells? An American weekly, outspokenly pro-British, has cynically -summed up the situation: “The British government will not allow a German -woman to obtain food from the United States with which to feed her -children, in spite of the fact that it is buying rifles in the United -States with which to kill her husband.” We can neither blame England for -her practical purposes, nor reproach the United States for her desire to -accommodate a good customer: business is business; but why these appeals -in the name of humanity? Why the indignant outcries against Germany’s -successful attempts to check the supply of ammunition for her enemies? -The brutal Lusitania affair has merely proved the consistent and -consequential policy of Germany; had she not carried out her threats she -would have found herself in the ridiculous position of our government -which seldom goes beyond threats. Talk about the murder of women and -children in time of war! I heard of a polite Frenchman who hurled -himself from the top story of the Masonic Temple and removed his hat to -apologize before a lady on one of the balconies whose hat he happened to -brush on his downward flight. Well, the Germans are not polite. - -What is the significance of Mr. Bryan’s resignation? Let us hope it is -of no import; let us hope it may cause a change in tone, but not in -action. For this country to be dragged into the whirlpool of the world -war would be a more unpardonable folly than the puerile Vera Cruz -affair. Our entrance into the war would change the actual situation of -the fighting powers as much as the solemn declaration of war by the -Liliputian San Marino has changed it; in the absence of an army -deserving mention we could depend solely upon our navy which would be -able to accomplish nothing more than joining in some calm bay the -invincible fleet of the Ruler of the Waves and indulge in philosophical -watchful waiting. On the other hand official war against Germany will -doubtless produce internal friction of the gravest importance. I say -_official_, for unofficially we have been on the side of the Allies for -many months despite our theoretical neutrality. Think of the sentiments -of the German soldiers when they are showered upon with shells bearing -the labels of American manufacturers. Had we not supplied England and -France with ammunition, who knows but that they would have found -themselves in the same predicament as Russia, that is, in the position -of an orchestra without instruments? When we shall have declared war -against Germany we shall hardly be in power to harm her more than we -have done heretofore; the Allies will do the killing, and we, the -manufacturing. But the cat’s-paw-game is ungentlemanly, especially when -it is done officially. To be sure, Mr. Wilson is a gentleman; hence our -firm hope that he will do nothing more grave than enriching English -literature with exemplary Notography. - - - _Vincisti, Teutonia!_ - -In his Frankfurt letters Heine wrote: - - I have never felt inclined to repose confidence in Prussia. I - have rather been filled with anxiety as I gazed upon this - Prussian eagle, and while others boasted of the bold way in which - he glared at the sun my attention was drawn more and more to his - claws. I never trusted this Prussian, this tall canting hero in - gaiters, with his big paunch and his large jaws, and his - corporal’s stick, which he dips in holy water before he lays it - about your back. I am not overfond of this philosophical - Christian militarism, this hodge-podge of thin beer, lies, and - sand. I utterly loathe this Prussia, this stiff, hypocritical, - sanctimonious Prussia, this Tartuffe among the nations. - -Can you blame Wilhelm for opposing the erection of a Heine monument in -Düsseldorf? Those lines were written nearly four scores of years ago, a -time sufficient for turning epithets obsolete. No longer is Prussia -labeled hypocritical and sanctimonious; it is rather accused of rude -frankness and insulting tactlessness. Yet the hatred for Prussia has not -abated, but has been greatly enhanced. Heine died before the planting of -the atrocious Sieges-Allee, that symbol of the triumphant pig; it is in -the last forty years that the world has witnessed the development of -Prussian forbearance, narrowness, machine-like preciseness, and -soullessness. We have always preferred to distinguish Germany from -Prussia; we have found delight in the thought that there is a Munich as -well as a Berlin, a Nietzsche as well as a Haeckel, a Rheinhard as well -as a Bernhardi.... Today we witness the hegemony of Prussia, a hegemony -political as well as spiritual, for the great war has crowned with -triumph not only the Krupp guns but also the Prussian idea of efficiency -and preciseness. Our amazement at the achievements of the lightning-like -army that has been almost invariably victorious during the eleven months -of fighting and has held in its iron grip two hostile fronts, and our -astonishment at the diabolical accomplishment of the submarines which -have driven the English fleet to rest in North Scotland and have become -the Flying Dutchmen of the seas, pale before our admiration for the -wonderful spirit displayed by the German people within their country. -Read their press; you find nothing bombastic or boasting, but calm -reserve, set teeth, clenched fists, and deadly determination to fight -for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. “_Weder -Schlafpulver noch Tonics!_” admonishes Maximilian Harden against -drumming up illusionary hopes. “_Stirb und werde_,” he closes up one of -his terse articles in the most virile publication I know of, the -_Zukunft_. Bernhardi’s alternative—a World Power or Downfall—is not any -longer a mere jingo-rocket but an imperative axiom uniting all Germans -in a desperate decision to preserve their national existence in face of -a universal hatred and complete isolation. They are not geniuses, those -perseverant Teutons; rather are they the reverse of geniuses. They do -not rise above reality; they adapt themselves to facts. They refuse to -be Quixotic knights; they prefer to emulate Mahomet who went to the -mountain when the mountain declined to go unto him; not to ride on the -back of conditions and circumstances, but to hold tight their tail and -be dragged after them. Herein lies the Teutonic victory, the victory of -Blond Beast over Superman, the triumph of mediocrity over uniqueness, of -fact over idea, of efficiency over idealism, of state over individual. - - - _The Prophecy of Rimbaud_ - -Arthur Rimbaud, the close friend of Verlaine, the “ruffian,” according -to Mr. Powys (this I shall never forgive him), was capable not only of -perceiving the color of vowels but also of foreseeing the political -situation forty-five years ahead. _L’Eclaireur de Nice_ prints an -interesting statement made by Rimbaud in 1871, a few lines of which I -shall reluctantly attempt to translate: - - The Germans are by far our inferiors, for the vainer a people is - the closer it approaches decadence—history proves it.... They are - our inferiors because victory has besotted them. Our chauvinism - has received a blow from which it will not recover. The defeat - has freed us from stupid prejudice, has transformed and saved us. - Yes, they will pay dearly for their victory! In fifty years - envious and restless Europe will prepare for them a bold - unexpected stroke, and will whip them. I can foresee the - administration of iron and folly that will stifle German society - and German thought, in the end to be crushed by some coalition! - - - _George Brandes’ Neutrality_ - -There has been a good deal of misapprehension concerning Brandes’ -attitude towards the war. His refusal to answer the interpellation of -his friend Clemenceau, his condemnation of the Russian policy in Finland -and of the cowardly and treacherous treatment of the Jews by the Poles, -have given cause for suspecting him of pro-German sentiments. In a -recent interview with the correspondent of the Paris _Journal_ the -Danish critic avows his full sympathy for France. Although his statement -is reserved and plausibly neutral, one easily discerns his dislike for -Germany, in whose _Deutschland über Alles_ motto he sees a Jesuitic -excuse for all means that may lead to her end. “German brutality is not -instinctive; it is a scientific one, a theory.” The cause of the war he -epitomizes in the _mot_ of Pascal: “Pourquoi voulez vous tuer cette -homme?”—“Il est mon ennemi: il habite de l’autre côté du fleuve.” -Brandes expresses himself more frankly in the Danish _Tilskueren_, where -he interprets the war as the struggle between liberalism and personal -government, between civil spirit and militarism, between a people -(England) which accords others commercial freedom and self-government -and a country overridden with economic protectionism, junkers, and -bureaucracy. “England has an independent press and a government which -voices the parliament and public opinion; in Germany the press is -semi-official, the government is responsible solely before the Kaiser, -and the Kaiser only before God.” - - - _Germanophobia ad Absurdum_ - -The French Immortals, too old for actual participation in the war, have -found an outlet for their patriotism in shedding red ink of ridiculous -chauvinism. It has become a matter of course to meet a name of some -“Membre de l’Academie” signed under such outbursts as this: “Nothing of -the Barbarians, nothing of their literature, of their music, of their -art, of their science, nothing of their culture, of anything Made in -Germany!” Another Academic gives vent to his ire against those Frenchmen -who still find certain German things worth admiring, and he vehemently -advocates the prohibition of the Barbarian music and art “by law, by -persuasion, by force, by violence if necessary!” The octogenarian -Saint-Saens has written a series of articles venomously attacking -Wagnerian music, labeling traitor any Frenchman who favors the art of -the arch-foe of his country. Even the semi-official _Le Temps_ was -shocked by the violent tone of the old composer; it quoted Saint-Saens’s -articles of the year 1876, in which the author appeared to be an ardent -Wagnerite and appealed to his compatriots for broad-mindedness and -toleration for “the greatest genius of our times.” As a substitute for -the atrocious Wagner Saint-Saens recommends the return to Haydn and -Mozart, even to Meyerbeer; Schumann’s Lieder he would ban for Gounod and -Massenet; he favors even Dussek, for he is “only a Bohemian.” Patriotic -as he is, he refuses to sanction the modern French composers, since -Debussy, Fauré, D’Indy, and the rest are Wagnerians in his estimation. -It is a case of “senile reactionarism,” as the _Mercure de France_ -rightly observes. - - - _Comparative Morale_ - -It is very interesting to compare the barometer of public morale in the -European capitals, judging from their amusements. Here is one day’s bill -taken from the London _Daily News_, the Petrograd _Ryech_, the _Berliner -Tageblatt_, the Vienna _Neue Freie Presse_, and the Paris _Figaro_; I -have omitted the movies, which bear for the most part ultra-patriotic -titles, and the vaudevilles. The London bill is quite poor: _Veronique_, -a comic opera; _Mme. Sans-Gene_; Gaby Deslys in _Rosy Rapture_, -presented by Charles Frohman; _The Girl in the Taxi_; Frondai’s _The -Right to Kill_; _For England, Home, and Beauty_; and our old friends, -the Irish Players, in the Little Theatre. Still more meager is the Paris -bill: outside of _Cavalleria Rusticana_ (the chairman of the Walt -Whitman dinner pronounces it Keyveleeria Rohstikeyna), it abounds with -such tit-bits as _La Petite Fonctionaire_, _Mam’zelle Boy Scout_, -_Mariage de Pepeta_, and so forth. Berlin has on that day three -operas—_Don Juan_, _Elektra_, _Lohengrin_; three dramas—_Faust_, _Peer -Gynt_, _Schluck und Jau_ (the last one in Rheinhard’s Deutsches -Theater), not counting the minor affairs. Vienna’s bill took away my -breath: a Schönberg-Mahler Abend, a Schubert-Strauss Abend, a -Beethoven-Brahms Abend, a Brahms Kammermusik Abend, a concert under -Sevcik; _Carmen_; a play by Fulda after Molière; Ibsen’s _Master -Builder_ and _Ghosts_; Kleist’s _Kätchen von Heilbronn_. As for the -Petrograd bill, I had better not say what emotions it has aroused in me. -Judge for yourselves: five operas—_Traviata_, _Faust_, _Pagliacci_, -_Ruslan and Ludmilla_, _Eugene Onegin_; a ballet by Mlle. Krzesinsky; -two ballets by Fokin’s company; plays by Ibsen, Mirbo, Andreyev, beside -_Potash and Perlmutter_ and other importations; an exhibition of -paintings by Lancerè and Dobuzhinsky; a Poeso-Evening by Futurist poets -with Igor Severyanin as leader; an Evening of Poetry under K. R. (Grand -Duke Konstantine, whose play _King of the Jews_ recently appeared in an -English translation); public lectures on _The Blue Bird_ in Our Days, on -Dostoevsky and Nietzsche.... Allow me to stop. Are you inclined to draw -conclusions and comparisons between the stage of war-ridden Europe and -that of peacefully complacent America? I beg to be excused. - - - _Edmond Rostand on the Lusitania_ - -Rostand is a member of the Academy; perhaps this affliction is -responsible for his growing hoarseness as a Chantecler. Yet as of all -recent war poems his is the best, I feel justified in citing it: - - - Les Condoléances - - Bernstorff, pour aller à la Maison Blanche, - S’est mis tout en noir. - (L’onde a pris, là-bas, la dernière planche - Dans son entonnoir.) - - Il entre, affigé, refuse une chaise - D’un geste contrit. - (Des femmes, là-bas, heurtent la falaise - De leur sein meurtri.) - - Il tousse une toux de condoléance. - Il s’essuie un oeil. - (Les enfants noyés tournent en silence - Autour d’un écueil.) - - Il se mouche. Il dit—son mouchoir embaume:— - “Je viens de la part - De Sa Majesté l’Empereur Guillaume - Vous dire la part....” - - Derrière Wilson, dont on aime à croire - Que tout le sang bout, - Lincoln, la Vertu,—Washington, la Gloire, - Se tiennent débout. - - Le comte Bernstorff ne peut les connaître. - Il ne les voit pas. - S’il pouvait les voir, il aurait peut-être - Reculé d’un pas. - - “... Vous dire la part....”—O mornes allures! - Touchant trémolo! - (Les pêcheurs, là-bas, voient des chevelures - Ouvertes sur l’eau.) - - “... Vous dire la part que nous daignons prendre - A votre malheur.” - (Les flots verts ont-ils d’autres morts à rendre? - Demandez-le-leur!) - - Bernstorff pleure et dit: “J’ai su ce naufrage - Et je suis venu. - Ils n’ont pas souffert. Ayez du courage. - Ils en ont bien eu. - - “Je n’insiste pas. Je suis venu vite, - Et puis je m’en vais. - Mais vous sentez bien que, cette visite, - Je vous la devais. - - “Nous plaignons le sort des enfants, des femmes, - Cela va de soi.... - Ah si vous voyiez tous les télégrammes - Que Tirpitz reçoit! - - “C’est un grand succès pour notre marine. - Je suis désolé. - Veuillez constater que sur ma marine - Ce pleur a coulé. - - “Un pleur magnifique, en cristal de roche. - Voyez, c’est exact. - Je ne comprends pas que l’on nous reproche - De manquer de tact. - - “Berlin se pavoise.—Hélas!—On décore - Le moindre faubourg. - Ah je le disais tout à l’heure encore - A Monsieur Dernburg. - - “Si notre avenir—souffrez que je cache - Quelques pleurs amers— - N’est plus sur les mers, il faut que l’on sache - Qu’il est sous les mers. - - “Ceux qui malgré nous voyagent sur l’onde - Sont les agresseurs.” - (Là-bas, l’eau rapporte une vierge blonde - Avec ses trois soeurs.) - - “Les _Tipperary_ que chez vous on siffle - Nous ont agacés, - Et quand Roosevelt joue avec son rifle - Nous disons: Assez. - - “Qu’allaient donc chercher en cette aventure - Vos Princes de l’Or?” - (Là-bas, pour avoir donné sa ceinture, - Vanderbilt est mort.) - - “Il ne faudra pas que ça recommence. - Ils sont bien punis. - Veuillez exprimer ma douleur immense - Aux Etats-Unis.” - - (Il se fait, là-bas, d’horribles trouvailles - Qu’on met sous un drap.) - Et Bernstorff reprend: “Pour les funérailles, - On me préviendra. - - “Ce désastre a fait, en Bourse allemande, - Monteur les valeurs. - On me préviendra pour que je commande - Les plus belles fleurs.” - - Et comme Wilson dit, d’une voix sombre: - “Nous verrons demain,” - Et sent Washington et Lincoln, dans l’ombre, - Lui prendre la main, - - Bernstorff, en pleurant, regagne la porte ... - (Il y a, là-bas, - Deux petits enfants qu’une femme morte - Serre entre ses bras.) - - - _The Downfall of the International_ - -Another result of the war, already sufficiently crystallized, is the -bankruptcy of the illusionary spirit of internationalism. In his -remarkable book[1] Mr. Walling has taken the trouble of quoting -resolutions of national sections of the Socialist party the world over, -before and during the war. With a few significant exceptions the -Socialists of the warring nations have had to exchange their erstwhile -slogan “Workers of the world, be united!” for the less noble motto -“Defend your country!” Even when the European armies had already been -mobilized the Socialists held protest meetings at which they threatened -to call a general strike if war should be declared. But with the first -cannon boom the theoretic brotherhood evaporated and gave way to -patriotic sentiments. The workers declared that they were Germans, -Russians, etc., first, then Socialists. True, in the beginning the -German Socialists claimed that they were fighting against the -reactionary Czardom, while the Socialists of the Allies tried to justify -the international carnage as the struggle against Prussian militarism; -but ultimately such clear-headed thinkers as Kautsky and some of the -English Socialists came to see the futility of endeavoring to discover -idealistic causes for the mutual slaughter. The country is in danger, -consequently we must defend it, regardless of the rightness or wrongness -of its policy—this is the prevailing sentiment among the workers. The -grandiose structure of the International has fallen in ruins; the -“scientific” theories and calculations of the Marxians have received a -blow by the underestimated imponderabilia, that of primitive patriotism. -On the other hand, “applied” Socialism has won a considerable victory -with the development of the war. Nearly all the belligerent countries -have adopted State-Socialism in such measures as the nationalization of -railways and means of production. The capitalists are evidently shrewd -enough to utilize the doctrines of their opponents in time of need and -thus to neutralize the sting of that very opposition. What will become -of Socialism when at least its minimum-program is accepted and put into -practice by the _capitalistic_ order without the aid of a social -revolution, the inevitability of which has been scientifically proven by -Marx and his disciples? - - [1] _The Socialists and the War, by William English Walling. New - York: Henry Holt and Company._ - - - Artists should not see things as they are; they should see them - fuller, simpler, stronger: to this end, however, a kind of - youthfulness, of vernality, a sort of perpetual elation, must be - peculiar to their lives.—_Nietzsche._ - - - - - “The Artist in Life” - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -“People” has become to me a word that—crawls. If you have ever heard Mr. -Bryan pronounce it you will know what I mean. He says it “peo-pul”.... - -And that is the way they act. Sometimes I see peo-pul in this kind of -picture: a cosmic squirming mass of black caterpillars moving first one -way and then the other, slowly and vaguely, not like measuring worms who -cover the ground or like ants who have their definite business, but -heavily, blindly, in the stunned manner peculiar to caterpillar -organisms. They peer and poke and nod and ponder and creep and crawl and -scramble and grow dizzy and turn around and around, wondering whether -they shall go on the way they started or go back the way they came or -refuse to go at all. Once in a hundred years one of the caterpillars -breaks his skin and flies away—a butterfly through the unfriendly air. -Then the black mass writhes in protest and arranges that the next -butterfly shall have his wings well clipped. I know my metaphor is not -scientifically intact, but what does it matter? It satisfies my -impulse—which is simply to call names. So I might as well say “People -are caterpillars” and be done with it. - - * * * * * - -I have a painter artist friend who says that to talk about the artist in -life is simply to repeat one of those silly phrases that mean nothing. -But it means entirely too much, I think—which is the reason there are so -many of the species in evidence: about two in a million perhaps—and I -know that is far too optimistic. That would mean some four or five -thousand people in the living world who have nothing in common with -caterpillars. The count is too high! - -For really there are no artists among us. Living picturesquely, -artistically, has nothing to do with being an artist in life; and even -living with the poise that marks a good piece of art hasn’t necessarily -anything to do with it. If you ask me to choose a type of the real -artist in life I shall say Nietzsche rather than Goethe. For the artist -in life has inevitably to do with prophecy rather than with holding up -the mirror; and that means chiefly—to have strength! - -Now where are the strong people? Of course “strength” is an indefinite -term. Sometimes it seems a matter of dominating the superfluous; -sometimes it seems the power “to meet fate with an equal gaze”; and -sometimes the resource or the daring to push one’s fate to a farther -goal. But these are beginnings! If you pick up what is known as your -soul from a wreckage and make it march on you think you are very strong. -If you manage to make it march with pride and joy you think you are a -Superman. But this is easily within the effort of Everyman. I am talking -of artists now and of the radiant possibility that such beings may -develop in this uninspired land; and, in these terms, to be strong is to -help create the farther goal! - -It’s disgusting to realize that the people we know are not this sort. -Take any twenty of your friends and classify them briefly as types. -Perhaps there are five who have “personality”: but one of them has no -energy, one no will, one no brains, one no imagination, and the other no -“spirit;” there are five who have “intellect”: one of them has no -“character,” one no strength, one can’t see or hear or feel, one sees so -inclusively that he has no goal, and one sees so “straight” that he -misses the road on both sides; there are five who have a capacity for -art: one is lazy, one is ignorant, one is afraid, one is vain, one has a -lie in him; and there are five who have a capacity for living: one can’t -think, one can’t work, one can’t persevere, one can’t stand alone, one -wastes his gift on others and never realizes himself. You can work out -such combinations _ad infinitum_ and you can excuse them to the same -distance by calling it all a matter of having the defects of your -qualities. Why not call it a matter of having the complacency of your -defects? - -If you’ve not got imagination you can’t help it; if you’ve not got -strength you can get it. It won’t make you an artist but it will make it -impossible for you to be confused with the caterpillars. If you’ve got a -vision—an Idea—and can find the strength to fly toward it you’ll be an -artist in life. This is not to confuse the artist with the prophet. You -can’t very well do that because the terms are so interdependent. There -has never been an artist without the prophet in him, and there has never -been a prophet who was not an artist. It’s a different thing if you’re -talking about priests or about inferior artists. And then of course you -have to remember that there are no such things as inferior artists. -Priest and demagogue are the names for those who fail as prophets or as -artists. - -And what is the use of such a harangue? There is very little use. People -won’t be artists. Peo-pul don’t change. But the individual changes, and -that is the hope. Individuals are persons who can stand alone. There -ought to be Individuals coming out of a generation brought up on -Nietzsche. Such an upbringing has taught us at least two things: first -that he who goes forward goes alone, and second that it is weakness -rather than nobility to succumb to the caterpillars. Yes, and something -else: that it is from superabundance rather than from hunger that -creation comes. We start out fortified with all this. We don’t need to -wrestle with our gods every time the old laws threaten to submerge us; -our universe doesn’t totter when the caterpillars groan that we will be -lonely if we go alone or hurt if we are misunderstood or tragic if we -don’t compromise. We don’t mind these things. - -It really all comes to one end: Life for Art’s sake. We believe in that -because it is the only way to get more Life—a finer quality, a higher -vibration. This bigger concept doesn’t mean merely more Beauty. It means -more Intensity. In short, it means the _New_ Hellenism. And that is a -step beyond the old Greek ideal of proportion and moderation. It pushes -forward to the superabundance that dares abandonment. - - - Art and nothing else! Art is the great means of making life - possible, the great seducer to life, the great stimulus of - life.—_Nietzsche._ - - - The tree that grows to a great height wins to solitude even in a - forest; its highest outshoots find no companions save the winds - and the stars.—_Frank Harris._ - - - - - Poems - - - CLARA SHANAFELT - - - Fantastic - - I have no thoughts, no more desires— - It is green and gray like a garden - Stirred by apple-scented wind, - Quick with the sense of cool and silver joys - That come in a rainy dance - When soft hands of clouds have pushed away - The round red stupid face of the sun. - - In one day, I think, the wind - Will not have had his will of the gleaming rain— - They run about with tossed hair, - The garden is silvered with their pleasure, - Cool and sweet, shining - As with arch laughter a beloved face. - The musing pool - Shattered in glancing flight by a sudden wing— - This, which no words can name, - This is my heart’s delight, - Winging I know not whither; - It has no measure. - - - Interlude - - To sink deeper yet - In the green flood of twilight— - I grope for the rich chord of the full darkness - That drowns the piping cries of light, - For silence fretted by cadent rain - And the monotonous cries of insects - That lull the tortured sense in drowsy veils. - I am weary of lights dancing - In limpid streets, - Lemon and gold and amethyst, - The jewelled laughter and the scent, - Weaving of uneasy colors. - - I would rest now in green and gray - Of an abandoned garden - Where no more flowers are, - Only grass and crabbed trees, - Night— - And the bitter aroma of herbs - Trod out by myriad, whispering feet of the rain— - Night and no stars. - - - - - Slobberdom, Sneerdom, and Boredom - - - BEN HECHT - -It is the custom of inspired opinion to pay little attention to -mediocrities, to dismiss them with a shudder. I understand THE LITTLE -REVIEW to be an embodiment of inspired opinion, an abandonment of mental -emotion—Youth. Like some of the people who read it and even some of them -who write for it, it flies at the throats of contemporary Chimeras and -leaps upon the Pegasi of the moment. It slashes and roars, hates and -loves. It never considers the right and never considers the wrong. It -does not endeavor to be just and fair. This is at once a great crime and -a great virtue. It is criminal to be unjust and it is virtuous to be -truthful. To me THE LITTLE REVIEW is always both. I sympathize with its -spirit and share it. Leave justice to the greybeards. Why should a soul -which has the capacity for inspiration quibble in prejudices? - -I think, however, that shuddering at mediocrities is a grave error. Evil -is the monopoly of the few as well as genius. Hating and loving them are -luxuries. Therefore it is that this writing is not composed in the -luxurious spirit of THE LITTLE REVIEW. My opinion is not an inspired -one, my emotion is not an abandonment. I write with a photographic -dispassion of the three great divisions of mediocrity—Slobberdom, -Sneerdom, and Boredom. - -Slobbering is not an art and it is not an evil. It is not even important -except as an object of analysis. True, if encountered in print or in the -flesh it is likely to have a nauseous effect upon sensitive souls; but -then one can easily avoid encountering it. One does not, for instance, -have to attend a Walt Whitman dinner. When one hears that a Walt Whitman -dinner is to be given on a certain night in the Grand Pacific Hotel all -one has to do to remain happy and free from suffering is to stay at -home. My friend K—— and I went to a Walt Whitman dinner because we were -young and curious and hungry, and because Walt, after all, is a great -artist. - -The dinner proved to be like most dinners of its kind—a glorious -opportunity for saccharine drool at the expense of a great name. -Appreciation and love of an artist—a poet—are highly commendable -qualities if practiced in private, if put into proper print. It is the -same as with love of a woman. But to stand up in a public place, to shed -tears of ecstasy, wave one’s arms, pull at one’s hair and strike at -one’s bosom—these are, as they always have been, the slobbering methods -of egotistical mediocrity. It is simply a prostituting of the emotions. - -Mediocrity is not insensible to art. It is very probable that the Rev. -Preston Bradley, who insists he is a reformed clergyman, really likes -Walt Whitman, feels thrilled with the reading of him. But the joy the -Rev. Bradley derives from reading Walt in his library is not enough for -him. In fact, it is not a joy at all. It is an irritation. Give the Rev. -Bradley an opportunity to show what he thinks of Walt Whitman, to stand -up on his feet before three hundred and fifty sympathetic souls and -prove what a keen sense of taste and an advanced instinct of culture he -(Rev. Bradley) possesses by yawping: - -“I love Whitman, I adore Whitman. He is this to me. He is that to me—” - -—then and not till then does the Rev. Bradley feel the real joy of -appreciation for “good old, dear old, wonderful old Walt.” Give the Rev. -Bradley a decent chance to platitudinize, attitudinize, and -blatitudinize, and the love he bears old Walt oozes from him in dewy -sighs and briny words. - -Do not imagine that I am violently indignant with the Rev. Bradley, or -wish the reader to be, for his insincerity. It is indeed one of his best -qualities. By being insincere, by having no actual ground for his -ecstacy, the Rev. Bradley must, perforce, pay a great deal of attention -to what he says. He is free to pick out the best words, the best pose, -the most arresting and perhaps enlightening point of view. I say he is -free to do this, but of course he doesn’t. It is not the fault of his -insincerity, however. If the Rev. Bradley were an artist he would profit -by it and be great. But why all this talk about such a person as the -Rev. Bradley? Surely not because he is deserving of careful censure. The -reason is that there were at least three hundred male and female Rev. -Bradleys listening to him, slobbering in silence. - -And now the next division of mediocrity. Mr. Clarence Darrow was another -of the talkers. Mr. Darrow sneered. Mr. Darrow sneered at Homer, -Euripides, Shakespeare, Dante, Landor, Whittier, Tennyson, Milton, -Kipling, and Heine because they didn’t write as good old Walt wrote. -Because they wore fetters in their art and insisted on making the last -word in the first line rhyme with the last word in the third line. They -were weak, ignoble creatures, these copybook writers, said Mr. Darrow; -they insisted on using a singular subject with a singular predicate and -believed that a violation of such procedure was a sin. One of the things -you learn in your school text books on physics is that a gentleman by -imposing a pencil-point before his eye can obscure his vision of the -Colossus. The idea seems apropos in the case of Mr. Darrow. Mr. Darrow -by imposing his soul upon the figures of the world’s big men can obscure -them entirely for himself and evidently his sympathizers. After he had -concluded three hundred and fifty persons, every one present so far as I -could see except my friend K—— and myself, stood up and sneered with Mr. -Darrow. They passed him a rising resolution of love and cheered him -three times, omitting, however, the customary tiger. - -The greatest trouble with Mr. Darrow was his sincerity. He didn’t -slobber any more than a public speaker has to in order to have a public -to speak to. But his sneers were deep and earnest. They were entirely -intellectual, the intellectual essence of mediocrity. All of us sneer, -of course. The sneer is the one great American characteristic. When I -told a man in the office in which I work that I had attended a Walt -Whitman dinner he sneered at me. - -“Fourflushers,” he said. “I can’t see how you put that highbrow stuff -over. A lot of long-haired, flea-ridden radicals, ain’t I right? I -wouldn’t let my wife associate with a bunch like that.” - -(This is my office friend’s highest conception of manly virtue,—a -thoroughly American one,—being careful of whom his wife associates -with.) - -Then my office friend went on to assert that Whitman was undoubtedly an -immoral, not to say degenerate, party, that he “got by with his stuff -because it was raw,” and that everybody who professed any admiration for -him was a suspicious character and one he “would think twice about -before inviting to his home” (where his wife is). - -It is rather a complicated matter, this sneering business; and after -attending a Walt Whitman dinner I don’t know whose sneers disgust me -more, Mr. Darrow’s or my friend’s. They are both, however, identical in -spirit, the spirit of mediocrity and sincerity when sincerity becomes, -as it most always does, the cloak for ignorant convictions and bigoted -fanaticism. - -And now we come to the third and last condition—boredom. Among the -speakers at this memorable dinner was Mr. Llewellyn Jones. Mr. Jones is -a critic of literature by profession if not qualification—although I do -not say it, really. Of all the orators at good old Walt’s memorial -gabfest Mr. Jones was the least offensive. He said nothing that shocked -the taste or violated one’s innerself or harrowed one’s soul. I don’t, -of course, remember what Mr. Jones did say. One never does, not only in -the case of Mr. Jones but in the thousands like him. They occupy time -and space and leave them empty. Not for them the sneer or the slobber. -Mr. Jones wouldn’t sneer for the world. And as for slobbering Mr. Jones -has too much good taste and discretion for that. Not that he is above -them. His fear of them, his apparent uncertainty in distinguishing -between these two characteristics and the characteristics of inspired -opinion, indicate this plainly enough. - -So to be safe Mr. Jones resorts to the time-honored entrenchment of -mediocrity. He barricades himself behind the bulwarks of boredom. He -discharges no cannon, he commits no sins, he makes no false steps or -takes no false flights. He is boredom incarnate, the eternal convention -in the arts whether he deals with Nihilism, radicalism, or stands pat on -the isms of the past. Mr. Jones never gets anywhere, I repeat. I speak -of all the Joneses. Nobody derives anything from him—from them—except -ennui. He, they, never offend, never elate. He, they, are always Mr. -Jones. - -Listening to the Joneses is as elevating an experience as watching the -water blop-blop out of the kitchen hydrant. And this idea leads me back -to where I started—THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -Can you imagine what a thorough contempt a kitchen hydrant would have -for a fountain rising from the rocks, for a brook gurgling down the -hillside, or a strong river capering to sea? It wouldn’t exactly sneer -at them. Mr. Jones doesn’t. But it would feel moved to spirited reproof. -How juvenile it is to gurgle, the hydrant would say, how vain and -foolish it is to rise from the rocks, how upsetting it is to be -continually capering to sea. I do not claim any super-intelligence in -the matter of hydrants. But Mr. Jones and all the Joneses do say, and I -have enough intelligence to understand them if not to sympathize with -them, that THE LITTLE REVIEW is young and idiotic and given to -unnecessary emotions and so forth. All of which is true, looked at from -the elevation of a kitchen sink. “Why don’t you,” remonstrates the -hydrant to the brook, “blop blop with me?” - -An afterthought: at this Whitman dinner there was one among the speakers -who sustained a dying faith in Walt, humanity, and _vers libre_ in -general. He was Carl Sandburg who read a free verse poem of his own on -Billy Sunday. - - - It is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of - success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a - greater struggle necessary.—_Whitman._ - - - - - The Death of Anton Tarasovitch - - - A Short Story of the Present War - - FLORENCE KIPER FRANK - -Anton Tarasovitch lay dying. He lay in a pleasant cornfield whither he -had dragged himself in the heat of the afternoon, for a shelter against -the merciless sun. But now it was evening and the stars were out, and -dying was not now so bad an affair as it had been in the dust and the -blinding sunlight. True, the pain was at times terrible, but at other -times it made one only light-headed, so that oneself or the part that -was Anton Tarasovitch seemed to be a different thing altogether from the -body of Anton Tarasovitch which lay beneath It shot to pieces, while It -fluttered and hovered above. - -He had not been lying for many hours in the Austrian cornfield. He knew -that by the progress of the sun downward—downward until it made the long -summer shadows that he loved in the fields at home; downward until it -brought a breath of coolness and a gray light that had brushed out the -clear distinction of shadows and sunlight; downward until it was gone -forever and a few stars burned quietly in the sky overhead. It was the -last sunset that Anton Tarasovitch was to see in this world. But time -had no longer any meaning for Anton Tarasovitch. Lying on one’s back, -so, and waiting to die, a minute can seem all there is of the world, and -then an hour can be burned up like a minute, while one faints into -unconsciousness, before one is slowly dragged back again to the thought, -“I am I”—the thought that makes the world for each man, that creates for -him the stars and the shadows and the sun sinking downward. - -Yes, Anton Tarasovitch knew that now—that it was this thought that made -the world. And when he stopped thinking it, the world would again be -nothing. Down! down! down! one would plunge, and then the world would be -nothing. But it would exist still for other men. Yet how could that be? -Tomorrow the sun would come up again into the sky just as every day it -had come up in the fields at home, making the long shadows that he had -so loved in the mornings and in the evenings. Tomorrow other men would -see the sun—many other men would see it. But if Anton Tarasovitch did -not see it——! In vain he struggled to create for himself a universe in -which there would be no Anton Tarasovitch. Well, he was not clever -enough to understand such matters. Men in universities and men who wrote -books had figured them out and knew all about them. But how was he, who -had never been to a University, who had not been to school even, to -understand! - -Yet this much he understood—that he was dying for his country. This the -general had told them, and he had known always, since a boy, that it was -a brave and fine thing to fight for one’s country and to die if need be. -Anton Tarasovitch was dying that his country might be saved. - -Yet it was strange that the big Russia had need of him, just one common -peasant. The great Russia had so many men that were strong and powerful, -men with uniforms that glittered—men that were much cleverer and braver -than Anton. Why should the country have need of him? Sasha needed him, -and the children. Sasha needed him in the fields and she needed him in -her heart too. She had often called him the light of her heart, in the -strange words—so different from the words of other women—that Sasha -often used. And he knew by her face that she needed him. She didn’t have -to tell him so. He knew by the kindling of her face, as of a curtain -behind which suddenly a candle appears. So her face would light up when -she saw him. Sasha would mind greatly if she never saw him again. - -He was dying because it was a glorious thing to die for one’s -country—for the White Tsar, the little Father. You died to protect your -country, so that your great country might live forever. But if you -weren’t there to know that it lived forever!—now why couldn’t he think -of the world without Anton Tarasovitch in it? Why did he land against a -black wall every time he tried to think of tomorrow without Anton -Tarasovitch? - -It was needful that he die to save his country. What if, to the general, -he _were_ only one of thousands and to Sasha and the children all of -life—nevertheless, if every man should think that, then there would be -no one at all to save the country. It was rather clever of him to figure -it out so, especially with the fire in his side that made his head so -light and his thoughts fly off from it and refuse to anchor down for -more than a minute. It was clever of him to reason it out—Anton -Tarasovitch who had never been to a University—that if every man should -say to himself, “O, I don’t count. Just one more or less!”—then there -would be no army at all to fight the Tsar’s battles. - -Yet he was not fighting or dying now to save Sasha. Nor was he dying to -save his children even in the years to come. That wouldn’t be bad—to die -so that years afterwards, even though it might be many years afterwards, -one’s children would prosper and would live more happily. That would be -a sort of living when one was dead, because one’s children were in a way -oneself in different bodies. But he couldn’t see how Maxim and Ignat and -Sofya and Tatya would at any time be better off because he was dying -right now. He couldn’t see but that the land would be poorer and that -they would have to work harder because he and the other peasants were -dying for the Little Father and for their country. - -But if he couldn’t figure out just what people he was saving, at least -he knew against what men he was fighting. He was fighting against the -Austrians. The Austrians were a horrible people who spoke a language one -couldn’t understand at all. When you tried to understand them, you -couldn’t understand a word they were saying. He had known an Austrian -once—a big blonde fellow who had stayed a few days at their little -village. One day Anton had been walking with the tiny Tatya on the road -that led to the market and they had met the Austrian, who had stopped -and had given Tatya a flower out of his button-hole. Anton remembered -Tatya’s crows of delight. The Austrian had smiled at her, a nice, -friendly smile, and Tatya had grabbed for his hand as children will, -even when the people they grab at are Austrians. - -Tatya had seemed to like the Austrian. And Anton had had to confess to -himself that he wasn’t a bad fellow. But he must have been pleasant only -because of Tatya. No one could help being pleasant to Tatya. The -Austrian had been for a moment friendly because of her. At heart he was -a hateful fellow. All Austrians were hateful. They all hated the Tsar -and the Fatherland and they all hated him, Anton, because he was a -Russian. - -There must be some Austrians lying in this cornfield now, wounded as he -was wounded. But he could see no one. Flat on his back, he could see -only the stars which were thick now against the sky. And he began to -think that this was a cruel thing—that a man should be alone when he was -dying. Even when a chap was just ill, he wanted someone to take care of -him. Once when Anton had been ill of a fever he had been just like a -baby, so weak and helpless. He had cried then because the milk that -Sasha had brought him had been too hot for his tongue and had burned -him. It was silly for a big man to cry, but that was the way you became -when you were sick—weak and silly. He had never in his life cried when -he was well. When men were well they were never silly. - -Women—women were different! Five times had Sasha been so ill that it was -terrible—four times for the children that were living and once for the -little one that had died. Sasha had almost died too that time. She had -been so white and so hopeless looking for weeks after! But in all the -times she was ill she had not complained as much as he had, that one -month that he was sick with the fever. That must be because women were -used to pain. The good God had so ordained it. For every life that they -brought into the world they had to suffer, not only at the time, but for -months before and then for years afterward. - -They were strange creatures, were women. If a child became ill or died, -its mother suffered again, just as the day she had borne him. At least -so Sasha had suffered when the baby had died—and other women that he had -seen in the village. - -Birth was a strange thing now! He had never really thought of it before, -but wasn’t it a strange thing that each time a person was born into the -world, there should be pain and the long months of waiting. Then in one -second an Austrian shell could blow away the body that some woman had -waited for and had carried in her own body. In one second—why, so he had -been waited for—he, Anton Tarasovitch. Now wasn’t that wonderful!—and he -had never until this minute really thought of it. He, Anton Tarasovitch, -had been carried in the body of his mother and had been born in pain and -in rejoicing. Why, it was like a miracle! And he had thought so lightly -of it, had just taken it for granted that he should be born and that she -should love him. - -He would like to make it up to her in some way now. But it was too late. -She had been dead for very many years now and he also was dying. Well, -he could tell her about it when he saw her with the saints in Heaven. - -Heaven! He would go there, of course, because he had always, since a -boy, been obedient and had done just what the priests had told him. He -ought to think now about Heaven. But somehow he did not care to think -about it, and the strange part was that it did not trouble him that he -did not care. Even if he woke tomorrow in Heaven, he would not be the -same Anton. He might live forever, but that wouldn’t be the same thing -as waking up in the morning with Sasha at his side. He tried to think -what “forever” meant, and he fetched up against the same black wall that -he had when he had tried to think of a world without Anton Tarasovitch -to know himself in it. Forever! ever! ever! No stopping! On and on! But -that would be horrible. No! no! he couldn’t bear that. One could do -nothing, nothing, to get out of it. Even if one could be blown to pieces -with a gun, say a thousand years from now, in Heaven, one’s soul would -gather itself together again and go on and on, forever and forever. - -No, he mustn’t think about it. If he thought about it any more, he would -lift his hands and strangle himself, so as to be able to stop thinking -about it. Now he would think about Sasha. When he thought about her, he -could feel her right next to him. He couldn’t see her face exactly, nor -could he see her standing there. And yet it was as if she really _were_ -there, and he _could_ see her. That was the way it was when you loved a -person. She was, as it were, in you, or at least right next to you, and -yet she was separate from you, too. - -He had liked life with Sasha. He didn’t know until now how much he had -liked it. True, it was a hard life they had lived together. One was on -the go every minute—in bad weather when the frost stung and to walk even -a mile became an agony; and in good weather one was constantly on the -go, when it might perhaps have been pleasant to sit under the trees and -play with the children. But life was good, for all that. Of course, if -they could have saved money—only a little money—it would have been -better. But the little money they could save had had to go for the -taxes. The taxes were for the Fatherland, the priest had told him. The -taxes were paid so that when the need came, Anton would be able to die -for his country. But there was something confusing about that. Life -would be better if it were not for the taxes, and the taxes were paid so -that he might—no, that was bewildering. With the fire in one’s side and -in one’s brain, how could one think clearly about so difficult a matter? -Besides, there were many matters of that sort that he, Anton -Tarasovitch, was not clever enough to think about. One left such things -to the priests, who were good men, and to the clever men at the -universities. - -The stars were sometimes a long way off now and sometimes very near to -him. But neither near nor far away did they seem to care about him. They -were the only things he could see in the world and they did not seem to -care about him. Undoubtedly they had seen many men dying. He knew about -the stars! A young teacher who had come to the village when he was a boy -had talked about them and Anton had never forgotten. - -The young teacher had not stayed long in the village. He was -“dangerous,” they said, and Anton heard afterwards that he had gone to -America. It gave one many thoughts to listen to the teacher. He had said -that the stars were worlds, just like our own earth—the earth that Anton -knew the good Christ had come down to save. Anton, who was just a boy, -had wanted to ask him if Christ had had to save all these worlds that -were stars. But that was only one of the many confusing thoughts one had -in listening to the young teacher. One felt strange in listening to him, -as if the world weren’t solid at all, but were flowing like a river. * * -* - -Anton felt very sorry for himself, lying there under the stars that did -not care for him. He began to cry—silly, weak tears that tasted of salt -as they touched his mouth. It was only at times that he knew that he was -crying. At other times the soul of him entirely left his body and went -shooting up and up, to be recaptured only with a struggle. - -The two of them—the burning body and the light soul—would have held -together better, he knew, if someone could grip his hand tightly. At -least that was the way they had done in the fever. When Sasha had -gripped his hand, as if by a miracle he had been restored for a moment -to a complete man, and was no longer two pieces—a body below and a soul -that went fluttering above it. - -If only he could touch someone’s hand now—anyone’s hand—the hand of a -human being! To be all alone with the cruel, flickering stars up above, -that was no way to die—snuffed out into the darkness. That was no way -for any man to go, even though he _were_ just a peasant. But Anton knew -himself important now, almost as important as a general. He knew himself -important, with a strange, tremendous importance. He was as important as -almost anyone in the world, and he was dying alone in the darkness. - -Then he remembered that there must be other men in the cornfield. He had -thought of that before, and afterwards he had forgotten. If there were -other men here—even one other man, an enemy—he would find that comrade -and they would die together. - -Slowly, painfully, inch by inch he dragged himself. The stalks were like -an impenetrable thicket. They entangled him as snares or a forest of -swords set about him. He dragged himself on his palms, inch by inch, -butting away the cornstalks. - -An Austrian was lying on his back, gazing upward. He was dead now, but -Anton did not know it. There was a wound in his neck, and the flies had -begun to gather. - -Anton gave a sob as he saw the Austrian. One more effort and he would be -near enough to touch him. Perhaps the Austrian would grip his -hand—hard—as Sasha had gripped it. - -The hand of the Austrian did not grip hard when Anton touched it. It -fluttered a little, however—Anton was sure of that. So Anton covered the -hand with his own, and with his own hand gripped hard, as Sasha had -gripped the hand of Anton. - -And so died Anton Tarasovitch, looking up at the stars. - - - Art as it appears without the artist, i. e., as a body, an - organization (the Prussian Officers’ Corps, the Order of the - Jesuits). To what extent is the artist merely a preliminary - stage? The world regarded as a self-generating work of - art.—_Nietzsche._ - - - - - Rupert Brooke - - - (_A Memory_) - - ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE - - One night—the last we were to have of you— - High up above the city’s giant roar - We sat around you on the generous floor— - Since chairs were lame or stony or too few— - And as you read, and the low music grew - In exquisite tendrils twining the heart’s core, - All the conjecture we had felt before - Flashed into torch-flame, and at last we knew. - - And Maurice, who in silence long has hidden - A voice like yours, became a wreck of joy - To inarticulate ecstasies beguiled. - And you, as from some secret world now bidden - To make return, stared up, and like a boy - Blushed suddenly, and looked at us, and smiled. - - [Illustration: RUPERT BROOKE, MCMXIV] - - - - - To a West Indian Alligator - - - (_Estimated age, 1957 years_)[2] - - EUNICE TIETJENS - - Greetings, my brother, strange and uncouth beast, - Flat-bellied, wrinkled, broad of nose! - You are not beautiful—and yet at least - Contentment spreads your scaley toes. - - The keeper thwacks you and you grunt at me, - Two hundred pounds of sleepy spleen. - He tells me that your cranial cavity - Will just contain a lima bean. - - How seems it, brother, you who are so old, - To lie and squint with curtained eye - At these ephemera, born in the cold, - These human things so soon to die? - - You were scarce grown, a paltry eighty years, - Too young to think of breeding yet, - When Christ the Nazarene loosed the salt tears - Which on man’s cheeks today are wet. - - Mohammed rose and died—you churned the mud - And watched your female laying eggs. - Columbus passed you—with an oozy thud - You scrambled sunward on your legs. - - So now you doze at ease for all to view - And bat a sleepy lid at me, - You eat a little every year or two - And count time in eternity. - - So, brother, which is wiser of us twain - When words are said and meals are past? - I think, and pass—you sleep, yet you remain, - And where shall be the end at last? - - [2] _I cannot vouch for the science of this. It is “Alligator - Joe’s” estimate._ - - - - - Villon’s Epitaph[3] - - - WITTER BYNNER - - I who have lived and have not thought - But gone with nature as I ought, - Letting good things occur, - And now amazed and cannot see - Why death should care so much for me. - I never cared for her. - - - - - Scarron’s Epitaph[3] - - - WITTER BYNNER - - He who now lies here asleep - None would envy, few would weep: - A man whom death had mortified - A thousand times before he died. - - Peaceful be the step you take, - You who pass him—lest he wake. - For his first good night is due. - Let poor Scarron sleep it through. - - [3] From the French of François Villon. - - - - - Editorials and Announcements - - - _Our Credo_ - -I have lost patience: people are still asking “What does THE LITTLE -REVIEW stand for?” Since we have been so obscure—or is it that people -have been so dull?—I shall try to answer all these plaintive queries in -a sentence. May it be sufficient: I cannot “explain” every day why the -sunrise seems worth while or, as Mr. Hecht would say, why the brook -rises from the rocks. - -THE LITTLE REVIEW is a magazine that believes in Life for Art’s sake, in -the Individual rather than in Incomplete people, in an age of -Imagination rather than of Reasonableness; a magazine that believes in -Ideas even if they are not Ultimate Conclusions, and values its Ideals -so greatly as to live them; a magazine interested in Past, Present, and -Future, but particularly in the New Hellenism; a magazine written for -Intelligent people who can Feel; whose philosophy is Applied Anarchism, -whose policy is a Will to Splendor of Life, and whose function is—to -express itself. - - - _Mr. Comstock’s Dismissal_ - -This great blessing comes sooner than we could have expected, and yet, -as _The Chicago Tribune_ remarks, it is belated by about forty years. -Mr. Comstock has been Post Office Inspector all that time. I remember a -few years ago in New York hearing an interesting woman send a group of -people into paroxysms by the passionate childish seriousness with which -she said, “I wish Anthony Comstock would die!” Now that the government -has accomplished this desideratum, it is almost time for it to be -congratulated. I wonder how long it will be before this same government -can “see its way clear” to suppressing the agent provocateur and letting -his victims go free, or—well, never mind: it is beyond hoping. - - - “_Succession_” - -When one of my friends fails to like Ethel Sidgwick’s _Succession_ I am -left in a predicament: on what basis are we henceforth to understand -each other? Succession goes so deep into music, into personality, into -life that has its foundations in art.... You can explain all the -subtleties of your most difficult emotions by referring to how Antoine -felt on page so and so. How does one live without Antoine? - - - _The Strike_ - -And God said: “Let there be!” And there was. - -And when the modern god, the omnipotent Proletariat, says: “Let there -not be!” ... - -You say the strike of the Chicago car men is of purely local -significance. You crack jokes about the pleasure of walking and about -the adventure of jitney-rides. You are calm and complacent, you blind -and deaf men and women dancing on a dormant volcano. - -You are right. Your complacency is justified. Why fear the -million-headed mule who has borne his yoke for centuries? He -grumbles?—Oh, it’s a trifle: just fill his flesh-pot, and he will take -up anew with bestial delight his eternal task of enriching the few at -the expense of his blood and marrow. - -But fear the eruption of the volcano! For it will not remain dormant -forever. Have we not witnessed the spasmodic awakenings of the giant? -Recall the achievement of the Russian proletariat in 1905. Did it not -wrest concessions from the obstinate Czar by means of a passive -revolution? Recall the general strike in Belgium. Did it not cripple its -commerce and industry for months? - -The strike of the Chicago car men is pregnant with potentialities. It is -a symptom of a refreshing storm. Those who produce everything and -possess nothing have slept long in ignorance of their power. But they -are slowly awakening. And when they become aware of the magic wand in -their hand, whose passive motion can stop the wheels of the universe.... -Take heed, O merrymakers at Belshazzar’s feast. Behold the MENE, TEKEL, -PERES on the wall. - - K. - - - “_The Country Walk_” - -A young Englishman by the name of Edward Storer—I am assuming that he is -young and that he is English—has protested effectively against the -condition which decrees that a piece of writing, a painting, a sculpture -has to be judged as a commodity _before_ it can be judged as a work of -art by issuing little four-page leaflets containing portions of his work -denied publication by the commercialism of the times. The first, which -is called _The Country Walk_, has some quite uninspired though rather -charming prose poems in it. _The Lark_, for instance: - - Out of the young grass and silence you arise, frail bird, - spinning upwards to the sky. Faster beat the wings, and shriller - is the voice, and soon you are lost in the high blue, so that - scarcely can I hear your voice or see the maddened flutterings of - your wings. - - Then suddenly all is silent, and softly you drop to earth again - to rest your aching body against the good brown earth. - - - _The June-July Issue_ - -On account of being so late with our May number we have decided to -combine the June and July and thus come out promptly again on the first -of the month. Subscriptions will be extended accordingly. - - - _Edgar Lee Masters_ - -In the August issue there will be a new poem by Edgar Lee Masters, -author of _The Spoon River Anthology_, and also a photogravure portrait -of the poet which has just been taken by Eugene Hutchinson. - - - - - The Submarine - - - (_Translated from the Italian of Luciano Folgore by Anne Simon_) - - It sinks. In the twilight of the water - the conquered submarine - falls straight to the bottom - and seems like a black corpse - thrown to the coral below, - thrown to the tomb that devours - with liquid joy - the refuse and remains of the old world. - The propellers, devourers of motion, - buzz no more, - the rudder has ceased turning, - the prow no longer points its sharp beak, - but the submarine extends itself - on the viscid bed, - and a multitude of unknown - fish, coral and sea-nettles - try to enter the closed apertures. - - And yet once you leaped in the sun - like a sentinel of burnished steel - shining in the distance, - and then rapidly returned to the green gorge - where the sun never reaches, - but where you find - the tremendous task - that is always with you and that whispers courage - in the void of your soul. - And once with your agile metallic prow - you agitated the green water - all around your shining body, - and you did not feel the torments - of the winds nor the black - clouds of the hurricane - that remained like spiteful women - in a corner of the horizon, - with hair dishevelled and the eye eager - to spy below, from the firmament, - the lost, the shipwrecked, the unknown - that have no pilot. - - Once from your sonorous sides, - quietly, but vigilant and mad, - the torpedo shot out, - making its track in silence, - and carrying - within its thin body - death, and the infinite - power of dynamite. - As you passed the sharks fled, - as you passed the corals - suspended their tenacious and clumsy work, - and the fish with rapid movement - swam away. - You seemed like an enormous monster - of a fantastic destiny - and yet you are only a light submarine, - a slender ship - that the blow of a beam - could sink, that a whirlpool could submerge - in the abyss. - - I do not know your story, - but I will sing your glory - that is part of the desire - of audacious men. - Submarine, Destiny may have willed - you to sink silently, - and remain lost forever in the viscid bed of the sea-weed, - (O submarine, able to challenge the unconsciousness of the seas - and the impotence of the lighthouses,) - but you are alive and strong; - there is no death, but only an appearance - of death that remains. Destiny - newly moulds you - in a long phantom - and you are run, submarine, - by the courage of men - who, in the unfathomable silence of the water, - are piloted - by the will of the strong. - - New brothers will arise - and pursue you - because your shining back - carries a banner, not tri-colored, - nor French, - but the only color - that dazzles; - the banner of the battle - that amidst disasters combats - with this ferocious mystery - that is foolishly determined to shut us out - from the doors of Nature. - - - - - Blaa-Blaa-Blaa - - -I am sick of words—spoken words—verbal refuse thrown off by the mental -hypochondriacs who imagine themselves suffering from thought and -afflicted with ideas. - -I am sick of the artificial inanities of the drawingroom—the polite -poppycock, the meaningless, emotionless enthusiasms. I often have -entered a room where male and female husks sat, their faces wreathed in -empty grimaces—animated masks discharging automatic phrases—and wished -to God I was dumb and could be forgiven for silence. Listening is not so -bad because one doesn’t have to listen. - -I am sick of the salon-like groups who gather for the purpose of -thinking aloud and then forget to think and make up for it in noises. -Monotonous varieties, dropping pop-bottle gems from their lips, each -individual amusing and delighting himself beyond all understanding with -his sterile loquaciousness. Here in the salon groups, the discursive -congregations which come together in all manner of odd places and all -manner of regular places, garrulity approaches torture. Here the -professional discourser flops and waddles about in his own Utopia. He -doesn’t crave understanding but attention. As for truth, as for taking -the pains to express his innermost reactions to a subject, this is -impossible. The discourser doesn’t know what he thinks, doesn’t know -what the truth is until he starts discoursing. And then he discourses -himself into a state of mind. I have heard him discourse himself into -the most startling convictions; into matrimony and out of it into -religion and out of it, into and out of every variety of -damn-foolishness imaginable. - -Persons who use written words instead of spoken words as the parents of -their thought suffer from the same hypnosis. But in writing this is -commendable. It is commendable for a writer to be insincere if he can be -more logical and enlightening as a result. The result may be _De -Profundis_ or _Alice in Wonderland_. It is my notion that men are -sincere only in their appetites. A man craves food and woman and other -stimulants with unquestionable sincerity. But in the realm of thought I -have arrived at the conclusion that sincerity is an inspired and not -inspiring condition of the mind. - -I am sick of the blaa-blaaing hordes, from the smirking “supes” of the -let’s-adjourn-to-the-other-room species to the simpering cacophonists of -the Schöngeist nobility. - -I am sick of the open mouths, the trailing sentences dying from -weakness, the painstaking use of wrong words and the painstaking use of -correct words; of the stagnated humor of deodorous sallies. - -I am sick of the Argumentatives, people with an irritating command of -phrases, who balance paradoxes on their noses and talk backwards or -upside down with equal lucidity; who must be contradicted or they -suffer; who rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical -sub-cellar they can ferret out in order to be startling; who shriek and -howl and wail and protest and—the Devil take them—tell the truth and -make it impossible to believe. Their only reason for talking is to -impress. They are as noisy as cannon and as effective as firecrackers. - -I am sick of the delicate, searching souls who prick themselves with -their own words, who operate on fly specks, who grope and search and -struggle for fine and truthful things, who deal in verbal shadings -intelligible only to themselves—and then not for what they said but for -what they meant to say or desired to say or wouldn’t say for the world. - -I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who dissect, who -vivisect and auto-sect. - -I am sick most of all of my own talk. But I continue to talk. I talk out -of boredom and manage only to increase it. I talk out of vanity and -spread disillusionment. I talk out of love and have to apologize. A -victim of habit, I continue speaking, although I know the spoken word is -the true medium of misunderstanding. Words, words, they keep tumbling -out of my mouth and blowing away like dust before the wind. A pock on -them. - -There have been revolutions in literature, authors have changed the size -and construction of the novel, publishers have changed the color of -their bindings, poets have changed the form of their poetry and the -essence of its style, thinkers even have altered slightly the trend of -their thought. Music, painting, decorating, carving—everything changes -with time except talk, which only increases. What a staggering -illustration of the theory that it is only the weak things which -survive. For talk is the commonest of weaknesses. Blaa, blaa, blaa—why -not a revolution? What ails the radicals? Do they not realize that the -time is ripe? They have changed the moral forms, the literary forms, why -not the spoken forms? Why not a substitution of expressive grunts and -whoops and growls and chuckles and groans and gurgles and whees and -wows? Or is this matter one not for the radical but for - - “The Scavenger.” - - - - - The Nine!—Exhibit! - - -Sometime in the winter a rumor got about that nine artists of Chicago -were to form themselves into a group and hold an independent exhibition. - -At once the other artists were divided into two factions, those who -jeered and those who applauded, those who said unpleasant things and -those who had the enduring hope that at last something better was to be -done in our exhibitions. - -The Great Nine, as the group began to be called—whether by themselves or -by others, it matters not: the phrase is a handicap—consists of Frederic -C. Bartlett, William Penhallow Henderson, Lawton Parker, Karl Albert -Buehr, Louis Betts, Charles Francis Browne, Ralph Clarkson, Wilson -Irvine, and Oliver Dennett Grover. They were too generous in their -number. Five, and there would have been no comment; nine, and there was -aroused indignation, criticism, and a “show us” spirit which should have -put the Nine on their mettle and made them give a stunning and silencing -show. - -On May thirteenth, after one postponement when expectation was tense, -the exhibition opened. What had we? A new setting and old stuff! - -One of the East Galleries had been chosen. William P. Henderson designed -and executed the room. He made a piece of work having faults but being -the best thing about the exhibition, a contribution in itself. The walls -with their subtle color, divided into spaces by pilasters of deep -wistaria, red, and gold, rising on slender stems and blossoming out -above; the screen of red at one end with the Zettler torso against -it—they complimented themselves upon using this; the beautiful vases; -and the green of the trees made a room too obtrusive for pictures, or -one in which pictures are intrusive. - -Were the setting less self-sufficient, still there are many things to be -said. The sophisticated, almost exotic, color of the walls, emphasizing -in the work of some all that is crude and materialistic in execution or -interpretation, makes their work appear to less advantage than would the -usual bleak gallery. And why so many pictures? Why not one picture in -each space and that the best each artist could offer? How much more -satisfactory the room would then be. Anyone who follows exhibitions will -agree that each exhibitor has shown better work at other times. - -Frederic Bartlett’s group is in many ways the best, and holds its own in -the room. Surpassingly beautiful in color are Mr. Henderson’s things. -The little nude is exquisite, but he should not easily be forgiven his -portrait of Florence Bradley, even if it is not meant as a character -study. However, he is one of the artists who can do more than put paint -on canvas. He can make Art in many ways, as men did in the “high white -days” of art. - -The artists themselves have seen from this first effort wherein they -have failed. This grouping must have been a very arbitrary one. Let us -hope that a group founded on mutual endeavor and on equal ability will -continue the effort to make our exhibitions comparable in some degree -with the best European efforts. - -Chicago has now so many artists that it is impossible for them all to be -gathered into the old Chicago Society. There should be many societies. -Competition and co-operation among them would make the art life here -less anemic and super-sensitive and bigoted. - - R. - - - - - Book Discussion - - - THE APOTHEOSIS OF PETTINESS - - _One Man, by Robert Steele. New York: Mitchell Kennerley._ - -“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”—from Ben Hecht’s “Phosphorescent Gleams” in the May LITTLE -REVIEW. I have pondered over this maxim while reading Mr. Steele’s novel -which is hailed by the critics as “the essence of America.” The hero is -essentially American, horribly so. If the “average” type of any nation -is repulsive, the American “Average” is a thousandfold more so. For he -is more petty than vicious. The “one man” gives a confession of his -life, full of puny deeds, from committing petty larceny to “picking up” -a girl in the street and taking her to a “swell” hotel. The nauseating -details have the flavor of the adventure stories which you may hear at a -gathering of travelling salesmen in a provincial hotel lobby. What makes -the boring Odyssey intolerably loathsome is its note of syrupy Christian -penitence which the hero expresses after each penny-crime by falling on -his knees and praying to his convenient god for forgiveness. - -The book has been hailed as a masterpiece. It is as far from a -masterpiece as a lewd “photo” is from art. The facts may be true, even -autobiographical, as some critics presume; the confessions will furnish -good material for Billy Sunday and his lesser brethren. But photography, -even if it be pornography, is not art. Let me quote the ever-new Edgar -Poe: “Art is the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature -through the veil of the soul. The mere imitation, however accurate, of -what _is_ in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of ‘Artist.’ ... -We can, at any time, double the true beauty of an actual landscape by -half closing our eyes as we look at it. The naked Senses sometimes see -too little—but then _always_ they see too much.” I blush at the -necessity of digging up ancient truths, but, my dear friends, read the -reviews of Mr. Steele’s novel and you will admit with me the crying need -of teaching the American critics the A-B-C of art. - - - ICY OLYMPUS AND THE BURNING BUSH - - _The Need for Art in Life, by I. B. Stoughton Holborn. New York: - G. Albert Shaw._ - - _The Spirit of Japanese Art, by Yone Noguchi. New York: E. P. - Dutton and Company._ - -The complete man must consist of three essential fundamentals—the -Artistic, the Intellectual, the Moral (mark the initials: aim!); man’s -aim should be the full expression of his tripartite nature; he must not -leave out any of the three sides, nor develop any one at the expense of -the rest. Unfortunately our age has achieved only two-thirds of the -diagram, the I and the M, remaining wretchedly poor in the A part. When -we look back we find that in the Renaissance period the A and I were -overdeveloped, with the total lack of the M side. The Middle Ages -present the presence of A and M and the absence of I. It is the Greek -ideal we must look for in our endeavor for the complete expression of -man. The Greek gentleman, the καλος κάγαθος, the reserved, the -moderately good, the not excessively just, the harmonious, the -symmetrical—he shall be our standard, our criterion for the completeness -of being. Is not Mr. Holborn clever and Olympian and icy-cold? - -Now listen: - - The evening had already passed when I returned home with that - hanging of Koyetsu’s chirography under my arm. “Put all the - gaslights out! Do you hear me? All the gaslights out! And light - all the candles you have!” I cried. The little hanging was - properly hanged at the “togonoma” when the candles were lighted, - whose world-old soft flame (wasn’t it singing the old song of - world-wearied heart?) allured my mind back, perhaps, to Koyetsu’s - age of four hundred years ago—to imagine myself to be a waif of - greyness like a famous tea-master, Rikiu or Enshu or, again, - Koyetsu, burying me in a little Abode of Fancy with a boiling - tea-kettle; through that smoke of candles hurrying like our - ephemeral lives, the characters of Koyetsu’s writing loomed with - the haunting charm of a ghost. - -It is painful for me to stop quoting the religious ravings of dear -Noguchi. And all this pathos is about a bit of old Japanese writing! I -can see the indignant Mr. Holborn’s moderate condemnation of the -Oriental’s unreserved passion, canting the cold-beautiful Μηδὲν ἄγαν -(nothing in excess). But, O forgive me, Olympian gods, I must come back -to the Burning Bush where Yone Noguchi worships Hashimoro, Hiroshige, -Kyosai, Tsukioka, Utamaro, and other such rhythmical names; I am aware -of the abyss of excess that yawns before me, but the exotic wine is so -luring, so intoxicating, the call of the Orient is so irresistible—I -plunge: - - I will lay me down whenever I want to beautifully admire Utamaro - and spend half an hour with his lady (“Today I am with her in - silence of twilight eve, and am afraid she may vanish into the - mist”), in the room darkened by the candle-light (it is the - candle-light that darkens rather than lights); every book or - picture of Western origin (perhaps except a few reprints from - Rossetti or Whistler, which would not break the atmosphere - altogether) should be put aside. How can you place together in - the same room Utamaro’s women, for instance, with Millet’s - pictures or Carpenter’s _Towards Democracy_? The atmosphere I - want to create should be most impersonal, not touched or scarred - by the sharpness of modern individualism or personality, but - eternally soft and grey; under the soft grey atmosphere you would - expect to see the sudden swift emotion of love, pain or joy of - life, that may come any moment or may not come at all. - -I recall an evening at “The Vagabonds,” where some ultra-modern -paintings were exhibited and bravely discussed. An idiotic friend of -mine suggested that the Vagabonds pass an evening in contemplating the -canvasses in absolute silence. The obliging chairman, who is a fair -parliamentarian, had the suggestion voted upon with the result of one -vote in favor of it. I recall that evening in connection with Noguchi’s -lines about Koyetsu: - - What need there be but prayer and silence? There is nothing more - petty, even vulgar, in the grey world of art and poetry, than to - have a too-close attachment to life and physical surroundings; if - our Orientalism may not tell you anything much, I think it will - teach you at least to soar out of your trivialism. - -I refuse to say any more about the book, for I am tempted to quote him -all the way through. If you wish to forget yourself and your -environment, to melt away in the unreal atmosphere of Japanese -prints—read Yone Noguchi’s little book. - - K. - - - THE SLAV IN CONRAD - - _Victory, by Joseph Conrad. New York: Doubleday, Page and - Company._ - -The Slavs are not adventurous people in the Western sense of the word; -for the most part an inland race spread over the great monotonous Plain, -they are inclined for melancholy introspective searchings and spiritual -struggles rather than for actual physical adventures. Their writers need -not create for their heroes an atmosphere of dizzying stunts and -elemental cataclysms; they find sufficient dramatic “plot” in the soul -experiences of the restless yearning men and women who dwell not on a -South Sea island but in ordinary cities and villages, fighting their -human fights, wrestling with God and man, gaining their ephemeral -victories, but more often suffering defeats. Yet, despite their lack of -adventurousness, the stories of the Russian and Polish writers, from -Dostoevsky to Kuprin and from Orzezsko to Zeromsky, have seldom caused a -yawn in their reader. - -The checkered life of Conrad has placed a distinct stamp upon his works, -distinct from both the writers of his race and from the Western writers. -We observe a dualism in his art, an eternal collision between fact and -fiction, between realism and symbolism. His inborn Slavic mysticism is -weighed down by the ballast of his rich experiences, and he continually -wavers between the Scylla of lyric melancholy and the Charybdis of -picturesque plot, preserving the equilibrium at times more and at times -less skilfully. The reader thus finds in Conrad that which he is after. -For my part, I am rather distracted by the over-complex plot of -_Victory_; I should much prefer to meet Heyst and Lena in less dizzy -surroundings, for then the interesting psychology of the quaint lovers -would appear accentuated, like the flame of a candle, and would not be -blurred by a pyrotechnic mass of startling coincidences and marvellous -adventures. The atmosphere of Doom that breathes throughout the story is -reduced in the end to a sensational Eugène Sue-like climax—a heap of -dead bodies. - - K. - - - SICK IDEALISM - - _Erdgeist (Earth-Spirit): A Tragedy in Four Acts; Pandora’s Box, by - Frank Wedekind. New York: Albert and Charles Boni._ - -Poor, foolish Frank Wedekind. Hapless Idealist. Luckless dreamer. Have -you read _Der Erdgeist_ and _Pandora’s Box_? He wrote them—this -enfevered fancier. In two kindred flashes of madness he illuminated -several hundred sheets of paper and out of them—out of their blood-shot -words and illegitimate truths—a new figure is born for the bookshelf. -Not an old figure in new binding and fresh rouge. Not a Lescaut or a -Thaïs or a Nana. This mocking idealist of virtue removes indeed the -eighth veil from Salome. He hurls into the midst of the twittering -parlor thinkers and sex chatterers a most disturbing answer to the -eternal question, “What is woman?” It didn’t disturb me because I don’t -believe it. And anyway, I don’t mean that kind of disturbance. I mean, -virtuous reader, it is impossible to consume Wedekind without blushing. -If you were disappointed in Shakespeare and Balzac and Casanova and -Jacques Tournebrouche and could find nothing to blush at in them, do not -despair. Here is a fellow, this Wedekind, who will daub a real blush out -of a rouge pot, a miserable fellow whom you can condemn and ostracize -and, having relegated him to his proper place, enjoy thoroughly or -secretly or not at all. - -It was Wedekind who first made people blush by a tasteless dissertation -on the ignorant smugness recognized by society as the proper state for a -young woman’s mind. He called it _Spring’s Awakening_. It was chiefly -instrumental in awakening theatrical writers and managers. They spread -the blush at $2 a head and waxed fat. But how did they spread the blush? -Did they talk like Wedekind did? Did the mawkish plagiarist Cosmo -Hamilton talk like Wedekind—tastelessly, vilely, brutally, -and—horrors!—indelicately? Not he. Mr. Hamilton and the other -get-rich-quick propagandists wouldn’t talk that way for the world. They -are nice gentlemen. Not for them the idealist’s leer. Rather the -bathroom wink. They will reveal a delicious girl in her delicious -boudoir wearing a delicious nightie. They will make her out a virtuous -girl, charmingly endowed but utterly stainless. - -Having established this fact they roguishly introduce into her boudoir -an estimable young man and permit him to caress her dramatically. But -the whole proceeding is stainless. It is drolly suggestive of -unspeakable things—see box office receipts. But suggestiveness is -necessary to bring home to people the blindness of virtue and the -dangers that beset the underpaid young women who ignorantly make it its -own reward—(if that means anything). Anyway, when the audience leaves it -has been enlightened. Its taste has not been offended. Virtue has been -shown to be a dangerous thing—that is, uneducated virtue has. Everyone -agrees. And if not they disagree. In either case the discussion properly -conducted (under the auspices of the “Amalgamated Virgins of the 21st -and 22nd Wards”) is pleasing and improving. The press argues delicately -and in good taste about sex hygiene. A new physiology is placed in the -public schools containing information on the most effective way of -brushing the teeth of the young and preserving the hair of the old. - -And last week Coroner Hoffman told me that it was impossible to estimate -how many girls were killed annually in Chicago by abortive operations. -He put the number in the hundreds. Hooray! Death is the wages of sin. - -But all quibbling aside, what does this low fellow Wedekind whom I -started out by calling an idealist (I will prove it shortly) do? To -begin with, he talks about sex. Not about stockings and undergarments -and perfumed kisses, ankles, asterisks and anomalies. Everyone knows -that this kind of talk, particularly when produced in drama form, is in -the first place inexcusable, and in the second place unnecessary, and in -the third place vulgar. And in the fourth place, instead of making the -best of a bad job—that is, making his contributions a mental stimulus -for snickering roués and ladies sensitive of their status—he insists -upon being nasty without being covert. Is there anything more -unpardonable? Nobody can enjoy nastiness. The argument is an endless -one. It leads to nothing except blows or blushes. - -As for the plays—I almost forgot I was reviewing them—Wedekind explodes -volcanically on the subject he treats, and blows the question mark out -of woman. He takes all the crimes a policeman ever heard of, rolls them -up in a package of soft warm flesh and labels it “Woman.” He cracks his -showman’s whip and calls attention to the texture of her skin and the -white meat of her body. And then he sends her forth to ruin, to sweep -like a polluted and wreck-strewn wave through life, breaking at last in -a dirty crest on a foreign shore and leaving a scum behind her. Are -these the worst things Wedekind could find to label woman—incest, -butchery, lecherous animalism, bloody business and abandonment? Who but -a sick idealist would pick a careless and care-free prostitute as a -flaming example of woman at her worst? And is the power to destroy the -most terrible power woman possesses? - -Wedekind imagines that people idealize sex and hold it a beautiful -force. Poor Wedekind, where did he get such an idea? And then he -imagines that in reality sex passion is a smashing force that knocks -people into each other’s arms, tumbles their heavens, smears their -lives. He imagines that men and women love without thought, mate with -the irresponsibility of hyenas. And imagining all this Wedekind creates -a sort of droll fiend to prove it. Behold her—a creature to confound -saints and sinners, to tear the beauty out of men’s souls and dance with -muddied feet upon the finery of life. He dangles her before our eyes, -naked and glorious—the diseased siren of the ages. And he calls her -Lulu, the earth spirit. - -He introduces her fresh and joyous and vibrating with tabooed emotions. -She is in love with her own beauty. Her body thrills her with its -whiteness and its movement. She already has felt its power. Were I in -these plays I would as soon think of kissing Lulu as biting a stick of -dynamite. But I am not an ideal conception. There are other men—Wedekind -digs them up from every corner of life—who fall at her feet and who -shoot each other and themselves for the sake of being contaminated by -her caresses. Queer men, idealists. They tumble about her, whining, -cursing, chanting, forswearing their Gods, their souls and their -vanities. - -And she tumbles with them, from one precipice down to another, faithful -only to her nervous system. Her only virtue is a complete absence of the -quality. If only Wedekind had invested her with a single human moral -conviction—merely for the sake of completing her diabolically. If only -he had made it possible for her to sin against something. But she hasn’t -anything to sin against—not a conviction, not a moral. In this country -she would be tried for her murders and treasons and sent to an asylum -for incomplete people. What she does she does simply. When this hussy -kills the father who owned her in order to save herself from his threats -and then throws herself laughingly into the arms of the son, she does it -all without malice. It is all natural, spontaneous. When she rebukes her -own father for making love to her (she tells him he’s getting too old -for such tricks), when she murders, deceives and pollutes she hasn’t any -feeling of doing wrong, any reaction except one of satisfaction. If this -isn’t an ideal I’d like to know what is. If everybody was like she is -there would be no sorrow or suffering in the world. We would all be -simple animals dashing around, biting each other, drinking from each -other’s throats, feeling pain only when our nerves were touched and joy -only when our nerves were touched. Wedekind imagines that this state is -the true reflection of today. He exaggerates what according to his -experience may be a logical prejudice and hurls it brutally behind the -footlights and into the bookcase. - -Lulu, bedraggled, walking the streets of London in the rain, looking for -prey, Lulu wheedling quarters out of ragged sensualists, hiding her -father and her lover and the woman who desires her while she -“entertains” her victims, Lulu spreading disease, and then Lulu running -wildly around the dirty garret in her chemise pursued and killed by a -red-eyed, nail-bitten Jack the Ripper—that is the end of woman. Poor -Wedekind. What an exaggerated opinion of virtue he must have,—an -idealist’s. There is but one more thing. It is Wedekind’s master stroke. - -He introduces a note of unselfishness and poetry as a climax. Lulu lies -stabbed by the delighted and enthusiastic Ripper. And kneeling before -the picture of her in her hey-dey is the “Countess,” the woman who loved -her—a homo-sexualist—an irritating creature. - -“I love you, you are the star in my heavens,” she cries purely. I don’t -remember whether the Ripper kills her or not. _What a mess!_ - - B. H. - - - - _Rabindranath Tagore: A Biographical Study, by Ernest Rhys._ _New - York: The Macmillan Company._ - -Shrill Chicago and thousands of similar examples of Western civilization -have more to learn from a book of this sort than can be readily -explained. Taking Chicago as fairly representative of the swiftest -modernity, one must blush for the city of “I Will” whenever he picks up -Ernest Rhys’s keen and quiet study of the talked-about Hindu. The -blushes are for the vast herds whose only ventures upon new paths are to -trample and set back, whose only ideals center in or near the stomach. -In the white light of this book—reflected radiance from a -first-magnitude luminary—Chicago and her kind appear as blundering -heedless egotists who never listen. Their ears have not developed, their -eyes are turned to the ground. “I Will”—what? To grow strong, -high-minded, clean of heart, and wise of soul? Anything but this. - -Tagore, by his very tolerance and avoidance of condemnation, seems -vehemently to remind the thinker of all this—by force of the law of -contrast. The clear-eyed Easterner even points out a scant virtue or two -in Western civilization, such as the value of mastering materials, which -the Westerner himself overlooks when in self-defense; and no blame is -placed on the feverish civilizees. Tagore moves in a state of peace -which is the very essence of activity, and has no part in the fanatics’ -plan which begins with lassitude and ends in stagnation. He is a man of -action, forceful, definite, wasting no energy nor sparing the use of it. -Modern methods of doing things and “getting there” become mere feeble -noises by comparison. This is not the tragedy, that Westerners blunder -and fail,—the East has its failures,—but it lies in the fact that -America arrogantly chooses not to listen, not to see and learn. A few -scattered listeners must catch the harmonies intended for a whole -nation, the majority having been sophisticated to extinction. The herds -in Chicago and elsewhere will go on indefinitely in their own swaggering -way, blind and deaf, sure beyond correction that the chief desirability -lies in digestion, decoration, and diversion ... while Rabindranath -Tagore and the beautiful element he personifies are ever-present, -waiting within reach of all, working out the biggest things in the -world, and living the last word of true joy. - -Ernest Rhys is very gentle and sparing in making comparisons. He leaves -this to his reader, and is mainly occupied with the re-creation of the -steady magnetic atmosphere which is a natural attribute of Tagore. The -paragraphs devoted to the boys’ school at Bolpur give one a feeling of -something lost, at least to those who thirsted through the schools of -the U. S. Rhys is successful in giving out an excellent idea of the -great man and his works. - - HERMAN SCHUCHERT. - - - Militarism is the German spirit. - - Militarism is the self-revelation of German heroism. - - Militarism is the heroic spirit raised to the spirit of war. It - is Potsdam and Weimar in their highest combination. It is _Faust_ - and _Zarathustra_ and Beethoven’s score in the trenches. - - For even the _Eroica_ and the _Egmont_ Overture are nothing but - the truest militarism. And just because all virtues which lend - such a high value to militarism are revealed to the fullest - extent in war, we are filled with militarism, regarding it as - something holy—as the holiest thing on earth—_Werner Zombart_. - - - - - Have You Read——? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a list of current - magazine articles which, as an intelligent being, you will not - want to miss._) - -The Imagist Number of _The Egoist_, May 1. - -H. D. and Imagism, by May Sinclair. _The Egoist_, June 1. - -Redemption and Dostoevsky, by Rebecca West. _The New Republic_, June 5. - -Back of Billy Sunday, by John Reed. _The Metropolitan_, May. - -The Old Woman’s Money, by James Stephens. _The Century_, May. - -Quack Novels and Democracy, by Owen Wister. _The Atlantic_, June. - - - - - Can You Read——? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a resumé of current - cant which, as an intelligent being, you will go far to avoid._) - -Fiction reviews by Llewellyn Jones in _The Chicago Evening Post_. - -A typical literary judgment from _The Dial_: “But, in the main, his -wholesomely harsh utterances ought to be, and must be, in some degree, -tonic and bracing and curative.” - -An editorial from _The New Republic_, a journal of opinion whose -function, we believe, is to circulate ideas: - - During the past ten months the German Ambassador at Washington - has done nothing to promote a better understanding between his - own government and nation and the American government and nation. - He is consequently all the more to be congratulated upon his - behavior at a moment of acute and dangerous contention between - the United States and Germany. He has on his own initiative and - perhaps at his own risk intervened on behalf of a possibly - peaceful solution of the differences between the two governments. - He has sought by means of a frank talk with President Wilson to - break through the barrier of misunderstanding which the exchange - of notes was building up between the two governments and to - re-establish a genuine vehicle of communication. The conversation - may not lead to agreement, but at the top of a peculiarly - forbidding crisis it has at least made an agreement seem not - impossible. Everybody who detests war, everybody who hopes that - the friendship between the United States and Germany will not be - involved in the wreckage of the hideous conflict, will be - grateful to Count von Bernstorff for his enterprise. - - - - - The Reader Critic - - -_Mrs. Jean Cowdrey Norton, Hempstead, Long Island_: - -Since coming in contact with THE LITTLE REVIEW last December, I have -more than enjoyed each issue with your own impulsive, warm-hearted, -dauntless personality coming through its pages; and it is for that -reason I do not hesitate to ask you for an explanation of a sentence -that you wrote in the April number, which led me to subscribe for that -horrible output, viz., _The Masses_. You pronounced it indispensable to -intelligent living. On that I sent in a subscription, and whereas I am -not so awfully stupid I cannot understand how you, who are evidently an -artist with high ideals, could possibly have such a magazine on your -desk. The cartoons are so untrue, so damnably vulgar,—which good art -never is,—the insistent harping on the shadows of life, the exaggerated -outlook which tinges the whole paper—quite as one-sided on its side as -other papers are on theirs; all of which I know must be in complete -contradiction to your self. It fills me with astonishment. We -acknowledge with our ever-increasing complex civilization that we must -more than ever perhaps help each other; but I don’t just understand -which class this perfectly rotten sheet is intended to reach. If it’s -the so-called down trodden, they are apt to have so much unhappiness any -way I should say a good brace up does more good than harping on -injustice in general; as for the class that “does not think,” its -inartistic drawings alone would be enough to queer it. When I am down -and out—I happen to be a working woman too—I most decidedly _do not_ -want to be made more down and out by more woes, that often spring from -lack of intelligence, that both rich and poor suffer alike from. You -will see I believe in the responsibility of the individual, that you -Socialists rather avoid. I do not expect you to answer this letter, but -I shall look in THE LITTLE REVIEW for a stray line that will give me -some idea of your outlook. - - [I have so much to say in answer to this letter, and so little - time to say it that I have asked someone who shares my view to do - it for me. Mr. Davis says it much better than I could, anyhow. - And I must add that I am not a Socialist. I am an Anarchist—which - means, an Individualist; which means everything that people - think it doesn’t mean.—_The Editor._] - -_F. Guy Davis, Chicago_: - -I will try to indicate very briefly why I think so much of _The Masses_. -The group that is getting it out are real students who know the crowd -with all its hope and despair, much better than the crowd knows itself. -They are interpreting the crowd. The mass would never like _The Masses_. -It is too true. It is not got up for them. _The Cosmopolitan_ is the -ideal of the mass. _The Masses_ is for the few brave spirits who want to -know life as it is, the shadows as well as the flights up into the -sunshine. _The Masses_ to my mind has as broad a range of feeling -reflected in its pages as any magazine I know of. Humor, tragedy, light, -shade, drama, color, yes, and mud too, as you say. But isn’t mud a part -of life? In some respects mud is the condition of life. The great need -of the sensitive mind of today is contact with the vital life-giving -things and ideas which come from the earth. The life of such a mind is -like the life of a plant. Its roots must go down beneath the surface or -it will die. _The Masses_ to my mind is the spirit of the earth put into -magazine form, and to read it understandingly is to put the roots of the -soul down into the earth where they should be if a healthy growth is -desired. One could get too much of that contact of course, but that is -another matter. - - - _FREE POETS v. FREE VERSE._ - - [As Mr. Carter suggests in the following letter, reprinted from - _The Egoist_, I hope THE LITTLE REVIEW agree with Mr. Aldington’s - point of view. I hope the latter may be induced to answer Mr. - Carter at length in the same issue.—_The Editor._] - -_To the Editor, The Egoist_ - -Madam,—I notice that in his contribution to the Imagist number of _The -Egoist_ Mr. Harold Monro, writing on the history of the Imagist -movement, states that the movement owes its origin to the large -discovery of “Poetry as _an_ art” [my italics]. He then proceeds to -point out that the Imagist verse fails as poetry not because the writers -love poetry less, but because they love expression more. Being what it -is it would be no better if Tennyson had written it, and no worse if it -proved to be by, say, Mr. Rudyard Kipling. Indeed, it is not poetry any -more than little Congreve’s tiresome stream of depreciation is comedy, -despite what certain hopeless apprentice play critics assert to the -contrary. Poetry, I suppose Mr. Monro would say, is not expression but -the thing expressed. All this is good and true. But Mr. Monro fails to -make one thing quite clear. The Imagists have been mistaken in their -very conception of poetry which lives alone by the power to see it as -Art and not as “_an art_.” I am convinced that some at least of the -Imagists are not without the secret of this power, and if they will be -guided by the vision they gain thereby, to the extent of forgetting -their literary erudition, it will transform their conception of poetry. -The strict literature at which they aim is not proper poetry. In fact, -literary technicians do not, as a rule, write poetry for the simple -reason that even if they dream the poet’s dream of reality they at once -proceed to smother it under literary form. We must look to those rich in -poetical experience, and free to express it, for the true expression of -poetry. In plain words, “Poetry as _an_ art” (that is, as expression or -form) is not the same as Poetry as Art (that is, the thing expressed). -The distinction is so big and vital and so necessary to be maintained at -this moment, that I propose to consider it in an article in THE LITTLE -REVIEW. I hope to prove that what poetry needs nowadays is free poets, -not free verse. - - HUNTLY CARTER. - - [As the nearest available Imagist, perhaps I may be permitted to - comment (without prejudice to the other Imagists) on Mr. Carter’s - letter. I am not quite sure that I know what Mr. Carter means, - but I think he means that it is useless for a man to study - classic quantity and mediaeval rhyme and modern free verse, if he - has no particular impulse or mood to make those studies valuable - as a means of expression. If that is what Mr. Carter means I - agree with him. I will also agree that it is useless to try and - teach a dumb man to lecture or a lame man to break the hundred yards - record. If a man is to lecture, if he is to be an athlete, we take - for granted that in the first case he has ideas and a certain - eloquence, and in the second a good physique and an aptitude for - sprinting. Mr. Carter would be a rotten trainer if he didn’t make - his man diet, take cold baths and long walks and an occasional - sprint; he ought even to make him do a little boxing. I feel, - somehow, that Mr. Carter never went in for violent exercise or - that he relied upon his “Soul-Flow” or “Art-Ebb” to get him - through. - - Now poetry is not so very unlike athletics. You may have no aptitude - for it, and then all the training in the world won’t get you in - first; you may shape very well, but if you don’t train you will - be an “also ran.” I believe in having an aptitude and in training - it; Mr. Carter believes in having an aptitude and not training it. - - I object to Mr. Carter informing us of the existence of our “of - courses.” We take for granted that a man is sincere, that he has - lots of impulses and that he is “free.” All that is the stuff out - of which poetry is made. The making of it, the “training” is what - we are immediately interested in. We take for granted that we - have the essentials of poetry in us or we should not attempt to - write it. We are now after clarity of form, precision of - expression. Mr. Carter, like the majority of our fellow citizens, - does not value these things; we find them present in every work of - art which is beautiful and permanently interesting; hence our - anxiety to attain by practice that clarity and that precision - which practice alone can give.] - - RICHARD ALDINGTON. - - - If only every Celt will refuse to fight for anything but the - freedom of his own country, the English will soon destroy - themselves altogether, and we shall inherit their language, the - only worthy thing they have, and which their newspapers have not - yet succeeded in debauching and degrading beyond repair. There - are still universities in England. However, they have made it a - crime in England to write good English—for style itself is a form - of truth, being beauty; and truth and beauty are as welcome in - England as detectives in a thieves’ kitchen.—Aleister Crowley in - _The International_. - - - - - THE DRAMA - - - for May Contained This Interesting Material - - THE CLASSICAL STAGE OF JAPAN Ernest Fenollosa’s Work on the - Japanese “Noh.” Edited by Ezra Pound. - - “Noh” Dramas (from the Fenollosa Manuscript). - - Sotoba Komachi. - Kayoi Komachi. - Suma Genji. - Kumasaka. - Shojo. - Tamura. - Tsunemasa. - Kunasaka. - - THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF THE CENSORSHIP, by _Thomas H. - Dickinson_ - - MAURICE MAETERLINCK by _Remy de Gourmont_ Authorized - translation by Richard Aldington. - - THE “BOOK OF THE PAGEANT,” AND ITS DEVELOPMENT by _Frank - Chouteau Brown_ - - ON THE READING OF PLAYS by _Elizabeth R. Hunt_ - - A PYRAMUS-AND-THISBE PLAY OF SHAKESPEARE’S TIME, with notes - by _Eleanor Prescott Hammond_ - - THE PUBLISHED PLAY by _Archibald Henderson_ - - THE THEATRE TODAY—AND TOMORROW, a review, by _Alice Corbin - Henderson_ - - THE GERMAN STAGE AND ITS ORGANIZATION—Part III, Private - Theatres by _Frank E. Washburn Freund_ - - ASPECTS OF MODERN DRAMA, a review, by _Lander MacClintock_ - - THE JAPANESE PLAY OF THE CENTURIES by _Gertrude Emerson_ - - A SELECTIVE LIST OF ESSAYS AND BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE AND - OF PLAYS, published during the first quarter of 1915 - compiled by _Frank Chouteau Brown_ - - THE DRAMA for August will contain Augier’s _Mariage d’Olympe_, - with a foreword by Eugene Brieux; an amusing account of his - experiences with Parsee drama, by George Cecil; a paper on the - _Evolution of the Actor_, by Arthur Pollock; a discussion of - Frank Wedekind, by Frances Fay; a review of the work of the - recent Drama League Convention; a plan for an autumn community - festival; an outline of the nation-wide celebration of the - Shakespeare tercentenary, and an article entitled - _Depersonalizing the Instruments of the Drama_, by Huntly Carter. - - _The Drama, a Quarterly_ - _$3.00 per year_ - - _736 Marquette Building_ - _Chicago_ - - The most difficult business in life is to get advertisements for - an “artistic” magazine—particularly for one that has the added - stigma of being a free lance. We will give a commission of $5.00 - to every one who secures a full-page “ad” for THE LITTLE REVIEW. - Write for particulars. - - On the following pages you will find the “ads” we might have had - in this issue, but haven’t. - - Mandel Brothers might have taken this page to feature their - library furnishings, desk sets, and accessories—of which they are - supposed to have the most interesting assortment in town. I - learned that on the authority of some one who referred to - Mandel’s as “the most original and artistic store in Chicago.” If - they should advertise those things here I have no doubt the 1,000 - Chicago subscribers to THE LITTLE REVIEW would overflow their - store. - - Marshall Field and Company might have used this page—but they - wouldn’t. I have been to see them at least six times. They have a - book department where you can actually find Nietzsche when you - want him without having the clerk say, “We’ll be glad to order - it.” Such a phenomenon ought to be heralded. - - Carson, Pirie, Scott and Company ought to advertise something, - though I don’t know just what. The man I interviewed made such a - face when I told him we were “radical” that I haven’t had the - courage to go back and pester him for the desired full-page. The - Carson-Pirie attitude toward change of any sort is well-known—I - think they resent even having to keep pace with the change in - fashions. - - A. C. McClurg and Company could have used this page to advantage. - They have lots of books to advertise and they ought to want to - advertise them in a Chicago magazine. I am willing to wager that - they will: I plan to interview them once a week until they - succumb. - - There is least excuse of all for the Cable Piano Company. They - know what we think of the Mason and Hamlin Piano and they know, - whether they advertise or not, that we will keep on talking about - it whenever we feel like appreciating a beautiful thing—which is - rather often. - - This page might have been used very profitably by Mr. Mitchell - Kennerley to announce the publication of a book of poems by - Florence Kiper Frank. I think it is to be out this summer—though - of course I can’t pretend to give the details accurately, not - having been provided with the “ad.” But THE LITTLE REVIEW readers - will want the book nevertheless. - - - Poetry - - - A Magazine of Verse - - 543 Cass Street - Chicago - - PADRAIC COLUM, the distinguished Irish poet and lecturer, says: - “POETRY is the best magazine, by far, in the English language. We - have nothing in England or Ireland to compare with it.” - - William Marion Reedy, Editor of the St. Louis _Mirror_, says: - “POETRY has been responsible for the Renaissance in that art. You - have done a great service to the children of light in this - country.” - - CAN YOU AFFORD TO DO WITHOUT SO IMPORTANT A MAGAZINE? - - POETRY publishes the best verse now being written in English, and - its prose section contains brief articles on subjects connected - with the art, also reviews of the new verse. - - POETRY has introduced more new poets of importance than all the - other American magazines combined, besides publishing the work of - poets already distinguished. - - THE ONLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED EXCLUSIVELY TO THIS ART. - - SUBSCRIBE AT ONCE. A subscription to POETRY is the best way of - paying interest on your huge debt to the great poets of the past. - It encourages living poets to do for the future what dead poets - have done for modern civilization, for you. - - One year—12 numbers—U. S. A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65; foreign, - $1.75 (7 shillings). - - POETRY - 543 Cass Street, Chicago. - - Send POETRY for one year ($1.50 enclosed) beginning ......... - .......................................................... to - Name ........................................................ - Address ..................................................... - - - - - RADICAL - BOOK SHOP - - Headquarters for the sale of radical literature representing all - phases of libertarian thought in religion, economics, philosophy, - also revolutionary fiction, poetry and drama. All current radical - newspapers and magazines. - - Mail orders promptly filled. - Send for catalogue. - - 817½ North Clark Street - Chicago, Illinois - - If Civilization, Christianity, Governments, Education, and - Culture have failed to bring peace and well-being to humanity, - isn’t it time for you to listen to the message of Anarchy? - - Anarchism and Other Essays - - By Emma Goldman - - $1.00; postpaid $1.15 - - With biographical sketch and twelve propaganda lectures showing - the attitude of Anarchism towards social questions—economics, - politics, education, and sex. - - The Social Significance of the Modern Drama - - By Emma Goldman - - $1.00; postpaid $1.15 - - A critical analysis of the Modern Drama in its relation to the - social and revolutionary tendencies of the age. - - Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist - - By Alexander Berkman - - $1.25; postpaid $1.40 - - A powerful human document discussing revolutionary psychology and - portraying prison life. - - Selected Works - - By Voltaireine de Cleyre - - $1.00; postpaid $1.15 - - America’s foremost literary rebel and Anarchist propagandist. - Poems, short stories and essays. - - 10c a copy - - $1.00 a year - - Mother Earth Magazine - - Anarchist Monthly - - FOR SALE BY - - Mother Earth Publishing Association - 20 East 125th Street, New York, New York - - - - - RADICAL - BOOK SHOP - - Headquarters for the sale of radical literature representing all - phases of libertarian thought in religion, economics, philosophy, - also revolutionary fiction, poetry and drama. All current radical - newspapers and magazines. - - Mail orders promptly filled. - Send for catalogue. - - 817½ North Clark Street - Chicago, Illinois - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. - -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect -correctly the headings in this issue of THE LITTLE REVIEW. - -In the poem _Les Condoléances_, the line _Qu’il est sous les mers_ was -moved from the end of the stanza beginning with _“Je n’insiste pas. Je -suis venu vite,_ to the end of the stanza beginning with _“Si notre -avenir—souffrez que je cache_ where it most likely belongs. - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here -(before/after): - - [p. 9]: - ... seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, als würs dem eigenen Volk ... - ... seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, als wärs dem eigenen Volk ... - - [p. 11]: - ... for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. - “Veder Schlafpulver ... - ... for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. - “Weder Schlafpulver ... - - [p. 34]: - ... And where shall be the end at last. ... - ... And where shall be the end at last? ... - - [p. 41]: - ... I am such of the artificial inanities of the - drawingroom—the polite ... - ... I am sick of the artificial inanities of the - drawingroom—the polite ... - - [p. 42]: - ... Schoengist nobility. ... - ... Schöngeist nobility. ... - - [p. 42]: - ... rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical - sub-celler they can ... - ... rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical - sub-cellar they can ... - - [p. 42]: - ... I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who - dissect, who who ... - ... I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who - dissect, who ... - - [p. 54]: - ... Huntley Carter. ... - ... Huntly Carter. ... - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, JUNE-JULY 1915 -(VOL. 2, NO. 4) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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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, June-July 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 4)</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Lucien Cary, Richard Aldington, Will Levington Comfort, Alexander S. Kaun, Margaret C. Anderson, Clara Shanafelt, Ben Hecht, Florence Kiper Frank, Arthur Davison Ficke, Eunice Tietjens and Witter Bynner</div> - -<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: September 4, 2021 [eBook #66217]</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 http://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, JUNE-JULY 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 4) ***</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"> -JUNE-JULY, 1915 -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="tocn" summary="TOC"> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#LITERARYJOURNALISMINCHICAGO">Literary Journalism in Chicago</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Lucien Cary</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EPIGRAMS">Epigrams</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Richard Aldington</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EDUCATIONBYCHILDREN">Education by Children</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Will Levington Comfort</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#NOTESOFACOSMOPOLITE">Notes of a Cosmopolite</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Alexander S. Kaun</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEARTISTINLIFE">“The Artist in Life”</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Margaret C. Anderson</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#POEMS">Poems</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Clara Shanafelt</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SLOBBERDOMSNEERDOMANDBOREDOM">Slobberdom, Sneerdom, and Boredom</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Ben Hecht</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEDEATHOFANTONTARASOVITCH">The Death of Anton Tarasovitch</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Florence Kiper Frank</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#RUPERTBROOKE">Rupert Brooke (A Memory)</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Arthur Davison Ficke</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="m"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#PHOTO033">A Photograph of Rupert Brooke by Eugene Hutchinson</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#TOAWESTINDIANALLIGATOR">To a West Indian Alligator</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Eunice Tietjens</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EPITAPHS">Epitaphs</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Witter Bynner</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EDITORIALSANDANNOUNCEMENTS">Editorials and Announcements</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="m"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#THESUBMARINE">The Submarine (from the Italian of Luciano Folgore by Anne Simon)</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#BLAABLAABLAA">Blaa-Blaa-Blaa</a></td> - <td class="col2">“<em>The Scavenger</em>”</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THENINEEXHIBIT">The Nine!—Exhibit!</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"> -JUNE-JULY, 1915 -</p> - -<p class="number"> -No. 4 -</p> - - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h2 class="article1" id="LITERARYJOURNALISMINCHICAGO"> -Literary Journalism in Chicago -</h2> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Lucian Cary</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">N</span><span class="postfirstchar">othing</span> succeeds like an indiscretion. I was indiscreet enough last -winter to speak my mind (a little of it) about <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, <em>The -Dial</em>, <em>Poetry</em>, <em>The Drama</em>, and the audience to which these papers appeal. -The result is that I have been flattered or intimidated into speaking it ever -since. In the present instance both methods have been used most charmingly—and -shamelessly. You see, Miss Anderson and I live in the same village. -And yet I said nothing, and have nothing to say about any paper except what -everybody knows. -</p> - -<p> -Everybody knows that <em>The Friday Literary Review</em> of <em>The Chicago -Evening Post</em> under Mr. Francis Hackett and, later, under Mr. Floyd Dell -gave us the most alert, the most eager, the most intelligent, and the best-written -discussion of literature in the United States. That eight-page supplement -did what had hardly been done west of England before: it made book -reviews worth reading. There was almost as much difference between the -<em>Friday Review</em> and <em>The Dial</em> as there is between Mr. George Bernard Shaw -and Mr. Nicholas Murray Butler, almost as much difference between the -<em>Friday Review</em> and <em>The New York Times Literary Supplement</em> as there is -between M. Anatole France and Mr. Henry Van Dyke. There was good -writing in the <em>Friday Review</em> and good thinking behind it. It was almost -never dull; and if it was young it was not wholly unsophisticated; and if it -was sometimes dead wrong it was not stupid. If there were half as many -persons interested in the discussion of ideas as most of us like to believe -the <em>Friday Review</em> would inevitably have continued. It would, that’s all. -But as things are it was fated. Neither the mechanics nor the economics -of daily journalism permitted it. The <em>Post</em> could not continue to give us—it -quite literally gave us—eight pages of what so few of us wanted so much. -</p> - -<p> -Everybody knows that if a weekly paper dealing not only with literature -but with all the other arts in the spirit and with the journalistic competence -of the <em>Friday Review</em> were established in Chicago everybody would have -to read it. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a> -That is the point I wished to make. It is perfectly obvious that <span class="smallcaps">The -Little Review</span> is not the kind of newspaper of the arts I have in mind. -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> is published only once a month. It is therefore not a -newspaper, but a magazine. It is three times as good as <em>The Drama</em>, which -is published only once a quarter. But my point is that we ought to have -something four times as good as <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>: in short, a weekly. -It may be that <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> has other failings than its infrequency. -But why consider these lesser matters? <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> has one virtue -in addition to its eagerness. It is informal. Informality is the breath of -life to journalism. Nobody can write anything the way people want him -to unless he feels perfectly free to write the way he wants to. It is far -more a matter of manners than a matter of truth. A journal which insists -on formality almost never has any good writing in it. Good writing is -nothing but the artistic expression of a personality. Scientifically speaking, -it can be nothing else. Not that one must be thinking about expressing his -personality in order to write well. The very point is that he must not be -thinking about it. He has got to be thinking about what he has to say and -nothing else. Take the use of “I” as an apparently trivial but actually significant -example. If the paper for which he is writing regards the use of -“I” as a breach of good form a man will find that one finger of his left -hand is mysteriously drawn to the shift key and one finger of his right hand -to the key between the “u” and the “o” in order to make an “I” all the time -he is punching his typewriter. The least excusable riot of “I’s” I ever saw -in print was in a journal of literary discussion which believes in the reality -of that invention of the old-fashioned logician, “objective criticism,” and -which regards the use of “I” by any but elderly gentlemen of the walnuts -and wine school as impossible. I did it myself in the absence of the editor. -In a paper which does not in the least object to the use of “I” writers soon -forget all about it, and when they do that they begin to use it only when it -is effective. It is the virtue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> that it permits its contributors -to use “I” as often as they please; that it permits them to make -fools of themselves occasionally. This means that it is not impossible to -write well for <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. I do not say that it is not possible to -write badly for <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. Perfect freedom to be idiotic does not -inevitably eliminate idiocy. -</p> - -<p> -But I have no more compliments for <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Poetry</em> is another matter. Miss Monroe’s magazine has printed some -bad verse. But this is not, as its most envious critics imagine, its distinction. -Every magazine prints bad verse. <em>Poetry</em> has printed poetry that nobody -else dared to print. <em>Poetry</em> has boldly discussed the poetic controversy when -everybody else hid behind language. <em>Poetry</em> introduced us to Rabindranath -Tagore, to Vachel Lindsay, in a way, to Edgar Lee Masters. <em>Poetry</em> -printed Ford Hueffer’s poem <em>On Heaven</em>. <em>Poetry</em> has heard of Remy de -Gourmont and the <em>Mercure de France</em>—an incredible achievement for a Chicago -<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> -literary journal. <em>Poetry</em> has done more than any other paper to furnish -a meeting ground for writers in Chicago. If <em>Poetry</em> were concerned -about novels it would not decide two or three years after intelligent people -had discovered <em>Jean Christophe</em> that M. Romain Rolland is a successor to -Tolstoi and, for the first time, print a few paragraphs about him. If <em>Poetry</em> -were interested in psychology it would not ignore Sigmund Freud and Carl -Jung. But <em>Poetry</em> is not interested in these things. Its great wealth is -devoted only to poetry and it comes out only once a month. -</p> - -<p> -It is a pity. For the spirit of <em>Poetry</em> is nearer to the spirit of the old -<em>Friday Literary Review</em> than anything else in Chicago. That is the spirit -I like, that seems suited to the place and the occasion. But it needs a weekly -paper of wide scope to express itself. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -A man is an artist to the extent to which he -regards everything that inartistic people call -“form” as the actual substance, as the “principal” -thing.—<em>Nietzsche.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="EPIGRAMS"> -<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> -Epigrams -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Richard Aldington</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="BLUE"> -Blue -</h3> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>A Conceit</em>) -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail;</p> - <p class="verse">The sea, a parquet of coloured wood;</p> - <p class="verse">The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges;</p> - <p class="verse">Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames;</p> - <p class="verse">Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering,</p> - <p class="verse">Eyelids winking over watchet eyes.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THERETORTDISCOURTEOUS"> -The Retort Discourteous -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">They say we like London—O Hell!—</p> - <p class="verse">They tell</p> - <p class="verse">Us we shall never sell</p> - <p class="verse">Our works (as if we cared).</p> - <p class="verse">We’re “high brow” and long-haired</p> - <p class="verse">Because we don’t</p> - <p class="verse">Cheat and cant.</p> - <p class="verse">We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme,</p> - <p class="verse">Just because their rag-time</p> - <p class="verse">Bores us.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense;</p> - <p class="verse">So they chime,</p> - <p class="verse">Rhyme</p> - <p class="verse">And time,</p> - <p class="verse">And Slime,</p> - <p class="verse">All praise their virtuous impotence.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="CHRISTINE"> -<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> -Christine -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I know a woman who is natural</p> - <p class="verse">As any simple cannibal;</p> - <p class="verse">This is a great misfortune, for her lot</p> - <p class="verse">Is to reside with people who are not.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="EDUCATIONBYCHILDREN"> -Education by Children -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Will Levington Comfort</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span> little girl of eleven was working here in the study through the long -forenoon. In the midst of it, we each looked up and out through the -barred window to the nearest elm, where a song-sparrow had just finished a -perfect expression of the thing as he felt it. The song was more elaborate, -perhaps, because the morning was lofty and glorious. Old Mother Nature -smelled like a tea-rose that morning; one would know from that without -the sense of direction that the wind was from the south. The song from -the sunlight among the new elm leaves was so joyous that it choked us. It -stood out from all the songs of the morning, because it was so near, and -we had each been called by it from the pleasant mystery of our tasks. -</p> - -<p> -The little girl leaned toward the window. We heard the other bird -answer from the distance, and then <em>ours</em> sang again—and again. We sipped -the ecstacy in the hushes. Like a flicker the little bird was gone—a leaning -forward on the branch, and then a blur ... and presently the words -in the room: -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“... sang four songs and flew away.”</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -It was a word-portrait, and told me much that I wanted. The number, -of course, was not mental, clearly a part of the inner impression. However, -no explanation will help if the art of the saying is not apparent. I -told the thing as it is here, to a class later in the day, and a woman said: -</p> - -<p> -“Why, those six words make a Japanese poem.” -</p> - -<p> -I wonder if it is oriental? Rather I think it belongs especially to our -new generation, the elect of which seems to know innately that an expression -of truth in itself is a master-stroke. Somehow the prison-house has not -closed altogether upon the elect of the new generation. There are lines in -the new poetry that could come forth, and have their being, only from the -<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> -inner giant that heretofore has been asleep except in the hearts of the rarest -few whose mothers mated with Gods, merely using men for a symbol and -the gift of matter.... -</p> - -<p> -As I believe that the literary generation which has the floor in America -today is the weakest and the bleakest that ever made semi-darkness of good -sunlight, so I believe that the elect of the new generation contains individuals -who are true heaven-borns; that they bring their own light with -them and do not stand about stretched for reflection; that they refuse to -allow the world-lie to shut the passages of power within them, between the -zone of dreams and the more temperate zones of matter. They have refused -to accept us—that is the splendid truth. -</p> - -<p> -The new generation does not argue with us. They are not a race of -talkers. They do not accept what they find and begin to build upon that, -as all but the masters have done heretofore. They are making even their -own footings and abutments. And to such clean and sure beginnings magic -strength has come. The fashions and the mannerisms which we knew and -thought of as the heart of things; the artfulness of speech and written word, -the age of advertising which twisted its lie into the very physical structure -of our brains; the countless reserves and covers to hide our want of inspiration -(for light cannot pass through a twisted passage)—all these, the new -age has put away. It meets life face to face—and a more subtle and formidable -devil is required for its workers than that which seduced us. -</p> - -<p> -The few great workmen heretofore have come up in the lie, and in -midlife, the sutures closing—they were warned because they had labored like -men. For their work’s sake and for their religion, which is the same to -great men, they perceived that they must tear the lie out of their hearts, -even if they bled to death. We call it their illumination, but it was a very -deep and dark passage for them. <em>Except that ye become as little children</em>—that -was all they knew, perhaps, but quite enough.... And the old -masters invariably put their story down for us to read: Rodin, Puvis de -Chavannes, Whitman, Balzac, Tolstoi—only to mention a little group of -the nearer names—all have told the story. In their later years they told -no other story. -</p> - -<p> -In the beginning they served men, as they fancied men wanted to be -served, but after they confronted the lie of it, they dared to listen to reality -from their own nature. They fought the fight for that cosmic simplicity -which is the natural flowering of the child mind, and which modern education -patronizingly dresses down at every appearance. The masters wrenched -open with all their remaining strength the doors of the prison-house, and -become more and more like children unto the end. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -... I do not ask a finer fate than to write about the <em>New Age</em> -and <em>Children</em> and <em>Education by Children</em> for <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. I think -of <em>you</em> as one of its throbbing centers. I can say it better than that—I -<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> -think of you as a brown Arabian tent in which the world’s desire is just -rousing from sleep. I would like to be one of the larks of the morning, -whose song makes it impossible for you to doze again. I would not come -too near—lest you find me old, the brandings of past upon me. Yet because -of the years, I think I know what will be that “more formidable -and subtle devil” waiting to make you forget your way. -</p> - -<p> -He is not a stranger. He is always near when people dare to be simple. -There are many who call him a God still, but they do not use their eyes. -You who see so directly must never forget that bad curve of him below -the shoulders. Forever, the artists lying to themselves have tried to cover -that bad curve of Pan as it sweeps down into the haunches of a goat. Pan -is the first devil you meet when you reach that rectitude of heart which -dares to be naked and unashamed. -</p> - -<p> -Whole races of artists have lied about Pan because they listened to the -haunting music of his pipes. It calls sweetly, but does not satisfy. How -many Pan has called—and left them sitting among the rocks with mindless -eyes and hands that fiddle with emptiness!... Pan is so sad and level-eyed. -He does not explain. He does not promise—too wise for that. He -lures and enchants. He makes you pity him with a pity that is red as the -lusts of flesh. -</p> - -<p> -You know that red in the breast! It is the red that drives away the -dream of peace, yet the pity of him deludes you. You look again and again, -and the curve of his back does not break the dream, as before. You think -that because you pity him, you cannot fall; and all the pull of the ground -tells you that your <em>very thought of falling</em> is a breath from the old shames—your -dead, but as yet unburied heritage, from generations that learned the -lie to itself. -</p> - -<p> -You touch the hair of the goat, and say it is Nature. But Pan is not -Nature—a hybrid, half of man’s making, rather. Your eyes fall to the -cloven hoof, but return to the level steady eye, smiling with such soft sadness -that your heart quickens for him, and you listen, as he says: “All -Gods have animal bodies and cloven hoofs, but I alone have dared to reveal -mine.” ... “How brave you are!” Your heart answers, and the throb -of him bewilders you with passion.... You who are so high must -fall far, when you let go. -</p> - -<p> -... And many of you will want to fall. Pan has come to you -because you <em>dare</em>.... You have murdered the old shames, you have -torn down the ancient and mouldering churches. You do not require the -blood, the thorn, the spikes, but I wonder if even you of a glorious generation, -do not still require the Cross?... It is because you see so surely -and are level-eyed that Pan is back in the world for you; and it is very -strange but true that you must first meet Pan and pass him by, before you -can enter into the woodlands with that valid God of Nature, whose back -is a challenge to aspiration, and whose feet are of the purity of the saints. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="TOM"> -<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> -To M. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Beautiful slave,</p> - <p class="verse">I kiss your lips abloom—</p> - <p class="verse">Do you not hear the surging voices</p> - <p class="verse">Beyond the tomb</p> - <p class="verse">Wherein you guard the candles of the dead?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Do you not hear the winds that crown</p> - <p class="verse">The towers with clouds</p> - <p class="verse">Dancing up and down,</p> - <p class="verse">Fluttering your shrouds?</p> - <p class="verse">Do you not hear the music of the dawn,</p> - <p class="verse">The strong exultant voices swelling,</p> - <p class="verse">Welling like the sweep of eager birds</p> - <p class="verse">Beyond your somber dwelling</p> - <p class="verse">Where each somber wall enclosing flings</p> - <p class="verse">Back in your ear</p> - <p class="verse">The moaning passion of dead things?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Beautiful slave,</p> - <p class="verse">I kiss your parted lips abloom.</p> - <p class="verse">O the splendor of the voids beyond</p> - <p class="verse">The stifling tomb</p> - <p class="verse">Wherein you keep your vigil by the dead.</p> - <p class="verse">You are too weary-spirited</p> - <p class="verse">To look at dawn, too tired-eyed to look upon the sun,</p> - <p class="verse">Too weak to stand against the winds.</p> - <p class="verse">What then? Farewell? No, let me—</p> - <p class="verse">I will find the face of God</p> - <p class="verse">With you among the worms.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza attr"> - <p class="verse"><span class="smallcaps">Anon.</span></p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="NOTESOFACOSMOPOLITE"> -<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> -Notes of a Cosmopolite -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Alexander S. Kaun</span> -</p> - -<div class="epi"> -<p> -Mit dem Nationalhaß ist es ein eigenes Ding. Auf -den untersten Stufen der Kultur wird man ihn immer -am stärksten und heftigsten finden. Es giebt aber eine -Stufe, wo er ganz verschwindet, wo man gewissermaßen -über den Nationen steht und man ein Glück oder Weh -seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, als <a id="corr-2"></a>wärs dem eigenen Volk -begegnet.—<em>Goethe.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="UNCLESAMVSONKELMICHEL"> -<em>Uncle Sam vs. Onkel Michel</em> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -You remember the story of the king parading every morning before -his meek subjects who expressed their great admiration for the sovereign’s -gorgeous raiment, until a certain simpleton shouted: “Why, the king is -nude!” I do not recall the end of the story, nor how the impudent sceptic -was punished; but the part I do remember recurs to me every time -some elemental power comes along and sweeps away the ephemeral figments -from the body of mankind. Mars has more than once played the part of -the rude simpleton; this god has neither tact nor manners; with his heavy -boot he dots the i’s and compels us to name pigs pigs. His first victim falls -the frail web of diplomatic niceties. Talleyrand’s cynicism about the function -of the diplomat’s tongue to conceal truth has become bankrupt: who -takes seriously nowadays the casuistry of the manicolored Books issued by -the belligerents? Even Tartuffian England has had to doff the robe of -idealism and to admit through the <em>Times</em> that it would have fought regardless -of whether the neutrality of Belgium had been infringed upon or -not. Good. One of the salutary results of the war (let us hope there will -be more than one good result) has already been realized in the wholesale unmasquing -of international politics; it will do immense good for mankind-Caliban -to see his real image. -</p> - -<p> -The United States holds fast to its tradition of lagging behind the rest -of the world. Messrs. Wilson and Bryan still employ the rusty weapon of -“putting one over” through transparent bluff. “Too proud to fight” has -become a classic <em>mot</em> the world over, to the sheer delight of European -humorists and cartoonists after their wits had been exhausted over the -memorable “Watchful Waiting.” The admirable English of the President -has demonstrated its effectiveness time and again: nearly each eloquent -Note has been responded to by a German torpedo. “America asks nothing -for herself but what she has a right to ask for humanity itself”—what -obsolete verbosity! Who is this Mme. Humanity in whose name we demand -the right to send shells to Europe unhampered by the intended victims of -those shells? An American weekly, outspokenly pro-British, has cynically -<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> -summed up the situation: “The British government will not allow a German -woman to obtain food from the United States with which to feed her children, -in spite of the fact that it is buying rifles in the United States with -which to kill her husband.” We can neither blame England for her practical -purposes, nor reproach the United States for her desire to accommodate a -good customer: business is business; but why these appeals in the name -of humanity? Why the indignant outcries against Germany’s successful -attempts to check the supply of ammunition for her enemies? The brutal -Lusitania affair has merely proved the consistent and consequential policy -of Germany; had she not carried out her threats she would have found -herself in the ridiculous position of our government which seldom goes -beyond threats. Talk about the murder of women and children in time -of war! I heard of a polite Frenchman who hurled himself from the top -story of the Masonic Temple and removed his hat to apologize before a -lady on one of the balconies whose hat he happened to brush on his downward -flight. Well, the Germans are not polite. -</p> - -<p> -What is the significance of Mr. Bryan’s resignation? Let us hope it -is of no import; let us hope it may cause a change in tone, but not in action. -For this country to be dragged into the whirlpool of the world war would -be a more unpardonable folly than the puerile Vera Cruz affair. Our entrance -into the war would change the actual situation of the fighting powers -as much as the solemn declaration of war by the Liliputian San Marino -has changed it; in the absence of an army deserving mention we could depend -solely upon our navy which would be able to accomplish nothing more -than joining in some calm bay the invincible fleet of the Ruler of the Waves -and indulge in philosophical watchful waiting. On the other hand official -war against Germany will doubtless produce internal friction of the gravest -importance. I say <em>official</em>, for unofficially we have been on the side of the -Allies for many months despite our theoretical neutrality. Think of the -sentiments of the German soldiers when they are showered upon with shells -bearing the labels of American manufacturers. Had we not supplied England -and France with ammunition, who knows but that they would have -found themselves in the same predicament as Russia, that is, in the position -of an orchestra without instruments? When we shall have declared war -against Germany we shall hardly be in power to harm her more than we -have done heretofore; the Allies will do the killing, and we, the manufacturing. -But the cat’s-paw-game is ungentlemanly, especially when it is done -officially. To be sure, Mr. Wilson is a gentleman; hence our firm hope that -he will do nothing more grave than enriching English literature with exemplary -Notography. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="VINCISTITEUTONIA"> -<em>Vincisti, Teutonia!</em> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -In his Frankfurt letters Heine wrote: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -I have never felt inclined to repose confidence in Prussia. -I have rather been filled with anxiety as I gazed upon this Prussian -eagle, and while others boasted of the bold way in which he glared -<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> -at the sun my attention was drawn more and more to his claws. -I never trusted this Prussian, this tall canting hero in gaiters, with -his big paunch and his large jaws, and his corporal’s stick, which -he dips in holy water before he lays it about your back. I am not -overfond of this philosophical Christian militarism, this hodge-podge -of thin beer, lies, and sand. I utterly loathe this Prussia, -this stiff, hypocritical, sanctimonious Prussia, this Tartuffe among -the nations. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Can you blame Wilhelm for opposing the erection of a Heine monument -in Düsseldorf? Those lines were written nearly four scores of years -ago, a time sufficient for turning epithets obsolete. No longer is Prussia -labeled hypocritical and sanctimonious; it is rather accused of rude frankness -and insulting tactlessness. Yet the hatred for Prussia has not abated, -but has been greatly enhanced. Heine died before the planting of the -atrocious Sieges-Allee, that symbol of the triumphant pig; it is in the last -forty years that the world has witnessed the development of Prussian forbearance, -narrowness, machine-like preciseness, and soullessness. We have -always preferred to distinguish Germany from Prussia; we have found -delight in the thought that there is a Munich as well as a Berlin, a Nietzsche -as well as a Haeckel, a Rheinhard as well as a Bernhardi.... Today we -witness the hegemony of Prussia, a hegemony political as well as spiritual, -for the great war has crowned with triumph not only the Krupp guns but -also the Prussian idea of efficiency and preciseness. Our amazement at the -achievements of the lightning-like army that has been almost invariably victorious -during the eleven months of fighting and has held in its iron grip -two hostile fronts, and our astonishment at the diabolical accomplishment -of the submarines which have driven the English fleet to rest in North -Scotland and have become the Flying Dutchmen of the seas, pale before our -admiration for the wonderful spirit displayed by the German people within -their country. Read their press; you find nothing bombastic or boasting, -but calm reserve, set teeth, clenched fists, and deadly determination to fight -for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. “<em><a id="corr-4"></a>Weder Schlafpulver -noch Tonics!</em>” admonishes Maximilian Harden against drumming up illusionary -hopes. “<em>Stirb und werde</em>,” he closes up one of his terse articles in the -most virile publication I know of, the <em>Zukunft</em>. Bernhardi’s alternative—a -World Power or Downfall—is not any longer a mere jingo-rocket but an -imperative axiom uniting all Germans in a desperate decision to preserve -their national existence in face of a universal hatred and complete isolation. -They are not geniuses, those perseverant Teutons; rather are they the reverse -of geniuses. They do not rise above reality; they adapt themselves to -facts. They refuse to be Quixotic knights; they prefer to emulate Mahomet -who went to the mountain when the mountain declined to go unto him; not -to ride on the back of conditions and circumstances, but to hold tight their -tail and be dragged after them. Herein lies the Teutonic victory, the victory -of Blond Beast over Superman, the triumph of mediocrity over uniqueness, -of fact over idea, of efficiency over idealism, of state over individual. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEPROPHECYOFRIMBAUD"> -<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> -<em>The Prophecy of Rimbaud</em> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Arthur Rimbaud, the close friend of Verlaine, the “ruffian,” according -to Mr. Powys (this I shall never forgive him), was capable not only of -perceiving the color of vowels but also of foreseeing the political situation -forty-five years ahead. <em>L’Eclaireur de Nice</em> prints an interesting statement -made by Rimbaud in 1871, a few lines of which I shall reluctantly attempt -to translate: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -The Germans are by far our inferiors, for the vainer a people -is the closer it approaches decadence—history proves it.... They -are our inferiors because victory has besotted them. Our chauvinism -has received a blow from which it will not recover. The defeat -has freed us from stupid prejudice, has transformed and saved us. -Yes, they will pay dearly for their victory! In fifty years envious -and restless Europe will prepare for them a bold unexpected stroke, -and will whip them. I can foresee the administration of iron and -folly that will stifle German society and German thought, in the -end to be crushed by some coalition! -</p> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="GEORGEBRANDESNEUTRALITY"> -<em>George Brandes’ Neutrality</em> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -There has been a good deal of misapprehension concerning Brandes’ -attitude towards the war. His refusal to answer the interpellation of his -friend Clemenceau, his condemnation of the Russian policy in Finland and -of the cowardly and treacherous treatment of the Jews by the Poles, have -given cause for suspecting him of pro-German sentiments. In a recent interview -with the correspondent of the Paris <em>Journal</em> the Danish critic avows his -full sympathy for France. Although his statement is reserved and plausibly -neutral, one easily discerns his dislike for Germany, in whose <em>Deutschland -über Alles</em> motto he sees a Jesuitic excuse for all means that may lead to -her end. “German brutality is not instinctive; it is a scientific one, a theory.” -The cause of the war he epitomizes in the <em>mot</em> of Pascal: “Pourquoi voulez -vous tuer cette homme?”—“Il est mon ennemi: il habite de l’autre côté du -fleuve.” Brandes expresses himself more frankly in the Danish <em>Tilskueren</em>, -where he interprets the war as the struggle between liberalism and personal -government, between civil spirit and militarism, between a people (England) -which accords others commercial freedom and self-government and a country -overridden with economic protectionism, junkers, and bureaucracy. -“England has an independent press and a government which voices the -parliament and public opinion; in Germany the press is semi-official, the -government is responsible solely before the Kaiser, and the Kaiser only -before God.” -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="GERMANOPHOBIAADABSURDUM"> -<em>Germanophobia ad Absurdum</em> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -The French Immortals, too old for actual participation in the war, -have found an outlet for their patriotism in shedding red ink of ridiculous -<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> -chauvinism. It has become a matter of course to meet a name of some -“Membre de l’Academie” signed under such outbursts as this: “Nothing -of the Barbarians, nothing of their literature, of their music, of their art, -of their science, nothing of their culture, of anything Made in Germany!” -Another Academic gives vent to his ire against those Frenchmen who still -find certain German things worth admiring, and he vehemently advocates the -prohibition of the Barbarian music and art “by law, by persuasion, by force, -by violence if necessary!” The octogenarian Saint-Saens has written a -series of articles venomously attacking Wagnerian music, labeling traitor -any Frenchman who favors the art of the arch-foe of his country. Even -the semi-official <em>Le Temps</em> was shocked by the violent tone of the old composer; -it quoted Saint-Saens’s articles of the year 1876, in which the author -appeared to be an ardent Wagnerite and appealed to his compatriots for -broad-mindedness and toleration for “the greatest genius of our times.” -As a substitute for the atrocious Wagner Saint-Saens recommends the -return to Haydn and Mozart, even to Meyerbeer; Schumann’s Lieder he -would ban for Gounod and Massenet; he favors even Dussek, for he is -“only a Bohemian.” Patriotic as he is, he refuses to sanction the modern -French composers, since Debussy, Fauré, D’Indy, and the rest are Wagnerians -in his estimation. It is a case of “senile reactionarism,” as the <em>Mercure -de France</em> rightly observes. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="COMPARATIVEMORALE"> -<em>Comparative Morale</em> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -It is very interesting to compare the barometer of public morale in -the European capitals, judging from their amusements. Here is one day’s -bill taken from the London <em>Daily News</em>, the Petrograd <em>Ryech</em>, the <em>Berliner -Tageblatt</em>, the Vienna <em>Neue Freie Presse</em>, and the Paris <em>Figaro</em>; I have -omitted the movies, which bear for the most part ultra-patriotic titles, and -the vaudevilles. The London bill is quite poor: <em>Veronique</em>, a comic opera; -<em>Mme. Sans-Gene</em>; Gaby Deslys in <em>Rosy Rapture</em>, presented by Charles -Frohman; <em>The Girl in the Taxi</em>; Frondai’s <em>The Right to Kill</em>; <em>For England, -Home, and Beauty</em>; and our old friends, the Irish Players, in the Little -Theatre. Still more meager is the Paris bill: outside of <em>Cavalleria Rusticana</em> -(the chairman of the Walt Whitman dinner pronounces it Keyveleeria -Rohstikeyna), it abounds with such tit-bits as <em>La Petite Fonctionaire</em>, -<em>Mam’zelle Boy Scout</em>, <em>Mariage de Pepeta</em>, and so forth. Berlin has on that -day three operas—<em>Don Juan</em>, <em>Elektra</em>, <em>Lohengrin</em>; three dramas—<em>Faust</em>, -<em>Peer Gynt</em>, <em>Schluck und Jau</em> (the last one in Rheinhard’s Deutsches Theater), -not counting the minor affairs. Vienna’s bill took away my breath: a Schönberg-Mahler -Abend, a Schubert-Strauss Abend, a Beethoven-Brahms Abend, -a Brahms Kammermusik Abend, a concert under Sevcik; <em>Carmen</em>; a play by -Fulda after Molière; Ibsen’s <em>Master Builder</em> and <em>Ghosts</em>; Kleist’s <em>Kätchen -von Heilbronn</em>. As for the Petrograd bill, I had better not say what emotions -it has aroused in me. Judge for yourselves: five operas—<em>Traviata</em>, -<em>Faust</em>, <em>Pagliacci</em>, <em>Ruslan and Ludmilla</em>, <em>Eugene Onegin</em>; a ballet by Mlle. -<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> -Krzesinsky; two ballets by Fokin’s company; plays by Ibsen, Mirbo, Andreyev, -beside <em>Potash and Perlmutter</em> and other importations; an exhibition of -paintings by Lancerè and Dobuzhinsky; a Poeso-Evening by Futurist poets -with Igor Severyanin as leader; an Evening of Poetry under K. R. (Grand -Duke Konstantine, whose play <em>King of the Jews</em> recently appeared in an -English translation); public lectures on <em>The Blue Bird</em> in Our Days, on -Dostoevsky and Nietzsche.... Allow me to stop. Are you inclined -to draw conclusions and comparisons between the stage of war-ridden -Europe and that of peacefully complacent America? I beg to be excused. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="EDMONDROSTANDONTHELUSITANIA"> -<em>Edmond Rostand on the Lusitania</em> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Rostand is a member of the Academy; perhaps this affliction is responsible -for his growing hoarseness as a Chantecler. Yet as of all recent war -poems his is the best, I feel justified in citing it: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt" lang="fr"> -<h4 class="excerpt" id="LESCONDOLYYANCES"> -Les Condoléances -</h4> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Bernstorff, pour aller à la Maison Blanche,</p> - <p class="verse1">S’est mis tout en noir.</p> - <p class="verse">(L’onde a pris, là-bas, la dernière planche</p> - <p class="verse1">Dans son entonnoir.)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Il entre, affigé, refuse une chaise</p> - <p class="verse1">D’un geste contrit.</p> - <p class="verse">(Des femmes, là-bas, heurtent la falaise</p> - <p class="verse1">De leur sein meurtri.)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Il tousse une toux de condoléance.</p> - <p class="verse1">Il s’essuie un oeil.</p> - <p class="verse">(Les enfants noyés tournent en silence</p> - <p class="verse1">Autour d’un écueil.)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Il se mouche. Il dit—son mouchoir embaume:—</p> - <p class="verse1">“Je viens de la part</p> - <p class="verse">De Sa Majesté l’Empereur Guillaume</p> - <p class="verse1">Vous dire la part....”</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Derrière Wilson, dont on aime à croire</p> - <p class="verse1">Que tout le sang bout,</p> - <p class="verse">Lincoln, la Vertu,—Washington, la Gloire,</p> - <p class="verse1">Se tiennent débout.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Le comte Bernstorff ne peut les connaître.</p> - <p class="verse1">Il ne les voit pas.</p> - <p class="verse">S’il pouvait les voir, il aurait peut-être</p> - <p class="verse1">Reculé d’un pas.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> - <p class="verse">“... Vous dire la part....”—O mornes allures!</p> - <p class="verse1">Touchant trémolo!</p> - <p class="verse">(Les pêcheurs, là-bas, voient des chevelures</p> - <p class="verse1">Ouvertes sur l’eau.)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“... Vous dire la part que nous daignons prendre</p> - <p class="verse1">A votre malheur.”</p> - <p class="verse">(Les flots verts ont-ils d’autres morts à rendre?</p> - <p class="verse1">Demandez-le-leur!)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Bernstorff pleure et dit: “J’ai su ce naufrage</p> - <p class="verse1">Et je suis venu.</p> - <p class="verse">Ils n’ont pas souffert. Ayez du courage.</p> - <p class="verse1">Ils en ont bien eu.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse"><a id="stanza1"></a>“Je n’insiste pas. Je suis venu vite,</p> - <p class="verse1">Et puis je m’en vais.</p> - <p class="verse">Mais vous sentez bien que, cette visite,</p> - <p class="verse1">Je vous la devais.</p> - <p class="verse1"></p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Nous plaignons le sort des enfants, des femmes,</p> - <p class="verse1">Cela va de soi....</p> - <p class="verse">Ah si vous voyiez tous les télégrammes</p> - <p class="verse1">Que Tirpitz reçoit!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“C’est un grand succès pour notre marine.</p> - <p class="verse1">Je suis désolé.</p> - <p class="verse">Veuillez constater que sur ma marine</p> - <p class="verse1">Ce pleur a coulé.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Un pleur magnifique, en cristal de roche.</p> - <p class="verse1">Voyez, c’est exact.</p> - <p class="verse">Je ne comprends pas que l’on nous reproche</p> - <p class="verse1">De manquer de tact.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Berlin se pavoise.—Hélas!—On décore</p> - <p class="verse1">Le moindre faubourg.</p> - <p class="verse">Ah je le disais tout à l’heure encore</p> - <p class="verse1">A Monsieur Dernburg.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse"><a id="stanza2"></a>“Si notre avenir—souffrez que je cache</p> - <p class="verse1">Quelques pleurs amers—</p> - <p class="verse">N’est plus sur les mers, il faut que l’on sache</p> - <p class="verse1"><a id="line"></a>Qu’il est sous les mers.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> - <p class="verse">“Ceux qui malgré nous voyagent sur l’onde</p> - <p class="verse1">Sont les agresseurs.”</p> - <p class="verse">(Là-bas, l’eau rapporte une vierge blonde</p> - <p class="verse1">Avec ses trois soeurs.)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Les <em>Tipperary</em> que chez vous on siffle</p> - <p class="verse1">Nous ont agacés,</p> - <p class="verse">Et quand Roosevelt joue avec son rifle</p> - <p class="verse1">Nous disons: Assez.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Qu’allaient donc chercher en cette aventure</p> - <p class="verse1">Vos Princes de l’Or?”</p> - <p class="verse">(Là-bas, pour avoir donné sa ceinture,</p> - <p class="verse1">Vanderbilt est mort.)</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Il ne faudra pas que ça recommence.</p> - <p class="verse1">Ils sont bien punis.</p> - <p class="verse">Veuillez exprimer ma douleur immense</p> - <p class="verse1">Aux Etats-Unis.”</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">(Il se fait, là-bas, d’horribles trouvailles</p> - <p class="verse1">Qu’on met sous un drap.)</p> - <p class="verse">Et Bernstorff reprend: “Pour les funérailles,</p> - <p class="verse1">On me préviendra.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“Ce désastre a fait, en Bourse allemande,</p> - <p class="verse1">Monteur les valeurs.</p> - <p class="verse">On me préviendra pour que je commande</p> - <p class="verse1">Les plus belles fleurs.”</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Et comme Wilson dit, d’une voix sombre:</p> - <p class="verse1">“Nous verrons demain,”</p> - <p class="verse">Et sent Washington et Lincoln, dans l’ombre,</p> - <p class="verse1">Lui prendre la main,</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Bernstorff, en pleurant, regagne la porte ...</p> - <p class="verse1">(Il y a, là-bas,</p> - <p class="verse">Deux petits enfants qu’une femme morte</p> - <p class="verse1">Serre entre ses bras.)</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEDOWNFALLOFTHEINTERNATIONAL"> -<em>The Downfall of the International</em> -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Another result of the war, already sufficiently crystallized, is the bankruptcy -of the illusionary spirit of internationalism. In his remarkable book<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a> -Mr. Walling has taken the trouble of quoting resolutions of national sections -of the Socialist party the world over, before and during the war. -<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> -With a few significant exceptions the Socialists of the warring nations -have had to exchange their erstwhile slogan “Workers of the world, be -united!” for the less noble motto “Defend your country!” Even when the -European armies had already been mobilized the Socialists held protest meetings -at which they threatened to call a general strike if war should be -declared. But with the first cannon boom the theoretic brotherhood evaporated -and gave way to patriotic sentiments. The workers declared that -they were Germans, Russians, etc., first, then Socialists. True, in the beginning -the German Socialists claimed that they were fighting against the -reactionary Czardom, while the Socialists of the Allies tried to justify the -international carnage as the struggle against Prussian militarism; but ultimately -such clear-headed thinkers as Kautsky and some of the English -Socialists came to see the futility of endeavoring to discover idealistic -causes for the mutual slaughter. The country is in danger, consequently -we must defend it, regardless of the rightness or wrongness of its policy—this -is the prevailing sentiment among the workers. The grandiose structure -of the International has fallen in ruins; the “scientific” theories and -calculations of the Marxians have received a blow by the underestimated -imponderabilia, that of primitive patriotism. On the other hand, “applied” -Socialism has won a considerable victory with the development of the war. -Nearly all the belligerent countries have adopted State-Socialism in such -measures as the nationalization of railways and means of production. The -capitalists are evidently shrewd enough to utilize the doctrines of their -opponents in time of need and thus to neutralize the sting of that very -opposition. What will become of Socialism when at least its minimum-program -is accepted and put into practice by the <em>capitalistic</em> order without -the aid of a social revolution, the inevitability of which has been scientifically -proven by Marx and his disciples? -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> <em>The Socialists and the War, by William English Walling. New York: -Henry Holt and Company.</em> -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Artists should not see things as they are; they -should see them fuller, simpler, stronger: to this -end, however, a kind of youthfulness, of vernality, -a sort of perpetual elation, must be peculiar to -their lives.—<em>Nietzsche.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEARTISTINLIFE"> -<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> -“The Artist in Life” -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar"><span class="prefirstchar">“</span>P</span><span class="postfirstchar">eople”</span> has become to me a word that—crawls. If you have ever -heard Mr. Bryan pronounce it you will know what I mean. He -says it “peo-pul”.... -</p> - -<p> -And that is the way they act. Sometimes I see peo-pul in this kind of -picture: a cosmic squirming mass of black caterpillars moving first one -way and then the other, slowly and vaguely, not like measuring worms who -cover the ground or like ants who have their definite business, but heavily, -blindly, in the stunned manner peculiar to caterpillar organisms. They peer -and poke and nod and ponder and creep and crawl and scramble and grow -dizzy and turn around and around, wondering whether they shall go on -the way they started or go back the way they came or refuse to go at all. -Once in a hundred years one of the caterpillars breaks his skin and flies -away—a butterfly through the unfriendly air. Then the black mass writhes -in protest and arranges that the next butterfly shall have his wings well -clipped. I know my metaphor is not scientifically intact, but what does it -matter? It satisfies my impulse—which is simply to call names. So I might -as well say “People are caterpillars” and be done with it. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -I have a painter artist friend who says that to talk about the artist in life -is simply to repeat one of those silly phrases that mean nothing. But it means -entirely too much, I think—which is the reason there are so many of the -species in evidence: about two in a million perhaps—and I know that is -far too optimistic. That would mean some four or five thousand people in -the living world who have nothing in common with caterpillars. The count -is too high! -</p> - -<p> -For really there are no artists among us. Living picturesquely, artistically, -has nothing to do with being an artist in life; and even living with -the poise that marks a good piece of art hasn’t necessarily anything to do -with it. If you ask me to choose a type of the real artist in life I shall say -Nietzsche rather than Goethe. For the artist in life has inevitably to do -with prophecy rather than with holding up the mirror; and that means -chiefly—to have strength! -</p> - -<p> -Now where are the strong people? Of course “strength” is an indefinite -term. Sometimes it seems a matter of dominating the superfluous; sometimes -it seems the power “to meet fate with an equal gaze”; and sometimes -the resource or the daring to push one’s fate to a farther goal. But -these are beginnings! If you pick up what is known as your soul from a -<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> -wreckage and make it march on you think you are very strong. If you -manage to make it march with pride and joy you think you are a Superman. -But this is easily within the effort of Everyman. I am talking of artists -now and of the radiant possibility that such beings may develop in this uninspired -land; and, in these terms, to be strong is to help create the farther -goal! -</p> - -<p> -It’s disgusting to realize that the people we know are not this sort. -Take any twenty of your friends and classify them briefly as types. Perhaps -there are five who have “personality”: but one of them has no energy, -one no will, one no brains, one no imagination, and the other no “spirit;” -there are five who have “intellect”: one of them has no “character,” one -no strength, one can’t see or hear or feel, one sees so inclusively that he has -no goal, and one sees so “straight” that he misses the road on both sides; -there are five who have a capacity for art: one is lazy, one is ignorant, one -is afraid, one is vain, one has a lie in him; and there are five who have a -capacity for living: one can’t think, one can’t work, one can’t persevere, one -can’t stand alone, one wastes his gift on others and never realizes himself. -You can work out such combinations <em>ad infinitum</em> and you can excuse them to -the same distance by calling it all a matter of having the defects of your -qualities. Why not call it a matter of having the complacency of your -defects? -</p> - -<p> -If you’ve not got imagination you can’t help it; if you’ve not got -strength you can get it. It won’t make you an artist but it will make it -impossible for you to be confused with the caterpillars. If you’ve got a -vision—an Idea—and can find the strength to fly toward it you’ll be an -artist in life. This is not to confuse the artist with the prophet. You can’t -very well do that because the terms are so interdependent. There has never -been an artist without the prophet in him, and there has never been a -prophet who was not an artist. It’s a different thing if you’re talking about -priests or about inferior artists. And then of course you have to remember -that there are no such things as inferior artists. Priest and demagogue -are the names for those who fail as prophets or as artists. -</p> - -<p> -And what is the use of such a harangue? There is very little use. -People won’t be artists. Peo-pul don’t change. But the individual changes, -and that is the hope. Individuals are persons who can stand alone. There -ought to be Individuals coming out of a generation brought up on Nietzsche. -Such an upbringing has taught us at least two things: first that he who -goes forward goes alone, and second that it is weakness rather than nobility -to succumb to the caterpillars. Yes, and something else: that it is -from superabundance rather than from hunger that creation comes. We -start out fortified with all this. We don’t need to wrestle with our gods -every time the old laws threaten to submerge us; our universe doesn’t -totter when the caterpillars groan that we will be lonely if we go alone or -hurt if we are misunderstood or tragic if we don’t compromise. We don’t -mind these things. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> -It really all comes to one end: Life for Art’s sake. We believe in that -because it is the only way to get more Life—a finer quality, a higher vibration. -This bigger concept doesn’t mean merely more Beauty. It means -more Intensity. In short, it means the <em>New</em> Hellenism. And that is a step -beyond the old Greek ideal of proportion and moderation. It pushes forward -to the superabundance that dares abandonment. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Art and nothing else! Art is the great means -of making life possible, the great seducer to life, -the great stimulus of life.—<em>Nietzsche.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -The tree that grows to a great height wins to -solitude even in a forest; its highest outshoots -find no companions save the winds and the stars.—<em>Frank -Harris.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="POEMS"> -<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> -Poems -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Clara Shanafelt</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="FANTASTIC"> -Fantastic -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I have no thoughts, no more desires—</p> - <p class="verse">It is green and gray like a garden</p> - <p class="verse">Stirred by apple-scented wind,</p> - <p class="verse">Quick with the sense of cool and silver joys</p> - <p class="verse">That come in a rainy dance</p> - <p class="verse">When soft hands of clouds have pushed away</p> - <p class="verse">The round red stupid face of the sun.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">In one day, I think, the wind</p> - <p class="verse">Will not have had his will of the gleaming rain—</p> - <p class="verse">They run about with tossed hair,</p> - <p class="verse">The garden is silvered with their pleasure,</p> - <p class="verse">Cool and sweet, shining</p> - <p class="verse">As with arch laughter a beloved face.</p> - <p class="verse">The musing pool</p> - <p class="verse">Shattered in glancing flight by a sudden wing—</p> - <p class="verse">This, which no words can name,</p> - <p class="verse">This is my heart’s delight,</p> - <p class="verse">Winging I know not whither;</p> - <p class="verse">It has no measure.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="INTERLUDE"> -Interlude -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">To sink deeper yet</p> - <p class="verse">In the green flood of twilight—</p> - <p class="verse">I grope for the rich chord of the full darkness</p> - <p class="verse">That drowns the piping cries of light,</p> - <p class="verse">For silence fretted by cadent rain</p> - <p class="verse">And the monotonous cries of insects</p> - <p class="verse">That lull the tortured sense in drowsy veils.</p> - <p class="verse">I am weary of lights dancing</p> - <p class="verse">In limpid streets,</p> - <p class="verse">Lemon and gold and amethyst,</p> - <p class="verse">The jewelled laughter and the scent,</p> - <p class="verse">Weaving of uneasy colors.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> - <p class="verse">I would rest now in green and gray</p> - <p class="verse">Of an abandoned garden</p> - <p class="verse">Where no more flowers are,</p> - <p class="verse">Only grass and crabbed trees,</p> - <p class="verse">Night—</p> - <p class="verse">And the bitter aroma of herbs</p> - <p class="verse">Trod out by myriad, whispering feet of the rain—</p> - <p class="verse">Night and no stars.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="SLOBBERDOMSNEERDOMANDBOREDOM"> -Slobberdom, Sneerdom, and Boredom -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Ben Hecht</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> is the custom of inspired opinion to pay little attention to mediocrities, -to dismiss them with a shudder. I understand <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> to be -an embodiment of inspired opinion, an abandonment of mental emotion—Youth. -Like some of the people who read it and even some of them who -write for it, it flies at the throats of contemporary Chimeras and leaps upon -the Pegasi of the moment. It slashes and roars, hates and loves. It never -considers the right and never considers the wrong. It does not endeavor -to be just and fair. This is at once a great crime and a great virtue. It is -criminal to be unjust and it is virtuous to be truthful. To me <span class="smallcaps">The Little -Review</span> is always both. I sympathize with its spirit and share it. Leave -justice to the greybeards. Why should a soul which has the capacity for -inspiration quibble in prejudices? -</p> - -<p> -I think, however, that shuddering at mediocrities is a grave error. Evil -is the monopoly of the few as well as genius. Hating and loving them are -luxuries. Therefore it is that this writing is not composed in the luxurious -spirit of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. My opinion is not an inspired one, my emotion -is not an abandonment. I write with a photographic dispassion of the -three great divisions of mediocrity—Slobberdom, Sneerdom, and Boredom. -</p> - -<p> -Slobbering is not an art and it is not an evil. It is not even important -except as an object of analysis. True, if encountered in print or in the flesh -it is likely to have a nauseous effect upon sensitive souls; but then one can -easily avoid encountering it. One does not, for instance, have to attend a -Walt Whitman dinner. When one hears that a Walt Whitman dinner is to -be given on a certain night in the Grand Pacific Hotel all one has to do to -remain happy and free from suffering is to stay at home. My friend K—— and -I went to a Walt Whitman dinner because we were young and curious and -hungry, and because Walt, after all, is a great artist. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> -The dinner proved to be like most dinners of its kind—a glorious opportunity -for saccharine drool at the expense of a great name. Appreciation -and love of an artist—a poet—are highly commendable qualities if practiced -in private, if put into proper print. It is the same as with love of a woman. -But to stand up in a public place, to shed tears of ecstasy, wave one’s arms, -pull at one’s hair and strike at one’s bosom—these are, as they always have -been, the slobbering methods of egotistical mediocrity. It is simply a prostituting -of the emotions. -</p> - -<p> -Mediocrity is not insensible to art. It is very probable that the Rev. -Preston Bradley, who insists he is a reformed clergyman, really likes Walt -Whitman, feels thrilled with the reading of him. But the joy the Rev. Bradley -derives from reading Walt in his library is not enough for him. In fact, -it is not a joy at all. It is an irritation. Give the Rev. Bradley an opportunity -to show what he thinks of Walt Whitman, to stand up on his feet -before three hundred and fifty sympathetic souls and prove what a keen -sense of taste and an advanced instinct of culture he (Rev. Bradley) possesses -by yawping: -</p> - -<p> -“I love Whitman, I adore Whitman. He is this to me. He is that to -me—” -</p> - -<p> -—then and not till then does the Rev. Bradley feel the real joy of appreciation -for “good old, dear old, wonderful old Walt.” Give the Rev. Bradley -a decent chance to platitudinize, attitudinize, and blatitudinize, and the love -he bears old Walt oozes from him in dewy sighs and briny words. -</p> - -<p> -Do not imagine that I am violently indignant with the Rev. Bradley, or -wish the reader to be, for his insincerity. It is indeed one of his best qualities. -By being insincere, by having no actual ground for his ecstacy, the -Rev. Bradley must, perforce, pay a great deal of attention to what he says. -He is free to pick out the best words, the best pose, the most arresting and -perhaps enlightening point of view. I say he is free to do this, but of course -he doesn’t. It is not the fault of his insincerity, however. If the Rev. Bradley -were an artist he would profit by it and be great. But why all this talk about -such a person as the Rev. Bradley? Surely not because he is deserving of -careful censure. The reason is that there were at least three hundred male -and female Rev. Bradleys listening to him, slobbering in silence. -</p> - -<p> -And now the next division of mediocrity. Mr. Clarence Darrow was -another of the talkers. Mr. Darrow sneered. Mr. Darrow sneered at Homer, -Euripides, Shakespeare, Dante, Landor, Whittier, Tennyson, Milton, Kipling, -and Heine because they didn’t write as good old Walt wrote. Because they -wore fetters in their art and insisted on making the last word in the first -line rhyme with the last word in the third line. They were weak, ignoble -creatures, these copybook writers, said Mr. Darrow; they insisted on using -a singular subject with a singular predicate and believed that a violation of -such procedure was a sin. One of the things you learn in your school text -books on physics is that a gentleman by imposing a pencil-point before his -eye can obscure his vision of the Colossus. The idea seems apropos in the -<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> -case of Mr. Darrow. Mr. Darrow by imposing his soul upon the figures -of the world’s big men can obscure them entirely for himself and evidently -his sympathizers. After he had concluded three hundred and fifty persons, -every one present so far as I could see except my friend K—— and myself, -stood up and sneered with Mr. Darrow. They passed him a rising resolution -of love and cheered him three times, omitting, however, the customary -tiger. -</p> - -<p> -The greatest trouble with Mr. Darrow was his sincerity. He didn’t -slobber any more than a public speaker has to in order to have a public to -speak to. But his sneers were deep and earnest. They were entirely intellectual, -the intellectual essence of mediocrity. All of us sneer, of course. The -sneer is the one great American characteristic. When I told a man in the -office in which I work that I had attended a Walt Whitman dinner he sneered -at me. -</p> - -<p> -“Fourflushers,” he said. “I can’t see how you put that highbrow stuff -over. A lot of long-haired, flea-ridden radicals, ain’t I right? I wouldn’t -let my wife associate with a bunch like that.” -</p> - -<p> -(This is my office friend’s highest conception of manly virtue,—a thoroughly -American one,—being careful of whom his wife associates with.) -</p> - -<p> -Then my office friend went on to assert that Whitman was undoubtedly -an immoral, not to say degenerate, party, that he “got by with his stuff because -it was raw,” and that everybody who professed any admiration for him -was a suspicious character and one he “would think twice about before inviting -to his home” (where his wife is). -</p> - -<p> -It is rather a complicated matter, this sneering business; and after attending -a Walt Whitman dinner I don’t know whose sneers disgust me more, -Mr. Darrow’s or my friend’s. They are both, however, identical in spirit, -the spirit of mediocrity and sincerity when sincerity becomes, as it most -always does, the cloak for ignorant convictions and bigoted fanaticism. -</p> - -<p> -And now we come to the third and last condition—boredom. Among -the speakers at this memorable dinner was Mr. Llewellyn Jones. Mr. Jones -is a critic of literature by profession if not qualification—although I do not -say it, really. Of all the orators at good old Walt’s memorial gabfest Mr. -Jones was the least offensive. He said nothing that shocked the taste or -violated one’s innerself or harrowed one’s soul. I don’t, of course, remember -what Mr. Jones did say. One never does, not only in the case of Mr. Jones -but in the thousands like him. They occupy time and space and leave them -empty. Not for them the sneer or the slobber. Mr. Jones wouldn’t sneer -for the world. And as for slobbering Mr. Jones has too much good taste -and discretion for that. Not that he is above them. His fear of them, his -apparent uncertainty in distinguishing between these two characteristics and -the characteristics of inspired opinion, indicate this plainly enough. -</p> - -<p> -So to be safe Mr. Jones resorts to the time-honored entrenchment of -mediocrity. He barricades himself behind the bulwarks of boredom. He discharges -no cannon, he commits no sins, he makes no false steps or takes no -<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> -false flights. He is boredom incarnate, the eternal convention in the arts -whether he deals with Nihilism, radicalism, or stands pat on the isms of the -past. Mr. Jones never gets anywhere, I repeat. I speak of all the Joneses. -Nobody derives anything from him—from them—except ennui. He, they, -never offend, never elate. He, they, are always Mr. Jones. -</p> - -<p> -Listening to the Joneses is as elevating an experience as watching the -water blop-blop out of the kitchen hydrant. And this idea leads me back to -where I started—<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -<p> -Can you imagine what a thorough contempt a kitchen hydrant would -have for a fountain rising from the rocks, for a brook gurgling down the -hillside, or a strong river capering to sea? It wouldn’t exactly sneer at them. -Mr. Jones doesn’t. But it would feel moved to spirited reproof. How juvenile -it is to gurgle, the hydrant would say, how vain and foolish it is to rise -from the rocks, how upsetting it is to be continually capering to sea. I do -not claim any super-intelligence in the matter of hydrants. But Mr. Jones -and all the Joneses do say, and I have enough intelligence to understand -them if not to sympathize with them, that <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> is young and -idiotic and given to unnecessary emotions and so forth. All of which is true, -looked at from the elevation of a kitchen sink. “Why don’t you,” remonstrates -the hydrant to the brook, “blop blop with me?” -</p> - -<p> -An afterthought: at this Whitman dinner there was one among the -speakers who sustained a dying faith in Walt, humanity, and <em>vers libre</em> in -general. He was Carl Sandburg who read a free verse poem of his own on -Billy Sunday. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -It is provided in the essence of things that -from any fruition of success, no matter what, -shall come forth something to make a greater -struggle necessary.—<em>Whitman.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEDEATHOFANTONTARASOVITCH"> -<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> -The Death of Anton Tarasovitch -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -A Short Story of the Present War -</p> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Florence Kiper Frank</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span><span class="postfirstchar">nton</span> Tarasovitch lay dying. He lay in a pleasant cornfield -whither he had dragged himself in the heat of the afternoon, for a -shelter against the merciless sun. But now it was evening and the stars were -out, and dying was not now so bad an affair as it had been in the dust and -the blinding sunlight. True, the pain was at times terrible, but at other -times it made one only light-headed, so that oneself or the part that was -Anton Tarasovitch seemed to be a different thing altogether from the body -of Anton Tarasovitch which lay beneath It shot to pieces, while It fluttered -and hovered above. -</p> - -<p> -He had not been lying for many hours in the Austrian cornfield. He -knew that by the progress of the sun downward—downward until it made -the long summer shadows that he loved in the fields at home; downward until -it brought a breath of coolness and a gray light that had brushed out the -clear distinction of shadows and sunlight; downward until it was gone forever -and a few stars burned quietly in the sky overhead. It was the last -sunset that Anton Tarasovitch was to see in this world. But time had no -longer any meaning for Anton Tarasovitch. Lying on one’s back, so, and -waiting to die, a minute can seem all there is of the world, and then an hour -can be burned up like a minute, while one faints into unconsciousness, before -one is slowly dragged back again to the thought, “I am I”—the thought that -makes the world for each man, that creates for him the stars and the shadows -and the sun sinking downward. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, Anton Tarasovitch knew that now—that it was this thought that -made the world. And when he stopped thinking it, the world would again -be nothing. Down! down! down! one would plunge, and then the world -would be nothing. But it would exist still for other men. Yet how could -that be? Tomorrow the sun would come up again into the sky just as every -day it had come up in the fields at home, making the long shadows that he -had so loved in the mornings and in the evenings. Tomorrow other men -would see the sun—many other men would see it. But if Anton Tarasovitch -did not see it——! In vain he struggled to create for himself a universe in -which there would be no Anton Tarasovitch. Well, he was not clever -enough to understand such matters. Men in universities and men who wrote -books had figured them out and knew all about them. But how was he, who -had never been to a University, who had not been to school even, to understand! -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> -Yet this much he understood—that he was dying for his country. This -the general had told them, and he had known always, since a boy, that it was -a brave and fine thing to fight for one’s country and to die if need be. Anton -Tarasovitch was dying that his country might be saved. -</p> - -<p> -Yet it was strange that the big Russia had need of him, just one common -peasant. The great Russia had so many men that were strong and powerful, -men with uniforms that glittered—men that were much cleverer and braver -than Anton. Why should the country have need of him? Sasha needed him, -and the children. Sasha needed him in the fields and she needed him in her -heart too. She had often called him the light of her heart, in the strange -words—so different from the words of other women—that Sasha often used. -And he knew by her face that she needed him. She didn’t have to tell him -so. He knew by the kindling of her face, as of a curtain behind which suddenly -a candle appears. So her face would light up when she saw him. Sasha -would mind greatly if she never saw him again. -</p> - -<p> -He was dying because it was a glorious thing to die for one’s country—for -the White Tsar, the little Father. You died to protect your country, so -that your great country might live forever. But if you weren’t there to -know that it lived forever!—now why couldn’t he think of the world without -Anton Tarasovitch in it? Why did he land against a black wall every time -he tried to think of tomorrow without Anton Tarasovitch? -</p> - -<p> -It was needful that he die to save his country. What if, to the general, -he <em>were</em> only one of thousands and to Sasha and the children all of life—nevertheless, -if every man should think that, then there would be no one at all -to save the country. It was rather clever of him to figure it out so, especially -with the fire in his side that made his head so light and his thoughts fly off -from it and refuse to anchor down for more than a minute. It was clever of -him to reason it out—Anton Tarasovitch who had never been to a University—that -if every man should say to himself, “O, I don’t count. Just one more -or less!”—then there would be no army at all to fight the Tsar’s battles. -</p> - -<p> -Yet he was not fighting or dying now to save Sasha. Nor was he dying -to save his children even in the years to come. That wouldn’t be bad—to -die so that years afterwards, even though it might be many years afterwards, -one’s children would prosper and would live more happily. That would be -a sort of living when one was dead, because one’s children were in a way -oneself in different bodies. But he couldn’t see how Maxim and Ignat and -Sofya and Tatya would at any time be better off because he was dying right -now. He couldn’t see but that the land would be poorer and that they would -have to work harder because he and the other peasants were dying for the -Little Father and for their country. -</p> - -<p> -But if he couldn’t figure out just what people he was saving, at least he -knew against what men he was fighting. He was fighting against the Austrians. -The Austrians were a horrible people who spoke a language one couldn’t -understand at all. When you tried to understand them, you couldn’t understand -a word they were saying. He had known an Austrian once—a big -<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> -blonde fellow who had stayed a few days at their little village. One day -Anton had been walking with the tiny Tatya on the road that led to the market -and they had met the Austrian, who had stopped and had given Tatya -a flower out of his button-hole. Anton remembered Tatya’s crows of delight. -The Austrian had smiled at her, a nice, friendly smile, and Tatya had grabbed -for his hand as children will, even when the people they grab at are -Austrians. -</p> - -<p> -Tatya had seemed to like the Austrian. And Anton had had to confess -to himself that he wasn’t a bad fellow. But he must have been pleasant only -because of Tatya. No one could help being pleasant to Tatya. The Austrian -had been for a moment friendly because of her. At heart he was a hateful -fellow. All Austrians were hateful. They all hated the Tsar and the Fatherland -and they all hated him, Anton, because he was a Russian. -</p> - -<p> -There must be some Austrians lying in this cornfield now, wounded as -he was wounded. But he could see no one. Flat on his back, he could see -only the stars which were thick now against the sky. And he began to -think that this was a cruel thing—that a man should be alone when he was -dying. Even when a chap was just ill, he wanted someone to take care of -him. Once when Anton had been ill of a fever he had been just like a baby, -so weak and helpless. He had cried then because the milk that Sasha had -brought him had been too hot for his tongue and had burned him. It was -silly for a big man to cry, but that was the way you became when you were -sick—weak and silly. He had never in his life cried when he was well. -When men were well they were never silly. -</p> - -<p> -Women—women were different! Five times had Sasha been so ill that -it was terrible—four times for the children that were living and once for -the little one that had died. Sasha had almost died too that time. She had -been so white and so hopeless looking for weeks after! But in all the times -she was ill she had not complained as much as he had, that one month that -he was sick with the fever. That must be because women were used to pain. -The good God had so ordained it. For every life that they brought into the -world they had to suffer, not only at the time, but for months before and then -for years afterward. -</p> - -<p> -They were strange creatures, were women. If a child became ill or died, -its mother suffered again, just as the day she had borne him. At least so -Sasha had suffered when the baby had died—and other women that he had -seen in the village. -</p> - -<p> -Birth was a strange thing now! He had never really thought of it before, -but wasn’t it a strange thing that each time a person was born into the world, -there should be pain and the long months of waiting. Then in one second an -Austrian shell could blow away the body that some woman had waited for and -had carried in her own body. In one second—why, so he had been waited for—he, -Anton Tarasovitch. Now wasn’t that wonderful!—and he had never -until this minute really thought of it. He, Anton Tarasovitch, had been carried -in the body of his mother and had been born in pain and in rejoicing. -<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> -Why, it was like a miracle! And he had thought so lightly of it, had just taken -it for granted that he should be born and that she should love him. -</p> - -<p> -He would like to make it up to her in some way now. But it was too -late. She had been dead for very many years now and he also was dying. -Well, he could tell her about it when he saw her with the saints in Heaven. -</p> - -<p> -Heaven! He would go there, of course, because he had always, since -a boy, been obedient and had done just what the priests had told him. He -ought to think now about Heaven. But somehow he did not care to think -about it, and the strange part was that it did not trouble him that he did not -care. Even if he woke tomorrow in Heaven, he would not be the same -Anton. He might live forever, but that wouldn’t be the same thing as -waking up in the morning with Sasha at his side. He tried to think what -“forever” meant, and he fetched up against the same black wall that he -had when he had tried to think of a world without Anton Tarasovitch to -know himself in it. Forever! ever! ever! No stopping! On and on! But -that would be horrible. No! no! he couldn’t bear that. One could do nothing, -nothing, to get out of it. Even if one could be blown to pieces with a -gun, say a thousand years from now, in Heaven, one’s soul would gather -itself together again and go on and on, forever and forever. -</p> - -<p> -No, he mustn’t think about it. If he thought about it any more, he -would lift his hands and strangle himself, so as to be able to stop thinking -about it. Now he would think about Sasha. When he thought about her, -he could feel her right next to him. He couldn’t see her face exactly, nor -could he see her standing there. And yet it was as if she really <em>were</em> there, -and he <em>could</em> see her. That was the way it was when you loved a person. -She was, as it were, in you, or at least right next to you, and yet she was -separate from you, too. -</p> - -<p> -He had liked life with Sasha. He didn’t know until now how much he -had liked it. True, it was a hard life they had lived together. One was -on the go every minute—in bad weather when the frost stung and to walk -even a mile became an agony; and in good weather one was constantly on -the go, when it might perhaps have been pleasant to sit under the trees and -play with the children. But life was good, for all that. Of course, if they -could have saved money—only a little money—it would have been better. -But the little money they could save had had to go for the taxes. The taxes -were for the Fatherland, the priest had told him. The taxes were paid -so that when the need came, Anton would be able to die for his country. -But there was something confusing about that. Life would be better if it -were not for the taxes, and the taxes were paid so that he might—no, -that was bewildering. With the fire in one’s side and in one’s brain, how -could one think clearly about so difficult a matter? Besides, there were -many matters of that sort that he, Anton Tarasovitch, was not clever enough -to think about. One left such things to the priests, who were good men, -and to the clever men at the universities. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> -The stars were sometimes a long way off now and sometimes very -near to him. But neither near nor far away did they seem to care about -him. They were the only things he could see in the world and they did -not seem to care about him. Undoubtedly they had seen many men dying. -He knew about the stars! A young teacher who had come to the village -when he was a boy had talked about them and Anton had never forgotten. -</p> - -<p> -The young teacher had not stayed long in the village. He was “dangerous,” -they said, and Anton heard afterwards that he had gone to America. -It gave one many thoughts to listen to the teacher. He had said that -the stars were worlds, just like our own earth—the earth that Anton knew -the good Christ had come down to save. Anton, who was just a boy, had -wanted to ask him if Christ had had to save all these worlds that were -stars. But that was only one of the many confusing thoughts one had -in listening to the young teacher. One felt strange in listening to him, as -if the world weren’t solid at all, but were flowing like a river. * * * -</p> - -<p> -Anton felt very sorry for himself, lying there under the stars that did -not care for him. He began to cry—silly, weak tears that tasted of salt as -they touched his mouth. It was only at times that he knew that he was -crying. At other times the soul of him entirely left his body and went -shooting up and up, to be recaptured only with a struggle. -</p> - -<p> -The two of them—the burning body and the light soul—would have -held together better, he knew, if someone could grip his hand tightly. At -least that was the way they had done in the fever. When Sasha had -gripped his hand, as if by a miracle he had been restored for a moment -to a complete man, and was no longer two pieces—a body below and a soul -that went fluttering above it. -</p> - -<p> -If only he could touch someone’s hand now—anyone’s hand—the hand -of a human being! To be all alone with the cruel, flickering stars up above, -that was no way to die—snuffed out into the darkness. That was no way -for any man to go, even though he <em>were</em> just a peasant. But Anton knew -himself important now, almost as important as a general. He knew himself -important, with a strange, tremendous importance. He was as important -as almost anyone in the world, and he was dying alone in the darkness. -</p> - -<p> -Then he remembered that there must be other men in the cornfield. -He had thought of that before, and afterwards he had forgotten. If there -were other men here—even one other man, an enemy—he would find that -comrade and they would die together. -</p> - -<p> -Slowly, painfully, inch by inch he dragged himself. The stalks were -like an impenetrable thicket. They entangled him as snares or a forest of -swords set about him. He dragged himself on his palms, inch by inch, -butting away the cornstalks. -</p> - -<p> -An Austrian was lying on his back, gazing upward. He was dead now, -but Anton did not know it. There was a wound in his neck, and the flies -had begun to gather. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> -Anton gave a sob as he saw the Austrian. One more effort and he -would be near enough to touch him. Perhaps the Austrian would grip his -hand—hard—as Sasha had gripped it. -</p> - -<p> -The hand of the Austrian did not grip hard when Anton touched it. -It fluttered a little, however—Anton was sure of that. So Anton covered -the hand with his own, and with his own hand gripped hard, as Sasha had -gripped the hand of Anton. -</p> - -<p> -And so died Anton Tarasovitch, looking up at the stars. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Art as it appears without the artist, i. e., as a -body, an organization (the Prussian Officers’ -Corps, the Order of the Jesuits). To what extent -is the artist merely a preliminary stage? The -world regarded as a self-generating work of art.—<em>Nietzsche.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="RUPERTBROOKE"> -<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> -Rupert Brooke -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>A Memory</em>) -</p> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Arthur Davison Ficke</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">One night—the last we were to have of you—</p> - <p class="verse">High up above the city’s giant roar</p> - <p class="verse">We sat around you on the generous floor—</p> - <p class="verse">Since chairs were lame or stony or too few—</p> - <p class="verse">And as you read, and the low music grew</p> - <p class="verse">In exquisite tendrils twining the heart’s core,</p> - <p class="verse">All the conjecture we had felt before</p> - <p class="verse">Flashed into torch-flame, and at last we knew.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And Maurice, who in silence long has hidden</p> - <p class="verse">A voice like yours, became a wreck of joy</p> - <p class="verse">To inarticulate ecstasies beguiled.</p> - <p class="verse">And you, as from some secret world now bidden</p> - <p class="verse">To make return, stared up, and like a boy</p> - <p class="verse">Blushed suddenly, and looked at us, and smiled.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="centerpic" id="PHOTO033"> -<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a><img src="images/i033.jpg" alt="" /> -<p class="cap"> -RUPERT BROOKE, MCMXIV -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="TOAWESTINDIANALLIGATOR"> -<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> -To a West Indian Alligator -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>Estimated age, 1957 years</em>)<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-2" id="fnote-2">[2]</a> -</p> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Eunice Tietjens</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Greetings, my brother, strange and uncouth beast,</p> - <p class="verse2">Flat-bellied, wrinkled, broad of nose!</p> - <p class="verse">You are not beautiful—and yet at least</p> - <p class="verse2">Contentment spreads your scaley toes.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The keeper thwacks you and you grunt at me,</p> - <p class="verse2">Two hundred pounds of sleepy spleen.</p> - <p class="verse">He tells me that your cranial cavity</p> - <p class="verse2">Will just contain a lima bean.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">How seems it, brother, you who are so old,</p> - <p class="verse2">To lie and squint with curtained eye</p> - <p class="verse">At these ephemera, born in the cold,</p> - <p class="verse2">These human things so soon to die?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">You were scarce grown, a paltry eighty years,</p> - <p class="verse2">Too young to think of breeding yet,</p> - <p class="verse">When Christ the Nazarene loosed the salt tears</p> - <p class="verse2">Which on man’s cheeks today are wet.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Mohammed rose and died—you churned the mud</p> - <p class="verse2">And watched your female laying eggs.</p> - <p class="verse">Columbus passed you—with an oozy thud</p> - <p class="verse2">You scrambled sunward on your legs.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">So now you doze at ease for all to view</p> - <p class="verse2">And bat a sleepy lid at me,</p> - <p class="verse">You eat a little every year or two</p> - <p class="verse2">And count time in eternity.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">So, brother, which is wiser of us twain</p> - <p class="verse2">When words are said and meals are past?</p> - <p class="verse">I think, and pass—you sleep, yet you remain,</p> - <p class="verse2">And where shall be the end at last<a id="corr-14"></a>?</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-2" id="footnote-2">[2]</a> <em>I cannot vouch for the science of this. It is “Alligator Joe’s” estimate.</em> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="EPITAPHS"> -<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> -Villon’s Epitaph<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-3" id="fnote-3">[3]</a> -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Witter Bynner</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I who have lived and have not thought</p> - <p class="verse">But gone with nature as I ought,</p> - <p class="verse1">Letting good things occur,</p> - <p class="verse">And now amazed and cannot see</p> - <p class="verse">Why death should care so much for me.</p> - <p class="verse1">I never cared for her.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="SCARRONSEPITAPHYFNNOID3Y"> -Scarron’s Epitaph<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-3">[3]</a> -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Witter Bynner</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">He who now lies here asleep</p> - <p class="verse">None would envy, few would weep:</p> - <p class="verse">A man whom death had mortified</p> - <p class="verse">A thousand times before he died.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Peaceful be the step you take,</p> - <p class="verse">You who pass him—lest he wake.</p> - <p class="verse">For his first good night is due.</p> - <p class="verse">Let poor Scarron sleep it through.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-3" id="footnote-3">[3]</a> From the French of François Villon. -</p> - -<div class="editorials chapter"> -<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="editorials" id="EDITORIALSANDANNOUNCEMENTS"> -Editorials and Announcements -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="OURCREDO"> -<em>Our Credo</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> have lost patience: people are still asking “What does <span class="smallcaps">The -Little Review</span> stand for?” Since we have been so obscure—or -is it that people have been so dull?—I shall try to answer all -these plaintive queries in a sentence. May it be sufficient: I cannot -“explain” every day why the sunrise seems worth while or, as -Mr. Hecht would say, why the brook rises from the rocks. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> is a magazine that believes in Life for -Art’s sake, in the Individual rather than in Incomplete people, in -an age of Imagination rather than of Reasonableness; a magazine -that believes in Ideas even if they are not Ultimate Conclusions, and -values its Ideals so greatly as to live them; a magazine interested in -Past, Present, and Future, but particularly in the New Hellenism; -a magazine written for Intelligent people who can Feel; whose -philosophy is Applied Anarchism, whose policy is a Will to Splendor -of Life, and whose function is—to express itself. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="MRCOMSTOCKSDISMISSAL"> -<em>Mr. Comstock’s Dismissal</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">his</span> great blessing comes sooner than we could have expected, -and yet, as <em>The Chicago Tribune</em> remarks, it is belated by -about forty years. Mr. Comstock has been Post Office Inspector all -that time. I remember a few years ago in New York hearing an -interesting woman send a group of people into paroxysms by the -passionate childish seriousness with which she said, “I wish Anthony -Comstock would die!” Now that the government has accomplished -this desideratum, it is almost time for it to be congratulated. I -wonder how long it will be before this same government can “see -its way clear” to suppressing the agent provocateur and letting his -victims go free, or—well, never mind: it is beyond hoping. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="SUCCESSION"> -<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> -“<em>Succession</em>” -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">hen</span> one of my friends fails to like Ethel Sidgwick’s <em>Succession</em> -I am left in a predicament: on what basis are we -henceforth to understand each other? Succession goes so deep into -music, into personality, into life that has its foundations in art.... -You can explain all the subtleties of your most difficult emotions -by referring to how Antoine felt on page so and so. How does one -live without Antoine? -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THESTRIKE"> -<em>The Strike</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span><span class="postfirstchar">nd</span> God said: “Let there be!” And there was. -</p> - -<p> -And when the modern god, the omnipotent Proletariat, says: -“Let there not be!” ... -</p> - -<p> -You say the strike of the Chicago car men is of purely local significance. -You crack jokes about the pleasure of walking and about -the adventure of jitney-rides. You are calm and complacent, you -blind and deaf men and women dancing on a dormant volcano. -</p> - -<p> -You are right. Your complacency is justified. Why fear the -million-headed mule who has borne his yoke for centuries? He -grumbles?—Oh, it’s a trifle: just fill his flesh-pot, and he will take -up anew with bestial delight his eternal task of enriching the few -at the expense of his blood and marrow. -</p> - -<p> -But fear the eruption of the volcano! For it will not remain -dormant forever. Have we not witnessed the spasmodic awakenings -of the giant? Recall the achievement of the Russian proletariat in -1905. Did it not wrest concessions from the obstinate Czar by -means of a passive revolution? Recall the general strike in Belgium. -Did it not cripple its commerce and industry for months? -</p> - -<p> -The strike of the Chicago car men is pregnant with potentialities. -It is a symptom of a refreshing storm. Those who produce everything -and possess nothing have slept long in ignorance of their -power. But they are slowly awakening. And when they become -aware of the magic wand in their hand, whose passive motion can -stop the wheels of the universe.... Take heed, O merrymakers -at Belshazzar’s feast. Behold the <span class="smallcaps">Mene</span>, <span class="smallcaps">Tekel</span>, <span class="smallcaps">Peres</span> on the -wall. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THECOUNTRYWALK"> -<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> -“<em>The Country Walk</em>” -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">A</span> young Englishman by the name of Edward Storer—I am -assuming that he is young and that he is English—has protested -effectively against the condition which decrees that a piece -of writing, a painting, a sculpture has to be judged as a commodity -<em>before</em> it can be judged as a work of art by issuing little four-page -leaflets containing portions of his work denied publication by the -commercialism of the times. The first, which is called <em>The Country -Walk</em>, has some quite uninspired though rather charming prose -poems in it. <em>The Lark</em>, for instance: -</p> - - <div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -Out of the young grass and silence you arise, frail bird, -spinning upwards to the sky. Faster beat the wings, and -shriller is the voice, and soon you are lost in the high blue, -so that scarcely can I hear your voice or see the maddened -flutterings of your wings. -</p> - -<p> -Then suddenly all is silent, and softly you drop to earth -again to rest your aching body against the good brown -earth. -</p> - - </div> -<h3 class="section" id="THEJUNEJULYISSUE"> -<em>The June-July Issue</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">O</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> account of being so late with our May number we have -decided to combine the June and July and thus come out -promptly again on the first of the month. Subscriptions will be -extended accordingly. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="EDGARLEEMASTERS"> -<em>Edgar Lee Masters</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> the August issue there will be a new poem by Edgar Lee Masters, -author of <em>The Spoon River Anthology</em>, and also a photogravure -portrait of the poet which has just been taken by Eugene -Hutchinson. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THESUBMARINE"> -<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> -The Submarine -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>Translated from the Italian of Luciano Folgore by Anne Simon</em>) -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">It sinks. In the twilight of the water</p> - <p class="verse">the conquered submarine</p> - <p class="verse">falls straight to the bottom</p> - <p class="verse">and seems like a black corpse</p> - <p class="verse">thrown to the coral below,</p> - <p class="verse">thrown to the tomb that devours</p> - <p class="verse">with liquid joy</p> - <p class="verse">the refuse and remains of the old world.</p> - <p class="verse">The propellers, devourers of motion,</p> - <p class="verse">buzz no more,</p> - <p class="verse">the rudder has ceased turning,</p> - <p class="verse">the prow no longer points its sharp beak,</p> - <p class="verse">but the submarine extends itself</p> - <p class="verse">on the viscid bed,</p> - <p class="verse">and a multitude of unknown</p> - <p class="verse">fish, coral and sea-nettles</p> - <p class="verse">try to enter the closed apertures.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And yet once you leaped in the sun</p> - <p class="verse">like a sentinel of burnished steel</p> - <p class="verse">shining in the distance,</p> - <p class="verse">and then rapidly returned to the green gorge</p> - <p class="verse">where the sun never reaches,</p> - <p class="verse">but where you find</p> - <p class="verse">the tremendous task</p> - <p class="verse">that is always with you and that whispers courage</p> - <p class="verse">in the void of your soul.</p> - <p class="verse">And once with your agile metallic prow</p> - <p class="verse">you agitated the green water</p> - <p class="verse">all around your shining body,</p> - <p class="verse">and you did not feel the torments</p> - <p class="verse">of the winds nor the black</p> - <p class="verse">clouds of the hurricane</p> - <p class="verse">that remained like spiteful women</p> - <p class="verse">in a corner of the horizon,</p> - <p class="verse">with hair dishevelled and the eye eager</p> - <p class="verse">to spy below, from the firmament,</p> - <p class="verse">the lost, the shipwrecked, the unknown</p> - <p class="verse">that have no pilot.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> - <p class="verse">Once from your sonorous sides,</p> - <p class="verse">quietly, but vigilant and mad,</p> - <p class="verse">the torpedo shot out,</p> - <p class="verse">making its track in silence,</p> - <p class="verse">and carrying</p> - <p class="verse">within its thin body</p> - <p class="verse">death, and the infinite</p> - <p class="verse">power of dynamite.</p> - <p class="verse">As you passed the sharks fled,</p> - <p class="verse">as you passed the corals</p> - <p class="verse">suspended their tenacious and clumsy work,</p> - <p class="verse">and the fish with rapid movement</p> - <p class="verse">swam away.</p> - <p class="verse">You seemed like an enormous monster</p> - <p class="verse">of a fantastic destiny</p> - <p class="verse">and yet you are only a light submarine,</p> - <p class="verse">a slender ship</p> - <p class="verse">that the blow of a beam</p> - <p class="verse">could sink, that a whirlpool could submerge</p> - <p class="verse">in the abyss.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I do not know your story,</p> - <p class="verse">but I will sing your glory</p> - <p class="verse">that is part of the desire</p> - <p class="verse">of audacious men.</p> - <p class="verse">Submarine, Destiny may have willed</p> - <p class="verse">you to sink silently,</p> - <p class="verse">and remain lost forever in the viscid bed of the sea-weed,</p> - <p class="verse">(O submarine, able to challenge the unconsciousness of the seas</p> - <p class="verse">and the impotence of the lighthouses,)</p> - <p class="verse">but you are alive and strong;</p> - <p class="verse">there is no death, but only an appearance</p> - <p class="verse">of death that remains. Destiny</p> - <p class="verse">newly moulds you</p> - <p class="verse">in a long phantom</p> - <p class="verse">and you are run, submarine,</p> - <p class="verse">by the courage of men</p> - <p class="verse">who, in the unfathomable silence of the water,</p> - <p class="verse">are piloted</p> - <p class="verse">by the will of the strong.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">New brothers will arise</p> - <p class="verse">and pursue you</p> - <p class="verse">because your shining back</p> - <p class="verse">carries a banner, not tri-colored,</p> -<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> - <p class="verse">nor French,</p> - <p class="verse">but the only color</p> - <p class="verse">that dazzles;</p> - <p class="verse">the banner of the battle</p> - <p class="verse">that amidst disasters combats</p> - <p class="verse">with this ferocious mystery</p> - <p class="verse">that is foolishly determined to shut us out</p> - <p class="verse">from the doors of Nature.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="BLAABLAABLAA"> -Blaa-Blaa-Blaa -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span> am sick of words—spoken words—verbal refuse thrown off by the mental -hypochondriacs who imagine themselves suffering from thought and -afflicted with ideas. -</p> - -<p> -I am <a id="corr-17"></a>sick of the artificial inanities of the drawingroom—the polite -poppycock, the meaningless, emotionless enthusiasms. I often have entered -a room where male and female husks sat, their faces wreathed in empty -grimaces—animated masks discharging automatic phrases—and wished to -God I was dumb and could be forgiven for silence. Listening is not so bad -because one doesn’t have to listen. -</p> - -<p> -I am sick of the salon-like groups who gather for the purpose of thinking -aloud and then forget to think and make up for it in noises. Monotonous -varieties, dropping pop-bottle gems from their lips, each individual -amusing and delighting himself beyond all understanding with his sterile -loquaciousness. Here in the salon groups, the discursive congregations -which come together in all manner of odd places and all manner of regular -places, garrulity approaches torture. Here the professional discourser -flops and waddles about in his own Utopia. He doesn’t crave understanding -but attention. As for truth, as for taking the pains to express his innermost -reactions to a subject, this is impossible. The discourser doesn’t know -what he thinks, doesn’t know what the truth is until he starts discoursing. -And then he discourses himself into a state of mind. I have heard him discourse -himself into the most startling convictions; into matrimony and out -of it into religion and out of it, into and out of every variety of damn-foolishness -imaginable. -</p> - -<p> -Persons who use written words instead of spoken words as the parents -of their thought suffer from the same hypnosis. But in writing this is commendable. -It is commendable for a writer to be insincere if he can be more -logical and enlightening as a result. The result may be <em>De Profundis</em> -or <em>Alice in Wonderland</em>. It is my notion that men are sincere only in their -<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> -appetites. A man craves food and woman and other stimulants with unquestionable -sincerity. But in the realm of thought I have arrived at the -conclusion that sincerity is an inspired and not inspiring condition of the -mind. -</p> - -<p> -I am sick of the blaa-blaaing hordes, from the smirking “supes” of the -let’s-adjourn-to-the-other-room species to the simpering cacophonists of the -<a id="corr-18"></a>Schöngeist nobility. -</p> - -<p> -I am sick of the open mouths, the trailing sentences dying from weakness, -the painstaking use of wrong words and the painstaking use of correct -words; of the stagnated humor of deodorous sallies. -</p> - -<p> -I am sick of the Argumentatives, people with an irritating command of -phrases, who balance paradoxes on their noses and talk backwards or upside -down with equal lucidity; who must be contradicted or they suffer; who -rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical <a id="corr-19"></a>sub-cellar they can -ferret out in order to be startling; who shriek and howl and wail and protest -and—the Devil take them—tell the truth and make it impossible to believe. -Their only reason for talking is to impress. They are as noisy as cannon -and as effective as firecrackers. -</p> - -<p> -I am sick of the delicate, searching souls who prick themselves with -their own words, who operate on fly specks, who grope and search and -struggle for fine and truthful things, who deal in verbal shadings intelligible -only to themselves—and then not for what they said but for what they meant -to say or desired to say or wouldn’t say for the world. -</p> - -<p> -I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who dissect, <a id="corr-20"></a>who -vivisect and auto-sect. -</p> - -<p> -I am sick most of all of my own talk. But I continue to talk. I talk -out of boredom and manage only to increase it. I talk out of vanity and -spread disillusionment. I talk out of love and have to apologize. A victim -of habit, I continue speaking, although I know the spoken word is the -true medium of misunderstanding. Words, words, they keep tumbling -out of my mouth and blowing away like dust before the wind. A pock on -them. -</p> - -<p> -There have been revolutions in literature, authors have changed the -size and construction of the novel, publishers have changed the color of their -bindings, poets have changed the form of their poetry and the essence of -its style, thinkers even have altered slightly the trend of their thought. -Music, painting, decorating, carving—everything changes with time except -talk, which only increases. What a staggering illustration of the theory that -it is only the weak things which survive. For talk is the commonest of -weaknesses. Blaa, blaa, blaa—why not a revolution? What ails the radicals? -Do they not realize that the time is ripe? They have changed the -moral forms, the literary forms, why not the spoken forms? Why not a substitution -of expressive grunts and whoops and growls and chuckles and -groans and gurgles and whees and wows? Or is this matter one not for -the radical but for -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -“The Scavenger.” -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THENINEEXHIBIT"> -<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> -The Nine!—Exhibit! -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">S</span><span class="postfirstchar">ometime</span> in the winter a rumor got about that nine artists of Chicago -were to form themselves into a group and hold an independent exhibition. -</p> - -<p> -At once the other artists were divided into two factions, those who -jeered and those who applauded, those who said unpleasant things and those -who had the enduring hope that at last something better was to be done in -our exhibitions. -</p> - -<p> -The Great Nine, as the group began to be called—whether by themselves -or by others, it matters not: the phrase is a handicap—consists of -Frederic C. Bartlett, William Penhallow Henderson, Lawton Parker, Karl -Albert Buehr, Louis Betts, Charles Francis Browne, Ralph Clarkson, Wilson -Irvine, and Oliver Dennett Grover. They were too generous in their number. -Five, and there would have been no comment; nine, and there was aroused -indignation, criticism, and a “show us” spirit which should have put the -Nine on their mettle and made them give a stunning and silencing show. -</p> - -<p> -On May thirteenth, after one postponement when expectation was tense, -the exhibition opened. What had we? A new setting and old stuff! -</p> - -<p> -One of the East Galleries had been chosen. William P. Henderson -designed and executed the room. He made a piece of work having faults -but being the best thing about the exhibition, a contribution in itself. The -walls with their subtle color, divided into spaces by pilasters of deep wistaria, -red, and gold, rising on slender stems and blossoming out above; the -screen of red at one end with the Zettler torso against it—they complimented -themselves upon using this; the beautiful vases; and the green of the trees -made a room too obtrusive for pictures, or one in which pictures are intrusive. -</p> - -<p> -Were the setting less self-sufficient, still there are many things to be -said. The sophisticated, almost exotic, color of the walls, emphasizing in -the work of some all that is crude and materialistic in execution or interpretation, -makes their work appear to less advantage than would the usual -bleak gallery. And why so many pictures? Why not one picture in each -space and that the best each artist could offer? How much more satisfactory -the room would then be. Anyone who follows exhibitions will agree -that each exhibitor has shown better work at other times. -</p> - -<p> -Frederic Bartlett’s group is in many ways the best, and holds its own -in the room. Surpassingly beautiful in color are Mr. Henderson’s things. -The little nude is exquisite, but he should not easily be forgiven his portrait -of Florence Bradley, even if it is not meant as a character study. However, -he is one of the artists who can do more than put paint on canvas. -He can make Art in many ways, as men did in the “high white days” of art. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> -The artists themselves have seen from this first effort wherein they -have failed. This grouping must have been a very arbitrary one. Let us -hope that a group founded on mutual endeavor and on equal ability will -continue the effort to make our exhibitions comparable in some degree with -the best European efforts. -</p> - -<p> -Chicago has now so many artists that it is impossible for them all to -be gathered into the old Chicago Society. There should be many societies. -Competition and co-operation among them would make the art life here less -anemic and super-sensitive and bigoted. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">R.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="BOOKDISCUSSION"> -Book Discussion -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEAPOTHEOSISOFPETTINESS"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Apotheosis of Pettiness</span> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>One Man, by Robert Steele. -New York: Mitchell Kennerley.</em> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar"><span class="prefirstchar">“</span>T</span><span class="postfirstchar">here</span> 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”—from -Ben Hecht’s “Phosphorescent Gleams” in the May <span class="smallcaps">Little Review</span>. -I have pondered over this maxim while reading Mr. Steele’s novel which -is hailed by the critics as “the essence of America.” The hero is essentially -American, horribly so. If the “average” type of any nation is repulsive, -the American “Average” is a thousandfold more so. For he is more petty -than vicious. The “one man” gives a confession of his life, full of puny -deeds, from committing petty larceny to “picking up” a girl in the street -and taking her to a “swell” hotel. The nauseating details have the flavor -of the adventure stories which you may hear at a gathering of travelling -salesmen in a provincial hotel lobby. What makes the boring Odyssey intolerably -loathsome is its note of syrupy Christian penitence which the hero -expresses after each penny-crime by falling on his knees and praying to -his convenient god for forgiveness. -</p> - -<p> -The book has been hailed as a masterpiece. It is as far from a masterpiece -as a lewd “photo” is from art. The facts may be true, even autobiographical, -as some critics presume; the confessions will furnish good -material for Billy Sunday and his lesser brethren. But photography, even -if it be pornography, is not art. Let me quote the ever-new Edgar Poe: -“Art is the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the -veil of the soul. The mere imitation, however accurate, of what <em>is</em> in Nature, -<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> -entitles no man to the sacred name of ‘Artist.’ ... We can, at any -time, double the true beauty of an actual landscape by half closing our -eyes as we look at it. The naked Senses sometimes see too little—but then -<em>always</em> they see too much.” I blush at the necessity of digging up ancient -truths, but, my dear friends, read the reviews of Mr. Steele’s novel and you -will admit with me the crying need of teaching the American critics the -A-B-C of art. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="ICYOLYMPUSANDTHEBURNINGBUSH"> -<span class="smallcaps">Icy Olympus and the Burning Bush</span> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Need for Art in Life, by I. B. Stoughton Holborn. -New York: G. Albert Shaw.</em> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Spirit of Japanese Art, by Yone Noguchi. -New York: E. P. Dutton and Company.</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The complete man must consist of three essential fundamentals—the -Artistic, the Intellectual, the Moral (mark the initials: aim!); man’s aim -should be the full expression of his tripartite nature; he must not leave out -any of the three sides, nor develop any one at the expense of the rest. Unfortunately -our age has achieved only two-thirds of the diagram, the I and -the M, remaining wretchedly poor in the A part. When we look back we -find that in the Renaissance period the A and I were overdeveloped, with -the total lack of the M side. The Middle Ages present the presence of A -and M and the absence of I. It is the Greek ideal we must look for in our -endeavor for the complete expression of man. The Greek gentleman, the -καλος κάγαθος, the reserved, the moderately good, the not excessively just, -the harmonious, the symmetrical—he shall be our standard, our criterion -for the completeness of being. Is not Mr. Holborn clever and Olympian -and icy-cold? -</p> - -<p> -Now listen: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -The evening had already passed when I returned home with -that hanging of Koyetsu’s chirography under my arm. “Put all -the gaslights out! Do you hear me? All the gaslights out! And -light all the candles you have!” I cried. The little hanging was -properly hanged at the “togonoma” when the candles were lighted, -whose world-old soft flame (wasn’t it singing the old song of -world-wearied heart?) allured my mind back, perhaps, to Koyetsu’s -age of four hundred years ago—to imagine myself to be a -waif of greyness like a famous tea-master, Rikiu or Enshu or, -again, Koyetsu, burying me in a little Abode of Fancy with a boiling -tea-kettle; through that smoke of candles hurrying like our -ephemeral lives, the characters of Koyetsu’s writing loomed with -the haunting charm of a ghost. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -It is painful for me to stop quoting the religious ravings of dear -Noguchi. And all this pathos is about a bit of old Japanese writing! I can -<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> -see the indignant Mr. Holborn’s moderate condemnation of the Oriental’s -unreserved passion, canting the cold-beautiful Μηδὲν ἄγαν (nothing -in excess). But, O forgive me, Olympian gods, I must come back to the -Burning Bush where Yone Noguchi worships Hashimoro, Hiroshige, -Kyosai, Tsukioka, Utamaro, and other such rhythmical names; I am aware -of the abyss of excess that yawns before me, but the exotic wine is so luring, -so intoxicating, the call of the Orient is so irresistible—I plunge: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -I will lay me down whenever I want to beautifully admire -Utamaro and spend half an hour with his lady (“Today I am with -her in silence of twilight eve, and am afraid she may vanish into -the mist”), in the room darkened by the candle-light (it is the -candle-light that darkens rather than lights); every book or picture -of Western origin (perhaps except a few reprints from Rossetti or -Whistler, which would not break the atmosphere altogether) should -be put aside. How can you place together in the same room -Utamaro’s women, for instance, with Millet’s pictures or Carpenter’s -<em>Towards Democracy</em>? The atmosphere I want to create should -be most impersonal, not touched or scarred by the sharpness of -modern individualism or personality, but eternally soft and grey; -under the soft grey atmosphere you would expect to see the sudden -swift emotion of love, pain or joy of life, that may come any -moment or may not come at all. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -I recall an evening at “The Vagabonds,” where some ultra-modern -paintings were exhibited and bravely discussed. An idiotic friend of mine -suggested that the Vagabonds pass an evening in contemplating the canvasses -in absolute silence. The obliging chairman, who is a fair parliamentarian, -had the suggestion voted upon with the result of one vote in favor -of it. I recall that evening in connection with Noguchi’s lines about Koyetsu: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -What need there be but prayer and silence? There is nothing -more petty, even vulgar, in the grey world of art and poetry, -than to have a too-close attachment to life and physical surroundings; -if our Orientalism may not tell you anything much, I think -it will teach you at least to soar out of your trivialism. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -I refuse to say any more about the book, for I am tempted to quote him -all the way through. If you wish to forget yourself and your environment, -to melt away in the unreal atmosphere of Japanese prints—read Yone -Noguchi’s little book. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THESLAVINCONRAD"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Slav in Conrad</span> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Victory, by Joseph Conrad. -New York: Doubleday, Page and Company.</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The Slavs are not adventurous people in the Western sense of the word; -for the most part an inland race spread over the great monotonous Plain, -<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> -they are inclined for melancholy introspective searchings and spiritual -struggles rather than for actual physical adventures. Their writers need -not create for their heroes an atmosphere of dizzying stunts and elemental -cataclysms; they find sufficient dramatic “plot” in the soul experiences of -the restless yearning men and women who dwell not on a South Sea island -but in ordinary cities and villages, fighting their human fights, wrestling -with God and man, gaining their ephemeral victories, but more often suffering -defeats. Yet, despite their lack of adventurousness, the stories of the -Russian and Polish writers, from Dostoevsky to Kuprin and from Orzezsko -to Zeromsky, have seldom caused a yawn in their reader. -</p> - -<p> -The checkered life of Conrad has placed a distinct stamp upon his -works, distinct from both the writers of his race and from the Western -writers. We observe a dualism in his art, an eternal collision between fact -and fiction, between realism and symbolism. His inborn Slavic mysticism -is weighed down by the ballast of his rich experiences, and he continually -wavers between the Scylla of lyric melancholy and the Charybdis of picturesque -plot, preserving the equilibrium at times more and at times less skilfully. -The reader thus finds in Conrad that which he is after. For my -part, I am rather distracted by the over-complex plot of <em>Victory</em>; I should -much prefer to meet Heyst and Lena in less dizzy surroundings, for then -the interesting psychology of the quaint lovers would appear accentuated, -like the flame of a candle, and would not be blurred by a pyrotechnic mass -of startling coincidences and marvellous adventures. The atmosphere of -Doom that breathes throughout the story is reduced in the end to a sensational -Eugène Sue-like climax—a heap of dead bodies. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="SICKIDEALISM"> -SICK IDEALISM -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Erdgeist (Earth-Spirit): A Tragedy in Four Acts; Pandora’s Box, by Frank -Wedekind. New York: Albert and Charles Boni.</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Poor, foolish Frank Wedekind. Hapless Idealist. Luckless dreamer. -Have you read <em>Der Erdgeist</em> and <em>Pandora’s Box</em>? He wrote them—this -enfevered fancier. In two kindred flashes of madness he illuminated several -hundred sheets of paper and out of them—out of their blood-shot words -and illegitimate truths—a new figure is born for the bookshelf. Not an old -figure in new binding and fresh rouge. Not a Lescaut or a Thaïs or a -Nana. This mocking idealist of virtue removes indeed the eighth veil from -Salome. He hurls into the midst of the twittering parlor thinkers and sex -chatterers a most disturbing answer to the eternal question, “What is woman?” -It didn’t disturb me because I don’t believe it. And anyway, I don’t -mean that kind of disturbance. I mean, virtuous reader, it is impossible to -consume Wedekind without blushing. If you were disappointed in Shakespeare -and Balzac and Casanova and Jacques Tournebrouche and could find -<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a> -nothing to blush at in them, do not despair. Here is a fellow, this Wedekind, -who will daub a real blush out of a rouge pot, a miserable fellow -whom you can condemn and ostracize and, having relegated him to his -proper place, enjoy thoroughly or secretly or not at all. -</p> - -<p> -It was Wedekind who first made people blush by a tasteless dissertation -on the ignorant smugness recognized by society as the proper state -for a young woman’s mind. He called it <em>Spring’s Awakening</em>. It was -chiefly instrumental in awakening theatrical writers and managers. They -spread the blush at $2 a head and waxed fat. But how did they spread -the blush? Did they talk like Wedekind did? Did the mawkish plagiarist -Cosmo Hamilton talk like Wedekind—tastelessly, vilely, brutally, and—horrors!—indelicately? -Not he. Mr. Hamilton and the other get-rich-quick -propagandists wouldn’t talk that way for the world. They are nice -gentlemen. Not for them the idealist’s leer. Rather the bathroom wink. -They will reveal a delicious girl in her delicious boudoir wearing a delicious -nightie. They will make her out a virtuous girl, charmingly endowed but -utterly stainless. -</p> - -<p> -Having established this fact they roguishly introduce into her boudoir -an estimable young man and permit him to caress her dramatically. But -the whole proceeding is stainless. It is drolly suggestive of unspeakable -things—see box office receipts. But suggestiveness is necessary to bring -home to people the blindness of virtue and the dangers that beset the underpaid -young women who ignorantly make it its own reward—(if that means -anything). Anyway, when the audience leaves it has been enlightened. -Its taste has not been offended. Virtue has been shown to be a dangerous -thing—that is, uneducated virtue has. Everyone agrees. And if not they -disagree. In either case the discussion properly conducted (under the -auspices of the “Amalgamated Virgins of the 21st and 22nd Wards”) is -pleasing and improving. The press argues delicately and in good taste -about sex hygiene. A new physiology is placed in the public schools containing -information on the most effective way of brushing the teeth of the -young and preserving the hair of the old. -</p> - -<p> -And last week Coroner Hoffman told me that it was impossible to estimate -how many girls were killed annually in Chicago by abortive operations. -He put the number in the hundreds. Hooray! Death is the wages -of sin. -</p> - -<p> -But all quibbling aside, what does this low fellow Wedekind whom I -started out by calling an idealist (I will prove it shortly) do? To begin -with, he talks about sex. Not about stockings and undergarments and -perfumed kisses, ankles, asterisks and anomalies. Everyone knows that -this kind of talk, particularly when produced in drama form, is in the first -place inexcusable, and in the second place unnecessary, and in the third -place vulgar. And in the fourth place, instead of making the best of a bad -job—that is, making his contributions a mental stimulus for snickering roués -and ladies sensitive of their status—he insists upon being nasty without -<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a> -being covert. Is there anything more unpardonable? Nobody can enjoy -nastiness. The argument is an endless one. It leads to nothing except -blows or blushes. -</p> - -<p> -As for the plays—I almost forgot I was reviewing them—Wedekind -explodes volcanically on the subject he treats, and blows the question mark -out of woman. He takes all the crimes a policeman ever heard of, rolls -them up in a package of soft warm flesh and labels it “Woman.” He -cracks his showman’s whip and calls attention to the texture of her skin -and the white meat of her body. And then he sends her forth to ruin, to -sweep like a polluted and wreck-strewn wave through life, breaking at last -in a dirty crest on a foreign shore and leaving a scum behind her. Are -these the worst things Wedekind could find to label woman—incest, butchery, -lecherous animalism, bloody business and abandonment? Who but a -sick idealist would pick a careless and care-free prostitute as a flaming example -of woman at her worst? And is the power to destroy the most terrible -power woman possesses? -</p> - -<p> -Wedekind imagines that people idealize sex and hold it a beautiful -force. Poor Wedekind, where did he get such an idea? And then he -imagines that in reality sex passion is a smashing force that knocks people -into each other’s arms, tumbles their heavens, smears their lives. He -imagines that men and women love without thought, mate with the irresponsibility -of hyenas. And imagining all this Wedekind creates a sort -of droll fiend to prove it. Behold her—a creature to confound saints and -sinners, to tear the beauty out of men’s souls and dance with muddied feet -upon the finery of life. He dangles her before our eyes, naked and glorious—the -diseased siren of the ages. And he calls her Lulu, the earth spirit. -</p> - -<p> -He introduces her fresh and joyous and vibrating with tabooed emotions. -She is in love with her own beauty. Her body thrills her with its -whiteness and its movement. She already has felt its power. Were I in -these plays I would as soon think of kissing Lulu as biting a stick of dynamite. -But I am not an ideal conception. There are other men—Wedekind -digs them up from every corner of life—who fall at her feet and who shoot -each other and themselves for the sake of being contaminated by her -caresses. Queer men, idealists. They tumble about her, whining, cursing, -chanting, forswearing their Gods, their souls and their vanities. -</p> - -<p> -And she tumbles with them, from one precipice down to another, faithful -only to her nervous system. Her only virtue is a complete absence of -the quality. If only Wedekind had invested her with a single human moral -conviction—merely for the sake of completing her diabolically. If only -he had made it possible for her to sin against something. But she hasn’t -anything to sin against—not a conviction, not a moral. In this country -she would be tried for her murders and treasons and sent to an asylum for -incomplete people. What she does she does simply. When this hussy -kills the father who owned her in order to save herself from his threats -and then throws herself laughingly into the arms of the son, she does it all -<a id="page-50" class="pagenum" title="50"></a> -without malice. It is all natural, spontaneous. When she rebukes her own -father for making love to her (she tells him he’s getting too old for such -tricks), when she murders, deceives and pollutes she hasn’t any feeling of -doing wrong, any reaction except one of satisfaction. If this isn’t an ideal -I’d like to know what is. If everybody was like she is there would be no -sorrow or suffering in the world. We would all be simple animals dashing -around, biting each other, drinking from each other’s throats, feeling pain -only when our nerves were touched and joy only when our nerves were -touched. Wedekind imagines that this state is the true reflection of today. -He exaggerates what according to his experience may be a logical prejudice -and hurls it brutally behind the footlights and into the bookcase. -</p> - -<p> -Lulu, bedraggled, walking the streets of London in the rain, looking -for prey, Lulu wheedling quarters out of ragged sensualists, hiding her -father and her lover and the woman who desires her while she “entertains” -her victims, Lulu spreading disease, and then Lulu running wildly around -the dirty garret in her chemise pursued and killed by a red-eyed, nail-bitten -Jack the Ripper—that is the end of woman. Poor Wedekind. What an -exaggerated opinion of virtue he must have,—an idealist’s. There is but -one more thing. It is Wedekind’s master stroke. -</p> - -<p> -He introduces a note of unselfishness and poetry as a climax. Lulu -lies stabbed by the delighted and enthusiastic Ripper. And kneeling before -the picture of her in her hey-dey is the “Countess,” the woman who loved -her—a homo-sexualist—an irritating creature. -</p> - -<p> -“I love you, you are the star in my heavens,” she cries purely. I don’t -remember whether the Ripper kills her or not. <em>What a mess!</em> -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">B. H.</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section blank" id="subchap-0-0-1" title="Rabindranath Tagore: A Biographical Study, by Ernest Rhys"> -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Rabindranath Tagore: A Biographical Study, by Ernest Rhys.</em> -<em>New York: The Macmillan Company.</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Shrill Chicago and thousands of similar examples of Western civilization -have more to learn from a book of this sort than can be readily explained. -Taking Chicago as fairly representative of the swiftest modernity, one -must blush for the city of “I Will” whenever he picks up Ernest Rhys’s keen -and quiet study of the talked-about Hindu. The blushes are for the vast -herds whose only ventures upon new paths are to trample and set back, -whose only ideals center in or near the stomach. In the white light of -this book—reflected radiance from a first-magnitude luminary—Chicago -and her kind appear as blundering heedless egotists who never listen. Their -ears have not developed, their eyes are turned to the ground. “I Will”—what? -To grow strong, high-minded, clean of heart, and wise of soul? -Anything but this. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-51" class="pagenum" title="51"></a> -Tagore, by his very tolerance and avoidance of condemnation, seems -vehemently to remind the thinker of all this—by force of the law of contrast. -The clear-eyed Easterner even points out a scant virtue or two in -Western civilization, such as the value of mastering materials, which the -Westerner himself overlooks when in self-defense; and no blame is placed -on the feverish civilizees. Tagore moves in a state of peace which is the -very essence of activity, and has no part in the fanatics’ plan which begins -with lassitude and ends in stagnation. He is a man of action, forceful, -definite, wasting no energy nor sparing the use of it. Modern methods of -doing things and “getting there” become mere feeble noises by comparison. -This is not the tragedy, that Westerners blunder and fail,—the East has -its failures,—but it lies in the fact that America arrogantly chooses not to -listen, not to see and learn. A few scattered listeners must catch the harmonies -intended for a whole nation, the majority having been sophisticated -to extinction. The herds in Chicago and elsewhere will go on indefinitely -in their own swaggering way, blind and deaf, sure beyond correction that -the chief desirability lies in digestion, decoration, and diversion ... -while Rabindranath Tagore and the beautiful element he personifies are -ever-present, waiting within reach of all, working out the biggest things in -the world, and living the last word of true joy. -</p> - -<p> -Ernest Rhys is very gentle and sparing in making comparisons. He -leaves this to his reader, and is mainly occupied with the re-creation of the -steady magnetic atmosphere which is a natural attribute of Tagore. The -paragraphs devoted to the boys’ school at Bolpur give one a feeling of -something lost, at least to those who thirsted through the schools of the -U. S. Rhys is successful in giving out an excellent idea of the great man -and his works. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Herman Schuchert.</span> -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -Militarism is the German spirit. -</p> - -<p> -Militarism is the self-revelation of German heroism. -</p> - -<p> -Militarism is the heroic spirit raised to the spirit of -war. It is Potsdam and Weimar in their highest combination. -It is <em>Faust</em> and <em>Zarathustra</em> and Beethoven’s -score in the trenches. -</p> - -<p> -For even the <em>Eroica</em> and the <em>Egmont</em> Overture are -nothing but the truest militarism. And just because all -virtues which lend such a high value to militarism are -revealed to the fullest extent in war, we are filled with -militarism, regarding it as something holy—as the holiest -thing on earth—<em>Werner Zombart</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="HAVEYOUREAD"> -<a id="page-52" class="pagenum" title="52"></a> -Have You Read——? -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>In this column will be given each month -a list of current magazine articles which, as an -intelligent being, you will not want to miss.</em>) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> Imagist Number of <em>The Egoist</em>, May 1. -</p> - -<p> -H. D. and Imagism, by May Sinclair. <em>The Egoist</em>, June 1. -</p> - -<p> -Redemption and Dostoevsky, by Rebecca West. <em>The New Republic</em>, June 5. -</p> - -<p> -Back of Billy Sunday, by John Reed. <em>The Metropolitan</em>, May. -</p> - -<p> -The Old Woman’s Money, by James Stephens. <em>The Century</em>, May. -</p> - -<p> -Quack Novels and Democracy, by Owen Wister. <em>The Atlantic</em>, June. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="CANYOUREAD"> -Can You Read——? -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>In this column will be given each month a -resumé of current cant which, as an intelligent -being, you will go far to avoid.</em>) -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">F</span><span class="postfirstchar">iction</span> reviews by Llewellyn Jones in <em>The Chicago Evening Post</em>. -</p> - -<p> -A typical literary judgment from <em>The Dial</em>: “But, in the main, his -wholesomely harsh utterances ought to be, and must be, in some degree, -tonic and bracing and curative.” -</p> - -<p> -An editorial from <em>The New Republic</em>, a journal of opinion whose function, -we believe, is to circulate ideas: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -During the past ten months the German Ambassador -at Washington has done nothing to promote a better -understanding between his own government and nation -and the American government and nation. He is consequently -all the more to be congratulated upon his behavior -at a moment of acute and dangerous contention -between the United States and Germany. He has on his -own initiative and perhaps at his own risk intervened on -behalf of a possibly peaceful solution of the differences -between the two governments. He has sought by means -of a frank talk with President Wilson to break through -the barrier of misunderstanding which the exchange of -notes was building up between the two governments and -to re-establish a genuine vehicle of communication. The -conversation may not lead to agreement, but at the top -of a peculiarly forbidding crisis it has at least made an -agreement seem not impossible. Everybody who detests -war, everybody who hopes that the friendship between -the United States and Germany will not be involved -in the wreckage of the hideous conflict, will be grateful -to Count von Bernstorff for his enterprise. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC"> -<a id="page-53" class="pagenum" title="53"></a> -The Reader Critic -</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="letters"> -<p class="from"> -<em>Mrs. Jean Cowdrey Norton, Hempstead, Long Island</em>: -</p> - -<p> -Since coming in contact with <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> last December, I have more than -enjoyed each issue with your own impulsive, warm-hearted, dauntless personality -coming through its pages; and it is for that reason I do not hesitate to ask you for -an explanation of a sentence that you wrote in the April number, which led me to -subscribe for that horrible output, viz., <em>The Masses</em>. You pronounced it indispensable -to intelligent living. On that I sent in a subscription, and whereas I am not so awfully -stupid I cannot understand how you, who are evidently an artist with high ideals, -could possibly have such a magazine on your desk. The cartoons are so untrue, so -damnably vulgar,—which good art never is,—the insistent harping on the shadows of -life, the exaggerated outlook which tinges the whole paper—quite as one-sided on its -side as other papers are on theirs; all of which I know must be in complete contradiction -to your self. It fills me with astonishment. We acknowledge with our ever-increasing -complex civilization that we must more than ever perhaps help each other; -but I don’t just understand which class this perfectly rotten sheet is intended to reach. -If it’s the so-called down trodden, they are apt to have so much unhappiness any way -I should say a good brace up does more good than harping on injustice in general; -as for the class that “does not think,” its inartistic drawings alone would be enough -to queer it. When I am down and out—I happen to be a working woman too—I most -decidedly <em>do not</em> want to be made more down and out by more woes, that often spring -from lack of intelligence, that both rich and poor suffer alike from. You will see I -believe in the responsibility of the individual, that you Socialists rather avoid. I do -not expect you to answer this letter, but I shall look in <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> for a -stray line that will give me some idea of your outlook. -</p> - -<p class="note"> -[I have so much to say in answer to this letter, and -so little time to say it that I have asked someone who -shares my view to do it for me. Mr. Davis says it -much better than I could, anyhow. And I must add that -I am not a Socialist. I am an Anarchist—which means, -an Individualist; which means everything that people -think it doesn’t mean.—<em>The Editor.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="from"> -<em>F. Guy Davis, Chicago</em>: -</p> - -<p> -I will try to indicate very briefly why I think so much of <em>The Masses</em>. The group -that is getting it out are real students who know the crowd with all its hope and -despair, much better than the crowd knows itself. They are interpreting the crowd. -The mass would never like <em>The Masses</em>. It is too true. It is not got up for them. -<em>The Cosmopolitan</em> is the ideal of the mass. <em>The Masses</em> is for the few brave spirits -who want to know life as it is, the shadows as well as the flights up into the sunshine. -<em>The Masses</em> to my mind has as broad a range of feeling reflected in its pages as any -magazine I know of. Humor, tragedy, light, shade, drama, color, yes, and mud too, -as you say. But isn’t mud a part of life? In some respects mud is the condition of -life. The great need of the sensitive mind of today is contact with the vital life-giving -things and ideas which come from the earth. The life of such a mind is like -the life of a plant. Its roots must go down beneath the surface or it will die. <em>The -Masses</em> to my mind is the spirit of the earth put into magazine form, and to read it -understandingly is to put the roots of the soul down into the earth where they should -be if a healthy growth is desired. One could get too much of that contact of course, -but that is another matter. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="FREEPOETSVFREEVERSE"> -<a id="page-54" class="pagenum" title="54"></a> -<em>FREE POETS v. FREE VERSE.</em> -</h3> - -<p class="note"> -[As Mr. Carter suggests in the following letter, reprinted -from <em>The Egoist</em>, I hope <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -agree with Mr. Aldington’s point of view. I hope the latter -may be induced to answer Mr. Carter at length in the -same issue.—<em>The Editor.</em>] -</p> - -<p class="from"> -<em>To the Editor, The Egoist</em> -</p> - -<p> -Madam,—I notice that in his contribution to the Imagist number of <em>The Egoist</em> -Mr. Harold Monro, writing on the history of the Imagist movement, states that the -movement owes its origin to the large discovery of “Poetry as <em>an</em> art” [my italics]. -He then proceeds to point out that the Imagist verse fails as poetry not because the -writers love poetry less, but because they love expression more. Being what it is it -would be no better if Tennyson had written it, and no worse if it proved to be by, say, -Mr. Rudyard Kipling. Indeed, it is not poetry any more than little Congreve’s tiresome -stream of depreciation is comedy, despite what certain hopeless apprentice play -critics assert to the contrary. Poetry, I suppose Mr. Monro would say, is not expression -but the thing expressed. All this is good and true. But Mr. Monro fails to -make one thing quite clear. The Imagists have been mistaken in their very conception -of poetry which lives alone by the power to see it as Art and not as “<em>an art</em>.” I am -convinced that some at least of the Imagists are not without the secret of this power, -and if they will be guided by the vision they gain thereby, to the extent of forgetting -their literary erudition, it will transform their conception of poetry. The strict literature -at which they aim is not proper poetry. In fact, literary technicians do not, as a -rule, write poetry for the simple reason that even if they dream the poet’s dream of -reality they at once proceed to smother it under literary form. We must look to those -rich in poetical experience, and free to express it, for the true expression of poetry. In -plain words, “Poetry as <em>an</em> art” (that is, as expression or form) is not the same as -Poetry as Art (that is, the thing expressed). The distinction is so big and vital and -so necessary to be maintained at this moment, that I propose to consider it in an article -in <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. I hope to prove that what poetry needs nowadays is free -poets, not free verse. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps"><a id="corr-28"></a>Huntly Carter.</span> -</p> - -<p class="note"> -[As the nearest available Imagist, perhaps I may be permitted to comment (without -prejudice to the other Imagists) on Mr. Carter’s letter. I am not quite sure that I -know what Mr. Carter means, but I think he means that it is useless for a man to -study classic quantity and mediaeval rhyme and modern free verse, if he has no particular -impulse or mood to make those studies valuable as a means of expression. If -that is what Mr. Carter means I agree with him. I will also agree that it is useless -to try and teach a dumb man to lecture or a lame man to break the hundred yards -record. If a man is to lecture, if he is to be an athlete, we take for granted that in -the first case he has ideas and a certain eloquence, and in the second a good physique -and an aptitude for sprinting. Mr. Carter would be a rotten trainer if he didn’t make -his man diet, take cold baths and long walks and an occasional sprint; he ought even -to make him do a little boxing. I feel, somehow, that Mr. Carter never went in for -violent exercise or that he relied upon his “Soul-Flow” or “Art-Ebb” to get him -through. -</p> - -<p class="note"> -Now poetry is not so very unlike athletics. You may have no aptitude for it, -and then all the training in the world won’t get you in first; you may shape very well, -but if you don’t train you will be an “also ran.” I believe in having an aptitude and -in training it; Mr. Carter believes in having an aptitude and not training it. -</p> - -<p class="note"> -<a id="page-55" class="pagenum" title="55"></a> -I object to Mr. Carter informing us of the existence of our “of courses.” We -take for granted that a man is sincere, that he has lots of impulses and that he is -“free.” All that is the stuff out of which poetry is made. The making of it, the -“training” is what we are immediately interested in. We take for granted that we -have the essentials of poetry in us or we should not attempt to write it. We are now -after clarity of form, precision of expression. Mr. Carter, like the majority of our -fellow citizens, does not value these things; we find them present in every work of -art which is beautiful and permanently interesting; hence our anxiety to attain by -practice that clarity and that precision which practice alone can give.] -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">Richard Aldington.</span> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -If only every Celt will refuse to fight for anything -but the freedom of his own country, the English will -soon destroy themselves altogether, and we shall inherit -their language, the only worthy thing they have, and -which their newspapers have not yet succeeded in debauching -and degrading beyond repair. There are still -universities in England. However, they have made it a -crime in England to write good English—for style itself -is a form of truth, being beauty; and truth and beauty -are as welcome in England as detectives in a thieves’ -kitchen.—Aleister Crowley in <em>The International</em>. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -THE DRAMA -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -for May Contained This Interesting Material -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE CLASSICAL STAGE OF JAPAN -Ernest Fenollosa’s Work on the Japanese “Noh.” Edited -by Ezra Pound. -</p> - -<p class="c"> -“Noh” Dramas (from the Fenollosa Manuscript). -</p> - - <div class="c"> -<p class="ib u"> -Sotoba Komachi.<br /> -Kayoi Komachi.<br /> -Suma Genji.<br /> -Kumasaka.<br /> -Shojo.<br /> -Tamura.<br /> -Tsunemasa.<br /> -Kunasaka. -</p> - - </div> -<p class="adb"> -THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF THE CENSORSHIP, by <em>Thomas H. Dickinson</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -MAURICE MAETERLINCK by <em>Remy de Gourmont</em> -Authorized translation by Richard Aldington. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE “BOOK OF THE PAGEANT,” AND ITS DEVELOPMENT by <em>Frank Chouteau Brown</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -ON THE READING OF PLAYS by <em>Elizabeth R. Hunt</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -A PYRAMUS-AND-THISBE PLAY OF SHAKESPEARE’S -TIME, with notes by <em>Eleanor Prescott Hammond</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE PUBLISHED PLAY by <em>Archibald Henderson</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE THEATRE TODAY—AND TOMORROW, a review, by <em>Alice Corbin Henderson</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE GERMAN STAGE AND ITS ORGANIZATION—Part -III, Private Theatres by <em>Frank E. Washburn Freund</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -ASPECTS OF MODERN DRAMA, a review, by <em>Lander MacClintock</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -THE JAPANESE PLAY OF THE CENTURIES by <em>Gertrude Emerson</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -A SELECTIVE LIST OF ESSAYS AND BOOKS ABOUT -THE THEATRE AND OF PLAYS, published during the -first quarter of 1915 compiled by <em>Frank Chouteau Brown</em> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Drama</span> for August will contain Augier’s <em>Mariage -d’Olympe</em>, with a foreword by Eugene Brieux; an amusing account -of his experiences with Parsee drama, by George Cecil; a -paper on the <em>Evolution of the Actor</em>, by Arthur Pollock; a discussion -of Frank Wedekind, by Frances Fay; a review of the -work of the recent Drama League Convention; a plan for an -autumn community festival; an outline of the nation-wide celebration -of the Shakespeare tercentenary, and an article entitled -<em>Depersonalizing the Instruments of the Drama</em>, by Huntly Carter. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="u fl ade"> -<em>The Drama, a Quarterly</em><br /> -<em>$3.00 per year</em> -</p> - -<p class="u fr ade"> -<em>736 Marquette Building</em><br /> -<em>Chicago</em> -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-56" class="pagenum" title="56"></a> - <div class="smallbox"> -<p> -The most difficult business in life is to -get advertisements for an “artistic” magazine—particularly -for one that has the added -stigma of being a free lance. We will give -a commission of $5.00 to every one who -secures a full-page “ad” for <span class="smallcaps">The Little -Review</span>. Write for particulars. -</p> - -<p> -On the following pages you will find the -“ads” we might have had in this issue, but -haven’t. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-57" class="pagenum" title="57"></a> - <div class="smallbox"> -<p> -Mandel Brothers might have taken this -page to feature their library furnishings, -desk sets, and accessories—of which they -are supposed to have the most interesting -assortment in town. I learned that on the -authority of some one who referred to -Mandel’s as “the most original and artistic -store in Chicago.” If they should advertise -those things here I have no doubt the -1,000 Chicago subscribers to <span class="smallcaps">The Little -Review</span> would overflow their store. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-58" class="pagenum" title="58"></a> - <div class="smallbox"> -<p> -Marshall Field and Company might have -used this page—but they wouldn’t. I have -been to see them at least six times. They -have a book department where you can -actually find Nietzsche when you want him -without having the clerk say, “We’ll be glad -to order it.” Such a phenomenon ought to -be heralded. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-59" class="pagenum" title="59"></a> - <div class="smallbox"> -<p> -Carson, Pirie, Scott and Company ought -to advertise something, though I don’t know -just what. The man I interviewed made -such a face when I told him we were “radical” -that I haven’t had the courage to go -back and pester him for the desired full-page. -The Carson-Pirie attitude toward -change of any sort is well-known—I think -they resent even having to keep pace with -the change in fashions. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-60" class="pagenum" title="60"></a> - <div class="smallbox"> -<p> -A. C. McClurg and Company could have -used this page to advantage. They have lots -of books to advertise and they ought to -want to advertise them in a Chicago magazine. -I am willing to wager that they will: -I plan to interview them once a week until -they succumb. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-61" class="pagenum" title="61"></a> - <div class="smallbox"> -<p> -There is least excuse of all for the Cable -Piano Company. They know what we -think of the Mason and Hamlin Piano and -they know, whether they advertise or not, -that we will keep on talking about it whenever -we feel like appreciating a beautiful -thing—which is rather often. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-62" class="pagenum" title="62"></a> - <div class="smallbox"> -<p> -This page might have been used very -profitably by Mr. Mitchell Kennerley to announce -the publication of a book of poems -by Florence Kiper Frank. I think it is to -be out this summer—though of course I -can’t pretend to give the details accurately, -not having been provided with the “ad.” -But <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> readers will want -the book nevertheless. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-63" class="pagenum" title="63"></a> -<div class="centerpic poetry fl"> -<img src="images/poetry.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - <div class="hidden"> -<p class="h2 adh"> -Poetry -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -A Magazine of Verse -</p> - - </div> -<p class="u fr b c"> -543 Cass Street<br /> -Chicago -</p> - -<p class="cb"> -<span class="smallcaps">Padraic Colum</span>, the distinguished Irish poet and lecturer, says: “POETRY -is the best magazine, by far, in the English language. We have nothing in -England or Ireland to compare with it.” -</p> - -<p> -William Marion Reedy, Editor of the St. Louis <em>Mirror</em>, says: “POETRY -has been responsible for the Renaissance in that art. You have done a great -service to the children of light in this country.” -</p> - -<p> -CAN YOU AFFORD TO DO WITHOUT SO IMPORTANT A MAGAZINE? -</p> - -<p> -POETRY publishes the best verse now being written in English, and its -prose section contains brief articles on subjects connected with the art, also reviews -of the new verse. -</p> - -<p> -POETRY has introduced more new poets of importance than all the other -American magazines combined, besides publishing the work of poets already distinguished. -</p> - -<p> -THE ONLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED EXCLUSIVELY TO THIS ART. -</p> - -<p> -SUBSCRIBE AT ONCE. A subscription to POETRY is the best way of -paying interest on your huge debt to the great poets of the past. It encourages -living poets to do for the future what dead poets have done for modern civilization, -for you. -</p> - -<p> -One year—12 numbers—U. S. A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65; foreign, $1.75 -(7 shillings). -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="u ade"> -POETRY<br /> -543 Cass Street, Chicago. -</p> - -<p class="u"> -Send POETRY for one year ($1.50 enclosed) beginning .........<br /> -.......................................................... to<br /> -Name ........................................................<br /> -Address ..................................................... -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-64" class="pagenum" title="64"></a> -<p class="h1 u adh"> -RADICAL<br /> -BOOK SHOP -</p> - - <div class="narrow"> -<hr /> - -<p> -Headquarters for the sale of -radical literature representing -all phases of libertarian -thought in religion, economics, -philosophy, also -revolutionary fiction, poetry -and drama. All current -radical newspapers and -magazines. -</p> - -<p class="u c"> -Mail orders promptly filled.<br /> -Send for catalogue. -</p> - -<hr /> - - </div> -<p class="u ade"> -<span class="larger">817½ North Clark Street</span><br /> -Chicago, Illinois -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-65" class="pagenum" title="65"></a> -<p> -If Civilization, Christianity, Governments, Education, and Culture have -failed to bring peace and well-being to humanity, isn’t it time for you to listen -to the message of Anarchy? -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Anarchism and Other Essays -</p> - -<p class="fl ada"> -By Emma Goldman -</p> - -<p class="fr adp"> -$1.00; postpaid $1.15 -</p> - -<p class="cb"> -With biographical sketch and twelve propaganda lectures showing the -attitude of Anarchism towards social questions—economics, politics, education, -and sex. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Social Significance of the -Modern Drama -</p> - -<p class="fl ada"> -By Emma Goldman -</p> - -<p class="fr adp"> -$1.00; postpaid $1.15 -</p> - -<p class="cb"> -A critical analysis of the Modern Drama in its relation to the social and -revolutionary tendencies of the age. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Prison Memoirs of An Anarchist -</p> - -<p class="fl ada"> -By Alexander Berkman -</p> - -<p class="fr adp"> -$1.25; postpaid $1.40 -</p> - -<p class="cb"> -A powerful human document discussing revolutionary psychology and -portraying prison life. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Selected Works -</p> - -<p class="fl ada"> -By Voltaireine de Cleyre -</p> - -<p class="fr adp"> -$1.00; postpaid $1.15 -</p> - -<p class="cb"> -America’s foremost literary rebel and Anarchist propagandist. Poems, -short stories and essays. -</p> - -<p class="fl adp"> -10c a copy -</p> - -<p class="fr adp"> -$1.00 a year -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Mother Earth Magazine -</p> - -<p class="cb c"> -Anarchist Monthly -</p> - -<p class="c"> -FOR SALE BY -</p> - -<p class="u s ade"> -<span class="larger">Mother Earth Publishing Association</span><br /> -20 East 125th Street, New York, New York -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-66" class="pagenum" title="66"></a> -<p class="h1 u adh"> -RADICAL<br /> -BOOK SHOP -</p> - - <div class="narrow"> -<hr /> - -<p> -Headquarters for the sale of -radical literature representing -all phases of libertarian -thought in religion, economics, -philosophy, also -revolutionary fiction, poetry -and drama. All current -radical newspapers and -magazines. -</p> - -<p class="u c"> -Mail orders promptly filled.<br /> -Send for catalogue. -</p> - -<hr /> - - </div> -<p class="u ade"> -<span class="larger">817½ North Clark Street</span><br /> -Chicago, Illinois -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="trnote chapter"> -<p class="transnote"> -Transcriber’s Notes -</p> - -<p> -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. -</p> - -<p> -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the -headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -<p> -In the poem <em><a href="#LESCONDOLYYANCES">Les Condoléances</a></em>, the line -<em><a href="#line">Qu’il est sous les mers</a></em> -was moved from the end of the stanza beginning with -<em><a href="#stanza1">“Je n’insiste pas. Je suis venu vite,</a></em> -to the end of the stanza beginning with -<em><a href="#stanza2">“Si notre avenir—souffrez que je cache</a></em> -where it most likely belongs. -</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> -... seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, als <span class="underline">würs</span> dem eigenen Volk ...<br /> -... seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, als <a href="#corr-2"><span class="underline">wärs</span></a> dem eigenen Volk ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. “<span class="underline">Veder</span> Schlafpulver ...<br /> -... for life, even if it be a fight against the whole world. “<a href="#corr-4"><span class="underline">Weder</span></a> Schlafpulver ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... And where shall be the end at last<span class="underline">.</span> ...<br /> -... And where shall be the end at last<a href="#corr-14"><span class="underline">?</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... I am <span class="underline">such</span> of the artificial inanities of the drawingroom—the polite ...<br /> -... I am <a href="#corr-17"><span class="underline">sick</span></a> of the artificial inanities of the drawingroom—the polite ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... <span class="underline">Schoengist</span> nobility. ...<br /> -... <a href="#corr-18"><span class="underline">Schöngeist</span></a> nobility. ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical <span class="underline">sub-celler</span> they can ...<br /> -... rumble bizarrely from the depths of every philosophical <a href="#corr-19"><span class="underline">sub-cellar</span></a> they can ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who dissect, <span class="underline">who who</span> ...<br /> -... I am sick of their kinsmen, of the surgical tongues who dissect, <a href="#corr-20"><span class="underline">who</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... <span class="underline">Huntley</span> Carter. ...<br /> -... <a href="#corr-28"><span class="underline">Huntly</span></a> Carter. ...<br /> -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, JUNE-JULY 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 4) ***</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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