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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..e783d84 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66551 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66551) diff --git a/old/66551-0.txt b/old/66551-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 297458d..0000000 --- a/old/66551-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3008 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, October 1915 (Vol. -2, No. 7), by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Little Review, October 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 7) - -Author: Various - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: October 17, 2021 [eBook #66551] - -Language: English - -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, OCTOBER -1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 7) *** - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Literature Drama Music Art - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - OCTOBER, 1915 - - Songs and Sketches Ben Hecht - The Dionysian Dreiser “The Scavenger” - Leather Lane Mitchell Dawson - Etchings Alexander S. Kaun - The Truth Burt Harris - Romain Rolland Ellen Key - Poems— Witter Bynner - I Shall Come to You Again - Sicilia - Christian - Marriage - A Glimpse at Russia, An Editorial - Sophomoric Epigrams A. E. D. - Henri and Manship C. A. Z. - 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 - - OCTOBER, 1915 - - No. 7 - - Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson - - - - - Songs and Sketches - - - BEN HECHT - - - I. - - - Night - -Who hath not sung to thee, Night? So silent; so deep. But this night -thou hast given thyself to me. Thy black wings brush silently against my -soul. - -Thou hast come to me, for I feel thee resting like a soft sorrow on my -heart. - -Thou who art alive with the shadowed wounds of ages hast heard me crying -out to embrace thee, my soul beseeching thee to fold me against thy -black bosom. And in answer thou hast let the mysticism of thy -wonder-gloom sink into me until my soul hath opened to receive its kiss. - -Tonight no one but I shall sing to thee. For thou art my mistress. Thy -blackness and mine have wedded. And now thy dark kiss stingeth like a -pain in me. - -Into thy long arms I give myself. Night, Night, thou art so filled with -longing. I hear the soft lament of thy deep heart murmuring to me. - -Thy dim fingers trail across my face in a blind caress. - -I feel thy yielding body that is spirit more than my spirit behind the -somber veils thou wearest. I possess thee and our sorrows swell into an -ecstacy. - -Night, thou art the beautiful shadow thrown upon the earth by my sorrow. - -I have carried thee a buried miracle in my soul of souls until this -hour—when thou hast taken wings and flown out of me to confront me. - -Night, my Night, let me enter now into thy darkness until all life beats -in vain outside the obscurity of my soul. I would vanish from myself. - -Night, my somber mistress, upon thy face my tears shine as stars and -make thee more beautiful. - -Night, thou art infinity revealed. I will stir thy ancient fires on thy -cold lips until thou willst thunder to me with thy hidden voices out of -thy vast silence. - -Night, I open my heart to hear but I hear only my heart crying out. -Speak. - -Beautiful one, I sing to thee for bringing me the madness of silence. I -sing to thee, for thou art mine; for thou art fierce and pregnant with -still wounds. - -Night. Behold! I know thee. I have seen the black flames of thy spirit -that burn in the depths of thee. I have heard the murmuring music of thy -tears. - -Thou art glorious. Come. Come, thou and I shall make of our sorrow -rejoicing. Come, place thy long, cool fingers in mine and lead me -beyond. - -Night! Night! Thy face is paling. Thou art stricken. Thou art treading -silently away without me. - -Night—thou hast taken from me the pain of thy kisses. There hath come -into thy deep eyes a weariness. Thou art dying. Thou art dying from my -arms. The red glow of death burneth in thy face and is transforming -thee. - -Night, where shall I find thee again? Where shall I seek thee? - -The dreadful day that is thy white shadow hath come. And a part of me -hath died. - - - Sleep Song - -I lay in a field of black flowers, and there were purple veins and green -that floated like thin worms about me. - -There were soft thick shapes swaying liquidly, moving unseen, and I lay -under them gripped by soft thick mists. - -Deep under them I lay hidden and they pulled me deeper into the field -rolling softly around me. - -A sorrow that had pursued me in my soul left me as I vanished, left me -and floated above the flowers. - -And I saw a white face drifting away like a pale bubble over the top of -my black garden. - -A white face like a dim sorrow, like a mute pain, drifting far away; the -white face of a dead love searching in vain for me, in vain. - -The day was a white monster, naked and bellowing; grinning after me with -its buildings that were jagged rows of dirty teeth. There was no place -to hide from my sorrow. - -It lay in the sky that winked at me like a vast and blue and relentless -eye. And it lay in the sun that burned like a golden grotesque. It lay -in every laugh and in every beauty and in every little bird that lost -itself over the water. - -I felt the black flowers grow blacker and higher and I moved deeper into -the blackness. - -And then a sorrow that had pursued me in my soul left me as I vanished. - -It floated away over the tops of the black flowers and I saw her white -face moving from me like a pale bubble. - -I saw the white face of a dead love moving beyond the soft shapes that -swayed unseen; drifting away like a mute pain and searching in vain for -me, in vain. - -I ran, but there was no place to run; for the monster day ran after, -glaring like a white torment, shouting and scampering after, and there -was no place to hide. - -Now the day was a white grave opened to me. Now it was a wide wave -breaking over me. - -And now it was a great bird, white-breasted and grey-pinioned, flying -after me and after, bearing my sorrow in its blue beak; racing after me -until its heart burst in the west and it sank, bleeding gorgeously -across the sky. - -And still I ran; but now the night came, running after, and there was no -place to hide from my sorrow. - -I fled in the streets before the darkness. But the stars found me and -the trees loomed after me and the houselights followed me and the -darkness wept around me—and they were my sorrow. - -But there on the distant verge, where the night sinks exhausted into the -blood-red arms of the white monster leaping over the world again, I -fell; deep I fell. - -Far into a hidden land where I lay hidden; hidden in a field of black -flowers that were threaded with purple veins and green floating like -thin worms about me. - - - Autumn Song - -My heart scatters tears over the dark day. The dull silvered poplar -leaves float in the air like dead butterflies. - -It is the autumn come again, speaking with its soft-tongued winds to the -trees and to me. - -It is cold. I have lost my warmth. I have lost thee. And the autumn has -come again to tell me of it. - -Listen to the sad-tongued winds. See the storm faltering in the street. -It is cold. - -It is the autumn come again, the autumn in whose wild sad treasures we -once laughed; once when your hot hands reached out to me like a bright -cry mocking the somber lisping of the twilight season. - -Where are the songs I sang, the songs that leaped out of flame? Do they -echo still in your listening ears? Do they fall like warm tears in your -heart? - -See the winds droop wearily into the trembling tree arms. See the street -grows pale. A dying panoply drifts across the grey-girthed sky. - -Ho, Life, I have still a song for you. Though you come whispering to me -from the golden tombs of youth, from the scarlet graves of love, I will -make of the lament you bring me—music. I will make of the dull tears you -bring me—lyrics. I will clothe the grey ghosts of sorrow in rich -trappings. - -For it is only she who hath died. It is only she whom I loved with all -my soul. Though my heart scatter tears over the dark day they are the -tears of plenty. For her death hath enriched me. - -For the autumn is come again speaking with its soft-tongued winds to the -trees and to me things I have never heard before; things that her white -breasts never told me; things that her burning lips never said to me; -wild, sad things that the flame from whence my songs once leaped never -held for me. - -The dull silvered poplar leaves float in the air like dead butterflies, -and they are beautiful. - - - Death Song - -Last night you came and sat by my bed in a little dark room and boasted -to me like a child. - -“I have come to destroy the sun,” you said; “I will take the great, -yellow sun in my fingers and blow on it once and it will go out like a -match.” - -And I wondered, because the sun is so large and hot, how such a little -one as you could blow it out like a match. - -But you said: “I will blow once into the night and the stars will -sputter like little flames in a great wind and scatter away in ashes. -And the moon will spin around and around like a bright coin until it -breaks into little black bits.” - -And I wondered because the night was so far, how such a little breath as -yours could reach into its soul. - -But you said: “I will go out and touch the trees and the green leaves -will shrivel and the brown trunks will vanish. I will breathe just once -on the houses, the great big houses of iron and wood and stone, and they -will sway like long pieces of black cloth in the wind and they will melt -into a dark mist.” - -And I wondered and wondered. - -But you said: “In an instant I will walk up and down all the roads you -have known; I will wander in all the fields you have wandered and pass -through all the highways you have been. And each place that I move in -will cease to be. Under my feet the earth will become a powder and -vanish.” - -Then you said, for I had ceased to wonder and was listening sadly: “I -will go to your beloved whose hair is like the silk on the corn and -whose eyes are like the deeps of the sea and I will smile on her and she -will become as nothing. She will become as a speck of dust and she will -never be again.” - -And I wondered again how such a little one as you could make my beloved -into a speck of dust when she was so beautiful. - -But you said: “I will touch all the faces you have seen with the point -of my finger and they will change into little dark clouds and I will -blow them away with the stars and the moon and the yellow sun.” - -And I thought of all the faces you boasted to destroy and -wondered—because there were so many. - -But you said: “Do you remember the little bird you saw hopping on the -stones in the park one day: I will go find the little bird and lay my -hand on her and she will never hop on the stones again.” - -I remembered the little bird. - -And you said: “Do you remember the wide, green water that rolled itself -into a great colored ball and bounced up and down under the sun? -Listen—I will go and blow on the water and it will disappear into a -single drop. And I will bring this drop back to you to wear in your eyes -when they close.” - -And I wondered and wondered. - -But you said: “Listen:—there is an old woman who smiles when she thinks -of you. I will walk up behind her and touch her gently on the shoulder -and she will vanish.” - -And I murmured, “Do not touch the old woman.” - -But you said: “Listen:—I will lay my hand over all the wild notes and -sweet notes you have heard and they will be hushed. I will kill the -songs that lie unborn in the earth and the sea and the cherry trees and -in the white throats of birds and women and in the hearts of men.” - -And I wondered how such a little one as you could hush so great a -chorus. - -But you came closer to me and said: “I have come to destroy the world -for you, to pluck out every little blade of grass and every flower, to -brush away the stars and kick over the hills and tear up all the -fields.” - -It was dark in the little room where we were and I sighed. - -And you came closer to me and said: “I will gather up in a great, black -bag everyone and everything and every God you have known and I will drop -them into a great, black hole. And listen:—and then you will be alone.” - - - II. - - - The Synagogue - - This street in the ghetto looks at night - Like a prison corridor, - And the houses facing it are dark cells. - - And then you come to a block where the rickety, thin tenements - Rise like gnawed, patient pencils tracing crazy star lines - In the sky. - - And then you come to the Synagogue of Judas the Servant, - A little church of the Jews - Crouching on its knees - And enveloped in the rags of cheap saloons and hovels. - - It thrusts its iron star into the night - Like a strange voice whispering in a dark place. - And its stained walls impregnated with an ancient faith - Murmur stoically to the stars of burning prayers and hopeless sobs - And other things they have never heard. - - And if you stand before it for a time - Strange wild things will cry out of the shadows, - And you will see the torn, bleeding image of a race - Whom Christ crucified. - - - In the Sun - - O what a day! - The buildings are bursting into bloom— - Huge, dazzling flowers sweeping against the heaven; - Dizzy ferns waving like dreadful fans under the flying clouds. - The shining windows flutter down like a shower of golden petals. - - O what a day! - The buildings are crashing into bloom; - Gleaming stalks of purple sprawling with a graceful frenzy into space. - Smoke monsters dance lazily over their heads. - The sky swims like a blue butterfly in and out among them. - The streets race away. - A golden wind sweeps with a roar through the world that has become a - fierce gorgeous garden, and it nods breathlessly. - Out of its blazing depths color leaps and the growling music of a torn - God singing in pain. - - O what a day. - Beauty bursting into madness. - - - On the Beach - - The lake comes gliding in and in, - And gliding out it goes, - Running up and back on the ribbon of the beach - That plays with its silver toes. - - And the lake reaches down to the hem of its gown - With its cool curved wind of a hand, - And throws out its petticoat lacy and white - With a swish-swish over the sand. - - Its blue dress fluttering, tinted with the sun, - Hangs from its girdle white-spaced, - And a far ship riding with its nose in hiding - Stands black like a buckle at its waist. - - It begins to rain and the lake birds fly - With a whir and an angry screech, - As the thin grey fingers reach down from the sky - And tap, tap faintly on the beach. - - Digging little holes for an elfin folk, - Pointing up the water like a grate; - And the sky moves closer like a gust of smoke - And behind it crouch and wait - - Great half shapes and grey cloud apes, - And a grey, old water crew, - And the lake birds fly with their wings awry, - Searching in their faces for the blue. - - Now the long rain chants in the grasses on the hill, - And the lake runs in with a frightened sound, - And sullen and wet the sand sinks low, - Like a heavy brown cloud on the ground. - - On the hill top green the trees bend away - And brood as they lower and bend, - And grey things walk beyond the grey - Where the sands and the waters end. - - The rain has stopped and the earth like a bride - Has hung white petals in her hair, - And the sky draws back till the white clouds ride - Like soft white gardens in the air. - - And a butterfly flutters like an endless note - Over the lake’s thin brink, - And the sand takes off its heavy brown coat - And the cloud apes vanish and sink. - - The gay water dawns and the grasshopper pipes - And the lake glides in anew, - Dressed in greens and in awning stripes, - And little birds leap toward the blue. - - - - - The Dionysian Dreiser - - -Theodore Dreiser is the greatest novelist in America. It is not a -distinction. He has written poor novels. His latest novel, The “Genius” -published by John Lane Company is loose in parts. It limps. It loses its -breath. It grows thin. But it is a novel of sweep and magnitude, of -sledge hammer blows and fine chiseling. In the caramel chorus of -America’s chirping fictionists Dreiser raises the smooth, virile voice -of an artist. And there is no voice like his in America. - -I prefer to write of what Dreiser has done in The “Genius” than to tell -in detail of what it is about. Calmly, aloofly with a consummate -dispassion Dreiser has thrust his magic pen home into the heart of -American Puritanism. God forgive him. God forgive the publishers. God -forgive everybody who reads the book and forgive me who write about it. -For American Puritanism is a sacred thing, as sacred as the gilt on the -cathedral altar places, as hallowed as the bathroom in a bawdy house. -And Dreiser has peeled off the gilt and ruthlessly thrust open the door. -May he be cursed with the wrath of an avenging public conscience. May he -be made to wither under the distinction of being a maniacal sensualist, -a libidinous ruffian, a lascivious distiller of corrupting langours. -Amen. - -Against the gray-dirt background, the shallow-hued smears of his many -contemporaries, Dreiser’s book stands forth like a red cry of truth. It -is not the book of a man enraged with the narrowness of a country, -sputtering against the insipidity of its composite ideals. Dreiser never -descends to the punitive hectoring of a Robert Herrick. Nor does he join -the plaintive assaults upon the pusillanimous conventions which -characterize the “advanced” fiction of the country. He does not make his -men and women vehicles for the antiquated day dream of brotherhood bosh. -He does not prostitute his work in dramatizing the current quibbles, -marketing asinine public convulsions in the literary capsules so -commonly compounded by our quack “creators.” All these things he does -not do and if the reading public of today will not reward him, the God -of Dostoevsky, Flaubert, Huysmanns, Shakespeare and Ambrose Bierce will. - -What Dreiser does do is tell a straightforward story, tell it with all -the painstaking genius of the old Flemish painters. And he uses for his -background not the isolated strata of any single calling, but a -country—your world and mine and our neighbor’s. Life is greater than any -of its truths, sings Theodore Dreiser. There are many kinds of good, -many kinds of standards and many kinds of virtue. There is the virtue of -farmer Blue, the solid, masculine, clear and open virtue rooted in the -laws of the land and the rigmarole of society; thriving on the long, -brown roads, the ploughed fields and the homely beauties of existence. -And there is the virtue of Eugene Witla, the aesthetic, vibrating -pursuit of beauty rooted in the soul of the artist, thriving on the -illusive lust of women, the intangible urge of inspiration; spitting in -the face of laws unnatural to it and the fallacies that would be its -fetters. Yes, says Dreiser, (I do not quote him), life is a wide field -bearing on its bosom beautiful flowers that do not resemble each other -and that require widely different care and nourishment. To think that -such commonplaces should be distinctive notes in the art of a country! -But they are. If you have read these things into novels before you have -not read them into American novels. I do not recall a single hero in -American fiction, who is not a Puritan, who does not suffer when he -sins, whom the indulgence of his desire for women does not inspire to -repentance and “reform” and success as the blue literary laws of America -demand. For further particulars on this general subject see Mr. -Mencken’s fulmination in last month’s Smart Set. - -On this broad canvas of thought it is that Dreiser works. In his new -novel he begins in a little town in Illinois. Out of the midst of a -mediocre family living in the concentric provincialism of the middle -west he launches his young hero Witla—a lad suffering from dreams and -stomach trouble and a vague distinguishing unrest. His types are -masterpieces. His style, shorn of pretentious reticence or rhetorical -pomp, is the painstaking and poetical diction he revealed in Jennie -Gerhardt. But he is not infallible. There are sentences, paragraphs -which jar. Although his strokes in delineating character and situation -are swift and certain, his language often seems lame, his words watery, -his phrases trite. But these are as the flaws of a panoramic pen crowded -at moments to a point of impatience and not the faults of a weak writer. -The effect is untouched. His people breathe out of the pages. They are -personalities. From beginning to end Dreiser reveals a psychology of -character amazing in its range and detachment. Witla as a boy lives in -Alexandria, Illinois. Dreiser traces the development of his soul and sex -and struggle out of the blanketing bourgois of his birthplace. The young -’Gene answers the call of beauty, without knowing what it is that calls -him. He comes to Chicago. He is a laundry wagon driver, a collector for -an installment furniture house, a student of the old Art Institute, a -worker in the art department of a newspaper. Dreiser traces him out of -the half way stratas of Chicago to New York, to success, and then -through a labyrinth of incidents all interesting and big. He follows him -through one development after another until Witla, the painter, realizes -himself. I cannot begin to tell what the book is about. It is partially -a depiction of the struggle between an artist husband and a “good woman” -who is his wife, partly the struggle between the flesh and the spirit of -the same husband and the tale of their final adjustment. It is an -Odyssey of a type of man in whom the future of the arts rest as they -always have rested. In the 736 pages there are persons of every type. -You will meet everyone you have known and many you have dreamed of -knowing. Every shade of womanhood flashes between the covers. It is as a -novel should be—complete. It tingles with the quick spasmodic life of -the city, of the country, the factory, the field, the drawing room. And -above all, it breathes the atmosphere of America’s art life, the lively, -struggling workers of the studio. - -Witla, however, remains Dreiser’s calm, masterful argument against the -one-sided perversions of the Puritan. Witla is a genius. What are you -going to do with him, you proselyting blue stocking? Such a detached -study in perfidious polygamy is enough to damn the very printers who set -the type for the book. Here is a man of strong ideals, great productive -talent, an indispensable contributor to life, who naively considers -setting up an establishment for his pretty model just after he has -proposed matrimony to the woman he loves at the time with all the finest -desires of his nature; a miserable fellow who ruins and ravishes without -compunction every shapely creature who crosses his path. He is without -even unconscious morality, innate morality. Woman is beauty when she is -anything and to possess beauty is the motive force in his life. His eye -possesses the beauty of the city’s filth and dirt, the beauty of -landscape, his mind possesses the beauty of books and talk and other -minds, and his body the beauty of passion wherever he encounters it. -Logical, natural, primitive and entirely artistic. But immoral? God, -yes. No one woman can satisfy a man unless he deliberately stunts -himself, is the Dreiserian Gospel. A man needs blonde women, brunette -women, short ones and tall ones, radical ladies and conservative -creatures—that is, a man like Witla does. And is Witla a supreme type, a -distinctive Sanine sort of fellow? Not a bit of it. Whether Dreiser -thought he is, I don’t know. He doesn’t say. But he isn’t. He is man and -not artist in his “sins.” - -There is naturally more color to his escapades, to his “pursuit of -beauty,” for he is the “genius” with an eye to shades and a soul for -nuances not possessed by his more hum drum brothers. To him matrimony is -naturally a pit, a degradation, a series of cages, for he is the eternal -masculine. But how many men are there who have always been faithful to -their wives? What? I do not know of a single one. In his high lighted -type of Witla, Dreiser tells of this rudely, brutally and -beautifully—with the indifference of a Juggernaut and the cunning of a -magician. - -Really, you of the firm-fireside-faith, what is there to be done? Here -is the Dionysian dastard who dares proclaim that life is a decent, -orderly routine and that life is also a wild, warm passionate thing; -that it is also a flame in which there is only one color, the red, -golden color of youth. - -And the answer is—howl. A howl will go up, I swear it. It will start -from the critics. - -I can almost read their forthcoming reviews as I close my eyes. - -“A sensually depraved and degenerate type.” - -“Striking at the bed rock of public solidarity, of home happiness, of -everything decent and worth while.” - -And America’s reading public—“Horrible, filthy.” - -Howl, you who have stultified your artists and buried them under the -gingerbread morality of your own monotonous lives. Dreiser is the one -novelist being published in America today who doesn’t listen to you, who -describes you at your various bests, who wrings the pathos and joys out -of your little worlds; who paints in with the brush of a universal art -what you and I are doing in Alexandria and Chicago and New York and all -the milk-station stops between. - -I am not a disciple of the Dreiserian Gospel. I would like to argue with -him the certain superiorities of monogamy for the artist. But he has -limned a hero who is not a sugar-coated moralizer. He has ignored -superbly the mob-begotten mandates of literary excellence. Whatever his -faults of composition or construction, and there are not so many as his -friends endeavor to make out there are, he has magnificently booted the -reading public, the morally subsidized critics and the very publishers -in the coarsest regions of their bodies—their souls. - -And for these things I hail him as the greatest novelist in the country. -I acclaim him as the only real, uncontaminated genius of these States -and pray to God that my friend Sherwood Anderson will hurry up and get -published so that there will be two of them. - - THE SCAVENGER. - - - - - Leather Lane - - - Three restless gas-jets - In Leather Lane; - A thousand faces, - Wandering in the night, - Too dull for pain. - - God saw; - God quenched the light. - - But God had not choked - The clamor of gaunt curses - That stalk in Leather Lane, - Uncloaked, - Blatant with strength of dour years. - - God heard; - God stopped His ears. - - Ho! - God had forgot His nose, - And in the stench that rose - From Leather Lane, - God died. - - —_Mitchell Dawson._ - - - - - Etchings - - - ALEXANDER S. KAUN - - - I. Gratitude - -On the play-grounds. The pretty girl and I withdrew from the noisy -festival to the desolate fountain. It was too hot to think, so I merely -talked. - -An old, ragged, grey-bearded, gibbous Jew, with a basket over his arm, -was slowly approaching us. - -The meaningless eyes of the pretty girl clouded. - -“Peddlers are not allowed on the grounds. He must have sneaked in.” - -The Jew stood at our side. He said nothing, but his timid eyes appealed. - -It was too hot to think, but for a moment I thought that a waft of -eternity breathed upon me from out the sad, timid eyes, and from out the -folds of the soiled old coat, and from out the clotty grey beard of the -descendant of Isaiah and the Maccabees. - -“I shall buy some peaches, yes?” - -The pretty girl twitched her little nose. - -“But they are dusty.” - -“Oh, no. See, they are covered.” - -The sad, timid eyes smiled at me. I looked into the depth of those -eyes-of-ages. A half frivolous notion passed through my mind: I raised -the fruit, and pronounced the ancient Hebrew blessing: - -“_Barukh atah, Adonay, elohenu melekh haolam, bore pri haetz._” (Blessed -art Thou, O Lord, our God, creator of the fruit of the tree.) - -The sad eyes became faintly radiant and moist. A suggestion of a smile -appeared around the hairy mouth. The lips mumbled something inaudible. A -lean brown hand rubbed the glossy side of the coat, and tremblingly -extended to me. I grasped it, embarrassed. - -“_Lange Johren magt Ihr hoben, lange Johren auf Euch!_” (Long years may -you have, long years unto you!) - -I turned to the pretty girl. With her handkerchief she was diligently -rubbing off a drop of juice from her white blouse. - -It was too hot to think, so I resumed our playful talk. - - - II. Nocturne - -It was night, and soft and blue and starry. A uniformed nurse emerged -from the dark alley of the park, and heavily dropped on the bench where -I sat. For some time she leaned backward, her eyes closed, her breast -heaving, her mouth half open. Then she looked widely, straightened -herself, sighed deeply, and casually glanced at me and at my box of -paints. - -“Are you an artist?” - -“Yes. Obviously, you are a nurse?” - -She nodded, and burst forth into a rapid talk, as if she had long been -waiting for an opportunity to unburden herself. - -“Just got off duty. See those lighted windows across the road? That is -our hospital. Ah, I shan’t stand it much longer. Moans and groans, -suffering, tears, madness—God! You know, it starts at twilight. As soon -as the sun sets all the miseries get loose. Even the quiet patients -become delirious and raise bedlam. And so till midnight. It will drive -me insane. Give me a cigarette, will you? There is nobody around at this -time.” - -Her “shop talk” bored me. Silently I gave her a cigarette and a light, -and watched her inhaling the smoke eagerly and intently. Her grey -striped dress with the tight white apron outlined a light, slender body, -a supple breast, and full strong arms. Her face was in the shadow, but -my professional eyes noticed its lovely oval contours. The little white -cap seemed toyishly small on the vast mass of disobedient hair. She -flung away the cigarette, and turned to me: - -“Thanks, stranger. Why don’t you say something? Ah, what a night! See -the blue mist away there beneath the trees, and see that big oak—it’s -like a tower. Gee, I am getting romantic. Ah, what a night!” - -I was amused with her half bookish, half street-talk. Somehow she did -not irritate me, as the rest of the people did, with her trivial remarks -on things which I believed to belong exclusively to the realm of colors -and music. - -“Look!” She grasped my hand. “See the star falling? There, it dropped -into the lagoon. Ah, I smell hyacinths, do you? Hey, if you are not -going to say something, I’ll smash you!” - -She snatched off my hat, threw it high up in the air, and, laughing -loudly, ran away, dropping her cap on the grass. I picked it up, and -pursued her. She was a swift runner, and we raced a long while across -the wide lawn before I caught her. In the dim bluish light she stood at -my side, a savage figure with stormy cascades of hair over her face and -shoulders, with flashing eyes, open mouth, dilating nostrils. In my -professional delight (I never lose my self-consciousness) I seized her -by the waist and lifted her up above me. She waved her good arms and -shrieked in joy, tossing her Medusa-head, arching her tense chest, -quivering in ecstacy. - -“Hey, there. Cut that out!” - -A husky policeman on a motorcycle approached us. He dismounted, looked -at us (I was still holding her in the air), and burst into a hoarse -guffaw. - -“Well, I’ll be.... Beat it now. It’s improper.” - -I handed her the mussed white cap. She twisted it with her fingers, and -her lips muttered somnolently: - -“And at six thirty in the morning I must be on duty....” - - - III. Will to Power - -At a crossing line on a Saturday night about 2 A. M. Tired men, women, -children, families, couples, waiting for a street car. Some lean towards -the wall, some sit on the sidewalk, on the garbage-box, on the curb. -Dull silence. The June night rolls on indifferently. - -Suddenly the calm is disturbed by violent screams and oaths. A woman is -hurled out by invisible hands from the corner-hotel. She crosses the -street towards the waiting crowd, staggers, waves her big handbag, and -swears hideously. - -No response. The ennui on the faces remains unstirred. The coarse solo -of the prostitute, who ejaculates fantastically ugly verbs, nouns, -adjectives, bespatters the velvet night. - -A baggy figure in a battered derby rises from the sidewalk, and -hesitatingly accosts the woman. - -“You stop this noise....” Then threateningly: “Want to take a ride?” - -Her foul flux interrupted, the woman thrusts her red face into the -man’s, and hisses half coquettishly, half contemptuously: - -“A ride? With you, sweetheart? Sure!” - -He grabs her by the shoulder. His face grows pale. - -“Come on, now. Move on, I tell you!” - -The woman shrieks and struggles. - -“Let go! Look what he is doing to me! Who are you? You are not a -detective.... Let go!” - -The crowd does not stir. Some one yawns desperately. A little boy -whimpers, and clings to his dozing mother. - -The man drags his shrieking victim. He pulls out a chain of keys, and -swings it triumphantly. The woman screams and hits her assailant on the -face with her heavy handbag. New figures appear from the adjoining -streets. A voice is heard: - -“Maybe he is not a detective.... Hey, where’s your star?” - -The man’s pale face twitches convulsively. The woman feels encouraged, -strikes him short, rapid blows, and shouts wildly: - -“He is not a detective! Look what he is doing to me!” - -A big fist plunges into the man’s face. He gasps, and falls. When he -rises, a shower of fists meets him. Many of the erstwhile indifferent -figures are now up, eager to lay a hand on the imposter. Like a toy, he -falls and rises, looking astonished, in a trance. - -The long-awaited car suddenly plunges into the imbroglio. Men, women, -children, push and justle at the narrow entrance. - -The man stands alone, hatless, wiping a bleeding face with his sleeve, -muttering faintly: - -“I am a detective.... I am.” - -The night rolls on indifferently. - - - The soul of music is something more than the soul of humanity - expressing itself in melody, and the life of music something more - than an audible dramatization of human life.—_Arthur Symons._ - - - - - The Truth - - - BURT HARRIS - -The truth, my friend? There is no truth. It is impossible for the human -mind to attain the truth. You can tell the truth with reservations, with -omissions. Perhaps you can speak the truth that is only part truth. Yes, -that is often done by virtuous people and by clever people. But to speak -the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, to place your soul -naked before either God or man,—that, my friend, is impossible. I have -listened to women lie. Sometimes it is only necessary to watch. And it -is the same with a man. - -What? A man will tell the truth before God? You are quite wrong. A man -will lie to himself and he will lie to his God. I know. I listened to a -man lie to God. I will tell you the story. - -The man’s name was Henry Spencer. You perhaps remember it. He was a -murderer. One of his victims was a tango teacher named Mrs. Allison -Rexroat. When the body of Mrs. Rexroat was found behind a clump of -bushes in a lonely spot the police somehow blundered upon a clew. In -four days they traced the murder of the woman to Henry Spencer. They -wove a net of evidence about him. Oh they are clever, sometimes, my -friend. On the fifth day Henry Spencer sat in the police captain’s -office and they sweated him. After five hours he confessed. Ordinarily -this means nothing. I have seen criminals confess to crimes of which -they were innocent. Sweating is an unintelligent process, but then -criminals are unintelligent persons and for a stupid mind the whole -affair becomes quite an ordeal. The police captain says, “You did.” The -criminal replies, “I didn’t.” It is very simple, my friend, but very -wearing; particularly when there are five policemen to say “You did,” -and none but yourself to say “I didn’t.” But it happened this time that -the policemen blundered upon a real confession. After five hours Henry -Spencer jumped to his feet and shouted, “Yes, I did. I killed her.” He -was led away. Two days later he repeated his confession and elaborated -on it. He sketched the murder, described the events leading up to it. - -The policemen, highly elated, rushed out and verified all he had said. -They found the hammer he told them he had used where he said he had -thrown it. They found the effects of the murdered woman where he said he -had hidden them. Henry Spencer went to trial. A number of attorneys -defending him pleaded insanity. Spencer upset their efforts by rising in -the court room and informing the jury he was quite sane and that he had -committed a number of murders in his life. Given permission by the court -he informed them that his life had been an extremely illegal one. He -named five women he had killed. The police, highly elated, rushed out -and verified his statements. In concluding, the defendant again sought -to impress them with the fact that he was quite sane and willing to pay -the penalty for his crimes. In fact several times he cried out from his -seat, “Hurry up and hang me.” - -You will argue, my friend, that there was an instance where in the very -depravity of his nature a man attained the naked truth. You are quite -wrong. Henry Spencer killed the women he said he killed, but he failed -of the truth. For three months he had sat in his cell figuring the thing -out. He came to the conclusion that by telling truthfully of his crimes -and pleading truthfully of his sanity he would create the impression -that he was indeed a maniac. You see, it is quite simple. Lies are -always simple. It is only the truth which is impossible to understand. -Henry Spencer’s logic proved accurate. He convinced the jury that he was -a maniac. But he had placed too much faith on the technical -interpretation of the law. The jury sentenced him to hang, anyway. So -did the judge. - -The date was set and Henry Spencer waited in the jail of a little town -in Illinois. It is the duty of a large number of people in the world to -save souls from Hell. Do not think I speak sarcastically, my friend. -There is nothing wrong in this, except, of course, its utter futility. -For two months the Rev. Mr. Williams, his wife, and his son visited -Henry Spencer daily in his cell. They taught him religion. The doomed -man was an illiterate. He had been brought up in the streets. He spoke -English vulgarly and he understood nothing. His mind was unformed and -his ideas of any particular life to be were as vague as his ideas of the -life that was. - -So he became religious. This is quite a story in itself, his acquiring -“faith.” They played hymns in his cell on an old melodeon. Each night -the Williams family knelt with him and prayed. He found in the -Scriptures and their promise something that stilled the cold terror of -death. His nerves became quiet. In fact he became buoyant. You will say -it is impossible for a man to acquire genuine faith under such -circumstances. You are quite wrong, my friend. I will prove it to you -soon. - -On the day preceding his execution Henry Spencer exhibited the only bit -of nervousness during his watch for death. He objected to the big clock -that hung in the corridor outside his cell. He didn’t like the way it -ticked. You know why. So they removed the clock. How kind people are to -those whom they are about to destroy. They quite resemble the Gods in -the matter. - -I am coming now to the point of the story, so be patient, my friend. It -was a sunny morning in early July. Inside a stockade they had erected a -scaffold. During the night Henry Spencer sang hymns. The sheriff sat on -the doorstep of his home adjoining the jail listening and looking at the -moon and greasing a hempen rope with cold cream which he borrowed from -his daughter. He was a religious man and the hymns made him sad. - -At ten o’clock the death march started from Spencer’s cell. Now there -were thirty-eight steps leading to the top of the scaffold which rose -high above the stockade top. I know this because a young man named Smith -and I walked up the steps the midnight before and counted them. After -counting them I made a wager with the young man that Spencer would never -reach the top unsupported. So I was exceedingly interested when the -death march entered the stockade. A number of persons were privileged to -march in the line, and the first to appear was Spencer. He was dressed -as if he were hurrying to a tennis game—white trousers, white shoes, a -soft white collar, and a white shirt. On the pocket of his shirt he had -pinned a red carnation. He walked with a light, springy step. Behind him -trailed the Rev. Mr. Williams and the others. - -Henry Spencer wore a good-natured smile on his face. When he reached the -bottom step of the scaffold I held my breath. I watched him skip nimbly -up the stairs, never missing a step, never tripping or hesitating. Under -more virtuous circumstances the thing would have passed for heroism. At -any rate I lost the wager. - -Spencer stood on the scaffold, the noose hanging over his shoulder. The -smile had not left his face. Several hundred necks were craned towards -him. I would have felt chilled to see so many necks at such a time had I -been he. The sheriff and his assistant began dressing him in a white -robe that covered him from the neck down. - -He commenced talking at once. - -“My friends,” he said, extending his arm. They strapped it to his side -as he did so but he continued unflustered. “I am glad of the opportunity -this gives me of telling you that for the first time in my life I am -happy. I have found a mother and a God and a friend while I have been in -jail waiting for death. Although it is going to cost me my life I am -glad I am here to tell you this. I have repented for my sins. I have -made my peace with my God and my fellow men. And I am happy, my friends, -happy. I have found a mother who has shown me the way to peace and -salvation. I am grateful to Him for the gladness he has put in my heart. -Oh, my friends—” - -He raised his head to the sky. Standing against the sun in his white -robe, his face transfigured with a wonderful smile, he looked like some -Crusader giving himself into the arms of the Virgin. Above him stretched -the green leafy branch of a tree that rustled faintly in the breeze. A -little bird sat on a twig and chirped. And still above stretched the -pure blue sky with its white fleece clouds. Henry Spencer looked at it -all—life, the little bird, the sky, the green leaves—and smiled; smiled -as I have never seen a man smile before. - -They strapped his ankles and then the sheriff adjusted the rope around -his neck with great care. His political future was dependent on his -task. Spencer resumed talking. - -He recited two long psalms with never a wrong word, and I who had -listened to him five months ago sat astounded. His voice, his accent, -everything about him had changed. A theologian could have rendered the -psalms no more accurately. Then he looked at the sky again. I felt that -before his eyes the clouds rolled away and God revealed himself, a -gigantic figure seated on a golden throne. I felt that he saw the -cherubs and the angels he had read of in the scriptures, perceived the -jewelled streets and the harpists and Christ waiting with outstretched -arms and forgiveness. - -“Yes, my friends,” he went on, “I am not afraid, for I have given myself -to Christ, pure in spirit, strong in faith.” He quoted from the Bible. -“See, I smile at it all, for believe me, O Lord, I am happy.” The -sheriff had lifted the white hood to the man’s head and was beginning to -adjust it. The smile never left his face, the light that blazed from his -eyes never dimmed. “I am going to heaven,” he said as they settled the -hood on his head, “and I want to say only one more thing before I go. My -friends, as I stand here, I tell you I am innocent of the murder of Mrs. -Allison Rexroat.” - -And they hanged him. - -The truth? The human ego is too weak for truth. What do you say, my -friend? - - - We carry faithfully what we are given, on hard shoulders, over - rough mountains! And when perspiring, we are told: “Yea, life is - hard to bear!” But man himself only is hard to bear! The reason - is that he carrieth too many strange things on his shoulders. - Like the camel he kneeleth down and alloweth the heavy load to be - put on his back.—_Nietzsche._ - - - - - Romain Rolland - - - ELLEN KEY - - (_Authorized translation from the Swedish by Mamah Bouton - Borthwick. Copyright, 1914._) - - - I. - -In Clamecy, a quiet town in Nivernais in Central France, Romain Rolland -was born in 1866. His family had dwelt for centuries in the little -place, both as country folk and townspeople. Quite contrary to the -inference one would draw from _Jean Christophe_, neither German nor -other foreign ancestry is discoverable in the family lineage; Rolland is -descended from pure French Catholic burgher stock. His parents devoted -themselves with loving zeal to his education; his mother endowing him -with a musical sense and love of music that made music, from earliest -childhood, his passion and joy; his father, a notary in Clamecy, gave up -his profession that he might accompany his young son to Paris. - -It is not the external events of his life, but the spiritual atmosphere -and environment of his native town, that Rolland depicted in the sixth -part of _Jean Christophe_, under the sub-title, “Antoinette.” The -landscape of Nivernais is a mingling of rivers and canals, great forests -and Mont de Moran’s peaks. The region unites memorials of the Keltic and -Gallic-Roman times and cathedrals of the Gothic period, stimulating the -historical sense which, next to the sense of music, is most -characteristic of Romain Rolland. - -He entered the _Ecole Normale superieure_ in Paris, when about fifteen -or sixteen years of age, and later went to the _Academia di Francia_ in -Rome. He considers the friendship formed there with Malvida von -Meysenburg[1] profoundly significant in his development. As she was a -faithful friend of Mazzini and Herzen, of Wagner and Nietzsche, in -middle age, so in her old age she was the friend of Romain Rolland. “Her -memory is sacred to me,” he recently wrote, and he had continued in -regular correspondence with her from 1890 until her death in 1903. - - [1] See my article in _Verk och Människor_, in which I endeavored - to show my countrymen the value to them of _Memoiren einer - Idealistin_. - -Rome exercised a profound influence upon his entire spiritual life. He -spent there the years 1889 and 1890, and has since made frequent visits -for longer or shorter periods. Italy is the country which, next to -France, he knows best and loves most. Germany, on the other hand, which -he has described in _Jean Christophe_ so vividly that one is convinced -he must have passed a great part of his life there, he knows only -through some minor journeys. - -In 1895, he received his doctor’s degree at the University of Paris, and -presented two theses.[2] He was, first, instructor in the History of Art -at the school he had attended; later he became professor of History of -Music at the Sorbonne, a position he will probably resign; partly, -because an automobile accident injured his arm so that he can no longer -illustrate his lectures on the History of Music with the piano; partly, -because he has found the combination of authorship and lectures too -great a strain upon his delicate health. - - [2] _Histoire de l’Opera en Europe, avant Lully et Scarlatti_, - (Les origines du theatre lyrique modern), and also _Les causes de - la decadence de la peinture italienne_. - -Concerning the literary impressions that were decisive in his -development, he says that his education, like that of most young -Frenchmen, was founded upon the classics of the seventeenth century. He -found his way, himself, to the writers who gave him spiritual -sustenance: Shakespeare, Goethe, and the Encyclopedists, especially -Diderot. - -In 1886, along with his school comrades, he became acquainted with -Tolstoy. In his book on Tolstoy, Rolland says, “He was the purest light -that illumined our youth, the cheering star in the twilight of the end -of the century—our only real friend in contemporary European art.” It -was Tolstoy’s intoxicating adoration of life that enraptured the young -Frenchmen as well as the young Northerners. It was the realism in -Tolstoy’s art that “opened the portals to life”; it was the mysticism in -Tolstoy’s nature that opened their ears to “the music of the soul for -which they longed” ... “Tolstoy was to our generation what Werther was -to the youth of the eighteenth century.” - -“But,” wrote Rolland in a letter, “the most potent influence in my life -was and continues to be—music. It has been an ever-flowing spring, not -only for my emotional life, but also for the interpretation of life. -For, to him who can rightly listen, music is a language that can -interpret the subtlest emotions of the soul, and reveal manifold secrets -which literature has never been able to express. If in any degree I -understand the German soul, it is due to music.” - -Romain Rolland is familiar, alike, with the old German masters of the -seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and with those of most recent -times. _Jean Christophe_, the world’s greatest novel concerning a -musician and music, is therefore written by a thoroughly-trained -connoisseur and practitioner of music; a man who demonstrates that, for -his own and for his hero’s individual culture, music is the most -profound determining influence. - -Even though Romain Rolland differs from Tolstoy in questions pertaining -to his conception of music, still it is in Tolstoy’s spirit that he -glorifies in this form of art its universal breadth, its power—beyond -national boundaries and personal limitations—to unite mankind in and -through the joy of beauty, which is one of the highest conditions of the -soul. - -One aspect of Romain Rolland’s literary work is a direct expression of -his profound belief in the ethical mission of art. He participated -ardently in the movement, instituted at the close of the last century, -that purposed to educate the workingman by means of elevated amusements, -especially plays. But Rolland did not, like Tolstoy, seek to awaken love -of mankind; he wanted to strengthen power of action and heroism. Rolland -has recently published the second edition of a book in which he has -collected his controversial articles, written at the time when he and a -group of friends hoped to create a new theatre for the awakening people, -and thus contribute to the encouragement of that energy of action -necessary to the solution of the great problems the time presents. - -Pleasure, enlightenment, energy, says Rolland, are what the theatre -should furnish the people. Neither the classic drama, which bores the -workingman to death by presenting to him _les parties mortes de l’ame_, -nor the present drama, which injures or lowers him by setting him in a -fever of sordid passions, is fit for a people’s theatre. It must furnish -the best drama of the present time, the spectacle in which the serious -aspect of the time is reflected, or scenes from those earlier phases in -which the spirit of struggle and of devotion lived; in other words, it -must furnish a virile and wholesome art. - -The heroes of the French Revolution were Rolland’s inspiration for the -drama, and he utilized the struggles of the time of the Revolution for -spectacles and folk festivals. At that time he wrote and produced for -the people’s theatre: _Le 14 Juillet_, _Danton_, _Les Loups_, _Le -triomphe de la raison_. The last he has recently published, together -with two other early dramas, _St. Louis_ and _Aërt_. They are all, as he -himself says, devoted to religious enthusiasm; for God, for country, for -reason. - -He wished to set these pictures of struggling devotion against the -cowardice of thought and cowardice of will that he saw everywhere around -him. He voiced his own sentiment and that of his young kindred spirits -in the words of one of his heroes, who was condemned to death: - -“Life will be what I will. I have anticipated victory, but I shall be -victorious.” And in the words of another: - -“You are always thinking of what you can keep or lose. Only think of -what you can give. Live; be like the water that flows.... The world -would not exist without that happiness of beings, of flowers in the sun, -that joy of giving one’s life to the point of exhaustion—which is also a -joy of dying continually!” - -“It is elder brother to Jean Christophe,” Rolland says, “less robust but -not less faithful,” who uttered these words, which comprise Rolland’s -creed in its most succinct formula. - -To revive the energy of action of the French Revolution in order to -continue thus the work interrupted in 1794; to set in motion the great -passions, not for the purpose of arousing chauvinistic or revolutionary -fanaticism, but in order to kindle anew the universal feeling of -solidarity—this was the hope of Rolland and his friends for the future -of France. - -“This hope,” he says, “was one of the purest and holiest forces in our -young lives.” Rolland, therefore, calls his _Théâtre du peuple_ a -document of the time, because it “reflects the artistic ideas and hopes -of a whole generation.” - -He gives voice now (1913) to that proud utterance: “Let the future judge -us even should it prove that it was our crime to have believed too much -in the future.” - -That this little group has not yet been victorious, we know. Romain -Rolland indicated the reason when he said: “In order to fashion a -theatre for the people, we must _first have a people_; a people with a -_freedom of the soul_ able to enjoy art; a people with _leisure_; a -people not oppressed by misery or incessant toil; a people not -brutalized by every superstition and fanaticism from right and left; a -people lord over itself and victor in the battle fought out from day to -day.” - -To these utterances of 1903 can be added one of this year, in which -Rolland expressed himself most fervently and with comprehension in -regard to the working class of _women_—and in that connection in regard -to the whole woman question.[3] It was made evident, then, that the -idealist Rolland is no advocate of the chauvanistic-religious reaction. -His idealism is of the whirl of revolutionary times and the future. - - [3] In a preface to _Celles qui travaillent_, a work of the - notable and sincere French authoress, Simone Bodève. - -His critique upon the classic French literature, his “Teutonism” in -_Jean Christophe_, his political and religious radicalism, have made him -as obnoxious to nationalistic-Catholic France as Mme. de Stael once was -because of her _De l’Allemagne_. Among other evidences of Rolland’s -status in his own country is the circumstance that when the French -Academy recently awarded its new prize of 10,000 francs, it was given, -through the influence of Maurice Barrès, to a wholly new man in French -literature: André Lafon du Blaye, instructor in a Catholic private -school, who had written a book about a school boy, a book which was -found to possess that “elevated character” the awarding of the prize -demanded! _Jean Christophe_ had just been finished! It is, however, not -merely in academic circles that Romain Rolland is denied recognition. He -has succeeded in getting himself well hated in many another circle -because of the cutting truths in _Jean Christophe_, directed against all -factions. In _Ord och Bild_, 1912, George Brandes has given a brief but -excellent characterization of Rolland’s spiritual and intellectual -endowments and of his limitations. - -Without doubt Rolland’s spiritual tendency in youth was determined not -only by Tolstoy but also by Guyau; the more because Tolstoy has Guyau to -thank for whatever of reason is found in his theories of art. - -In regard to the influence of Guyau upon Tolstoy and Nietzsche, see, for -example, Professor Albert Nilson’s excellent essay upon _Guyau’s -Aesthetics_. - -In the mind of Rolland as well as of Guyau, the ethical ideal is the -highest intensive quality of life, the most effective energy. Rolland is -far from the Christian asceticism that diluted the wine of Tolstoy. But -along with Tolstoy, with Guyau, with Nietzsche, he demands an art that -possesses life’s consummate vigor; that is itself the richest life, the -highest intensity of power. In other words: the ethical ideal and the -aesthetic are at heart the same thing; the fundamental principle of art -and religion is solidarity; the sense of beauty is at the same time the -most intensive and the most expansive of feelings, and so—like the love -of humanity—the great fraternizing power. “They who love most create -most richly,” and “the work that reveals to us the life of greatest -value is the noblest”: these propositions permeated Rolland just as they -did Guyau and Tolstoy, although Rolland establishes a basis of valuation -quite different from that of the latter. Perhaps Bergson, too, has in -some respects confirmed Rolland’s personal view of life. But as -Rolland’s view was enunciated before Bergson began to write, the -influence could have been only to strengthen, not to determine it. No -idea harmonized better with Rolland’s own innermost being than that -respecting the power of the spirit to make a way for creative, -unfathomable, inexhaustible life. _Jean Christophe_, from the first -chapter to the last, is an illustration of this explosive power, this -_élan vital_. - -Schiller’s words come to mind: Der Dichter ist der einzige wahre -_Mensch_ und der beste Philosoph ist nur eine Karikatur gegen ihn.[4] -The poet is the only real _Man_ and the best philosopher is only a -caricature beside him. - - [4] In a letter to Goethe, 1795, after reading _Wilhelm Meister_. - -Not only with his dramas of the Revolution did Romain Rolland endeavor -to make his countrymen hero-worshippers; he also began a series of -popular biographies aimed to present, not the great man’s work, but the -personal powers and experiences that found expression in his work. He -says in the preface: “Europe is poisoned with materialism and egotism; -we must throw open the windows to get air: _Respirons le souffle des -heros. Let us breathe the breath of heroes._” He rejoices that he too -has witnessed contemporary heroic deeds: the defense of the Boers and -the vindication of Dreyfus. But he knows that it is “easier to kindle -enthusiasm by heroes of the past,” heroes “who were great in heart.” - -His hero-worship did not lead him, however, to glorification at the -expense of truth. He utters the thought, profoundly true and all too -little understood, that every lack of harmony between life and its laws -depends—even in great spirits—not upon their greatness, but upon their -weaknesses. “But these weaknesses render them not less worthy of our -love.... The idealism that will not recognize the truth is cowardice; -there is only one heroism in the world: _to see the world as it is—and -to love it_.” - -So without hesitation, Rolland points out weaknesses in Michael Angelo’s -life, and inconsistencies in Tolstoy’s. He sees in both great specimens -of the “type that will pass away”; the Christian—those who “have had -their refuge in God and the everlasting life when this life has gone -against them; those whose faith has often been expression for deficient -belief in life, in the future, in themselves; a lack of courage and a -lack of gladness.” “I know,” he continues, “of how many defeats your -grievous victories are made, and therefore I pity you and admire you. -You make the world more doleful but more beautiful. Praised be pain and -praised be joy! Both are holy; they form the world and they broaden -great souls: joy and pain are powers, are life, are God.”[5] - - [5] Epitome of the introduction to _Michael Angelo_. - -The three biographies that Rolland has thus far published are of -Beethoven, Michael Angelo, and Tolstoy. In the first, it is the love of -life and the courage of life; in the second, creative power and strength -of belief; in the third, the ecstacy of life and the love of mankind, -that he emphasizes. Such souls, he says, restore to us belief in life -and in mankind, for from them “issues a current of social power and -potent goodness.” - - - II. - -Beethoven is Rolland’s own conception of life, and is nearest his heart. -To that “soul of music, heroism, and goodness” Rolland has reared the -only memorial worthy of Beethoven that art has created: _Jean -Christophe_. - -This book was published during the course of nine years. But long before -it began to appear it had lived in and with its writer for the greater -part of his life. In it Rolland has committed to writing his profound -conception of the innermost being of a musical genius, and has done it -in such a manner that one is firmly convinced of the truth of the -revelations that one follows from the cradle to the grave. In other -novels concerning geniuses the writers assert incessantly that they -_are_ geniuses; here the genius evinces himself through his being. One -does not read a book, one lives a life—and a life of the highest value, -the existence that great spirit creates: that of the genius, who out of -the flaming chaos of his nature forms a cosmos. An “educational novel,” -of which the world’s literature thus far possesses only one such in -_Wilhelm Meister_, and, in a measure, in Keller’s _Der Grüne -Heinrich_.... I have lived more intensely with _Jean Christophe_ than -with most living people.[6] - - [6] Lack of space forces me to omit Miss Key’s interesting but - very long analysis of _Jean Christophe_.—The Editor. - -World fame is a curious thing. Sometimes it is attained quickly through -glorifying friends: a path to fame that often early avenges itself,—that -is more dangerous even than the fame that the attacks of enemies -furnish. Sometimes fame is won with one blow, by an exceptional work; -again it is prepared for in silence and then suddenly rushes forth with -the roar of a great torrent formed by many small streams. The last is -the case with Romain Rolland. - -When I read him in 1909, in Switzerland, I went shortly afterwards to -Paris, where, at that time, he was not mentioned among the celebrated -writers and where even his friends thought he dare not reckon his circle -of readers larger than the ten or fifteen thousand faithful he possessed -in the world of French-speaking readers. In Germany his circle was still -narrower; in Sweden, he was unknown even by name. - -For the new generation the book is a document of the spiritual history -of the time. For the serious-minded portion of the French youth, Rolland -has possessed an influence comparable with his own description of -Tolstoy’s influence upon himself and the young generation with him. -Youth has learned from him that the fleeting fashionable attitude toward -the great souls or ideas that Paris shapes is sterile; that it is only -by devotion that a spiritual growth can be attained; that skepticism in -the face of all greatness is poverty, but admiration and love “is the -way, to the most potent, the richest, life.” Youth has found in him -contempt for mere fine phrases, for declamation, and received from him -Goethe’s conception of creation: “In the beginning was action.” They -have heard him proclaim _that_ nationalism that is loyalty to the best -in the essence of the French nation: love of truth and justice, desire -for freedom and fraternity, devotion to its ideal values and above all -the dream of happiness for all mankind. This dream that among us Teutons -is content to sleep, is among Frenchmen an ever restless disturbance of -the blood. And it is only by occasionally letting his blood flow for -these dreams that he feels he is living up to his highest ideals. _This_ -Youth for whom each new part of _Jean Christophe_ has been a great -event, despises with Rolland the estheticism that turns from life. This -youth has learned to distinguish between great art and the work of those -who think they are creating art but are only making arts. But above all, -at a time of reaction toward the Christian “faith”—a reaction that has -been justified by the fact that science has not been able to “explain” -life nor “vindicate” it—they receive a new fountain of living water. -Rolland has attempted neither to explain life nor defend it. The -leit-motiv of his great symphonic work is Beethoven’s thought: “Durch -Leiden Freude,”—“Through suffering joy comes.” We can, so he says, -neither understand life in all its plenitude of contradictions nor -ennoble it in all its brutality in any way other than by _living_ it -one’s self in the fullest and highest meaning of the word. Music, the -all-unifying art, love, the all-embracing condition of the soul, are the -two highest attitudes of devotion to God, who is life. - -More Rolland knows not. And more than he knows the veracious man does -not say. - - “I cannot,” he writes, “give any metaphysical credo. For, in the - first place, I will never deceive myself by saying _I know that - which I do not know_—which, at the most, I can imagine or hope. - In the second place, I will never confine myself within the - limits of any belief. For I hope to develop until my last day; I - wish to reserve for myself unlimited freedom of intellectual - transformation and renewal. I have many gods in my Pantheon; but - my chief godhead is _Liberty_. At present I do not separate the - essence of the human soul from that of the divine spirit, of - which the former is a part. But I hardly believe that this divine - spirit fills the universe. It _seeks_, certainly, to fill the - world and guide it; but nothing indicates that it will succeed. - Even in this regard I reserve space for liberty. Pure monism does - not satisfy me. I am more inclined to a dualism such as the - ancient Empedocles believed in. I have an unbounded admiration - for the pre-Socratic philosophers, the sages of Ionia and Magna - Graecia. Indeed my first work, written at Rome, twenty years ago, - was a drama with Empedocles as hero. The struggle between two - principles is manifest to me in the whole history of the world, - material as well as moral history. The question is whether there - is not a _third_ principle, in which the other two are included - or harmonized. A trinity therefore—it is singular how this form - forces itself upon the human mind—but a trinity very different - from the Christian conception of the trinity, since it comprises - a father and two striving brothers: a triad that approaches the - antique cosmogony of which we find a reflection in Hesiod, in - _Chaos_, _Gaea_, and _Eros_. If I live I shall go deeper into - ancient thought. Those ancient philosophers lived in more - intimate contact with nature than any of their successors, and, - moreover, collected the thousand-year-old wisdom of the whole - Orient.” - -Besides this personal utterance of Rolland himself, a French friend of -his, intimate with his thought, has given me permission to communicate -the following statement of the trend of Rolland’s thought: - - The liberty of his mind, his lucidity, his keen penetration, - render him incapable of accepting the least dogma or the least - constraint. It is impossible to conceive of anything that could - have upon such a mind, not to say a direct hold, but even an - appreciable influence. That mind is alone, magnificently alone, - as independent as if the world were just born. Moreover, he is - quite as far from all revealed religions as from all systems. He - would in no wise admit that the Christian or any other religion - is more closely related to the past, and Darwinism or any - scientism whatever more to the future. He would see, in these - diverse ways of viewing life, forms of the human mind which - return at periodic intervals and of which one no more than the - other is an absolute progress in which he does not believe. Only - by his very nature, he is antimaterialistic. He believes in the - duality of soul and body in an absolute, organic manner. He hopes - sincerely to quit this body and go to live a larger and fuller - life. No personal immortality! He cannot endure the thought. That - would be the continuation of this captivity in a limited - personality, which to him appears stifling. He feels that he is - also going to live in God, not understanding by that word any - anthropomorphic god, but a fountain of universal life. He loves - to plunge, through time and space, into a meditation in which he - totally forgets his personality, and wherein he finds a sort of - intoxication. He has uttered this admirable and terrible - sentence: “Sometimes I feel _no difference_ between my friends - absent or present, living or dead.” To ask such a being if he is - of the past or of the future would have no significance; he is - beyond the compass of time. - -I have met Rolland only through letters. But some words concerning his -personality, as it had affected another poet, I can communicate here in -conclusion: - -“The confident grasp replete with experience, the modest ripeness ... in -his being; the benignity, the unprecedented purity in all his purpose -... are beneficent.... Everything is genuine, developed with will and -consciousness: a man who has improved steadily.... From him emanates a -gentle plenitude, consummate in action, like that of a star at -twilight.” - -When world renown comes to such a man, it has not much to say to him. -Rolland meets it with an averted glance in his far-seeing luminous eyes, -eyes which quietly and steadily look towards new works and new horizons. - -From all corners of the world he hears: that he has given to the time -the book most brimming with the whole seething life of the time; that he -has given men the book most permeated with the essence of music and -Orphean effects; that he has created an entire human race, a race in -which all ages of life and degrees of development, in which women as -well as men are equally convincing in truth to life; that he has given a -work overflowing with ideas, with philosophy of life, with vital help, -by exhibiting a great human life in all its weakness and in all its -strength. And assuredly this will give him joy. - -But he will feel proud only when the word comes that his French heart -longs to hear: The people that has given to the world such a work is -not, as its enemies say, going to destruction. That nation is ever -potent with the energy of life. - -Rolland’s great book is not merely a glorious revelation of the fact -that all the greatest ideas that France has given the world live ever in -the French people. It demonstrates also that mankind needs the French -spirit always in order to realize them. - - - - - Poems - - - WITTER BYNNER - - - I Shall Come to You Again - - If you have pity, pity me a little, - For I had seen your pitiless lips and dared them - And I deserve the pity given fools... - Your mouth was passion but your eyes were love. - Your mouth might soon consent to harshness, but your eyes, - Your eyes would see me and be kind to me. - I should not suffer, loving you. - I should but carry the heroic pain of love. - Wounds that might come from hardness of your heart, - If I received them, I should heal, watching the everlasting pity of your - eyes... - If you have pity, pity me a little. - I who had seen your cruelty and dared it - Am stricken with it now - And have come through the streets in daylight - As though the daylight were the sound of laughter - Surrounding and consuming me. - I have put up my hands to ward it off, - The heaviness of light that would not let me hide - But held me and looked leering in my face... - For there has come a passer-by .... - And you have come with him. - I have no hatred for the passer-by, and none for you, - But hatred only of my own humiliation, - For I had challenged and been overthrown... - If you have pity, pity me a little. - For I who love life - Have heard its mouth despise me - And have seen its eyes, that had been kind, turn into stone. - Wherefore I lack new strength, new laughter. - And in the time before that strength is due, - If you have pity, pity me a little. - But if you have none—soon I shall have no need. - For I who choose life, - Shall receive my strength, - And I shall come to you again, laughing with love... - For my humiliation shall have been a rain, - Its arms about me and its lips alive. - And I shall walk in daylight - And it shall be a singing waterfall - Surrounding me and pouring over me. - - - Sicilia - - (_In memory of Salvatore Garrito who was hanged at Reading, - Pennsylvania, October 29, 1908, for the killing of a State - Trooper._) - - “It shows you on that paper where she lives, - In Sicily. Write her that I today - Am dead for having killed my second man.” - “Your second?” “Yes, sir, two. It’s not so bad - To kill a trooper. But I killed, before, - A friend who, like my brother and like me, - Loved her in Sicily. The jury thought - My brother did it. He’s been all alone - In jail eight years. Tell her I shall be glad - If now she gets him out and marries him.” - - - Christian - - Truth heard him ask employ - And took him in, - A poor unfriended boy, - As her own kin, - And everything she made - She taught the youth. - When he had learned her trade - He went from Truth. - - And when his eyes were dim - And he was rich, - Then Truth returned to him - Out of a ditch, - Poorer than he had been, - Pleading she came... - He would not let her in - Nor ask her name. - - - Marriage - - Shall marriage never be the glory - That was wooed? - But ever enervate and vex, - Obstruct, intrude, - And make more wistful and complex - The solitude, - Trying to tell the human story - To its brood? - - No matter how the homes are humming - In a mood - Of ecstasy or sentiment - Or love renewed, - What favored two can circumvent - The ancient feud?— - Till both in one shall die, becoming - Multitude! - - - - - A Glimpse at Russia - - -Wars have been the landmarks in Russian modern history. The Napoleonic -war was followed by the insurrection of the Decembrists, the first -attempt on the part of liberal Russia to break the autocracy. The iron -reign of Nicolas I culminated in the Crimean campaign, which revealed -the utter rottenness of the old order and necessitated the general -reconstruction of the estate, from the liberation of the serfs to the -establishment of jury-tribunals. The reaction under Alexander III and -Nicolas II came to a collapse with the Japanese war, more disastrous and -richer in results than Sebastopol. It may be interesting to notice that -each of the mentioned epochs followed the previous one at a space of -about a quarter of a century, and the fact that the present war broke -out only ten years after the last one may be interpreted as an attempt -for self-correction on the part of History. Both the war with Japan and -the revolution that came as its result were abortive and premature -phenomena, and were destined “to be continued.” - -It is necessary to get an idea of what has occurred in Russia during the -last ten years in order to understand her present situation and -perspectives. The Russian people were neither prepared nor desirous of -fighting against Japan for the Yalou forests, a problem that interested -only a group of greedy capitalists. Nicolas was egged on by the Kaiser, -who was more than anxious to involve his neighbor in a mess in the Far -East, and thus to divert his attention from the Near East where the -interests of the Triple Alliance demanded the elimination, or at least -the weakening, of the formidable ally of France. The Czar caught the -bait, and was rewarded with the Treaty of Portsmouth, which put an end -to Russia’s ambitions in Manchuria and crippled her international -prestige, to the immediate advantage of Germany and Austria. The -defeated bear was forcibly driven to introspection. Her navy almost -totally destroyed, her army decimated and demoralized, her population -torn by revolutions and civil warfare, Russia faced a Herculean task. -The government was confronted with a double problem, to quench the -internal conflagration, and to get ready for “retaliation.” The first -aim was more or less achieved; the revolutionists were hanged, shot, -imprisoned, exiled; the moderate elements and the European financiers, -who demanded a guarantee for their enormous loans, were hood-winked by a -semblance of parliamentarism, the butaforial Duma, an institution -elected and managed practically by the Czar’s ministers. With feverish -energy the government set out to carry through its second purpose. The -Dumas were forced to sanction gigantic war-budgets, and the entire -bureaucratic state was thrown into a crucible of radical, sweeping -reforms. The reconstruction of the army has become the all-important -issue. Without naming the potential enemy, all parties, except the -Socialists, agreed that Russia must concentrate her forces on the -building up in the fastest possible time of an enormous, efficient, -_modern_ army. The majority of the people differed with the government, -however, on one point, as to who should carry out the great task. The -people have had little confidence in the capability of the bureaucracy -for self-reformation; they have applied to them the Russian saying, -“Only the grave can change the hunchback.” Alexander Guchkov, while -president of the Duma and later as an influential private citizen, has -revealed the hopelessly rotten state of affairs in the military and -civil organization of the country, managed by unscrupulous thieves and -grafters, by useless sinecure-holders from among the nobility and the -royal family. The reorganization of the state, pointed out Mr. Guchkov -and his followers, must be taken from the hands of the effeminate and -imbecile Grand Dukes, and entrusted to representatives of the nation. -For such a heresy Guchkov had to resign from his post as head of the -“parliament,” and the work of reconstruction continued to be handled by -the old _chinovnicks_, the puppets of the Czar and of his uncles and -cousins. - -Public opinion in Russia has been crystallizing simultaneously with -military preparation and diplomatic negotiations. Austria’s annexation -of Bosnia and Herzegovina gave Russian diplomacy the gravest slap since -the Berlin Congress; Wilhelm’s threat to appear in “shining armor” to -the assistance of his ally compelled foreign minister Sasonov to -withdraw his protest against Austria’s act. The humiliation was felt -deeply by all classes; the Russian people have come to regard Germany as -their bitterest foe, responsible not only for their past and present -military and diplomatic fiascoes, but largely responsible also for the -internal retrogressive policy of their government. It has been widely -known that during the last revolution the Kaiser had counselled Nicolas -“unrelenting firmness,” and had even offered to “loan” his army for the -suppression of the uprising. The popularity of the present war in Russia -is thus explained. The conservatives see in it an opportunity to -strengthen the power of the autocracy through drummed up patriotism and -loyalty to the throne; the liberals hope that with the defeat of Germany -there will come an end to the “dark influence” of the Prussian -retrogrades on Russia’s policy; the masses are eager to fight against -the “Antichrists,” the enemies of the Slavs and of the Slavonic church. - -Whatever the outcome of this war may be, it has done inestimable service -for the awakening of Russia. The country has been elevated and purified -morally and nationally. The abolition of vodka, the unification of -differing parties and of hostile races, the liberal concessions granted -by the government,—these are the few tangible results of the war that -can be checked off already. But there is considerably more to come. The -ignominious failures of the army have pointed a burning finger of -accusation against the real enemy of the people, the bureaucracy. The -Russian soldiers have fought like lions ... led by asses. The shameless -lack of munition, the use of antiquated guns, the wretched equipment of -the soldiers, the inefficiency of field-hospitals, the continuing graft -in giving out contracts, the presence in the army of such time-proved -nonentities as General Rennenkampf and other Manchurian celebrities, -these facts have shown to the people that the Czar and his clique have -forgotten everything and have learned nothing. The general -dissatisfaction in army circles and among the civilians may bring about -a storm that will sweep away the tottering throne of Nicolas Romanov. - -This is not a mere theoretic conjecture. Since 1904 an intense -revolutionary propaganda has been carried on within the army and navy. -The germ of rebellion has penetrated not only the common soldiers, who -are largely recruited from among the down-trodden peasants and -workingmen, but also the officers, who have learned a good deal in the -last ten years. A military _coup d’état_ after the model of the Young -Turks has become a popular idea with the intelligent officers who cannot -fail to see that the autocratic régime is a detrimental anachronism. -There have been persistent rumors about the high ambitions of the -ex-Supreme Commander. Grand Duke Nicolas is a happy exception among the -degenerated Romanovs. He has been long considered as the “strong man,” -and therefore feared and opposed to by the Court-camarilla. Necessity -compelled the Czar to appoint him commander; his appointment was -insistently recommended by Joffre and Kitchener. Unlike Kuropatkin, the -Grand Duke refused to follow dictations from Petrograd. When in early -spring he received an order from the Czar to evacuate Warsaw, the -commander telegraphed back that he was willing to obey, but that he -would move his army against the capital. The order was recalled. The -fact that he was recently removed from his post and exiled to Caucasia -shows the growing fears of the Czar, who has lost his head and is hewing -the branch on which he is still seated. The Grand Duke had performed a -difficult, although not very spectacular task—that of saving the -_unarmed_ army from the iron grip of the Germans. Petrograd demanded -“action,” as it did ten years ago from Kuropatkin. Now that the Czar has -assumed the commandership of the army one may expect rapid “actions,” -Sedans and Tzusimas and an early peace treaty as honorable as that of -Portsmouth. - -The sentiments of the population were characteristically voiced by the -Jewish member of the Duma, Friedman. In his speech he recounted the -unbelievable atrocities of the Russian authorities performed over the -Jews in the war-zone. Yet he said: “It is true we are without rights, we -are oppressed beyond endurance. But we know the foundation of the evil. -It emanates from these benches (pointing to the Ministers). We are -persecuted by the Russian government and not by the Russian people. It -is not to be wondered at, therefore, that we are content to bind our -fate loyally and faithfully with the fate of the Russian people, -whatever may be done to us by the Russian government.” The best of -Russia are unanimously determined that “the foundation of the evil” must -go. In the last few weeks various bodies of the Russian commonwealth -have issued grave resolutions condemning the government and demanding -democratization of the state. A revolution seems inevitable, but, to -repeat, a military revolution is most likely to take place. The bulk of -the virile population is within the fighting ranks, and it is there, in -the army, that the national nerve pulsates at present. Whether it be -Grand Duke Nicolas, or another capable and popular leader, it is to be -expected that this time the army will pronounce the verdict over the -imbecile Czar and will cleanse the Augean stables of the corrupted -bureaucracy. - - K. - - - - - Sophomoric Epigrams - - -There is no wisdom but youth. There is no vision but the unafraid -impulse of unfettered nerves. The follies of youth are the enduring -expressions of art. Man loses his Ego at thirty and becomes conceited. -He becomes conscious of others. Life becomes a quibble. But youth! -Youth, the flower before it has decayed into the mellow moss of age. -Youth that knows not itself or the world. Youth that laughs at tears and -weeps at laughter. Youth that paints queer pictures at which the critics -smile. Illogical youth; arrogant youth; forever annoying the world’s -stagnation. Youth capering like a fawn in the altar places of the holy. -Ho! you with the pedantic whiskers and the ossified serenity lurking -like a fog in your eye—there is no wisdom but youth. Ho! you with the -murk of maturity thick upon your tongue—will you shape morals? I will -unshape them. Will you rear dogmas? I will upset them. Will you burden -the world with your heavy sagacity? I will ignore it. Ho, you didactic -formulator, debauched with facts, man is born a butterfly and crawls to -his grave a worm. Man is born young and dies old. Man is born wise and -dies a fool. The ideas of youth are his wings. Do you see the lightning -maze of colors forever flashing over your head? It is youth. - -Ah! old Ossifus, your erudition is but the husk of my spirit. And my -spirit is the shop-boy whistling on his way to work, joyous without -reason for you have proved him an economic slave, stunted and damned -forever to rot in chains. My spirit is the lover going to his -ruin-woman, and tumbling out of heaven with a laugh. Ho! ho! old -Petrifus, you have proved her the root of evil, the despoiler of -greatness, the velvet vandal of illusions, and yet and yet.... - -And he is the artist running wild in the china-closet of the past. Have -you anything sacred, old whiskers? Have you something labelled right and -something labelled wrong? Show it to him. He will do for it. He is the -eternal monster killing the dead. - -There is no beauty but youth. There is no beauty in age. Ho! you -doddering banality with the superior tolerance in your stutter, you are -decomposing on your feet. Age is soiled. Age is dirty. Age drips with -the phlegm of life. Age is the unclean residue in the cup. - -Ho!—there is no tomorrow. - -Blessed are the young in heart for they shall be God. - - “A. E. D.” - - - - - Henri and Manship - - -One grows weary of the quibbling, the petty running about in circles of -critics, would-be-critics, and students with the eyes of their teachers -disputing “techniques,” values, and standards in regard to paintings -that somehow seem to live outside any limits pedants have placed. Out -from the noise the voice of the artist arises with a strength and -clearness in words similar to the quality of his paintings. Writing in -the February _Craftsman_ of this year, telling of his work, his ideas, -and his “people,” Robert Henri has this to say: - -“My love of mankind is individual. I am patriotic only about what I -admire, and my devotion to humanity burns as brightly for Europe as for -America. It flames up swiftly for Mexico if I am painting the peon -there; it warms towards the bull fighter of Spain if in spite of its -cruelty there is that element in his art which I find beautiful; it -intensifies before the Irish peasant whose love, poetry, simplicity, and -humor have enriched my existence just as completely as though these -people were of my own country and my own hearthstone. Everywhere I see -at times this beautiful expression of the dignity of life to which I -respond with a wish to preserve this beauty of humanity for my friends -to enjoy.... The Chinese American girl who has found coquetry in new -freedom; the peon, a symbol of a destroyed civilization in Mexico, and -the Indian who works as one in slavery and dreams as a man in still -places ... all their lives are in their expression, in their eyes, their -movements or they are not worth translating into art.” - -He very simply tells what he feels about technique, which ought to quiet -the objection to his or any individual’s methods: - -“Technique is merely a language, and as I grow older and see more and -more clearly I have but one intention and that is to make this language -as clear and simple and sincere as is humanly possible.... It is a -language of no value for its own sake.... It must be so translucent that -it can be forgotten, the value of the subject shining through it.” - -A woman who sat for Henri last year for her portrait has this to say of -him in a recent letter: - -“To me he is quite the most wonderful man among American artists; so -very big yet simple as a child; so very human yet utterly unconscious of -his humanity. He is much like Whitman only more tender, more subtle. To -Henri life is his art. That’s what makes him truly great. That’s what -made him go to the Ferrer School and awaken talent and even genius where -no one else would have seen anything to awaken. As a teacher Henri is -perhaps even greater than as a painter. I heard him explain things to -his class only twice, but I have never heard anything more fascinating -and vivid. His greatest worth, however, is his sense of freedom, his -fervent belief that only freedom can bring out the best in the -individual. He is really an anarchist though he does not label himself -one.” - -And thus the exhibit of twenty-five paintings at the Art Institute takes -on a broader and more beautiful air. It becomes human and alive even -though the noise from the studios is confusing. - - * * * * * - -Paul Manship also has a room at the Art Institute: Greek, Assyrian, -Japanese, Chinese, Egyptian, Italian, Roman, Gothic, and what not; but -where, oh where, is Paul Manship—“foremost American sculptor”? The -incongruous and nerve-racking thing about the collection is that besides -merely exactly reproducing all the above mentioned periods and styles he -goes so far as to use two or three in one piece of work. The _Infant -Herakles: fountain and bowl_ is a terror of complications, with gothic -gargoyles as the high points of one’s discontent. The American Indian -(with the African animal skin and the Egyptian hair and Roman face) and -pronghorn antelope (Egyptian bronze of Alpine antelope) is the property -of the Art Institute, having been purchased by the “friends of American -Art”.... The conventionalized Roman busts with the Greek lettering were -so top-heavy in appearance that I grew quite dizzy.... - -I found relief in the sculptor of the Ancient Greeks,—peace in the -simplicity of a strange inspired beauty that intricate handling which -draws on past glories can never produce. - - C. A. Z. - - - - - Fairy-Tale Mysticism - - - _Jerusalem, a Novel by Selma Lagerlöf_ (_Doubleday, Page & Co., New - York_). - -Those Scandinavians! I have often wondered at the combination of grim -strength with childlike imaginativeness that we find in the artists of -those pale cold lands. In the winter, at twilight, I like to sit with -closed eyes and to relive old and new Norse sagas, the unbelievable -wonders told or sung or painted with the perfect earnestness of absorbed -children; I like to dream then to the accompaniment of the not-smiling -music of the sad child, Edward Grieg. - -_Jerusalem_ is not a novel, not according to the terminology accepted -_heretofore_. For—may I reveal a secret _en passant_?—we are on the eve -of the publication of a novel by a Chicagoan who will revolutionize the -prevailing literary classifications. Another thing which is not! Selma -Lagerlöf is _not_ a mystic, some of her friends want us to believe; not -in the Maeterlinckian sense. The book is a series of tapestries to be -hung in an ideal children’s-room; a web of fairy-tales told in the -Scandinavian, unsmiling, earnest way. Mystic? Yes, as much as all -fairy-tales are mystic, as much as all not “clever” and “wonderful” -children are mystic. A mysticism which instead of lifting us up to the -clouds brings the clouds down to us; instead of lending us wings and -making us soar in imperceptible intangible regions, anthropomorphosizes -gods and spirits and drags them down to terra firma. So convincing! We -actually see the dead Ingmarssons gathered in a large farm house up in -heaven; we see their ruddy hard faces, sandy hair, white eyes; we hear -their slow, heavy, laconic talk. We are not surprised at meeting Christ -among the pines in the glow of the autumnal sunset. The opening of -heaven on a winter night before the eyes of the two Ingomars appears as -ordinary reality. We are in a world where everything is simple, -believable, possible. And you cannot smile; you are in an earnest -childlike atmosphere. - -Those Scandinavians! - - K. - - - - - The Reader Critic - - - _UNWORTHY!_ - -_Rev. W. D. J., Riverside, Ill._: - -I used to have great expectations for you. But, pardon the frankness of -one who has watched the careers of many writers in the past fifty years, -you are headed now either for _the lake or a padded cell_. God forbid -you reach either. Let an old man say that the only way to find life is -to lose it. Forget it and reach out a hand to the poor, the sick, the -suffering, and the sinning. Happiness comes only in forgetfulness of -self and ministering to others. It is never the result of a theory but -of action. I have seen so many wrecked on the reefs toward which you are -drifting that I am fain to call out and entreat you to find happiness -where alone it can be found, not in fleeing from the world or cursing it -but in thanking God you were born into a world where you can be of some -use to your fellows. Those lines of yours in the September issue might -have been written by a Heine, a Byron, or a Walt Whitman. But they are -unworthy of you. You were born to bless your fellows. Be true to your -vocation. - - - _AN EXAMPLE!_ - -_R. C. Smith, Chicago_: - -Inspiration will never take the place of intelligence, nor enthusiasm -that of cerebration. Your magazine will die,—as a steam engine would -grow useless in which no direction toward any cylinder was given to the -indubitable forces generated in the boiler. For your pages are as a rule -careless, unconsidered, and inept. Let me give you an example:— - -Mr. Huntley Carter, in your September number, wrote on “Poetry versus -Imagism.” I happen to consider his article an ill-digested congeries of -vague views; but other persons may feel differently about it. What, -however, can be the estimation in which every sane and intelligent and -decently responsible man will hold your magazine and Mr. Carter when he -has the effrontery to present to us such an example of ineptitude and -carelessness as this:— - -“Browning ... gets to work in a businesslike manner: - - _The sun looked over the water’s brim_ - And straight there was a path of gold for him - _And a world of souls for me_. - -I QUOTE FROM MEMORY, BUT I BELIEVE I QUOTE CORRECTLY.” (The capitals are -mine.) - -May I ask—must an enthusiasm for or against the new movements obliterate -all sense of accuracy, all love of clear and rational communication, all -fidelity to honest statement, and all interest in truth? Your Mr. Carter -and his extraordinary indifference to the workaday obligations of -literary criticism have considerably discouraged my interest in the new -forces. I can imagine Mr. Carter writing—“Since, as Nansen says, ‘The -natives of the polar regions are coal-black,’—(_I quote from memory_), -it must be hotter there than at the equator.” - -You have printed many encomiums of your magazine: I shall watch with -curiosity to see if you print this. - - - _THE WEAKNESS OF REVOLT_ - -_Dr. Weil, New York_: - -The spirit of revolt is compounded from many causes. Even in the average -young girl of whom Mr. Hecht writes in the August LITTLE REVIEW it -arises as much from her digestion as from her incomplete physical -functioning, as much from her work as from her leisure, as much from her -friends as from her freshness. Mr. Hecht would be the first to admit -that; would he be equally willing to admit that it meets death -variously? - -He talks only of the family as the snuffer for the flame. This does not -mean that he excludes other causes, but it does mean that he has -overemphasized one. - -It is true, as Mr. Hecht insists, that the American family tends to -quell revolt. The battle of the generations is as old as the race; the -family has always struggled to bring the rebel into line for its own -preservation. But that struggle in all its various shades of acuteness -has become a truism of modern thought, thanks to a multiplex modern -drama, a scientific sociology, and even the daily press. Why discuss the -subject only to dwell again heavily on the obvious? - -The problem is far more complicated. The verdict of guilt against the -family grows monotonous when returned at every inquest. To place a -single responsible cause for any tremor to revolt that dies abortive is -to lack subtlety. - -Along with each verdict against the family there is also a verdict -against the individual. One is not to blame if she is not a genius, but -if even her greatest emotions are somewhat lacking in poignancy, the -fluctuating spirit of restlessness in her never reaches the heights -which demand action. - -Along with each verdict against the family there is also a verdict -against the quality of the revolutionary spirit. Not only are its causal -factors weak and fluctuating, but the very vagueness which to Mr. Hecht -constitutes its charm spells also its damnation. A spirit of -restlessness is, in itself, nothing about which one can go to the -hilltops and shout, and when it crystalizes in some particular issue,—a -book, a picture, a small individual right,—the object often seems too -trivial to struggle for. To be sure the principle is not a small thing, -but a principle is abstract and when it confronts a concrete bit of -suffering, it fades by contrast. - -The sordid bread and butter difficulties to be faced by one standing -wholly alone, the scathing force of public opinion, the pain of others -which, when you love them, is pain to you,—these are realities which -only the truly big souls dare to face. For most of us the spirit of -revolt is too diffuse even to demand action, and for most of the rest -action is too divine a consummation to be compassed by our weak human -spirit. Not to any external cause really, but to an inherent lack in us, -is it due that we slowly grow complacent, instead of crusading worthily -in behalf of liberty. - -_Alice Groff, Philadelphia_: - -The most of you publishers are such unspeakable Kaisers of Kultur that -you treat the geniuses who make you what you are as insignificant -privates in a literary army, which you deploy; keeping them dangling -upon your critical pleasure, or blowing them to pieces because they do -not happen to walk the line _you_ mark out. - -I suppose this is inevitable, however, in the present social order and -that there will never be free literary expression until there is -publishing organization on the part of the whole people for the benefit -of the whole people. May the universe speed the day of such -organization. - - - - - 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._) - -Gaudier-Brzeska’s Art, by John Caurnos. _The Egoist_, September 1. - -Havelock Ellis on Birth Control in _Physical Culture_ for September, -October, November. - -The Literature of a Moral Republic, by H. L. Mencken. _The Smart Set_, -October. - -The Undergraduate. _The New Republic_, September 25. - - - - - Can You Read—? - - - (_In this column will be given each month a resume of current - cant which, as an intelligent being, you may wish to be diverted - or angered or stimulated by._) - -International Duty and Hyphenated Americans, by Theodore Roosevelt. _The -Metropolitan_, October. - -In Memory of Lieutenant Rupert Brooke, by Joyce Kilmer. _The Bookman_, -September. - -Llewellyn Jones on New Tendencies in the Arts, in any issue of _The -Chicago Evening Post Friday Review_. - - - - - THE EGOIST - - - An Individualist Review - - Subscribe to THE EGOIST and hear what you will get: - - Editorials containing the most notable creative and critical - philosophic matter appearing in England today. - - Some of the newest and best experimental English and American - poetry. - - A page of current French poetry. - - Reviews of only those books which are worth praise. - - News of modern music, of new painting, of French literary and - artistic life. - - A series of translations of Greek and Latin poetry and prose, - done by young modern poets (began September 1st, 1915). - - PUBLISHED MONTHLY - - Price—Fifteen cents a number - Yearly subscription, One Dollar Sixty Cents - - Buy some of the back numbers. They are literature, not - journalism. - - OAKLEY HOUSE, BLOOMSBURY STREET, LONDON, W. C. - - - - - Sleep Outdoors All Winter with the - Hold-Heet Health Blanket - - Reserve Force—health—virility of mind and body—clear eyes—brain - power—these are considerations, aren’t they? Keep them up to 100% - by cashing in on Nature’s richest offering—FRESH AIR. - - The Hold-Heet Health Blanket solves the problem of outdoor winter - sleeping. Endorsed and used by over three thousand eminent - authorities, doctors, lawyers, bankers, business men. It makes - the modern fresh air bed room far more comfortable than the old - stuffy one and a thousand times more healthful. - - Built the same and is, in many respects, like a regular blanket. - Specially wound, protected asbestos covered heating element - distributes an even degree of heat to every part of the blanket. - Connected with the nearest lamp socket—consumes about 1c worth of - current a night. Equipped with 3-heat control—cannot overheat. - Very light, soft and flexible and weighs less than half as much - as the ordinary comforter. Covered with a beautiful soft, navy - blue sateen. Complete in leatherette case. Delivered prepaid at - the following prices:— - - Size 36×36 inches, 3-heat Special Infants’ $10.00 - Size 36×72 inches, 3-heat Single Width 14.00 - Size 54×72 inches, 3-heat Double Width 20.00 - - Obey that impulse—NOW. It’s the cheapest health insurance you can - buy. Every Hold-Heet Blanket is guaranteed for two years. They - last a life time. Send your order now—and get winter health and - comfort. - - National Electric Company, Chicago, U. S. A. - - A group is being formed for the study of Russian language. - - A group is being formed for the study of Russian literature. - - For information inquire at the - - LITTLE REVIEW - 834 Fine Arts Building - - - EMMA GOLDMAN - - will lecture at - - - The Fine Arts Theatre - - from Nov. 21 to Dec. 5 - - Subjects to be announced later. All information may be had at the - office of The Little Review, 834 Fine Arts Building, Chicago. - - - Tchai-na-ya - - - Russian Tea Room - - Luncheons, Dinners - Afternoon Tea - - 116 S. Michigan Blvd. - R. 300, Lake View Bldg. - - - Russian Art Store - - Peasant Handicraft - Linens, Laces - Antique Jewelry - - 730 Sheridan Rd. - M. R. POLAKOPF & SON - - - Statement of Ownership, Management, - Circulation, Etc., required by the Act of - August 24, 1912 - - of _THE LITTLE REVIEW_ published monthly at - _Chicago, Ill._ for _Oct. 1st, 1915_. - - Editor, _Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts - Building, Chicago_ Managing Editor, _Same_ - Business Manager, _Same_ Publisher, _Same_ - - Owners: (If a corporation, give its name and - the names and addresses of stockholders holding - 1 per cent or more of total amount of stock. If - not a corporation, give names and addresses of - individual owners.) - - _Margaret C. Anderson_ - _834 Fine Arts Building, Chicago_ - - Known bondholders, mortgagees, and other - security holders, holding 1 per cent or more of - total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other - securities: _None_ - - _MARGARET C. ANDERSON_, - - Sworn to and subscribed before me this _23rd_ - day of _Sept., 1915_. - - _MITCHELL DAWSON, Notary Public._ - (My commission expires _December 20, 1917_.) - - - - - THE DRAMA - - - for August Contained This Interesting Material - - A LETTER CONCERNING AUGIER, by _Eugene Brieux_ 353 - THE MARRIAGE OF OLYMPE, by _Emile Augier_ 358 - EMILE AUGIER, by _Barrett Clark_ 440 - PARSEE DRAMA, by _George Cecil_ 459 - THE EVOLUTION OF THE ACTOR, by _Arthur Pollock_ 468 - FRANK WEDEKIND, by _Frances Fay_ 479 - DEPERSONALIZING THE INSTRUMENTS OF THE DRAMA, by _Huntley 495 - Carter_ - JAMES SHIRLEY, DRAMATIST, a review by _Charlton Andrews_ 506 - PLAYING HAMLET AS SHAKESPEARE STAGED IT IN 1601, by _Charlotte 511 - Porter_ - CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS, a review by _Alfred K. Eddy_ 527 - THE SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY, _Percival Chubb_ 531 - RECENT MAGAZINE ARTICLES ON THE DRAMA 537 - A SELECTIVE LIST OF ESSAYS AND BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE AND OF 538 - PLAYS published during the second quarter of 1915, compiled - by _Frank Chouteau Brown_ - - _The Drama_ for November will be a notable number. Rabindranath - Tagore will contribute an article on the stage that crystallizes - much of the present diverse generalization, especially in - discussions of stagecraft. Julius Brouta, perhaps the most - celebrated drama critic of Spain, will write of the work of - Benavente, a brilliant Spanish playwright of today. A puppet play - of Benavente, the popular _Los Interessos Creados_, will be - printed in its entirety. _The New Stage Art in its Relation to - Drama_ will be considered from a new point of view by Alice - Corbin Henderson. The articles begun in the present number, - _Playing Hamlet as Shakespeare Staged It in 1601_, by Charlotte - Porter, and _The Evolution of the Actor_, by Arthur Pollock, will - be concluded. - - In November also will appear what promises to be one of the most - important pieces of dramatic poetry ever written in America, - Edwin Arlington Robinson’s _Ben Jonson Entertains a Man from - Stratford_. In beauty of verse, in poetic vision, and in its - appreciation of the fine human quality of Shakespeare the poem is - a leading feature of the Shakespeare Tercentenary Celebration. - - _The Drama, a Quarterly_ - _$3.00 per year_ - - _736 Marquette Building_ - _Chicago_ - - - - - THE - SEXUAL - QUESTION - - Heretofore sold by subscription, only to physicians. Now offered - to the public. Written in plain terms. Former price $5.50. _Now - sent prepaid for $1.60._ This is the revised and enlarged - Marshall English translation. Send check, money order or stamps. - - - Ignorance Is the Great Curse! - - Do you know, for instance, the scientific difference between love - and passion? Human life is full of hideous exhibits of - wretchedness due to ignorance of sexual normality. - - Stupid, pernicious prudery long has blinded us to sexual truth. - Science was slow in entering this vital field. In recent years - commercialists eyeing profits have unloaded many unscientific and - dangerous sex books. Now the world’s great scientific minds are - dealing with this subject upon which human happiness often - depends. No longer is the subject tabooed among intelligent - people. - - We take pleasure in offering to the American public, the work of - one of the world’s greatest authorities upon the question of - sexual life. He is August Forel, M.D., Ph.D., LL.D., of Zurich, - Switzerland. His book will open your eyes to yourself and explain - many mysteries. You will be better for this knowledge. - - Every _professional man and woman_, those dealing with social, - medical, criminal, legal, religious and educational matters will - find this book of immediate value. Nurses, police officials, - heads of public institutions, writers, judges, clergymen and - teachers are urged to get this book at once. - - The subject is treated from every point of view. The chapter on - “love and other irradiations of the sexual appetite” is a - profound exposition of sex emotions—Contraceptive means - discussed—Degeneracy exposed—A guide to all in domestic - relations—A great book by a great man. - - GOTHAM BOOK SOCIETY, DEPT. 564. - _General dealers in books, sent on mail order._ - 142 W. 23d St., New York City. - - In answering this advertisement mention THE LITTLE REVIEW. - - - DAVID HOCHSTEIN - - - Violin Recital - - - FINE ARTS THEATRE - 410 S. 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RITTENHOUSE - - This book, a companion volume to “The Little Book of Modern - Verse,” gives a bird’s-eye view of the 19th century, beginning - with Philip Freneau and ending with the period of Madison Cawein, - Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey. 140 poets are represented and the - book includes 230 poems. Cloth, $1.25 net; limp leather, $1.75 - net. - - The Log of a Noncombatant - - By HORACE GREEN - - An absorbing narrative of the adventures and experiences of an - American correspondent and dispatch bearer who saw fighting both - with the Germans and Allies and who, as messenger for the - American Embassy at Berlin, had exceptional opportunities for a - glimpse behind the scenes in war-time Germany. Illustrated. $1.25 - net. - - The Greatest of Literary Problems - - By JAMES PHINNEY BAXTER - - This work meets a long-felt need for a complete presentation of - the Bacon-Shakespeare question, and will prove as useful to - students of Shakespeare as of Bacon. It presents an exhaustive - review of Shakespearean authors from Rowe to Lee, as well as a - bibliography covering all printed works upon the subject in - English, French, German, Spanish, Scandinavian, Italian, and - Russian, articles in periodical literature, and a wealth of - illustrations of great value to students and collectors. - Illustrated. 8vo. $5.00. - - Red Wine of Roussillon - - By WILLIAM LINDSEY - - “A really good romantic drama, one of the best that has been - produced in a generation.... Compact and well made, developing - swiftly and logically a tragic love story of uncommon - interest.... Genuinely poetic.... A remarkable work, both in the - literary and dramatic sense.”—_The Nation._ $1.25 net. - - Affirmations - - By HAVELOCK ELLIS - - A discussion of some of the fundamental questions of life and - morality as expressed in, or suggested by, literature. The - subjects of the first five studies are Nietzsche, Zola, Huysmans, - Casanova and St. Francis of Assisi. $1.75 net. - - The New Poetry Series - - This series aims to produce artistic and inexpensive editions of - representative contemporary verse. - - The new volumes added this fall are:— - - Stillwater Pastorals and Other Poems - - By PAUL SHIVELL. With a Preface by BLISS PERRY. - - The Cloister: A Verse Drama - - By EMILE VERHAEREN. - - Interflow - - By GEOFFREY C. FABER. - - Afternoons of April - - By GRACE HAZARD CONKLING. - - Each, boards, 75 cents net - - 4 Park St. - Boston - - 16 E. 40th St. - New York - - Houghton Mifflin Co. - - - - - 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. - -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical -errors were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here -(before/after): - - [p. 4]: - ... me from the golden toombs of youth, from the scarlet graves - of love, I will ... - ... me from the golden tombs of youth, from the scarlet graves of - love, I will ... - - [p. 10]: - ... under the distinction of being a maniacle sensualist, a - libidinous ruffian, a ... - ... under the distinction of being a maniacal sensualist, a - libidinous ruffian, a ... - - [p. 14]: - ... “Peddlars are not allowed on the grounds. He must have - sneaked in.” ... - ... “Peddlers are not allowed on the grounds. He must have - sneaked in.” ... - - [p. 22]: - ... my countrymen the value to them of Memoiren einer Idealisten. ... - ... my countrymen the value to them of Memoiren einer Idealistin. ... - - [p. 27]: - ... Grune Heinrich.... I have lived more intensely with Jean - Christophe ... - ... Grüne Heinrich.... I have lived more intensely with Jean - Christophe ... - - [p. 34]: - ... faced a Herculian task. The government was confronted with a - double ... - ... faced a Herculean task. The government was confronted with a - double ... - - [p. 37]: - ... the verdict over the imbecile Czar and will cleanse the - Aagean ... - ... the verdict over the imbecile Czar and will cleanse the - Augean ... - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, OCTOBER 1915 -(VOL. 2, NO. 7) *** - -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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display:block; } - - a.pagenum { display:none; } - a.pagenum:after { display:none; } - - .trnote { margin:0; } - - span.firstchar { clear:left; float:left; } - div.ads .fl { float:left; } - div.ads .fr { float:right; } -} - -</style> -</head> - -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, October 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 7), by Various</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Little Review, October 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 7)</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Various</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Margaret C. Anderson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 17, 2021 [eBook #66551]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images made available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and Tulsa Universities.</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, OCTOBER 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 7) ***</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"> -OCTOBER, 1915 -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="tocn" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SONGSANDSKETCHES">Songs and Sketches</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Ben Hecht</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEDIONYSIANDREISER">The Dionysian Dreiser</a></td> - <td class="col2">“<em>The Scavenger</em>”</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#LEATHERLANE">Leather Lane</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Mitchell Dawson</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#ETCHINGS">Etchings</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Alexander S. Kaun</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THETRUTH">The Truth</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Burt Harris</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#ROMAINROLLAND">Romain Rolland</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Ellen Key</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#POEMS">Poems—</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Witter Bynner</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#ISHALLCOMETOYOUAGAIN">I Shall Come to You Again</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SICILIA">Sicilia</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#CHRISTIAN">Christian</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#MARRIAGE">Marriage</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#AGLIMPSEATRUSSIA">A Glimpse at Russia, An Editorial</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SOPHOMORICEPIGRAMS">Sophomoric Epigrams</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>A. E. D.</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#HENRIANDMANSHIP">Henri and Manship</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>C. A. Z.</em></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"> -OCTOBER, 1915 -</p> - -<p class="number"> -No. 7 -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="cop"> -Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson -</p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="article1" id="SONGSANDSKETCHES"> -Songs and Sketches -</h2> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Ben Hecht</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="I"> -I. -</h3> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="NIGHT"> -Night -</h4> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">ho</span> hath not sung to thee, Night? So silent; so deep. But this night -thou hast given thyself to me. Thy black wings brush silently against my -soul. -</p> - -<p> -Thou hast come to me, for I feel thee resting like a soft sorrow on my -heart. -</p> - -<p> -Thou who art alive with the shadowed wounds of ages hast heard me -crying out to embrace thee, my soul beseeching thee to fold me against thy -black bosom. And in answer thou hast let the mysticism of thy wonder-gloom -sink into me until my soul hath opened to receive its kiss. -</p> - -<p> -Tonight no one but I shall sing to thee. For thou art my mistress. -Thy blackness and mine have wedded. And now thy dark kiss stingeth like -a pain in me. -</p> - -<p> -Into thy long arms I give myself. Night, Night, thou art so filled with -longing. I hear the soft lament of thy deep heart murmuring to me. -</p> - -<p> -Thy dim fingers trail across my face in a blind caress. -</p> - -<p> -I feel thy yielding body that is spirit more than my spirit behind the -somber veils thou wearest. I possess thee and our sorrows swell into an -ecstacy. -</p> - -<p> -Night, thou art the beautiful shadow thrown upon the earth by my -sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -I have carried thee a buried miracle in my soul of souls until this hour—when -thou hast taken wings and flown out of me to confront me. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a> -Night, my Night, let me enter now into thy darkness until all life beats -in vain outside the obscurity of my soul. I would vanish from myself. -</p> - -<p> -Night, my somber mistress, upon thy face my tears shine as stars and -make thee more beautiful. -</p> - -<p> -Night, thou art infinity revealed. I will stir thy ancient fires on thy -cold lips until thou willst thunder to me with thy hidden voices out of thy -vast silence. -</p> - -<p> -Night, I open my heart to hear but I hear only my heart crying out. -Speak. -</p> - -<p> -Beautiful one, I sing to thee for bringing me the madness of silence. -I sing to thee, for thou art mine; for thou art fierce and pregnant with still -wounds. -</p> - -<p> -Night. Behold! I know thee. I have seen the black flames of thy -spirit that burn in the depths of thee. I have heard the murmuring music -of thy tears. -</p> - -<p> -Thou art glorious. Come. Come, thou and I shall make of our sorrow -rejoicing. Come, place thy long, cool fingers in mine and lead me beyond. -</p> - -<p> -Night! Night! Thy face is paling. Thou art stricken. Thou art -treading silently away without me. -</p> - -<p> -Night—thou hast taken from me the pain of thy kisses. There hath -come into thy deep eyes a weariness. Thou art dying. Thou art dying -from my arms. The red glow of death burneth in thy face and is transforming -thee. -</p> - -<p> -Night, where shall I find thee again? Where shall I seek thee? -</p> - -<p> -The dreadful day that is thy white shadow hath come. And a part -of me hath died. -</p> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="SLEEPSONG"> -Sleep Song -</h4> - -<p class="noindent"> -I lay in a field of black flowers, and there were purple veins and green -that floated like thin worms about me. -</p> - -<p> -There were soft thick shapes swaying liquidly, moving unseen, and I -lay under them gripped by soft thick mists. -</p> - -<p> -Deep under them I lay hidden and they pulled me deeper into the field -rolling softly around me. -</p> - -<p> -A sorrow that had pursued me in my soul left me as I vanished, left -me and floated above the flowers. -</p> - -<p> -And I saw a white face drifting away like a pale bubble over the top -of my black garden. -</p> - -<p> -A white face like a dim sorrow, like a mute pain, drifting far away; -the white face of a dead love searching in vain for me, in vain. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> -The day was a white monster, naked and bellowing; grinning after -me with its buildings that were jagged rows of dirty teeth. There was no -place to hide from my sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -It lay in the sky that winked at me like a vast and blue and relentless -eye. And it lay in the sun that burned like a golden grotesque. It lay in -every laugh and in every beauty and in every little bird that lost itself over -the water. -</p> - -<p> -I felt the black flowers grow blacker and higher and I moved deeper -into the blackness. -</p> - -<p> -And then a sorrow that had pursued me in my soul left me as I -vanished. -</p> - -<p> -It floated away over the tops of the black flowers and I saw her white -face moving from me like a pale bubble. -</p> - -<p> -I saw the white face of a dead love moving beyond the soft shapes that -swayed unseen; drifting away like a mute pain and searching in vain for -me, in vain. -</p> - -<p> -I ran, but there was no place to run; for the monster day ran after, -glaring like a white torment, shouting and scampering after, and there was -no place to hide. -</p> - -<p> -Now the day was a white grave opened to me. Now it was a wide -wave breaking over me. -</p> - -<p> -And now it was a great bird, white-breasted and grey-pinioned, flying -after me and after, bearing my sorrow in its blue beak; racing after me -until its heart burst in the west and it sank, bleeding gorgeously across -the sky. -</p> - -<p> -And still I ran; but now the night came, running after, and there was -no place to hide from my sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -I fled in the streets before the darkness. But the stars found me and -the trees loomed after me and the houselights followed me and the darkness -wept around me—and they were my sorrow. -</p> - -<p> -But there on the distant verge, where the night sinks exhausted into the -blood-red arms of the white monster leaping over the world again, I fell; -deep I fell. -</p> - -<p> -Far into a hidden land where I lay hidden; hidden in a field of black -flowers that were threaded with purple veins and green floating like thin -worms about me. -</p> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="AUTUMNSONG"> -<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> -Autumn Song -</h4> - -<p class="noindent"> -My heart scatters tears over the dark day. The dull silvered poplar -leaves float in the air like dead butterflies. -</p> - -<p> -It is the autumn come again, speaking with its soft-tongued winds to -the trees and to me. -</p> - -<p> -It is cold. I have lost my warmth. I have lost thee. And the autumn -has come again to tell me of it. -</p> - -<p> -Listen to the sad-tongued winds. See the storm faltering in the street. -It is cold. -</p> - -<p> -It is the autumn come again, the autumn in whose wild sad treasures -we once laughed; once when your hot hands reached out to me like a -bright cry mocking the somber lisping of the twilight season. -</p> - -<p> -Where are the songs I sang, the songs that leaped out of flame? Do -they echo still in your listening ears? Do they fall like warm tears in your -heart? -</p> - -<p> -See the winds droop wearily into the trembling tree arms. See the -street grows pale. A dying panoply drifts across the grey-girthed sky. -</p> - -<p> -Ho, Life, I have still a song for you. Though you come whispering to -me from the golden <a id="corr-0"></a>tombs of youth, from the scarlet graves of love, I will -make of the lament you bring me—music. I will make of the dull tears you -bring me—lyrics. I will clothe the grey ghosts of sorrow in rich trappings. -</p> - -<p> -For it is only she who hath died. It is only she whom I loved with all -my soul. Though my heart scatter tears over the dark day they are the -tears of plenty. For her death hath enriched me. -</p> - -<p> -For the autumn is come again speaking with its soft-tongued winds to -the trees and to me things I have never heard before; things that her white -breasts never told me; things that her burning lips never said to me; wild, -sad things that the flame from whence my songs once leaped never held -for me. -</p> - -<p> -The dull silvered poplar leaves float in the air like dead butterflies, and -they are beautiful. -</p> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="DEATHSONG"> -<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> -Death Song -</h4> - -<p class="noindent"> -Last night you came and sat by my bed in a little dark room and boasted -to me like a child. -</p> - -<p> -“I have come to destroy the sun,” you said; “I will take the great, -yellow sun in my fingers and blow on it once and it will go out like a -match.” -</p> - -<p> -And I wondered, because the sun is so large and hot, how such a little one -as you could blow it out like a match. -</p> - -<p> -But you said: “I will blow once into the night and the stars will -sputter like little flames in a great wind and scatter away in ashes. And -the moon will spin around and around like a bright coin until it breaks into -little black bits.” -</p> - -<p> -And I wondered because the night was so far, how such a little breath -as yours could reach into its soul. -</p> - -<p> -But you said: “I will go out and touch the trees and the green leaves -will shrivel and the brown trunks will vanish. I will breathe just once on -the houses, the great big houses of iron and wood and stone, and they will -sway like long pieces of black cloth in the wind and they will melt into a -dark mist.” -</p> - -<p> -And I wondered and wondered. -</p> - -<p> -But you said: “In an instant I will walk up and down all the roads -you have known; I will wander in all the fields you have wandered and pass -through all the highways you have been. And each place that I move in -will cease to be. Under my feet the earth will become a powder and -vanish.” -</p> - -<p> -Then you said, for I had ceased to wonder and was listening sadly: -“I will go to your beloved whose hair is like the silk on the corn and whose -eyes are like the deeps of the sea and I will smile on her and she will -become as nothing. She will become as a speck of dust and she will never -be again.” -</p> - -<p> -And I wondered again how such a little one as you could make my -beloved into a speck of dust when she was so beautiful. -</p> - -<p> -But you said: “I will touch all the faces you have seen with the point -of my finger and they will change into little dark clouds and I will blow -them away with the stars and the moon and the yellow sun.” -</p> - -<p> -And I thought of all the faces you boasted to destroy and wondered—because -there were so many. -</p> - -<p> -But you said: “Do you remember the little bird you saw hopping on -the stones in the park one day: I will go find the little bird and lay my -hand on her and she will never hop on the stones again.” -</p> - -<p> -I remembered the little bird. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> -And you said: “Do you remember the wide, green water that rolled -itself into a great colored ball and bounced up and down under the sun? -Listen—I will go and blow on the water and it will disappear into a single -drop. And I will bring this drop back to you to wear in your eyes when -they close.” -</p> - -<p> -And I wondered and wondered. -</p> - -<p> -But you said: “Listen:—there is an old woman who smiles when she -thinks of you. I will walk up behind her and touch her gently on the -shoulder and she will vanish.” -</p> - -<p> -And I murmured, “Do not touch the old woman.” -</p> - -<p> -But you said: “Listen:—I will lay my hand over all the wild notes -and sweet notes you have heard and they will be hushed. I will kill the -songs that lie unborn in the earth and the sea and the cherry trees and in -the white throats of birds and women and in the hearts of men.” -</p> - -<p> -And I wondered how such a little one as you could hush so great a -chorus. -</p> - -<p> -But you came closer to me and said: “I have come to destroy the -world for you, to pluck out every little blade of grass and every flower, to -brush away the stars and kick over the hills and tear up all the fields.” -</p> - -<p> -It was dark in the little room where we were and I sighed. -</p> - -<p> -And you came closer to me and said: “I will gather up in a great, -black bag everyone and everything and every God you have known and I -will drop them into a great, black hole. And listen:—and then you will be -alone.” -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="II"> -II. -</h3> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="THESYNAGOGUE"> -The Synagogue -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">This street in the ghetto looks at night</p> - <p class="verse">Like a prison corridor,</p> - <p class="verse">And the houses facing it are dark cells.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And then you come to a block where the rickety, thin tenements</p> - <p class="verse">Rise like gnawed, patient pencils tracing crazy star lines</p> - <p class="verse">In the sky.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And then you come to the Synagogue of Judas the Servant,</p> - <p class="verse">A little church of the Jews</p> - <p class="verse">Crouching on its knees</p> - <p class="verse">And enveloped in the rags of cheap saloons and hovels.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> - <p class="verse">It thrusts its iron star into the night</p> - <p class="verse">Like a strange voice whispering in a dark place.</p> - <p class="verse">And its stained walls impregnated with an ancient faith</p> - <p class="verse">Murmur stoically to the stars of burning prayers and hopeless sobs</p> - <p class="verse">And other things they have never heard.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And if you stand before it for a time</p> - <p class="verse">Strange wild things will cry out of the shadows,</p> - <p class="verse">And you will see the torn, bleeding image of a race</p> - <p class="verse">Whom Christ crucified.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="INTHESUN"> -In the Sun -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O what a day!</p> - <p class="verse">The buildings are bursting into bloom—</p> - <p class="verse">Huge, dazzling flowers sweeping against the heaven;</p> - <p class="verse">Dizzy ferns waving like dreadful fans under the flying clouds.</p> - <p class="verse">The shining windows flutter down like a shower of golden petals.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O what a day!</p> - <p class="verse">The buildings are crashing into bloom;</p> - <p class="verse">Gleaming stalks of purple sprawling with a graceful frenzy into space.</p> - <p class="verse">Smoke monsters dance lazily over their heads.</p> - <p class="verse">The sky swims like a blue butterfly in and out among them.</p> - <p class="verse">The streets race away.</p> - <p class="verse">A golden wind sweeps with a roar through the world that has become a fierce gorgeous garden, and it nods breathlessly.</p> - <p class="verse">Out of its blazing depths color leaps and the growling music of a torn God singing in pain.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">O what a day.</p> - <p class="verse">Beauty bursting into madness.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="ONTHEBEACH"> -<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> -On the Beach -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The lake comes gliding in and in,</p> - <p class="verse2">And gliding out it goes,</p> - <p class="verse">Running up and back on the ribbon of the beach</p> - <p class="verse2">That plays with its silver toes.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And the lake reaches down to the hem of its gown</p> - <p class="verse2">With its cool curved wind of a hand,</p> - <p class="verse">And throws out its petticoat lacy and white</p> - <p class="verse2">With a swish-swish over the sand.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Its blue dress fluttering, tinted with the sun,</p> - <p class="verse2">Hangs from its girdle white-spaced,</p> - <p class="verse">And a far ship riding with its nose in hiding</p> - <p class="verse2">Stands black like a buckle at its waist.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">It begins to rain and the lake birds fly</p> - <p class="verse2">With a whir and an angry screech,</p> - <p class="verse">As the thin grey fingers reach down from the sky</p> - <p class="verse2">And tap, tap faintly on the beach.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Digging little holes for an elfin folk,</p> - <p class="verse2">Pointing up the water like a grate;</p> - <p class="verse">And the sky moves closer like a gust of smoke</p> - <p class="verse2">And behind it crouch and wait</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Great half shapes and grey cloud apes,</p> - <p class="verse2">And a grey, old water crew,</p> - <p class="verse">And the lake birds fly with their wings awry,</p> - <p class="verse2">Searching in their faces for the blue.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Now the long rain chants in the grasses on the hill,</p> - <p class="verse2">And the lake runs in with a frightened sound,</p> - <p class="verse">And sullen and wet the sand sinks low,</p> - <p class="verse2">Like a heavy brown cloud on the ground.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> - <p class="verse">On the hill top green the trees bend away</p> - <p class="verse2">And brood as they lower and bend,</p> - <p class="verse">And grey things walk beyond the grey</p> - <p class="verse2">Where the sands and the waters end.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The rain has stopped and the earth like a bride</p> - <p class="verse2">Has hung white petals in her hair,</p> - <p class="verse">And the sky draws back till the white clouds ride</p> - <p class="verse2">Like soft white gardens in the air.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And a butterfly flutters like an endless note</p> - <p class="verse2">Over the lake’s thin brink,</p> - <p class="verse">And the sand takes off its heavy brown coat</p> - <p class="verse2">And the cloud apes vanish and sink.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The gay water dawns and the grasshopper pipes</p> - <p class="verse2">And the lake glides in anew,</p> - <p class="verse">Dressed in greens and in awning stripes,</p> - <p class="verse2">And little birds leap toward the blue.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEDIONYSIANDREISER"> -<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> -The Dionysian Dreiser -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">heodore</span> Dreiser is the greatest novelist in America. It is not -a distinction. He has written poor novels. His latest novel, The -“Genius” published by John Lane Company is loose in parts. It limps. -It loses its breath. It grows thin. But it is a novel of sweep and magnitude, -of sledge hammer blows and fine chiseling. In the caramel chorus of America’s -chirping fictionists Dreiser raises the smooth, virile voice of an artist. -And there is no voice like his in America. -</p> - -<p> -I prefer to write of what Dreiser has done in The “Genius” than to tell -in detail of what it is about. Calmly, aloofly with a consummate dispassion -Dreiser has thrust his magic pen home into the heart of American Puritanism. -God forgive him. God forgive the publishers. God forgive everybody -who reads the book and forgive me who write about it. For American -Puritanism is a sacred thing, as sacred as the gilt on the cathedral altar -places, as hallowed as the bathroom in a bawdy house. And Dreiser has -peeled off the gilt and ruthlessly thrust open the door. May he be cursed -with the wrath of an avenging public conscience. May he be made to wither -under the distinction of being a <a id="corr-2"></a>maniacal sensualist, a libidinous ruffian, a -lascivious distiller of corrupting langours. Amen. -</p> - -<p> -Against the gray-dirt background, the shallow-hued smears of his -many contemporaries, Dreiser’s book stands forth like a red cry of truth. -It is not the book of a man enraged with the narrowness of a country, sputtering -against the insipidity of its composite ideals. Dreiser never descends -to the punitive hectoring of a Robert Herrick. Nor does he join the plaintive -assaults upon the pusillanimous conventions which characterize the “advanced” -fiction of the country. He does not make his men and women -vehicles for the antiquated day dream of brotherhood bosh. He does not -prostitute his work in dramatizing the current quibbles, marketing asinine -public convulsions in the literary capsules so commonly compounded by our -quack “creators.” All these things he does not do and if the reading public -of today will not reward him, the God of Dostoevsky, Flaubert, Huysmanns, -Shakespeare and Ambrose Bierce will. -</p> - -<p> -What Dreiser does do is tell a straightforward story, tell it with all -the painstaking genius of the old Flemish painters. And he uses for his -background not the isolated strata of any single calling, but a country—your -world and mine and our neighbor’s. Life is greater than any of its -truths, sings Theodore Dreiser. There are many kinds of good, many kinds -of standards and many kinds of virtue. There is the virtue of farmer Blue, -the solid, masculine, clear and open virtue rooted in the laws of the land -and the rigmarole of society; thriving on the long, brown roads, the -ploughed fields and the homely beauties of existence. And there is the -virtue of Eugene Witla, the aesthetic, vibrating pursuit of beauty rooted in -<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> -the soul of the artist, thriving on the illusive lust of women, the intangible -urge of inspiration; spitting in the face of laws unnatural to it and the fallacies -that would be its fetters. Yes, says Dreiser, (I do not quote him), life -is a wide field bearing on its bosom beautiful flowers that do not resemble -each other and that require widely different care and nourishment. To -think that such commonplaces should be distinctive notes in the art of a -country! But they are. If you have read these things into novels before -you have not read them into American novels. I do not recall a single hero -in American fiction, who is not a Puritan, who does not suffer when he -sins, whom the indulgence of his desire for women does not inspire to repentance -and “reform” and success as the blue literary laws of America -demand. For further particulars on this general subject see Mr. Mencken’s -fulmination in last month’s Smart Set. -</p> - -<p> -On this broad canvas of thought it is that Dreiser works. In his -new novel he begins in a little town in Illinois. Out of the midst of a mediocre -family living in the concentric provincialism of the middle west he -launches his young hero Witla—a lad suffering from dreams and stomach -trouble and a vague distinguishing unrest. His types are masterpieces. -His style, shorn of pretentious reticence or rhetorical pomp, is the painstaking -and poetical diction he revealed in Jennie Gerhardt. But he is not infallible. -There are sentences, paragraphs which jar. Although his strokes in delineating -character and situation are swift and certain, his language often -seems lame, his words watery, his phrases trite. But these are as the flaws -of a panoramic pen crowded at moments to a point of impatience and not -the faults of a weak writer. The effect is untouched. His people breathe -out of the pages. They are personalities. From beginning to end Dreiser -reveals a psychology of character amazing in its range and detachment. -Witla as a boy lives in Alexandria, Illinois. Dreiser traces the development -of his soul and sex and struggle out of the blanketing bourgois of his birthplace. -The young ’Gene answers the call of beauty, without knowing what -it is that calls him. He comes to Chicago. He is a laundry wagon driver, -a collector for an installment furniture house, a student of the old Art Institute, -a worker in the art department of a newspaper. Dreiser traces -him out of the half way stratas of Chicago to New York, to success, and -then through a labyrinth of incidents all interesting and big. He follows -him through one development after another until Witla, the painter, realizes -himself. I cannot begin to tell what the book is about. It is partially a -depiction of the struggle between an artist husband and a “good woman” -who is his wife, partly the struggle between the flesh and the spirit of the -same husband and the tale of their final adjustment. It is an Odyssey of a -type of man in whom the future of the arts rest as they always have rested. -In the 736 pages there are persons of every type. You will meet everyone -you have known and many you have dreamed of knowing. Every shade -of womanhood flashes between the covers. It is as a novel should be—complete. -<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> -It tingles with the quick spasmodic life of the city, of the country, -the factory, the field, the drawing room. And above all, it breathes the -atmosphere of America’s art life, the lively, struggling workers of the studio. -</p> - -<p> -Witla, however, remains Dreiser’s calm, masterful argument against -the one-sided perversions of the Puritan. Witla is a genius. What are you -going to do with him, you proselyting blue stocking? Such a detached study -in perfidious polygamy is enough to damn the very printers who set the -type for the book. Here is a man of strong ideals, great productive talent, -an indispensable contributor to life, who naively considers setting up an -establishment for his pretty model just after he has proposed matrimony to -the woman he loves at the time with all the finest desires of his nature; a -miserable fellow who ruins and ravishes without compunction every shapely -creature who crosses his path. He is without even unconscious morality, -innate morality. Woman is beauty when she is anything and to possess -beauty is the motive force in his life. His eye possesses the beauty of the -city’s filth and dirt, the beauty of landscape, his mind possesses the beauty -of books and talk and other minds, and his body the beauty of passion wherever -he encounters it. Logical, natural, primitive and entirely artistic. But -immoral? God, yes. No one woman can satisfy a man unless he deliberately -stunts himself, is the Dreiserian Gospel. A man needs blonde women, -brunette women, short ones and tall ones, radical ladies and conservative -creatures—that is, a man like Witla does. And is Witla a supreme type, a -distinctive Sanine sort of fellow? Not a bit of it. Whether Dreiser thought -he is, I don’t know. He doesn’t say. But he isn’t. He is man and not -artist in his “sins.” -</p> - -<p> -There is naturally more color to his escapades, to his “pursuit of beauty,” -for he is the “genius” with an eye to shades and a soul for nuances not possessed -by his more hum drum brothers. To him matrimony is naturally a -pit, a degradation, a series of cages, for he is the eternal masculine. But -how many men are there who have always been faithful to their wives? -What? I do not know of a single one. In his high lighted type of Witla, -Dreiser tells of this rudely, brutally and beautifully—with the indifference -of a Juggernaut and the cunning of a magician. -</p> - -<p> -Really, you of the firm-fireside-faith, what is there to be done? Here -is the Dionysian dastard who dares proclaim that life is a decent, orderly -routine and that life is also a wild, warm passionate thing; that it is also a -flame in which there is only one color, the red, golden color of youth. -</p> - -<p> -And the answer is—howl. A howl will go up, I swear it. It will start -from the critics. -</p> - -<p> -I can almost read their forthcoming reviews as I close my eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“A sensually depraved and degenerate type.” -</p> - -<p> -“Striking at the bed rock of public solidarity, of home happiness, of -everything decent and worth while.” -</p> - -<p> -And America’s reading public—“Horrible, filthy.” -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> -Howl, you who have stultified your artists and buried them under the -gingerbread morality of your own monotonous lives. Dreiser is the one -novelist being published in America today who doesn’t listen to you, who -describes you at your various bests, who wrings the pathos and joys out of -your little worlds; who paints in with the brush of a universal art what you -and I are doing in Alexandria and Chicago and New York and all the milk-station -stops between. -</p> - -<p> -I am not a disciple of the Dreiserian Gospel. I would like to argue -with him the certain superiorities of monogamy for the artist. But he has -limned a hero who is not a sugar-coated moralizer. He has ignored superbly -the mob-begotten mandates of literary excellence. Whatever his faults of -composition or construction, and there are not so many as his friends endeavor -to make out there are, he has magnificently booted the reading public, the -morally subsidized critics and the very publishers in the coarsest regions of -their bodies—their souls. -</p> - -<p> -And for these things I hail him as the greatest novelist in the country. -I acclaim him as the only real, uncontaminated genius of these States and -pray to God that my friend Sherwood Anderson will hurry up and get published -so that there will be two of them. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Scavenger.</span> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="LEATHERLANE"> -Leather Lane -</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Three restless gas-jets</p> - <p class="verse">In Leather Lane;</p> - <p class="verse">A thousand faces,</p> - <p class="verse">Wandering in the night,</p> - <p class="verse">Too dull for pain.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">God saw;</p> - <p class="verse">God quenched the light.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">But God had not choked</p> - <p class="verse">The clamor of gaunt curses</p> - <p class="verse">That stalk in Leather Lane,</p> - <p class="verse">Uncloaked,</p> - <p class="verse">Blatant with strength of dour years.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">God heard;</p> - <p class="verse">God stopped His ears.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Ho!</p> - <p class="verse">God had forgot His nose,</p> - <p class="verse">And in the stench that rose</p> - <p class="verse">From Leather Lane,</p> - <p class="verse">God died.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza attr"> - <p class="verse">—<em>Mitchell Dawson.</em></p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="ETCHINGS"> -<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> -Etchings -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Alexander S. Kaun</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="IGRATITUDE"> -I. Gratitude -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">O</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> the play-grounds. The pretty girl and I withdrew from the noisy -festival to the desolate fountain. It was too hot to think, so I merely -talked. -</p> - -<p> -An old, ragged, grey-bearded, gibbous Jew, with a basket over his arm, -was slowly approaching us. -</p> - -<p> -The meaningless eyes of the pretty girl clouded. -</p> - -<p> -“<a id="corr-6"></a>Peddlers are not allowed on the grounds. He must have sneaked in.” -</p> - -<p> -The Jew stood at our side. He said nothing, but his timid eyes -appealed. -</p> - -<p> -It was too hot to think, but for a moment I thought that a waft of -eternity breathed upon me from out the sad, timid eyes, and from out the -folds of the soiled old coat, and from out the clotty grey beard of the -descendant of Isaiah and the Maccabees. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall buy some peaches, yes?” -</p> - -<p> -The pretty girl twitched her little nose. -</p> - -<p> -“But they are dusty.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no. See, they are covered.” -</p> - -<p> -The sad, timid eyes smiled at me. I looked into the depth of those -eyes-of-ages. A half frivolous notion passed through my mind: I raised -the fruit, and pronounced the ancient Hebrew blessing: -</p> - -<p> -“<em>Barukh atah, Adonay, elohenu melekh haolam, bore pri haetz.</em>” -(Blessed art Thou, O Lord, our God, creator of the fruit of the tree.) -</p> - -<p> -The sad eyes became faintly radiant and moist. A suggestion of a -smile appeared around the hairy mouth. The lips mumbled something inaudible. -A lean brown hand rubbed the glossy side of the coat, and -tremblingly extended to me. I grasped it, embarrassed. -</p> - -<p> -“<em>Lange Johren magt Ihr hoben, lange Johren auf Euch!</em>” (Long -years may you have, long years unto you!) -</p> - -<p> -I turned to the pretty girl. With her handkerchief she was diligently -rubbing off a drop of juice from her white blouse. -</p> - -<p> -It was too hot to think, so I resumed our playful talk. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="IINOCTURNE"> -<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> -II. Nocturne -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -It was night, and soft and blue and starry. A uniformed nurse emerged -from the dark alley of the park, and heavily dropped on the bench where -I sat. For some time she leaned backward, her eyes closed, her breast -heaving, her mouth half open. Then she looked widely, straightened herself, -sighed deeply, and casually glanced at me and at my box of paints. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you an artist?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Obviously, you are a nurse?” -</p> - -<p> -She nodded, and burst forth into a rapid talk, as if she had long been -waiting for an opportunity to unburden herself. -</p> - -<p> -“Just got off duty. See those lighted windows across the road? That -is our hospital. Ah, I shan’t stand it much longer. Moans and groans, -suffering, tears, madness—God! You know, it starts at twilight. As soon -as the sun sets all the miseries get loose. Even the quiet patients become -delirious and raise bedlam. And so till midnight. It will drive me insane. -Give me a cigarette, will you? There is nobody around at this time.” -</p> - -<p> -Her “shop talk” bored me. Silently I gave her a cigarette and a light, -and watched her inhaling the smoke eagerly and intently. Her grey striped -dress with the tight white apron outlined a light, slender body, a supple -breast, and full strong arms. Her face was in the shadow, but my professional -eyes noticed its lovely oval contours. The little white cap seemed -toyishly small on the vast mass of disobedient hair. She flung away the -cigarette, and turned to me: -</p> - -<p> -“Thanks, stranger. Why don’t you say something? Ah, what a night! -See the blue mist away there beneath the trees, and see that big oak—it’s -like a tower. Gee, I am getting romantic. Ah, what a night!” -</p> - -<p> -I was amused with her half bookish, half street-talk. Somehow she -did not irritate me, as the rest of the people did, with her trivial remarks -on things which I believed to belong exclusively to the realm of colors -and music. -</p> - -<p> -“Look!” She grasped my hand. “See the star falling? There, it -dropped into the lagoon. Ah, I smell hyacinths, do you? Hey, if you are -not going to say something, I’ll smash you!” -</p> - -<p> -She snatched off my hat, threw it high up in the air, and, laughing -loudly, ran away, dropping her cap on the grass. I picked it up, and pursued -her. She was a swift runner, and we raced a long while across the -wide lawn before I caught her. In the dim bluish light she stood at my -side, a savage figure with stormy cascades of hair over her face and shoulders, -with flashing eyes, open mouth, dilating nostrils. In my professional -delight (I never lose my self-consciousness) I seized her by the waist and -lifted her up above me. She waved her good arms and shrieked in joy, -tossing her Medusa-head, arching her tense chest, quivering in ecstacy. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> -“Hey, there. Cut that out!” -</p> - -<p> -A husky policeman on a motorcycle approached us. He dismounted, -looked at us (I was still holding her in the air), and burst into a hoarse -guffaw. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I’ll be.... Beat it now. It’s improper.” -</p> - -<p> -I handed her the mussed white cap. She twisted it with her fingers, -and her lips muttered somnolently: -</p> - -<p> -“And at six thirty in the morning I must be on duty....” -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="IIIWILLTOPOWER"> -III. Will to Power -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -At a crossing line on a Saturday night about 2 A. M. Tired men, -women, children, families, couples, waiting for a street car. Some lean -towards the wall, some sit on the sidewalk, on the garbage-box, on the curb. -Dull silence. The June night rolls on indifferently. -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly the calm is disturbed by violent screams and oaths. A -woman is hurled out by invisible hands from the corner-hotel. She crosses -the street towards the waiting crowd, staggers, waves her big handbag, -and swears hideously. -</p> - -<p> -No response. The ennui on the faces remains unstirred. The coarse -solo of the prostitute, who ejaculates fantastically ugly verbs, nouns, adjectives, -bespatters the velvet night. -</p> - -<p> -A baggy figure in a battered derby rises from the sidewalk, and hesitatingly -accosts the woman. -</p> - -<p> -“You stop this noise....” Then threateningly: “Want to take a -ride?” -</p> - -<p> -Her foul flux interrupted, the woman thrusts her red face into the -man’s, and hisses half coquettishly, half contemptuously: -</p> - -<p> -“A ride? With you, sweetheart? Sure!” -</p> - -<p> -He grabs her by the shoulder. His face grows pale. -</p> - -<p> -“Come on, now. Move on, I tell you!” -</p> - -<p> -The woman shrieks and struggles. -</p> - -<p> -“Let go! Look what he is doing to me! Who are you? You are not -a detective.... Let go!” -</p> - -<p> -The crowd does not stir. Some one yawns desperately. A little boy -whimpers, and clings to his dozing mother. -</p> - -<p> -The man drags his shrieking victim. He pulls out a chain of keys, -and swings it triumphantly. The woman screams and hits her assailant on -the face with her heavy handbag. New figures appear from the adjoining -streets. A voice is heard: -</p> - -<p> -“Maybe he is not a detective.... Hey, where’s your star?” -</p> - -<p> -The man’s pale face twitches convulsively. The woman feels encouraged, -strikes him short, rapid blows, and shouts wildly: -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> -“He is not a detective! Look what he is doing to me!” -</p> - -<p> -A big fist plunges into the man’s face. He gasps, and falls. When -he rises, a shower of fists meets him. Many of the erstwhile indifferent -figures are now up, eager to lay a hand on the imposter. Like a toy, he falls -and rises, looking astonished, in a trance. -</p> - -<p> -The long-awaited car suddenly plunges into the imbroglio. Men, -women, children, push and justle at the narrow entrance. -</p> - -<p> -The man stands alone, hatless, wiping a bleeding face with his sleeve, -muttering faintly: -</p> - -<p> -“I am a detective.... I am.” -</p> - -<p> -The night rolls on indifferently. -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -The soul of music is something more than the -soul of humanity expressing itself in melody, and -the life of music something more than an audible -dramatization of human life.—<em>Arthur Symons.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THETRUTH"> -<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> -The Truth -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Burt Harris</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> truth, my friend? There is no truth. It is impossible for the human -mind to attain the truth. You can tell the truth with reservations, -with omissions. Perhaps you can speak the truth that is only part truth. -Yes, that is often done by virtuous people and by clever people. But to -speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, to place your -soul naked before either God or man,—that, my friend, is impossible. I -have listened to women lie. Sometimes it is only necessary to watch. And -it is the same with a man. -</p> - -<p> -What? A man will tell the truth before God? You are quite wrong. -A man will lie to himself and he will lie to his God. I know. I listened to -a man lie to God. I will tell you the story. -</p> - -<p> -The man’s name was Henry Spencer. You perhaps remember it. He -was a murderer. One of his victims was a tango teacher named Mrs. -Allison Rexroat. When the body of Mrs. Rexroat was found behind a -clump of bushes in a lonely spot the police somehow blundered upon a -clew. In four days they traced the murder of the woman to Henry Spencer. -They wove a net of evidence about him. Oh they are clever, sometimes, my -friend. On the fifth day Henry Spencer sat in the police captain’s office and -they sweated him. After five hours he confessed. Ordinarily this means -nothing. I have seen criminals confess to crimes of which they were innocent. -Sweating is an unintelligent process, but then criminals are unintelligent -persons and for a stupid mind the whole affair becomes quite an ordeal. -The police captain says, “You did.” The criminal replies, “I didn’t.” It is -very simple, my friend, but very wearing; particularly when there are five -policemen to say “You did,” and none but yourself to say “I didn’t.” But -it happened this time that the policemen blundered upon a real confession. -After five hours Henry Spencer jumped to his feet and shouted, “Yes, I -did. I killed her.” He was led away. Two days later he repeated his confession -and elaborated on it. He sketched the murder, described the events -leading up to it. -</p> - -<p> -The policemen, highly elated, rushed out and verified all he had said. -They found the hammer he told them he had used where he said he had -thrown it. They found the effects of the murdered woman where he said he -had hidden them. Henry Spencer went to trial. A number of attorneys -defending him pleaded insanity. Spencer upset their efforts by rising in -the court room and informing the jury he was quite sane and that he had -committed a number of murders in his life. Given permission by the court -he informed them that his life had been an extremely illegal one. He -<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> -named five women he had killed. The police, highly elated, rushed out and -verified his statements. In concluding, the defendant again sought to impress -them with the fact that he was quite sane and willing to pay the -penalty for his crimes. In fact several times he cried out from his seat, -“Hurry up and hang me.” -</p> - -<p> -You will argue, my friend, that there was an instance where in the very -depravity of his nature a man attained the naked truth. You are quite -wrong. Henry Spencer killed the women he said he killed, but he failed -of the truth. For three months he had sat in his cell figuring the thing out. -He came to the conclusion that by telling truthfully of his crimes and pleading -truthfully of his sanity he would create the impression that he was -indeed a maniac. You see, it is quite simple. Lies are always simple. It is -only the truth which is impossible to understand. Henry Spencer’s logic -proved accurate. He convinced the jury that he was a maniac. But he had -placed too much faith on the technical interpretation of the law. The jury -sentenced him to hang, anyway. So did the judge. -</p> - -<p> -The date was set and Henry Spencer waited in the jail of a little town -in Illinois. It is the duty of a large number of people in the world to save -souls from Hell. Do not think I speak sarcastically, my friend. There is -nothing wrong in this, except, of course, its utter futility. For two months -the Rev. Mr. Williams, his wife, and his son visited Henry Spencer daily in -his cell. They taught him religion. The doomed man was an illiterate. He -had been brought up in the streets. He spoke English vulgarly and he -understood nothing. His mind was unformed and his ideas of any particular -life to be were as vague as his ideas of the life that was. -</p> - -<p> -So he became religious. This is quite a story in itself, his acquiring -“faith.” They played hymns in his cell on an old melodeon. Each night the -Williams family knelt with him and prayed. He found in the Scriptures -and their promise something that stilled the cold terror of death. His -nerves became quiet. In fact he became buoyant. You will say it is impossible -for a man to acquire genuine faith under such circumstances. You -are quite wrong, my friend. I will prove it to you soon. -</p> - -<p> -On the day preceding his execution Henry Spencer exhibited the only -bit of nervousness during his watch for death. He objected to the big clock -that hung in the corridor outside his cell. He didn’t like the way it ticked. -You know why. So they removed the clock. How kind people are to those -whom they are about to destroy. They quite resemble the Gods in the -matter. -</p> - -<p> -I am coming now to the point of the story, so be patient, my friend. -It was a sunny morning in early July. Inside a stockade they had erected -a scaffold. During the night Henry Spencer sang hymns. The sheriff sat -on the doorstep of his home adjoining the jail listening and looking at the -moon and greasing a hempen rope with cold cream which he borrowed -from his daughter. He was a religious man and the hymns made him sad. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> -At ten o’clock the death march started from Spencer’s cell. Now there -were thirty-eight steps leading to the top of the scaffold which rose high -above the stockade top. I know this because a young man named Smith and -I walked up the steps the midnight before and counted them. After counting -them I made a wager with the young man that Spencer would never reach -the top unsupported. So I was exceedingly interested when the death march -entered the stockade. A number of persons were privileged to march in the -line, and the first to appear was Spencer. He was dressed as if he were -hurrying to a tennis game—white trousers, white shoes, a soft white collar, -and a white shirt. On the pocket of his shirt he had pinned a red carnation. -He walked with a light, springy step. Behind him trailed the Rev. -Mr. Williams and the others. -</p> - -<p> -Henry Spencer wore a good-natured smile on his face. When he -reached the bottom step of the scaffold I held my breath. I watched him -skip nimbly up the stairs, never missing a step, never tripping or hesitating. -Under more virtuous circumstances the thing would have passed for heroism. -At any rate I lost the wager. -</p> - -<p> -Spencer stood on the scaffold, the noose hanging over his shoulder. -The smile had not left his face. Several hundred necks were craned towards -him. I would have felt chilled to see so many necks at such a time had I -been he. The sheriff and his assistant began dressing him in a white robe -that covered him from the neck down. -</p> - -<p> -He commenced talking at once. -</p> - -<p> -“My friends,” he said, extending his arm. They strapped it to his side -as he did so but he continued unflustered. “I am glad of the opportunity -this gives me of telling you that for the first time in my life I am happy. -I have found a mother and a God and a friend while I have been in jail -waiting for death. Although it is going to cost me my life I am glad I am -here to tell you this. I have repented for my sins. I have made my peace -with my God and my fellow men. And I am happy, my friends, happy. I -have found a mother who has shown me the way to peace and salvation. -I am grateful to Him for the gladness he has put in my heart. Oh, my -friends—” -</p> - -<p> -He raised his head to the sky. Standing against the sun in his white -robe, his face transfigured with a wonderful smile, he looked like some -Crusader giving himself into the arms of the Virgin. Above him stretched -the green leafy branch of a tree that rustled faintly in the breeze. A little -bird sat on a twig and chirped. And still above stretched the pure blue -sky with its white fleece clouds. Henry Spencer looked at it all—life, the -little bird, the sky, the green leaves—and smiled; smiled as I have never -seen a man smile before. -</p> - -<p> -They strapped his ankles and then the sheriff adjusted the rope around -his neck with great care. His political future was dependent on his task. -Spencer resumed talking. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> -He recited two long psalms with never a wrong word, and I who had -listened to him five months ago sat astounded. His voice, his accent, everything -about him had changed. A theologian could have rendered the psalms -no more accurately. Then he looked at the sky again. I felt that before his -eyes the clouds rolled away and God revealed himself, a gigantic figure -seated on a golden throne. I felt that he saw the cherubs and the angels -he had read of in the scriptures, perceived the jewelled streets and the -harpists and Christ waiting with outstretched arms and forgiveness. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, my friends,” he went on, “I am not afraid, for I have given myself -to Christ, pure in spirit, strong in faith.” He quoted from the Bible. -“See, I smile at it all, for believe me, O Lord, I am happy.” The sheriff -had lifted the white hood to the man’s head and was beginning to adjust it. -The smile never left his face, the light that blazed from his eyes never -dimmed. “I am going to heaven,” he said as they settled the hood on his -head, “and I want to say only one more thing before I go. My friends, as -I stand here, I tell you I am innocent of the murder of Mrs. Allison Rexroat.” -</p> - -<p> -And they hanged him. -</p> - -<p> -The truth? The human ego is too weak for truth. What do you say, -my friend? -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -We carry faithfully what we are given, on -hard shoulders, over rough mountains! And -when perspiring, we are told: “Yea, life is hard -to bear!” But man himself only is hard to bear! -The reason is that he carrieth too many strange -things on his shoulders. Like the camel he kneeleth -down and alloweth the heavy load to be put -on his back.—<em>Nietzsche.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="ROMAINROLLAND"> -<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> -Romain Rolland -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Ellen Key</span> -</p> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>Authorized translation from the Swedish by Mamah Bouton -Borthwick. Copyright, 1914.</em>) -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="I3"> -I. -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> Clamecy, a quiet town in Nivernais in Central France, Romain Rolland -was born in 1866. His family had dwelt for centuries in the little -place, both as country folk and townspeople. Quite contrary to the inference -one would draw from <em>Jean Christophe</em>, neither German nor other foreign -ancestry is discoverable in the family lineage; Rolland is descended -from pure French Catholic burgher stock. His parents devoted themselves -with loving zeal to his education; his mother endowing him with a musical -sense and love of music that made music, from earliest childhood, his passion -and joy; his father, a notary in Clamecy, gave up his profession that he -might accompany his young son to Paris. -</p> - -<p> -It is not the external events of his life, but the spiritual atmosphere and -environment of his native town, that Rolland depicted in the sixth part of -<em>Jean Christophe</em>, under the sub-title, “Antoinette.” The landscape of Nivernais -is a mingling of rivers and canals, great forests and Mont de Moran’s -peaks. The region unites memorials of the Keltic and Gallic-Roman times -and cathedrals of the Gothic period, stimulating the historical sense which, -next to the sense of music, is most characteristic of Romain Rolland. -</p> - -<p> -He entered the <em>Ecole Normale superieure</em> in Paris, when about fifteen -or sixteen years of age, and later went to the <em>Academia di Francia</em> in Rome. -He considers the friendship formed there with Malvida von Meysenburg<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a> -profoundly significant in his development. As she was a faithful friend of -Mazzini and Herzen, of Wagner and Nietzsche, in middle age, so in her old -age she was the friend of Romain Rolland. “Her memory is sacred to me,” -he recently wrote, and he had continued in regular correspondence with her -from 1890 until her death in 1903. -</p> - -<p> -Rome exercised a profound influence upon his entire spiritual life. He -spent there the years 1889 and 1890, and has since made frequent visits for -longer or shorter periods. Italy is the country which, next to France, he -knows best and loves most. Germany, on the other hand, which he has -<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> -described in <em>Jean Christophe</em> so vividly that one is convinced he must have -passed a great part of his life there, he knows only through some minor -journeys. -</p> - -<p> -In 1895, he received his doctor’s degree at the University of Paris, and -presented two theses.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-2" id="fnote-2">[2]</a> He was, first, instructor in the History of Art at -the school he had attended; later he became professor of History of Music -at the Sorbonne, a position he will probably resign; partly, because an automobile -accident injured his arm so that he can no longer illustrate his lectures -on the History of Music with the piano; partly, because he has found -the combination of authorship and lectures too great a strain upon his delicate -health. -</p> - -<p> -Concerning the literary impressions that were decisive in his development, -he says that his education, like that of most young Frenchmen, was -founded upon the classics of the seventeenth century. He found his way, -himself, to the writers who gave him spiritual sustenance: Shakespeare, -Goethe, and the Encyclopedists, especially Diderot. -</p> - -<p> -In 1886, along with his school comrades, he became acquainted with -Tolstoy. In his book on Tolstoy, Rolland says, “He was the purest light -that illumined our youth, the cheering star in the twilight of the end of the -century—our only real friend in contemporary European art.” It was Tolstoy’s -intoxicating adoration of life that enraptured the young Frenchmen -as well as the young Northerners. It was the realism in Tolstoy’s art that -“opened the portals to life”; it was the mysticism in Tolstoy’s nature that -opened their ears to “the music of the soul for which they longed” ... -“Tolstoy was to our generation what Werther was to the youth of the -eighteenth century.” -</p> - -<p> -“But,” wrote Rolland in a letter, “the most potent influence in my life -was and continues to be—music. It has been an ever-flowing spring, not -only for my emotional life, but also for the interpretation of life. For, to -him who can rightly listen, music is a language that can interpret the subtlest -emotions of the soul, and reveal manifold secrets which literature has never -been able to express. If in any degree I understand the German soul, it is -due to music.” -</p> - -<p> -Romain Rolland is familiar, alike, with the old German masters of the -seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and with those of most recent times. -<em>Jean Christophe</em>, the world’s greatest novel concerning a musician and -music, is therefore written by a thoroughly-trained connoisseur and practitioner -of music; a man who demonstrates that, for his own and for his -hero’s individual culture, music is the most profound determining influence. -</p> - -<p> -Even though Romain Rolland differs from Tolstoy in questions pertaining -to his conception of music, still it is in Tolstoy’s spirit that he glorifies -in this form of art its universal breadth, its power—beyond national boundaries -and personal limitations—to unite mankind in and through the joy of -beauty, which is one of the highest conditions of the soul. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> -One aspect of Romain Rolland’s literary work is a direct expression of -his profound belief in the ethical mission of art. He participated ardently -in the movement, instituted at the close of the last century, that purposed -to educate the workingman by means of elevated amusements, especially -plays. But Rolland did not, like Tolstoy, seek to awaken love of mankind; -he wanted to strengthen power of action and heroism. Rolland has recently -published the second edition of a book in which he has collected his controversial -articles, written at the time when he and a group of friends hoped -to create a new theatre for the awakening people, and thus contribute to the -encouragement of that energy of action necessary to the solution of the great -problems the time presents. -</p> - -<p> -Pleasure, enlightenment, energy, says Rolland, are what the theatre -should furnish the people. Neither the classic drama, which bores the workingman -to death by presenting to him <em>les parties mortes de l’ame</em>, nor the -present drama, which injures or lowers him by setting him in a fever of -sordid passions, is fit for a people’s theatre. It must furnish the best drama -of the present time, the spectacle in which the serious aspect of the time is -reflected, or scenes from those earlier phases in which the spirit of struggle -and of devotion lived; in other words, it must furnish a virile and wholesome -art. -</p> - -<p> -The heroes of the French Revolution were Rolland’s inspiration for the -drama, and he utilized the struggles of the time of the Revolution for spectacles -and folk festivals. At that time he wrote and produced for the people’s -theatre: <em>Le 14 Juillet</em>, <em>Danton</em>, <em>Les Loups</em>, <em>Le triomphe de la raison</em>. The -last he has recently published, together with two other early dramas, <em>St. -Louis</em> and <em>Aërt</em>. They are all, as he himself says, devoted to religious enthusiasm; -for God, for country, for reason. -</p> - -<p> -He wished to set these pictures of struggling devotion against the -cowardice of thought and cowardice of will that he saw everywhere around -him. He voiced his own sentiment and that of his young kindred spirits -in the words of one of his heroes, who was condemned to death: -</p> - -<p> -“Life will be what I will. I have anticipated victory, but I shall be -victorious.” And in the words of another: -</p> - -<p> -“You are always thinking of what you can keep or lose. Only think -of what you can give. Live; be like the water that flows.... The -world would not exist without that happiness of beings, of flowers in the -sun, that joy of giving one’s life to the point of exhaustion—which is also -a joy of dying continually!” -</p> - -<p> -“It is elder brother to Jean Christophe,” Rolland says, “less robust but -not less faithful,” who uttered these words, which comprise Rolland’s creed -in its most succinct formula. -</p> - -<p> -To revive the energy of action of the French Revolution in order to -continue thus the work interrupted in 1794; to set in motion the great -passions, not for the purpose of arousing chauvinistic or revolutionary -<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> -fanaticism, but in order to kindle anew the universal feeling of solidarity—this -was the hope of Rolland and his friends for the future of France. -</p> - -<p> -“This hope,” he says, “was one of the purest and holiest forces in our -young lives.” Rolland, therefore, calls his <em>Théâtre du peuple</em> a document of the -time, because it “reflects the artistic ideas and hopes of a whole generation.” -</p> - -<p> -He gives voice now (1913) to that proud utterance: “Let the future -judge us even should it prove that it was our crime to have believed too -much in the future.” -</p> - -<p> -That this little group has not yet been victorious, we know. Romain -Rolland indicated the reason when he said: “In order to fashion a theatre -for the people, we must <em>first have a people</em>; a people with a <em>freedom of the -soul</em> able to enjoy art; a people with <em>leisure</em>; a people not oppressed by misery -or incessant toil; a people not brutalized by every superstition and -fanaticism from right and left; a people lord over itself and victor in the -battle fought out from day to day.” -</p> - -<p> -To these utterances of 1903 can be added one of this year, in which -Rolland expressed himself most fervently and with comprehension in regard -to the working class of <em>women</em>—and in that connection in regard to the -whole woman question.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-3" id="fnote-3">[3]</a> It was made evident, then, that the idealist Rolland -is no advocate of the chauvanistic-religious reaction. His idealism is -of the whirl of revolutionary times and the future. -</p> - -<p> -His critique upon the classic French literature, his “Teutonism” in <em>Jean -Christophe</em>, his political and religious radicalism, have made him as obnoxious -to nationalistic-Catholic France as Mme. de Stael once was because -of her <em>De l’Allemagne</em>. Among other evidences of Rolland’s status in his -own country is the circumstance that when the French Academy recently -awarded its new prize of 10,000 francs, it was given, through the influence -of Maurice Barrès, to a wholly new man in French literature: André Lafon -du Blaye, instructor in a Catholic private school, who had written a book -about a school boy, a book which was found to possess that “elevated character” -the awarding of the prize demanded! <em>Jean Christophe</em> had just been -finished! It is, however, not merely in academic circles that Romain Rolland -is denied recognition. He has succeeded in getting himself well hated in -many another circle because of the cutting truths in <em>Jean Christophe</em>, directed -against all factions. In <em>Ord och Bild</em>, 1912, George Brandes has -given a brief but excellent characterization of Rolland’s spiritual and intellectual -endowments and of his limitations. -</p> - -<p> -Without doubt Rolland’s spiritual tendency in youth was determined -not only by Tolstoy but also by Guyau; the more because Tolstoy has Guyau -to thank for whatever of reason is found in his theories of art. -</p> - -<p> -In regard to the influence of Guyau upon Tolstoy and Nietzsche, see, -<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> -for example, Professor Albert Nilson’s excellent essay upon <em>Guyau’s -Aesthetics</em>. -</p> - -<p> -In the mind of Rolland as well as of Guyau, the ethical ideal is the -highest intensive quality of life, the most effective energy. Rolland is far -from the Christian asceticism that diluted the wine of Tolstoy. But along -with Tolstoy, with Guyau, with Nietzsche, he demands an art that possesses -life’s consummate vigor; that is itself the richest life, the highest intensity -of power. In other words: the ethical ideal and the aesthetic are at heart -the same thing; the fundamental principle of art and religion is solidarity; -the sense of beauty is at the same time the most intensive and the most expansive -of feelings, and so—like the love of humanity—the great fraternizing -power. “They who love most create most richly,” and “the work that -reveals to us the life of greatest value is the noblest”: these propositions -permeated Rolland just as they did Guyau and Tolstoy, although Rolland -establishes a basis of valuation quite different from that of the latter. Perhaps -Bergson, too, has in some respects confirmed Rolland’s personal view -of life. But as Rolland’s view was enunciated before Bergson began to -write, the influence could have been only to strengthen, not to determine it. -No idea harmonized better with Rolland’s own innermost being than that -respecting the power of the spirit to make a way for creative, unfathomable, -inexhaustible life. <em>Jean Christophe</em>, from the first chapter to the last, is an -illustration of this explosive power, this <em>élan vital</em>. -</p> - -<p> -Schiller’s words come to mind: Der Dichter ist der einzige wahre -<em>Mensch</em> und der beste Philosoph ist nur eine Karikatur gegen ihn.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-4" id="fnote-4">[4]</a> The -poet is the only real <em>Man</em> and the best philosopher is only a caricature beside -him. -</p> - -<p> -Not only with his dramas of the Revolution did Romain Rolland endeavor -to make his countrymen hero-worshippers; he also began a series -of popular biographies aimed to present, not the great man’s work, but the -personal powers and experiences that found expression in his work. He -says in the preface: “Europe is poisoned with materialism and egotism; -we must throw open the windows to get air: <em>Respirons le souffle des heros. -Let us breathe the breath of heroes.</em>” He rejoices that he too has witnessed -contemporary heroic deeds: the defense of the Boers and the vindication of -Dreyfus. But he knows that it is “easier to kindle enthusiasm by heroes of -the past,” heroes “who were great in heart.” -</p> - -<p> -His hero-worship did not lead him, however, to glorification at the expense -of truth. He utters the thought, profoundly true and all too little -understood, that every lack of harmony between life and its laws depends—even -in great spirits—not upon their greatness, but upon their weaknesses. -“But these weaknesses render them not less worthy of our love.... -The idealism that will not recognize the truth is cowardice; there is only one -heroism in the world: <em>to see the world as it is—and to love it</em>.” -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> -So without hesitation, Rolland points out weaknesses in Michael Angelo’s -life, and inconsistencies in Tolstoy’s. He sees in both great specimens -of the “type that will pass away”; the Christian—those who “have had their -refuge in God and the everlasting life when this life has gone against them; -those whose faith has often been expression for deficient belief in life, in the -future, in themselves; a lack of courage and a lack of gladness.” “I know,” -he continues, “of how many defeats your grievous victories are made, and -therefore I pity you and admire you. You make the world more doleful -but more beautiful. Praised be pain and praised be joy! Both are holy; -they form the world and they broaden great souls: joy and pain are powers, -are life, are God.”<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-5" id="fnote-5">[5]</a> -</p> - -<p> -The three biographies that Rolland has thus far published are of Beethoven, -Michael Angelo, and Tolstoy. In the first, it is the love of life and -the courage of life; in the second, creative power and strength of belief; -in the third, the ecstacy of life and the love of mankind, that he emphasizes. -Such souls, he says, restore to us belief in life and in mankind, for from -them “issues a current of social power and potent goodness.” -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="II3"> -II. -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Beethoven is Rolland’s own conception of life, and is nearest his heart. -To that “soul of music, heroism, and goodness” Rolland has reared the -only memorial worthy of Beethoven that art has created: <em>Jean Christophe</em>. -</p> - -<p> -This book was published during the course of nine years. But long -before it began to appear it had lived in and with its writer for the greater -part of his life. In it Rolland has committed to writing his profound conception -of the innermost being of a musical genius, and has done it in such -a manner that one is firmly convinced of the truth of the revelations that -one follows from the cradle to the grave. In other novels concerning geniuses -the writers assert incessantly that they <em>are</em> geniuses; here the genius -evinces himself through his being. One does not read a book, one lives a -life—and a life of the highest value, the existence that great spirit creates: -that of the genius, who out of the flaming chaos of his nature forms a cosmos. -An “educational novel,” of which the world’s literature thus far possesses -only one such in <em>Wilhelm Meister</em>, and, in a measure, in Keller’s <em>Der -<a id="corr-12"></a>Grüne Heinrich</em>.... I have lived more intensely with <em>Jean Christophe</em> -than with most living people.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-6" id="fnote-6">[6]</a> -</p> - -<p> -World fame is a curious thing. Sometimes it is attained quickly -through glorifying friends: a path to fame that often early avenges itself,—that -is more dangerous even than the fame that the attacks of enemies furnish. -Sometimes fame is won with one blow, by an exceptional work; again -<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> -it is prepared for in silence and then suddenly rushes forth with the roar of -a great torrent formed by many small streams. The last is the case with Romain -Rolland. -</p> - -<p> -When I read him in 1909, in Switzerland, I went shortly afterwards to -Paris, where, at that time, he was not mentioned among the celebrated writers -and where even his friends thought he dare not reckon his circle of readers -larger than the ten or fifteen thousand faithful he possessed in the world -of French-speaking readers. In Germany his circle was still narrower; in -Sweden, he was unknown even by name. -</p> - -<p> -For the new generation the book is a document of the spiritual history -of the time. For the serious-minded portion of the French youth, Rolland -has possessed an influence comparable with his own description of Tolstoy’s -influence upon himself and the young generation with him. Youth has -learned from him that the fleeting fashionable attitude toward the great -souls or ideas that Paris shapes is sterile; that it is only by devotion that a -spiritual growth can be attained; that skepticism in the face of all greatness -is poverty, but admiration and love “is the way, to the most potent, the -richest, life.” Youth has found in him contempt for mere fine phrases, for -declamation, and received from him Goethe’s conception of creation: “In -the beginning was action.” They have heard him proclaim <em>that</em> nationalism -that is loyalty to the best in the essence of the French nation: love of truth -and justice, desire for freedom and fraternity, devotion to its ideal values -and above all the dream of happiness for all mankind. This dream that -among us Teutons is content to sleep, is among Frenchmen an ever restless -disturbance of the blood. And it is only by occasionally letting his blood -flow for these dreams that he feels he is living up to his highest ideals. -<em>This</em> Youth for whom each new part of <em>Jean Christophe</em> has been a great -event, despises with Rolland the estheticism that turns from life. This -youth has learned to distinguish between great art and the work of those -who think they are creating art but are only making arts. But above all, -at a time of reaction toward the Christian “faith”—a reaction that has been -justified by the fact that science has not been able to “explain” life nor -“vindicate” it—they receive a new fountain of living water. Rolland has -attempted neither to explain life nor defend it. The leit-motiv of his great -symphonic work is Beethoven’s thought: “Durch Leiden Freude,”—“Through -suffering joy comes.” We can, so he says, neither understand -life in all its plenitude of contradictions nor ennoble it in all its brutality in -any way other than by <em>living</em> it one’s self in the fullest and highest meaning -of the word. Music, the all-unifying art, love, the all-embracing condition -of the soul, are the two highest attitudes of devotion to God, who is life. -</p> - -<p> -More Rolland knows not. And more than he knows the veracious man -does not say. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -“I cannot,” he writes, “give any metaphysical credo. For, -in the first place, I will never deceive myself by saying <em>I know -<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> -that which I do not know</em>—which, at the most, I can imagine or -hope. In the second place, I will never confine myself within the -limits of any belief. For I hope to develop until my last day; -I wish to reserve for myself unlimited freedom of intellectual transformation -and renewal. I have many gods in my Pantheon; but my -chief godhead is <em>Liberty</em>. At present I do not separate the essence -of the human soul from that of the divine spirit, of which the -former is a part. But I hardly believe that this divine spirit fills -the universe. It <em>seeks</em>, certainly, to fill the world and guide it; -but nothing indicates that it will succeed. Even in this regard I -reserve space for liberty. Pure monism does not satisfy me. I -am more inclined to a dualism such as the ancient Empedocles -believed in. I have an unbounded admiration for the pre-Socratic -philosophers, the sages of Ionia and Magna Graecia. Indeed my -first work, written at Rome, twenty years ago, was a drama with -Empedocles as hero. The struggle between two principles is -manifest to me in the whole history of the world, material as -well as moral history. The question is whether there is not a -<em>third</em> principle, in which the other two are included or harmonized. -A trinity therefore—it is singular how this form forces -itself upon the human mind—but a trinity very different from the -Christian conception of the trinity, since it comprises a father -and two striving brothers: a triad that approaches the antique -cosmogony of which we find a reflection in Hesiod, in <em>Chaos</em>, -<em>Gaea</em>, and <em>Eros</em>. If I live I shall go deeper into ancient thought. -Those ancient philosophers lived in more intimate contact with -nature than any of their successors, and, moreover, collected the -thousand-year-old wisdom of the whole Orient.” -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Besides this personal utterance of Rolland himself, a French friend of -his, intimate with his thought, has given me permission to communicate the -following statement of the trend of Rolland’s thought: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -The liberty of his mind, his lucidity, his keen penetration, -render him incapable of accepting the least dogma or the least -constraint. It is impossible to conceive of anything that could -have upon such a mind, not to say a direct hold, but even an -appreciable influence. That mind is alone, magnificently alone, -as independent as if the world were just born. Moreover, he is -quite as far from all revealed religions as from all systems. -He would in no wise admit that the Christian or any other religion -is more closely related to the past, and Darwinism or any -scientism whatever more to the future. He would see, in these -diverse ways of viewing life, forms of the human mind which -return at periodic intervals and of which one no more than the -other is an absolute progress in which he does not believe. Only -by his very nature, he is antimaterialistic. He believes in the -duality of soul and body in an absolute, organic manner. He -hopes sincerely to quit this body and go to live a larger and -fuller life. No personal immortality! He cannot endure the -thought. That would be the continuation of this captivity in a -limited personality, which to him appears stifling. He feels that -he is also going to live in God, not understanding by that word -<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> -any anthropomorphic god, but a fountain of universal life. He -loves to plunge, through time and space, into a meditation in -which he totally forgets his personality, and wherein he finds a -sort of intoxication. He has uttered this admirable and terrible -sentence: “Sometimes I feel <em>no difference</em> between my friends -absent or present, living or dead.” To ask such a being if he is -of the past or of the future would have no significance; he is -beyond the compass of time. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -I have met Rolland only through letters. But some words concerning -his personality, as it had affected another poet, I can communicate here in -conclusion: -</p> - -<p> -“The confident grasp replete with experience, the modest ripeness ... -in his being; the benignity, the unprecedented purity in all his purpose ... -are beneficent.... Everything is genuine, developed with will and -consciousness: a man who has improved steadily.... From him emanates -a gentle plenitude, consummate in action, like that of a star at twilight.” -</p> - -<p> -When world renown comes to such a man, it has not much to say to -him. Rolland meets it with an averted glance in his far-seeing luminous -eyes, eyes which quietly and steadily look towards new works and new -horizons. -</p> - -<p> -From all corners of the world he hears: that he has given to the time -the book most brimming with the whole seething life of the time; that he -has given men the book most permeated with the essence of music and -Orphean effects; that he has created an entire human race, a race in which -all ages of life and degrees of development, in which women as well as men -are equally convincing in truth to life; that he has given a work overflowing -with ideas, with philosophy of life, with vital help, by exhibiting a great -human life in all its weakness and in all its strength. And assuredly this -will give him joy. -</p> - -<p> -But he will feel proud only when the word comes that his French heart -longs to hear: The people that has given to the world such a work is not, -as its enemies say, going to destruction. That nation is ever potent with -the energy of life. -</p> - -<p> -Rolland’s great book is not merely a glorious revelation of the fact -that all the greatest ideas that France has given the world live ever in the -French people. It demonstrates also that mankind needs the French spirit -always in order to realize them. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> See my article in <em>Verk och Människor</em>, in which I endeavored to show -my countrymen the value to them of <em>Memoiren einer <a id="corr-9"></a>Idealistin</em>. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-2" id="footnote-2">[2]</a> <em>Histoire de l’Opera en Europe, avant Lully et Scarlatti</em>, (Les origines -du theatre lyrique modern), and also <em>Les causes de la decadence de la -peinture italienne</em>. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-3" id="footnote-3">[3]</a> In a preface to <em>Celles qui travaillent</em>, a work of the notable and sincere -French authoress, Simone Bodève. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-4" id="footnote-4">[4]</a> In a letter to Goethe, 1795, after reading <em>Wilhelm Meister</em>. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-5" id="footnote-5">[5]</a> Epitome of the introduction to <em>Michael Angelo</em>. -</p> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-6" id="footnote-6">[6]</a> Lack of space forces me to omit Miss Key’s interesting but very long -analysis of <em>Jean Christophe</em>.—The Editor. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="POEMS"> -<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> -Poems -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Witter Bynner</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="ISHALLCOMETOYOUAGAIN"> -I Shall Come to You Again -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">If you have pity, pity me a little,</p> - <p class="verse">For I had seen your pitiless lips and dared them</p> - <p class="verse">And I deserve the pity given fools...</p> - <p class="verse">Your mouth was passion but your eyes were love.</p> - <p class="verse">Your mouth might soon consent to harshness, but your eyes,</p> - <p class="verse">Your eyes would see me and be kind to me.</p> - <p class="verse">I should not suffer, loving you.</p> - <p class="verse">I should but carry the heroic pain of love.</p> - <p class="verse">Wounds that might come from hardness of your heart,</p> - <p class="verse">If I received them, I should heal, watching the everlasting pity of your eyes...</p> - <p class="verse2">If you have pity, pity me a little.</p> - <p class="verse">I who had seen your cruelty and dared it</p> - <p class="verse">Am stricken with it now</p> - <p class="verse">And have come through the streets in daylight</p> - <p class="verse">As though the daylight were the sound of laughter</p> - <p class="verse">Surrounding and consuming me.</p> - <p class="verse">I have put up my hands to ward it off,</p> - <p class="verse">The heaviness of light that would not let me hide</p> - <p class="verse">But held me and looked leering in my face...</p> - <p class="verse">For there has come a passer-by ....</p> - <p class="verse">And you have come with him.</p> - <p class="verse">I have no hatred for the passer-by, and none for you,</p> - <p class="verse">But hatred only of my own humiliation,</p> - <p class="verse">For I had challenged and been overthrown...</p> - <p class="verse">If you have pity, pity me a little.</p> - <p class="verse">For I who love life</p> - <p class="verse">Have heard its mouth despise me</p> - <p class="verse">And have seen its eyes, that had been kind, turn into stone.</p> - <p class="verse2">Wherefore I lack new strength, new laughter.</p> - <p class="verse">And in the time before that strength is due,</p> - <p class="verse">If you have pity, pity me a little.</p> - <p class="verse">But if you have none—soon I shall have no need.</p> - <p class="verse">For I who choose life,</p> -<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> - <p class="verse">Shall receive my strength,</p> - <p class="verse">And I shall come to you again, laughing with love...</p> - <p class="verse2">For my humiliation shall have been a rain,</p> - <p class="verse">Its arms about me and its lips alive.</p> - <p class="verse">And I shall walk in daylight</p> - <p class="verse">And it shall be a singing waterfall</p> - <p class="verse">Surrounding me and pouring over me.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="SICILIA"> -Sicilia -</h3> - -<p class="subt"> -(<em>In memory of Salvatore Garrito who was hanged at Reading, Pennsylvania, -October 29, 1908, for the killing of a State Trooper.</em>) -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“It shows you on that paper where she lives,</p> - <p class="verse">In Sicily. Write her that I today</p> - <p class="verse">Am dead for having killed my second man.”</p> - <p class="verse">“Your second?” “Yes, sir, two. It’s not so bad</p> - <p class="verse">To kill a trooper. But I killed, before,</p> - <p class="verse">A friend who, like my brother and like me,</p> - <p class="verse">Loved her in Sicily. The jury thought</p> - <p class="verse">My brother did it. He’s been all alone</p> - <p class="verse">In jail eight years. Tell her I shall be glad</p> - <p class="verse">If now she gets him out and marries him.”</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="CHRISTIAN"> -Christian -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Truth heard him ask employ</p> - <p class="verse1">And took him in,</p> - <p class="verse">A poor unfriended boy,</p> - <p class="verse1">As her own kin,</p> - <p class="verse">And everything she made</p> - <p class="verse1">She taught the youth.</p> - <p class="verse">When he had learned her trade</p> - <p class="verse1">He went from Truth.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And when his eyes were dim</p> - <p class="verse1">And he was rich,</p> -<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> - <p class="verse">Then Truth returned to him</p> - <p class="verse1">Out of a ditch,</p> - <p class="verse">Poorer than he had been,</p> - <p class="verse1">Pleading she came...</p> - <p class="verse">He would not let her in</p> - <p class="verse1">Nor ask her name.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="MARRIAGE"> -Marriage -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Shall marriage never be the glory</p> - <p class="verse1">That was wooed?</p> - <p class="verse">But ever enervate and vex,</p> - <p class="verse1">Obstruct, intrude,</p> - <p class="verse">And make more wistful and complex</p> - <p class="verse1">The solitude,</p> - <p class="verse">Trying to tell the human story</p> - <p class="verse1">To its brood?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">No matter how the homes are humming</p> - <p class="verse1">In a mood</p> - <p class="verse">Of ecstasy or sentiment</p> - <p class="verse1">Or love renewed,</p> - <p class="verse">What favored two can circumvent</p> - <p class="verse1">The ancient feud?—</p> - <p class="verse">Till both in one shall die, becoming</p> - <p class="verse1">Multitude!</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="AGLIMPSEATRUSSIA"> -<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> -A Glimpse at Russia -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">ars</span> have been the landmarks in Russian modern history. The -Napoleonic war was followed by the insurrection of the Decembrists, -the first attempt on the part of liberal Russia to break the autocracy. The -iron reign of Nicolas I culminated in the Crimean campaign, which revealed -the utter rottenness of the old order and necessitated the general reconstruction -of the estate, from the liberation of the serfs to the establishment of -jury-tribunals. The reaction under Alexander III and Nicolas II came to -a collapse with the Japanese war, more disastrous and richer in results than -Sebastopol. It may be interesting to notice that each of the mentioned -epochs followed the previous one at a space of about a quarter of a century, -and the fact that the present war broke out only ten years after the -last one may be interpreted as an attempt for self-correction on the part of -History. Both the war with Japan and the revolution that came as its -result were abortive and premature phenomena, and were destined “to be -continued.” -</p> - -<p> -It is necessary to get an idea of what has occurred in Russia during -the last ten years in order to understand her present situation and perspectives. -The Russian people were neither prepared nor desirous of fighting -against Japan for the Yalou forests, a problem that interested only a group -of greedy capitalists. Nicolas was egged on by the Kaiser, who was more -than anxious to involve his neighbor in a mess in the Far East, and thus -to divert his attention from the Near East where the interests of the Triple -Alliance demanded the elimination, or at least the weakening, of the formidable -ally of France. The Czar caught the bait, and was rewarded with -the Treaty of Portsmouth, which put an end to Russia’s ambitions in Manchuria -and crippled her international prestige, to the immediate advantage -of Germany and Austria. The defeated bear was forcibly driven to introspection. -Her navy almost totally destroyed, her army decimated and demoralized, -her population torn by revolutions and civil warfare, Russia -faced a <a id="corr-13"></a>Herculean task. The government was confronted with a double -problem, to quench the internal conflagration, and to get ready for “retaliation.” -The first aim was more or less achieved; the revolutionists were -hanged, shot, imprisoned, exiled; the moderate elements and the European -financiers, who demanded a guarantee for their enormous loans, were hood-winked -by a semblance of parliamentarism, the butaforial Duma, an institution -elected and managed practically by the Czar’s ministers. With feverish -energy the government set out to carry through its second purpose. -The Dumas were forced to sanction gigantic war-budgets, and the entire -bureaucratic state was thrown into a crucible of radical, sweeping reforms. -The reconstruction of the army has become the all-important issue. Without -<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> -naming the potential enemy, all parties, except the Socialists, agreed -that Russia must concentrate her forces on the building up in the fastest -possible time of an enormous, efficient, <em>modern</em> army. The majority of the -people differed with the government, however, on one point, as to who -should carry out the great task. The people have had little confidence in -the capability of the bureaucracy for self-reformation; they have applied -to them the Russian saying, “Only the grave can change the hunchback.” -Alexander Guchkov, while president of the Duma and later as an influential -private citizen, has revealed the hopelessly rotten state of affairs in the -military and civil organization of the country, managed by unscrupulous -thieves and grafters, by useless sinecure-holders from among the nobility -and the royal family. The reorganization of the state, pointed out Mr. -Guchkov and his followers, must be taken from the hands of the effeminate -and imbecile Grand Dukes, and entrusted to representatives of the nation. -For such a heresy Guchkov had to resign from his post as head of the -“parliament,” and the work of reconstruction continued to be handled by -the old <em>chinovnicks</em>, the puppets of the Czar and of his uncles and cousins. -</p> - -<p> -Public opinion in Russia has been crystallizing simultaneously with military -preparation and diplomatic negotiations. Austria’s annexation of Bosnia -and Herzegovina gave Russian diplomacy the gravest slap since the Berlin -Congress; Wilhelm’s threat to appear in “shining armor” to the assistance -of his ally compelled foreign minister Sasonov to withdraw his protest -against Austria’s act. The humiliation was felt deeply by all classes; the -Russian people have come to regard Germany as their bitterest foe, responsible -not only for their past and present military and diplomatic fiascoes, but -largely responsible also for the internal retrogressive policy of their government. -It has been widely known that during the last revolution the Kaiser -had counselled Nicolas “unrelenting firmness,” and had even offered to -“loan” his army for the suppression of the uprising. The popularity of the -present war in Russia is thus explained. The conservatives see in it an -opportunity to strengthen the power of the autocracy through drummed up -patriotism and loyalty to the throne; the liberals hope that with the defeat -of Germany there will come an end to the “dark influence” of the Prussian -retrogrades on Russia’s policy; the masses are eager to fight against the -“Antichrists,” the enemies of the Slavs and of the Slavonic church. -</p> - -<p> -Whatever the outcome of this war may be, it has done inestimable -service for the awakening of Russia. The country has been elevated and -purified morally and nationally. The abolition of vodka, the unification of -differing parties and of hostile races, the liberal concessions granted by the -government,—these are the few tangible results of the war that can be -checked off already. But there is considerably more to come. The ignominious -failures of the army have pointed a burning finger of accusation -against the real enemy of the people, the bureaucracy. The Russian soldiers -have fought like lions ... led by asses. The shameless lack of munition, the -<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> -use of antiquated guns, the wretched equipment of the soldiers, the inefficiency -of field-hospitals, the continuing graft in giving out contracts, -the presence in the army of such time-proved nonentities as General Rennenkampf -and other Manchurian celebrities, these facts have shown to the -people that the Czar and his clique have forgotten everything and have -learned nothing. The general dissatisfaction in army circles and among -the civilians may bring about a storm that will sweep away the tottering -throne of Nicolas Romanov. -</p> - -<p> -This is not a mere theoretic conjecture. Since 1904 an intense revolutionary -propaganda has been carried on within the army and navy. The -germ of rebellion has penetrated not only the common soldiers, who are -largely recruited from among the down-trodden peasants and workingmen, -but also the officers, who have learned a good deal in the last ten years. -A military <em>coup d’état</em> after the model of the Young Turks has become a -popular idea with the intelligent officers who cannot fail to see that the -autocratic régime is a detrimental anachronism. There have been persistent -rumors about the high ambitions of the ex-Supreme Commander. Grand -Duke Nicolas is a happy exception among the degenerated Romanovs. He -has been long considered as the “strong man,” and therefore feared and -opposed to by the Court-camarilla. Necessity compelled the Czar to appoint -him commander; his appointment was insistently recommended by Joffre -and Kitchener. Unlike Kuropatkin, the Grand Duke refused to follow -dictations from Petrograd. When in early spring he received an order from -the Czar to evacuate Warsaw, the commander telegraphed back that he -was willing to obey, but that he would move his army against the capital. -The order was recalled. The fact that he was recently removed from his -post and exiled to Caucasia shows the growing fears of the Czar, who has -lost his head and is hewing the branch on which he is still seated. The Grand -Duke had performed a difficult, although not very spectacular task—that of -saving the <em>unarmed</em> army from the iron grip of the Germans. Petrograd -demanded “action,” as it did ten years ago from Kuropatkin. Now that the -Czar has assumed the commandership of the army one may expect rapid -“actions,” Sedans and Tzusimas and an early peace treaty as honorable as -that of Portsmouth. -</p> - -<p> -The sentiments of the population were characteristically voiced by the -Jewish member of the Duma, Friedman. In his speech he recounted the -unbelievable atrocities of the Russian authorities performed over the Jews -in the war-zone. Yet he said: “It is true we are without rights, we are -oppressed beyond endurance. But we know the foundation of the evil. -It emanates from these benches (pointing to the Ministers). We are persecuted -by the Russian government and not by the Russian people. It is not -to be wondered at, therefore, that we are content to bind our fate loyally -and faithfully with the fate of the Russian people, whatever may be done -to us by the Russian government.” The best of Russia are unanimously -<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> -determined that “the foundation of the evil” must go. In the last few -weeks various bodies of the Russian commonwealth have issued grave -resolutions condemning the government and demanding democratization of -the state. A revolution seems inevitable, but, to repeat, a military revolution -is most likely to take place. The bulk of the virile population is within -the fighting ranks, and it is there, in the army, that the national nerve pulsates -at present. Whether it be Grand Duke Nicolas, or another capable -and popular leader, it is to be expected that this time the army will pronounce -the verdict over the imbecile Czar and will cleanse the <a id="corr-14"></a>Augean -stables of the corrupted bureaucracy. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -K. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="SOPHOMORICEPIGRAMS"> -Sophomoric Epigrams -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">here</span> is no wisdom but youth. There is no vision but the unafraid -impulse of unfettered nerves. The follies of youth are the enduring expressions -of art. Man loses his Ego at thirty and becomes conceited. He -becomes conscious of others. Life becomes a quibble. But youth! Youth, -the flower before it has decayed into the mellow moss of age. Youth that -knows not itself or the world. Youth that laughs at tears and weeps at -laughter. Youth that paints queer pictures at which the critics smile. -Illogical youth; arrogant youth; forever annoying the world’s stagnation. -Youth capering like a fawn in the altar places of the holy. Ho! you with -the pedantic whiskers and the ossified serenity lurking like a fog in your -eye—there is no wisdom but youth. Ho! you with the murk of maturity -thick upon your tongue—will you shape morals? I will unshape them. Will -you rear dogmas? I will upset them. Will you burden the world with your -heavy sagacity? I will ignore it. Ho, you didactic formulator, debauched -with facts, man is born a butterfly and crawls to his grave a worm. Man is -born young and dies old. Man is born wise and dies a fool. The ideas of -youth are his wings. Do you see the lightning maze of colors forever flashing -over your head? It is youth. -</p> - -<p> -Ah! old Ossifus, your erudition is but the husk of my spirit. And my -spirit is the shop-boy whistling on his way to work, joyous without reason -for you have proved him an economic slave, stunted and damned forever to -rot in chains. My spirit is the lover going to his ruin-woman, and tumbling -out of heaven with a laugh. Ho! ho! old Petrifus, you have proved her the -root of evil, the despoiler of greatness, the velvet vandal of illusions, and yet -and yet.... -</p> - -<p> -And he is the artist running wild in the china-closet of the past. Have -you anything sacred, old whiskers? Have you something labelled right and -something labelled wrong? Show it to him. He will do for it. He is the -eternal monster killing the dead. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> -There is no beauty but youth. There is no beauty in age. Ho! you -doddering banality with the superior tolerance in your stutter, you are decomposing -on your feet. Age is soiled. Age is dirty. Age drips with the -phlegm of life. Age is the unclean residue in the cup. -</p> - -<p> -Ho!—there is no tomorrow. -</p> - -<p> -Blessed are the young in heart for they shall be God. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -“A. E. D.” -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="HENRIANDMANSHIP"> -Henri and Manship -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">O</span><span class="postfirstchar">ne</span> grows weary of the quibbling, the petty running about in circles -of critics, would-be-critics, and students with the eyes of their teachers -disputing “techniques,” values, and standards in regard to paintings that -somehow seem to live outside any limits pedants have placed. Out from the -noise the voice of the artist arises with a strength and clearness in words -similar to the quality of his paintings. Writing in the February <em>Craftsman</em> -of this year, telling of his work, his ideas, and his “people,” Robert Henri -has this to say: -</p> - -<p> -“My love of mankind is individual. I am patriotic only about what I -admire, and my devotion to humanity burns as brightly for Europe as for -America. It flames up swiftly for Mexico if I am painting the peon there; -it warms towards the bull fighter of Spain if in spite of its cruelty there -is that element in his art which I find beautiful; it intensifies before the -Irish peasant whose love, poetry, simplicity, and humor have enriched my -existence just as completely as though these people were of my own country -and my own hearthstone. Everywhere I see at times this beautiful expression -of the dignity of life to which I respond with a wish to preserve -this beauty of humanity for my friends to enjoy.... The Chinese -American girl who has found coquetry in new freedom; the peon, a symbol -of a destroyed civilization in Mexico, and the Indian who works as one in -slavery and dreams as a man in still places ... all their lives are in -their expression, in their eyes, their movements or they are not worth translating -into art.” -</p> - -<p> -He very simply tells what he feels about technique, which ought to -quiet the objection to his or any individual’s methods: -</p> - -<p> -“Technique is merely a language, and as I grow older and see more -and more clearly I have but one intention and that is to make this language -as clear and simple and sincere as is humanly possible.... It is a language -of no value for its own sake.... It must be so translucent that it can be -forgotten, the value of the subject shining through it.” -</p> - -<p> -A woman who sat for Henri last year for her portrait has this to say -of him in a recent letter: -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> -“To me he is quite the most wonderful man among American artists; -so very big yet simple as a child; so very human yet utterly unconscious -of his humanity. He is much like Whitman only more tender, more subtle. -To Henri life is his art. That’s what makes him truly great. That’s what -made him go to the Ferrer School and awaken talent and even genius where -no one else would have seen anything to awaken. As a teacher Henri is -perhaps even greater than as a painter. I heard him explain things to his -class only twice, but I have never heard anything more fascinating and vivid. -His greatest worth, however, is his sense of freedom, his fervent belief that -only freedom can bring out the best in the individual. He is really an -anarchist though he does not label himself one.” -</p> - -<p> -And thus the exhibit of twenty-five paintings at the Art Institute takes -on a broader and more beautiful air. It becomes human and alive even -though the noise from the studios is confusing. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -Paul Manship also has a room at the Art Institute: Greek, Assyrian, -Japanese, Chinese, Egyptian, Italian, Roman, Gothic, and what not; but -where, oh where, is Paul Manship—“foremost American sculptor”? The -incongruous and nerve-racking thing about the collection is that besides -merely exactly reproducing all the above mentioned periods and styles he -goes so far as to use two or three in one piece of work. The <em>Infant Herakles: -fountain and bowl</em> is a terror of complications, with gothic gargoyles as the -high points of one’s discontent. The American Indian (with the African -animal skin and the Egyptian hair and Roman face) and pronghorn antelope -(Egyptian bronze of Alpine antelope) is the property of the Art Institute, -having been purchased by the “friends of American Art”.... The -conventionalized Roman busts with the Greek lettering were so top-heavy in -appearance that I grew quite dizzy.... -</p> - -<p> -I found relief in the sculptor of the Ancient Greeks,—peace in the simplicity -of a strange inspired beauty that intricate handling which draws on -past glories can never produce. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -C. A. Z. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="FAIRYTALEMYSTICISM"> -<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> -Fairy-Tale Mysticism -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Jerusalem, a Novel by Selma Lagerlöf</em> (<em>Doubleday, Page & Co., New York</em>). -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">hose</span> Scandinavians! I have often wondered at the combination of -grim strength with childlike imaginativeness that we find in the artists -of those pale cold lands. In the winter, at twilight, I like to sit with closed -eyes and to relive old and new Norse sagas, the unbelievable wonders told -or sung or painted with the perfect earnestness of absorbed children; I like -to dream then to the accompaniment of the not-smiling music of the sad child, -Edward Grieg. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Jerusalem</em> is not a novel, not according to the terminology accepted <em>heretofore</em>. -For—may I reveal a secret <em>en passant</em>?—we are on the eve of the -publication of a novel by a Chicagoan who will revolutionize the prevailing -literary classifications. Another thing which is not! Selma Lagerlöf is <em>not</em> -a mystic, some of her friends want us to believe; not in the Maeterlinckian -sense. The book is a series of tapestries to be hung in an ideal children’s-room; -a web of fairy-tales told in the Scandinavian, unsmiling, earnest way. -Mystic? Yes, as much as all fairy-tales are mystic, as much as all not -“clever” and “wonderful” children are mystic. A mysticism which instead -of lifting us up to the clouds brings the clouds down to us; instead of lending -us wings and making us soar in imperceptible intangible regions, anthropomorphosizes -gods and spirits and drags them down to terra firma. So convincing! -We actually see the dead Ingmarssons gathered in a large farm -house up in heaven; we see their ruddy hard faces, sandy hair, white eyes; -we hear their slow, heavy, laconic talk. We are not surprised at meeting -Christ among the pines in the glow of the autumnal sunset. The opening of -heaven on a winter night before the eyes of the two Ingomars appears as -ordinary reality. We are in a world where everything is simple, believable, -possible. And you cannot smile; you are in an earnest childlike atmosphere. -</p> - -<p> -Those Scandinavians! -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<span class="smallcaps">K.</span> -</p> - -<div class="letters"> -<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC"> -The Reader Critic -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="UNWORTHY"> -<em>UNWORTHY!</em> -</h3> - -<p class="from"> -<em>Rev. W. D. J., Riverside, Ill.</em>: -</p> - -<p> -I used to have great expectations for you. But, pardon the frankness of one who -has watched the careers of many writers in the past fifty years, you are headed now -either for <em>the lake or a padded cell</em>. God forbid you reach either. Let an old man -say that the only way to find life is to lose it. Forget it and reach out a hand to -the poor, the sick, the suffering, and the sinning. Happiness comes only in forgetfulness -of self and ministering to others. It is never the result of a theory but of -action. I have seen so many wrecked on the reefs toward which you are drifting -that I am fain to call out and entreat you to find happiness where alone it can be -found, not in fleeing from the world or cursing it but in thanking God you were -born into a world where you can be of some use to your fellows. Those lines of yours -in the September issue might have been written by a Heine, a Byron, or a Walt Whitman. -But they are unworthy of you. You were born to bless your fellows. Be true -to your vocation. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="ANEXAMPLE"> -<em>AN EXAMPLE!</em> -</h3> - -<p class="from"> -<em>R. C. Smith, Chicago</em>: -</p> - -<p> -Inspiration will never take the place of intelligence, nor enthusiasm that of cerebration. -Your magazine will die,—as a steam engine would grow useless in which no -direction toward any cylinder was given to the indubitable forces generated in the -boiler. For your pages are as a rule careless, unconsidered, and inept. Let me give -you an example:— -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Huntley Carter, in your September number, wrote on “Poetry versus -Imagism.” I happen to consider his article an ill-digested congeries of vague views; -but other persons may feel differently about it. What, however, can be the estimation -in which every sane and intelligent and decently responsible man will hold your magazine -and Mr. Carter when he has the effrontery to present to us such an example of -ineptitude and carelessness as this:— -</p> - -<p> -“Browning ... gets to work in a businesslike manner: -</p> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse"><em>The sun looked over the water’s brim</em></p> - <p class="verse">And straight there was a path of gold for him</p> - <p class="verse"><em>And a world of souls for me</em>.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -<p class="noindent"> -I QUOTE FROM MEMORY, BUT I BELIEVE I QUOTE CORRECTLY.” (The capitals -are mine.) -</p> - -<p> -May I ask—must an enthusiasm for or against the new movements obliterate all -sense of accuracy, all love of clear and rational communication, all fidelity to honest -statement, and all interest in truth? Your Mr. Carter and his extraordinary indifference -to the workaday obligations of literary criticism have considerably discouraged -my interest in the new forces. I can imagine Mr. Carter writing—“Since, as Nansen -says, ‘The natives of the polar regions are coal-black,’—(<em>I quote from memory</em>), it -must be hotter there than at the equator.” -</p> - -<p> -You have printed many encomiums of your magazine: I shall watch with curiosity -to see if you print this. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEWEAKNESSOFREVOLT"> -<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> -<em>THE WEAKNESS OF REVOLT</em> -</h3> - -<p class="from"> -<em>Dr. Weil, New York</em>: -</p> - -<p> -The spirit of revolt is compounded from many causes. Even in the average young -girl of whom Mr. Hecht writes in the August <span class="smallcaps">Little Review</span> it arises as much from -her digestion as from her incomplete physical functioning, as much from her work as -from her leisure, as much from her friends as from her freshness. Mr. Hecht would -be the first to admit that; would he be equally willing to admit that it meets death -variously? -</p> - -<p> -He talks only of the family as the snuffer for the flame. This does not mean -that he excludes other causes, but it does mean that he has overemphasized one. -</p> - -<p> -It is true, as Mr. Hecht insists, that the American family tends to quell revolt. -The battle of the generations is as old as the race; the family has always struggled -to bring the rebel into line for its own preservation. But that struggle in all its -various shades of acuteness has become a truism of modern thought, thanks to a -multiplex modern drama, a scientific sociology, and even the daily press. Why discuss -the subject only to dwell again heavily on the obvious? -</p> - -<p> -The problem is far more complicated. The verdict of guilt against the family -grows monotonous when returned at every inquest. To place a single responsible -cause for any tremor to revolt that dies abortive is to lack subtlety. -</p> - -<p> -Along with each verdict against the family there is also a verdict against the -individual. One is not to blame if she is not a genius, but if even her greatest -emotions are somewhat lacking in poignancy, the fluctuating spirit of restlessness in -her never reaches the heights which demand action. -</p> - -<p> -Along with each verdict against the family there is also a verdict against the -quality of the revolutionary spirit. Not only are its causal factors weak and fluctuating, -but the very vagueness which to Mr. Hecht constitutes its charm spells also -its damnation. A spirit of restlessness is, in itself, nothing about which one can go -to the hilltops and shout, and when it crystalizes in some particular issue,—a book, -a picture, a small individual right,—the object often seems too trivial to struggle for. -To be sure the principle is not a small thing, but a principle is abstract and when -it confronts a concrete bit of suffering, it fades by contrast. -</p> - -<p> -The sordid bread and butter difficulties to be faced by one standing wholly alone, -the scathing force of public opinion, the pain of others which, when you love them, -is pain to you,—these are realities which only the truly big souls dare to face. For -most of us the spirit of revolt is too diffuse even to demand action, and for most of -the rest action is too divine a consummation to be compassed by our weak human -spirit. Not to any external cause really, but to an inherent lack in us, is it due that -we slowly grow complacent, instead of crusading worthily in behalf of liberty. -</p> - -<p class="from"> -<em>Alice Groff, Philadelphia</em>: -</p> - -<p> -The most of you publishers are such unspeakable Kaisers of Kultur that you treat -the geniuses who make you what you are as insignificant privates in a literary army, -which you deploy; keeping them dangling upon your critical pleasure, or blowing -them to pieces because they do not happen to walk the line <em>you</em> mark out. -</p> - -<p> -I suppose this is inevitable, however, in the present social order and that there -will never be free literary expression until there is publishing organization on the -part of the whole people for the benefit of the whole people. May the universe speed -the day of such organization. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="HAVEYOUREAD"> -<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></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="hang"> -Gaudier-Brzeska’s Art, by John Caurnos. <em>The Egoist</em>, September 1. -</p> - -<p class="hang"> -Havelock Ellis on Birth Control in <em>Physical Culture</em> for September, October, November. -</p> - -<p class="hang"> -The Literature of a Moral Republic, by H. L. Mencken. <em>The Smart Set</em>, October. -</p> - -<p class="hang"> -The Undergraduate. <em>The New Republic</em>, September 25. -</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 -resume of current cant which, as an intelligent -being, you may wish to be diverted or angered -or stimulated by.</em>) -</p> - -<p class="hang"> -International Duty and Hyphenated Americans, by Theodore Roosevelt. <em>The Metropolitan</em>, October. -</p> - -<p class="hang"> -In Memory of Lieutenant Rupert Brooke, by Joyce Kilmer. <em>The Bookman</em>, September. -</p> - -<p class="hang"> -Llewellyn Jones on New Tendencies in the Arts, in any issue of <em>The Chicago Evening Post Friday Review</em>. -</p> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -THE EGOIST -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -An Individualist Review -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p> -Subscribe to THE EGOIST and hear what you will get: -</p> - -<p> -Editorials containing the most notable creative and critical -philosophic matter appearing in England today. -</p> - -<p> -Some of the newest and best experimental English and American -poetry. -</p> - -<p> -A page of current French poetry. -</p> - -<p> -Reviews of only those books which are worth praise. -</p> - -<p> -News of modern music, of new painting, of French literary and -artistic life. -</p> - -<p> -A series of translations of Greek and Latin poetry and prose, -done by young modern poets (began September 1st, 1915). -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c"> -PUBLISHED MONTHLY -</p> - -<p class="u adp"> -Price—Fifteen cents a number<br /> -Yearly subscription, One Dollar Sixty Cents -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p> -Buy some of the back numbers. They are literature, not journalism. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="ade"> -OAKLEY HOUSE, BLOOMSBURY STREET, LONDON, W. C. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -Sleep Outdoors All Winter with the<br /> -Hold-Heet Health Blanket -</p> - - <div class="narrow fr"> -<p> -Reserve Force—health—virility of -mind and body—clear eyes—brain power—these -are considerations, aren’t they? -Keep them up to 100% by cashing in on Nature’s -richest offering—FRESH AIR. -</p> - -<p> -The Hold-Heet Health Blanket solves -the problem of outdoor winter sleeping. -Endorsed and used by over three thousand -eminent authorities, doctors, lawyers, bankers, -business men. It makes the modern fresh air -bed room far more comfortable than the old -stuffy one and a thousand times more healthful. -</p> - -<p> -Built the same and is, in many respects, -like a regular blanket. Specially -wound, protected asbestos covered -heating element distributes an even degree -of heat to every part of the blanket. -Connected with the nearest lamp socket—consumes -about 1c worth of current a night. -Equipped with 3-heat control—cannot overheat. -Very light, soft and flexible and weighs less -than half as much as the ordinary comforter. -Covered with a beautiful soft, navy blue sateen. -Complete in leatherette case. Delivered prepaid -at the following prices:— -</p> - - </div> -<div class="centerpic nec fl cb"> -<img src="images/nec.jpg" alt="" /></div> - - <div class="narrow fr"> - <div class="table"> -<table class="table044" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Size 36×36 inches, 3-heat Special Infants’</td> - <td class="col2">$10.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Size 36×72 inches, 3-heat Single Width</td> - <td class="col2">14.00</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Size 54×72 inches, 3-heat Double Width</td> - <td class="col2">20.00</td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> -<p> -Obey that impulse—NOW. It’s the -cheapest health insurance you can buy. -Every Hold-Heet Blanket is guaranteed -for two years. They last a life time. Send -your order now—and get winter health and -comfort. -</p> - - </div> -<p class="cb ade"> -<span class="larger">National Electric Company, Chicago, U. S. A.</span> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> - <div class="box"> -<p> -A group is being formed -for the study of Russian -language. -</p> - -<p> -A group is being formed -for the study of Russian -literature. -</p> - -<p class="c"> -For information inquire -at the -</p> - -<p class="u ade"> -<span class="larger"><span class="smallcaps">Little Review</span></span><br /> -834 Fine Arts Building -</p> - - </div> - <div class="box"> -<p class="h2 adh"> -<span class="underline">EMMA GOLDMAN</span> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -will lecture at -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -<span class="underline">The Fine Arts Theatre</span> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -from Nov. 21 to Dec. 5 -</p> - -<p> -Subjects to be announced later. -All information may be had at the -office of The Little Review, 834 -Fine Arts Building, Chicago. -</p> - - </div> - <div class="box"> -<div class="centerpic russian fl"> -<img src="images/russian.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -Tchai-na-ya -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -Russian Tea Room -</p> - -<p class="u c"> -Luncheons, Dinners<br /> -Afternoon Tea -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -116 S. Michigan Blvd. -R. 300, Lake View Bldg. -</p> - - </div> - <div class="box"> -<div class="centerpic russian fr"> -<img src="images/russian.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -Russian Art Store -</p> - -<p class="u c"> -Peasant Handicraft<br /> -Linens, Laces<br /> -Antique Jewelry -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -730 Sheridan Rd. -M. R. POLAKOPF & SON -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="impressum"> -<p class="b c"> -Statement of Ownership, Management, Circulation, Etc., required by -the Act of August 24, 1912 -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -of <em>THE LITTLE REVIEW</em> published monthly at <em>Chicago, Ill.</em> -for <em>Oct. 1st, 1915</em>. -</p> - -<p> -Editor, <em>Margaret C. Anderson, 834 Fine Arts Building, Chicago</em> -Managing Editor, <em>Same</em> -Business Manager, <em>Same</em> -Publisher, <em>Same</em> -</p> - -<p> -Owners: (If a corporation, give its name and the names and addresses of stockholders -holding 1 per cent or more of total amount of stock. If not a corporation, give -names and addresses of individual owners.) -</p> - -<p class="u c"> -<em>Margaret C. Anderson</em><br /> -<em>834 Fine Arts Building, Chicago</em> -</p> - -<p> -Known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders, holding 1 per cent or -more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities: <em>None</em> -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<em>MARGARET C. ANDERSON</em>, -</p> - -<p> -Sworn to and subscribed before me this <em>23rd</em> day of <em>Sept., 1915</em>. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -<em>MITCHELL DAWSON, Notary Public.</em><br /> -(My commission expires <em>December 20, 1917</em>.) -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -THE DRAMA -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -for August Contained This Interesting Material -</p> - -<hr /> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="table046" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1">A LETTER CONCERNING AUGIER, by <em>Eugene Brieux</em></td> - <td class="col2">353</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">THE MARRIAGE OF OLYMPE, by <em>Emile Augier</em></td> - <td class="col2">358</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">EMILE AUGIER, by <em>Barrett Clark</em></td> - <td class="col2">440</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">PARSEE DRAMA, by <em>George Cecil</em></td> - <td class="col2">459</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">THE EVOLUTION OF THE ACTOR, by <em>Arthur Pollock</em></td> - <td class="col2">468</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">FRANK WEDEKIND, by <em>Frances Fay</em></td> - <td class="col2">479</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">DEPERSONALIZING THE INSTRUMENTS OF THE DRAMA, by <em>Huntley Carter</em></td> - <td class="col2">495</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">JAMES SHIRLEY, DRAMATIST, a review by <em>Charlton Andrews</em></td> - <td class="col2">506</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">PLAYING HAMLET AS SHAKESPEARE STAGED IT IN 1601, by <em>Charlotte Porter</em></td> - <td class="col2">511</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">CHIEF CONTEMPORARY DRAMATISTS, a review by <em>Alfred K. Eddy</em></td> - <td class="col2">527</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">THE SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENARY, <em>Percival Chubb</em></td> - <td class="col2">531</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">RECENT MAGAZINE ARTICLES ON THE DRAMA</td> - <td class="col2">537</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">A SELECTIVE LIST OF ESSAYS AND BOOKS ABOUT THE THEATRE AND OF PLAYS published during the second quarter of 1915, compiled by <em>Frank Chouteau Brown</em></td> - <td class="col2">538</td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> -<hr /> - -<p> -<em>The Drama</em> for November will be a notable number. Rabindranath -Tagore will contribute an article on the stage that crystallizes much of the -present diverse generalization, especially in discussions of stagecraft. Julius -Brouta, perhaps the most celebrated drama critic of Spain, will write of the -work of Benavente, a brilliant Spanish playwright of today. A puppet play -of Benavente, the popular <em>Los Interessos Creados</em>, will be printed in its entirety. -<em>The New Stage Art in its Relation to Drama</em> will be considered -from a new point of view by Alice Corbin Henderson. The articles begun -in the present number, <em>Playing Hamlet as Shakespeare Staged It in 1601</em>, by -Charlotte Porter, and <em>The Evolution of the Actor</em>, by Arthur Pollock, will -be concluded. -</p> - -<p> -In November also will appear what promises to be one of the most -important pieces of dramatic poetry ever written in America, Edwin Arlington -Robinson’s <em>Ben Jonson Entertains a Man from Stratford</em>. In beauty -of verse, in poetic vision, and in its appreciation of the fine human quality -of Shakespeare the poem is a leading feature of the Shakespeare Tercentenary -Celebration. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="u fl ade"> -<em>The Drama, a Quarterly</em><br /> -<em>$3.00 per year</em> -</p> - -<p class="fr ade"> -<em>736 Marquette Building</em> -<em>Chicago</em> -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> -<p class="u h1 adb"> -THE<br /> -SEXUAL<br /> -QUESTION -</p> - -<p> -Heretofore sold by subscription, only to physicians. Now offered to the public. -Written in plain terms. Former price $5.50. <em>Now sent prepaid for $1.60.</em> This -is the revised and enlarged Marshall English translation. 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With a Preface by <span class="smallcaps">Bliss Perry</span>. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Cloister: A Verse Drama -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Emile Verhaeren</span>. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Interflow -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Geoffrey C. Faber</span>. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Afternoons of April -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Grace Hazard Conkling</span>. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<span class="larger">Each, boards, 75 cents net</span> -</p> - -<p class="u fl ade"> -4 Park St.<br /> -Boston -</p> - -<p class="u fr ade"> -16 E. 40th St.<br /> -New York -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -<span class="larger">Houghton Mifflin Co.</span> -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="trnote chapter"> -<p class="transnote"> -Transcriber’s Notes -</p> - -<p> -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. -</p> - -<p> -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the -headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -<p> -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors -were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after): -</p> - - - -<ul> - -<li> -... me from the golden <span class="underline">toombs</span> of youth, from the scarlet graves of love, I will ...<br /> -... me from the golden <a href="#corr-0"><span class="underline">tombs</span></a> of youth, from the scarlet graves of love, I will ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... under the distinction of being a <span class="underline">maniacle</span> sensualist, a libidinous ruffian, a ...<br /> -... under the distinction of being a <a href="#corr-2"><span class="underline">maniacal</span></a> sensualist, a libidinous ruffian, a ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... “<span class="underline">Peddlars</span> are not allowed on the grounds. He must have sneaked in.” ...<br /> -... “<a href="#corr-6"><span class="underline">Peddlers</span></a> are not allowed on the grounds. He must have sneaked in.” ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... my countrymen the value to them of Memoiren einer <span class="underline">Idealisten</span>. ...<br /> -... my countrymen the value to them of Memoiren einer <a href="#corr-9"><span class="underline">Idealistin</span></a>. ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... <span class="underline">Grune</span> Heinrich.... I have lived more intensely with Jean Christophe ...<br /> -... <a href="#corr-12"><span class="underline">Grüne</span></a> Heinrich.... I have lived more intensely with Jean Christophe ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... faced a <span class="underline">Herculian</span> task. The government was confronted with a double ...<br /> -... faced a <a href="#corr-13"><span class="underline">Herculean</span></a> task. The government was confronted with a double ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... the verdict over the imbecile Czar and will cleanse the <span class="underline">Aagean</span> ...<br /> -... the verdict over the imbecile Czar and will cleanse the <a href="#corr-14"><span class="underline">Augean</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, OCTOBER 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 7) ***</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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