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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..1c6e0ee --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66647 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66647) diff --git a/old/66647-0.txt b/old/66647-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 003cace..0000000 --- a/old/66647-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3836 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, November 1915 (Vol. -2, No. 8), by Margaret C. Anderson - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Little Review, November 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 8) - -Author: Various - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: November 1, 2021 [eBook #66647] - -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, NOVEMBER -1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 8) *** - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Literature Drama Music Art - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - NOVEMBER, 1915 - - “Life Itself” The Editor - The Zeppelins Over London Richard Aldington - Portrait of Theodore Dreiser Arthur Davison Ficke - Theodore Dreiser John Cowper Powys - “So We Grew Together” Edgar Lee Masters - Choleric Comments Alexander S. Kaun - The Scavenger’s Swan Song - Dregs: Ben Hecht - Life - Depths - Gratitude - Editorials - John Cowper Powys on War Margery Currey - The Washington Square Players Saxe Commins - Rupert Brooke’s “Lithuania” at the Little Theater - Book Discussion: - An Inspired Publisher - Gogol’s “Taras Bulba” - Gorky’s “Chelkash, and Other Stories” - Andreyev’s “The Little Angel” - Chekhov’s “Russian Silhouettes” - Artzibashef’s “The Breaking Point” - - 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 - - NOVEMBER, 1915 - - No. 8 - - Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson - - - - - “Life Itself” - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - - - I. - - “But you don’t know Life,” they are always saying. - I wonder what it is they mean? - - They mean humanity and the urge of it: - In the beginning and in the end the soul’s longing to be known, to know - itself, and to know others; - And that means, in the beginning and in the end, the quest for love; - It is the ideal of love and the finding of it; - And the magic of it and the drain of disillusionment; - And the luxury of sorrow and the voluptuousness of suffering; - And the vacuum that is beyond death; - And the conviction that ideals are better than reality; - And the decision to live for “art”; - And the pull to new love ... - And the discovery that love is enslavement; - And the breaking from it; - And the courage to contain life; - And the emancipation _from_ something; - And the complacency of first freedom; - And the emptiness of it; - And the pull to new love ... - And the discovery that rapture is not relived; - And the conviction that passion is not love; - And the dedication to “the spiritual”; - And the pull to new love ... - And the deepest agony, which is unrequited love; - And the realization of people; - And the discovery that the world is wrong; - And the glory of rebellion; - And the emancipation _for_ something; - And the pull to new love ... - And the birth of cynicism; - And the conviction that rebellion is futile; - And the discovery of one’s self; - And the dedication to one’s self; - And the discovery that one’s self is not big enough; - And the pull to new love ... - And the knowledge that love includes passion; - And the sense of rich growing; - And the hope of sharing growth; - And the longing to be known; - And the relinquishing of that longing; - And the discovery that perfection does not last; - And the sufficiency of self-direction; - And the completeness of freedom; - And the longing to know the human soul; - And the pull to new love ... - And the relinquishing of that longing; - And the discovery of the peace that is in nature; - And the realization of the unimportance of man; - And the knowledge that only great moments are attainable; - And the hatred of consummations; - And the realization of truths too late to act upon them; - And the acceptance of substitutes; - And the pull to new love ... - - And every human being knows these things. - - - II. - - “But you don’t know life itself,” I am always saying. - I wonder what it is I mean. - - I think it is something wonderful like color and sound, and - something mystical like fragrance and flowers. - And something incredible like air and wind, - And something of grey magic like rain; - It is faded deserts and the unceasing sea; - It is the moving stars; - It is the orange sun stepping through blue curtains of sky, - And the rose sun dropping through black trees; - It is green storms running across greenness, - And gold rose petals spilled by the moon on dark water; - It is snow and mist and clouds of color, - It is tree gardens and painted birds; - It is leaves of autumn and grasses of spring; - It is flower forests and the petals of stars; - It is morning—yellow mornings, green mornings, red mornings, gold - mornings, silver mornings, sun mornings, mist mornings, mornings - of dew; - It is night—white nights, green nights, grey nights, purple nights, - blue nights, moon nights, rain nights, nights that burn; - It is waking in the first of the morning, - It is the deep adventure of sleep; - It is lights on rivers and lights on pavements; - It is boulevards bordered with flowers of stone; - It is poetry and Japanese prints and the actor on a stage; - It is music; - It is dreams that could not happen; - It is emotion for the sake of emotion; - It is life for the sake of living; - It is silence; - It is the unknowable; - It is eternity; - It is death. - - And only artists know these things. - - - - - The Zeppelins Over London - - - RICHARD ALDINGTON - -... The war saps all one’s energy. It seems impossible to do any -creative work in the midst of all this turmoil and carnage. Of course -you know that we had the Zeppelins over London? Let me give you my -version of the affair. - -It was just after eleven. We were sitting in our little flat, which is -on the top floor of a building on the slope of Hampstead Hill. We were -reading—I was savouring, like a true decadent, that over-sweet honied -Latin of the early Renaissance in an edition of 1513! Could anything be -more peaceful? Our window was shut—so the silence was absolute. Suddenly -there was a Bang! and a shrill wail. “That was pretty close,” said I. -Bang—whizz! Bang—whizz! Shrapnel from the anti-aircraft guns which are -not five hundred yards from our house! (Of course, like boobies, we -thought they were bombs.) I jumped up and got my coat, and grabbed the -door-key. It took hours to put out the light! (All the time Bang—whizz!) -It seemed interminable, that descent of those four flights of stairs, -all the time with the knowledge that any second might see the whole damn -place blown to hell. We could see the flashes of the guns and the -searchlights as we passed the windows—_they were pointed straight at -us_! That meant that the Zeppelin was either right overhead or coming -there! Some excitement, I tell you. I shiver with excitement when I -think of it. We stood at the porch for a few seconds—very long -seconds—wondering what to do. You are supposed to get into the cellars, -but we haven’t got cellars; and it’s very risky in the streets from the -flying shrapnel. We could see the long searchlights pointing to a spot -almost overhead and the little red pinpricks of bursting shells. A man -came down from one of the flats—very calm, with field glasses, to have a -look at the animal! Suddenly we saw it, clear over head, with shells -from three or four guns making little rose-coloured punctures in the air -underneath it. One shell went near, very near, the Zeppelin swerved, -tilted—“They’ve got it! It’s coming down!” we all exclaimed. In the -distance we could hear faint cheering. But the Zeppelin righted itself, -waggled a little, and scenting danger made for the nearest cloud! -Apparently a piece of shell had hit the pilot, for there was no apparent -damage to be seen through the glasses. There were a few more bangs from -the guns, followed by the cat squeals of the shells and the little -explosions in the air. Then silence as the Zeppelin got into a cloud; -the searchlights looked wildly for it, for ten minutes. Then they all -went out and in the resulting darkness we could see the glow of the -fires in London. - -What rather detracts from our heroism is the fact that the Zeppelin had -already dropped all its bombs in the middle of London, but we didn’t -know it till afterwards. - -I deduce these reflections. 1. That as an engine of frightfulness the -Zeppelin is over-rated. And the damage it does is comparatively -unimportant. 2. That it is uncultured of the Germans to risk murdering -the English Imagists and ruining the only poetic movement in England, -for the sake of getting their names into the papers. 3. That I notice I -never go to bed now earlier than twelve, and frequently go for a walk -about eleven o’clock. - -I can’t of course tell you where the bombs fell, as it is strictly -forbidden. Still I can say this: that no public building of any kind was -touched; that it looks jolly well as if our Teutonic friends made a dead -set at St. Paul’s and the British Museum; that, without exception, the -bombs fell on the houses of the poor and the very poor—except for a -warehouse or so and some offices; that one bomb fell near a block of -hospitals, containing paralytics and other cripples and diseased -persons, smashed all the hospital windows, and terrified the unhappy -patients into hysterics; that, lastly, it is a damned lie to say there -are guns on St. Paul’s and the British Museum—the buildings are too old -to stand the shock of the recoil. Voilà! - -... Remy de Gourmont is dead.... Camille de Saint-Croix also. It is hard -to write of friends recently dead.... - - - The experienced artist knows that inspiration is rare and that - intelligence is left to complete the work of intuition; he puts - his ideas under the press and squeezes out of them the last drop - of the divine juices that are in them—(and if need be sometimes - he does not shrink from diluting them with clear water).—_Romain - Rolland._ - - - - - Portrait of Theodore Dreiser - - - ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE - - There were gilded Chinese dragons - And tinkling danglers of glass - And dirty marble-topped tables - Around us, that late night-hour. - You ate steadily and silently - From a huge bowl of chop-suey - Of repellant aspect; - While I,—I, and another,— - Told you that you had the style neither of William Morris - Nor of Walter Pater. - - And it was perfectly true .... - But you continued to occupy yourself - With your quarts of chop-suey. - And somehow you reminded me - Of nothing so much as of the knitting women - Who implacably counted stitches while the pride of France - Went up to death. - - Tonight I am alone, - A long way from that Chinese restaurant, - A long way from wherever you are. - And I find it difficult to recall to my memory - The image of your large laboring inexpressive face. - For I have just turned the last page - Of a book of yours— - A book large and superficially inexpressive,—like yourself. - It has not, any more than the old ones, - The style of Pater. - But now there are passing before me - Interminable figures in tangled procession— - Proud or cringing, starved with desire or icy, - Hastening toward a dream of triumph or fleeing from a dream of doom,— - Passing—passing—passing - Through a world of shadows, - Through a chaotic and meaningless anarchy, - Under heavy clouds of terrific gloom - Or through ravishing flashes of knife-edged sunlight— - Passing—passing—passing— - Their heads haloed with immortal illusion,— - The terrible and beautiful, cruel and wonder-laden illusion of life. - - - - - Theodore Dreiser - - - JOHN COWPER POWYS - -In estimating the intrinsic value of a book like _The “Genius”_ -and—generally—of a writer like Theodore Dreiser, it is advisable to -indulge in a little gentle introspection. - -Criticism need not always impose itself as an art; but it must at least -conform to some of the principles that govern that form of human -activity. The worthlessness of so much energetic modern criticism is -that it proceeds—like scum—from the mere surface of the writer’s -intelligence. It is true that all criticism resolves itself ultimately -into a matter of taste;—but one has to discover what one’s taste really -is; and that is not always easy. - -Taste is a living thing, an organic thing. It submits to the laws of -growth; and its growth is fostered or retarded by many extraneous -influences. In regard to the appreciation of new and original works of -art, it belongs to the inherent nature of taste that it should be -enlarged, transmuted, and undergo the birth-pangs of a species of -re-creation. In the presence of a work of art that is really unusual, in -an attempt to appreciate a literary effect that has never appeared -before, one’s taste necessarily suffers a certain embarrassment and -uneasiness. It suffers indeed sometimes a quite extreme discomfort. This -is inevitable. This is right. This means that the creative energy in the -new thing is getting to work upon us, unloosening our prejudices and -enlarging our scope. Such a process is attended by exquisite -intellectual excitement. It is also attended by a certain rending and -tearing of personal vanity. - -One is too apt to confuse the existing synthesis of one’s aesthetic -instincts with the totality of one’s being; and this is a fatal blunder; -for who can fathom the reach of _that_ circumference? And it is of the -nature of all syntheses to change and grow. - -Yet, on the other hand, nothing is more ridiculous and ineffective than -the kind of hand-to-mouth criticism which attempts to eliminate its own -past, and to snatch at the glow and glamour of a work of art, as it were -“_de vacuo_,” and out of misty clouds. If one wishes to catch the secret -of true criticism; if one’s criticism is to be something more than a -mere howl of senseless condemnation or yawp of still more senseless -praise; one must attempt to do what Goethe and Saint-Beuve and Brandes -and Pater were always doing: that is to say, to make every use of every -tradition, _our own_, as well as that of classical authority;—and then -carry all this a little, just a little, _further_; giving it the shudder -and the thrilling interest of the process of organic growth. - -Without tradition, the tradition of our own determined taste and the -tradition of classical taste, there can be no growth. Oracles uttered in -neglect of these, are oracles “_in vacuo_,” without meaning or -substance; without roots in human experience. Whether we are pleased to -acknowledge it or not, our own gradually-evolved taste is linked at a -thousand points with the classical taste of the ages. In criticizing new -work we can no more afford to neglect such tradition than, in expressing -our thoughts, we can afford to neglect language. - -Tradition _is_ the language of criticism. It can be carried further: -every original work of art, by producing a new reaction upon it, -necessarily carries it further. But it cannot be swept aside; or we are -reduced to dumbness; to such vague growls and gestures as animals might -indulge in. Criticism, to carry any intelligible meaning at all, must -use the language provided by the centuries. There is no other language -to use; and in default of language we are reduced, as I have said, to -inarticulate noises. - -The unfortunate thing is, that much of the so-called “criticism” of our -day is nothing better than such _physiological gesticulation_. In -criticism, as in life, a certain degree of _continuity_ is necessary, or -we become no more than arbitrary puffs of wind, who may shriek one day -down the chimney, and another day through a crack in the door, but in -neither case with any intelligible meaning for human ears. - -In dealing with a creative quality as unusual and striking as that of -Theodore Dreiser, it is of absolutely no critical value to content -ourselves with a crude physical disturbance on the surface of our minds, -whether such disturbance is favourable or unfavourable to the writer. It -is, for instance, quite irrelevant to hurl condemnation upon a work like -_The “Genius”_ because it is largely preoccupied with sex. It is quite -equally irrelevant to lavish enthusiastic laudations upon it because of -this preoccupation. A work of art is not good because it speaks daringly -and openly about things that shock certain minds. It is not bad because -it avoids all mention of such things. An artist has a right to introduce -into his work what he pleases and to exclude from his work what he -pleases. The question for the critic is, not what subject has he -selected, but how has he treated that subject;—has he made out of it an -imaginative, suggestive, and convincing work of art, or has he not! -There is no other issue before the critic than this; and if he supposes -there is,—if he supposes he has the smallest authority to dictate to a -writer what his subject shall be;—he is simply making a fool of himself. - -There is an absurd tendency among some of us to suppose that a writer is -necessarily a great writer because he is daring in his treatment of sex. -This is quite as grotesque an illusion as the opposite one, that a great -writer must be idealistic and uplifting. There is not the remotest -reason why he should concern himself with sex; if he prefers—as did -Charles Dickens for instance—to deal with other aspects of life. On the -other hand there is not the least reason why he should be “uplifting.” -Let him be an artist—an artist—that is the important matter! All these -questions concerning “subjects” are tedious and utterly trifling. - -In _The “Genius”_ Theodore Dreiser has achieved a very curious and a -very original work. In doing it he has once more made it clear how much -more interesting the quality of his own genius is than that of any other -American novelist of the present age. - -_The “Genius”_ is an epic work. It has the epic rather than the dramatic -quality; it has the epic rather than the mystic, or symbolic, quality. -And strictly speaking, Dreiser’s novels, especially the later ones, are -the only novels in America, are the only novels, as a matter of fact, in -England or America, which possess this quality. It is quite properly in -accordance with the epic attitude of mind, with the epic quality in art, -this reduction of the more purely human episodes to a proportionate -insignificance compared with the general surge and volume of the -life-stream. It is completely in keeping with the epic quality that -there should be no far-fetched psychology, no quivering suspensions on -the verge of the unknown. - -Dreiser is concerned with the mass and weight of the stupendous -life-tide; the life-tide as it flows forward, through vast panoramic -stretches of cosmic scenery. Both in respect to human beings, and in -respect to his treatment of inanimate objects, this is always what most -dominatingly interests him. You will not find in Dreiser’s books those -fascinating arrests of the onward-sweeping tide, those delicate pauses -and expectancies, in back-waters and enclosed gardens, where persons, -with diverting twists in their brains, murmur and meander at their ease, -protected from the great stream. Nobody in the Dreiser-world is so -protected; nobody is so privileged. The great stream sweeps them all -forward, sweeps them all away; and not they, but _It_, must be regarded -as the hero of the tale. - -It is precisely this quality, this subordination of the individual to -the deep waters that carry him, which makes Dreiser so peculiarly the -American writer. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why he has had a -more profoundly appreciative hearing in England than in the United -States. It was so with Walt Whitman in his earlier days. To get the -adequate perspective for a work so entirely epical it seems necessary to -have the Atlantic as a modifying foreground. Americans—so entirely _in -it_ themselves—are naturally, unless they possess the Protean faculty of -the editor of Reedy’s _Mirror_, unable to see the thing in this cosmic -light. They are misled by certain outstanding details—the sexual scenes, -for instance; or the financial scenes,—and are prevented by these, as by -the famous “Catalogues” in Whitman, from getting the proportionate -vision. - -The true literary descendants of the author of the _Leaves of Grass_ are -undoubtedly Theodore Dreiser and Edgar Masters. These two, and these two -alone, though in completely different ways, possess that singular -“beyond-good-and-evil” touch which the epic form of art requires. It was -just the same with Homer and Vergil, who were as naturally the epic -children of aristocratic ages, as these are of a democratic one. - -Achilles is not really a very attractive figure—take him all in all; and -we remember how scandalously Æneas behaved to Dido. The ancient epic -writers, writing for an aristocracy, caught the world-stream from a -poetic angle. The modern epic writers, writing for a democracy, catch it -from a realistic one. But it is the same world-stream; and in accordance -with the epic vision there is the same subordination of the individual -to the cosmic tide. This is essentially a dramatic, rather than an epic -epoch, and that is why so many of us are bewildered and confused by the -Dreiser method. - -_The “Genius”_ is a long book. But it might have been three times as -long. It might begin anywhere and stop anywhere. It is the Prose-Iliad -of the American Scene; and, like that other, it has a right to cut out -its segment of the shifting panorama at almost any point. - -And so with the style of the thing. It is a ridiculous mis-statement for -critics to say that Dreiser has no style. It is a charming irony, on his -own part, to belittle his style. He has, as a matter of fact, a very -definite and a very effective style. It is a style that lends itself to -the huge indifferent piling up of indiscriminate materials, quite as -admirably as that gracious poetical one of the old epic-makers lent -itself to their haughtier and more aristocratic purpose. One would -recognize a page of Dreiser’s writings as infallibly as one would -recognize a page of Hardy’s. The former _relaxes_ his medium to the -extreme limit and the latter _tightens_ his; but they both have their -“manner.” A paragraph written by Dreiser would never be mistaken for -anyone else’s. If for no other peculiarity Dreiser’s style is remarkable -for the shamelessness with which it adapts itself to the drivel of -ordinary conversation. In the Dreiser books—especially in the later -ones, where in my humble opinion he is feeling more firmly after his -true way,—people are permitted to say those things which they actually -do say in real life—things that make you blush and howl, so soaked in -banality and ineptitude are they. In the true epic manner Dreiser -gravely puts down all these fatuous observations, until you feel -inclined to cry aloud for the maddest, the most fantastic, the most -affected Osconian wit, to serve as an antidote. - -But one knows very well he is right. People don’t in ordinary -life—certainly not in ordinary democratic life—talk like Oscar Wilde, or -utter deep ironic sayings in the style of Matthew Arnold. They don’t -really—let this be well understood—concentrate their feelings in bitter -pungent spasmodic outbursts, as those Rabelaisean persons in Guy de -Maupassant. They just gabble and gibber and drivel; at least that is -what they do in England and America. The extraordinary language which -the lovers in Dreiser—we use the term “lovers” in large sense—use to one -another might well make an aesthetic-minded person howl with nervous -rage. But then,—and who does not know it?—the obsession of the -sex-illusion is above everything else a thing that makes idiots of -people; a thing that makes them talk like Simple Simons. In real life -lovers don’t utter those wonderful pregnant sayings which leap to their -lips in our subtle symbolic dramas. They just burble and blather and -blurt forth whatever drivelling nonsense comes into their heads. Dreiser -is the true master of the modern American Prose-Epic just because he is -not afraid of the weariness, the staleness, the flatness, and -unprofitableness of actual human conversation. In reading the great -ancient poetic epics one is amazed at the “naivete” with which these -haughty persons—these gods and demi-gods express their emotional -reactions. It is “carried off,” of course, there, by the sublime -heightening of the style; but it produces just the same final -impression,—of the insignificance of the individual, whether mortal or -immortal, compared with the torrent of Fate which sweeps them all along. - -And the same thing applies to Dreiser’s attitude towards “good and evil” -and towards the problem of the “supernatural.” All other modern writers -array themselves on this side or that. They either defend traditional -morality or they attack it. They are anxious, at all costs, to give -their work dramatic intensity; they struggle to make it ironical, -symbolical, mystical—God knows what! But Dreiser neither attacks -morality nor defends immorality. In the true Epic manner he puts himself -aside, and permits the great mad Hurly-Burly to rush pell-mell past him -and write its own whirligig runes at its own careless pleasure. Even -Zola himself was not such a realist. Zola had a purpose;—the purpose of -showing what a Beast the human animal is! Dreiser’s people are not -beasts; and they shock our aesthetic sensibilities quite as often by -their human sentiment as they do by their lapses into lechery. - -To a European mind there is something incredibly absurd in the notion -that these Dreiser books are immoral. - -Unlike the majority of French and Russian writers Dreiser is not -interested in the pathology of vice. He is too deeply imbued with the -great naive epic spirit to stop and linger in these curious bye-paths. -He holds Nature—in her normal moods—to be sufficiently remarkable. - -It is the same with his attitude towards the “supernatural.” The -American Prose-Epic were obviously false to reality if the presence of -the supernatural were not felt. It is felt and felt very powerfully; but -it is kept in its place. Like Walt Whitman’s stellar constellations, it -suffices for those who belong to it, it is right enough where it is—we -do not want it any nearer! - -Because the much-tossed wanderer, Eugene Witla, draws a certain -consolation, at the last, from Christian Science, only a very literal -person would accuse the author of _The “Genius”_ of being a convert to -the faith. To omit Christian Science from any prose-epic of American -life would be to falsify the picture out of personal prejudice. Dreiser -has no prejudices except the prejudice of finding the normal man and the -normal woman, shuffled to and fro by the normal forces of life, an -interesting and arresting spectacle. To some among us such a spectacle -is not interesting. We must have the excitement of the unusual, the -shock of the abnormal. Well! There are plenty of European writers ready -to gratify this taste. Dreiser is not a European writer. He is an -American writer. The life that interests him, and interests him -passionately, is the life of America. It remains to be seen whether the -life of America interests Americans! - -It is really quite important to get the correct point of view with -regard to Dreiser’s “style.” The _negative_ qualities in this style of -his are indeed as important as the positive ones. He is so epical, so -objective, so concrete and indifferent, that he is quite content when -the great blocked-out masses of his work lift themselves from the -obscure womb of being and take shape before him. When they have done -this,—when these piled-up materials and portentous groups of people have -limned themselves against the grey background,—he himself stands aside, -like some dim demiurgic forger in the cosmic blast-furnace, and mutters -queer commentaries upon what he sees. He utters these commentaries -through the lips of his characters—Cowperwood, say, or Witla—or even -some of the less important ones;—and broken and incoherent enough they -are! - -But what matter! The huge epic canvas is stretched out there before us. -The vast cyclopean edifice lifts its shadowy bulk towards the grey sky. -The thing has been achieved. The creative spirit has breathed upon the -waters. Resting from his titanic labor, what matter if this Demiurge -drowses, and with an immense humorous indifference permits his -characters to nod too, and utter strange words in their dreams! - -The carelessness of Dreiser’s style, its large indolence, its contempt -for epigrammatic point, its relaxed strength, is not really a defect at -all when you regard his work from the epic view-point. - -There must be something in a great cosmic picture to take the place of -the sand and silt and rubbish and rubble which we know so well in life, -under the grey sky! And these stammered incoherences, these broken -mutterings, fill in this gap. They give the picture that drab patience, -that monotonous spaciousness which is required. Symbolic drama or -psychological fiction can dispense with these blank surfaces. The -prose-epic of America cannot afford to do without them. They suggest -that curious sadness—the sadness of large, flat, featureless scenery, -which visitors from Europe find so depressing. - -Well! Thus it remains. If one is interested in the “urge—urge—urge,” as -Whitman calls it, of the normal life-stream as it goes upon its way, in -these American States, one reads Dreiser with a strange pleasure. He is -no more moral than the normal life-stream is moral; and he is no more -immoral. It is true the normal life-stream does not cover _quite_ the -whole field. There _are_ back-waters and there _are_ enclosed gardens. - -There was a Europe once. But the American prose-epic is the American -prose-epic. - - - - - “So We Grew Together”[1] - - - EDGAR LEE MASTERS - - Reading over your letters I find you wrote me - “My dear boy,” or at times “dear boy,” and the envelope - Said “master”—all as I had been your very son, - And not the orphan whom you adopted. - Well, you were father to me! And I can recall - The things you did for me or gave me: - One time we rode in a box-car to Springfield - To see the greatest show on earth; - And one time you gave me red-top boots, - And one time a watch, and one time a gun. - Well, I grew to gawkiness with a voice - Like a rooster trying to crow in August - Hatched in April, we’ll say. - And you went about wrapped up in silence - With eyes aflame, and I heard little rumors - Of what they were doing to you, and how - They wronged you—and we were poor—so poor! - And I could not understand why you failed, - And why if you did good things for the people - The people did not sustain you. - And why you loved another woman than Aunt Susan, - So it was whispered at school, and what could be baser, - Or so little to be forgiven?..... - - They crowded you hard in those days. - But you fought like a wounded lion - For yourself I know, but for us, for me. - At last you fell ill, and for months you tottered - Around the streets as thin as death, - Trying to earn our bread, your great eyes glowing - And the silence around you like a shawl! - But something in you kept you up. - You grew well again and rosy with cheeks - Like an Indian peach almost, and eyes - Full of moonlight and sunlight, and a voice - That sang, and a humor that warded - The arrows off. But still between us - There was reticence; you kept me away - With a glittering hardness; perhaps you thought - I kept you away—for I was moving - In spheres you knew not, living through - Beliefs you believed in no more, and ideals - That were just mirrors of unrealities. - As a boy can be I was critical of you. - And reasons for your failures began to arise - In my mind—I saw specific facts here and there - With no philosophy at hand to weld them - And synthesize them into one truth— - And a rush of the strength of youth - Deluded me into thinking the world - Was something so easily understood and managed - While I knew it not at all in truth. - And an adolescent egotism - Made me feel you did not know me - Or comprehend the all that I was. - All this you divined....... - - So it went. And when I left you and passed - To the world, the city—still I see you - With eyes averted, and feel your hand - Limp with sorrow—you could not speak. - You thought of what I might be, and where - Life would take me, and how it would end— - There was longer silence. A year or two - Brought me closer to you. I saw the play now - And the game somewhat and understood your fights - And enmities, and hardnesses and silences, - And wild humor that had kept you whole— - For your soul had made it as an antitoxin - To the world’s infections. And you swung to me - Closer than before—and a chumship began - Between us...... - - What vital power was yours! - You never tired, or needed sleep, or had a pain, - Or refused a delight. I loved the things now - You had always loved, a winning horse, - A roulette wheel, a contest of skill - In games or sports ... long talks on the corner - With men who have lived and tell you - Things with a rich flavor of old wisdom or humor; - A woman, a glass of whisky at a table - Where the fatigue of life falls, and our reserves - That wait for happiness come up in smiles, - Laughter, gentle confidences. Here you were - A man with youth, and I a youth was a man, - Exulting in your braveries and delight in life. - How you knocked that scamp over at Harry Varnell’s - When he tried to take your chips! And how I, - Who had thought the devil in cards as a boy, - Loved to play with you now and watch you play; - And watch the subtle mathematics of your mind - Prophecy, divine the plays. Who was it - In your ancestry that you harked back to - And reproduced with such various gifts - Of flesh and spirit, Anglo-Saxon, Celt?— - You with such rapid wit and powerful skill - For catching illogic and whipping Error’s - Fangéd head from the body?..... - - I was really ahead of you - At this stage, with more self-consciousness - Of what man is, and what life is at last, - And how the spirit works, and by what laws, - With what inevitable force. But still I was - Behind you in that strength which in our youth, - If ever we have it, squeezes all the nectar - From the grapes. It seemed you’d never lose - This power and sense of joy, but yet at times - I saw another phase of you...... - - There was the day - We rode together north of the old town, - Past the old farm houses that I knew— - Past maple groves, and fields of corn in the shock, - And fields of wheat with the fall green. - It was October, but the clouds were summer’s, - Lazily floating in a sky of June; - And a few crows flying here and there, - And a quail’s call, and around us a great silence - That held at its core old memories - Of pioneers, and dead days, forgotten things! - I’ll never forget how you looked that day. Your hair - Was turning silver now, but still your eyes - Burned as of old, and the rich olive glow - In your cheeks shone, with not a line or wrinkle!— - You seemed to me perfection—a youth, a man! - And now you talked of the world with the old wit, - And now of the soul—how such a man went down - Through folly or wrong done by him, and how - Man’s death cannot end all, - There must be life hereafter!..... - - As you were that day, as you looked and spoke, - As the earth was, I hear as the soul of it all - Godard’s _Dawn_, Dvorák’s _Humoresque_, - The Morris Dances, Mendelssohn’s _Barcarole_, - And old Scotch songs, _When the Kye Come Hame_, - And _The Moon Had Climbed the Highest Hill_, - The Musetta Waltz and Rudolph’s Narrative; - Your great brow seemed Beethoven’s - And the lust of life in your face Cellini’s, - And your riotous fancy like Dumas. - I was nearer you now than ever before - And finding each other thus I see to-day - How the human soul seeks the human soul - And finds the one it seeks at last. - For you know you can open a window - That looks upon embowered darkness, - When the flowers sleep and the trees are still - At Midnight, and no light burns in the room; - And you can hide your butterfly - Somewhere in the room, but soon you will see - A host of butterfly mates - Fluttering through the window to join - Your butterfly hid in the room. - It is somehow thus with souls...... - - This day then I understood it all: - Your vital democracy and love of men - And tolerance of life; and how the excess of these - Had wrought your sorrows in the days - When we were so poor, and the small of mind - Spoke of your sins and your connivance - With sinful men. You had lived it down, - Had triumphed over them, and you had grown - Prosperous in the world and had passed - Into an easy mastery of life and beyond the thought - Of further conquests for things. - As the Brahmins say no more you worshipped matter, - Or scarcely ghosts, or even the gods - With singleness of heart. - This day you worshipped Eternal Peace - Or Eternal Flame, with scarce a laugh or jest - To hide your worship; and I understood, - Seeing so many facets to you, why it was - Blind Condon always smiled to hear your voice, - And why it was in a green-room years ago - Booth turned to you, marking your face - From all the rest, and said “There is a man - Who might play Hamlet—better still Othello”; - And why it was the women loved you; and the priest - Could feed his body and soul together drinking - A glass of beer and visiting with you...... - - Then something happened: - Your face grew smaller, your brow more narrow, - Dull fires burned in your eyes, - Your body shriveled, you walked with a cynical shuffle, - Your hands mixed the keys of life, - You had become a discord. - A monstrous hatred consumed you— - You had suffered the greatest wrong of all, - I knew and granted the wrong. - You had mounted up to sixty years, now breathing hard, - And just at the time that honor belonged to you - You were dishonored at the hands of a friend. - I wept for you, and still I wondered - If all I had grown to see in you and find in you - And love in you was just a fond illusion— - If after all I had not seen you aright as a boy: - Barbaric, hard, suspicious, cruel, redeemed - Alone by bubbling animal spirits— - Even these gone now, all of you smoke - Laden with stinging gas and lethal vapor...... - Then you came forth again like the sun after storm— - The deadly uric acid driven out at last - Which had poisoned you and dwarfed your soul— - So much for soul! - - The last time I saw you - Your face was full of golden light, - Something between flame and the richness of flesh. - You were yourself again, wholly yourself. - And oh, to find you again and resume - Our understanding we had worked so long to reach— - You calm and luminant and rich in thought! - This time it seemed we said but “yes” or “no”— - That was enough; we smoked together - And drank a glass of wine and watched - The leaves fall sitting on the porch..... - Then life whirled me away like a leaf, - And I went about the crowded ways of New York. - - And one night Alberta and I took dinner - At a place near Fourteenth Street where the music - Was like the sun on a breeze-swept lake - When every wave is a patine of fire, - And I thought of you not at all - Looking at Alberta and watching her white teeth - Bite off bits of Italian bread, - And watching her smile and the wide pupils - Of her eyes, electrified by wine - And music and the touch of our hands - Now and then across the table. - We went to her house at last. - And through a languorous evening. - Where no light was but a single candle, - We circled about and about a pending theme - Till at last we solved it suddenly in rapture - Almost by chance; and when I left - She followed me to the hall and leaned above - The railing about the stair for the farewell kiss— - And I went into the open air ecstatically, - With the stars in the spaces of sky between - The towering buildings, and the rush - Of wheels and clang of bells, - Still with the fragrance of her lips and cheeks - And glinting hair about me, delicate - And keen in spite of the open air. - And just as I entered the brilliant car - Something said to me you are dead— - I had not thought of you, was not thinking of you. - But I knew it was true, as it was - For the telegram waited me at my room..... - I didn’t come back. - I could not bear to see the breathless breath - Over your brow—nor look at your face— - However you fared or where - To what victories soever— - Vanquished or seemingly vanquished! - - [1] Copyright, 1915, by Edgar Lee Masters. - - - - - Choleric Comments - - - ALEXANDER S. KAUN - - Faithful are the wounds of a friend.—Proverbs, 27:6. - -We were looking at oriental rugs one day, that enfant terrible, the -Scavenger, and I. There were rugs that tempted me to transgress the -tenth commandment, and there were rugs that jarred me as if I were -listening to Carpenter’s _Perambulator_ stunts. My fellow-flâneur became -impatient with my critical remarks. - -“You don’t love rugs.” His Svidrigailovian face grinned. “If you did, -you would just love them, you would not quibble. Academician!” - -The last epithet is used by THE LITTLE REVIEW priests and prophets as a -means to close all arguments. So it did on that occasion. But it left me -pondering over the words of a New York critic who accused our magazine -of being somewhat indiscriminate in its enthusiasm for the sake of -enthusiasm, in its emotionalism for the sake of emotion. I recalled -blushingly the confession of our chief Neo-Hellenist, who is moved -aesthetically by any sort of music, whether it emanates from Kreisler’s -Stradivarius or from the pianola at Henrici’s. - -I confess I am a fastidious lover. The dearer a person or a thing are to -me the more I demand from them, the more painfully I am hurt by their -flaws. Hence the number of my dislikes exceeds that of my likes. Hence I -grit my teeth at the sight of Maria Gay in _Carmen_. Because the music -of that opera is so full of eternal symbols to me, because when -listening to it I understand why Nietzsche preferred Bizet to Wagner,—I -am scalded by its vulgar cabaretization. Had I not been stirred by Mr. -Powys’ remarkable liturgy of St. Oscar Wilde, I would not have been so -keenly pricked by his subsequent remark in his Verlaine lecture that -Rimbaud was a ruffian. It is because I cannot live without music that I -am compelled to suffer weekly indigestion from the sauerkraut menus -furnished by Mr. Stock’s bâton. Will Mr. Scavenger of the rug-philosophy -expect me not to swear and damn at the prospect of being doomed to a -long season of Meistersingers, Perambulators, Goldmarckian fudge, -Brahmsian Academics, Stockian Jubilee-Confetti, and similar insults? Let -me touch another sore:—the Little Theatre, the Temple of Living Art, to -which I have looked up with reverence and hope; the only theatrical -organization in the city that seemed to have other considerations -outside of box-receipts. I was present at the opening night of this -season, and left the little “catacomb” with an aching heart. What -reason, what artistic reason, is there to stage Andreyev’s _Sabine -Women_ anywhere outside of Russia? The play was written as a biting -satire against the Russian liberals who fought against the government -with Tolstoyan Non-Resistance instead of joining the revolutionary -proletariat. In Andreyev’s land he is perfectly, painfully understood; -but here, on Michigan Avenue, the satire degenerated into a boring -burlesque! Even Raymond Johnson’s suggestive, graceful horizons fail to -save the situation. As to _Lithuania_—what is the matter with the Little -Theatre males? They move and speak like hermaphrodites, they drink vodka -and swear in squeaking falsettoes, they appear so feeble and effeminate -in comparison with the virile, gruesome Ellen Van Volkenburg and Miriam -Kipper. Then, how realistic—shades of Zola! Maurice Browne vomits so -much more realistically than Charlie Chaplin in _Shanghaied_.... - -Finding myself in the Fine Arts Building, I am in dangerous proximity of -another “Temple” that invites my friendly hostility. But I vision the -brandishment of the Editor’s fatal pencil—silenzia! Yet, if I must -refrain from, or at least postpone, my general attack on THE LITTLE -REVIEW, let me be allowed, pray, to whip one of my confreres, the -Scavenger. Whether a sound thrashing will do him good or not is -doubtful; but he certainly deserves flagellation. As a denier, as a -depreciator, as an anti, he is as convincing as a bulldog; but when he -loves, when he lauds and affirms, his voice thins to that of a sick -puppy. He should be administered cure from his mania of showering -superlatives upon false gods and counterfeit prophets. I dislike the -rôle of a Good Samaritan, but our Scavenger is so young, so -impressionable; perhaps he will repent. Besides, I sympathize with him. -He is one of those promising Americans who suffocate in their native -atmosphere, or lack of atmosphere, and are easily lured and led astray -by will-o’-the wisps. In his yearning for wings he is apt to proclaim a -domestic rooster as an eagle; in his craving for sun, for light, he -often mistakes a cardboard butaforial sun for Phœbus Apollo. Hence his -admiration for that Arch-Borrower, Huneker. “He is one of the two or -three American critics that are above Puritanic provincialism, that are -broad, European!” exclaims Scavenger. It is true; but this truth serves -only as a testimonia pauperitatis for the intellectual state of this -country, where glittering counterfeit coins are less odious than -Simon-pure Americanism. The Huneker-cult is one of the American -tragedies of which I have spoken on other occasions, the tragedy of -surrogates. The young generation, seething with longing for the great -and the beautiful in life and art, is forced to feed on substitutes in -the absence of real quantities. They want to read a living word about -Verlaine, about Huysmans, about Matisse, about those winged titans who -make Trans-Atlantic life so rich and pulsating, and they turn to -Huneker, the great concocter of newspaper clippings and boulevard -gossip. When Scavenger read for me Huneker’s admirable essay on Huysmans -I was not yet aware that whatever was admirable in the essay had been -borrowed almost in toto from Havelock Ellis’s _Affirmations_.[2] Why use -the second or third-hand patched up cloak of Boulevardier-Huneker, when -you may drink from the very source, from Arthur Symons, from Havelock -Ellis, from—oh, well, who can recount them? Ah, the tragedy of -substitutes! - - [2] _Affirmations, by Havelock Ellis. Boston: Houghton Mifflin._ - - The first edition of the book was issued about twenty years ago, - yet one reads it now with keen joy. With the exception of the - essay on Nietzsche, which is somewhat obsolete, the essays on - Zola, Huysmans, Casanova, and St. Francis have stood the test of - time. One feels the breeze of cleanness, freshness, sincerity, - and profundity. I may have an opportunity of discussing the book - some other time. - -The other evening, at a gathering of “The Questioners,” I accused Miss -Harriet Monroe and Miss Margaret C. Anderson of being too lenient -editors, in not trying to mould the taste of their contributors. What -conscientious editor would allow a writer of Scavenger’s caliber to -descend to the irritating rhetoric of “The Dionysian Dreiser”? To print -this loud exaggeration immediately after Ben Hecht’s _Songs and -Sketches_ is to profess the rug-philosophy. - -The Scavenger, as most of his colleagues, is a reformed Puritan. He -finds boyish delight in reading an author who is a professional -fence-wrecker and convention-smasher. To him immoralizing is a virtue -_per se_. He hails Dreiser as the greatest, for things that he has not -done. Dreiser is a genius because he has not followed the conventional -novelist who makes his villain repent or perish. I admit this; but such -a negative virtue, significant as it may appear in given conditions, -does not qualify an artist. _The “Genius”_ is not art. It is -instructive, it is of great value for the study of contemporary America, -as Mr. Masters pointed out. I can imagine that in the twenty-first -century _The “Genius”_ will be used as a textbook for the history of the -United States in the end of the nineteenth century, for the author has -minutely depicted our customs and morals, has gone into detailed -description of country and city life, of farmers’ menues, of -stomach-aches and their cure, of Christian Science wonders, of salaries -and prices, of all the infinitesimal particles that compose the mosaique -of mediocre life. Instructive—yes; but art—by no means. Let me quote -Havelock Ellis’s _Affirmations_: - - Three strokes with the brush of Frans Hals are worth a thousand - of Denner’s. Rich and minute detail may impress us, but it - irritates and wearies in the end.... When we are living deeply, - the facts of our external life do not present themselves to us in - elaborate detail; a very few points are—as it has been - termed—focal in consciousness, while the rest are marginal in - subconsciousness. A few things stand out vividly at each moment - of life; the rest are dim. The supreme artist is shown by the - insight and boldness with which he seizes and illuminates these - bright points at each stage, leaving the marginal elements in due - subordination. - -Truisms, aren’t these? I wish Dreiser, “the greatest,” and his hailers -would ponder over them before they apply the term art to 736 pages -devoted to rumination of what Ellis calls “marginal elements” of life. -And what a life! In what respect does the life of Witla, the “genius,” -deserve so much elaboration and painstaking analysis? The hero’s only -distinction is his sexual looseness. But he is not a Sanin who gratifies -his animalistic instincts with contempt for motivation or justification. -Witla, and Dreiser, and Scavenger, are reformed Puritans. When Witla -falls in “love” with the round arm of a laundress, or with the golden -hair of a country girl, or with the black eyes of an art-model, or with -the perfect form of a gambler’s wife, or with the innocence of a mama’s -girl; when in each case the lover swears and damns and lyricizes in bad -English and strives to win and possess the object d’art, Mr. Dreiser -appears from behind the sinner, pats him on the shoulder, and flings -defiantly into the faces of the terrified philistines: “Witla is -all-right. He is an artist. He loves beautiful things. See, God damn -you?!” Is he? Throughout the long book we are told time and again that -he is an _artist_. Unless we take the author’s word for it we are -inclined to doubt it very much. True, an artist loves beauty; but does -he necessarily desire to possess the object of his admiration? Does not -the contemplation of a beautiful arm or sunset or flower or vase or rug -bring the artist complete satisfaction and possession? I do not condemn -Witla; although I dislike him, for he is a loud mediocrity. There is a -Witla in every one of us men; but we take our Witla as our animalistic -self, not as the artistic. - -Ah, dear Scavenger, I do love rugs. But there are rugs and rugs. - - - - - The Scavenger’s Swan Song - - -What a remarkable fellow my friend the Incurable is! I talk to him about -rugs, quite casually, as we wait for a car, and what does this devil of -a psychologist do but walk deep into my soul on one of them. I read him -a Huneker article on Huysmans which he remarks is excellent at the time, -only to find (almost too late) that I should have read Havelock -Ellis.... - -How I envy him this distinction of having read Havelock Ellis instead of -James Huneker, of being subtle enough to prefer the deep, metaphysical -didactics concerning Life (with a capital L, Miss Editor) to the -contemplation of that most seductive of literary signposts—Huneker. But -it is so foolish to quibble about books.... If I had anything else to do -I wouldn’t read them.... - -Puritan, indeed! That is too much. I suspect it is only a withering -retort, a ferocious counter to the “academic charges.” But what of -Dreiser—poor, little, smug, banal, and illiterate Dreiser? You should -have spared him. You remember on the elevated going home one night how I -pleaded with you to spare him, how I argued, defended, fought? Ah, I am -shamed. I feel somehow responsible for this annihilation of a man, aye a -good writer, who was fast becoming one of the great men of America.... - -When you speak of music everything becomes clear to me. Here am I who -like music well enough to have studied it for ten years, who can -improvise as well on the violin as on the typewriter, but who -nevertheless have been denied the capacity for experiencing the critical -disorganization of the soul at the sound of bad music, and nervous -exaltations at the sound of good. I suffer and gloat—but subjectively. -To me music is a background.... It is not my natural form of -self-expression. Neither are rugs. - -And I haven’t time to be a connoisseur. Later—perhaps. But now I reduce -all such differences of attitude as yours and mine to the everlasting -wrangle between the connoisseur and the improviser. Yes? - -Puritan! That is nothing. Later you will call me charlatan because I -sometimes compose paradoxes and even epigrams. Culture abhors an -epigram. - -Ho! ho! the devil take you and all critics. We ride the crests—Miss -Editor and I. Once my friend the Incurable rode the crests and they -washed him up on a foreign shore, and now he calls the crests “foam” or -“emotion for emotion’s sake” or a lot of other rather true things. To -ride on the crests as long as you can—that’s the life (a small “l,” Miss -Editor); to think one thing today and another tomorrow, to have lots of -fun, to yell while you’re young, to believe Havelock Ellis a bearded old -lady—in short, “klushnik,” to follow the care-free, tortuous path of -improvisation, self-expression, instead of pursuing the lugubrious -catacombs of criticism and connoisseurship. - -As for my article, “The Dionysian Dreiser,” I will not defend that. Your -abuse of that writing coupled with your smug praise of Ben Hecht’s -atrocious poetry (concerning which I agree with my friend “Bubble” -Bodenheim, who told me it was so bad on the whole that he couldn’t get -it out of his mind) is inconsistent. - -Ah, friend, may my death and Dreiser’s be forever on your conscience. - - “THE SCAVENGER.” - - - - - Dregs - - - BEN HECHT - - - Life - -The sun was shining in the dirty street. - -Old women with shapeless bodies waddled along on their way to market. - -Bearded old men who looked like the fathers of Jerusalem walked -flatfooted, nodding back and forth. - -“The tread of the processional surviving in Halsted street,” thought -Moisse, the young dramatist who was moving with the crowd. - -Children sprawled in the refuse-laden alleys. One of them ragged and -clotted with dirt stood half-dressed on the curbing and urinated into -the street. - -Wagons rumbled, filled with fruits and iron and rags and vegetables. - -Human voices babbled above the noises of the traffic. Moisse watched the -lively scene. - -“Every day it’s the same,” he thought; “the same smells, the same noise -and people swarming over the pavements. I am the only one in the street -whose soul is awake. There’s a pretty girl looking at me. She suspects -the condition of my soul. Her fingers are dirty. Why doesn’t she buy -different shoes? She thinks I am lost. In five years she will be fat. In -ten years she will waddle with a shawl over her head.” - -The young dramatist smiled. - -“Good God,” he thought, “where do they come from. Where are they going? -No place to no place. But always moving, shuffling, waddling, crying -out. The sun shines on them. The rain pours on them. It burns. It -freezes. Today they are bright with color. Tomorrow they are grey with -gloom. But they are always the same, always in motion.” - -The young dramatist stopped on the corner and looking around him spied a -figure sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of a building. - -The figure was an old man. - -He had a long white beard. - -He had his legs tucked under him and an upturned tattered hat rested in -his lap. - -His thin face was raised and the sun beat down on it, but his eyes were -closed. - -“Asleep,” mused Moisse. - -He moved closer to him. - -The man’s head was covered with long silky white hair that hung down to -his neck and hid his ears. It was uncombed. His face in the sun looked -like the face of an ascetic, thin, finely veined. - -He had a long nose and almost colorless lips and the skin on his cheeks -was white. It was drawn tight over his bones, leaving few wrinkles. - -An expression of peace rested over him—peace and detachment. Of the -noise and babble he heard nothing. His eyes were closed to the crowded -frantic street. - -He sat, his head back, his face bathed in the sun, smileless and -dreaming. - -“A beggar,” thought Moisse, “asleep, oblivious. Dead. All day he sits in -the sun like a saint, immobile. Like one of the old Alexandrian -ascetics, like a delicately carved image. He is awake in himself but -dead to others. The waves cannot touch him. His thoughts, oh to know his -thoughts and his dreams?” - -Suddenly the eyes of the young dramatist widened. He was looking at the -beggar’s long hair that hung to his neck. - -“It’s moving,” he whispered half aloud. He came closer and stood over -the old man and gazed intently at the top of his head. - -The hair was swaying faintly, each separate fiber moving alone.... - -It shifted, rose imperceptibly and fell. It quivered and glided.... - -“Lice,” murmured Moisse. - -He watched. - -Silent and asleep the old man sat with his thin face to the sun and his -hair moved. - -Vermin swarmed through it creeping, crawling, tiny and infinitesimal. - -Every strand was palpitating, shuddering under their mysterious energy. - -At first Moisse could hardly make them out but his eyes gradually grew -accustomed to the sight. And as he watched he saw the hair swell like -waves riding over the water, saw it drop and flutter, coil and uncoil of -its own accord. - -Vermin raised it up, pulled it out, streaming up and down tirelessly in -vast armies. - -They crawled furiously like dust specks blown thick through the white -beard. - -They streamed and shifted and were never still. - -They moved in and out, from no place to no place, but always moving, -frantic, and frenzied. - -An old woman passed and with a shake of her head dropped two pennies -into the upturned hat. Moisse hardly saw her. He saw only the -palpitating swarms that were now racing, easily visible, through the -grey white hair. - -Some ventured down over the white ascetic face, crawling in every -direction, traveling around the lips and over the closed eyes, emerging -suddenly in thick streams from behind the covered ears and losing -themselves under the ever moving beard. - -And Moisse, his senses strained, thought he heard a noise—a faint -crunching noise. - -He listened. - -The noise seemed to grow louder. He began to itch but he remained -bending over the head. He could hear them, like a faraway murmur, a -purring, uncertain sound. - -“They’re shouting and groaning, crying out, weeping and laughing,” he -mused. “It is life ... life....” - -He looked up and down the crowded burning street with its frantic crowd, -and smiled. - -“Life,” he repeated.... - -He walked away. Before him floated the hair of the beggar moving as if -stirred by a slow wind, and he itched. - -“But who was the old man?” he thought. - -A young woman, plump and smiling, jostled him. He felt her soft hip -pressing against him for a moment. - -A child running barefoot through the street brushed against his legs. He -felt its sticky fingers seize him for an instant and then the child was -gone. On he walked. - -Three young men confronted him for a second time. He passed between two -of them, squeezed by their shoulders. - -A shapeless old woman bumped him with her back as she shuffled past. - -Two children dodged in and out screaming and seized his arm to turn on. - -The young dramatist stopped and remained standing still, looking about -him. - -Then he laughed. - -“Life,” he murmured again; and - -“I am the old man,” he added, “I ... I....” - - - Depths - -Crowds began to come out of the buildings. - -They came in streams and broad waves, breaking in a black sweep over the -pavements and spreading into a thick long mass that moved forward. The -glassy lights cut the twilight drizzel with their yellow fire. The -tumult grew until up and down the street an unceasing din sounded, -shrieking, roaring, clanging noises. - -Moisse, the young dramatist, stood against one of the office buildings -as the throngs spilled past him on their ways home. His eyes were fixed -on the distant gloom of the sky which hung beyond the drizzel and the -fuzzy glare of light like a vast black froth. - -“It is so silent,” mused Moisse. “Millions of miles without a sound. Man -and his accomplishments are infinitesimal,” went on the young dramatist -as the swelling throng brushed and buffeted against him, “but his ego is -infinite. Only by thought can he reach the stars.” - -He was thoughtless for a moment, holding his position with difficulty as -the crowds pressed past. Then he resumed: - -“None of them looks at me. None of them imagines I am thinking of the -stars. How startled these fat evil-smelling men and women would be if -they could see my thought for a moment as they crashed along their tiny -ways. But nevertheless I don’t eat tonight,” he murmured suddenly, as if -awakening. And the idea plunged him into a series of reflections from -which he emerged with a frown and looked about him. - -A short thick man with an unshaven face was shuffling past. His skin was -broken under his growth of beard with red and purple sores. His mouth -hung open, his eyes stared ahead of him and his head was bent forward. -Moisse thought of the body concealed by the layers of caked rags which -covered the man, and shuddered. - -“He never bathes,” mused the young dramatist. “I wonder what a creature -like that does.” And he followed him slowly. - -At the corner the man stopped and blew his nose violently with his -fingers. Another block and he stopped again, bending over in the midst -of the crowd and straightening with a cigar butt in his hand. He eyed -the thing critically. It was flattened at the end where feet had passed -over it. The man thrust it between his lips and shuffled on. - -In a vestibule he extracted a blackened match from his pocket and with -shaking fingers lighted the butt. When it burned he blew a cloud of -smoke, and taking it out of his mouth regarded it with satisfaction. - -Several in the throng noticed him, their eyes resting with disapproval -and sometimes hate upon the figure. Once a crossing policeman spied him -and followed him with his gaze until he was lost to view. - -Moisse kept abreast of him and together they turned into an alley that -led behind a hotel. The man’s eyes never wavered, but remained fixed in -the direction he was moving. - -The alley was dark. In the court that ran behind the hotel were several -large, battered cans that shone dully against the black wall. Debris -littered the ground. Looking furtively at the closed doors the man made -his way to one of the cans. - -He lifted the cover cautiously and thrust his arm into its depths. For -several minutes he remained with his arm lost inside the refuse can. - -“He’s found something,” whispered Moisse. - -The man straightened. In his hand he held an object on which sparks -seemed to race up and down like blue insects. - -He raised his find to his face and then thrust it into his pocket and -resumed his shuffle down the alley. - -“To think,” mused Moisse, “of a man eating out of a garbage can. Either -he is inordinately hungry or careless to a point of ... of....” - -He searched for a word that refused to appear and he followed slowly -after the man. In the dim light of a side street the man paused and took -out his booty. It was evidently the back of a fowl. - -Standing still the man thrust it into his mouth, gnawing and tearing at -its bones. After he had eaten for several minutes he held it up to the -light and started picking at shreds of meat with his fingers. These he -licked off his hand. - -The meal was at length finished. The man threw the gleaned bones away, -blew his nose and walked on. - -Through the dark tumbled streets Moisse followed. The shuffling figure -fascinated him. He noted the gradually increasing degradation of the -neighborhood, the hovels that seemed like torn, blackened rags, the -broken streets piled with refuse and mud. - -In front of a lighted house the man stopped. The curtains which hung -over the two front windows of the house were torn. One of them was half -destroyed and Moisse saw into the room in which a gas jet flickered and -which was empty. - -The man walked up the steps and knocked at the door. It was opened. - -“A woman,” whispered Moisse. - -She vanished, and the man followed her. The two appeared in a moment in -the room with the gas light. - -The woman was tall and thin, her hair hung down her back in two scimpy -braids. Her face was coated with paint and great hollows loomed under -her eyes. - -The man walked to her, his open mouth widened in a grin. - -“They’re talking,” murmured the young dramatist as he watched their -haggard faces move strangely. He noted the woman was dressed in a -wrapper, colorless and streaked. - -“I wonder—” he began, but the scene captured his attention. He watched -absorbed. The woman was shaking her head and backing away from the man -who finally halted in the center of the room. - -He lifted a foot from the floor and removed its shoe. Standing with the -shoe in his hand his eyes glistened at the woman who watched him with -her neck stretched forward and a sneer on her lips. - -The man put his hand in the shoe and brought out a coin. - -“A twenty-five cent piece,” muttered Moisse. - -The man held it up in his fingers and laughed. His face distorted itself -into strange wrinkles when he laughed. Moisse who could not hear the -laugh saw only an imbecilic grimace. The woman took the coin, and left -the room. - -She returned in a moment holding out her arms to the man. - -He seized her, crushing her body against him until she was bent -backward. He pressed his face over her, his mouth still open, his eyes -staring. - -The woman stared back and laughed, fastening her lips suddenly to his. - -Losing his balance, the man staggered and the woman broke from his -grasp. He pounced on her, seizing her hand and jerking her against him. - -As she held back he raised his fist and struck her fiercely in the face. -She swayed for an instant and then stood quiet. - -Her lips began to smile and move in speech. The man shook his head -rapturously, rubbing his nose with a finger and panting. - -Moisse turned away and walked slowly toward the town. - -“Good God,” he murmured, “he’ll take his clothes off and she....” - -His emotions began to trouble him. An unrest stirred his body. - -“I should have gone in there and taken her away from him,” he mused, and -then with a shudder he walked on—smiling. - - - Gratitude - -The avenue bubbled brightly under the grey rain. - -The afternoon crowd had melted from the sidewalk, washed into hallways -and under awnings by the downpour. - -It began to look like evening. A refreshing gloom settled over the -street. - -The wind leaped out of alley courts and byways and raced over the -pavement accompanied by spattering arpeggios of rain. - -Moisse, the young dramatist, turned into the avenue. His voluminous -black raincoat, reaching from his ears to his shoe tops, flapped in -front of him. - -By exercising the most diligent effort, however, he managed rather to -saunter than walk, and he kept his eyes raptly fixed upon the deserted -stretch of shining cement. - -As he moved peacefully along he repeated to himself: - -“The rain leaps and pirouettes like a chorus of Russian elves. It jumps. -It bounces. It hops, skips, and runs. Flocks of little excited silver -birds are continually alighting around my feet and chattering in a -thousand voices. I should have been a poet.” - -Removing his gaze from the ground he looked at the faces which lined the -buildings and floated like pale lamps in the darkened vestibules. - -“Everyone is watching me,” he thought, “for in my attitude there is the -careless courage of an unconscious heroism. I stroll along indifferent -to the rain. It splashes down my neck. It takes the crease out of my -trousers. It trickles off the brim of my hat. - -“And all this stamps me momentarily in these afflicted minds as an -unusual human. - -“That one with the monogomistic side-whiskers is wondering what a queer -fellow I am. - -“What can it be that engrosses my attention to the point of making me so -oblivious to the rain? - -“And that fat woman with the face like a toy balloon is certain I will -catch my death of cold. - -“The little girl with the wide eyes thinks I am in love. - -“There is an infinite source of speculation in my simple conduct.” - -The water was making headway down the back of his neck, but Moisse -hesitated and then abstained from adjusting his collar more firmly. - -“They will notice it,” he thought, “and immediately I will lose the -distinctive aloofness which characterizes me now.” - -So moving leisurely down the avenue Moisse, the young dramatist, -progressed, his eyes apparently unconscious of the scene before him, his -soul oblivious to the saturated world, and his mind occupied with -distant and mysterious thoughts. - -The downpour began to assume the proportions of a torrent. Moisse -persisted in his tracks. - -Someone touched his elbow. - -He turned and found a little old man with faded eyes and threadbare, -dripping clothes smiling earnestly at his side. - -The little old man was bent in the shoulders. His shirt had no collar. -His brown coat was buttoned to his neck. - -His face screwed up by a sensitiveness to the cataract of drops beating -against it, was round and full of wrinkles. - -It had the quizzical, goodnatured look of a fuzzy little dog. - -His wet eyes that seemed to be swimming in a red moisture peered at -Moisse who was frowning. - -“I’m hungry,” began the little old man, “I ain’t had anything to eat—” - -“How much do you want?” inquired Moisse. - -“Anything,” said the beggar. - -The young dramatist felt in his pocket. A single half-dollar encountered -his fingers. - -“I’ve only got a half-dollar,” he said, “I’ll get it changed. Come on.” - -The two of them walked in silence, Moisse still sauntering, the little -old man bent over and looking as if he wanted to speak but was afraid of -dissipating a dream. - -“Wait here,” Moisse said suddenly, “I’ll go in and get change.” - -He stepped into the box office of one of the large moving-picture -theaters on the avenue and secured change. - -The little old man had followed him inside the building, his eyes -watching him with an eager curiosity. - -Moisse turned with the change to find the beggar at his elbow. - -He handed him fifteen cents. - -“What’s the matter?” he inquired. “Been drinking?” - -“No, no,” said the beggar. - -“Why haven’t you?” persisted Moisse frowning; “don’t you know there’s -nothing for you but drink. That’s what drink is for. Men like you.” - -The faded eyes livened. - -“Now you go and get yourself three good shots of booze,” went on Moisse, -“and you’ll be a new man for the rest of the day.” - -The beggar had become excited. - -His lips moved in a nervous delight but he uttered no sound. With the -fingers of his right hand he picked at the blackened and roughly-bitten -nails of his other. He cleared his throat and then as if suddenly -inspired, removed his drenched hat and raised his eyebrows. - -Touched by the sincerity of the little old man’s emotions the young -dramatist reached into his pocket and brought forth another ten cent -piece. - -“Here,” he said, “buy two more drinks.” - -The little man seemed about to break into a dance. His face became -tinged with the pink of an old woman’s cheek. - -The red moisture ran out of his eyes in two white tears. Moisse regarded -him, frowning. - -“Once you were young as I am today,” said Moisse aloud, fastening his -eyes upon the top of the little old man’s head which seemed dirty and -bald despite the pale hair, and alive. - -“Perhaps you had ambitions and then some commonplace occurred and you -lost them. And now you float around begging nickles. That’s interesting. -A little old man begging nickles in the rain.” - -The beggar smiled eagerly and then ventured a slight laugh. - -He came closer to Moisse and stood trembling. - -“Asking for crumbs,” went on Moisse with a deepening frown, “cursed at -night when alone by memories that will not die. Eh?” He looked suddenly -into the faded eyes and smiled. - -The little old man nodded his head vigorously. He caught his breath and -stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his cheeks wrinkled as -if he were about to cry. - -His breath struck the young dramatist and he averted his nose. - -“Strange,” resumed he, “now you have a quarter and I have a quarter and -still we remain so different. Isn’t it strange, old fellow? Yet it is -the inevitable inequality of men that makes us brothers.” - -The beggar was about to speak. Moisse paused and looked with interest at -the round face, the quivering nostrils and the lips that were twitching -into speech. - -“No one has talked to me like you,” he said, “no one.” - -And he caught his breath and stared with a strange expression at his -benefactor. - -He bit at a finger nail and lowered his head. He seemed suddenly in the -throes of a great mental struggle for his face had become earnest. - -It endured for a moment and then he looked at Moisse. - -“You—you want me to come along with you,” he said and he scratched at -the back of his ear. - -“I’ll come along if you want me to,” he repeated. - -“Come along? Where?” Moisse asked, his eyes awakening. - -“Oh, anyplace,” said the little old man. “I ain’t particular, if you -ain’t.” - -He was breathing quickly and he reached for the palm of his patron. - -A deep light had come into his face. His faded eyes had grown stronger. -Their quizzical look was gone and they were burning in their wet depths. - -They looked now with a maternal intensity into the eyes of Moisse and -their smile staggered the sophistication of the young dramatist. - -The little old man continued to breathe hard until he began to quiver. - -He suddenly assumed command. - -“Come,” he said, seizing Moisse by the palm and squeezing it. “I know a -place we can go and get a room cheap and where we won’t be disturbed. It -ain’t so nice a place but come.” - -He squeezed the palm he held for the second time. - -The deep light that had come into his little dog’s face softened and two -tears rolled again out of his eyes. - -He caught his breath in a sob. - -“I—I don’t drink,” he said; “I’m hungry—but I can wait ... until we get -through.” - -He was beaming coquettishly through his tears and fondling the young -dramatist’s hand. - -“I can wait,” he repeated, raising his blue lips toward Moisse, his face -transfigured and glowing pink. - -“I see,” said Moisse, withdrawing his hand with an involuntary shudder. -He was about to say something but he turned, again involuntarily, and -hurried away, breaking into a run when he found himself in the rain. - -The little old man’s face drooped. - -He walked slowly staring after him. - -He stood bareheaded while the rain bombarded his drenched figure and he -looked at the young dramatist running. - -While he stood gazing after him his face screwed up was suffused with a -strange tenderness and the tears dripped out of his eyes. - - - - - Editorials and Announcement - - - _Emma Goldman at the Fine Arts Theatre_ - -Beginning Sunday night, November 21, Emma Goldman is to deliver nine new -lectures in the most interesting playhouse in town—the Fine Arts -Theatre, Chicago home of the Irish Players and Miss Horniman’s company -and Miss Barnsdall’s Players’ Producing company, etc. The complete list -of lectures will be found on page 44. - -The first, on “Preparedness”—well, if you heard the Powys-Browne debate -last Sunday night and agree with Margery Currey that Mr. Browne struck -the roots of the issue, then I _beg_ you to hear Emma Goldman. Mr. -Browne said something about the real issue being whether people would -rather kill or be killed. I could scarcely believe my ears.... If you -once listen to Emma Goldman talking of fundamentals you can never fall -for sentimentalizations again. - - - _Will Our Readers Help?_ - -There is a beautiful plan on foot to help THE LITTLE REVIEW live through -its third year. It is this: - -If our readers will order their books through the Gotham Book Society we -will receive a certain percentage on all the sales. This arrangement has -been made with the publishers, so that any book you want, whether listed -in our pages or not, may be procured at the same price for which it is -on sale at your local bookseller’s—and sometimes even less than that. -You will find full particulars on page 50 of this issue. - -Radical magazines do not become popular, and the problem of meeting the -cost of production every month is really a desperate one. If there is a -good response to this plan we ought to make the bulk of our publishing -cost out of it, and then we can devote our energies to the improvement -of the magazine’s quality. Will you please keep this in mind when -ordering your books? It will mean such a tremendous thing to us! - - - _The Russian Literature Class_ - -In reply to many inquiries about the group for the study of Russian -literature, we are glad to announce that the idea is in the process of -realization. Early in January the group will meet, and will proceed to -attend the regular lectures. The course will be offered by a Russian, -who is well known to the readers of THE LITTLE REVIEW. Those willing to -join the adventure are asked to send their names and addresses to 834 -Fine Arts Building. - - - - - John Cowper Powys on War - - - MARGERY CURREY - -It was a quite, quite dreadful jolt that shook the John Cowper Powys -cult on the night of the debate between the master and Maurice Browne of -the Little Theatre. The great one, appearing robed in black, through his -Delphic, released, blinding vapor clouds of infallible utterance, was to -devastate the suggestion that war is evil, avoidable, and should not be -prepared for by military methods. Maurice Browne was to defend the -suggestion. - -Scarce half a moon before had the first murmuring of discontent arisen -among the worshipers of the temple, when their idol, beautiful, mordant, -flaming, strode forth in flapping black garments and proclaimed that in -this great war of many nations “the gall and vitriol and wormwood and -uncleanness of mankind are burned, purged from the purified flesh of -humanity; that then humanity is transformed, until the passion of hate -is hardly distinguishable from the passion of love.” - -The master himself was the glorious vulture of war. Looming there on the -stage of the Little Theatre, black, huge, alone under a vast orange sky -heavily streaked with black, a violet light from somewhere touching the -crimson of his face—and beside him in that great lonely cosmos an -iridescent emerald bowl upon a high ivory pedestal. That little, little -iridescent bowl, the ivory, the vast peace of a universe, no coagulating -clots hanging from the shreds of bodies torn and entangled in the barbed -wire meshes of the trenches, no cries—only one huge black moving thing -there. - -“War a great evil and an unmitigated wrong? I cannot see it. A pacifist -struggle for existence is only a meaner struggle. They are fools who -think it advisable or possible to stamp out war; they are knaves if, -thinking this possible or advisable, they still go on a pacifist -crusade.” - -Followed then the picture of a well-managed nation during war, a regime -of exalted socialism—the pooling of all moneys, the raising of the -income tax, the rich paying for the needs of the poor; she who was once -thought a bedraggled hussy of London’s east end now become a savior of -her country, in her potential gift of a son to the recruiting office of -her country; the high price now set on flesh and blood, even that of the -most humble. - -Well, all this heroic joy and thin-ice socialism—it was announced at the -end of the evening that the week after the subject would be Walt -Whitman. Thank heaven! Let his people listen to John Cowper Powys on -Walt Whitman. Of these he should speak—of Walt Whitman, of Oscar Wilde, -of Huysmans and Richepin and Milton and Ficke and Baudelaire and Goethe -and Shakespeare. On these he speaks divinely. Peace and war indeed! - -And the debate? There stood Maurice Browne in valiant opposition, really -“the idealist and fanatic” as his opponent called him, not adding “the -clear thinker,” the rejector of temptations to revel in obvious and -facile romanticisms on the sweet decorum of dying for one’s country, -with all the talk of defending one’s beloved from the hand of the -ravager. There were even those who understood Mr. Browne when his -bravery and his prophetic sight let him dare to say such things as “It -is better to be killed than to kill. To refrain from a combat of -violence when the victims might be your dearest ones is not to put a -finger in the cogs of God’s orderly universe. It is a question of -looking the God that is within you in the face.” As for the merits of -the debate, the matter of war and its avoidableness was not touched on -in its practical aspects, except by one who presided over the meeting -and in three intelligent moments discussed the economic and the proved -sides of war. THE LITTLE REVIEW is no tract, and we may pass that by as -understood. - -And after it all, out of an audience of two hundred and twenty—when they -overflowed the Little Theatre they trooped to the Fine Arts Assembly -Room—eighty-four stood up to announce their conviction that war is not -evil, not avoidable, and should be prepared for by military methods, and -some sixty others stood up to indicate their opposite conviction! The -vote was on the merits of the question. - - - - - The Theatre - - - THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS - - SAXE COMMINS - -Were I a self-appointed apologist for the Washington Square Players I -might be able to say with gracious fairness that “their works are not -worth as much as their endeavors but their endeavors are heroic.” But I -am not inclined to pardon these enthusiasts whose enthusiasm has become -cautious, whose ideals are inoffensive, whose outlines are blurred by an -undiscerning dilettantism, who in the absence of a dominant individual -characteristic flounder helplessly through an unbalanced, inartistic -program, that is only relieved, fortunately, by Mr. Phil Moeller’s -delicious satire _Helena’s Husband_. - -“It is not from what you emancipate yourself, it is for what.”—Let us -see whether the Washington Square Players have really liberated -themselves from the Broadway tradition of “getting it over,” from the -sacrifice of the artistic for the opportune, and from the fear of -offending the generous critics of the New York Press and incidentally a -gullible public. “What have they done that has an element of daring, -invigorating thought,” was asked of one of the members of the producing -staff. “_My Lady’s Honor_, one of last year’s plays,” was his answer. To -those who were unfortunate enough to have seen this pseudo-feminist -tract—George Broadhurst supplanting Ibsen in a free theatre—I need not -tell what resentment that remark aroused. Nor could those who saw -_Moondown_ on the same bill be more antagonized than I was when I heard -so fatuous a statement as “If we had more plays like _Moondown_ we would -establish the equivalent in America to the Celtic renaissance.” Is this -“for what” the Washington Square Players have emancipated themselves? -Even if _Moondown_ had any value in itself would they deserve any credit -for an aspiration that is only a conditional imitation? I take these -casual expressions of members of the organization critically because -there is a most noticeable absence of persistent, highly individualized -effort, because there is a majority rule, the odorlessness of an insipid -mixture prevalent in the atmosphere about the Band Box. They are -successful—unfortunately. - -Consider the present bill. Has the play-reading committee shown any -distinction that differentiates it from those Broadway theatrical -agencies that supply syndicated thrills on demand? Have they not -arranged their programme without any regard for balance, to the -vaudeville formula in this manner: One curtain-raiser on a current -topic—of course the war; one play cut and measured for the star, a -misfit, to prepare you for the middle piece, in this instance an -amazingly clever satire by Phil Moeller; and then the end-up—(Yes, they -have outgrown Broadway; they don’t wave a big American flag as a grand -finale number)—in this spirit: “wouldn’t a fancifully pagan thing be -very nice to show that we have a conception of the beautiful?” Voilà—the -whole is the sum of its parts, mathematically accurate, yes; but “who -knows whether two and two don’t make five” in the science of Esthetics, -if there is such a thing. - -Where, I cannot understand, is their proclaimed aspiration of finding -plays which fulfill the artistic merit that they would lead us to -believe the New York theatre-goer demands? If there is such a public, do -they think and choose for them secure in the belief that the patient -supporters of these sterile Little Theatre movements will abide such -exploitation? Is their complacency so complete that they can disregard -every requirement that a “New Theatre” movement imposes and yet get away -with it? When I use the term “New Theatre” I mean it in the -Strindbergian sense, a new and thoroughly iconoclastic theatre that -panders to no opinion, whose merit lies solely in an individual and -artistic distinction, a theatre that has something of the “continual -slight novelty.” - -_Fire and Water_, the opening play of the bill by Hervey White, is a -sacrifice of art to the god of timeliness, an inane argument, an -undramatic episode, a virtuous plea against War that permits its author -to air some abstractions on brotherhood and equality with utter -disregard for the tenseness or the dramatic possibilities of the -situation. Broadway knows better. They, at least, are both opportune and -spectacular and do not pour forth so much of what Nietzsche calls -“moralic acid.” - -_Night of Snow_, by Roberto Bracco, seems chosen ostensibly to allow Mr. -Ralph Roeder to cover as great an area of the stage as is possible in -forty-five minutes of monotonous gesture to the melodious obligato of a -voice ranting second-rate Hamlet self-lacerations. It tells the story of -a person half gentleman, half derelict, who likes to cry about it while -his mistress and mother indulge themselves to satiation with sickly -sweet sacrifice. “I am his Mo-ho-ther” etcetera. What a relief was -Moeller’s play—a play that could not even be contaminated by its -environment. I think Anatole France would be glad to have written it. -_Helena’s Husband_ is much more than an historical interpretation of a -phase of the Trojan wars. It is the truth! Moeller is more than clever. -He knows as well as France that “history is a pack of lies.” - -_The Antick_, by Percy Mackaye, is a devitalized Pagan attempt which in -spite of charming Lupokova was extremely tedious. I heard little of it, -so poor was the enunciation of the actors, and for my concentrated -attention I was rewarded with an incoherent effort to transplant Pan to -barren, colorless New England. I wonder whether Mr. Mackaye ever read -Pater’s _Denys L’Auxerrois_? - -At least the Washington Square Players presume to desire, even though it -be in a misdirected manner. Will they overcome the affable praise that -they get so generously from uncritical critics? Will they mature -sufficiently to recognize the mistakes of their infancy? There is still -hope that they can be saved from success. Where is the strong, perhaps -tyrannical, individual who can do it? - - - “Lithuania” - -Whoever hasn’t seen the Little Theatre’s production of Rupert Brooke’s -_Lithuania_ has missed an excellent although unimportant dramatic treat. -It is the most “effective” thing of its kind I ever have seen executed -in Chicago. It is one prolonged and unrelieved shudder from start to -finish. - -Rupert Brooke is the hero of the occasion. His play is the thing. The -theme is that of the guest who stops over in an outlying peasant hut and -is murdered in his chamber while he sleeps. Brooke added a flourish in -making the guest a returned son of the house who vanished when he was -thirteen. Taking this hackneyed idea Brooke moulded it with consummate -skill. And the result is a study in horror and pathology, vivid, -artistic and for its effect upon the audience to be compared only to the -witnessing of a child birth. Three of its actors rose to its demands. -Mrs. Browne as the lame daughter contributed practically all the human -atmosphere there was. Miriam Kiper abetted her. Allan MacDougall, in the -part of a half-witted son of a tavern keeper, added a few excellent -moments. The other men were, however, entirely unsuccessful in their -efforts. Maurice Browne, as the peasant father, failed with the rest of -them to give the impression the play demanded, sullen, grim, virile, -despondency. But it was there, despite them. - - - An Objection - -Why is it people have such stupid reactions to the plays put on by the -Chicago Little Theatre? I do not know. It is easy to explain why they -talk in subdued tones while entering; why they almost walk on tip-toe; -why they ask for the programs almost with awe; and why, sometimes, they -stop their chatter as the lights are slowly dimmed. The causes of these -actions and their explanation are obvious. And yet—after the play! What -inane, half-witted remarks about the bill! This “notice” printed above -about the opening bill of their fourth season—what is it worth as a -piece of criticism, as a review, or even as an account of the -proceedings it so tritely and knowingly pretends to explain? “Mrs. -Browne as the lame daughter.... Miriam Kiper abetted her. MacDougall ... -added a few excellent moments.... Maurice Browne ... failed with the -rest of them.” What rot! In watching Brooke’s play you are not aware -that you are watching “Mrs. Browne as the lame daughter” or Miriam Kiper -as the mother, MacDougall as the son of an inn-keeper, or Mr. Browne as -the father. You do not find time to bother about that part of your -reaction. Your subjection to play and players is too strong and tense. -It is the usual thing to bother after the play, questioning members—who -played this role?—who played that role? And then, after hours or days of -weighing and shallow balancing, write a “review.” Again I question: Why -do people react so stupidly to the plays at this theatre? This is not -the adequate or honest way to view a play like Brooke’s or acting like -the Little Theatre company’s. In this play even as in _The Trojan Women_ -they have closely approached that losing themselves in the “impersonal -ideal” or “one tradition” of which Mr. Powys spoke so white-heatedly in -a former article in THE LITTLE REVIEW. Except for MacDougall and for -Moseman, who are _always_ MacDougall and Moseman, we were watching a -play—and forgot to gather the ingredients and essentials of the -inevitable review. - - - - - Book Discussion - - - An Inspired Publisher - -To paraphrase the biblical adage: Samson is upon ye, Philistines! That -quaint giant, Russian literature, is storming the Anglo-Saxon world; and -no longer in apothecary doses, in solitary books, but in avalanches. A -practical dreamer, Alfred A. Knopf, is determined to deluge this country -with the best and nearly best that has been written in Russia, and he is -doing it on a big scale, in torrents and showers. Such a dizzying list -of publications: Gogol, Goncharov, Lermontov, Gorky, Andreyev, Garshin, -Kropotkin; and he is going to give us Sologub, Kuzmin, Ropshin! And he -has given us Przybyszewski’s _Homo Sapiens_, the book about which I have -been drumming the ears of my American friends for years, the book that -has stirred me more than any other work of art,—I mean it literally. Mr. -Knopf has introduced another novel feature on the book-market: he -selects translators from among those who know three things—Russian, -English, and how to write,—so that the reader will be spared the torture -of wading through a badly-done translation from the French version of a -German translation from the Russian (examples? Recall _Sanine_!). - -A literature is like a people; if you want to know it, you must learn -not only its Cromwells and Napoleons, but also its Asquiths and -Vivianis; not only its Shakespeares and Goethes, but its Wellses and -Sudermanns as well. Turgenyev, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, do not exhaust -Russian literature of the nineteenth century, though they are the -greatest novelists of their epoch. There are many interesting sides of -Russian life which are not reflected on the canvasses of the great Trio, -but have been painted by perhaps minor artists, whom we cannot afford to -miss if we intend to gain a clear vista of that peculiar life and its -peculiar literature. - -Hence Goncharov and his _Precipice_. In Russia he is ranked next to -Turgenyev. Without the latter’s delicate lyricism Goncharov presents the -objective artist, if this is possible, in depicting the life of the -gentry, the class that has been either ignored or caricatured by the -writers with a _Tendenz_. In _Precipice_ we face Rayski, Vyera, the -grandmother, the passing types of the romantic nobility, whose passions -and tragedies are as stirring and as human as those of the more -democratic elements of society. - -Garshin is another writer heretofore unknown to the English world. His -_Signal and other Stories_ are achingly Russian. Garshin is a product of -the Eighties, the epoch of “petty deeds,” when the heavy boot of -Alexander III. drove into the underground all that was idealistic in his -country. The soil-less _Intelligentzia_ had the alternative of turning -retrogrades or going insane. Garshin’s lot was with the latter category. -His few stories ache with the black melancholy which finally hurled him -down a flight of stone steps,—his last flight. His war impressions are -gripping with the resigned Russian sadness; they are all-human, -universal; but _Attalea Princeps_, the symbolical tale of an exotic -plant chafing in a hot-house—who but a compatriot of mad Garshin will -fathom its profound tragicness! - -The republication of Kropotkin’s _Ideals and Realities in Russian -Literature_ will be of service to the critical student of Russian -literature. I say critical, for although the book is rich in material -the personal views of the author and his valuations of the writers are -considerably obsolete and tainted with the liberalistic tendency of -“problem”-friends. - -Below are more reviews of Mr. Knopf’s publications. The most important -one is Przybyszewski’s _Homo Sapiens_. It deserves a special article. -See the next issue! - - - Homo Monstrosus - - _Taras Bulba, by Nicolai Gogol. New York: Alfred A. Knopf._ - -They burned him at the stake, bound to a great tree in iron chains. The -flames lapped at his feet, glowing into his old face that was scarred -and leathered with battle, brightening the silver of his fierce -mustache.... - -Out of the reddened shadows that fell over him like a mantle his lips -could be seen curling in a smile, contemptuous and arrogant, and he -turned his eyes toward the Dnyeper where the boats of his brothers were -pulling away under a rain of lead. - -“Farewell, comrades,” he shouted to them; “remember me, and come hither -again next spring to make merry!” - -And then he turned to the Lyakhs against whom he had waged war and who -knew him as the raven of the steppe. - -The fire had risen above the faggots and the great tree was burning. Out -of the flames came the voice of the hero.... - -“A Tzar shall arise from the Russian soil and there shall not be a Power -in the world which shall not submit to him.” - -Thus died Taras Bulba, kazak. - -In this day when a man’s skin is his most greedily guarded possession -and the lisping of pale, pretty words his greatest glory, Taras Bulba -comes charging into America, a figure in need. On his black horse he -comes, his scalp lock flying in the wind, his sword waving in great -circles above his head, his body leaning over the shining neck of his -steed and his voice ringing with the battle whoop of the kazak. - -He is the eternal warrior, the plundering hero, the lusty knight of -battle, a devil of a man with boiling blood in his veins and the savage -joy of life in his heart. - -Taras and his two sons, Andrii and Ostap, go thundering up and down the -Russian steppe with the savage avalanche of the Zaporozhe. They fight -and carouse and their deeds are mighty—mightier than the deeds of which -Homer sang and the performances which Walter Scott sketched. Beside -Taras Ivanhoe pales into tin puppet, Ulysses into a lady’s man. - -What a book! - -If you know Gogol through his _Dead Souls_, the “humorous” classic of -Russia, you will read in amazement his _Taras Bulba_. It is Rabelais -with a sword. Through its pages ring the shouts of battle and Gargantuan -manhood—Homo Monstrosus.... - -Once or twice the pale face of a woman peeps out of them and Gogol kicks -it back into place with his kazak boot. - -“Do you want fire, Ostap? Do you want mad blood in your heart? Come ride -with me over the steppe to the tents of the Zaporozhe....” - -When I closed the book with its red shouts still ringing in my ears—with -old Taras still burning against the great tree and the magic steppe -stretching before me—I thought of the baby-ribbon bards and the -querulous quibblers of American letters—and smiled.... - -Come on, Bulba, there is still blood in America that has not dried, -there are still hearts that have not been transformed into pink doilies. - -Welcome! You can’t shout too loud for me, you can’t swagger too much. -The soul of you that left your burning body laughed and roared its way -into heaven.... - - - Gorky at His Best and Worst - - _Chelkash, and Other Stories, by Maxim Gorky. New York: Alfred A. - Knopf_ - -Maxim Gorky is the poorest and most uneven of the Russian writers. He -is—or was—a pioneer. He came wailing from lonely roads where the vagrom -man sleeps beneath the stars and wonders what there is to life. And his -dull, bitter plaints with ferocity as their leit motif soon sounded over -the world. When the majority of Russian genius was struggling to “go to -the people” Gorky had the advantage of coming from the people. - -Alfred Knopf’s collection of Gorky tales under the title of _Chelkash_ -is Gorky at his best and worst. I find in it some of his best tales -abominably written, studded with crass “gems” of philosophy, broken up -with unnecessary moralizings. For instance, his _Twenty-Six of Us and -One Other_. In this Gorky writes of his immortal bakeshop. As a youth -Gorky spent his days in a bakeshop. Time and again he has painted it, in -other stories better than in this one. But in this instance the bakeshop -is only a background; usually it is the main theme. Tanya, a little -girl, stops every morning to say “Hello” to the twenty-six bakers. They -give her little cakes. She is the only “ray of sweetness” in their -lives. They look upon her as a daughter, a shrine. And Tanya it is who -alone awakens in them for a few moments each day something approaching -fineness. Along comes a terrible dandy, a ladies’ man. He seduces every -lady he sets his cap for; it is his boast. The bakers like him: he is a -“gentleman” and very democratic. But one day when he is boasting the -head baker grows excited and mentions “Tanya.” The dandy boasts he will -seduce her. An argument follows. After a month the dandy succeeds. The -bakers witness the girl’s “undoing.” When she comes out of the dandy’s -room, smiling, happy, they gather around her, spit at her, revile and -abuse her. No names they can think of are bad enough. They fall into a -frenzy of vituperation. But they do not strike her. Realizing dully that -a “god” has died, they go back to work. - -_Chelkash_, the first tale in the book, is Gorky on his “home -ground”—the vagrom man, the pirate, the road thief. He paints him with a -careful brush and a sureness of his subject. In _The Steppe_ he does the -same. _A Rolling Stone_, and _Chums_, the last the best story in the -volume, are also variations of the vagrom man theme—the underdog. But it -is in stories like _One Autumn Night_, _Comrades_, _The Green Kitten_, -and _Her Lover_ that Gorky reveals his greatest genius and his greatest -weakness. He can feel them, imagine them, see them, but for some reason -he cannot write them. _One Autumn Night_ might have been one of the -world’s strongest classics. - -All the tales in the volume are the work of the “first” Gorky—the bitter -one, the melodramatic, outraged Gorky. They are on a whole not as good -as the collection of stories written during that same period and -translated in a volume called _Orloff and His Wife_. Gorky still lives -and he has learned how to write. His later tales, composed in Italy by -the “second” Gorky, the consumptive, contemplative, clear-seeing Gorky, -are mature, almost mellow. But they are no longer distinctive. Anyone -could have written them, anyone with a bit of genius and a great deal of -time on his hands. But the _Chelkash_ tales and the tales in _Orloff and -His Wife_—these no one but Gorky has written, and although they are -inferior in workmanship to the products of Chekhov and Andreyev the -American reader will find them perhaps more interesting. - - - Two Masters and a Petty Monster - - _The Little Angel, by Leonid Andreyev. New York: Alfred A. - Knopf._ - - _Russian Silhouettes, by Anton Chekhov. New York: Charles - Scribner’s Sons._ - - _The Breaking Point, by Michael Artzibashef. New York: B. W. - Huebsch._ - -“Charming fellows, those Russians,” said my friend. “When it comes to -delineating the processes, mental and physical, of rape, suicide, -incest, arson, butchery, and disease, they are without peers....” I -therefore take this occasion to hurl two newly translated Russian books -at my friend, hoping they land on his thick head. - -The first book which I hurl at my friend is Andreyev’s _The Little -Angel_. It is a collection of short stories. There are fifteen stories -in the new volume brought out by Mr. Alfred Knopf, and all of them are -little masterpieces. There is one story about a dog, _Snapper_. Only -Anatole France has equaled it. There is another story, _The -Marseillaise_. It is a perfect story. It is Kipling at his very best -plus a flavor, a note, a something serious and deep that the Russians -alone know how to command, that Kipling never reached. There is one -story, _In the Basement_. I hope my friend chokes on this story. It -would serve him right. - -But _The Little Angel_ stands out from the fifteen. It is about a little -boy, a bitter, lonely-hearted fellow whose mother drinks and beats him, -whose father is dying of consumption, and who in turn snarls and bullies -his playmates and weeps at night because his heart is so empty and -heavy. In this story Andreyev attains a poignant delicacy of touch and a -grim beauty which even his one-time contemporary Chekhov never -surpassed. - -_The Little Angel_ is the most beautiful short story I ever have read. - -Chekhov has also been translated again. A collection of fragments, -vibrating episodes, moods, and exquisite children stories called -_Russian Silhouettes_ has been issued by Scribners’. - -A better artist than Andreyev, keener, more reserved, more subtle, -Chekhov to my notion nevertheless lacks the vibrancy which the author of -_The Seven Who Were Hanged_ flings into his tales. Andreyev wields the -pen of Dostoevsky with a little thinner ink. Chekhov is Turgenev -fragmentized. He has left behind him a series of little canvases so -finely done, so skilfully passionate ... well, I hurl him at my friend -without further ado.... - -... It is that consumptive rogue of an Artzibashef who has caused most -of the trouble. The devil take him and his erotic suicides. His latest -translated book brought out by Huebsch is a tasteless joke. It is called -_The Breaking Point_. In it all the characters but one commit suicide, -all the women are “ruined.” Whenever two or more of its genial personae -come together they forthwith fall into an argument concerning the -futility of life, the idiocy of existence and so on and so on. And the -trouble is that Artzibashef can write, beautifully, keenly, and -sometimes gloriously. In _Sanine_, for instance, in _The Millionaire_, -there are passages better than Andreyev, better than Chekhov, better -than any writer has written. But the books are distorted, full of -puerile moralizings, breathing a diseased lust and a sentimentalized -violence—and _The Breaking Point_ is the worst of them to date. -Artzibashef’s work stands in the same relation to the Russian realism -that Paul De Kock’s work stands to the French sensual finesse. - - - - - AMERICA’S COMING-OF-AGE - - _by_ VAN WYCK BROOKS - - A study of American ideals and reality: aspirations and - performance. - - What is it that prevents the maturity of our literature and life? - - In our art, our politics, our letters, the torturous trails of - the “Highbrow” and of the “Lowbrow” may be traced. They stem from - Jonathan Edwards and Benjamin Franklin respectively. - - _At all - bookstores - $1.00 net._ - - Whither do they lead? - - Read the book: it marks a step forward in American criticism. - - _Published by_ B. W. HUEBSCH, _225 Fifth avenue, New York - City_. - - - AMY LOWELL’S NEW BOOK - - - - - SIX FRENCH POETS - - Studies in Contemporary Literature - - _Emile Verhaeren_ - _Albert Samain_ - _Remy de Gourmont_ - _Henri de Régnier_ - _Francis Jammes_ - _Paul Fort_ - - _By the author of “Sword Blades and Poppy Seed,” “A Dome of - Many-Coloured Glass,” etc._ - - Written by one of the foremost living American poets, this is the - first book in English containing a careful and minute study, with - translations, of the famous writers of one of the greatest epochs - in French poetry. - - - $2.50 - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, Publishers, New York - - - - - EMMA GOLDMAN - - AT THE - FINE ARTS THEATRE - 410 SOUTH MICHIGAN AVE. - - NOVEMBER 21ST TO DECEMBER 5TH, 1915 - - SUBJECTS: - - Sunday, Nov. 21st, _Preparedness, (The Road to War and - Disaster)_ - Tuesday, Nov. 23rd, _The Right of the Child Not to Be Born_ - Thursday, Nov. 25th, _The Message of Anarchism_ - Saturday, Nov. 27th, _Sex, The Great Element of Creative Art_ - Sunday, Nov. 28th, _The Philosophy of Atheism_ - Tuesday, Nov. 30th, _Victims of Morality_ - Thursday, Dec. 2nd, _Nietzsche and the German Kaiser_ - Saturday, Dec. 4th, _Birth Control_ - Sunday, Dec. 5th, _Beyond Good and Evil_ - - ALL LECTURES AT 8:15 P. M. - - QUESTIONS AND DISCUSSION - - TICKETS ON SALE AT THE LITTLE REVIEW, 834 FINE ARTS BUILDING - - ADMISSION, 50 AND 25 CENTS - - FINE ARTS THEATRE - - _410 South Michigan Avenue_ - - VIOLIN RECITAL BY - - - - - David Hochstein - - At 3:30 P. M., December 5. - - - PROGRAMME - - 1. Concerto in A major _Mozart_ - 2. Concerto in D minor _Bruch_ - 3. (a) Romance _Schumann_ - (b) Two Waltzes _Brahms_ - (c) Air _Nandor Zsolt_ - (d) Valse-Caprice _Nandor Zsolt_ - 4. Bohemian Folk Songs and Dances _Sevcik_ - Bretislav - Holka Modrooka - - Boxes, $10.00. Tickets, $1.50, $1.00, 75 cents. On sale at - Fine Arts Theatre. Mail orders to FINE ARTS THEATRE, 410 - South Michigan Avenue, Chicago. - - - - - THE MISCELLANY - - THE MISCELLANY combines illustrated articles of interest to - booklovers and lovers of literary essays: _belles-lettres_, art, - and the drama coming within its province as well as occasional - book-reviews. - - A partial list of topics appearing during 1915 is as follows: - - _The Lost Art of Making Books_ - _The Noh Drama of Japan_ - _The Fortsas Library_ - _The New Loggan Prints, and_ - _Ancient Paper-Making_ - - A department in each number acts as official journal for The - American Bookplate Society. - - _In its second year. Specimen on request. Issued quarterly. - Subscription: $1.00 per year._ - - THE MISCELLANY - 17 Board of Trade, Kansas City, Mo., U. S. A. - - “An Authentic Original Voice in Literature”—The Atlantic - Monthly. - - - - - ROBERT FROST - - - THE NEW AMERICAN POET - - - - - NORTH OF BOSTON - - ALICE BROWN: - - “Mr. Frost has done truer work about New England than - anybody—except Miss Wilkins.” - - CHARLES HANSON TOWNE: - - “Nothing has come out of America since Whitman so splendid, so - real, so overwhelmingly great.” - - AMY LOWELL in _The New Republic_: - - “A book of unusual power and sincerity. A remarkable - achievement.” - - NEW YORK EVENING SUN: - - “The poet had the insight to trust the people with a book of the - people and the people replied ‘Man, what is your name?’ ... He - forsakes utterly the claptrap of pastoral song, classical or - modern.... His is soil stuff, not mock bucolics.” - - BOSTON TRANSCRIPT: - - “The first poet for half a century to express New England life - completely with a fresh, original and appealing way of his own.” - - BROOKLYN DAILY EAGLE: - - “The more you read the more you are held, and when you return a - few days later to look up some passage that has followed you - about, the better you find the meat under the simple - unpretentious form. _The London Times_ caught that quality when - it said: ‘Poetry burns up out of it, as when a faint wind - breathes upon smouldering embers.’ ... That is precisely the - effect....” - - REEDY’S MIRROR: - - “Genuine poetry, these ‘North of Boston’ tales, they hold one - with the grip of a vivid novel.... I can only refer my readers to - ‘North of Boston’ for acquaintance with what seems to me a fine - achievement; such achievement, indeed, as contributes vitally to - the greatness of a country’s most national and significant - literature.” - - - A BOY’S WILL Mr. Frost’s First Volume of Poetry - - THE ACADEMY (LONDON): - - “We have read every line with that amazement and delight which - are too seldom evoked by books of modern verse.” - - _NORTH OF BOSTON._ _Cloth. $1.25 net, 4th printing._ - _NORTH OF BOSTON._ _Leather. $2.00 net._ - _A BOY’S WILL._ _Cloth. 75 cents net, 2d printing._ - - 34 WEST 33d STREET - NEW YORK - - HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY - - _A Romance of Old Ireland_ - - - - - THE PASSIONATE CRIME - - - BY E. TEMPLE THURSTON, - - Author of “The Open Window,” - “The City of Beautiful - Nonsense,” Etc. - - This latest of Mr. E. Temple Thurston’s novels introduces its - author into an entirely new field. Among the wilds of Ireland, in - a region of the most imaginative superstition, he tracks down the - story of the romantic life and death of a young poet, whose - brilliantly promising career was wrecked in the midst of tragedy. - The spirit of faerie hangs over the whole tale, which is imbued - with Celtic glamor, and the strange, elusive inspiration of the - Irish mountainside. - - Cloth, $1.30 Net - - - - - D. APPLETON AND COMPANY - - Publishers - New York - - - - - Violette of Pere Lachaise - - By ANNA STRUNSKY (Mrs. Wm. English Walling) - - The story of a girl with a free mind. In it is seen the spiritual - development of a specially gifted individual and also the - development of every individual to some extent. - - Violette is an ardent creature, more alive than most people, - giving herself and her art to the social revolution of which the - woman movement is so important a part. - - _Cloth, 12 mo., $1.00 net_ - - LIBRARY OF IRISH LITERATURE - - _A literature rich in historic incident, noble aspiration, - humour, romance and poetic sentiment. In its pages are enshrined - the traditions and aspirations of a race, the fierce drama of - centuries of struggle, and the holy light of tenderness and - devotion which has shone undimmed through the darkest periods of - Ireland’s history. Not only to the Irishman but to all who take - an interest in the best literature, the literature of Ireland - makes a special appeal._ - - Volumes Now Ready - - THOMAS DAVIS. Selections from his Prose and Poetry. Edited by T. - W. ROLLESTON, M.A. The centenary of this poet and patriot has - just been reached. This edition contains full selections from the - best of his historical and political essays and poetry. - - WILD SPORTS OF THE WEST. By W. H. MAXWELL. One of the best - sporting books ever written and the first of a number to be - issued on sport and travel in Ireland, and by Irishmen abroad. - - LEGENDS OF SAINTS AND SINNERS. Edited by DOUGLAS HYDE, LL.D. The - wealth of fancy and fable in Irish folklore and legend translated - from the Gaelic and other authentic sources by one of the prime - movers in the Gaelic League. - - HUMOURS OF IRISH LIFE. Edited by CHARLES L. GRAVES, M.A. A unique - collection of Irish humour containing fairly long selections from - modern writers as well as from the classics. - - IRISH ORATORS AND ORATORY. Edited by PROFESSOR F. M. KETTLE, - National University of Ireland. From the wealth of material in - this field the best has been culled by an authority. - - THE BOOK OF IRISH POETRY. Edited by ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES, M.A. - There has long been a need for this volume and no better editor - could have been chosen than the author of “Father O’Flynn.” - - _Each, octavo, illustrated, $1.00 net. Boxed in set, $6.00_ - - RUSSIAN BOOKS - - DEAD SOULS - - By Nikolai Gogol - - _With an Introduction by Stephen Graham_ - - “Dead Souls,” written by Gogol in the years 1837-8 is the - greatest humorous novel in the Russian language. It is the most - popular book in Russia, and its appeal is world-wide. - - “‘Dead Souls’ is Russia herself. The characters have become - national types, and are more alluded to by Russians than Mr. - Pickwick, Squire Western, Falstaff, Micawber, are by us.”—From - preface by Stephen Graham. - - _Cloth, 12 mo., $1.25 net_ - - THE BLACK MONK - THE KISS - THE STEPPE - - By Anton Tchekhoff - - _Translated from the Russian by R. E. C. Long and Adeline - Lister Kaye_ - - Tchekhoff is regarded in his own country as the most talented of - the younger Russian writers. Tolstoy has compared him to De - Maupassant. His writings have gone through numberless editions in - Russia, but two of the above volumes are translated into English - for the first time. - - His art is noted for its simplicity, shades of psychological - insight and subtle humor. In his stories is that spirit of - permanence which lives mainly in the Past and the Future, and so - truly represents the spirit of Russia. - - “Tchekhoff is a true impressionist in the large sense of the - word. His aim is less to divert by a tale, than to plunge one - body and soul into a given environment.” - - —_London Evening Standard._ - - _Each, cloth, 12 mo., $1.25 net_ - - _Our complete - holiday catalog - tells you more. - Sent gratis on - request._ - - Publishers FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY New York - - - BUY YOUR BOOKS HERE - - If you wish to assist The Little Review without cost to yourself - you may order books—any book—from the Gotham Book Society and The - Little Review will be benefitted by the sales. By this method The - Little Review hopes to help solve a sometimes perplexing business - problem—whether the book you want is listed here or not the - Gotham will supply your needs. Price the same, or in many - instances much less, than were you to order direct from the - publisher. All books are exactly as advertised. Send P. O. Money - Order, check, draft or postage stamps. Order direct from the - Gotham Book Society, 142 W. 23rd St., N. Y., Dept. K. Don’t fail - to mention Department K. Here are some suggestions of the books - the Gotham Book Society is selling at publishers’ prices. All - prices cover postage charges. - - POETRY AND DRAMA - - SEVEN SHORT PLAYS. By Lady Gregory. Contains the following plays - by the woman who holds one of the three places of most importance - in the modern Celtic movement, and is chiefly responsible for the - Irish theatrical development of recent years: “Spreading the - News,” “Hyacinth Halvey,” “The Rising of the Moon,” “The - Jackdaw,” “The Workhouse Ward,” “The Traveling Man,” “The Gaol - Gate,” together with music for songs in the plays and explanatory - notes. Send $1.60. - - THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE. By Anatole France. Translated by - Curtis Hidden Page. Illustrated. Founded on the plot of an old - but lost play mentioned by Rabelais. Send 85c. - - DRAMA LEAGUE SERIES OF PLAYS. Six new volumes. Doubleday, Page & - Company. This Autumn’s additions will be: “The Thief,” by Henri - Bernstein; “A Woman’s Way,” by Thompson Buchanan; “The Apostle,” - by Paul Hyacinth Loyson; “The Trail of the Torch,” by Paul - Hervieu; “A False Saint,” by Francois de Curel; “My Lady’s - Dress,” by Edward Knoblauch. 83c each, postpaid. - - DOME OF MANY-COLORED GLASS. New Ed. of the Poems of Amy Lowell. - Send $1.35. - - SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY. By Edgar Lee Masters. Send $1.35. - - DREAMS AND DUST. A book of lyrics, ballads and other verse forms - in which the major key is that of cheerfulness. Send $1.28. - - SOME IMAGIST POETS. An Anthology. The best recent work of Richard - Aldington, “H. D.,” John Gould Fletcher, F. S. Flint, D. H. - Lawrence and Amy Lowell. 83c, postpaid. - - THE WAGES OF WAR. By J. Wiegand and Wilhelm Scharrelman. A play - in three acts, dedicated to the Friends of Peace. Life in Russia - during Russo-Japanese War. Translated by Amelia Von Ende. Send - 95c. - - THE DAWN (Les Aubes). A symbolic war play, by Emile Verhaeren, - the poet of the Belgians. The author approaches life through the - feelings and passions. Send $1.10. - - CHILD OF THE AMAZONS, and other Poems by Max Eastman. “Mr. - Eastman has the gift of the singing line.”—Vida D. Scudder. “A - poet of beautiful form and feeling.”—Wm. Marion Reedy. Send - $1.10. - - THE POET IN THE DESERT. By Charles Erskine Scott Wood. A series - of rebel poems from the Great American Desert, dealing with - Nature, Life and all phases of Revolutionary Thought. Octavo gray - boards. Send $1.10. - - CHALLENGE. By Louis Untermeyer. “No other contemporary poet has - more independently and imperiously voiced the dominant thought of - the times.”—Philadelphia North American. Send $1.10. - - ARROWS IN THE GALE. By Arturo Giovannitti, Introduction by Helen - Keller. This book contains the thrilling poem “The Cage.” Send - $1.10. - - SONGS FOR THE NEW AGE. By James Oppenheim. “A rousing volume, - full of vehement protest and splendor.” Beautifully bound. Send - $1.35. - - AND PIPPA DANCES. By Gerhart Hauptmann. A mystical tale of the - glassworks, in four acts. Translated by Mary Harned. Send 95c. - - AGNES BERNAUER. By Frederick Hebbel. A tragedy in five acts. Life - in Germany in 15th century. Translated by Loueen Pattie. Send - 95c. - - IN CHAINS (“Les Tenailles”). By Paul Hervieu. In three acts. A - powerful arraignment of “Marriage a La Mode.” Translated by - Ysidor Asckenasy. Send 95c. - - SONGS OF LOVE AND REBELLION. Covington Hall’s best and finest - poems on Revolution, Love and Miscellaneous Visions. Send 56c. - - RENAISSANCE. By Holger Drachman. A melodrama. Dealing with studio - life in Venice, 16th century. Translated by Lee M. Hollander. - Send 95c. - - THE MADMAN DIVINE. By Jose Echegaray. Prose drama in four acts. - Translated by Elizabeth Howard West. Send 95c. - - TO THE STARS. By Leonid Andreyieff. Four acts. A glimpse of young - Russia in the throes of the Revolution. Time: The Present. - Translated by Dr. A. Goudiss. Send 95c. - - PHANTASMS. By Roberto Bracco. A drama in four acts, translated by - Dirce St. Cyr. Send 95c. - - THE HIDDEN SPRING. By Roberto Bracco. A drama in four acts, - translated by Dirce St. Cyr. Send 95c. - - THE DRAMA LEAGUE SERIES. A series of modern plays, published for - the Drama League of America. Attractively bound. - - THE THIEF. By Henry Bernstein. (Just Out). - - A FALSE SAINT. By Francois de Curel. - - THE TRAIL OF THE TORCH. By Paul Hervieu. - - MY LADY’S DRESS. By Edward Knoblauch. - - A WOMAN’S WAY. By Thompson Buchanan. - - THE APOSTLE. By Paul Hyacinthe Loyson. - - Each of the above books 82c, postpaid. - - DRAMATIC WORKS, VOLUME VI. By Gerhart Hauptmann. The sixth - volume, containing three of Hauptmann’s later plays. Send $1.60. - - THE DAWN (Les Aubes). A symbolic war play, by Emile Verhaeren, - the poet of the Belgians. “The author approaches life through the - feelings and passions. His dramas express the vitality and - strenuousness of his people.” Send $1.10. - - THE GREEK COMMONWEALTH. By Alfred A. Zimmern. Send $3.00. - - EURIPIDES: “Hippolytus,” “Bacchae,” Aristophanes’ “Frogs.” - Translated by Gilbert Murray. Send $1.75. - - THE TROJAN WOMEN. Translated by Gilbert Murray. Send 85c. - - MEDEA. Translated by Gilbert Murray. Send 85c. - - ELECTRA. Translated by Gilbert Murray. Send 85c. - - ANCIENT GREEK LITERATURE. By Gilbert Murray. Send $2.10. - - EURIPIDES AND HIS AGE. By Gilbert Murray. Send 75c. - - GENERAL - - VAGRANT MEMORIES. By William Winter. Illustrated. The famous - dramatic critic tells of his associations with the drama for two - generations. Send $3.25. - - THE NEARING CASE. By Lightner Witmer. A complete account of the - dismissal of Professor Nearing from the University of - Pennsylvania, containing the indictment, the evidence, the - arguments, the summing up and all the important papers in the - case, with some indication of its importance to the question of - free speech. 60c postpaid. - - THE ART OF THE MOVING PICTURE. By Vachel Lindsay. Send $1.60. - - WRITING AND SELLING A PLAY. By Fanny Cannon. A practical book by - a woman who is herself an actress, playwright, a professional - reader and critic of play manuscripts, and has also staged and - directed plays. Send $1.60. - - GLIMPSES OF THE COSMOS. A Mental Autobiography. By Lester F. - Ward. Vol. IV. The fourth in the series of eight volumes which - will contain the collected essays of Dr. Ward. Send $2.65. - - EVERYMAN’S ENCYCLOPEDIA is the cure for inefficiency. It is the - handiest and cheapest form of modern collected knowledge, and - should be in every classroom, every office, every home. Twelve - volumes in box. Cloth. Send $6.00. - - Three Other Styles of Binding. Mail your order today. - - NIETZSCHE. By Dr. Georg Brandes, the discoverer of Nietzsche. - Send $1.25. - - SYNONYMS AND ANTONYMS. By Edith B. Ordway. Price, $1; postage, - 10c. - - SHATTUCK’S PARLIAMENTARY ANSWERS. By Harriette R. Shattuck. - Alphabetically arranged for all questions likely to arise in - Women’s organizations. 16mo. Cloth. 67c. postpaid. Flexible - Leather Edition. Full Gilt Edges. Net $1.10 postpaid. - - EAT AND GROW THIN. By Vance Thompson. A collection of the - hitherto unpublished Mahdah menus and recipes for which Americans - have been paying fifty-guinea fees to fashionable physicians in - order to escape the tragedy of growing fat. Cloth. Send $1.10. - - FORTY THOUSAND QUOTATIONS. By Charles Noel Douglas. These 40,000 - prose and poetical quotations are selected from standard authors - of ancient and modern times, are classified according to subject, - fill 2,000 pages, and are provided with a thumb index. $3.15, - postpaid. - - DRINK AND BE SOBER. By Vance Thompson. The author has studied the - problem of the drink question and has endeavored to write upon it - a fair-minded book, with sympathetic understanding of the drinker - and with full and honest presentation of both sides of the - question. Send $1.10. - - THE CRY FOR JUSTICE. An anthology of the literature of social - protest, edited by Upton Sinclair. Introduction by Jack London. - “The work is world-literature, as well as the Gospel of a - universal humanism.” Contains the writings of philosophers, - poets, novelists, social reformers, selected from twenty-five - languages, covering a period of five thousand years. Inspiring to - every thinking man and woman; a handbook of reference to all - students of social conditions. 955 pages, including 32 - illustrations. Cloth Binding, vellum cloth, price very low for so - large a book. Send $2.00. Three-quarter Leather Binding, a - handsome and durable library style, specially suitable for - presentation. Send $3.50. - - MY CHILDHOOD. By Maxim Gorky. The autobiography of the famous - Russian novelist up to his seventeenth year. An astounding human - document and an explanation (perhaps unconscious) of the Russian - national character. Frontispiece portrait. 8vo. 308 pages. $2.00 - net, postage 10 cents. (Ready Oct. 14). - - SCHOOLS OF TOMORROW. By John Dewey and Evelyn Dewey. The most - significant and informing study of educational conditions that - has appeared in twenty years. This is a day of change and - experiment in education. The schools of yesterday that were - designed to meet yesterday’s needs do not fit the requirements of - today, and everywhere thoughtful people are recognizing this fact - and working out theories and trying experiments. $1.60 postpaid. - - 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 five studies are - Nietzsche, Zola, Huysmans, Casanova and St. Francis of Assisi. - Send $1.87. - - LITERATURE - - COMPLETE WORKS. Maurice Maeterlinck. The Essays, 10 vols., per - vol., net $1.75. The Plays, 8 vols., per vol., net $1.50. Poems, - 1 vol., net $1.50. Volumes sold separately. In uniform style, 19 - volumes. Limp green leather, flexible cover, thin paper, gilt - top, 12mo. Postage added. - - INTERPRETATIONS OF LITERATURE. By Lafcadio Hearn. A remarkable - work. Lafcadio Hearn became as nearly Japanese as an Occidental - can become. English literature is interpreted from a new angle in - this book. Send $6.50. - - BERNARD SHAW: A Critical Study. By P. P. Howe. Send $2.15. - - MAURICE MAETERLINCK: A Critical Study. By Una Taylor. 8vo. Send - $2.15. - - W. B. YEATS: A Critical Study. By Forest Reid. Send $2.15. - - DEAD SOULS. Nikolai Gogol’s great humorous classic translated - from the Russian. Send $1.25. - - ENJOYMENT OF POETRY. By Max Eastman. “His book is a masterpiece,” - says J. B. Kerfoot in Life. By mail, $1.35. - - THE PATH OF GLORY. By Anatole France. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth. An - English edition of a remarkable book that M. Anatole France has - written to be sold for the benefit of disabled soldiers. The - original French is printed alongside the English translation. - Send $1.35. - - THE PILLAR OF FIRE: A Profane Baccalaureate. By Seymour Deming. - Takes up and treats with satire and with logical analysis such - questions as, What is a college education? What is a college man? - What is the aristocracy of intellect?—searching pitilessly into - and through the whole question of collegiate training for life. - Send $1.10. - - IVORY APES AND PEACOCKS. By James Huneker. A collection of essays - in Mr. Huneker’s well-known brilliant style, of which some are - critical discussions upon the work and personality of Conrad, - Whitman, Tolstoy, Dostoievsky, and the younger Russians, while - others deal with music, art, and social topics. The title is - borrowed from the manifest of Solomon’s ship trading with - Tarshish. Send $1.60. - - INTERPRETATIONS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. By Lafcadio Hearn. Two - volumes. Mr. Hearn, who was at once a scholar, a genius, and a - master of English style, interprets in this volume the literature - of which he was a student, its masterpieces, and its masters, for - the benefit, originally, of the race of his adoption. $6.50, - postpaid. - - IDEALS AND REALITIES IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE. By Prince Kropotkin. - Send $1.60. - - FICTION - - THE TURMOIL. By Booth Tarkington. A beautiful story of young love - and modern business. Send $1.45. - - SET OF SIX. By Joseph Conrad. Short stories. Scribner. Send - $1.50. - - AN ANARCHIST WOMAN. By H. Hapgood. This extraordinary novel - points out the nature, the value and also the tragic limitations - of the social rebel. Published at $1.25 net; our price, 60c., - postage paid. - - THE HARBOR. By Ernest Poole. A novel of remarkable power and - vision in which are depicted the great changes taking place in - American life, business and ideals. Send $1.60. - - MAXIM GORKY. Twenty-six and One and other stories from the - Vagabond Series. Published at $1.25; our price 60c., postage - paid. - - SANINE. By Artzibashef. The sensational Russian novel now - obtainable in English. Send $1.45. - - A FAR COUNTRY. Winston Churchill’s new novel is another realistic - and faithful picture of contemporary American life, and more - daring than “The Inside of the Cup.” Send $1.60. - - BOON—THE MIND OF THE RACE. Was it written by H. G. Wells? He now - admits it may have been. It contains an “ambiguous introduction” - by him. Anyhow it’s a rollicking set of stories, written to - delight you. Send $1.45. - - NEVER TOLD TALES. Presents in the form of fiction, in language - which is simplicity itself, the disastrous results of sexual - ignorance. The book is epoch-making; it has reached the ninth - edition. It should be read by everyone, physician and layman, - especially those contemplating marriage. Cloth. Send $1.10. - - PAN’S GARDEN. By Algernon Blackwood. Send $1.60. - - THE CROCK OF GOLD. By James Stephens. Send $1.60. - - THE INVISIBLE EVENT. By J. D. Beresford. Jacob Stahl, writer and - weakling, splendidly finds himself in the love of a superb woman. - Send $1.45. The Jacob Stahl trilogy: “The Early History of Jacob - Stahl,” “A Candidate for Truth,” “The Invisible Event.” Three - volumes, boxed. Send $2.75. - - OSCAR WILDE’S WORKS. Ravenna edition. Red limp leather. Sold - separately. The books are: The Picture of Dorian Gray, Lord - Arthur Saville’s Crime, and the Portrait of Mr. W. H., The - Duchess of Padua, Poems (including “The Sphinx,” “The Ballad of - Reading Gaol,” and Uncollected Pieces), Lady Windermere’s Fan, A - Woman of No Importance, An Ideal Husband, The Importance of Being - Earnest, A House of Pomegranates, Intentions, De Profundis and - Prison Letters, Essays (“Historical Criticism,” “English - Renaissance,” “London Models,” “Poems in Prose”), Salome, La - Sainte Courtisane. Send $1.35 for each book. - - THE RAT-PIT. By Patrick MacGill. A novel by the navvy-poet who - sprang suddenly into attention with his “Children of the Dead - End.” This story is mainly about a boarding house in Glasgow - called “The Rat-Pit,” and the very poor who are its frequenters. - Send $1.35. - - THE AMETHYST RING. By Anatole France. Translated by B. Drillien. - $1.85 postpaid. - - CRAINQUEBILLE. By Anatole France. Translated by Winifred Stevens. - The story of a costermonger who is turned from a dull-witted and - inoffensive creature by the hounding of the police and the too - rigorous measures of the law into a desperado. Send $1.85. - - VIOLETTE OF PERE LACHAISE. By Anna Strunsky Walling. Records the - spiritual development of a gifted young woman who becomes an - actress and devotes herself to the social revolution. Send $1.10. - - THE “GENIUS.” By Theodore Dreiser. Send $1.60. - - JERUSALEM. By Selma Lagerlof. Translated by Velma Swanston. The - scene is a little Swedish village whose inhabitants are bound in - age-old custom and are asleep in their narrow provincial life. - The story tells of their awakening, of the tremendous social and - religious upheaval that takes place among them, and of the - heights of self-sacrifice to which they mount. Send $1.45. - - BREAKING-POINT. By Michael Artzibashef. A comprehensive picture - of modern Russian life by the author of “Sanine.” Send $1.35. - - RUSSIAN SILHOUETTES. By Anton Tchekoff. Translated by Marian - Fell. Stories which reveal the Russian mind, nature and - civilization. Send $1.47. - - THE FREELANDS. By John Galsworthy. Gives a large and vivid - presentation of English life under the stress of modern social - conflict, centering upon a romance of boy-and-girl love—that - theme in which Galsworthy excels all his contemporaries. Send - $1.45. - - FIDELITY. Susan Glaspell’s greatest novel. The author calls it - “The story of a woman’s love—of what that love impels her to - do—what it makes of her.” Send $1.45. - - FOMA GORDEYEFF. By Maxim Gorky. Send $1.10. - - THE RAGGED-TROUSERED PHILANTHROPIST. By Robert Tressall. A - masterpiece of realism by a Socialist for Socialists—and others. - Send $1.35. - - RED FLEECE. By Will Levington Comfort. A story of the Russian - revolutionists and the proletariat in general in the Great War, - and how they risk execution by preaching peace even in the - trenches. Exciting, understanding, and everlastingly true; for - Comfort himself is soldier and revolutionist as well as artist. - He is our American Artsibacheff; one of the very few American - masters of the “new fiction.” Send $1.35. - - THE STAR ROVER. By Jack London. Frontispiece in colors by Jay - Hambidge. A man unjustly accused of murder is sentenced to - imprisonment and finally sent to execution, but proves the - supremacy of mind over matter by succeeding, after long practice, - in loosing his spirit from his body and sending it on long quests - through the universe, finally cheating the gallows in this way. - Send $1.60. - - THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT. By H. G. Wells. Tells the story of the - life of one man, with its many complications with the lives of - others, both men and women of varied station, and his wanderings - over many parts of the globe in his search for the best and - noblest kind of life. $1.60, postpaid. - - SEXOLOGY - - Here is the great sex book of the day: Forel’s THE SEXUAL - QUESTION. A scientific, psychological, hygienic, legal and - sociological work for the cultured classes. By Europe’s foremost - nerve specialist. Chapter on “love and other irradiations of the - sexual appetite” a profound revelation of human emotions. - Degeneracy exposed. Birth control discussed. Should be in the - hands of all dealing with domestic relations. Medical edition - $5.50. Same book, cheaper binding, now $1.60. - - Painful childbirth in this age of scientific progress is - unnecessary. THE TRUTH ABOUT TWILIGHT SLEEP, by Hanna Rion (Mrs. - Ver Beck), is a message to mothers by an American mother, - presenting with authority and deep human interest the impartial - and conclusive evidence of a personal investigation of the - Freiburg method of painless childbirth. Send $1.62. - - FREUD’S THEORIES OF THE NEUROSES. By Dr. E. Hitschmann. A brief - and clear summary of Freud’s theories. Price, $2. - - PLAIN FACTS ABOUT A GREAT EVIL. By Christobel Pankhurst. One of - the strongest and frankest books ever written, depicting the - dangers of promiscuity in men. This book was once suppressed by - Anthony Comstock. Send (paper) 60c, (cloth) $1.10. - - SEXUAL LIFE OF WOMAN. By Dr. E. Heinrich Kisch (Prague). An - epitome of the subject. Sold only to physicians, jurists, - clergymen and educators. Send $5.50. - - KRAFFT-EBING’S PSYCHOPATHIA SEXUALIS. Only authorized English - translation of 12th German Edition. By F. J. Rebman. Sold only to - physicians, jurists, clergymen and educators. Price, $4.35. - Special thin paper edition, $1.60. - - THE SMALL FAMILY SYSTEM: IS IT IMMORAL OR INJURIOUS? By Dr. C. V. - Drysdale. The question of birth control cannot be intelligently - discussed without knowledge of the facts and figures herein - contained. $1.10, postpaid. - - MAN AND WOMAN. By Dr. Havelock Ellis, the foremost authority on - sexual characteristics. A new (5th) edition. Send $1.60. - - A new book by Dr. Robinson: THE LIMITATION OF OFFSPRING BY THE - PREVENTION OF PREGNANCY. The enormous benefits of the practice to - individuals, society and the race pointed out and all objections - answered. Send $1.05. - - WHAT EVERY GIRL SHOULD KNOW. By Margaret Sanger. Send 55 cents. - - WHAT EVERY MOTHER SHOULD KNOW. By Margaret Sanger. Send 30 cents. - - THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS. By Dr. C. Jung. A concise statement - of the present aspects of the psychoanalytic hypotheses. Price, - $1.50. - - SELECTED PAPERS ON HYSTERIA AND OTHER PSYCHONEUROSES. By Prof. S. - Freud, M.D. A selection of some of the more important of Freud’s - writings. Send $2.50. - - THREE CONTRIBUTIONS TO SEXUAL THEORY. By John C. Van Dyke. Fully - illustrated. New edition revised and rewritten. Send $1.60. - - THREE CONTRIBUTIONS TO SEXUAL THEORY. By Prof. Sigmund Freud. The - psychology of psycho-sexual development. Price, $2. - - FUNCTIONAL PERIODICITY. An experimental study of the mental and - motor abilities of women during menstruation by Leta Stetter - Hollingworth. Cloth, $1.15. Paper, 85c. - - ART - - MICHAEL ANGELO. By Romain Rolland. Twenty-two full-page - illustrations. A critical and illuminating exposition of the - genius of Michael Angelo. $2.65, postpaid. - - INTERIOR DECORATION: ITS PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE. By Frank Alvah - Parsons. Illustrated. $3.25, postpaid. - - THE BARBIZON PAINTERS. By Arthur Hoeber. One hundred - illustrations in sepia, reproducing characteristic work of the - school. $1.90, postpaid. - - THE BOOK OF MUSICAL KNOWLEDGE. By Arthur Elson. Illustrated. - Gives in outline a general musical education, the evolution and - history of music, the lives and works of the great composers, the - various musical forms and their analysis, the instruments and - their use, and several special topics. $3.75, postpaid. - - MODERN PAINTING: ITS TENDENCY AND MEANING. By Willard Huntington - Wright, author of “What Nietzsche Taught,” etc. Four color plates - and 24 illustrations. “Modern Painting” gives—for the first time - in any language—a clear, compact review of all the important - activities of modern art which began with Delacroix and ended - only with the war. Send $2.75. - - THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDI DA VINCI. By A. J. Anderson. Photogravure - frontispiece and 16 illustrations in half-tone. Sets forth the - great artist as a man so profoundly interested in and closely - allied with every movement of his age that he might be called an - incarnation of the Renaissance. $3.95, postpaid. - - THE COLOUR OF PARIS. By Lucien Descaves. Large 8vo. New edition, - with 60 illustrations printed in four colors from paintings by - the Japanese artist, Yoshio Markina. By the members of the - Academy Goncourt under the general editorship of M. Lucien - Descaves. Send $3.30. - - SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY - - CAUSES AND CURES OF CRIME. A popular study of criminology from - the bio-social viewpoint. By Thomas Speed Mosby, former Pardon - Attorney, State of Missouri, member American Institute of - Criminal Law and Criminology, etc. 356 pages, with 100 original - illustrations. Price, $2.15, postpaid. - - THE PSYCHOLOGY OF RELAXATION. By G. T. W. Patrick. A notable and - unusually interesting volume explaining the importance of sports, - laughter, profanity, the use of alcohol and even war as - furnishing needed relaxation to the higher nerve centres. Send - 88c. - - PSYCHOLOGY OF THE UNCONSCIOUS. By Dr. C. G. Jung, of the - University of Zurich. Translated by Beatrice M. Hinkle, M.D., of - the Neurological Department of Cornell University and the New - York Post-Graduate Medical School. This remarkable work does for - psychology what the theory of evolution did for biology; and - promises an equally profound change in the thought of mankind. A - very important book. Large 8vo. Send $4.40. - - SOCIALIZED GERMANY. By Frederic C. Howe, author of “The Modern - City and Its Problems,” etc., etc; Commissioner of Immigration at - the Port of New York. “The real peril to the other powers of - western civilization lies in the fact that Germany is more - intelligently organized than the rest of the world.” This book is - a frank attempt to explain this efficiency. $1.00, postpaid. - - SCIENTIFIC INVENTIONS OF TODAY. Illustrated. By T. W. Corbin. The - modern uses of explosives, electricity, and the most interesting - kinds of chemicals are revealed to young and old. Send $1.60. - - THE HUNTING WASPS. By J. Henri Fabre. 12mo. Bound in uniform - style with the other books by the same author. In the same - exquisite vein as “The Life of the Spider,” “The Life of the - Fly,” etc. Send $1.60. - - SCHOOLS OF TOMORROW. By John Dewey and Evelyn Dewey. Illustrated. - A study of a number of the schools of this country which are - using advanced methods of experimenting with new ideas in the - teaching and management of children. The practical methods are - described and the spirit which informs them is analyzed and - discussed. Send $1.60. - - THE RHYTHM OF LIFE. By Charles Brodie Patterson. A discussion of - harmony in music and color, and its influence on thought and - character. $1.60, postpaid. - - THE FAITHFUL. By John Masefield. A three-act tragedy founded on a - famous legend of Japan. $1.35, postpaid. - - INCOME. By Scott Nearing. An economic value is created amounting - to, say, $100. What part of that is returned to the laborer, what - part to the manager, what part to the property owner? This - problem the author discusses in detail, after which the other - issues to which it leads are presented. Send $1.25. - - THE STOIC PHILOSOPHY. By Gilbert Murray. 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Its - appearance lifts art criticism in the United States out of its - old slough of platitude-mongering and sentimentalizing.”—_Smart - Set._ - - What Pictures to See in America - - By Mrs. L. M. Bryant - - _Author of “What Pictures to See in Europe,” etc. Over 200 - illustrations. Cloth, $2.00 net._ - - In order to see art museums rightly in the short time at the - disposal of the general tourist a careful guide must be had to - save time and strength. Mrs. Bryant in the present book visits - the various galleries of America from Boston to San Francisco, - and points out the masterpieces of famous artists. - - JOHN LANE CO. NEW YORK - - - - - 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]: - ... clear over head, with shells from three of four guns making - little rose-coloured ... - ... clear over head, with shells from three or four guns making - little rose-coloured ... - - [p. 16]: - ... The Musseta Waltz and Rudolph’s Narrative; ... - ... The Musetta Waltz and Rudolph’s Narrative; ... - - [p. 30]: - ... “The rain leaps and pirouttes like a chorus of Russian - elves. It jumps. ... - ... “The rain leaps and pirouettes like a chorus of Russian - elves. It jumps. ... - - [p. 32]: - ... the fingers of his right hand he picked at the blackened and - roughtly-bitten ... - ... the fingers of his right hand he picked at the blackened and - roughly-bitten ... - - [p. 32]: - ... and stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his - checks wrinkled ... - ... and stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his - cheeks wrinkled ... - - [p. 39]: - ... was. Miriam Kipper abetted her. Allan MacDougal, in the part - of a half-witted ... - ... was. Miriam Kiper abetted her. Allan MacDougall, in the part - of a half-witted ... - - [p. 40]: - ... he has given us Przbyshewski’s Homo Sapiens, the book about - which I ... - ... he has given us Przybyszewski’s Homo Sapiens, the book - about which I ... - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, NOVEMBER -1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 8) *** - -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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- letter-spacing: 0; text-indent: 0; text-align: right; font-style: normal; - font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: x-small; - border: 1px solid silver; padding: 1px 4px 1px 4px; - display: inline; } - -div.centerpic { text-align:center; text-indent:0; display:block; } -div.centerpic.huebsch img { max-width:5em; } -.x-ebookmaker div.centerpic.huebsch img {width: 5em;} -/* -@media handheld -*/ -body.x-ebookmaker { margin-left:0; margin-right:0; } -.x-ebookmaker div.frontmatter { max-width:inherit; } - -.x-ebookmaker div.poem-container div.poem { display:block; margin-left:2em; } -.x-ebookmaker div.editorials { border:0; padding:0; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0; } -.x-ebookmaker div.excerpt { font-size:1em; margin-left:2em; } - -.x-ebookmaker div.ads { max-width:inherit; border:0; border-top:1px solid black; padding:0; - padding-top:0.5em; } - -.x-ebookmaker div.ads div.ib { clear:both; display:block; } - -.x-ebookmaker a.pagenum { display:none; } -.x-ebookmaker a.pagenum:after { display:none; } - -.x-ebookmaker .trnote { margin:0; } - -.x-ebookmaker span.firstchar { clear:left; float:left; } -.x-ebookmaker div.ads .fl { float:left; } -.x-ebookmaker 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, November 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 8), by Margaret C. Anderson</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Little Review, November 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 8)</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: November 1, 2021 [eBook #66647]</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, NOVEMBER 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 8) ***</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"> -NOVEMBER, 1915 -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="tocn" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#LIFEITSELF">“Life Itself”</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>The Editor</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEZEPPELINSOVERLONDON">The Zeppelins Over London</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Richard Aldington</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#PORTRAITOFTHEODOREDREISER">Portrait of Theodore Dreiser</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Arthur Davison Ficke</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEODOREDREISER">Theodore Dreiser</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>John Cowper Powys</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SOWEGREWTOGETHER">“So We Grew Together”</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Edgar Lee Masters</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#CHOLERICCOMMENTS">Choleric Comments</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Alexander S. Kaun</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THESCAVENGERSSWANSONG">The Scavenger’s Swan Song</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#DREGS">Dregs:</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Ben Hecht</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#LIFE">Life</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#DEPTHS">Depths</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1"><a href="#GRATITUDE">Gratitude</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EDITORIALS">Editorials</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#JOHNCOWPERPOWYSONWAR">John Cowper Powys on War</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Margery Currey</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THETHEATRE">The Washington Square Players</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Saxe Commins</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="m"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#LITHUANIA">Rupert Brooke’s “Lithuania” at the Little Theater</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#BOOKDISCUSSION">Book Discussion:</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#ANINSPIREDPUBLISHER">An Inspired Publisher</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#GOGOL">Gogol’s “Taras Bulba”</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#GORKY">Gorky’s “Chelkash, and Other Stories”</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#MASTERS">Andreyev’s “The Little Angel”</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#MASTERS">Chekhov’s “Russian Silhouettes”</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#MASTERS">Artzibashef’s “The Breaking Point”</a></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"> -NOVEMBER, 1915 -</p> - -<p class="number"> -No. 8 -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="cop"> -Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson -</p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="article1" id="LIFEITSELF"> -“Life Itself” -</h2> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<div class="reversepoem"> -<h3 class="section" id="I"> -I. -</h3> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“But you don’t know Life,” they are always saying.</p> - <p class="verse">I wonder what it is they mean?</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">They mean humanity and the urge of it:</p> - <p class="verse">In the beginning and in the end the soul’s longing to be known, to know itself, and to know others;</p> - <p class="verse">And that means, in the beginning and in the end, the quest for love;</p> - <p class="verse">It is the ideal of love and the finding of it;</p> - <p class="verse">And the magic of it and the drain of disillusionment;</p> - <p class="verse">And the luxury of sorrow and the voluptuousness of suffering;</p> - <p class="verse">And the vacuum that is beyond death;</p> - <p class="verse">And the conviction that ideals are better than reality;</p> - <p class="verse">And the decision to live for “art”;</p> - <p class="verse">And the pull to new love ...</p> - <p class="verse">And the discovery that love is enslavement;</p> - <p class="verse">And the breaking from it;</p> - <p class="verse">And the courage to contain life;</p> - <p class="verse">And the emancipation <em>from</em> something;</p> - <p class="verse">And the complacency of first freedom;</p> - <p class="verse">And the emptiness of it;</p> - <p class="verse">And the pull to new love ...</p> - <p class="verse">And the discovery that rapture is not relived;</p> - <p class="verse">And the conviction that passion is not love;</p> - <p class="verse">And the dedication to “the spiritual”;</p> - <p class="verse">And the pull to new love ...</p> - <p class="verse">And the deepest agony, which is unrequited love;</p> - <p class="verse">And the realization of people;</p> -<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a> - <p class="verse">And the discovery that the world is wrong;</p> - <p class="verse">And the glory of rebellion;</p> - <p class="verse">And the emancipation <em>for</em> something;</p> - <p class="verse">And the pull to new love ...</p> - <p class="verse">And the birth of cynicism;</p> - <p class="verse">And the conviction that rebellion is futile;</p> - <p class="verse">And the discovery of one’s self;</p> - <p class="verse">And the dedication to one’s self;</p> - <p class="verse">And the discovery that one’s self is not big enough;</p> - <p class="verse">And the pull to new love ...</p> - <p class="verse">And the knowledge that love includes passion;</p> - <p class="verse">And the sense of rich growing;</p> - <p class="verse">And the hope of sharing growth;</p> - <p class="verse">And the longing to be known;</p> - <p class="verse">And the relinquishing of that longing;</p> - <p class="verse">And the discovery that perfection does not last;</p> - <p class="verse">And the sufficiency of self-direction;</p> - <p class="verse">And the completeness of freedom;</p> - <p class="verse">And the longing to know the human soul;</p> - <p class="verse">And the pull to new love ...</p> - <p class="verse">And the relinquishing of that longing;</p> - <p class="verse">And the discovery of the peace that is in nature;</p> - <p class="verse">And the realization of the unimportance of man;</p> - <p class="verse">And the knowledge that only great moments are attainable;</p> - <p class="verse">And the hatred of consummations;</p> - <p class="verse">And the realization of truths too late to act upon them;</p> - <p class="verse">And the acceptance of substitutes;</p> - <p class="verse">And the pull to new love ...</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And every human being knows these things.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -<h3 class="section" id="II"> -II. -</h3> - - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">“But you don’t know life itself,” I am always saying.</p> - <p class="verse">I wonder what it is I mean.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">I think it is something wonderful like color and sound, and something mystical like fragrance and flowers.</p> - <p class="verse">And something incredible like air and wind,</p> - <p class="verse">And something of grey magic like rain;</p> - <p class="verse">It is faded deserts and the unceasing sea;</p> - <p class="verse">It is the moving stars;</p> - <p class="verse">It is the orange sun stepping through blue curtains of sky,</p> - <p class="verse">And the rose sun dropping through black trees;</p> - <p class="verse">It is green storms running across greenness,</p> - <p class="verse">And gold rose petals spilled by the moon on dark water;</p> -<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> - <p class="verse">It is snow and mist and clouds of color,</p> - <p class="verse">It is tree gardens and painted birds;</p> - <p class="verse">It is leaves of autumn and grasses of spring;</p> - <p class="verse">It is flower forests and the petals of stars;</p> - <p class="verse">It is morning—yellow mornings, green mornings, red mornings, gold mornings, silver mornings, sun mornings, mist mornings, mornings of dew;</p> - <p class="verse">It is night—white nights, green nights, grey nights, purple nights, blue nights, moon nights, rain nights, nights that burn;</p> - <p class="verse">It is waking in the first of the morning,</p> - <p class="verse">It is the deep adventure of sleep;</p> - <p class="verse">It is lights on rivers and lights on pavements;</p> - <p class="verse">It is boulevards bordered with flowers of stone;</p> - <p class="verse">It is poetry and Japanese prints and the actor on a stage;</p> - <p class="verse">It is music;</p> - <p class="verse">It is dreams that could not happen;</p> - <p class="verse">It is emotion for the sake of emotion;</p> - <p class="verse">It is life for the sake of living;</p> - <p class="verse">It is silence;</p> - <p class="verse">It is the unknowable;</p> - <p class="verse">It is eternity;</p> - <p class="verse">It is death.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And only artists know these things.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEZEPPELINSOVERLONDON"> -<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> -The Zeppelins Over London -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Richard Aldington</span> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -... The war saps all one’s energy. It seems impossible to do -any creative work in the midst of all this turmoil and carnage. Of course -you know that we had the Zeppelins over London? Let me give you my -version of the affair. -</p> - -<p> -It was just after eleven. We were sitting in our little flat, which is on -the top floor of a building on the slope of Hampstead Hill. We were reading—I -was savouring, like a true decadent, that over-sweet honied Latin -of the early Renaissance in an edition of 1513! Could anything be more -peaceful? Our window was shut—so the silence was absolute. Suddenly -there was a Bang! and a shrill wail. “That was pretty close,” said I. -Bang—whizz! Bang—whizz! Shrapnel from the anti-aircraft guns which -are not five hundred yards from our house! (Of course, like boobies, we -thought they were bombs.) I jumped up and got my coat, and grabbed the -door-key. It took hours to put out the light! (All the time Bang—whizz!) -It seemed interminable, that descent of those four flights of stairs, all the -time with the knowledge that any second might see the whole damn place -blown to hell. We could see the flashes of the guns and the searchlights -as we passed the windows—<em>they were pointed straight at us</em>! That meant -that the Zeppelin was either right overhead or coming there! Some excitement, -I tell you. I shiver with excitement when I think of it. We stood -at the porch for a few seconds—very long seconds—wondering what to do. -You are supposed to get into the cellars, but we haven’t got cellars; and -it’s very risky in the streets from the flying shrapnel. We could see the -long searchlights pointing to a spot almost overhead and the little red pinpricks -of bursting shells. A man came down from one of the flats—very -calm, with field glasses, to have a look at the animal! Suddenly we saw it, -clear over head, with shells from three <a id="corr-0"></a>or four guns making little rose-coloured -punctures in the air underneath it. One shell went near, very -near, the Zeppelin swerved, tilted—“They’ve got it! It’s coming down!” -we all exclaimed. In the distance we could hear faint cheering. But the -Zeppelin righted itself, waggled a little, and scenting danger made for the -nearest cloud! Apparently a piece of shell had hit the pilot, for there was -no apparent damage to be seen through the glasses. There were a few -more bangs from the guns, followed by the cat squeals of the shells and -the little explosions in the air. Then silence as the Zeppelin got into a -cloud; the searchlights looked wildly for it, for ten minutes. Then they -all went out and in the resulting darkness we could see the glow of the -fires in London. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> -What rather detracts from our heroism is the fact that the Zeppelin -had already dropped all its bombs in the middle of London, but we didn’t -know it till afterwards. -</p> - -<p> -I deduce these reflections. 1. That as an engine of frightfulness the -Zeppelin is over-rated. And the damage it does is comparatively unimportant. -2. That it is uncultured of the Germans to risk murdering the -English Imagists and ruining the only poetic movement in England, for the -sake of getting their names into the papers. 3. That I notice I never go to -bed now earlier than twelve, and frequently go for a walk about eleven -o’clock. -</p> - -<p> -I can’t of course tell you where the bombs fell, as it is strictly forbidden. -Still I can say this: that no public building of any kind was touched; that -it looks jolly well as if our Teutonic friends made a dead set at St. Paul’s -and the British Museum; that, without exception, the bombs fell on the -houses of the poor and the very poor—except for a warehouse or so and -some offices; that one bomb fell near a block of hospitals, containing paralytics -and other cripples and diseased persons, smashed all the hospital -windows, and terrified the unhappy patients into hysterics; that, lastly, it -is a damned lie to say there are guns on St. Paul’s and the British -Museum—the buildings are too old to stand the shock of the recoil. Voilà! -</p> - -<p> -... Remy de Gourmont is dead.... Camille de Saint-Croix -also. It is hard to write of friends recently dead.... -</p> - -<div class="filler"> -<p class="noindent"> -The experienced artist knows that inspiration -is rare and that intelligence is left -to complete the work of intuition; he puts his -ideas under the press and squeezes out of -them the last drop of the divine juices that -are in them—(and if need be sometimes he -does not shrink from diluting them with -clear water).—<em>Romain Rolland.</em> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="PORTRAITOFTHEODOREDREISER"> -<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> -Portrait of Theodore Dreiser -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Arthur Davison Ficke</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">There were gilded Chinese dragons</p> - <p class="verse">And tinkling danglers of glass</p> - <p class="verse">And dirty marble-topped tables</p> - <p class="verse">Around us, that late night-hour.</p> - <p class="verse">You ate steadily and silently</p> - <p class="verse">From a huge bowl of chop-suey</p> - <p class="verse">Of repellant aspect;</p> - <p class="verse">While I,—I, and another,—</p> - <p class="verse">Told you that you had the style neither of William Morris</p> - <p class="verse">Nor of Walter Pater.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">And it was perfectly true ....</p> - <p class="verse">But you continued to occupy yourself</p> - <p class="verse">With your quarts of chop-suey.</p> - <p class="verse">And somehow you reminded me</p> - <p class="verse">Of nothing so much as of the knitting women</p> - <p class="verse">Who implacably counted stitches while the pride of France</p> - <p class="verse">Went up to death.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse2">Tonight I am alone,</p> - <p class="verse">A long way from that Chinese restaurant,</p> - <p class="verse">A long way from wherever you are.</p> - <p class="verse">And I find it difficult to recall to my memory</p> - <p class="verse">The image of your large laboring inexpressive face.</p> - <p class="verse">For I have just turned the last page</p> - <p class="verse">Of a book of yours—</p> - <p class="verse">A book large and superficially inexpressive,—like yourself.</p> - <p class="verse">It has not, any more than the old ones,</p> - <p class="verse">The style of Pater.</p> - <p class="verse">But now there are passing before me</p> - <p class="verse">Interminable figures in tangled procession—</p> - <p class="verse">Proud or cringing, starved with desire or icy,</p> - <p class="verse">Hastening toward a dream of triumph or fleeing from a dream of doom,—</p> - <p class="verse">Passing—passing—passing</p> -<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> - <p class="verse">Through a world of shadows,</p> - <p class="verse">Through a chaotic and meaningless anarchy,</p> - <p class="verse">Under heavy clouds of terrific gloom</p> - <p class="verse">Or through ravishing flashes of knife-edged sunlight—</p> - <p class="verse">Passing—passing—passing—</p> - <p class="verse">Their heads haloed with immortal illusion,—</p> - <p class="verse">The terrible and beautiful, cruel and wonder-laden illusion of life.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEODOREDREISER"> -Theodore Dreiser -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">John Cowper Powys</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> estimating the intrinsic value of a book like <em>The “Genius”</em> and—generally—of -a writer like Theodore Dreiser, it is advisable to indulge in a -little gentle introspection. -</p> - -<p> -Criticism need not always impose itself as an art; but it must at least -conform to some of the principles that govern that form of human activity. -The worthlessness of so much energetic modern criticism is that it proceeds—like -scum—from the mere surface of the writer’s intelligence. It is true -that all criticism resolves itself ultimately into a matter of taste;—but one -has to discover what one’s taste really is; and that is not always easy. -</p> - -<p> -Taste is a living thing, an organic thing. It submits to the laws of -growth; and its growth is fostered or retarded by many extraneous influences. -In regard to the appreciation of new and original works of art, it -belongs to the inherent nature of taste that it should be enlarged, transmuted, -and undergo the birth-pangs of a species of re-creation. In the presence -of a work of art that is really unusual, in an attempt to appreciate a -literary effect that has never appeared before, one’s taste necessarily suffers -a certain embarrassment and uneasiness. It suffers indeed sometimes a -quite extreme discomfort. This is inevitable. This is right. This means -that the creative energy in the new thing is getting to work upon us, unloosening -our prejudices and enlarging our scope. Such a process is -attended by exquisite intellectual excitement. It is also attended by a certain -rending and tearing of personal vanity. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> -One is too apt to confuse the existing synthesis of one’s aesthetic instincts -with the totality of one’s being; and this is a fatal blunder; for who -can fathom the reach of <em>that</em> circumference? And it is of the nature of all -syntheses to change and grow. -</p> - -<p> -Yet, on the other hand, nothing is more ridiculous and ineffective than -the kind of hand-to-mouth criticism which attempts to eliminate its own -past, and to snatch at the glow and glamour of a work of art, as it were -“<em>de vacuo</em>,” and out of misty clouds. If one wishes to catch the secret of -true criticism; if one’s criticism is to be something more than a mere howl -of senseless condemnation or yawp of still more senseless praise; one must -attempt to do what Goethe and Saint-Beuve and Brandes and Pater were -always doing: that is to say, to make every use of every tradition, <em>our own</em>, -as well as that of classical authority;—and then carry all this a little, just -a little, <em>further</em>; giving it the shudder and the thrilling interest of the -process of organic growth. -</p> - -<p> -Without tradition, the tradition of our own determined taste and the -tradition of classical taste, there can be no growth. Oracles uttered in neglect -of these, are oracles “<em>in vacuo</em>,” without meaning or substance; without -roots in human experience. Whether we are pleased to acknowledge it or -not, our own gradually-evolved taste is linked at a thousand points with the -classical taste of the ages. In criticizing new work we can no more afford -to neglect such tradition than, in expressing our thoughts, we can afford -to neglect language. -</p> - -<p> -Tradition <em>is</em> the language of criticism. It can be carried further: every -original work of art, by producing a new reaction upon it, necessarily carries -it further. But it cannot be swept aside; or we are reduced to dumbness; -to such vague growls and gestures as animals might indulge in. Criticism, -to carry any intelligible meaning at all, must use the language provided -by the centuries. There is no other language to use; and in default -of language we are reduced, as I have said, to inarticulate noises. -</p> - -<p> -The unfortunate thing is, that much of the so-called “criticism” of our -day is nothing better than such <em>physiological gesticulation</em>. In criticism, as -in life, a certain degree of <em>continuity</em> is necessary, or we become no more -than arbitrary puffs of wind, who may shriek one day down the chimney, -and another day through a crack in the door, but in neither case with any -intelligible meaning for human ears. -</p> - -<p> -In dealing with a creative quality as unusual and striking as that of -Theodore Dreiser, it is of absolutely no critical value to content ourselves -with a crude physical disturbance on the surface of our minds, whether such -disturbance is favourable or unfavourable to the writer. It is, for instance, -quite irrelevant to hurl condemnation upon a work like <em>The “Genius”</em> because -it is largely preoccupied with sex. It is quite equally irrelevant to -lavish enthusiastic laudations upon it because of this preoccupation. A -work of art is not good because it speaks daringly and openly about things -<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> -that shock certain minds. It is not bad because it avoids all mention of -such things. An artist has a right to introduce into his work what he -pleases and to exclude from his work what he pleases. The question for -the critic is, not what subject has he selected, but how has he treated that -subject;—has he made out of it an imaginative, suggestive, and convincing -work of art, or has he not! There is no other issue before the critic than -this; and if he supposes there is,—if he supposes he has the smallest authority -to dictate to a writer what his subject shall be;—he is simply making a -fool of himself. -</p> - -<p> -There is an absurd tendency among some of us to suppose that a writer -is necessarily a great writer because he is daring in his treatment of sex. -This is quite as grotesque an illusion as the opposite one, that a great writer -must be idealistic and uplifting. There is not the remotest reason why he -should concern himself with sex; if he prefers—as did Charles Dickens for -instance—to deal with other aspects of life. On the other hand there is not -the least reason why he should be “uplifting.” Let him be an artist—an -artist—that is the important matter! All these questions concerning “subjects” -are tedious and utterly trifling. -</p> - -<p> -In <em>The “Genius”</em> Theodore Dreiser has achieved a very curious and a -very original work. In doing it he has once more made it clear how much -more interesting the quality of his own genius is than that of any other -American novelist of the present age. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The “Genius”</em> is an epic work. It has the epic rather than the dramatic -quality; it has the epic rather than the mystic, or symbolic, quality. And -strictly speaking, Dreiser’s novels, especially the later ones, are the only -novels in America, are the only novels, as a matter of fact, in England or -America, which possess this quality. It is quite properly in accordance -with the epic attitude of mind, with the epic quality in art, this reduction of -the more purely human episodes to a proportionate insignificance compared -with the general surge and volume of the life-stream. It is completely in -keeping with the epic quality that there should be no far-fetched psychology, -no quivering suspensions on the verge of the unknown. -</p> - -<p> -Dreiser is concerned with the mass and weight of the stupendous life-tide; -the life-tide as it flows forward, through vast panoramic stretches of -cosmic scenery. Both in respect to human beings, and in respect to his -treatment of inanimate objects, this is always what most dominatingly interests -him. You will not find in Dreiser’s books those fascinating arrests of -the onward-sweeping tide, those delicate pauses and expectancies, in back-waters -and enclosed gardens, where persons, with diverting twists in their -brains, murmur and meander at their ease, protected from the great stream. -Nobody in the Dreiser-world is so protected; nobody is so privileged. The -great stream sweeps them all forward, sweeps them all away; and not they, -but <em>It</em>, must be regarded as the hero of the tale. -</p> - -<p> -It is precisely this quality, this subordination of the individual to the -deep waters that carry him, which makes Dreiser so peculiarly the American -<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> -writer. Perhaps this is one of the reasons why he has had a more profoundly -appreciative hearing in England than in the United States. It was -so with Walt Whitman in his earlier days. To get the adequate perspective -for a work so entirely epical it seems necessary to have the Atlantic as a -modifying foreground. Americans—so entirely <em>in it</em> themselves—are naturally, -unless they possess the Protean faculty of the editor of Reedy’s -<em>Mirror</em>, unable to see the thing in this cosmic light. They are misled by -certain outstanding details—the sexual scenes, for instance; or the financial -scenes,—and are prevented by these, as by the famous “Catalogues” in -Whitman, from getting the proportionate vision. -</p> - -<p> -The true literary descendants of the author of the <em>Leaves of Grass</em> are -undoubtedly Theodore Dreiser and Edgar Masters. These two, and these -two alone, though in completely different ways, possess that singular “beyond-good-and-evil” -touch which the epic form of art requires. It was just -the same with Homer and Vergil, who were as naturally the epic children -of aristocratic ages, as these are of a democratic one. -</p> - -<p> -Achilles is not really a very attractive figure—take him all in all; and -we remember how scandalously Æneas behaved to Dido. The ancient epic -writers, writing for an aristocracy, caught the world-stream from a poetic -angle. The modern epic writers, writing for a democracy, catch it from a -realistic one. But it is the same world-stream; and in accordance with the -epic vision there is the same subordination of the individual to the cosmic -tide. This is essentially a dramatic, rather than an epic epoch, and that is -why so many of us are bewildered and confused by the Dreiser method. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The “Genius”</em> is a long book. But it might have been three times as -long. It might begin anywhere and stop anywhere. It is the Prose-Iliad of -the American Scene; and, like that other, it has a right to cut out its segment -of the shifting panorama at almost any point. -</p> - -<p> -And so with the style of the thing. It is a ridiculous mis-statement for -critics to say that Dreiser has no style. It is a charming irony, on his own -part, to belittle his style. He has, as a matter of fact, a very definite and -a very effective style. It is a style that lends itself to the huge indifferent -piling up of indiscriminate materials, quite as admirably as that gracious -poetical one of the old epic-makers lent itself to their haughtier and more -aristocratic purpose. One would recognize a page of Dreiser’s writings as -infallibly as one would recognize a page of Hardy’s. The former <em>relaxes</em> -his medium to the extreme limit and the latter <em>tightens</em> his; but they both -have their “manner.” A paragraph written by Dreiser would never be -mistaken for anyone else’s. If for no other peculiarity Dreiser’s style is -remarkable for the shamelessness with which it adapts itself to the drivel -of ordinary conversation. In the Dreiser books—especially in the later -ones, where in my humble opinion he is feeling more firmly after his true -way,—people are permitted to say those things which they actually do say -in real life—things that make you blush and howl, so soaked in banality and -ineptitude are they. In the true epic manner Dreiser gravely puts down -<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> -all these fatuous observations, until you feel inclined to cry aloud for the -maddest, the most fantastic, the most affected Osconian wit, to serve as an -antidote. -</p> - -<p> -But one knows very well he is right. People don’t in ordinary life—certainly -not in ordinary democratic life—talk like Oscar Wilde, or utter -deep ironic sayings in the style of Matthew Arnold. They don’t really—let -this be well understood—concentrate their feelings in bitter pungent -spasmodic outbursts, as those Rabelaisean persons in Guy de Maupassant. -They just gabble and gibber and drivel; at least that is what they do in -England and America. The extraordinary language which the lovers in -Dreiser—we use the term “lovers” in large sense—use to one another -might well make an aesthetic-minded person howl with nervous rage. But -then,—and who does not know it?—the obsession of the sex-illusion is -above everything else a thing that makes idiots of people; a thing that -makes them talk like Simple Simons. In real life lovers don’t utter those -wonderful pregnant sayings which leap to their lips in our subtle symbolic -dramas. They just burble and blather and blurt forth whatever drivelling -nonsense comes into their heads. Dreiser is the true master of the modern -American Prose-Epic just because he is not afraid of the weariness, the -staleness, the flatness, and unprofitableness of actual human conversation. -In reading the great ancient poetic epics one is amazed at the “naivete” -with which these haughty persons—these gods and demi-gods express their -emotional reactions. It is “carried off,” of course, there, by the sublime -heightening of the style; but it produces just the same final impression,—of -the insignificance of the individual, whether mortal or immortal, compared -with the torrent of Fate which sweeps them all along. -</p> - -<p> -And the same thing applies to Dreiser’s attitude towards “good and -evil” and towards the problem of the “supernatural.” All other modern -writers array themselves on this side or that. They either defend traditional -morality or they attack it. They are anxious, at all costs, to give -their work dramatic intensity; they struggle to make it ironical, symbolical, -mystical—God knows what! But Dreiser neither attacks morality nor -defends immorality. In the true Epic manner he puts himself aside, and -permits the great mad Hurly-Burly to rush pell-mell past him and write its -own whirligig runes at its own careless pleasure. Even Zola himself was -not such a realist. Zola had a purpose;—the purpose of showing what a -Beast the human animal is! Dreiser’s people are not beasts; and they shock -our aesthetic sensibilities quite as often by their human sentiment as they -do by their lapses into lechery. -</p> - -<p> -To a European mind there is something incredibly absurd in the notion -that these Dreiser books are immoral. -</p> - -<p> -Unlike the majority of French and Russian writers Dreiser is not interested -in the pathology of vice. He is too deeply imbued with the great -naive epic spirit to stop and linger in these curious bye-paths. He holds -Nature—in her normal moods—to be sufficiently remarkable. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> -It is the same with his attitude towards the “supernatural.” The American -Prose-Epic were obviously false to reality if the presence of the supernatural -were not felt. It is felt and felt very powerfully; but it is kept in -its place. Like Walt Whitman’s stellar constellations, it suffices for those -who belong to it, it is right enough where it is—we do not want it any -nearer! -</p> - -<p> -Because the much-tossed wanderer, Eugene Witla, draws a certain -consolation, at the last, from Christian Science, only a very literal person -would accuse the author of <em>The “Genius”</em> of being a convert to the faith. -To omit Christian Science from any prose-epic of American life would be -to falsify the picture out of personal prejudice. Dreiser has no prejudices -except the prejudice of finding the normal man and the normal woman, -shuffled to and fro by the normal forces of life, an interesting and arresting -spectacle. To some among us such a spectacle is not interesting. We must -have the excitement of the unusual, the shock of the abnormal. Well! -There are plenty of European writers ready to gratify this taste. Dreiser -is not a European writer. He is an American writer. The life that interests -him, and interests him passionately, is the life of America. It remains to -be seen whether the life of America interests Americans! -</p> - -<p> -It is really quite important to get the correct point of view with regard -to Dreiser’s “style.” The <em>negative</em> qualities in this style of his are indeed -as important as the positive ones. He is so epical, so objective, so concrete -and indifferent, that he is quite content when the great blocked-out masses -of his work lift themselves from the obscure womb of being and take shape -before him. When they have done this,—when these piled-up materials and -portentous groups of people have limned themselves against the grey background,—he -himself stands aside, like some dim demiurgic forger in the -cosmic blast-furnace, and mutters queer commentaries upon what he sees. -He utters these commentaries through the lips of his characters—Cowperwood, -say, or Witla—or even some of the less important ones;—and broken -and incoherent enough they are! -</p> - -<p> -But what matter! The huge epic canvas is stretched out there before -us. The vast cyclopean edifice lifts its shadowy bulk towards the grey -sky. The thing has been achieved. The creative spirit has breathed upon -the waters. Resting from his titanic labor, what matter if this Demiurge -drowses, and with an immense humorous indifference permits his characters -to nod too, and utter strange words in their dreams! -</p> - -<p> -The carelessness of Dreiser’s style, its large indolence, its contempt for -epigrammatic point, its relaxed strength, is not really a defect at all when -you regard his work from the epic view-point. -</p> - -<p> -There must be something in a great cosmic picture to take the place -of the sand and silt and rubbish and rubble which we know so well in life, -under the grey sky! And these stammered incoherences, these broken mutterings, -fill in this gap. They give the picture that drab patience, that -<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> -monotonous spaciousness which is required. Symbolic drama or psychological -fiction can dispense with these blank surfaces. The prose-epic of America -cannot afford to do without them. They suggest that curious sadness—the -sadness of large, flat, featureless scenery, which visitors from Europe -find so depressing. -</p> - -<p> -Well! Thus it remains. If one is interested in the “urge—urge—urge,” -as Whitman calls it, of the normal life-stream as it goes upon its -way, in these American States, one reads Dreiser with a strange pleasure. -He is no more moral than the normal life-stream is moral; and he is no -more immoral. It is true the normal life-stream does not cover <em>quite</em> the -whole field. There <em>are</em> back-waters and there <em>are</em> enclosed gardens. -</p> - -<p> -There was a Europe once. But the American prose-epic is the American -prose-epic. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="SOWEGREWTOGETHER"> -“So We Grew Together”<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a> -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Edgar Lee Masters</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse8">Reading over your letters I find you wrote me</p> - <p class="verse">“My dear boy,” or at times “dear boy,” and the envelope</p> - <p class="verse">Said “master”—all as I had been your very son,</p> - <p class="verse">And not the orphan whom you adopted.</p> - <p class="verse">Well, you were father to me! And I can recall</p> - <p class="verse">The things you did for me or gave me:</p> - <p class="verse">One time we rode in a box-car to Springfield</p> - <p class="verse">To see the greatest show on earth;</p> - <p class="verse">And one time you gave me red-top boots,</p> - <p class="verse">And one time a watch, and one time a gun.</p> - <p class="verse">Well, I grew to gawkiness with a voice</p> - <p class="verse">Like a rooster trying to crow in August</p> - <p class="verse">Hatched in April, we’ll say.</p> - <p class="verse">And you went about wrapped up in silence</p> - <p class="verse">With eyes aflame, and I heard little rumors</p> - <p class="verse">Of what they were doing to you, and how</p> - <p class="verse">They wronged you—and we were poor—so poor!</p> - <p class="verse">And I could not understand why you failed,</p> -<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> - <p class="verse">And why if you did good things for the people</p> - <p class="verse">The people did not sustain you.</p> - <p class="verse">And why you loved another woman than Aunt Susan,</p> - <p class="verse">So it was whispered at school, and what could be baser,</p> - <p class="verse">Or so little to be forgiven?.....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse8">They crowded you hard in those days.</p> - <p class="verse">But you fought like a wounded lion</p> - <p class="verse">For yourself I know, but for us, for me.</p> - <p class="verse">At last you fell ill, and for months you tottered</p> - <p class="verse">Around the streets as thin as death,</p> - <p class="verse">Trying to earn our bread, your great eyes glowing</p> - <p class="verse">And the silence around you like a shawl!</p> - <p class="verse">But something in you kept you up.</p> - <p class="verse">You grew well again and rosy with cheeks</p> - <p class="verse">Like an Indian peach almost, and eyes</p> - <p class="verse">Full of moonlight and sunlight, and a voice</p> - <p class="verse">That sang, and a humor that warded</p> - <p class="verse">The arrows off. But still between us</p> - <p class="verse">There was reticence; you kept me away</p> - <p class="verse">With a glittering hardness; perhaps you thought</p> - <p class="verse">I kept you away—for I was moving</p> - <p class="verse">In spheres you knew not, living through</p> - <p class="verse">Beliefs you believed in no more, and ideals</p> - <p class="verse">That were just mirrors of unrealities.</p> - <p class="verse">As a boy can be I was critical of you.</p> - <p class="verse">And reasons for your failures began to arise</p> - <p class="verse">In my mind—I saw specific facts here and there</p> - <p class="verse">With no philosophy at hand to weld them</p> - <p class="verse">And synthesize them into one truth—</p> - <p class="verse">And a rush of the strength of youth</p> - <p class="verse">Deluded me into thinking the world</p> - <p class="verse">Was something so easily understood and managed</p> - <p class="verse">While I knew it not at all in truth.</p> - <p class="verse">And an adolescent egotism</p> - <p class="verse">Made me feel you did not know me</p> - <p class="verse">Or comprehend the all that I was.</p> - <p class="verse">All this you divined.......</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse8">So it went. And when I left you and passed</p> - <p class="verse">To the world, the city—still I see you</p> - <p class="verse">With eyes averted, and feel your hand</p> - <p class="verse">Limp with sorrow—you could not speak.</p> -<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> - <p class="verse">You thought of what I might be, and where</p> - <p class="verse">Life would take me, and how it would end—</p> - <p class="verse">There was longer silence. A year or two</p> - <p class="verse">Brought me closer to you. I saw the play now</p> - <p class="verse">And the game somewhat and understood your fights</p> - <p class="verse">And enmities, and hardnesses and silences,</p> - <p class="verse">And wild humor that had kept you whole—</p> - <p class="verse">For your soul had made it as an antitoxin</p> - <p class="verse">To the world’s infections. And you swung to me</p> - <p class="verse">Closer than before—and a chumship began</p> - <p class="verse">Between us......</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse8">What vital power was yours!</p> - <p class="verse">You never tired, or needed sleep, or had a pain,</p> - <p class="verse">Or refused a delight. I loved the things now</p> - <p class="verse">You had always loved, a winning horse,</p> - <p class="verse">A roulette wheel, a contest of skill</p> - <p class="verse">In games or sports ... long talks on the corner</p> - <p class="verse">With men who have lived and tell you</p> - <p class="verse">Things with a rich flavor of old wisdom or humor;</p> - <p class="verse">A woman, a glass of whisky at a table</p> - <p class="verse">Where the fatigue of life falls, and our reserves</p> - <p class="verse">That wait for happiness come up in smiles,</p> - <p class="verse">Laughter, gentle confidences. Here you were</p> - <p class="verse">A man with youth, and I a youth was a man,</p> - <p class="verse">Exulting in your braveries and delight in life.</p> - <p class="verse">How you knocked that scamp over at Harry Varnell’s</p> - <p class="verse">When he tried to take your chips! And how I,</p> - <p class="verse">Who had thought the devil in cards as a boy,</p> - <p class="verse">Loved to play with you now and watch you play;</p> - <p class="verse">And watch the subtle mathematics of your mind</p> - <p class="verse">Prophecy, divine the plays. Who was it</p> - <p class="verse">In your ancestry that you harked back to</p> - <p class="verse">And reproduced with such various gifts</p> - <p class="verse">Of flesh and spirit, Anglo-Saxon, Celt?—</p> - <p class="verse">You with such rapid wit and powerful skill</p> - <p class="verse">For catching illogic and whipping Error’s</p> - <p class="verse">Fangéd head from the body?.....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse8">I was really ahead of you</p> - <p class="verse">At this stage, with more self-consciousness</p> - <p class="verse">Of what man is, and what life is at last,</p> - <p class="verse">And how the spirit works, and by what laws,</p> -<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> - <p class="verse">With what inevitable force. But still I was</p> - <p class="verse">Behind you in that strength which in our youth,</p> - <p class="verse">If ever we have it, squeezes all the nectar</p> - <p class="verse">From the grapes. It seemed you’d never lose</p> - <p class="verse">This power and sense of joy, but yet at times</p> - <p class="verse">I saw another phase of you......</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse8">There was the day</p> - <p class="verse">We rode together north of the old town,</p> - <p class="verse">Past the old farm houses that I knew—</p> - <p class="verse">Past maple groves, and fields of corn in the shock,</p> - <p class="verse">And fields of wheat with the fall green.</p> - <p class="verse">It was October, but the clouds were summer’s,</p> - <p class="verse">Lazily floating in a sky of June;</p> - <p class="verse">And a few crows flying here and there,</p> - <p class="verse">And a quail’s call, and around us a great silence</p> - <p class="verse">That held at its core old memories</p> - <p class="verse">Of pioneers, and dead days, forgotten things!</p> - <p class="verse">I’ll never forget how you looked that day. Your hair</p> - <p class="verse">Was turning silver now, but still your eyes</p> - <p class="verse">Burned as of old, and the rich olive glow</p> - <p class="verse">In your cheeks shone, with not a line or wrinkle!—</p> - <p class="verse">You seemed to me perfection—a youth, a man!</p> - <p class="verse">And now you talked of the world with the old wit,</p> - <p class="verse">And now of the soul—how such a man went down</p> - <p class="verse">Through folly or wrong done by him, and how</p> - <p class="verse">Man’s death cannot end all,</p> - <p class="verse">There must be life hereafter!.....</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">As you were that day, as you looked and spoke,</p> - <p class="verse">As the earth was, I hear as the soul of it all</p> - <p class="verse">Godard’s <em>Dawn</em>, Dvorák’s <em>Humoresque</em>,</p> - <p class="verse">The Morris Dances, Mendelssohn’s <em>Barcarole</em>,</p> - <p class="verse">And old Scotch songs, <em>When the Kye Come Hame</em>,</p> - <p class="verse">And <em>The Moon Had Climbed the Highest Hill</em>,</p> - <p class="verse">The <a id="corr-3"></a>Musetta Waltz and Rudolph’s Narrative;</p> - <p class="verse">Your great brow seemed Beethoven’s</p> - <p class="verse">And the lust of life in your face Cellini’s,</p> - <p class="verse">And your riotous fancy like Dumas.</p> - <p class="verse">I was nearer you now than ever before</p> - <p class="verse">And finding each other thus I see to-day</p> - <p class="verse">How the human soul seeks the human soul</p> - <p class="verse">And finds the one it seeks at last.</p> -<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> - <p class="verse">For you know you can open a window</p> - <p class="verse">That looks upon embowered darkness,</p> - <p class="verse">When the flowers sleep and the trees are still</p> - <p class="verse">At Midnight, and no light burns in the room;</p> - <p class="verse">And you can hide your butterfly</p> - <p class="verse">Somewhere in the room, but soon you will see</p> - <p class="verse">A host of butterfly mates</p> - <p class="verse">Fluttering through the window to join</p> - <p class="verse">Your butterfly hid in the room.</p> - <p class="verse">It is somehow thus with souls......</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse8">This day then I understood it all:</p> - <p class="verse">Your vital democracy and love of men</p> - <p class="verse">And tolerance of life; and how the excess of these</p> - <p class="verse">Had wrought your sorrows in the days</p> - <p class="verse">When we were so poor, and the small of mind</p> - <p class="verse">Spoke of your sins and your connivance</p> - <p class="verse">With sinful men. You had lived it down,</p> - <p class="verse">Had triumphed over them, and you had grown</p> - <p class="verse">Prosperous in the world and had passed</p> - <p class="verse">Into an easy mastery of life and beyond the thought</p> - <p class="verse">Of further conquests for things.</p> - <p class="verse">As the Brahmins say no more you worshipped matter,</p> - <p class="verse">Or scarcely ghosts, or even the gods</p> - <p class="verse">With singleness of heart.</p> - <p class="verse">This day you worshipped Eternal Peace</p> - <p class="verse">Or Eternal Flame, with scarce a laugh or jest</p> - <p class="verse">To hide your worship; and I understood,</p> - <p class="verse">Seeing so many facets to you, why it was</p> - <p class="verse">Blind Condon always smiled to hear your voice,</p> - <p class="verse">And why it was in a green-room years ago</p> - <p class="verse">Booth turned to you, marking your face</p> - <p class="verse">From all the rest, and said “There is a man</p> - <p class="verse">Who might play Hamlet—better still Othello”;</p> - <p class="verse">And why it was the women loved you; and the priest</p> - <p class="verse">Could feed his body and soul together drinking</p> - <p class="verse">A glass of beer and visiting with you......</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse8">Then something happened:</p> - <p class="verse">Your face grew smaller, your brow more narrow,</p> - <p class="verse">Dull fires burned in your eyes,</p> - <p class="verse">Your body shriveled, you walked with a cynical shuffle,</p> - <p class="verse">Your hands mixed the keys of life,</p> -<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> - <p class="verse">You had become a discord.</p> - <p class="verse">A monstrous hatred consumed you—</p> - <p class="verse">You had suffered the greatest wrong of all,</p> - <p class="verse">I knew and granted the wrong.</p> - <p class="verse">You had mounted up to sixty years, now breathing hard,</p> - <p class="verse">And just at the time that honor belonged to you</p> - <p class="verse">You were dishonored at the hands of a friend.</p> - <p class="verse">I wept for you, and still I wondered</p> - <p class="verse">If all I had grown to see in you and find in you</p> - <p class="verse">And love in you was just a fond illusion—</p> - <p class="verse">If after all I had not seen you aright as a boy:</p> - <p class="verse">Barbaric, hard, suspicious, cruel, redeemed</p> - <p class="verse">Alone by bubbling animal spirits—</p> - <p class="verse">Even these gone now, all of you smoke</p> - <p class="verse">Laden with stinging gas and lethal vapor......</p> - <p class="verse">Then you came forth again like the sun after storm—</p> - <p class="verse">The deadly uric acid driven out at last</p> - <p class="verse">Which had poisoned you and dwarfed your soul—</p> - <p class="verse">So much for soul!</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The last time I saw you</p> - <p class="verse">Your face was full of golden light,</p> - <p class="verse">Something between flame and the richness of flesh.</p> - <p class="verse">You were yourself again, wholly yourself.</p> - <p class="verse">And oh, to find you again and resume</p> - <p class="verse">Our understanding we had worked so long to reach—</p> - <p class="verse">You calm and luminant and rich in thought!</p> - <p class="verse">This time it seemed we said but “yes” or “no”—</p> - <p class="verse">That was enough; we smoked together</p> - <p class="verse">And drank a glass of wine and watched</p> - <p class="verse">The leaves fall sitting on the porch.....</p> - <p class="verse">Then life whirled me away like a leaf,</p> - <p class="verse">And I went about the crowded ways of New York.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">And one night Alberta and I took dinner</p> - <p class="verse">At a place near Fourteenth Street where the music</p> - <p class="verse">Was like the sun on a breeze-swept lake</p> - <p class="verse">When every wave is a patine of fire,</p> - <p class="verse">And I thought of you not at all</p> - <p class="verse">Looking at Alberta and watching her white teeth</p> - <p class="verse">Bite off bits of Italian bread,</p> - <p class="verse">And watching her smile and the wide pupils</p> - <p class="verse">Of her eyes, electrified by wine</p> - <p class="verse">And music and the touch of our hands</p> - <p class="verse">Now and then across the table.</p> -<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> - <p class="verse">We went to her house at last.</p> - <p class="verse">And through a languorous evening.</p> - <p class="verse">Where no light was but a single candle,</p> - <p class="verse">We circled about and about a pending theme</p> - <p class="verse">Till at last we solved it suddenly in rapture</p> - <p class="verse">Almost by chance; and when I left</p> - <p class="verse">She followed me to the hall and leaned above</p> - <p class="verse">The railing about the stair for the farewell kiss—</p> - <p class="verse">And I went into the open air ecstatically,</p> - <p class="verse">With the stars in the spaces of sky between</p> - <p class="verse">The towering buildings, and the rush</p> - <p class="verse">Of wheels and clang of bells,</p> - <p class="verse">Still with the fragrance of her lips and cheeks</p> - <p class="verse">And glinting hair about me, delicate</p> - <p class="verse">And keen in spite of the open air.</p> - <p class="verse">And just as I entered the brilliant car</p> - <p class="verse">Something said to me you are dead—</p> - <p class="verse">I had not thought of you, was not thinking of you.</p> - <p class="verse">But I knew it was true, as it was</p> - <p class="verse">For the telegram waited me at my room.....</p> - <p class="verse8">I didn’t come back.</p> - <p class="verse">I could not bear to see the breathless breath</p> - <p class="verse">Over your brow—nor look at your face—</p> - <p class="verse">However you fared or where</p> - <p class="verse">To what victories soever—</p> - <p class="verse">Vanquished or seemingly vanquished!</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> Copyright, 1915, by Edgar Lee Masters. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="CHOLERICCOMMENTS"> -<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> -Choleric Comments -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Alexander S. Kaun</span> -</p> - -<p class="epi"> -Faithful are the wounds of a friend.—Proverbs, 27:6. -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">e</span> were looking at oriental rugs one day, that enfant terrible, the -Scavenger, and I. There were rugs that tempted me to transgress -the tenth commandment, and there were rugs that jarred me as if I were -listening to Carpenter’s <em>Perambulator</em> stunts. My fellow-flâneur became -impatient with my critical remarks. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t love rugs.” His Svidrigailovian face grinned. “If you -did, you would just love them, you would not quibble. Academician!” -</p> - -<p> -The last epithet is used by <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> priests and prophets -as a means to close all arguments. So it did on that occasion. But it left -me pondering over the words of a New York critic who accused our magazine -of being somewhat indiscriminate in its enthusiasm for the sake of -enthusiasm, in its emotionalism for the sake of emotion. I recalled blushingly -the confession of our chief Neo-Hellenist, who is moved aesthetically -by any sort of music, whether it emanates from Kreisler’s Stradivarius or -from the pianola at Henrici’s. -</p> - -<p> -I confess I am a fastidious lover. The dearer a person or a thing are -to me the more I demand from them, the more painfully I am hurt by their -flaws. Hence the number of my dislikes exceeds that of my likes. Hence -I grit my teeth at the sight of Maria Gay in <em>Carmen</em>. Because the music of -that opera is so full of eternal symbols to me, because when listening to it -I understand why Nietzsche preferred Bizet to Wagner,—I am scalded -by its vulgar cabaretization. Had I not been stirred by Mr. Powys’ remarkable -liturgy of St. Oscar Wilde, I would not have been so keenly -pricked by his subsequent remark in his Verlaine lecture that Rimbaud was -a ruffian. It is because I cannot live without music that I am compelled -to suffer weekly indigestion from the sauerkraut menus furnished by Mr. -Stock’s bâton. Will Mr. Scavenger of the rug-philosophy expect me not to -swear and damn at the prospect of being doomed to a long season of Meistersingers, -Perambulators, Goldmarckian fudge, Brahmsian Academics, Stockian -Jubilee-Confetti, and similar insults? Let me touch another sore:—the -Little Theatre, the Temple of Living Art, to which I have looked up with -reverence and hope; the only theatrical organization in the city that seemed -to have other considerations outside of box-receipts. I was present at the -opening night of this season, and left the little “catacomb” with an aching -heart. What reason, what artistic reason, is there to stage Andreyev’s -<em>Sabine Women</em> anywhere outside of Russia? The play was written as a -biting satire against the Russian liberals who fought against the government -<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> -with Tolstoyan Non-Resistance instead of joining the revolutionary proletariat. -In Andreyev’s land he is perfectly, painfully understood; but here, -on Michigan Avenue, the satire degenerated into a boring burlesque! Even -Raymond Johnson’s suggestive, graceful horizons fail to save the situation. -As to <em>Lithuania</em>—what is the matter with the Little Theatre males? They -move and speak like hermaphrodites, they drink vodka and swear in squeaking -falsettoes, they appear so feeble and effeminate in comparison with the -virile, gruesome Ellen Van Volkenburg and Miriam Kipper. Then, how -realistic—shades of Zola! Maurice Browne vomits so much more realistically -than Charlie Chaplin in <em>Shanghaied</em>.... -</p> - -<p> -Finding myself in the Fine Arts Building, I am in dangerous proximity -of another “Temple” that invites my friendly hostility. But I vision the -brandishment of the Editor’s fatal pencil—silenzia! Yet, if I must refrain -from, or at least postpone, my general attack on <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>, let me -be allowed, pray, to whip one of my confreres, the Scavenger. Whether a -sound thrashing will do him good or not is doubtful; but he certainly deserves -flagellation. As a denier, as a depreciator, as an anti, he is as convincing -as a bulldog; but when he loves, when he lauds and affirms, his -voice thins to that of a sick puppy. He should be administered cure from -his mania of showering superlatives upon false gods and counterfeit prophets. -I dislike the rôle of a Good Samaritan, but our Scavenger is so young, -so impressionable; perhaps he will repent. Besides, I sympathize with him. -He is one of those promising Americans who suffocate in their native atmosphere, -or lack of atmosphere, and are easily lured and led astray by -will-o’-the wisps. In his yearning for wings he is apt to proclaim a domestic -rooster as an eagle; in his craving for sun, for light, he often mistakes a -cardboard butaforial sun for Phœbus Apollo. Hence his admiration for -that Arch-Borrower, Huneker. “He is one of the two or three American -critics that are above Puritanic provincialism, that are broad, European!” -exclaims Scavenger. It is true; but this truth serves only as a testimonia -pauperitatis for the intellectual state of this country, where glittering counterfeit -coins are less odious than Simon-pure Americanism. The Huneker-cult -is one of the American tragedies of which I have spoken on other occasions, -the tragedy of surrogates. The young generation, seething with longing for -the great and the beautiful in life and art, is forced to feed on substitutes -in the absence of real quantities. They want to read a living word about -Verlaine, about Huysmans, about Matisse, about those winged titans who -make Trans-Atlantic life so rich and pulsating, and they turn to Huneker, -the great concocter of newspaper clippings and boulevard gossip. When -Scavenger read for me Huneker’s admirable essay on Huysmans I was not -yet aware that whatever was admirable in the essay had been borrowed -almost in toto from Havelock Ellis’s <em>Affirmations</em>.<a class="fnote" href="#footnote-2" id="fnote-2">[2]</a> Why use the second -<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> -or third-hand patched up cloak of Boulevardier-Huneker, when you may -drink from the very source, from Arthur Symons, from Havelock Ellis, -from—oh, well, who can recount them? Ah, the tragedy of substitutes! -</p> - -<p> -The other evening, at a gathering of “The Questioners,” I accused -Miss Harriet Monroe and Miss Margaret C. Anderson of being too lenient -editors, in not trying to mould the taste of their contributors. What conscientious -editor would allow a writer of Scavenger’s caliber to descend to -the irritating rhetoric of “The Dionysian Dreiser”? To print this loud -exaggeration immediately after Ben Hecht’s <em>Songs and Sketches</em> is to profess -the rug-philosophy. -</p> - -<p> -The Scavenger, as most of his colleagues, is a reformed Puritan. He -finds boyish delight in reading an author who is a professional fence-wrecker -and convention-smasher. To him immoralizing is a virtue <em>per se</em>. -He hails Dreiser as the greatest, for things that he has not done. Dreiser -is a genius because he has not followed the conventional novelist who makes -his villain repent or perish. I admit this; but such a negative virtue, significant -as it may appear in given conditions, does not qualify an artist. -<em>The “Genius”</em> is not art. It is instructive, it is of great value for the study -of contemporary America, as Mr. Masters pointed out. I can imagine that -in the twenty-first century <em>The “Genius”</em> will be used as a textbook for the -history of the United States in the end of the nineteenth century, for the -author has minutely depicted our customs and morals, has gone into detailed -description of country and city life, of farmers’ menues, of stomach-aches -and their cure, of Christian Science wonders, of salaries and prices, of all -the infinitesimal particles that compose the mosaique of mediocre life. Instructive—yes; -but art—by no means. Let me quote Havelock Ellis’s -<em>Affirmations</em>: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<p class="noindent"> -Three strokes with the brush of Frans Hals are worth a thousand -of Denner’s. Rich and minute detail may impress us, but it irritates -and wearies in the end.... When we are living deeply, the facts of -our external life do not present themselves to us in elaborate detail; a -very few points are—as it has been termed—focal in consciousness, -while the rest are marginal in subconsciousness. A few things stand -out vividly at each moment of life; the rest are dim. The supreme -artist is shown by the insight and boldness with which he seizes and -illuminates these bright points at each stage, leaving the marginal elements -in due subordination. -</p> - -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -Truisms, aren’t these? I wish Dreiser, “the greatest,” and his hailers -would ponder over them before they apply the term art to 736 pages devoted -to rumination of what Ellis calls “marginal elements” of life. And what -<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> -a life! In what respect does the life of Witla, the “genius,” deserve so much -elaboration and painstaking analysis? The hero’s only distinction is his -sexual looseness. But he is not a Sanin who gratifies his animalistic instincts -with contempt for motivation or justification. Witla, and Dreiser, -and Scavenger, are reformed Puritans. When Witla falls in “love” with the -round arm of a laundress, or with the golden hair of a country girl, or with -the black eyes of an art-model, or with the perfect form of a gambler’s -wife, or with the innocence of a mama’s girl; when in each case the lover -swears and damns and lyricizes in bad English and strives to win and possess -the object d’art, Mr. Dreiser appears from behind the sinner, pats him -on the shoulder, and flings defiantly into the faces of the terrified philistines: -“Witla is all-right. He is an artist. He loves beautiful things. See, -God damn you?!” Is he? Throughout the long book we are told time and -again that he is an <em>artist</em>. Unless we take the author’s word for it we are -inclined to doubt it very much. True, an artist loves beauty; but does he -necessarily desire to possess the object of his admiration? Does not the -contemplation of a beautiful arm or sunset or flower or vase or rug bring -the artist complete satisfaction and possession? I do not condemn Witla; -although I dislike him, for he is a loud mediocrity. There is a Witla in -every one of us men; but we take our Witla as our animalistic self, not as -the artistic. -</p> - -<p> -Ah, dear Scavenger, I do love rugs. But there are rugs and rugs. -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-2" id="footnote-2">[2]</a> <em>Affirmations, by Havelock Ellis. Boston: Houghton Mifflin.</em> -</p> - -<p class="footnote2"> -The first edition of the book was issued about twenty years ago, yet -one reads it now with keen joy. With the exception of the essay on Nietzsche, -which is somewhat obsolete, the essays on Zola, Huysmans, Casanova, -and St. Francis have stood the test of time. One feels the breeze of cleanness, -freshness, sincerity, and profundity. I may have an opportunity of -discussing the book some other time. - -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THESCAVENGERSSWANSONG"> -The Scavenger’s Swan Song -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">hat</span> a remarkable fellow my friend the Incurable is! I talk to him -about rugs, quite casually, as we wait for a car, and what does this devil of -a psychologist do but walk deep into my soul on one of them. I read him -a Huneker article on Huysmans which he remarks is excellent at the time, -only to find (almost too late) that I should have read Havelock Ellis.... -</p> - -<p> -How I envy him this distinction of having read Havelock Ellis instead -of James Huneker, of being subtle enough to prefer the deep, metaphysical -didactics concerning Life (with a capital L, Miss Editor) to the contemplation -of that most seductive of literary signposts—Huneker. But it is so -foolish to quibble about books.... If I had anything else to do I -wouldn’t read them.... -</p> - -<p> -Puritan, indeed! That is too much. I suspect it is only a withering -retort, a ferocious counter to the “academic charges.” But what of Dreiser—poor, -little, smug, banal, and illiterate Dreiser? You should have spared -him. You remember on the elevated going home one night how I pleaded -with you to spare him, how I argued, defended, fought? Ah, I am shamed. -I feel somehow responsible for this annihilation of a man, aye a good -writer, who was fast becoming one of the great men of America.... -</p> - -<p> -When you speak of music everything becomes clear to me. Here am I -<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> -who like music well enough to have studied it for ten years, who can -improvise as well on the violin as on the typewriter, but who nevertheless -have been denied the capacity for experiencing the critical disorganization -of the soul at the sound of bad music, and nervous exaltations at the sound -of good. I suffer and gloat—but subjectively. To me music is a background.... -It is not my natural form of self-expression. Neither -are rugs. -</p> - -<p> -And I haven’t time to be a connoisseur. Later—perhaps. But now -I reduce all such differences of attitude as yours and mine to the everlasting -wrangle between the connoisseur and the improviser. Yes? -</p> - -<p> -Puritan! That is nothing. Later you will call me charlatan because -I sometimes compose paradoxes and even epigrams. Culture abhors an -epigram. -</p> - -<p> -Ho! ho! the devil take you and all critics. We ride the crests—Miss -Editor and I. Once my friend the Incurable rode the crests and they -washed him up on a foreign shore, and now he calls the crests “foam” or -“emotion for emotion’s sake” or a lot of other rather true things. To ride -on the crests as long as you can—that’s the life (a small “l,” Miss Editor); -to think one thing today and another tomorrow, to have lots of fun, to -yell while you’re young, to believe Havelock Ellis a bearded old lady—in -short, “klushnik,” to follow the care-free, tortuous path of improvisation, -self-expression, instead of pursuing the lugubrious catacombs of criticism -and connoisseurship. -</p> - -<p> -As for my article, “The Dionysian Dreiser,” I will not defend that. -Your abuse of that writing coupled with your smug praise of Ben Hecht’s -atrocious poetry (concerning which I agree with my friend “Bubble” -Bodenheim, who told me it was so bad on the whole that he couldn’t get -it out of his mind) is inconsistent. -</p> - -<p> -Ah, friend, may my death and Dreiser’s be forever on your conscience. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -“<span class="smallcaps">The Scavenger.</span>” -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="DREGS"> -<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> -Dregs -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Ben Hecht</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="LIFE"> -Life -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> sun was shining in the dirty street. -</p> - -<p> -Old women with shapeless bodies waddled along on their way -to market. -</p> - -<p> -Bearded old men who looked like the fathers of Jerusalem walked -flatfooted, nodding back and forth. -</p> - -<p> -“The tread of the processional surviving in Halsted street,” thought -Moisse, the young dramatist who was moving with the crowd. -</p> - -<p> -Children sprawled in the refuse-laden alleys. One of them ragged -and clotted with dirt stood half-dressed on the curbing and urinated into -the street. -</p> - -<p> -Wagons rumbled, filled with fruits and iron and rags and vegetables. -</p> - -<p> -Human voices babbled above the noises of the traffic. Moisse watched -the lively scene. -</p> - -<p> -“Every day it’s the same,” he thought; “the same smells, the same -noise and people swarming over the pavements. I am the only one in the -street whose soul is awake. There’s a pretty girl looking at me. She suspects -the condition of my soul. Her fingers are dirty. Why doesn’t she -buy different shoes? She thinks I am lost. In five years she will be fat. -In ten years she will waddle with a shawl over her head.” -</p> - -<p> -The young dramatist smiled. -</p> - -<p> -“Good God,” he thought, “where do they come from. Where are they -going? No place to no place. But always moving, shuffling, waddling, -crying out. The sun shines on them. The rain pours on them. It burns. -It freezes. Today they are bright with color. Tomorrow they are grey -with gloom. But they are always the same, always in motion.” -</p> - -<p> -The young dramatist stopped on the corner and looking around him -spied a figure sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall of a building. -</p> - -<p> -The figure was an old man. -</p> - -<p> -He had a long white beard. -</p> - -<p> -He had his legs tucked under him and an upturned tattered hat rested -in his lap. -</p> - -<p> -His thin face was raised and the sun beat down on it, but his eyes -were closed. -</p> - -<p> -“Asleep,” mused Moisse. -</p> - -<p> -He moved closer to him. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> -The man’s head was covered with long silky white hair that hung down -to his neck and hid his ears. It was uncombed. His face in the sun looked -like the face of an ascetic, thin, finely veined. -</p> - -<p> -He had a long nose and almost colorless lips and the skin on his cheeks -was white. It was drawn tight over his bones, leaving few wrinkles. -</p> - -<p> -An expression of peace rested over him—peace and detachment. Of -the noise and babble he heard nothing. His eyes were closed to the crowded -frantic street. -</p> - -<p> -He sat, his head back, his face bathed in the sun, smileless and -dreaming. -</p> - -<p> -“A beggar,” thought Moisse, “asleep, oblivious. Dead. All day he -sits in the sun like a saint, immobile. Like one of the old Alexandrian -ascetics, like a delicately carved image. He is awake in himself but dead -to others. The waves cannot touch him. His thoughts, oh to know his -thoughts and his dreams?” -</p> - -<p> -Suddenly the eyes of the young dramatist widened. He was looking -at the beggar’s long hair that hung to his neck. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s moving,” he whispered half aloud. He came closer and stood -over the old man and gazed intently at the top of his head. -</p> - -<p> -The hair was swaying faintly, each separate fiber moving alone.... -</p> - -<p> -It shifted, rose imperceptibly and fell. It quivered and glided.... -</p> - -<p> -“Lice,” murmured Moisse. -</p> - -<p> -He watched. -</p> - -<p> -Silent and asleep the old man sat with his thin face to the sun and -his hair moved. -</p> - -<p> -Vermin swarmed through it creeping, crawling, tiny and infinitesimal. -</p> - -<p> -Every strand was palpitating, shuddering under their mysterious energy. -</p> - -<p> -At first Moisse could hardly make them out but his eyes gradually -grew accustomed to the sight. And as he watched he saw the hair swell -like waves riding over the water, saw it drop and flutter, coil and uncoil -of its own accord. -</p> - -<p> -Vermin raised it up, pulled it out, streaming up and down tirelessly -in vast armies. -</p> - -<p> -They crawled furiously like dust specks blown thick through the white -beard. -</p> - -<p> -They streamed and shifted and were never still. -</p> - -<p> -They moved in and out, from no place to no place, but always moving, -frantic, and frenzied. -</p> - -<p> -An old woman passed and with a shake of her head dropped two -pennies into the upturned hat. Moisse hardly saw her. He saw only the -palpitating swarms that were now racing, easily visible, through the grey -white hair. -</p> - -<p> -Some ventured down over the white ascetic face, crawling in every -direction, traveling around the lips and over the closed eyes, emerging -<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> -suddenly in thick streams from behind the covered ears and losing themselves -under the ever moving beard. -</p> - -<p> -And Moisse, his senses strained, thought he heard a noise—a faint -crunching noise. -</p> - -<p> -He listened. -</p> - -<p> -The noise seemed to grow louder. He began to itch but he remained -bending over the head. He could hear them, like a faraway murmur, a -purring, uncertain sound. -</p> - -<p> -“They’re shouting and groaning, crying out, weeping and laughing,” -he mused. “It is life ... life....” -</p> - -<p> -He looked up and down the crowded burning street with its frantic -crowd, and smiled. -</p> - -<p> -“Life,” he repeated.... -</p> - -<p> -He walked away. Before him floated the hair of the beggar moving as -if stirred by a slow wind, and he itched. -</p> - -<p> -“But who was the old man?” he thought. -</p> - -<p> -A young woman, plump and smiling, jostled him. He felt her soft -hip pressing against him for a moment. -</p> - -<p> -A child running barefoot through the street brushed against his legs. -He felt its sticky fingers seize him for an instant and then the child was -gone. On he walked. -</p> - -<p> -Three young men confronted him for a second time. He passed between -two of them, squeezed by their shoulders. -</p> - -<p> -A shapeless old woman bumped him with her back as she shuffled past. -</p> - -<p> -Two children dodged in and out screaming and seized his arm to -turn on. -</p> - -<p> -The young dramatist stopped and remained standing still, looking -about him. -</p> - -<p> -Then he laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“Life,” he murmured again; and -</p> - -<p> -“I am the old man,” he added, “I ... I....” -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="DEPTHS"> -Depths -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Crowds began to come out of the buildings. -</p> - -<p> -They came in streams and broad waves, breaking in a black sweep over -the pavements and spreading into a thick long mass that moved forward. -The glassy lights cut the twilight drizzel with their yellow fire. The tumult -grew until up and down the street an unceasing din sounded, shrieking, -roaring, clanging noises. -</p> - -<p> -Moisse, the young dramatist, stood against one of the office buildings -as the throngs spilled past him on their ways home. His eyes were fixed -<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> -on the distant gloom of the sky which hung beyond the drizzel and the fuzzy -glare of light like a vast black froth. -</p> - -<p> -“It is so silent,” mused Moisse. “Millions of miles without a sound. -Man and his accomplishments are infinitesimal,” went on the young dramatist -as the swelling throng brushed and buffeted against him, “but his ego is -infinite. Only by thought can he reach the stars.” -</p> - -<p> -He was thoughtless for a moment, holding his position with difficulty -as the crowds pressed past. Then he resumed: -</p> - -<p> -“None of them looks at me. None of them imagines I am thinking -of the stars. How startled these fat evil-smelling men and women would -be if they could see my thought for a moment as they crashed along their -tiny ways. But nevertheless I don’t eat tonight,” he murmured suddenly, -as if awakening. And the idea plunged him into a series of reflections from -which he emerged with a frown and looked about him. -</p> - -<p> -A short thick man with an unshaven face was shuffling past. His skin -was broken under his growth of beard with red and purple sores. His -mouth hung open, his eyes stared ahead of him and his head was bent forward. -Moisse thought of the body concealed by the layers of caked rags -which covered the man, and shuddered. -</p> - -<p> -“He never bathes,” mused the young dramatist. “I wonder what a -creature like that does.” And he followed him slowly. -</p> - -<p> -At the corner the man stopped and blew his nose violently with his -fingers. Another block and he stopped again, bending over in the midst -of the crowd and straightening with a cigar butt in his hand. He eyed -the thing critically. It was flattened at the end where feet had passed over -it. The man thrust it between his lips and shuffled on. -</p> - -<p> -In a vestibule he extracted a blackened match from his pocket and -with shaking fingers lighted the butt. When it burned he blew a cloud -of smoke, and taking it out of his mouth regarded it with satisfaction. -</p> - -<p> -Several in the throng noticed him, their eyes resting with disapproval -and sometimes hate upon the figure. Once a crossing policeman spied -him and followed him with his gaze until he was lost to view. -</p> - -<p> -Moisse kept abreast of him and together they turned into an alley -that led behind a hotel. The man’s eyes never wavered, but remained -fixed in the direction he was moving. -</p> - -<p> -The alley was dark. In the court that ran behind the hotel were several -large, battered cans that shone dully against the black wall. Debris littered -the ground. Looking furtively at the closed doors the man made his way -to one of the cans. -</p> - -<p> -He lifted the cover cautiously and thrust his arm into its depths. For -several minutes he remained with his arm lost inside the refuse can. -</p> - -<p> -“He’s found something,” whispered Moisse. -</p> - -<p> -The man straightened. In his hand he held an object on which sparks -seemed to race up and down like blue insects. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> -He raised his find to his face and then thrust it into his pocket and -resumed his shuffle down the alley. -</p> - -<p> -“To think,” mused Moisse, “of a man eating out of a garbage can. -Either he is inordinately hungry or careless to a point of ... of....” -</p> - -<p> -He searched for a word that refused to appear and he followed slowly -after the man. In the dim light of a side street the man paused and took -out his booty. It was evidently the back of a fowl. -</p> - -<p> -Standing still the man thrust it into his mouth, gnawing and tearing at -its bones. After he had eaten for several minutes he held it up to the light -and started picking at shreds of meat with his fingers. These he licked off -his hand. -</p> - -<p> -The meal was at length finished. The man threw the gleaned bones -away, blew his nose and walked on. -</p> - -<p> -Through the dark tumbled streets Moisse followed. The shuffling -figure fascinated him. He noted the gradually increasing degradation of -the neighborhood, the hovels that seemed like torn, blackened rags, the -broken streets piled with refuse and mud. -</p> - -<p> -In front of a lighted house the man stopped. The curtains which -hung over the two front windows of the house were torn. One of them -was half destroyed and Moisse saw into the room in which a gas jet -flickered and which was empty. -</p> - -<p> -The man walked up the steps and knocked at the door. It was opened. -</p> - -<p> -“A woman,” whispered Moisse. -</p> - -<p> -She vanished, and the man followed her. The two appeared in a -moment in the room with the gas light. -</p> - -<p> -The woman was tall and thin, her hair hung down her back in two -scimpy braids. Her face was coated with paint and great hollows loomed -under her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -The man walked to her, his open mouth widened in a grin. -</p> - -<p> -“They’re talking,” murmured the young dramatist as he watched their -haggard faces move strangely. He noted the woman was dressed in a -wrapper, colorless and streaked. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder—” he began, but the scene captured his attention. He -watched absorbed. The woman was shaking her head and backing away -from the man who finally halted in the center of the room. -</p> - -<p> -He lifted a foot from the floor and removed its shoe. Standing with -the shoe in his hand his eyes glistened at the woman who watched him with -her neck stretched forward and a sneer on her lips. -</p> - -<p> -The man put his hand in the shoe and brought out a coin. -</p> - -<p> -“A twenty-five cent piece,” muttered Moisse. -</p> - -<p> -The man held it up in his fingers and laughed. His face distorted itself -into strange wrinkles when he laughed. Moisse who could not hear -the laugh saw only an imbecilic grimace. The woman took the coin, and -left the room. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> -She returned in a moment holding out her arms to the man. -</p> - -<p> -He seized her, crushing her body against him until she was bent -backward. He pressed his face over her, his mouth still open, his eyes -staring. -</p> - -<p> -The woman stared back and laughed, fastening her lips suddenly -to his. -</p> - -<p> -Losing his balance, the man staggered and the woman broke from his -grasp. He pounced on her, seizing her hand and jerking her against him. -</p> - -<p> -As she held back he raised his fist and struck her fiercely in the face. -She swayed for an instant and then stood quiet. -</p> - -<p> -Her lips began to smile and move in speech. The man shook his head -rapturously, rubbing his nose with a finger and panting. -</p> - -<p> -Moisse turned away and walked slowly toward the town. -</p> - -<p> -“Good God,” he murmured, “he’ll take his clothes off and she....” -</p> - -<p> -His emotions began to trouble him. An unrest stirred his body. -</p> - -<p> -“I should have gone in there and taken her away from him,” he mused, -and then with a shudder he walked on—smiling. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="GRATITUDE"> -Gratitude -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -The avenue bubbled brightly under the grey rain. -</p> - -<p> -The afternoon crowd had melted from the sidewalk, washed into hallways -and under awnings by the downpour. -</p> - -<p> -It began to look like evening. A refreshing gloom settled over the -street. -</p> - -<p> -The wind leaped out of alley courts and byways and raced over the -pavement accompanied by spattering arpeggios of rain. -</p> - -<p> -Moisse, the young dramatist, turned into the avenue. His voluminous -black raincoat, reaching from his ears to his shoe tops, flapped in front -of him. -</p> - -<p> -By exercising the most diligent effort, however, he managed rather to -saunter than walk, and he kept his eyes raptly fixed upon the deserted -stretch of shining cement. -</p> - -<p> -As he moved peacefully along he repeated to himself: -</p> - -<p> -“The rain leaps and <a id="corr-6"></a>pirouettes like a chorus of Russian elves. It jumps. -It bounces. It hops, skips, and runs. Flocks of little excited silver birds -are continually alighting around my feet and chattering in a thousand -voices. I should have been a poet.” -</p> - -<p> -Removing his gaze from the ground he looked at the faces which -lined the buildings and floated like pale lamps in the darkened vestibules. -</p> - -<p> -“Everyone is watching me,” he thought, “for in my attitude there is -the careless courage of an unconscious heroism. I stroll along indifferent -to the rain. It splashes down my neck. It takes the crease out of my -trousers. It trickles off the brim of my hat. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> -“And all this stamps me momentarily in these afflicted minds as an -unusual human. -</p> - -<p> -“That one with the monogomistic side-whiskers is wondering what a -queer fellow I am. -</p> - -<p> -“What can it be that engrosses my attention to the point of making -me so oblivious to the rain? -</p> - -<p> -“And that fat woman with the face like a toy balloon is certain I will -catch my death of cold. -</p> - -<p> -“The little girl with the wide eyes thinks I am in love. -</p> - -<p> -“There is an infinite source of speculation in my simple conduct.” -</p> - -<p> -The water was making headway down the back of his neck, but Moisse -hesitated and then abstained from adjusting his collar more firmly. -</p> - -<p> -“They will notice it,” he thought, “and immediately I will lose the distinctive -aloofness which characterizes me now.” -</p> - -<p> -So moving leisurely down the avenue Moisse, the young dramatist, -progressed, his eyes apparently unconscious of the scene before him, his -soul oblivious to the saturated world, and his mind occupied with distant -and mysterious thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -The downpour began to assume the proportions of a torrent. Moisse -persisted in his tracks. -</p> - -<p> -Someone touched his elbow. -</p> - -<p> -He turned and found a little old man with faded eyes and threadbare, -dripping clothes smiling earnestly at his side. -</p> - -<p> -The little old man was bent in the shoulders. His shirt had no collar. -His brown coat was buttoned to his neck. -</p> - -<p> -His face screwed up by a sensitiveness to the cataract of drops beating -against it, was round and full of wrinkles. -</p> - -<p> -It had the quizzical, goodnatured look of a fuzzy little dog. -</p> - -<p> -His wet eyes that seemed to be swimming in a red moisture peered at -Moisse who was frowning. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m hungry,” began the little old man, “I ain’t had anything to eat—” -</p> - -<p> -“How much do you want?” inquired Moisse. -</p> - -<p> -“Anything,” said the beggar. -</p> - -<p> -The young dramatist felt in his pocket. A single half-dollar encountered -his fingers. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve only got a half-dollar,” he said, “I’ll get it changed. Come on.” -</p> - -<p> -The two of them walked in silence, Moisse still sauntering, the little -old man bent over and looking as if he wanted to speak but was afraid of -dissipating a dream. -</p> - -<p> -“Wait here,” Moisse said suddenly, “I’ll go in and get change.” -</p> - -<p> -He stepped into the box office of one of the large moving-picture -theaters on the avenue and secured change. -</p> - -<p> -The little old man had followed him inside the building, his eyes -watching him with an eager curiosity. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> -Moisse turned with the change to find the beggar at his elbow. -</p> - -<p> -He handed him fifteen cents. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s the matter?” he inquired. “Been drinking?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no,” said the beggar. -</p> - -<p> -“Why haven’t you?” persisted Moisse frowning; “don’t you know -there’s nothing for you but drink. That’s what drink is for. Men like you.” -</p> - -<p> -The faded eyes livened. -</p> - -<p> -“Now you go and get yourself three good shots of booze,” went on -Moisse, “and you’ll be a new man for the rest of the day.” -</p> - -<p> -The beggar had become excited. -</p> - -<p> -His lips moved in a nervous delight but he uttered no sound. With -the fingers of his right hand he picked at the blackened and <a id="corr-7"></a>roughly-bitten -nails of his other. He cleared his throat and then as if suddenly inspired, -removed his drenched hat and raised his eyebrows. -</p> - -<p> -Touched by the sincerity of the little old man’s emotions the young -dramatist reached into his pocket and brought forth another ten cent piece. -</p> - -<p> -“Here,” he said, “buy two more drinks.” -</p> - -<p> -The little man seemed about to break into a dance. His face became -tinged with the pink of an old woman’s cheek. -</p> - -<p> -The red moisture ran out of his eyes in two white tears. Moisse regarded -him, frowning. -</p> - -<p> -“Once you were young as I am today,” said Moisse aloud, fastening -his eyes upon the top of the little old man’s head which seemed dirty and -bald despite the pale hair, and alive. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps you had ambitions and then some commonplace occurred -and you lost them. And now you float around begging nickles. That’s -interesting. A little old man begging nickles in the rain.” -</p> - -<p> -The beggar smiled eagerly and then ventured a slight laugh. -</p> - -<p> -He came closer to Moisse and stood trembling. -</p> - -<p> -“Asking for crumbs,” went on Moisse with a deepening frown, “cursed -at night when alone by memories that will not die. Eh?” He looked suddenly -into the faded eyes and smiled. -</p> - -<p> -The little old man nodded his head vigorously. He caught his breath -and stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his <a id="corr-8"></a>cheeks wrinkled -as if he were about to cry. -</p> - -<p> -His breath struck the young dramatist and he averted his nose. -</p> - -<p> -“Strange,” resumed he, “now you have a quarter and I have a quarter -and still we remain so different. Isn’t it strange, old fellow? Yet it is -the inevitable inequality of men that makes us brothers.” -</p> - -<p> -The beggar was about to speak. Moisse paused and looked with interest -at the round face, the quivering nostrils and the lips that were twitching -into speech. -</p> - -<p> -“No one has talked to me like you,” he said, “no one.” -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> -And he caught his breath and stared with a strange expression at his -benefactor. -</p> - -<p> -He bit at a finger nail and lowered his head. He seemed suddenly in -the throes of a great mental struggle for his face had become earnest. -</p> - -<p> -It endured for a moment and then he looked at Moisse. -</p> - -<p> -“You—you want me to come along with you,” he said and he scratched -at the back of his ear. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll come along if you want me to,” he repeated. -</p> - -<p> -“Come along? Where?” Moisse asked, his eyes awakening. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, anyplace,” said the little old man. “I ain’t particular, if you -ain’t.” -</p> - -<p> -He was breathing quickly and he reached for the palm of his patron. -</p> - -<p> -A deep light had come into his face. His faded eyes had grown -stronger. Their quizzical look was gone and they were burning in their -wet depths. -</p> - -<p> -They looked now with a maternal intensity into the eyes of Moisse and -their smile staggered the sophistication of the young dramatist. -</p> - -<p> -The little old man continued to breathe hard until he began to quiver. -</p> - -<p> -He suddenly assumed command. -</p> - -<p> -“Come,” he said, seizing Moisse by the palm and squeezing it. “I know -a place we can go and get a room cheap and where we won’t be disturbed. -It ain’t so nice a place but come.” -</p> - -<p> -He squeezed the palm he held for the second time. -</p> - -<p> -The deep light that had come into his little dog’s face softened and two -tears rolled again out of his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -He caught his breath in a sob. -</p> - -<p> -“I—I don’t drink,” he said; “I’m hungry—but I can wait ... until -we get through.” -</p> - -<p> -He was beaming coquettishly through his tears and fondling the young -dramatist’s hand. -</p> - -<p> -“I can wait,” he repeated, raising his blue lips toward Moisse, his face -transfigured and glowing pink. -</p> - -<p> -“I see,” said Moisse, withdrawing his hand with an involuntary shudder. -He was about to say something but he turned, again involuntarily, -and hurried away, breaking into a run when he found himself in the rain. -</p> - -<p> -The little old man’s face drooped. -</p> - -<p> -He walked slowly staring after him. -</p> - -<p> -He stood bareheaded while the rain bombarded his drenched figure -and he looked at the young dramatist running. -</p> - -<p> -While he stood gazing after him his face screwed up was suffused with -a strange tenderness and the tears dripped out of his eyes. -</p> - -<div class="editorials chapter"> -<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="editorials" id="EDITORIALS"> -Editorials and Announcement -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="EMMAGOLDMANATTHEFINEARTSTHEATRE"> -<em>Emma Goldman at the Fine Arts Theatre</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">B</span><span class="postfirstchar">eginning</span> Sunday night, November 21, Emma Goldman is -to deliver nine new lectures in the most interesting playhouse -in town—the Fine Arts Theatre, Chicago home of the Irish Players -and Miss Horniman’s company and Miss Barnsdall’s Players’ Producing -company, etc. The complete list of lectures will be found -on page 44. -</p> - -<p> -The first, on “Preparedness”—well, if you heard the Powys-Browne -debate last Sunday night and agree with Margery Currey -that Mr. Browne struck the roots of the issue, then I <em>beg</em> you to -hear Emma Goldman. Mr. Browne said something about the real -issue being whether people would rather kill or be killed. I could -scarcely believe my ears.... If you once listen to Emma -Goldman talking of fundamentals you can never fall for sentimentalizations -again. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="WILLOURREADERSHELP"> -<em>Will Our Readers Help?</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">here</span> is a beautiful plan on foot to help <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -live through its third year. It is this: -</p> - -<p> -If our readers will order their books through the Gotham Book -Society we will receive a certain percentage on all the sales. This -arrangement has been made with the publishers, so that any book -you want, whether listed in our pages or not, may be procured at -the same price for which it is on sale at your local bookseller’s—and -sometimes even less than that. You will find full particulars -on page 50 of this issue. -</p> - -<p> -Radical magazines do not become popular, and the problem of -meeting the cost of production every month is really a desperate -one. If there is a good response to this plan we ought to make the -bulk of our publishing cost out of it, and then we can devote our -energies to the improvement of the magazine’s quality. Will you -please keep this in mind when ordering your books? It will mean -such a tremendous thing to us! -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THERUSSIANLITERATURECLASS"> -<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> -<em>The Russian Literature Class</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> reply to many inquiries about the group for the study of Russian -literature, we are glad to announce that the idea is in the process -of realization. Early in January the group will meet, and will proceed -to attend the regular lectures. The course will be offered by -a Russian, who is well known to the readers of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -Those willing to join the adventure are asked to send their names -and addresses to 834 Fine Arts Building. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="JOHNCOWPERPOWYSONWAR"> -John Cowper Powys on War -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margery Currey</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">I</span><span class="postfirstchar">t</span> was a quite, quite dreadful jolt that shook the John Cowper Powys -cult on the night of the debate between the master and Maurice Browne -of the Little Theatre. The great one, appearing robed in black, through his -Delphic, released, blinding vapor clouds of infallible utterance, was to devastate -the suggestion that war is evil, avoidable, and should not be prepared -for by military methods. Maurice Browne was to defend the suggestion. -</p> - -<p> -Scarce half a moon before had the first murmuring of discontent arisen -among the worshipers of the temple, when their idol, beautiful, mordant, -flaming, strode forth in flapping black garments and proclaimed that in -this great war of many nations “the gall and vitriol and wormwood and -uncleanness of mankind are burned, purged from the purified flesh of humanity; -that then humanity is transformed, until the passion of hate is -hardly distinguishable from the passion of love.” -</p> - -<p> -The master himself was the glorious vulture of war. Looming there -on the stage of the Little Theatre, black, huge, alone under a vast orange -sky heavily streaked with black, a violet light from somewhere touching -the crimson of his face—and beside him in that great lonely cosmos an iridescent -emerald bowl upon a high ivory pedestal. That little, little iridescent -bowl, the ivory, the vast peace of a universe, no coagulating clots -<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> -hanging from the shreds of bodies torn and entangled in the barbed wire -meshes of the trenches, no cries—only one huge black moving thing there. -</p> - -<p> -“War a great evil and an unmitigated wrong? I cannot see it. A -pacifist struggle for existence is only a meaner struggle. They are fools -who think it advisable or possible to stamp out war; they are knaves if, -thinking this possible or advisable, they still go on a pacifist crusade.” -</p> - -<p> -Followed then the picture of a well-managed nation during war, a -regime of exalted socialism—the pooling of all moneys, the raising of the -income tax, the rich paying for the needs of the poor; she who was once -thought a bedraggled hussy of London’s east end now become a savior of -her country, in her potential gift of a son to the recruiting office of her -country; the high price now set on flesh and blood, even that of the most -humble. -</p> - -<p> -Well, all this heroic joy and thin-ice socialism—it was announced at the -end of the evening that the week after the subject would be Walt Whitman. -Thank heaven! Let his people listen to John Cowper Powys on Walt Whitman. -Of these he should speak—of Walt Whitman, of Oscar Wilde, of -Huysmans and Richepin and Milton and Ficke and Baudelaire and Goethe -and Shakespeare. On these he speaks divinely. Peace and war indeed! -</p> - -<p> -And the debate? There stood Maurice Browne in valiant opposition, -really “the idealist and fanatic” as his opponent called him, not adding “the -clear thinker,” the rejector of temptations to revel in obvious and facile -romanticisms on the sweet decorum of dying for one’s country, with all the -talk of defending one’s beloved from the hand of the ravager. There were -even those who understood Mr. Browne when his bravery and his prophetic -sight let him dare to say such things as “It is better to be killed than to -kill. To refrain from a combat of violence when the victims might be your -dearest ones is not to put a finger in the cogs of God’s orderly universe. It -is a question of looking the God that is within you in the face.” As for the -merits of the debate, the matter of war and its avoidableness was not -touched on in its practical aspects, except by one who presided over the -meeting and in three intelligent moments discussed the economic and the -proved sides of war. <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> is no tract, and we may pass -that by as understood. -</p> - -<p> -And after it all, out of an audience of two hundred and twenty—when -they overflowed the Little Theatre they trooped to the Fine Arts Assembly -Room—eighty-four stood up to announce their conviction that war is not -evil, not avoidable, and should be prepared for by military methods, and -some sixty others stood up to indicate their opposite conviction! The vote -was on the merits of the question. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THETHEATRE"> -<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> -The Theatre -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="subt"> -THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PLAYERS -</p> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Saxe Commins</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">W</span><span class="postfirstchar">ere</span> I a self-appointed apologist for the Washington Square Players -I might be able to say with gracious fairness that “their works are -not worth as much as their endeavors but their endeavors are heroic.” But -I am not inclined to pardon these enthusiasts whose enthusiasm has become -cautious, whose ideals are inoffensive, whose outlines are blurred by an -undiscerning dilettantism, who in the absence of a dominant individual -characteristic flounder helplessly through an unbalanced, inartistic program, -that is only relieved, fortunately, by Mr. Phil Moeller’s delicious satire -<em>Helena’s Husband</em>. -</p> - -<p> -“It is not from what you emancipate yourself, it is for what.”—Let us -see whether the Washington Square Players have really liberated themselves -from the Broadway tradition of “getting it over,” from the sacrifice -of the artistic for the opportune, and from the fear of offending the generous -critics of the New York Press and incidentally a gullible public. “What -have they done that has an element of daring, invigorating thought,” was -asked of one of the members of the producing staff. “<em>My Lady’s Honor</em>, -one of last year’s plays,” was his answer. To those who were unfortunate -enough to have seen this pseudo-feminist tract—George Broadhurst supplanting -Ibsen in a free theatre—I need not tell what resentment that remark -aroused. Nor could those who saw <em>Moondown</em> on the same bill be -more antagonized than I was when I heard so fatuous a statement as “If -we had more plays like <em>Moondown</em> we would establish the equivalent in -America to the Celtic renaissance.” Is this “for what” the Washington -Square Players have emancipated themselves? Even if <em>Moondown</em> had any -value in itself would they deserve any credit for an aspiration that is only -a conditional imitation? I take these casual expressions of members of the -organization critically because there is a most noticeable absence of persistent, -highly individualized effort, because there is a majority rule, the -odorlessness of an insipid mixture prevalent in the atmosphere about the -Band Box. They are successful—unfortunately. -</p> - -<p> -Consider the present bill. Has the play-reading committee shown any -distinction that differentiates it from those Broadway theatrical agencies that -supply syndicated thrills on demand? Have they not arranged their programme -without any regard for balance, to the vaudeville formula in this -manner: One curtain-raiser on a current topic—of course the war; one -<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> -play cut and measured for the star, a misfit, to prepare you for the middle -piece, in this instance an amazingly clever satire by Phil Moeller; and then -the end-up—(Yes, they have outgrown Broadway; they don’t wave a big -American flag as a grand finale number)—in this spirit: “wouldn’t a fancifully -pagan thing be very nice to show that we have a conception of the -beautiful?” Voilà—the whole is the sum of its parts, mathematically accurate, -yes; but “who knows whether two and two don’t make five” in the -science of Esthetics, if there is such a thing. -</p> - -<p> -Where, I cannot understand, is their proclaimed aspiration of finding -plays which fulfill the artistic merit that they would lead us to believe the -New York theatre-goer demands? If there is such a public, do they think -and choose for them secure in the belief that the patient supporters of these -sterile Little Theatre movements will abide such exploitation? Is their -complacency so complete that they can disregard every requirement that a -“New Theatre” movement imposes and yet get away with it? When I -use the term “New Theatre” I mean it in the Strindbergian sense, a new -and thoroughly iconoclastic theatre that panders to no opinion, whose merit -lies solely in an individual and artistic distinction, a theatre that has something -of the “continual slight novelty.” -</p> - -<p> -<em>Fire and Water</em>, the opening play of the bill by Hervey White, is a -sacrifice of art to the god of timeliness, an inane argument, an undramatic -episode, a virtuous plea against War that permits its author to air some -abstractions on brotherhood and equality with utter disregard for the tenseness -or the dramatic possibilities of the situation. Broadway knows better. -They, at least, are both opportune and spectacular and do not pour forth -so much of what Nietzsche calls “moralic acid.” -</p> - -<p> -<em>Night of Snow</em>, by Roberto Bracco, seems chosen ostensibly to allow -Mr. Ralph Roeder to cover as great an area of the stage as is possible in -forty-five minutes of monotonous gesture to the melodious obligato of a -voice ranting second-rate Hamlet self-lacerations. It tells the story of a -person half gentleman, half derelict, who likes to cry about it while his -mistress and mother indulge themselves to satiation with sickly sweet sacrifice. -“I am his Mo-ho-ther” etcetera. What a relief was Moeller’s play—a -play that could not even be contaminated by its environment. I think -Anatole France would be glad to have written it. <em>Helena’s Husband</em> is -much more than an historical interpretation of a phase of the Trojan wars. -It is the truth! Moeller is more than clever. He knows as well as France -that “history is a pack of lies.” -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Antick</em>, by Percy Mackaye, is a devitalized Pagan attempt which -in spite of charming Lupokova was extremely tedious. I heard little of it, -so poor was the enunciation of the actors, and for my concentrated attention -I was rewarded with an incoherent effort to transplant Pan to barren, -colorless New England. I wonder whether Mr. Mackaye ever read Pater’s -<em>Denys L’Auxerrois</em>? -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> -At least the Washington Square Players presume to desire, even though -it be in a misdirected manner. Will they overcome the affable praise that -they get so generously from uncritical critics? Will they mature sufficiently -to recognize the mistakes of their infancy? There is still hope that they can -be saved from success. Where is the strong, perhaps tyrannical, individual -who can do it? -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="LITHUANIA"> -“Lithuania” -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Whoever hasn’t seen the Little Theatre’s production of Rupert Brooke’s -<em>Lithuania</em> has missed an excellent although unimportant dramatic treat. It -is the most “effective” thing of its kind I ever have seen executed in Chicago. -It is one prolonged and unrelieved shudder from start to finish. -</p> - -<p> -Rupert Brooke is the hero of the occasion. His play is the thing. The -theme is that of the guest who stops over in an outlying peasant hut and -is murdered in his chamber while he sleeps. Brooke added a flourish in -making the guest a returned son of the house who vanished when he was -thirteen. Taking this hackneyed idea Brooke moulded it with consummate -skill. And the result is a study in horror and pathology, vivid, artistic and -for its effect upon the audience to be compared only to the witnessing of -a child birth. Three of its actors rose to its demands. Mrs. Browne as -the lame daughter contributed practically all the human atmosphere there -was. <a id="corr-9"></a>Miriam Kiper abetted her. Allan <a id="corr-10"></a>MacDougall, in the part of a half-witted -son of a tavern keeper, added a few excellent moments. The other -men were, however, entirely unsuccessful in their efforts. Maurice Browne, -as the peasant father, failed with the rest of them to give the impression -the play demanded, sullen, grim, virile, despondency. But it was there, -despite them. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="ANOBJECTION"> -An Objection -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -Why is it people have such stupid reactions to the plays put on by the -Chicago Little Theatre? I do not know. It is easy to explain why they -talk in subdued tones while entering; why they almost walk on tip-toe; why -they ask for the programs almost with awe; and why, sometimes, they stop -their chatter as the lights are slowly dimmed. The causes of these actions -and their explanation are obvious. And yet—after the play! What inane, -half-witted remarks about the bill! This “notice” printed above about the -opening bill of their fourth season—what is it worth as a piece of criticism, -as a review, or even as an account of the proceedings it so tritely and knowingly -pretends to explain? “Mrs. Browne as the lame daughter.... -Miriam Kiper abetted her. MacDougall ... added a few excellent -moments.... Maurice Browne ... failed with the rest of -them.” What rot! In watching Brooke’s play you are not aware that you -<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> -are watching “Mrs. Browne as the lame daughter” or Miriam Kiper as -the mother, MacDougall as the son of an inn-keeper, or Mr. Browne as the -father. You do not find time to bother about that part of your reaction. -Your subjection to play and players is too strong and tense. It is the usual -thing to bother after the play, questioning members—who played this role?—who -played that role? And then, after hours or days of weighing and -shallow balancing, write a “review.” Again I question: Why do people -react so stupidly to the plays at this theatre? This is not the adequate or -honest way to view a play like Brooke’s or acting like the Little Theatre company’s. -In this play even as in <em>The Trojan Women</em> they have closely approached -that losing themselves in the “impersonal ideal” or “one tradition” -of which Mr. Powys spoke so white-heatedly in a former article in <span class="smallcaps">The -Little Review</span>. Except for MacDougall and for Moseman, who are -<em>always</em> MacDougall and Moseman, we were watching a play—and forgot -to gather the ingredients and essentials of the inevitable review. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="BOOKDISCUSSION"> -Book Discussion -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="ANINSPIREDPUBLISHER"> -An Inspired Publisher -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">o</span> paraphrase the biblical adage: Samson is upon ye, Philistines! -That quaint giant, Russian literature, is storming the Anglo-Saxon world; -and no longer in apothecary doses, in solitary books, but in avalanches. A -practical dreamer, Alfred A. Knopf, is determined to deluge this country -with the best and nearly best that has been written in Russia, and he is -doing it on a big scale, in torrents and showers. Such a dizzying list of -publications: Gogol, Goncharov, Lermontov, Gorky, Andreyev, Garshin, -Kropotkin; and he is going to give us Sologub, Kuzmin, Ropshin! And -he has given us <a id="corr-12"></a>Przybyszewski’s <em>Homo Sapiens</em>, the book about which I -have been drumming the ears of my American friends for years, the book -that has stirred me more than any other work of art,—I mean it literally. -Mr. Knopf has introduced another novel feature on the book-market: he -selects translators from among those who know three things—Russian, -English, and how to write,—so that the reader will be spared the torture -of wading through a badly-done translation from the French version of -a German translation from the Russian (examples? Recall <em>Sanine</em>!). -</p> - -<p> -A literature is like a people; if you want to know it, you must learn not -only its Cromwells and Napoleons, but also its Asquiths and Vivianis; not -only its Shakespeares and Goethes, but its Wellses and Sudermanns as -well. Turgenyev, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, do not exhaust Russian literature -<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> -of the nineteenth century, though they are the greatest novelists of their -epoch. There are many interesting sides of Russian life which are not -reflected on the canvasses of the great Trio, but have been painted by perhaps -minor artists, whom we cannot afford to miss if we intend to gain a -clear vista of that peculiar life and its peculiar literature. -</p> - -<p> -Hence Goncharov and his <em>Precipice</em>. In Russia he is ranked next to -Turgenyev. Without the latter’s delicate lyricism Goncharov presents the -objective artist, if this is possible, in depicting the life of the gentry, the -class that has been either ignored or caricatured by the writers with a -<em>Tendenz</em>. In <em>Precipice</em> we face Rayski, Vyera, the grandmother, the passing -types of the romantic nobility, whose passions and tragedies are as -stirring and as human as those of the more democratic elements of society. -</p> - -<p> -Garshin is another writer heretofore unknown to the English world. -His <em>Signal and other Stories</em> are achingly Russian. Garshin is a product of -the Eighties, the epoch of “petty deeds,” when the heavy boot of Alexander -III. drove into the underground all that was idealistic in his country. The -soil-less <em>Intelligentzia</em> had the alternative of turning retrogrades or going -insane. Garshin’s lot was with the latter category. His few stories ache -with the black melancholy which finally hurled him down a flight of stone -steps,—his last flight. His war impressions are gripping with the resigned -Russian sadness; they are all-human, universal; but <em>Attalea Princeps</em>, the -symbolical tale of an exotic plant chafing in a hot-house—who but a compatriot -of mad Garshin will fathom its profound tragicness! -</p> - -<p> -The republication of Kropotkin’s <em>Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature</em> -will be of service to the critical student of Russian literature. I say -critical, for although the book is rich in material the personal views of the -author and his valuations of the writers are considerably obsolete and -tainted with the liberalistic tendency of “problem”-friends. -</p> - -<p> -Below are more reviews of Mr. Knopf’s publications. The most important -one is Przybyszewski’s <em>Homo Sapiens</em>. It deserves a special article. -See the next issue! -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="GOGOL"> -Homo Monstrosus -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Taras Bulba, by Nicolai Gogol. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -They burned him at the stake, bound to a great tree in iron chains. -The flames lapped at his feet, glowing into his old face that was scarred -and leathered with battle, brightening the silver of his fierce mustache.... -</p> - -<p> -Out of the reddened shadows that fell over him like a mantle his lips -could be seen curling in a smile, contemptuous and arrogant, and he turned -his eyes toward the Dnyeper where the boats of his brothers were pulling -away under a rain of lead. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> -“Farewell, comrades,” he shouted to them; “remember me, and come -hither again next spring to make merry!” -</p> - -<p> -And then he turned to the Lyakhs against whom he had waged war -and who knew him as the raven of the steppe. -</p> - -<p> -The fire had risen above the faggots and the great tree was burning. -Out of the flames came the voice of the hero.... -</p> - -<p> -“A Tzar shall arise from the Russian soil and there shall not be a -Power in the world which shall not submit to him.” -</p> - -<p> -Thus died Taras Bulba, kazak. -</p> - -<p> -In this day when a man’s skin is his most greedily guarded possession -and the lisping of pale, pretty words his greatest glory, Taras Bulba comes -charging into America, a figure in need. On his black horse he comes, his -scalp lock flying in the wind, his sword waving in great circles above his -head, his body leaning over the shining neck of his steed and his voice -ringing with the battle whoop of the kazak. -</p> - -<p> -He is the eternal warrior, the plundering hero, the lusty knight of -battle, a devil of a man with boiling blood in his veins and the savage joy -of life in his heart. -</p> - -<p> -Taras and his two sons, Andrii and Ostap, go thundering up and down -the Russian steppe with the savage avalanche of the Zaporozhe. They -fight and carouse and their deeds are mighty—mightier than the deeds of -which Homer sang and the performances which Walter Scott sketched. -Beside Taras Ivanhoe pales into tin puppet, Ulysses into a lady’s man. -</p> - -<p> -What a book! -</p> - -<p> -If you know Gogol through his <em>Dead Souls</em>, the “humorous” classic -of Russia, you will read in amazement his <em>Taras Bulba</em>. It is Rabelais with -a sword. Through its pages ring the shouts of battle and Gargantuan -manhood—Homo Monstrosus.... -</p> - -<p> -Once or twice the pale face of a woman peeps out of them and Gogol -kicks it back into place with his kazak boot. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you want fire, Ostap? Do you want mad blood in your heart? -Come ride with me over the steppe to the tents of the Zaporozhe....” -</p> - -<p> -When I closed the book with its red shouts still ringing in my ears—with -old Taras still burning against the great tree and the magic steppe -stretching before me—I thought of the baby-ribbon bards and the querulous -quibblers of American letters—and smiled.... -</p> - -<p> -Come on, Bulba, there is still blood in America that has not dried, there -are still hearts that have not been transformed into pink doilies. -</p> - -<p> -Welcome! You can’t shout too loud for me, you can’t swagger too -much. The soul of you that left your burning body laughed and roared its -way into heaven.... -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="GORKY"> -<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> -Gorky at His Best and Worst -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Chelkash, and Other Stories, by Maxim Gorky. New York: -Alfred A. Knopf</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -Maxim Gorky is the poorest and most uneven of the Russian writers. -He is—or was—a pioneer. He came wailing from lonely roads where the -vagrom man sleeps beneath the stars and wonders what there is to life. -And his dull, bitter plaints with ferocity as their leit motif soon sounded -over the world. When the majority of Russian genius was struggling to -“go to the people” Gorky had the advantage of coming from the people. -</p> - -<p> -Alfred Knopf’s collection of Gorky tales under the title of <em>Chelkash</em> is -Gorky at his best and worst. I find in it some of his best tales abominably -written, studded with crass “gems” of philosophy, broken up with unnecessary -moralizings. For instance, his <em>Twenty-Six of Us and One Other</em>. In -this Gorky writes of his immortal bakeshop. As a youth Gorky spent his -days in a bakeshop. Time and again he has painted it, in other stories better -than in this one. But in this instance the bakeshop is only a background; -usually it is the main theme. Tanya, a little girl, stops every morning to -say “Hello” to the twenty-six bakers. They give her little cakes. She is -the only “ray of sweetness” in their lives. They look upon her as a daughter, -a shrine. And Tanya it is who alone awakens in them for a few -moments each day something approaching fineness. Along comes a terrible -dandy, a ladies’ man. He seduces every lady he sets his cap for; it is his -boast. The bakers like him: he is a “gentleman” and very democratic. But -one day when he is boasting the head baker grows excited and mentions -“Tanya.” The dandy boasts he will seduce her. An argument follows. -After a month the dandy succeeds. The bakers witness the girl’s “undoing.” -When she comes out of the dandy’s room, smiling, happy, they gather -around her, spit at her, revile and abuse her. No names they can think -of are bad enough. They fall into a frenzy of vituperation. But they do -not strike her. Realizing dully that a “god” has died, they go back to work. -</p> - -<p> -<em>Chelkash</em>, the first tale in the book, is Gorky on his “home ground”—the -vagrom man, the pirate, the road thief. He paints him with a careful -brush and a sureness of his subject. In <em>The Steppe</em> he does the same. <em>A -Rolling Stone</em>, and <em>Chums</em>, the last the best story in the volume, are also -variations of the vagrom man theme—the underdog. But it is in stories -like <em>One Autumn Night</em>, <em>Comrades</em>, <em>The Green Kitten</em>, and <em>Her Lover</em> that -Gorky reveals his greatest genius and his greatest weakness. He can feel -them, imagine them, see them, but for some reason he cannot write them. -<em>One Autumn Night</em> might have been one of the world’s strongest classics. -</p> - -<p> -All the tales in the volume are the work of the “first” Gorky—the bitter -one, the melodramatic, outraged Gorky. They are on a whole not as -good as the collection of stories written during that same period and translated -in a volume called <em>Orloff and His Wife</em>. Gorky still lives and he has -learned how to write. His later tales, composed in Italy by the “second” -<a id="page-44" class="pagenum" title="44"></a> -Gorky, the consumptive, contemplative, clear-seeing Gorky, are mature, -almost mellow. But they are no longer distinctive. Anyone could have -written them, anyone with a bit of genius and a great deal of time on his -hands. But the <em>Chelkash</em> tales and the tales in <em>Orloff and His Wife</em>—these -no one but Gorky has written, and although they are inferior in workmanship -to the products of Chekhov and Andreyev the American reader will -find them perhaps more interesting. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="MASTERS"> -Two Masters and a Petty Monster -</h3> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Little Angel, by Leonid Andreyev. New York: -Alfred A. Knopf.</em> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>Russian Silhouettes, by Anton Chekhov. New York: -Charles Scribner’s Sons.</em> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<em>The Breaking Point, by Michael Artzibashef. New York: -B. W. Huebsch.</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -“Charming fellows, those Russians,” said my friend. “When it comes -to delineating the processes, mental and physical, of rape, suicide, incest, -arson, butchery, and disease, they are without peers....” I therefore -take this occasion to hurl two newly translated Russian books at my friend, -hoping they land on his thick head. -</p> - -<p> -The first book which I hurl at my friend is Andreyev’s <em>The Little -Angel</em>. It is a collection of short stories. There are fifteen stories in the -new volume brought out by Mr. Alfred Knopf, and all of them are little -masterpieces. There is one story about a dog, <em>Snapper</em>. Only Anatole -France has equaled it. There is another story, <em>The Marseillaise</em>. It is a -perfect story. It is Kipling at his very best plus a flavor, a note, a something -serious and deep that the Russians alone know how to command, that -Kipling never reached. There is one story, <em>In the Basement</em>. I hope my -friend chokes on this story. It would serve him right. -</p> - -<p> -But <em>The Little Angel</em> stands out from the fifteen. It is about a little -boy, a bitter, lonely-hearted fellow whose mother drinks and beats him, -whose father is dying of consumption, and who in turn snarls and bullies -his playmates and weeps at night because his heart is so empty and heavy. -In this story Andreyev attains a poignant delicacy of touch and a grim -beauty which even his one-time contemporary Chekhov never surpassed. -</p> - -<p> -<em>The Little Angel</em> is the most beautiful short story I ever have read. -</p> - -<p> -Chekhov has also been translated again. A collection of fragments, -vibrating episodes, moods, and exquisite children stories called <em>Russian -Silhouettes</em> has been issued by Scribners’. -</p> - -<p> -A better artist than Andreyev, keener, more reserved, more subtle, -Chekhov to my notion nevertheless lacks the vibrancy which the author of -<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> -<em>The Seven Who Were Hanged</em> flings into his tales. Andreyev wields the -pen of Dostoevsky with a little thinner ink. Chekhov is Turgenev fragmentized. -He has left behind him a series of little canvases so finely done, -so skilfully passionate ... well, I hurl him at my friend without -further ado.... -</p> - -<p> -... It is that consumptive rogue of an Artzibashef who has caused -most of the trouble. The devil take him and his erotic suicides. His latest -translated book brought out by Huebsch is a tasteless joke. It is called -<em>The Breaking Point</em>. In it all the characters but one commit suicide, all -the women are “ruined.” Whenever two or more of its genial personae -come together they forthwith fall into an argument concerning the futility -of life, the idiocy of existence and so on and so on. And the trouble is that -Artzibashef can write, beautifully, keenly, and sometimes gloriously. In -<em>Sanine</em>, for instance, in <em>The Millionaire</em>, there are passages better than -Andreyev, better than Chekhov, better than any writer has written. But -the books are distorted, full of puerile moralizings, breathing a diseased -lust and a sentimentalized violence—and <em>The Breaking Point</em> is the worst -of them to date. Artzibashef’s work stands in the same relation to the -Russian realism that Paul De Kock’s work stands to the French sensual -finesse. -</p> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 adb"> -AMERICA’S COMING-OF-AGE -</p> - -<div class="centerpic huebsch fl"> -<img src="images/huebsch.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="ada"> -<em>by</em> VAN WYCK BROOKS -</p> - - <div class="w60"> -<p> -A study of American ideals and reality: aspirations -and performance. -</p> - -<p> -What is it that prevents the maturity of our -literature and life? -</p> - -<p> -In our art, our politics, our letters, the torturous -trails of the “Highbrow” and of the -“Lowbrow” may be traced. They stem from -Jonathan Edwards and Benjamin Franklin -respectively. -</p> - - </div> -<p class="u fl adp"> -<em>At all<br /> -bookstores<br /> -$1.00 net.</em> -</p> - - <div class="w60"> -<p> -Whither do they lead? -</p> - -<p> -Read the book: it marks a step forward in -American criticism. -</p> - - </div> -<p class="cb ade"> -<em>Published by</em> B. W. HUEBSCH, <em>225 Fifth avenue, New York City</em>. -</p> - - <div class="box"> -<p class="h3 ada"> -AMY LOWELL’S NEW BOOK -</p> - -<p class="h1 adb"> -SIX FRENCH POETS -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -Studies in Contemporary Literature -</p> - -<p class="u fl box"> -<em>Emile Verhaeren</em><br /> -<em>Albert Samain</em><br /> -<em>Remy de Gourmont</em><br /> -<em>Henri de Régnier</em><br /> -<em>Francis Jammes</em><br /> -<em>Paul Fort</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>By the author of “Sword Blades and Poppy -Seed,” “A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass,” etc.</em> -</p> - -<p> -Written by one of the foremost living -American poets, this is the first book -in English containing a careful and -minute study, with translations, of the -famous writers of one of the greatest -epochs in French poetry. -</p> - -<p class="h3 cb adp"> -$2.50 -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="ade"> -THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, Publishers, New York -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> - <div class="box"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -EMMA GOLDMAN -</p> - -<p class="u c"> -AT THE<br /> -FINE ARTS THEATRE<br /> -410 SOUTH MICHIGAN AVE. -</p> - -<p class="c"> -NOVEMBER 21ST TO DECEMBER 5TH, 1915 -</p> - -<p class="s c"> -SUBJECTS: -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="table045" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Sunday,</td> - <td class="col2">Nov.</td> - <td class="col3">21st,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>Preparedness, (<span class="s">The Road to War and Disaster</span>)</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Tuesday,</td> - <td class="col2">Nov.</td> - <td class="col3">23rd,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>The Right of the Child Not to Be Born</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Thursday,</td> - <td class="col2">Nov.</td> - <td class="col3">25th,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>The Message of Anarchism</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Saturday,</td> - <td class="col2">Nov.</td> - <td class="col3">27th,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>Sex, The Great Element of Creative Art</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Sunday,</td> - <td class="col2">Nov.</td> - <td class="col3">28th,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>The Philosophy of Atheism</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Tuesday,</td> - <td class="col2">Nov.</td> - <td class="col3">30th,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>Victims of Morality</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Thursday,</td> - <td class="col2">Dec.</td> - <td class="col3">2nd,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>Nietzsche and the German Kaiser</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Saturday,</td> - <td class="col2">Dec.</td> - <td class="col3">4th,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>Birth Control</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">Sunday,</td> - <td class="col2">Dec.</td> - <td class="col3">5th,</td> - <td class="col4"><em>Beyond Good and Evil</em></td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> -<p class="s c"> -ALL LECTURES AT 8:15 P. M. -</p> - -<p class="c"> -QUESTIONS AND DISCUSSION -</p> - -<p class="s c"> -TICKETS ON SALE AT THE LITTLE REVIEW, 834 FINE ARTS BUILDING -</p> - -<p class="c"> -ADMISSION, 50 AND 25 CENTS -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-46" class="pagenum" title="46"></a> - <div class="box"> -<p class="c"> -FINE ARTS THEATRE -</p> - -<p class="c"> -<em>410 South Michigan Avenue</em> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -VIOLIN RECITAL BY -</p> - -<p class="h1 adh"> -David Hochstein -</p> - -<p class="s c"> -At 3:30 P. M., December 5. -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -<span class="smallcaps">Programme</span> -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="table046" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1">1.</td> - <td class="col2">Concerto in A major</td> - <td class="col3"><em>Mozart</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">2.</td> - <td class="col2">Concerto in D minor</td> - <td class="col3"><em>Bruch</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">3.</td> - <td class="col2">(a) Romance</td> - <td class="col3"><em>Schumann</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"> </td> - <td class="col2">(b) Two Waltzes</td> - <td class="col3"><em>Brahms</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"> </td> - <td class="col2">(c) Air</td> - <td class="col3"><em>Nandor Zsolt</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"> </td> - <td class="col2">(d) Valse-Caprice</td> - <td class="col3"><em>Nandor Zsolt</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">4.</td> - <td class="col2">Bohemian Folk Songs and Dances</td> - <td class="col3"><em>Sevcik</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i1"> - <td class="col1"> </td> - <td class="col2">Bretislav</td> - <td class="col3"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i2"> - <td class="col1"> </td> - <td class="col2">Holka Modrooka</td> - <td class="col3"> </td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> -<p class="adp"> -Boxes, $10.00. Tickets, $1.50, $1.00, 75 cents. On sale at Fine Arts Theatre. -Mail orders to FINE ARTS THEATRE, 410 South Michigan Avenue, Chicago. -</p> - - </div> - <div class="box"> -<p class="h1 adh"> -THE MISCELLANY -</p> - -<p> -THE MISCELLANY combines illustrated articles of interest -to booklovers and lovers of literary essays: <em>belles-lettres</em>, art, and the -drama coming within its province as well as occasional book-reviews. -</p> - -<p> -A partial list of topics appearing during 1915 is as follows: -</p> - - <div class="c"> -<p class="u ib"> -<em>The Lost Art of Making Books</em><br /> -<em>The Noh Drama of Japan</em><br /> -<em>The Fortsas Library</em><br /> -<em>The New Loggan Prints, and</em><br /> -<em>Ancient Paper-Making</em> -</p> - - </div> -<p> -A department in each number acts as official journal for The -American Bookplate Society. -</p> - -<p> -<em>In its second year. Specimen on request. Issued quarterly. -Subscription: $1.00 per year.</em> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="u s ade"> -<span class="larger">THE MISCELLANY</span><br /> -17 Board of Trade, Kansas City, Mo., U. S. A. -</p> - - </div> -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-47" class="pagenum" title="47"></a> -<p class="s c"> -“An Authentic Original Voice in Literature”—The Atlantic Monthly. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="h1 adh"> -ROBERT FROST -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -THE NEW AMERICAN POET -</p> - -<p class="h1 adh"> -NORTH OF BOSTON -</p> - - <div class="ads047"> -<p class="lattr"> -ALICE BROWN: -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Frost has done truer work about New England than anybody—except Miss -Wilkins.” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -CHARLES HANSON TOWNE: -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing has come out of America since Whitman so splendid, so real, so overwhelmingly -great.” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -AMY LOWELL in <em>The New Republic</em>: -</p> - -<p> -“A book of unusual power and sincerity. A remarkable achievement.” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -NEW YORK EVENING SUN: -</p> - -<p> -“The poet had the insight to trust the people with a book of the people and the -people replied ‘Man, what is your name?’ ... He forsakes utterly the claptrap -of pastoral song, classical or modern.... His is soil stuff, not mock bucolics.” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -BOSTON TRANSCRIPT: -</p> - -<p> -“The first poet for half a century to express New England life completely with a -fresh, original and appealing way of his own.” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -BROOKLYN DAILY EAGLE: -</p> - -<p> -“The more you read the more you are held, and when you return a few days later -to look up some passage that has followed you about, the better you find the meat -under the simple unpretentious form. <em>The London Times</em> caught that quality when -it said: ‘Poetry burns up out of it, as when a faint wind breathes upon smouldering -embers.’ ... That is precisely the effect....” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -REEDY’S MIRROR: -</p> - -<p> -“Genuine poetry, these ‘North of Boston’ tales, they hold one with the grip of a -vivid novel.... I can only refer my readers to ‘North of Boston’ for acquaintance -with what seems to me a fine achievement; such achievement, indeed, as contributes -vitally to the greatness of a country’s most national and significant literature.” -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -A BOY’S WILL <span class="s">Mr. Frost’s First Volume of Poetry</span> -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -THE ACADEMY (LONDON): -</p> - -<p> -“We have read every line with that amazement and delight which are too seldom -evoked by books of modern verse.” -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="table047" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><em>NORTH OF BOSTON.</em></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Cloth. $1.25 net, 4th printing.</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><em>NORTH OF BOSTON.</em></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Leather. $2.00 net.</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><em>A BOY’S WILL.</em></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Cloth. 75 cents net, 2d printing.</em></td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> - </div> -<hr /> - -<p class="s u fr ade"> -34 WEST 33d STREET<br /> -NEW YORK -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-48" class="pagenum" title="48"></a> -<p class="c"> -<em>A Romance of Old Ireland</em> -</p> - -<p class="h1 adb"> -THE PASSIONATE CRIME -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -BY E. TEMPLE THURSTON, -</p> - -<p class="u ads"> -Author of “The Open Window,”<br /> -“The City of Beautiful<br /> -Nonsense,” Etc. -</p> - -<p> -This latest of Mr. E. Temple Thurston’s -novels introduces its author into -an entirely new field. Among the wilds -of Ireland, in a region of the most imaginative -superstition, he tracks down the -story of the romantic life and death of -a young poet, whose brilliantly promising -career was wrecked in the midst -of tragedy. The spirit of faerie hangs -over the whole tale, which is imbued -with Celtic glamor, and the strange, elusive -inspiration of the Irish mountainside. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -Cloth, $1.30 Net -</p> - -<p class="h1 ade"> -D. APPLETON AND COMPANY -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -Publishers - New York -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-49" class="pagenum" title="49"></a> -<p class="h1 adb"> -Violette of Pere Lachaise -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By ANNA STRUNSKY (Mrs. Wm. English Walling) -</p> - -<p> -The story of a girl with a free mind. In it is seen the spiritual development -of a specially gifted individual and also the development of every individual -to some extent. -</p> - -<p> -Violette is an ardent creature, more alive than most people, giving herself -and her art to the social revolution of which the woman movement is so -important a part. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Cloth, 12 mo., $1.00 net</em> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="h4 adh"> -<span class="underline">LIBRARY OF IRISH LITERATURE</span> -</p> - -<p> -<em>A literature rich in historic incident, -noble aspiration, humour, romance and -poetic sentiment. In its pages are enshrined -the traditions and aspirations of a -race, the fierce drama of centuries of struggle, -and the holy light of tenderness and -devotion which has shone undimmed -through the darkest periods of Ireland’s -history. Not only to the Irishman but to -all who take an interest in the best literature, -the literature of Ireland makes a -special appeal.</em> -</p> - -<p class="h4 adh"> -<span class="underline">Volumes Now Ready</span> -</p> - - <div class="hang"> -<p> -<b>THOMAS DAVIS. Selections from his -Prose and Poetry.</b> Edited by T. W. ROLLESTON, -M.A. The centenary of this poet -and patriot has just been reached. This edition -contains full selections from the best of his historical -and political essays and poetry. -</p> - -<p> -<b>WILD SPORTS OF THE WEST.</b> By W. H. -MAXWELL. One of the best sporting books -ever written and the first of a number to be -issued on sport and travel in Ireland, and by -Irishmen abroad. -</p> - -<p> -<b>LEGENDS OF SAINTS AND SINNERS.</b> -Edited by DOUGLAS HYDE, LL.D. The -wealth of fancy and fable in Irish folklore and -legend translated from the Gaelic and other -authentic sources by one of the prime movers -in the Gaelic League. -</p> - -<p> -<b>HUMOURS OF IRISH LIFE.</b> Edited by -CHARLES L. GRAVES, M.A. A unique collection -of Irish humour containing fairly long -selections from modern writers as well as from -the classics. -</p> - -<p> -<b>IRISH ORATORS AND ORATORY.</b> Edited -by PROFESSOR F. M. KETTLE, National -University of Ireland. From the wealth of -material in this field the best has been culled -by an authority. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE BOOK OF IRISH POETRY.</b> Edited -by ALFRED PERCEVAL GRAVES, M.A. -There has long been a need for this -volume and no better editor could -have been chosen than the author -of “Father O’Flynn.” -</p> - - </div> -<p class="adp"> -<em>Each, octavo, illustrated, $1.00 net. -Boxed in set, $6.00</em> -</p> - -<p class="h4 adh"> -<span class="underline">RUSSIAN BOOKS</span> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -DEAD SOULS -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Nikolai Gogol -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<em>With an Introduction by Stephen Graham</em> -</p> - -<p> -“Dead Souls,” written by Gogol in the years -1837-8 is the greatest humorous novel in the Russian -language. It is the most popular book in -Russia, and its appeal is world-wide. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Dead Souls’ is Russia herself. The characters -have become national types, and are more -alluded to by Russians than Mr. Pickwick, Squire -Western, Falstaff, Micawber, are by us.”—From -preface by Stephen Graham. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Cloth, 12 mo., $1.25 net</em> -</p> - -<p class="u adb"> -THE BLACK MONK<br /> -THE KISS<br /> -THE STEPPE -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Anton Tchekhoff -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<em>Translated from the Russian by -R. E. C. Long and Adeline Lister Kaye</em> -</p> - -<p> -Tchekhoff is regarded in his own country -as the most talented of the younger Russian -writers. Tolstoy has compared him to De -Maupassant. His writings have gone -through numberless editions in Russia, but -two of the above volumes are translated -into English for the first time. -</p> - -<p> -His art is noted for its simplicity, shades -of psychological insight and subtle humor. -In his stories is that spirit of permanence -which lives mainly in the Past and the Future, -and so truly represents the spirit of -Russia. -</p> - -<p> -“Tchekhoff is a true impressionist in the -large sense of the word. His aim is less -to divert by a tale, than to plunge one body -and soul into a given environment.” -</p> - -<p class="attr"> -—<em>London Evening Standard.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<em>Each, cloth, -12 mo., $1.25 net</em> -</p> - - <div class="c"> -<p class="u box ib"> -<em>Our complete<br /> -holiday catalog<br /> -tells you more.<br /> -Sent gratis on<br /> -request.</em> -</p> - - </div> -<hr /> - -<p class="s ade"> -Publishers <span class="larger">FREDERICK A. 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This Autumn’s -additions will be: “The Thief,” by Henri Bernstein; -“A Woman’s Way,” by Thompson Buchanan; “The -Apostle,” by Paul Hyacinth Loyson; “The Trail of the -Torch,” by Paul Hervieu; “A False Saint,” by Francois -de Curel; “My Lady’s Dress,” by Edward Knoblauch. -83c each, postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>DOME OF MANY-COLORED GLASS.</b> New Ed. of -the Poems of Amy Lowell. Send $1.35. -</p> - -<p> -<b>SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY.</b> By Edgar Lee Masters. -Send $1.35. -</p> - -<p> -<b>DREAMS AND DUST.</b> A book of lyrics, ballads and -other verse forms in which the major key is that of -cheerfulness. Send $1.28. -</p> - -<p> -<b>SOME IMAGIST POETS.</b> An Anthology. The best -recent work of Richard Aldington, “H. D.,” John Gould -Fletcher, F. S. Flint, D. H. Lawrence and Amy Lowell. -83c, postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE WAGES OF WAR.</b> By J. Wiegand and Wilhelm -Scharrelman. A play in three acts, dedicated to -the Friends of Peace. Life in Russia during Russo-Japanese -War. 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Introduction -by Jack London. “The work is world-literature, as -well as the Gospel of a universal humanism.” Contains the -writings of philosophers, poets, novelists, social reformers, -selected from twenty-five languages, covering a period of five -thousand years. Inspiring to every thinking man and woman; -a handbook of reference to all students of social conditions. -955 pages, including 32 illustrations. <b>Cloth Binding</b>, vellum -cloth, price very low for so large a book. Send $2.00. -<b>Three-quarter Leather Binding</b>, a handsome and durable -library style, specially suitable for presentation. Send $3.50. -</p> - -<p> -<b>MY CHILDHOOD.</b> By Maxim Gorky. The autobiography -of the famous Russian novelist up to his seventeenth year. -An astounding human document and an explanation (perhaps -unconscious) of the Russian national character. 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The Plays, 8 vols., per vol., -net $1.50. Poems, 1 vol., net $1.50. Volumes sold separately. -In uniform style, 19 volumes. Limp green leather, flexible -cover, thin paper, gilt top, 12mo. Postage added. -</p> - -<p> -<b>INTERPRETATIONS OF LITERATURE.</b> By Lafcadio -Hearn. A remarkable work. Lafcadio Hearn became as -nearly Japanese as an Occidental can become. English literature -is interpreted from a new angle in this book. Send -$6.50. -</p> - -<p> -<b>BERNARD SHAW: A Critical Study.</b> By P. P. Howe. -Send $2.15. -</p> - -<p> -<b>MAURICE MAETERLINCK: A Critical Study.</b> By Una -Taylor. 8vo. Send $2.15. -</p> - -<p> -<b>W. B. YEATS: A Critical Study.</b> By Forest Reid. Send -$2.15. -</p> - -<p> -<b>DEAD SOULS.</b> Nikolai Gogol’s great humorous classic -translated from the Russian. Send $1.25. -</p> - -<p> -<b>ENJOYMENT OF POETRY.</b> By Max Eastman. “His -book is a masterpiece,” says J. B. 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His conquests form a series of fascinating -episodes, gay with all the colors of love and art. -</p> - -<p> -¶ Eugene is in search of the “Impossible She.” When -he is at the height of his success, he finds her. He -reaches out his arms to grasp her, and at that moment -the whole structure of his life crumbles beneath him. -Abysses open, at the bottom of which lie all but insanity. -He struggles to save himself. At the end of -the book—but read it. -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -A STORY OF GENIUS, RESTLESS POWER<br /> -AND CREATIVE ENERGY SEARCHING<br /> -FOR LIFE’S SOLUTION -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p> -<em>“The ‘Genius’ is a work of art to which Dreiser has -risen from mere works of devoted craft.”—St. Louis -Mirror.</em> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p> -<em>“Dreiser’s work reminds one at times of Zola, of -Balzac and of Tolstoy.”—New York Times.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>“His study of this fine character in fiction (The -‘Genius’)—a strictly Twentieth Century product—is full -of human interest and psychic significance.”—Philadelphia -North American.</em> -</p> - -<p> -<em>“A separate and colossal effort.... Its people live, -its lesson is all the more forceful for the author’s consistent -refusal to pass it. 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Chesterton covers a multitude -of subjects—Love Poems, -Religious Poems, Rhymes for the -Times, etc., and his verse, no less -than his prose, contains delicious -humor and deep philosophy. -</p> - -<p class="h3 adh"> -ART -</p> - -<p class="u adb"> -Modern Painting<br /> -Its Tendency and Meaning -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Willard H. Wright -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<em>Author of “What Nietzsche -Taught,” etc. With 4 subjects -in color and 24 reproductions. -Cloth, $2.50 net.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“The first book in English to -give a coherent and intelligible account -of the new ideas that now -rage in painting. Its appearance -lifts art criticism in the United -States out of its old slough of -platitude-mongering and sentimentalizing.”—<em>Smart -Set.</em> -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -What Pictures to See in -America -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By Mrs. L. M. Bryant -</p> - -<p class="ads"> -<em>Author of “What Pictures to -See in Europe,” etc. Over 200 -illustrations. Cloth, $2.00 net.</em> -</p> - -<p> -In order to see art museums -rightly in the short time at the -disposal of the general tourist a -careful guide must be had to save -time and strength. Mrs. Bryant -in the present book visits the various -galleries of America from -Boston to San Francisco, and -points out the masterpieces of -famous artists. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="ade"> -JOHN LANE CO. NEW YORK -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="trnote chapter"> -<p class="transnote"> -Transcriber’s Notes -</p> - -<p> -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. -</p> - -<p> -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the -headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -<p> -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors -were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after): -</p> - - - -<ul> - -<li> -... clear over head, with shells from three <span class="underline">of</span> four guns making little rose-coloured ...<br /> -... clear over head, with shells from three <a href="#corr-0"><span class="underline">or</span></a> four guns making little rose-coloured ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... The <span class="underline">Musseta</span> Waltz and Rudolph’s Narrative; ...<br /> -... The <a href="#corr-3"><span class="underline">Musetta</span></a> Waltz and Rudolph’s Narrative; ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... “The rain leaps and <span class="underline">pirouttes</span> like a chorus of Russian elves. It jumps. ...<br /> -... “The rain leaps and <a href="#corr-6"><span class="underline">pirouettes</span></a> like a chorus of Russian elves. It jumps. ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... the fingers of his right hand he picked at the blackened and <span class="underline">roughtly</span>-bitten ...<br /> -... the fingers of his right hand he picked at the blackened and <a href="#corr-7"><span class="underline">roughly</span></a>-bitten ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... and stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his <span class="underline">checks</span> wrinkled ...<br /> -... and stood looking at Moisse with his mouth open and his <a href="#corr-8"><span class="underline">cheeks</span></a> wrinkled ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... was. Miriam <span class="underline">Kipper</span> abetted her. Allan <span class="underline">MacDougal</span>, in the part of a half-witted ...<br /> -... was. Miriam <a href="#corr-9"><span class="underline">Kiper</span></a> abetted her. Allan <a href="#corr-10"><span class="underline">MacDougall</span></a>, in the part of a half-witted ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... he has given us <span class="underline">Przbyshewski</span>’s Homo Sapiens, the book about which I ...<br /> -... he has given us <a href="#corr-12"><span class="underline">Przybyszewski</span></a>’s Homo Sapiens, the book about which I ...<br /> -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, NOVEMBER 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 8) ***</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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