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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. 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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. 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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. 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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. 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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. 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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. 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A lucid presentation of - Freud’s theory of dreams. A study in comparative mythology from - the standpoint of dream psychology. Price, $1.25. - - WHAT WOMEN WANT. By Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale. $1.35 net; - postage, 10c. - - ARE WOMEN PEOPLE? A collection of clever woman suffrage verses. - The best since Mrs. Gilman. Geo. H. Doran Co. Send 75c. - - HOW IT FEELS TO BE THE HUSBAND OF A SUFFRAGETTE. By “Him.” - Illustrated by Mary Wilson Preston. Send 60c. - - ON DREAMS. By Prof. Sigmund Freud. Authorized English translation - by Dr. M. D. Eder. Introduction by Prof. W. Leslie Mackenzie. - This classic now obtainable for $1.10. - - MODERN WOMEN. By Gustav Kobbe. Terse, pithy, highly dramatic - studies in the overwrought feminism of the day. A clever book. - Send $1.10. - - - GOTHAM BOOK SOCIETY - - Marlen E. Pew, Gen. Mgr., Dept. K, 142 West 23rd St., New York - - “You Can Get Any Book on Any Subject” - - - NEW BOOKS FOR THE DISCRIMINATING READER - - _“Mr. Dreiser proves himself once more a master realist ... he is - a great, a very great artist. In a season remarkable for its - excellent fiction this new book of his immediately takes its - place in the front rank.”—New York Tribune._ - - - - - The “Genius” - - By Theodore Dreiser - - Author of “Sister Carrie,” “The Titan,” etc. - - Cloth, $1.50 Net - - ¶ Eugene Witla is one of those strange personalities which - occasionally spring up among the humdrum types of common life, an - exotic flower in a vegetable garden. Brilliant, irregular, - unstable, he attracts and repels in the book as in life. The - story deals with his rise as an artist, and later as a business - man. - - ¶ He is one of those powerful and yet fragile personalities to - whom great success and great disaster almost inevitably come. His - weakness lies in the insatiable hunger of his mind and body for - the charm of feminine youth and beauty. His conquests form a - series of fascinating episodes, gay with all the colors of love - and art. - - ¶ 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. - - - A STORY OF GENIUS, RESTLESS POWER - AND CREATIVE ENERGY SEARCHING - FOR LIFE’S SOLUTION - - _“The ‘Genius’ is a work of art to which Dreiser has risen from - mere works of devoted craft.”—St. Louis Mirror._ - - _“Dreiser’s work reminds one at times of Zola, of Balzac and of - Tolstoy.”—New York Times._ - - _“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._ - - _“A separate and colossal effort.... Its people live, its lesson - is all the more forceful for the author’s consistent refusal to - pass it. Yes, Mr. Dreiser indubitably is an artist.”—Chicago - Herald._ - - - POETRY - - The Collected Poems - - of Rupert Brooke - - _With a Critical Introduction by George Edward Woodberry - and a Biographical Note by Margaret Lavington. - Photogravure Frontispiece. Cloth, $1.25 net._ - - “Among all who have been poets and died young it is hard to think - of one, who both in life and death, has so typified the ideal - radiance of youth and poetry.”—GILBERT MURRAY _in the Cambridge - Magazine_. - - Poems - - By Gilbert K. Chesterton, - - _Author of “The Ballad of the White Horse,” etc. Cloth, - $1.25 net._ - - This new collection of the poems of G. K. 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. - - - ART - - Modern Painting - Its Tendency and Meaning - - By Willard H. Wright - - _Author of “What Nietzsche Taught,” etc. With 4 subjects - in color and 24 reproductions. Cloth, $2.50 net._ - - “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.”—_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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