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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67467 ***

                           THE LITTLE REVIEW


                       Literature Drama Music Art

                          MARGARET C. ANDERSON
                                 EDITOR

                               MARCH 1916

       Cheap                                           Helen Hoyt
       Art and Anarchism                     Margaret C. Anderson
       Stravinsky’s “Grotesques”                       Amy Lowell
       Vibrant Life                             Sherwood Anderson
       Don’ts for Critics                  Alice Corbin Henderson
       Poems:                                       Jeanne D’Orge
         The Cup                                                 
         The Stranger                                            
         The Kiss                                                
         The Interpreter                                         
         The Sealed Package                                      
         Memories                                                
       The Russian Ballet                          Charles Zwaska
       Editorials                                                
       Propaganda                                                
       Poems:                                   Richard Aldington
         Bloomsbury Square                                       
         Epigram                                                 
       Lollipop Venders                            Lupo de Braila
       Vers Libre Prize Contest                                  
       A. Neil Lyons                        Allan Ross Macdougall
       The Reader Critic                                         

                           Published Monthly

                            15 cents a copy

                    MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher
                           Fine Arts Building
                                CHICAGO

                              $1.50 a year

         Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago




                           THE LITTLE REVIEW


                                VOL. III

                              MARCH, 1916

                                 NO. 1

                Copyright, 1916, by Margaret C. Anderson




                                 Cheap


                               HELEN HOYT

   After all, what does a man amount to?
   It only takes some twenty—thirty—years or so
   To make a man, with everything complete.
   Longer, it is true, than growing cabbages
   Or currant bushes, or a cow,—
   Or a fair-sized hog;
   But not so very long, and there’s always time.
   When breeding’s good we get them fast enough....
   Merely a matter of waiting till they grow....
   Some food and clothes must be supplied—
   And shelter—and all that—
   But it’s surprising (in fact, without statistics,
   A person would scarcely believe it possible)
   How very little a man can live upon
   From birth until he reaches the enlisting age.

   For first he has to be born, of course,
   And that takes time,—makes us some trouble too—
   But it’s a simple matter on the whole,
   And not expensive: not at all expensive:
   You see, the women are the ones that attend to this
   And they work cheap.
   They _pour_ men from their bodies.
   Always pleased to undertake affairs of this sort,
   Women are,—O, most delighted. It’s their way.

   Willing and lavish: it doesn’t cost them much.
   They only have to give some flesh and bone
   And blood; and perhaps, one might say,
   A scrap of soul, to make the creature go;
   But these things nature furnishes;
   They’re free and plenty:
   And after a man’s once started, he’s not long growing;
   There’s always a generation on the way:
   More than we want, sometimes, or there is room for.

   Lord, how they swarm! In the cities like flies.
   If only horses were so plentiful!
   If only horses could be foddered so lightly
   And bedded so many to a stall as men!

   Certainly, men are less of a bother
   And also, think what men do for you that a horse can’t.
   You cannot teach a horse to hold a gun.
   A horse can’t shoot or burn or pillage or murder well in the least.
   And too, a man has this convenient feature,
   That you can make him go without whip or lash.
   You only have to charm him the right way.

   Other animals you charm by dazzling radiance:
   With men it’s always colors and bright sounds
   (Slogans and bands and banners are the best).
   Why, you can play upon them with the beat of drums
   Till they are got to an energy and fury fine as a bull’s
   How they will fight for you then!
   Tigers and wolves and wild-cats
   (Considering differences in weight and bulks of meat)
   Wouldn’t fight fiercer or longer or more willingly.

   You never could train a horse to be so clever.
   And therefore it’s curious, when you think of it,
   That horses should come so much more dear than men.
   To be sure, there isn’t the cheap source of supply
   Or the same over-stock as in the case of men:
   A horse is harder to raise and more expense—
   More trouble; more of a responsibility:
   But nevertheless, allowing for all this,
   It still is curious, that difference in value....
   Now isn’t it?
   Rather?




                           Art and Anarchism


                          MARGARET C. ANDERSON

When “they” ask you what anarchism is, and you scuffle around for the
most convincing definition, why don’t you merely ask instead: “What is
art?” Because anarchism and art are in the world for exactly the same
kind of reason.

An anarchist is a person who realizes the gulf that lies between
government and life; an artist is a person who realizes the gulf that
lies between life and love. The former knows that he can never get from
the government what he really needs for life; the latter knows that he
can never get from life the love he really dreams of.

Now there is only one class of people—among the very rich or the very
poor or the very middling—that doesn’t know about these things. It is
the uneducated class. It is composed of housewives, business men,
church-goers, family egoists, club women, politicians, detectives,
debutantes, drummers, Christian Scientists, policemen, demagogues,
social climbers, ministers who recommend plays like _Experience_, etc.,
etc. It even includes some who may be educated—journalists, professors,
philanthropists, patriots, “artistic” people, sentimentalists, cowards,
and the insane. It is the great middle-class mind of America. It is the
kind of mind that either doesn’t think at all or that thinks like this:
“Without the violence and the plotting there would be nothing left of
anarchism but a dead theory. Without the romance of it anarchism would
be nothing but a theory which will not work and never can until nature
has evolved something very different out of man. It is cops and robbers,
hare and hounds, Ivanhoe and E. Phillips Oppenheim all acted out in
life. It is not really dangerous to society, but only to some members of
it, because unless every one is against it there is no fun in it.”

There is no fun talking about anarchism to people who understand it. But
it would be great fun to make the middle-class mind understand it. This
is the way I should go about it:

                   *       *       *       *       *

What things do you need in order to live? Food, clothing, shelter. What
things _must_ you have to get life out of the process of living? Love,
work, recreation. All right.

Does the government give you the first three things? Not at all. It
isn’t the government or law or anything of that sort that gives you food
or clothes. It’s the efficient organization between those who produce
these things and those who sell them to you. And it isn’t government
that keeps that organization efficient. It’s the brains of those who
work in it. You will say that government exists to prevent that
organization from charging you too much for food and clothes. _Then why
doesn’t government do it?_ Heaven knows you’ve got all the government
you can very well use and you pay too much for everything.

Does the government give you a house? If you happen to be an ambassador
or something like that. Not if you happen to be a mail man. Maybe some
one leaves you a house—which means that he once bought it or stole it or
had it left to him. You can do any of these three things yourself. Or
you can go without, as nearly every one else does. Sometimes the
government helps you to steal one—but not you of the middle-class. What
I want to know is why _you_ are so crazy about the government?

                   *       *       *       *       *

Now, about work. What do you call work?—spending eight hours a day in an
office to help make somebody’s business a success, and incidentally to
earn the money for your bread and butter? But that’s a third of the time
you’re given on earth. Another third has to be spent in sleep, and the
last third in eating your dinner, “spending the evening,” getting
undressed, getting dressed, eating your breakfast, and catching your
train. I call that slavery. Work is something over which you can toil
twenty-four hours a day if you feel like it, because if you don’t your
life will have no meaning. It’s like art. What has the government to do
with your work? About as much as it had to do with Marconi’s brain when
he was conceiving his wireless.

What do you call recreation?—lounging in hotel lobbies, gossiping over
tea tables, going to the movies? All right. But what has the government
got to do with it? Or do you call it walking, riding, reading, lying in
the sun? The government doesn’t give you good legs or a motor car or
books or a stretch of beach to lie on. But it can keep some of the best
books away from you and close up the bathing beaches on the hottest
October day. Maybe you call recreation what it really means:
_re-creation_. That means the time and the leisure to invite your soul.
You’ve got government: have you got either time or leisure?

And as for love.... You love some one who loves you, and the world is
good. Or you love some one who doesn’t love you and the world is hell.
Or you love and love and can find no one to love. Or you love and cannot
give, or love and cannot take, or maybe you cannot love at all. And
where is the government all this time?

The government can bring you a letter from some one you love. But why
must even that be done with graft?

Some one assaults a woman in a dark alley, you say, and where would we
be without the government? What has that to do with love, first? Now
clear up your minds: have you ever imagined why these things happen?
Because some people are vicious, you say. But every one is vicious—every
one who has life in him. You are: only you can take it out on your wife
or on whatever prostitutes you can afford, or in eating large dinners,
or in joy rides, in vulgar parties, in the movies, in luxury, in fads,
in art, even in religion. It just depends upon your type. The point is
that you have your outlets and the other wretch hasn’t. And second,
since these things are always happening and you have plenty of chances
to see how the government deals with them, the only sensible question
left for you to ask is: _Why aren’t they dealt with?_ You’ve got
government and you’ve got crime on the increase. May it be that you will
ever see this: that the thing needs _treat-ment_, not _govern-ment_?

But if you’re talking about love.... In love you will act just like a
cave man or an Athenian or an early Christian or an Elizabethan or a
modern, like a satyr or a traveling salesman or an artist—it depends
upon your type. Governments may come and go, may change or cease to be,
and nothing remains forever except “your type.”

But it’s just here that your government has its functions. It can do
various things. And since the value of your life depends upon the
intensity with which you love something or somebody, you might as well
recognize what your government can do for you in this regard:

If you think that love and freedom ought to go together the government
can put you in prison.

If you marry out of respect for the government, and grow to hate each
other, the government won’t give you a divorce out of respect for you.

If you marry as a concession to the government, because you don’t want
to ruin your business or have your wife insulted, the government will
divorce you—and on the concession basis: but you pay for both the
concessions.

If you believe that love is love, whether it brings you children or not,
you may be happy and prosperous, but you will not be safe. The
government can put your physician in prison.

If you’re very poor or very ill, and ought not have children, the
government can keep information for prevention away from you; and it can
put any one who tries to give you that information in prison.

If you should die from an abortion—and you surely will die if you
contract blood-poisoning; and you surely will do that if you must be
treated in secrecy and without skill—the government can hang your
physician.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Why are you so crazy about the government?

Why do you want to govern anything or anybody?—even your own temper?
Nietzsche said not to preserve yourself but to discharge yourself! Why
not _use_ your temper as well as your nice moods?

Why do you want to govern your child? To give him character? But who
ever told you that life is for the making of character? Even if it were,
you can’t give your child character. He can get it by going through a
great deal. But if you govern him successfully he won’t go through a
great deal. He will just be something that is like something else. He
won’t be himself.

Why do you want to govern human nature? Because you want people to be
good instead of bad? But how can you tell when they’re good and when
they’re bad? Suppose you all agree that Jean Crones did a very bad
thing? If you knew Jean Crones you should probably all see at once that
he is a very good man—if he exists at all. Clear up your thinking!

                   *       *       *       *       *

Who ever told you that an anarchist wants to change human nature? Who
ever told you that an anarchist’s ideal could never be attained until
human nature had improved? Human nature will never “improve.” It doesn’t
matter much whether you have a good nature or a bad one. It’s your
thinking that counts. Clean out your minds!

If you believe these things—no, that is not enough: if you live them—you
are an anarchist. You can be one right now. You needn’t wait for a
change in human nature, for the millennium, or for the permission of
your family. Just be one!

You have seen that “the blind, heavy, stupid thing we call government”
can not give you a happy childhood. It cannot educate you or make you an
interesting person. It cannot give you work, art, love, or life—or death
if you think it is better to die.

                   *       *       *       *       *

And finally when you see that you can never get all the love you
imagined from life; that you are trapped, really, and must find a way
out; when you see that here where there is nothing is the way out, and
that the wonder of life begins here—when you see all this you will be an
artist, and your love that is “left over” will find its music or its
words.




    Stravinsky’s Three Pieces, “Grotesques,” for String Quartets[1]


                               AMY LOWELL


                             First Movement

   Thin-voiced, nasal pipes
   Drawing sound out and out
   Until it is a screeching thread,
   Sharp and cutting, sharp and cutting,
   It hurts.
   Whee-e-e!
   Bump! Bump! Tong-ti-bump!
   There are drums here,
   Banging,
   And wooden shoes beating the round, grey stones
   Of the market-place.
   Whee-e-e!
   Sabots slapping the worn, old stones,
   And a shaking and cracking of dancing bones,
   Clumsy and hard they are,
   And uneven,
   Losing half a beat
   Because the stones are slippery.
   Bump-e-ty-tong! Whee-e-e! Tong!
   The thin Spring leaves
   Shake to the banging of shoes.

   Shoes beat, slap,
   Shuffle, rap,
   And the nasal pipes squeal with their pig’s voices,
   Little pig’s voices
   Weaving among the dancers,
   A fine, white thread
   Linking up the dancers.
   Bang! Bump! Tong!
   Petticoats,
   Stockings,
   Sabots,
   Delirium flapping its thigh-bones;
   Red, blue, yellow,
   Drunkenness steaming in colours;
   Red, yellow, blue,
   Colours and flesh weaving together,
   In and out, with the dance,
   Coarse stuffs and hot flesh weaving together.
   Pig’s cries white and tenuous,
   White and painful,
   White and—
   Bump!
   Tong!


                            Second Movement

   Pale violin music whiffs across the moon,
   A pale smoke of violin music blows over the moon,
   Cherry petals fall and flutter,
   And the white Pierrot,
   Wreathed in the smoke of the violins,
   Splashed with cherry petals falling, falling,
   Claws a grave for himself in the fresh earth
   With his finger-nails.


                             Third Movement

   An organ growls in the heavy roof-groins of a church,
   It wheezes and coughs.
   The nave is blue with incense,
   Writhing, twisting,
   Snaking over the heads of the chanting priests.
         _Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine_;
   The priests whine their bastard Latin
   And the censers swing and click.
   The priests walk endlessly
   Round and round,
   Droning their Latin
   Off the key.
   The organ crashes out in a flaring chord,
   And the priests hitch their chant up half a tone.
             _Dies illa, dies irae,_
             _Calamitatis et miseriae,_
             _Dies magna et amara valde._
   A wind rattles the leaded windows.
   The little pear-shaped candle-flames leap and flutter,
             _Dies illa, dies irae_,
   The swaying smoke drifts over the altar,
             _Calamitatis et miseriae_,
   The shuffling priests sprinkle holy water,
             _Dies magna et amara valde_.
   And there is a stark stillness in the midst of them
   Stretched upon a bier.
   His ears are stone to the organ,
   His eyes are flint to the candles,
   His body is ice to the water.
   Chant, priests,
   Whine, shuffle, genuflect,
   He will always be as rigid as he is now
   Until he crumbles away in a dust heap.
             _Lacrymosa dies illa,_
             _Qua resurget ex favilla_
             _Judicandus homo reus._
   Above the grey pillars, the roof is in darkness.

----------

   [1] This Quartet was played from the manuscript by the Flonzaley
   Quartet during their season of 1915 and 1916. The poem is based
   upon the programme which M. Stravinsky appended to his piece, and
   is an attempt to reproduce the sound and movement of the music as
   far as is possible in another medium.




                              Vibrant Life


                           SHERWOOD ANDERSON

He was a man of forty-five, vigorous and straight of body. About his
jaws was a slight heaviness, but his eyes were quiet. In his young
manhood he had been involved in a scandal that had made him a marked man
in the community. He had deserted his wife and children and had run away
with a serious, dark-skinned young girl, the daughter of a Methodist
minister.

After a few years he had come back into the community and had opened a
law office. The social ostracism set up against him and his wife had in
reality turned out to their advantage. He had worked fiercely and the
dark-skinned girl had worked fiercely. At forty-five he had risen to
wealth and to a commanding position before the bar of his state, and his
wife, now a surgeon, had a fast-growing reputation for ability.

It was night and he sat in a room with the dead body of his younger
brother, who had gone the road he had traveled in his twenties. The
brother, a huge good-natured fellow, had been caught and shot in the
home of a married woman.

In the room with the lawyer sat a woman. She was a nurse, in charge of
the children of his second wife, a magnificent blonde creature with
white teeth. They sat beside a table, spread with books and magazines.

The woman who sat with the lawyer in the room with the dead man, was,
like himself, flush with life. He remembered, with a start, that she had
been introduced into the house by the boy who was dead. He began to
couple them in his mind and talked about it.

“You were in love with him, eh?” he asked presently.

The woman said nothing. She sat under a lamp with her legs crossed. The
lamplight fell upon her shapely shoulders.

The lawyer, getting out of his chair, walked up and down the room. He
thought of his wife, the woman he loved, asleep upstairs, and of the
price they had paid for their devotion to each other.

“It is barbarous, this old custom of sitting up with the dead,” he said,
and, going to another part of the house, returned with a bottle of wine
and two glasses.

With the wine before them the lawyer and the woman sat looking at each
other. They stared boldly into each other’s eyes, each concerned with
his own thoughts. A clock ticked loudly and the woman moved uneasily. By
an open window the wind stirred a white curtain and tossed it back and
forth above the coffin, black and ominous. He began thinking of the
years of hard, unremittent labor and of the pleasures he had missed.
Before his eyes danced visions of white-clad dinner tables, with men and
bare-shouldered women sitting about. Again he walked up and down the
room.

Upon the table lay a magazine, devoted to farm life, and upon the cover
was a scene in a barn yard. A groom was leading a magnificent stallion
out at the door of a red barn.

Pointing his finger at the picture, the lawyer began to talk. A new
quality came into his voice. His hand played nervously up and down the
table. There was a gentle swishing sound of the blown curtain across the
top of the coffin.

“I saw one once when I was a boy,” he said, pointing with his finger at
the stallion.

He approached and stood over her.

“It was a wonderful sight,” he said, looking down at her. “I have never
forgotten it. The great animal was all life, vibrant, magnificent life.
Its feet scarcely touched the ground.”

“We are like that,” he added, leaning over her. “The men of our family
have that vibrant, conquering life in us.”

The woman arose from the chair and moved toward the darkened corner
where the coffin stood. He followed slowly. When they had gone thus
across the room she put up her hand and plead with him.

“No, no!—Think! Remember!” she whispered.

With a low laugh he sprang at her. She dodged quickly. Both of them had
become silent. Among the chairs and tables they went, swiftly, silently,
the pursuer and the pursued.

Into a corner of the room she got, where she could no longer elude him.
Near her sat the long coffin, its ends resting on black stands made for
the purpose. They struggled, and then as they stood breathless with hot
startled faces, there was a crash, the sound of broken glass and the
dead body of his brother with its staring eyes rolled, from the fallen
coffin, out upon the floor.




                         Don’ts for Critics[2]


   (_Apropos of recent criticisms of Imagism, vers libre, and modern
                          poetry generally._)

                         ALICE CORBIN HENDERSON

Don’t confuse vers libre and Imagism. The two are not identical. One
pertains to verse, the other to vision.

Don’t attempt to “place” Imagism until you know what it is.

Don’t substitute irritability for judgement.

Don’t attempt to establish absolutes—positive or negative—by precedents
of a half or a quarter of a century, or a mere decade ago.

Don’t be a demagogue.

Don’t try to speak the last word—you can’t.

Don’t be dishonest with yourself. Analyze your own inhibitions.

Don’t believe that beauty is conventionality, or that the classic poets
chose only “nice” subjects.

Don’t forget that the age that produced the cathedrals produced also the
grotesques.

Don’t be afraid to expand.

Don’t deny the poet his folly, or expect him to appear always pompously
on stilts. Think of the poets who have fun in their make-up, and you
think of some of the greatest—Shakespeare, Chaucer, Villon,—(by no means
excepting Lewis Carroll, whose Jabberwock is almost “_pure_” poetry and
the poetic prototype of much excellent modern painting.) Don’t relax
your own appreciation of humor to the soft, easy level of the
newspapers.

Don’t squirm when a poet is a satirist. We need the keen vision. Not all
pessimism is unhealthy, and not all optimism healthy.

Don’t think that Spoon River is more sordid than Athens, Greece, or
Athens, Georgia, than Sparta or Troy, or—the Lake Shore Drive.

Don’t think that the poet must always _copy_ something or somebody, and
that something usually of a recent date. Correspondences, to be
valuable, must be genuine and of the spirit, rather than of the
letter.—When Mr. Powys brackets the names of Chaucer and Edgar
Lee Masters, he is illuminating. When Mr. Hervey or Mr.
Willard-Huntington-Wright discover each a different one of Mr. Masters’
copybooks, and publish their discoveries, the absurdity is manifest.
Picture Mr. Masters sitting with Robinson’s book in one hand, and
somebody’s Small Town in the other, inditing Spoon River with his teeth!

Don’t expect a poet to repeat himself indefinitely, however much you may
admire his earlier work. You may appreciate his later work in time.

Don’t condemn the work of a man whose books you have not read.
Unfortunately there are no civil service examinations for critics.

Don’t think that competition is unhealthy for the poet, or that his
poetry suffers thereby.

Don’t be confident, as Mr. Arthur J. Eddy said at the “Poetry” dinner,
that no good thing is ever lost. Ask Mr. Eddy, who is a lawyer, to prove
that no good thing is ever lost.

Don’t expect poets to refrain from writing about one another—even in
praise. If you don’t enjoy the feast, don’t eat it. When the poets tear
one another to pieces, don’t you enjoy it? But if, like most critics of
poetry, you are a poet also, take warning. Be prepared!

Don’t wait until a poet is dead before you discover him.

Don’t gnash your teeth and expect the public to take it as a sign of
force and insight.

Don’t forget that prosody is derived from poetry, not poetry from
prosody.

Don’t waste your time trying to squeeze exceptions into the rule.
Remember that exceptions in poetry, as in music, are the variations that
give life.

Don’t measure English poetry by English poetic standards alone. Consider
the sources of English poetry, and don’t begin with Chaucer, or stop
with Tennyson.

Don’t think that English or American poetry may not assimilate as much
new beauty and richness from foreign sources in the future as it has in
the past.

Don’t consider rhyme as the be-all and end-all of poetry. Rhyme is
sometimes as beautiful as the reflection of trees in water; it is
sometimes as monotonous as a stitch in time.

Don’t substitute vituperation for the “critique raisonné”—almost an
unknown quantity in this country.

Don’t look first at the publisher’s imprint.

Don’t cling to convictions that you fear to have upset.

Don’t, because you fail to share the convictions of a fellow critic,
think that he is a bigger fool than you are—unless you can prove it.

Don’t imagine that printing a poem as prose makes it prose. A musical
masterpiece may be distorted by unrhythmic playing, yet the composer’s
rhythm remains intact in the score.

Don’t object to conceptions in poetry that you might find striking and
powerful in bronze or plaster. “The Hog Butcher of the World” is one
picturesque attitude of Chicago.... Is the truth unbearable? One may
still love Chicago in spite of its dirty face.

Don’t try to establish even a distant kinship between poetry and ethics.
The relation is illicit.

Don’t tell the poet what he must, or must not, write about—he doesn’t
hear you.

Don’t be tedious.

Don’t take ten times as much space as the poet to prove that he is a bad
poet. Your sin against the public is more grievous, and your art less,
than his.

Don’t make up your review from the publisher’s advance notice. The poet
might like to know what you think about his work—not what he told the
publisher to tell you.

Don’t expect a poet to punch a time-clock, or record only the emotions
of his fellow townspeople.

Don’t limit a poet to primary emotions, or find decadence in a
refinement that may exceed your own.

Don’t fancy that brutality is strength, or delicacy weakness.

Don’t fancy that the poem that gives up its meaning quickest gives most,
or lives longest.

Don’t make the mistake of believing that vers libre is easier to write
than rhymed metrical verse—or the reverse.

Don’t think because you say a thing, it is so. Your venture is as
uncertain as the poet’s. Authority, unless bestowed by the Mayor, is the
gift of time; and then not unassailable.

Don’t reverence only dead poets or be certain that the dead poets would
think just as you do about contemporary poets.

Don’t discard the past for the future, or the future for the past. We
learn about the earth from the telescope, and about the stars from the
microscope.

DON’T be as negative as this list, or sit on the fence. It is better to
be on the wrong side than to straddle.

----------

   [2] See page 23.




                                Poems[3]


                             JEANNE D’ORGE


                                The Cup

   My body is no more clay
       But rapture—touched and golden:
       The Cup—the Cup
   From which my lover drinks
       And drinking makes immortal.


                              The Stranger

                            (_Eleven years_)

   Oh you spoil everything!
   I am glad you are only my teacher—
   My mother would know better:
   She would not make me treat my friend badly as you do;
   She would let me go to the Park and ride on the Merry-go-round with him;
   Even if he is a sailor and a stranger he is grown-up and kind:
   What harm can he do me? Would he beat me? Would he run away with me in
      his sloop? Would he murder me?
   You shake your head and say nothing!
   You have nothing to say—
   And now you have spoiled everything.
   You scared me so that when he came as he promised I edged away and hid
      my face and almost cried—
   He couldn’t understand and of course he was hurt and went away
   And I never shall see him again—
   It is all spoiled.
   And you spoiled it—by saying nothing—nothing—
   You never say anything—
   You never speak a true word.


                                The Kiss

                           (_Fifteen years_)

   I shut my eyes and remember
         He kissed me,
   My playmate suddenly kissed me
         Again and again—
   Now I remember all I knew long ago....
         And more.
   Kisses take your breath, stab to the heart with sweetest, strangest
      pain;
   Oh, you can grow faint under their sweetness—
   What will the Bridal night be....
   A rush through terror and fire and death
         Into swift heaven.


                            The Interpreter

                           (_Sixteen years_)

   I wish there were Someone
   Who would hear confession:
   Not a priest—I do not want to be told of my sins;
   Not a mother—I do not want to give sorrow;
   Not a friend—she would not know enough;
   Not a lover—he would be too partial;
   Not God—he is far away;
   But Someone that should be friend, lover, mother, priest, God all in one
   And a Stranger besides—who would not condemn nor interfere,
   Who when everything is said from beginning to end
   Would show the reason of it all
   And tell you to go ahead
   And work it out your own way.


                           The Sealed Package

I will make it all into a package and put a heavy seal upon it, and
label it “To be destroyed unopened when I am dead.”

These nine black months. These memories that must be cut away—like a
cancer from the breast but without anaesthetics to deaden the pain. Cut
away altogether lest they threaten life and reputation and the honor of
the family.

Here is the signature of the man who caused it all, and the letter he
wrote when he knew the terrible truth.

It includes a perfunctory offer of marriage which I was too proud to
accept.

It also proves that I was virgin when he seduced me and protests that
had he believed in my virtue he never would have touched me.

Here is the paper from the registry office recording the birth of a male
child:—mother unmarried—father’s name withheld.

Here is the receipt for money paid on the adoption of a nameless child,
and the promise in my own handwriting to the woman who adopted
him:—never to make any further claims upon him—a resignation of all the
rights of motherhood.

The rest is misery in black and white.

A diary of stoic days and nights when even dreams were wet with tears.
An account of a secret sojourn in a strange city—veiled walks in
twilight streets—skulking in corners—lies—deceit—trickery—truckling to
convention. The copy of a prayer from Thomas-à-Kempis, and on the
opposite page a character sketch of the drunken and facetious landlady
in whose house the child was born.

Seal up the package.

If I look at it too long I am likely to go blind with rage at my own
weakness.

I am likely to go mad and pull down upon me the pillars of society.

I am likely to go mad and destroy the world—

Seal up the package—hide it away—

Forget—forget.

The incident is closed.


                                Memories

   The Beauty and the Doom of that last day—
   No heart was in me but an empty gaping wound
   That reddened all the hours.
   We were afraid to speak: to look: to touch—
   At dusk within the house a dog barked wildly
   And at that—I heard a voice—a wizard’s voice
     That gave me back my heart.
   You spoke—and words were wands that touched and changed
     Passion to glory—thistles into palms
     You even made the silly barking of a dog
     Eternal in mine ears.
   So now the mangiest pup that howls about the world
     Has voice and power and magic
     To rend my heart in twain
   Or bid it rise and forth again.

----------

   [3] See page 24.




                          The Russian Ballet:


                     It Sojourns in a Strange Land

                             CHARLES ZWASKA

We were disappointed—and we had no right to be. Authorities say this
organization brings the music of the nineteenth century to its logical
conclusion. Logical—see? Authorities are always that. So let’s be
logical and philosophical and reason that what belongs to the nineteenth
has no place this far into the twentieth century. Granted. “Well, then,
what _do_ you want?” they question. I should answer _The Faun_ or
something beyond this, finding its manner and inspiration in this
form—interpretive, impressionistic, compressed, emotional. Of all the
Ballets presented by Diaghileff’s Ballet Russe that is, to me, the most
indicative of what the future is to be, so far as ballet and ballet
music is concerned. We’ve had Isadora Duncan, and Jacques Dalcrose has
been at work. Following are some impressions.

                   *       *       *       *       *

L’OISEAU DE FEU.—The setting an irritating green: scroll-work gates in
the background. Mere finical, petty child’s scribbling in its
conventionalized balancing. The characters and their work about on the
same level. Bakst costumed them, but the strength of the Hunter’s garb
is not carried into his action—he’s a most unvirile huntsman. And the
finale! a coronation: quite the proper climax for this. Rather
interesting though to have curtain fall on the incoming procession. The
music—Stravinsky’s—fascinating.

                   *       *       *       *       *

SCHÉHÉRAZADE.—“Barbaric” they say—yes, it’s a harem scene, you know. But
broad and daring as Bakst’s color is it’s not _very_ far from the
_usual_ harem scene. The lighting was not as good as it should have
been. A serious offense, for the shadows interfered with the action
several times; but they aided the bizarreness of the kaleidoscopic whirl
at the height of the “barbarities.” This is known as “good ensemble
work”—good, yes, but unusual? No longer so. They say there are no
“principals” in this very modern ballet, but it seems that _one_ person
gets the “principal parts”—I refer to Bolm. Right here I’d like to
quarrel with his work—he is “principaled” too often to escape notice.
His Le Negre was lithe, one necessity of the role, but it was nothing
else! His supposedly ecstatic whirls would break annoyingly. A tiny
dressed-up monkey. The end of his leap to Zobeide’s couch was most
ungraceful, awkward. These same broken whirls, leaps, and evident
stumblings—they seemed nothing else—appeared in _Prince Igor_. Seeing
these two ballets on the same bill emphasizes this persistent failing.
He, as the Desired One and the Desiring in _Schéhérazade_, made the
infatuation rather absurd, inhuman. The Grand Eunuch, strange to say,
was the human one—his wavering and final surrender of his duty to the
caresses of the females! As a whole: all the passion, all the “lust,”
superbly expressed human-ness—“barbaric,” perhaps, but human.

                   *       *       *       *       *

CARNAVAL.—A deep blue background—a background that _backs_. Two settees,
weak spots they seemed. But nevertheless, against and into this blue
came Pierrot, Schumann music, and Colombine. Pierrot seemed grotesque,
absurd—lovers usually do. Excellent pantomime, then other lovers come
upon the scene. Pierrot steps out of the picture into the dark outer
stage, his white and spots of springtime green lying in a heap in the
center. The lovers maneuver. After their not vain pursuits, momentary,
yet so poignant, Colombine returns to a most itching, subtle, ecstatic
melody—and with her is Arlequin!! The knave! see the curve of his back
and the curve of his thighs and legs! Pierrot must be in on this! and
_Carnaval_ proceeds. Arlequin is now and then out of the picture posing
on the frame, the dark fore-stage, looking on: and in such moments we
have all—everything for our eyes, our ears and our hearts: color,
movement, sound, in themselves emotions but also emotions of hearts that
are seeking.

                   *       *       *       *       *

LES SYLPHIDES.—Genee. In what years was she at her height? And how many
generations preceded her as exponents of her particular form of the
Dance? I dare say “in those days” when the “people wanted” such things
they wanted them well done. “People” still want it, but evidently not
done well. The background—Belasco!—well, never mind that. The
_Chopiniana_ that Rabinoff’s Russians did had at least finesse; this one
has terrible ragged edges. Even the solo works, waltzes, and prelude
seemed chosen with little taste—the presenting of the thing at all was
offensive taste.

                   *       *       *       *       *

PRINCE IGOR.—The red of the tents not “barbaric,” the paganism of the
costumes a trifle faded, and the leaps of the warriors (Bolm, the “chief
warrior,” you remember) not convincing. The mob, or “ensemble,” if you
must, properly wild and abandoned. The music is the kind that you beat
time to with your feet, you know—primitive I think they call it. Well,
the “very moderns” failed us again—do you see?

                   *       *       *       *       *

L’APRÈS MIDI D’UN FAUNE.—Green. Some how I was expecting purple, the
hazy opaque purple of a woodland when the sun enters it from one side;
and still I think that purple would have fitted the Debussy music and
the mood of the faun,—a mood, of course dependent on the music. But it
was green, with rather weak spots of red. This scene framed by a Greek
border of pale and dark blue and white. In front of this frame, looking
into the picture at the languid, piping faun, moved nymphs. They seemed
part of the border—a decoration from an urn or from the walls of some
temple. The faun leaves his knoll and moves into the decorative sphere
of the maidens. Beautiful movement, repressed, conventionalized. A scarf
is left by one of the maidens; they have all left the faun. He has
nothing but this to remember them by. Returning to his mossy rock he
possesses the scarf. No lover more delicately held the body of his love
or with more reverence knelt toward her. The curtain lowers here—the
faun is left to dream. “Now, look here, my friends,” as _the_ Lecturer
would say, stamping across the stage; “away with all this nonsense and
hypocrisy, this clatter about ‘indecent,’ ‘revolting,’ ‘vicious,’
‘offensive,’ ‘decadent,’ and such blabber! Admit that your life, you
critics, living for art as you pretend to, is made up of just such
things—in fact if you were honest you’d admit your entire life is
wholly, first and last, rooted, aye, _dwelling_ on just this episode,
and yet you cry aloud unto the heavens ‘indecent,’ ‘revolting,’
‘offensive’ when it is beautifully simple and much more perfectly
presented before you than you’ll ever experience it yourself. And as for
the substitution of the scarf, well, the psychology of the incident is
perfect and the whole thing is heightened by art, my friends, _art_—and
you of course, living as you do amongst the fleshpots and the Market
Place and knowing not of the Groves of Dionysius and the Temples on the
hillsides at Athens—can’t see it. Well. The gods have pity on you and
may you be shown joy in the hereafter—God knows your chastity will keep
you from it here.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

LE SPECTRE DE LA ROSE.—Fragmentary concession to those who “loved” _Les
Sylphides_ and, botanically speaking, a “shoot” from that ballet and the
(unpresented here) _Papillons_ of Schumann. Necessary, no doubt, to
remind us of our ballet history and, like historical data, necessary but
uninteresting. Bakst’s bedroom setting _does_ justify the presenting of
this, however.

                   *       *       *       *       *

SOLEIL DE NUIT.—M. Leonide Massine—_Youth!_ If you were present at
creation’s turmoil perhaps _les Bergers_ would always have been
delightful and _les Paysannes_ always happy and colorful—and, of course,
we would have had many more serious and glorious Bouffons! The _purity_
of this ballet—color, music (Rimsky-Korsakov), dancing and pantomime—is
astounding, and beautiful!

                   *       *       *       *       *

CLEOPATRE.—_I_ have been to Egypt! All ages have known Cleopatra—her
evil and magnificence; and none will forget that she had slaves. No age
since hers can know of her allurements and the grandeur of her reign of
the souls of two of her slaves as the Russians have shown them to ours!
A temple in Egypt: of pillars once believed eternal, along the then
sacred Nile. Amoun, one of her slaves, loving and loved by another,
Ta-or, craves the caresses of the great Cleopatra! He succeeds: they are
granted midst colorful revels, music made by Assyrians and dancing by
dancers from Greece. The moment is too short ... he pays for it with his
life. The revelers leave, and none in their indifference so cold as the
Queen herself. In the thickness of a red evening, the hall deserted, one
heart still beats. Ta-or grieves over her lost love—alone. I have been
to Egypt ... learned the ways of women—and the world!

                   *       *       *       *       *

PETROUCHKA.—Primary things: red, blue, yellow; love, hate, jealousy;
people and artists. All told together in a ballet whose dramatic
unification finds its remarkable inspiration in the music. No doubt
Stravinsky’s most important music for the stage. Pétrouchka, eternal
paradox of beauty encased in ugliness. His jealousy of the Moor, who
also loves the Ballerine, is the ballet, and the music. Foremost the
music! Pétrouchka, in whirling frenzy alone with night and the stars;
the Ballerine haunting him with piercing notes blown from a silver horn;
his discovery of the Moor with his love; and the mannekins entering into
the public square, halting the folk-music of the peasants and squires;
Pétrouchka’s death in the snow and the appearance of his spirit. All
these episodes are _music_. Here one gets the ingenious use of an
orchestra, extraordinary combinations of instruments. Carpenter
attempted this, you remember, in his _Perambulator_. Igor Stravinsky has
accomplished it. He with Leon Bakst, is the most important figure of the
Russian Triumph. They worked together to achieve _Pétrouchka_.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The agonizing lack of an audience excuses Diaghileff in laying aside a
completely perfect matinee program in favor of one that would attract
modern children with their innocent parents, but, artistically, there is
no justification of this bowing to the “public” and to “morals” in the
reasoning that moved them to tone down the color of the slaves in
_Schéhérazade_. The contrast was needed: black was in the color plan,
especially for Le Negre. This makes us suspicious that the other uneven
and faulty spots were caused by just such managerial schemings. Seeing
some the second and third times strengthened these suspicions! The
journalistically “notorious faun” on its third performance (a matinee)
moved less lithely and, that there be no “effrontery of good taste,”
posed stupidly, stiffly, while the tense vibrating music panted for
_movement_—for entry into life. And _Cleopatre_! Much as it was
Americanized by being “less sensuous, etc.,” the second performance
descended to mere Grand Opera pageantry, or nearer, to a Grand Opera
Gala Performance vaudeville. The actual center of interest, the Queen’s
couch, was draped by a still, unamourous—yet Decency and the Parents’
League be praised!—unoffensive lover.

In a strange land; so strangely treated! That prophets might be
understood in another land their priests distort them that barbarians
may comprehend!




                               Editorials


                         _THE ESSENTIAL THING._

THE LITTLE REVIEW is a magazine of Art and Revolution. If you ask me
which it believes in most I shall have to say—Art. Because there is no
real revolution unless it is born of the same spirit which produces real
art.

A man like Bill Haywood doesn’t agree with this. “Why do you ask why
some one doesn’t start the revolution?” he says; “don’t you see that
we’re in the midst of a revolution now?” No, I don’t see it. I see
evolution at work in labor—not revolution. But I see something more than
evolution at work in the arts—music, painting, poetry.

“... to obtain victory over man and circumstance there is no other way
but that of feeding one’s own exaltation and magnifying one’s own dream
of beauty or of power.” You can argue that D’Annunzio, who said this, is
neither a very great man nor a very great artist. Nevertheless it is
what Beethoven did; and it is what Jeanne d’Arc did.... It is what Bill
Haywood does; but it is not what most labor leaders do, or what most
radicals do. It is not what the laborers themselves do. How horrible it
is to realize that when a man is slaving for his very life he can not be
selective in what he does, that he has no dream left to magnify, and yet
that he must have or perish....

This is why I would go to hear John Cowper Powys even if he spoke in
such a benighted place as the Hebrew Institute. Boycotts are important,
but they will not help a revolution as a dream will. Mr. Powys will help
you to find both an exaltation and a dream....


                        “_DON’TS FOR CRITICS._”

I went to a meeting of the Friday Club the other day, where Mary Aldis
was to read a very good paper which she called “A Passionate Inquiry
into Imagism.” After she had finished, Harriet Monroe rose to defend the
poetry of H. D.—poetry which Mrs. Aldis had confessed left her unmoved.
Miss Monroe “explained” the miracle of such poetry as H. D’s _Oread_ so
that even those who don’t “get” these things ought to have understood.
And still—what is the use? I am convinced that the secret and the beauty
of the Imagists lies somehow _in the look of the words_, and that if you
have only a feeling for the sounds of words you will never love Imagism.
Witter Bynner, who was also there, made an amusing little speech about
how the Imagists substitute color for sound, sensation for emotion, and
concentrate upon technique instead of upon that for which technique is
intended. And then Alice Corbin Henderson had the last word. “After all
the discussion about Imagism I am surprised to find that no one really
seems to know what it is!... When Mrs. Aldis told me the title of her
paper I said that what I should like would be a dispassionate inquiry.
She said she didn’t think that possible—apparently it isn’t; but as I
was thinking over the many heated criticisms of Imagism and modern
poetry that have appeared lately, I began to make a list of Don’ts for
the critics.” (They are printed on another page). “Of course, if the
critics can’t find out what Imagism is there isn’t any need telling
them; though it might be well to point out again that it isn’t a matter
of technique: it is a matter of vision.”


                              _A TRIBUTE._

Jeanne D’Orge, who makes her first appearance in print in the present
issue, has the semblance of a fountain laced with colored flames.... But
you dip a hand in the laced water and—it is chilled and edged. There is
a defiant, battered God with many swords beneath her casual flow of
words—a God that sometimes suddenly cries out, as at the end of her
_Sealed Package_. The poems she has in the present number are part of a
series called _The Torch_, in which with sledge-hammer, burning
accurateness she paints the emotions of a woman, from childhood to
womanhood—a woman who is an utter wistful-lipped pagan.

                                                                 M. B.




                               Propaganda


                            _BIRTH CONTROL_

Margaret Sanger’s case has been dismissed, “because she is not a
disorderly person”—and what has been gained for the issue of birth
control? Nothing, except perhaps a little education through publicity;
and that appears to be very little when you reflect what has just
happened to young Dr. Long, now lying in jail in Chicago because of an
abortion which resulted in the death of his wife. Think of a society
that dares to meddle in people’s lives to the extent of making them face
death rather than face a scandal. Think of a doctor (the cad by the name
of Goldstine, I believe) who _notifies the police_ as the proper agents
to deal with such a tragedy. Think of a public which makes it a crime
for these operations to be performed intelligently and without danger of
blood poisoning. Think of physicians who will not fight for their right
to do this. And think of splendid Dr. Haiselden!

Margaret Sanger has been “forgiven” by the government, but the statutes
regarding family limitation remain the same. Any unfortunate unknown can
be whisked into jail for propagating birth control, just as usual. Mrs.
Sanger didn’t even demand redress for her husband, who spent a month in
prison. Surely he was entitled to a dismissal on the same grounds—more
entitled to it, even in the eyes of the law: he had never circulated the
pamphlets or in any way agitated for birth control. He is an artist, not
a propagandist. But he served his sentence, and nothing was done or is
being done about it. Mrs. Sanger means to go on with her work. What does
the government mean to do about it?

Emma Goldman is about to stand trial for the same “offense.” In her case
there will be no “influential” women rushing back and forth to
Washington to interview the President in her behalf. I only wish there
would be. It would insure her freedom for the next year, and it would be
so amusing to figure out on what grounds the Good Presbyterian could
effect the release of the Arch Anarchist. But Emma Goldman will fight
her case alone, and on its merits. If she does not succeed in effecting
a revision of the penal code regarding the whole matter of birth control
she will spend the next year in prison, I understand. You can all help
by sending your protests to Magistrate Simms and also by giving your
support to Dr. Long and Dr. Haiselden or any other person who gets
involved in these laws of the dark ages.


                       “_THE BEAUTIFUL GESTURE_”

Why do you object to Jean Crones’ reasoning? I reprint his second
letter, transposed into English:

   Why did I do it? While in Europe millions of Christians are
   slaughtering each other in the most bloody massacre, and in this
   free country thousands of men and women are tramping the streets
   without food and shelter, and at the same time the church holds
   dinners that cost $15 a cover, beginning with Beluga caviar and
   champagne—the money which was beggared from poor working men and
   women, the money which the blood of poor workers has run for.

   These conditions are a scandal. This is the failure of
   Christianity—an insult to honesty and a challenge to humanity.
   Let the church answer my charges toward the world and I shall
   stand for the charges made against me.


                 _MOTOR BUSSES ON CHICAGO BOULEVARDS._

There is really a definite plan on foot for this miracle. A Motor Bus
Company has been formed, and the necessary certificates from the State
Public Utilities Commission secured. Its plan is to operate from the
south end of Jackson Park to the north end of the city limits. People
who haven’t limousines, who can’t afford taxis, and who can’t possibly
walk the whole distance of the parks, will be able to drive through the
beautiful parts of the city—the _only_ beautiful parts, it is necessary
to add. For ten cents they can have an astounding romance. They can sit
on top of an omnibus, under the sun or the stars, and watch Lake
Michigan stretching out to the other side of the world. That is, they
can do this if the Park Commissioners decide to allow them.

Some of these commissioners raise the objection that motor busses will
add seriously to the traffic congestion. That is true, but how is the
thing managed in New York? Fifth Avenue is narrower than Michigan, and
it is always more crowded. Other commissioners object to the wear and
tear on the boulevards which have not been constructed for such heavy
traffic. But the Chicago Motor Bus Company “has agreed to pay the
Lincoln Park Commissioners $1,300 a year for each mile of their route
and the South Park Commissioners $1,000 a year per mile.”

The thing that really halts the plan at present is the attitude of a
couple of private citizens who complain to the South Park Board that
motor busses will destroy the beauty of the boulevards! You know the
type of mind whose thinking runs in such channels? The type that doesn’t
give a hang who pays the taxes which maintain the boulevards; the type
that is fond of talking about democracy and what great things we do for
the foreigner in America.


   Of the men who rhyme, so large a number are cursed with suburban
   comforts. A villa and books never made a poet; they do but tend
   to the building up of the respectable virtues; and for the
   respectable virtues poetry has but the slightest use. To roam in
   the sun and air with vagabonds, to haunt the strange corners of
   cities, to know all the useless and improper, and amusing people
   who are alone very much worth knowing; to live, as well as to
   observe life; or, to be shut up in hospital, drawn out of the
   rapid current of life into a sordid and exasperating inaction; to
   wait, for a time, in the ante-room of death; it is such things as
   these that make for poetry.

                                                  —_Arthur Symons._




                                 Poems


                           RICHARD ALDINGTON


                           Bloomsbury Square

   I walk round Bloomsbury Square.

   Bright sky over Bloomsbury Square;
   Bright fluttering leaves
   Between the sober houses.

   I carry my morning letters,
   Some telling of lives spoiled and cramped,
   Some telling of lives hopeful and gay,
   Some full of yearning for London
   And our wider life.

   In Bloomsbury Square
   The worms of a little moth
   Are spinning their Cocoons,
   Weaving them out of bright yellow silk
   And bits of plane bark
   Into strong, comfortable houses.
   But hundreds of them
   Have wandered on to the iron fence
   And go wearily wandering,
   Spending a little silk here
   And a little silk there,
   And at last dropping dead from weariness....

   “Our wider life”—
   That is our wider life:
   To wander like blind worms
   Spending our fine useless golden silk
   And at last dropping dead from weariness.

   Blue sky over Bloomsbury Square;
   Bright fluttering leaves
   Between the sober houses.


                                Epigram

   Rain rings break on the pool
   And white rain drips from the reeds
   Which shake and murmur and bend;
   The wind-tossed wistaria falls.

   The red-beaked water fowl
   Cower beneath the lily leaves;
   And a grey bee, stunned by the storm,
   Clings to my sleeve.




                            Lollipop Venders


                             LUPO DE BRAILA

“Misfit clothing”—I saw these words this morning on a small shop sign
and they kept dancing before my eyes. Misfit clothing. In vain all my
attempts to concentrate on the object of my visit to the Art Institute.

I sat down to search my brain for the cause of this phenomenon, and I
soon recalled another such visit I once made under similar difficulties.

It was at the San Francisco Exposition. I discovered by chance the
so-called Annex of the Fine Arts Building, a stable-like structure in
comparison to the main building. It housed the Norwegian, Hungarian, and
Spanish exhibits—by the way, almost the only ones worth seeing. At that
time another vision kept me from seeing the exhibit for some moments. It
seemed as if some short bald men danced along green velvet walls, each
one plucking his heart beats with gusto and, after arranging them in a
queer design on a crystal glass plate, offering them to the stars and
children.

This recollection cleared the air and I realized that surroundings have
a strong effect on me. I have come to enjoy the result of the finest
faculty we possess, our imagination. I have come to admire the result of
a year’s work of our Chicago Artists.

Three hundred and twenty-one paintings, says my catalog; and in order to
simplify matters I decide to look at some of the most popular names
first—names usually found on the juries.

Artists, according to Rodin, are different from other mortals because
they love their work. Let us see: Adam Emory Albright, Alfred Juergens,
Lucie Hartrath, John F. Stacey, and Dahlgreen. Each one of them has
between three and seven paintings. With all that canvas they must have
sailed on the most enchanting seas, and surely have brought back a
holiday for our eyes and hearts.

The first one I encounter is _An October Afternoon_ by Mr. Alfred
Juergens; visions of little coral trees with hanging heads against a
faint green dream sky, embroidered brown leaves in the foreground and
cool blue hills like thoughtless sighs in the background, appear on the
catalog page. But see what Mr. Juergens has done with this subject. I
can scarcely believe my eyes. A mushroom dog in front of some formless
and lifeless trees; amateur composition, thoughtless technique, and
dirty color. And Mr. Juergens has a steady job on the jury. I wonder
what is his reason for painting: he certainly does not love his work.
Something suddenly interferes with my thoughts on this subject: it is
the jingling of coin in a visitor’s pocket. I look around and find
number 174 by the same gentleman, and it reminds me of a cat walking on
the keyboard of a stringless piano.

They say this is the best exhibition of the Chicago Artists. If it is,
Mr. Juergens has done nothing to make it good. He has six such things on
the walls.

Mr. Albright, a painter of children playing in the open, has seven
pictures in the exhibit, five of them on one wall. One is called _The
Barn Yard_. The name reminds me of the reproduction of a painting by
Malchevski I saw in a Polish library a few days ago. It was called _Art
in the Back Yard_ and showed a little satyr playing a flute for a little
girl and a few turkeys. There was romance in the fence boards, and
marvelously clean colors; it shouted life and joy. Mr. Albright’s
old-maid’s conception of childhood made me feel sad. His shapeless hens,
his flattened children on the wall, weak composition, dirty colors, and
no sign of life in the whole thing, or feeling of out-of-door air.
Almost disgusted, I look further:—_A Summer Dream_. I look for the dream
and find it in the fact that the biggest of the boys has borrowed his
older brother’s head, and the painting is full of some dirty yellow
color. A horrible dream. I wish Mr. Albright as well as Mr. Juergens
would at least clean their pallets if they can not change their
conception of things.

Next I visit _Sunshine Alley_, by Lucie Hartrath. It is the alley of
poverty of ideas and bad color. Miss Hartrath evidently wants to paint
what she sees, but she does not happen to see anything startling. She,
too, has six such things on the walls.

The mediocre work of John F. Stacey and Anna L. Stacey really deserves
no attention. Especially bad is the portrait of John by Anna (there is
little love expressed in it) and _The Beach Road, Belvedere,
California_, by John, takes the prize for being the poorest painting in
the exhibition. John F. has only one painting that looks as if it were
made by a man who loves his work—_The Golden Hills of California_.

Next comes a man I dislike to place among the lollipop venders—he being
a very nice quiet and honest man; but why does Mr. Dahlgreen paint?

Now, when I come to Messrs. Griffith and Irvine, I find their anaemic
work quite good in comparison to the work I have seen until now. Of
course, I did not expect paintings with as wide a scope as the work of
the Zubiaure Brothers, Zuologa, Edward Munch, Hodler, Welti, Malchevski,
Franz, Stuck, Fritz Erler, Putz, Elie Reppin, etc., to say nothing of
the latest developments of modern art and ideals—I mean the disciples of
Cezane, Matisse, Van Gogh, Gauguin, etc.—because Chicago is still a
frontier town. All the latest improvements plus the Art Institute cannot
change its real character: a frontier town with frontier town ideals. In
this case, all criticism being comparative, I did not look for the
highest standard. Had I done so, three words might have been my
comprehensive criticism. As it is, all I expected was clear feeling,
clean color, good design, and a certain amount of delicacy in handling.
This has been fulfilled only in a measure by Mr. Bartlett, whose
strength and individuality places him at the head of the landscape
painters exhibiting. He reminds me very much of Trubner, especially his
_Autumn Afternoon_. I also like his daring composition in _Under Chinese
Tower, Munich_. Pauline Palmer’s work is full of broadly-painted
sunshine, though the foliage in some of her trees seems too heavy and
shapeless.

Next in merit I think comes Marie Lokke, whose yellow sail in _The Old
Pier_ takes the wind out of many a neighbor. Hermann More’s _A Summer
Afternoon_, is a good example of clear feeling and clean color. I also
like Mr. Kraft’s delicate _Silver Mist_ and _An Autumn Afternoon_, and
Mr. Ingerles’s, _The Fascinating Ozarks_.

There is also a class of painters who can best be described as able and
honest. At the head of these artists stands Mr. Peyraud and Edward B.
Butler. There are also Frank V. Dudley, H. Leon Roecker, Edgar S.
Cameron, J. H. Carlsen, Lawton Parker, Charles Francis Brown, A. H.
Schmidt, William Wendt, Alfred Jansson, Alson Clark, Karl A. Buehr,
Grace Ravlin, Edgar Payne and the following portrait painters: our own
Franz Hals, Mr. Christian Abrahamsen, Oscar Gross, Gordon Stevensen,
Cecil Clark Davis and Arvid Nieholm.

Mr. Werner’s mannerism is too monotonous.

Mr. Ufers and Mr. Higgins have taken yellow ochre into the open and made
good use of it. I have taken these two men separately because both have
done good work and I expect much improvement in the near future. Their
work at present looks too much like illustrations. Miss Dorothy Loeb is
the only one who has a real sense of rhythm in line.

The Chicago Society of Artists, which runs this exhibition every year,
seems to be controlled at present by a number of men who have inherited
a long-discarded weak imitation of a technique once used by Segantini.
They have excluded almost everything that showed some originality and
feeling, but have accepted and hung a few very poor and meaningless
things, so that they may shine by contrast. However, it seems to me they
are at the end of the rope. The public refuses to buy the dope and their
best men have sent in nothing to this show. I refer to Clarkson,
Reynolds, Betts, Oliver Dennet Grover, Henderson, Rittman; and Lawton
Parker has only one little canvas.




                       A Vers Libre Prize Contest


Through the generosity of a friend, THE LITTLE REVIEW is enabled to
offer an unusual prize for poetry—possibly the first prize extended to
free verse. The giver is “interested in all experiments, and has
followed the poetry published in THE LITTLE REVIEW with keen
appreciation and a growing admiration for the poetic form known as _vers
libre_.”

The conditions are as follows:

Contributions must be received by April 15th.

They must not be longer than twenty-five lines.

They must be sent anonymously with stamps for return.

The name and address of the author must be fixed to the manuscript in a
sealed envelope.

It should be borne in mind that free verse is wanted—verse having beauty
of rhythm, not merely prose separated into lines.

There will be three judges, the appointing of whom has been left to the
editor of THE LITTLE REVIEW. (Their names will be given in the next
issue, as we are hurrying this announcement to press without having had
time to consult anyone.)

There will be two prizes of $25 each. They are offered not as a first
and second prize, but for “the two best short poems in free verse form.”

As there will probably be a large number of poems to read, we suggest
that contributors adhere closely to the conditions of the contest.




                             A. Neil Lyons


                    (_John Lane Company, New York_)

A roomy garret with a wee dirty window in the sloping roof. Some trunks
with old fine clothes and older musty books—books of hymns and sermons,
most of them were. Broken limp chairs. A fire that would not “draw.”
Bits of worn carpets on the floor. A smelly oil lamp on one of the
trunks. Such was the place of my solitary confinement, for rebellion, at
least once a week. I admit to having even deliberately whistled and
danced a highland fling on dreary Sundays in order to provoke my
God-fearing, Sabbath-respecting elders to send me to the garret! How
could they, unsuspecting, unimaginative Olympians, know that it was one
of the places where I had real joy?

In the smallest trunk there were back numbers of _Punch_. Pencils and
paper were there also. When the steps sounded no more on the stairs, and
I had stopped my stage crying, I would take out my drawing materials and
an issue of _Punch_ and start to copy the easiest drawings I could find.

Among the artists there was none that I liked better than Phil May. His
sense of the comic and his economy of line appealed to me and my lack of
ability to draw. His Cockney folk gave me more pleasure than any of the
staid humans I knew. He....

But I forget myself. I started out to write of Neil Lyons.... All the
words I have spun for the prelude are merely to say that during my
re-reading of the work of Neil Lyons in the past few months I have been
struck again and again by its likeness to the drawings of Phil May: the
same joy, the same delight was there in the reading as there was in the
contemplation of the drawings.

Now, this likeness not only existed in the handling of the subject, but
also in the choice thereof. The Cockney men, women and children that
Phil May has drawn Neil Lyons has written about. The pictures of the
peasantry that May has left are alike in line and spirit to those Lyons
has drawn verbally in _Cottage Pie_ and _Moby Lane_.

If you know Phil May’s work think of one of his drawings of a fat
middle-aged woman, and then listen to this drawing of another, by Neil
Lyons:

   “She was forty years old at a venture. She had lots of mouth and
   a salmon-coloured face and a pretence of a nose and small watery
   eyes. All these amenities were built up on a triple foundation of
   chin, which was matched by an exceeding amplitude of bosom and
   waist.”

Don’t you recognize the same swift, sure lines?

But I must get away from this parallel. Never at his best is the artist
as great as the writer. There is no line or collection of lines in May’s
work to match this in Lyons’:

   “Mrs. Godge, who was lately the mother of twin babies, is now the
   mother of memories.”

That sentence is only a shadow of the quiet poignancy of the tale that
follows it. Oh, the wonder of the man who can see every side of the
common people and set them down with such verve, such relish, such keen
poignancy and hilarious joy! Let me quote from the story of blind Unity
Pike, “the wanton”:

   “I imagine poor old Unity at this period of her life as having
   been a little, fresh, dark-haired maiden of Quaker habit. I know
   she must have been beautiful because ALL young things are
   beautiful. I imagine this poor bound soul in the dark with its
   toil and its thoughts—half-formed thoughts, half-formed memories,
   half-formed wishes. Nothing real about her or within her save the
   darkness. And I can imagine how it was, therefore, that——

   “Yes! They found Jack Munsey in her cottage. They found him in
   the night. And so, in the name of Christ, whose name they give to
   all their wickedness—that Christ, who forgave a woman that was
   not blind for sins beside which this sin of Unity’s was pure and
   white—in the name of this God, I say, they seized her sightless,
   wondering soul and threw it, a sacrifice, to those bloody wolves
   they call their virtue.”

I would fain go on quoting, showing you the wit of this man, gentle, and
on occasion barbed and stinging: his humor, kindly, of the soil; his
great jollity and high good spirits. I would indeed like to introduce
you to “Clara,” the hussy, who is fat and motherly and with a heart and
mind unbounded. I would like to take you to “Arthur’s,” the midnight
coffee-stall where you would meet with street-walkers and soldiers,
scavengers and tramps and hear from the lips of a gutter snipe one of
the most perfect and touching love tales ever told.

Oh, but you must read them all yourself. Will you, if I give you the
names of the various volumes? Here they are, then: _Arthur’s_, _Sixpenny
Pieces_, _Cottage Pie_, _Clara_, _Simple Simon_, _Moby Lane_.

John Lane, he of the Bodley Head Publishing Company, who gave the world
_The Yellow Book_, the works of Anatole France and Stephen Leacock, is
the publisher.

I wait expectantly your showers of gratitude!

                                             —_Allan Ross Macdougall._




                           The Reader Critic


                               _ANARCHY_

_Alice Groff, Philadelphia_:

Anarchy is scientifically a reductio ad absurdum and those who claim to
be anarchists are self-deceivers,—minds that cannot complete a circuit
of reason. There is no place in reason for anarchy, hence there is not
and cannot be an anarchist on a basis of reason. All who call themselves
so are either _archists_ of the most rabid sort or helpless flies in the
sticky syrup of laissez faire. The only professed anarchists that make
any impression upon the world are of three kinds: either they are
spirits of revolt of the most bitterly, materialistically tyrannical
sort; or they are those who suffer with the oppressed and strive
individually to set them free, even to the point of _self_-martyrdom; or
they are sentimentalists who maunder maudlinly on about love and justice
and yet do absolutely nothing to bring about the love of justice or the
justice of love, either in their preaching or their practice. But none
of these are really anarchists, they are only varieties of _archists_
who wish to impose their _own_ social ideals upon the social order in
place of those that already prevail.

The whole story of social evolution in a nutshell is as follows: every
phase of the social order at any stage of social evolution is maintained
by a social ego or group sufficiently powerful to dominate the rest of
the surrounding social body,—and this phase can be changed only by
revolution—bloodless or otherwise,—on the part of a new social ego
desiring this change and developing power to establish and maintain it.

Now the only way in which such a social ego can develop such power is by
obtaining control of _the means of living_,—food, clothing, shelter, and
the natural and financial resources back of these means; and this
control can be obtained only by _archists_,—_dominationists_,—organized
into a social ego or group that is a unit on any special social ideal.
Rebellions come and rebellions go, but the only rebellion that ever
reaches successful revolution is made by a social ego powerful enough to
get control of the necessities of life _by force_,—force material,
intellectual, or psychic. This disposes forever of the professed
repudiation of force by the philosophical anarchists, so-called. As for
the poetic anarchists, who draw moving pictures of the beautiful time to
come, when humanity will voluntarily organize to abolish all man-made
law (which _they_ consider the only social evil, not realizing that the
evil is not in law, per se, but in the _kind_ of law), and who look to
“Mother Nature” for social guidance,—these will wait and look till the
crack of doom, in vain. For “Mother Nature” is an old-wife of incredible
stupidity, socially considered, and must needs be pulled up by the hair
of her head at every whip-stitch, by her ever-evolving offspring, in
order that they may transform her social stupidity into scientific
truth. Social evolution depends entirely upon the discovery of such
scientific truth and its application to the social order, and such
application can be made only step by step through a social ego powerful
enough to compel such application.

From this it may be seen that by whatever name we may call
ourselves,—monarchists, democrats, anarchists,—we are really _archists_
striving to impose our ideals as social egos upon the social order, and
succeeding—only when we can get control of the means of living—in
dominating the rest of the social body with them,—until a new social ego
gets the power to cry “The king is dead! Long live the king!”

It, of course, goes without saying that no social dominance has ever
been entirely wise or beneficent, and that until very recently in social
history there has been no knowledge of sociological scientific truth to
speak of upon which to base social domination. But the hope of the world
lies in the ever-progressing discovery of such truth, and in its
application to the social order by ever-evolving social egos that will
more and more base their social ideals upon such truth, gradually
dominating the whole social order with ideals so based.

_Anonymous_:

After having read your “A Deeper Music” in the February issue I wondered
whether you had ever heard Mr. de Pachmann play the piano. There is
nothing in the world like it—nothing more wonderful. I am not speaking
of an ebony Mason and Hamlin alone on a stage, but of any piano at all,
with that madman bending his head over the keys of it.

I feel sure that had you heard him you would have included him in your
article and would not have put words into Bauer’s mouth. You would have
known that it is possible to play the piano very badly and play it more
beautifully than any one else; both of these in one afternoon. The
design of sound! But he, too, is becoming passé like Paderewski. But
there is little likelihood of a type arising from these two.

Do you know of any one who plays the piano as Casals plays the ’cello?

Have you looked at any of Scriabine’s later piano pieces? I wonder if he
expresses any of the moods which you prophesy will be caught by some new
composer. I knew a boy in Petrograd who went to the conservatory every
day with a volume of Scriabine and one of Bach under his arm. We called
him the “Scriabine chap.” He probably has had thirty-second quavers
punched into him by a German machine gun, for I am sure he couldn’t or
didn’t dare be as loyal to both Nicholas and Wilhelm as he was to
Scriabine and Johann S. B.

_Yes, I have heard Pachmann many times, and he was always wonderful. I
meant, of course, to put him in the article, but at the last minute he
slipped my mind ... perhaps because I was trying to write of a “deeper”
music, and since Pachmann is “master of the small essential thing and
master of absolutely nothing else” he doesn’t quite come into the realm
of the new vision of the piano._

_Isn’t there a good deal of similarity between Casals’ playing of the
’cello and Bauer’s playing of the piano?_

_Scriabine’s later piano things have something of what I meant, and do
you remember the piano parts of “Prometheus?” Stravinsky, too—you know
how he uses the piano in “Pétrouchka.” But the new vision is beyond
these—something more rich and shattering.... I can’t say it. Let’s just
wait and see.—The Editor._

_Alice Groff, Philadelphia_:

“Spirit can do” absolutely _nothing_, without body. Social spirit can do
absolutely nothing without the means of life for the body. The social
ego that would “start the revolution” must aim first to get control of
the means of living—food, clothing, shelter, and the resources, natural
and economic, back of these. Revolutions succeed only when they get such
control; if they do not get it they are soap bubbles blown by a little
child.

Why waste time pelting with idle words the social egos that have such
control, instead of going to work to _wrench_ it from them, _even with
war_?

The social ego that has such control “can do anything.” It can stop war
with a turn of its hand and establish in its stead world-wide service,
kindness, brotherhood, peace, joy and beauty. And there is nothing else
in the universe that can do this.

It is for lack of a social ego having such control and that unity in
establishing the above-mentioned principles in the social order, alone,
that “men continue to support institutions they no longer believe in,
that women continue to live with men they no longer love, that youth
continues to submit to age it no longer respects,” and it is the only
agency that can help one to be free when one wants to be free or make
one a personality instead of a nonentity.

All that you say about a “deeper music” is true, though I would say a
more winged music—(I would not dare use to you the word spiritual)—or a
subtler music, or something of that sort; but all that you deprecate in
music, by critical suggestion, is also true and necessary,
scientifically and fundamentally, without which your deeper or higher or
subtler or more winged or more spiritual music would be nothing but soap
bubbles without plenty of soapy water to make them out of. I am one of
those who can appreciate this deeper music—but I know also that it
cannot be created ex-nihilo.

As to Ben Hecht, his power of expression is wonderful. His writing is
literature par excellence, but it lacks a _soul_. If in his meticulous
analyses of life he could suggest the vision of the swallowing up of the
macrocosm in the macrocosm—could suggest what humanity as a whole could
do to wipe out the evils that feed upon the individual—he might be
god-like. But like all of the rest of you he is a dead fly in the
sickening syrup of _laissez faire_, at the mercy of Mother Nature. Now
it isn’t worth while for you to resent this. Go to work and read what I
have been able to get out of _The Egoist_, showing up anarchy for all
that it is worth.

_Edgcumb Pinchon, Los Angeles_:

Glad to see you get into trouble—you have the Flame! May it flash on our
universal dullness and faithlessness as the sun on sword blades——

Do you remember Maupassant’s story: An exhausted French regiment—ten
miles to go—the men mutinous, disgruntled; a broken-down carriage by the
road-side—horses and driver gone—a mother and her daughter forlorn in
the carriage, needing assistance to the next town. The snow is deep,
their slippers are thin and they are fashionably—and uselessly—garbed.
The soldiers make a sedan chair of the carriage poles, and fighting
among themselves for the honor of bearing a hand at the poles they
finish the march with spirit and bravado——?

Do you remember Whitman’s “lithe, fierce girls?” Such are the
flame-tongues of Revolution—the priestesses of social passion.

If Woman only knew her power to work white magic with banality and stir
up the hero-poet in man! But we who have dragged her by the hair for ten
thousand years must continue to drag her enfeebled body and spirit with
us for penalty—even as we are praying her to touch us to Fire!

When you say that all we need at this hour is a few great spiritual
leaders—you are tremendously right. And shall not one of those be some
“lithe fierce girl” who knows how to wake the militant social troubadour
in man?

The enclosed is because you, like Margaret Sanger, belong to the new
revolution—the thoroughbred thing compact of esprit, audacity, faith,
and elan.


                          _Socialism and War_

                           By LOUIS B. BOUDIN

              Author of _Theoretical System of Karl Marx_,
                  “_Government by Judiciary_”, _etc._

                         Price, $1.10 Postpaid

                               NEW REVIEW
                            PUBLISHING ASS’N
                              256 Broadway
                             New York City

               _A STUDY OF THE GREAT WAR OF IMPERIALISM._

   Organized Socialism collapsed in the European crisis; but
   Socialist thought is providing us with an authentic, realistic
   interpretation of the causes and consequences of the Great War.

   The whole world is interested in the attitude and conclusions of
   the Socialists.

   Mr. Boudin’s book deals with the prime cause of the
   war—Imperialism. He makes us understand the underlying forces of
   this world-drama. Mr. Boudin indicates that Imperialism is the
   political expression of a change in the economics of Capitalism;
   that Imperialism is motivated upon the export of capital,
   principally in the form of iron and steel as “means of
   production” in undeveloped countries.

   All phases of the war are covered, including the “cultural” and
   “racial”. The historian, the economist and the sociologist unite
   in a volume of the utmost interest and importance.




                       POETRY BOOKSHOP CHAPBOOKS

                          READY DECEMBER 1ST.

   IMAGES. By RICHARD ALDINGTON. 8d net (postage 1d).

   CADENCES. By F. S. FLINT. 8d net (postage 1d).

   ANTWERP. By FORD MADOX HUEFFER. Decorated by WYNDHAM LEWIS. 3d
   net (postage 1d).

   CHILDREN OF LOVE. By HAROLD MONRO. 6d net (postage 1d). Second
   Impression.

                          THE POETRY BOOKSHOP
            35 Devonshire St., Theobalds Rd., London, W. C.




                            PIANO TRIUMPHANT

   The artistic outgrowth of forty-five years of constant
   improvement—a piano conceived to better all that has proven best
   in others.


                           GEO. P. BENT GRAND

   Could you but compare it with all others, artistically it must be
   your choice. Each day proves this more true.

   Geo. P. Bent Grand, Style “A”—a small Grand, built for the
   home—your home.


                          GEO. P. BENT COMPANY

                    Manufacturers of Artistic Pianos
                         Retailers of Victrolas
                    214 South Wabash Avenue, Chicago




                              Harold Bauer

                and the Mason & Hamlin Tension Resonator

   Having achieved in the Mason & Hamlin, the most beautiful piano
   tone the world has ever known, its makers, many years ago, set
   before themselves the problem of maintaining for all time, that
   which they had created.

   A system of highly tempered steel rods, running from various
   points of the grand piano rim to a common center, was evolved and
   termed the Mason & Hamlin Tension Resonator.

   This construction, which is to be found in no other piano,
   because patented, is the only known method of permanently
   preventing deterioration of tone quality through the otherwise
   inevitable flattening of the sounding-board.

   Harold Bauer was the first artist to use a Mason & Hamlin Tension
   Resonator Piano in public. In the fifteen years which have
   followed that epoch making event there have been but few really
   great artists who have not enthusiastically endorsed this great
   master’s final choice.

                          CABLE PIANO COMPANY,
                           Wabash & Jackson.

   


                           A LITTLE EDITORIAL

                           By Jessie Quitman

   Books are not articles of merchandise. They are the projected
   materialization of the human spirit.

   The hands of congenial souls alone must touch them.

   The spirits of books shrivel and droop in department stores and
   shops.

   Miss Cabaniss of the Venetian Library does not sell or loan
   books.

   She shares them with you.

   In her salon in the Venetian Building she may be found most any
   hour of the day.

   There also will be found the intellectual artistocracy of
   Chicago. After converse, any book may be taken home, in assurance
   and without fear, for it has been touched by no unholy hands.


                          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.

   THE GARDENER. By Rabindranath Tagore. The famous collection of
   lyrics of love and life by the Nobel Prizeman. Send $1.35.

   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
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   $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
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   SONGS FOR THE NEW AGE. By James Oppenheim. “A rousing volume,
   full of vehement protest and splendor.” Beautifully bound. Send
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   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
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   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.

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   FREUD’S THEORIES OF THE NEUROSES. By Dr. E. Hitschmann. A brief
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   PLAIN FACTS ABOUT A GREAT EVIL. By Christobel Pankhurst. One of
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   KRAFFT-EBING’S PSYCHOPATHIA SEXUALIS. Only authorized English
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   WHAT EVERY GIRL SHOULD KNOW. By Margaret Sanger. Send 55 cents.

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                                  ART

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                         SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY

   CAUSES AND CURES OF CRIME. A popular study of criminology from
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   THE PSYCHOLOGY OF RELAXATION. By G. T. W. Patrick. A notable and
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   A MESSAGE TO THE MIDDLE CLASS. By Seymour Deming. A clarion call
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   FIRST AND LAST THINGS. By H. G. Wells. A confession of Faith and
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   THE SOCIALISTS AND THE WAR. By William English Walling. No
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   DREAMS AND MYTHS. By Dr. Karl Abraham. A lucid presentation of
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   WHAT WOMEN WANT. By Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale. $1.35 net;
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   ARE WOMEN PEOPLE? A collection of clever woman suffrage verses.
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   ON DREAMS. By Prof. Sigmund Freud. Authorized English translation
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                                  THE
                                 SEXUAL
                                QUESTION

   Heretofore sold by subscription, only to physicians. Now offered
   to the public. Written in plain terms. Former price $5.50. _Now
   sent prepaid for $1.60._ This is the revised and enlarged
   Marshall English translation. Send check, money order or stamps.


                     Ignorance Is the Great Curse!

   Do you know, for instance, the scientific difference between love
   and passion? Human life is full of hideous exhibits of
   wretchedness due to ignorance of sexual normality.

   Stupid, pernicious prudery long has blinded us to sexual truth.
   Science was slow in entering this vital field. In recent years
   commercialists eyeing profits have unloaded many unscientific and
   dangerous sex books. Now the world’s great scientific minds are
   dealing with this subject upon which human happiness often
   depends. No longer is the subject tabooed among intelligent
   people.

   We take pleasure in offering to the American public, the work of
   one of the world’s greatest authorities upon the question of
   sexual life. He is August Forel, M.D., Ph.D., LL.D., of Zurich,
   Switzerland. His book will open your eyes to yourself and explain
   many mysteries. You will be better for this knowledge.

   Every _professional man and woman_, those dealing with social,
   medical, criminal, legal, religious and educational matters will
   find this book of immediate value. Nurses, police officials,
   heads of public institutions, writers, judges, clergymen and
   teachers are urged to get this book at once.

   The subject is treated from every point of view. The chapter on
   “love and other irradiations of the sexual appetite” is a
   profound exposition of sex emotions—Contraceptive means
   discussed—Degeneracy exposed—A guide to all in domestic
   relations—A great book by a great man.

                    GOTHAM BOOK SOCIETY, DEPT. 564.
            _General dealers in books, sent on mail order._
                     142 W. 23d St., New York City.

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                          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. 10]:
   ... white teeth. They sat beside a table, spread with book and
       magazines. ...
   ... white teeth. They sat beside a table, spread with books and
       magazines. ...

   [p. 13]:
   ... critics of poetry, you are a poet also, take warning. Be
       Prepared! ...
   ... critics of poetry, you are a poet also, take warning. Be
       prepared! ...

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 67467 ***