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diff --git a/76275-0.txt b/76275-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6746487 --- /dev/null +++ b/76275-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1637 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76275 *** + + + + + + THE LITTLE REVIEW + + + Literature Drama Music Art + + MARGARET C. ANDERSON + EDITOR + + JANUARY, 1917 + + The Great Emotional Mind Margaret C. Anderson + Chinoiseries Eunice Tietjens + And—— jh. + A Decadent Art! + “What Is Art?” + Little Theatre Atrocities + Moore and More + “A. E.” + Fritz Kreisler, Pianist + H. M. for Art; H—L for Artists + Paint and Personality + Frederic Stuck! + “Huppdiwupp” Retold from the German + The Reader Critic + + Published Monthly + + 15 cents a copy + + MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher + Fine Arts Building + CHICAGO, ILLINOIS + + $1.50 a year + + Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago, Ill. + + + + + THE LITTLE REVIEW + + + VOL. III. + + JANUARY, 1917 + + No. 8 + + Copyright, 1917, by Margaret C. Anderson. + + + + + The Great Emotional Mind + + + MARGARET C. ANDERSON + +Every one talks about Art when he wants to be interesting. Whether he +knows anything about it or not makes no difference. You can tell a man +that unless he’s an expert in interstate railway regulation he mustn’t +argue with a man who is. That sounds sensible to him and he will defer +to the expert. But if you tell him that he mustn’t argue with an artist, +not being one himself, he considers your remark insulting. + +Some people condemn artists and their ways; some praise their work and +condemn their ways; some imitate their ways and patronize their work; +some believe in their work and discredit the whole scale of values on +which alone such work could be built. The latter seem to be the most +numerous in these days, and they are the most exasperating. But all of +them together act the same way when it comes to talking about Art. If +the artist disagrees with them they are sure he is in the wrong, and if +in their eloquence they have tried to make him out a fool it’s difficult +to understand their rage when the artist says, “Very well, you are not +an artist, why should we be expected to agree?” You can tell a man that +he knows nothing about philology or philosophy or metaphysics or +comparative religions or science or plumbing or gardening, and he will +confess that he doesn’t. As for aesthetics, he can’t deny fast enough +any connection with such a subject, as though it were something beneath +his character. But the moment Art is mentioned the thing seems to have +become personal, and you realize from his angry or injured air that not +to know about Art is a sin instead of a lack, a thing one can be blamed +for, a matter not to be compared to an incapacity for metaphysics or +plumbing, for some mysterious reason. + +This is the great emotional mind, holding itself proudly above the +much-maligned lay mind but really only articulating the beloved theories +of them both. The lay mind says: “I don’t know anything about Art but I +know what I like.” The emotional mind says: “I am capable of being moved +profoundly, and what moves me is Art.” Here are the articles of its +faith—every one of them as untrue as education can make them. It +believes: + +That beauty is loveliness. + +That beauty is art. + +That truth is art. + +That truth is beauty, beauty truth. + +That taste is art. + +That reproduction is art. + +That technique is form. + +That style is form. + +That “significant form” is an unstable quantity. (They say: “What is +beautiful to you is ugly to me. Therefore what is art to you is not art +to me. Therefore, how can you say what is art?”) + +That there is no distinction between feelings and imagination. + +That an emotional experience is the same as an aesthetic experience. + +That the fundamental impulse behind art is the search for truth. + +That art can be gauged by meaning. + +That the capacity to suffer intensely makes art. + +That the artist is the interpreter of life. + +That the artist paints life as he sees it. + +That the artist mirrors the problems of his age. + +That art springs from the fever and turmoil of life. + +That art is a medium for expressing life. + +That art is a criticism of life. + +That art is a justification of life. + +That art is the release from and the compensation for pain. + +That the ideal of the arts is the expression of the human spirit. + +That art ministers to our desires. + +That the function of art is to make the race happier. + +That art will free man from lies and superstitions. + +That art is to dissipate reality. + +That the social vision implies the creative vision. + +That man’s organic necessity to listen to music or be thrilled by poetry +is identical with the art impulse. + +That to live fully is the requisite of art. + +That intellect is the motive power in creation. + +That philosophy, which directs or explains, has some relation to art, +which makes or reveals. + +That special insight implies creative power. + +That special knowledge means special intelligence. + +That one must experience to know. + +That facts or fancies belong to art. + +That a poetic temperament makes a poet. + +That to act with great feeling and passion is to be a great actor. + +That to “be Mary Garden in every role she does” is to be a bad actress. + +That “the books we read and reread” are those that stand the test of +literature. + +That the artist escapes from life into beauty. + +That this “escape” is a falsification of life. + +That criticism should be sincere and unprejudiced. + +That artist and genius are identical terms. + +Finally, that art is the expression of the whole man, as even Mr. +Willard Huntington Wright and _The Seven Arts_ believe. It is not. It is +the expression of the thing that man brings into the world with him. His +life is the expression of the whole man. His art is the +carefully-selected expression of his personality. + + + + + Chinoiseries + + + EUNICE TIETJENS + + + Crepuscule + + Like the patter of rain on the crisp leaves of autumn are the tiny + footfalls of the fox-maidens. + + + Festival of Dragon Boats + + On the fifth day of the fifth month the statesman Küh Yuen drowned + himself in the River Mih-lo. + Since then twenty-three centuries have passed, and the mountains wear + away. + Yet every year, on the fifth day of the fifth month, the great Dragon + Boats, gay with flags and gongs, search diligently in the streams + of the Empire for the body of Küh Yuen. + + + Kang Yi + + When Kang Yi had been long dead the Empress decreed upon him + posthumous decapitation, so that he walks forever disgraced among + the shades. + + + The Dream + + When he had tasted in a dream of the Ten Courts of Purgatory, Dr. + Tsêng was humbled in spirit and passed his life in piety among + the foothills. + + + Poetics + + While two ladies of the Imperial harem held before him a screen of + pink silk, and a P’in Concubine knelt with his ink-slab, Li Po, + who was very drunk, wrote an impassioned poem to the moon. + + + The Son of Heaven + + Like this frail and melancholy rain is the memory of the Emperor + Kuang-Hsu, and of his sufferings at the hand of Yehonala. + Yet under heaven was there found no one to avenge him. + Now he has mounted the Dragon and has visited the Nine Springs. His + betrayer sits upon the Dragon Throne. + Yet among the shades may he not take comfort from the presence of his + Pearl Concubine? + + + Yin and Yang + + At the Hour of the Horse avoid raising a roof tree, for by the + trampling of his hoofs it may be beaten down; + And at the Hour of the cunning Rat go not near a soothsayer, for by his + prescience he may mislead the oracle, and the hopes of the + inquirer come to naught. + + + + + And—— + + + jh. + + + _A Decadent Art!_ + +We have had grand opera in Chicago for several weeks. I am going to +write here of grand opera, not of singing classes. + +Grand opera, like a great hand whose fingers are the different arts, is +trying to give us what the closed hand holds. Galli-Curci has undone the +critics for adjectives of praise, has fulfilled the hopes of managers, +and filled the Auditorium with the sleep-walking public. We have had +Muratore with his beautiful voice and his treacle personality. We have +had efficient and awful Wagnerian singers. We have had satisfaction in +our opera. And now comes Mary Garden, so surcharged with life that she +sends a thrill of it before her—Mary Garden who outsings the composer in +her feeling, who outpaints the painter in her acting, who outsculpts the +sculptor with her body. Mary Garden gives us grand opera; she gives what +the closed hand holds. + +And so the fight will begin again and the old favorite record will be +put on all the cheap human talking machines: “Of course Mary Garden +can’t sing, but she can act.” + +Grand opera by its very character is outside such simple criticism as +this; it is outside all talk of voice production or singing off key or +distracting the conductor. There is a measurable value in the component +parts of any art, but the test that cannot be analyzed lies in the unity +of these parts. This unity is the principle of Art. But grand opera is a +composite of the arts, and the true test for it should lie in the unity +of the employed arts, not in weighing any part of any one art. People +will rave for days if Mary Garden fails in a note, although the +aesthetic and emotional experience of the whole was unmarred; but the +same people will never be disturbed if Galli-Curci moves about the stage +like a lost cloak-model and breaks up the picture of the whole illusion +by holding her body in positions not possible in human awkwardness; and +is so intent on breathing that she almost forgets to attend to Juliet’s +funeral. So long as she sings according to a fixed standard she need go +no further than a moving-picture screen. And Mary must be decried, +though her performance hold in color like a tapestry and move in rhythm +like a frieze. + +When anything is as far from life as sung dialogue it must have a +different treatment than either pure song or pure drama. Decoration +should be the design for opera: a libretto that is a dramatic poem, +music working itself out in a decoration for the poem, scenery a design +of the matter and feeling of the libretto, and actors that can point the +design not in the realistic day-life manner of the drama but with +decorative acting. With this we might have great grand opera. One thing +we have now: the great decorative actress _and_ singer, Mary Garden. + +Mary Garden is the biggest thing on our horizon today. To think that +flesh could be so intelligent! She gives as generously of her undraped +body as a Rodin statue; and the audience gives her back their applause, +grudgingly, not knowing the great art of her. To put Rodin into inspired +motion, but to do more than that even—! In the next issue I shall try to +write of all she does,—Mary Garden, + + ... “This Cyprian + She is a million, million changing things. + She brings more joy than any god; she brings + More pain. I cannot judge her. May it be + An hour of mercy when she looks on me.” + + + “_What Is Art?_” + +When Tagore first gave his lecture on Art in Chicago I was not here, and +all I could read about it or find out about it by asking was that it was +anti-Tolstoyan. But I got the whole truth of it in a sentence when I +asked a pupil of Tagore’s, a young artist, “What does Mr. Tagore say in +his lecture on Art?” + +“What does he say? Oh, he just says what it is, this Art.” + +Every layman in this country who finds it necessary to establish himself +a critic of Art and artists should hear that lecture and try to +understand it, if only in parts. But I suppose they wouldn’t accept +Tagore’s word for it because he doesn’t take them in on the ground +floor, in the manner of _The Seven Arts_, for instance. + +I can’t quote directly, as the lecture is not yet published, but he has +said all the things that one longs to say oneself. He defines the artist +as one who says to the world: “I see you where you are what I am.” Art +is the most personal thing in the world. Man reveals himself and not his +objects in Art. Matter and manner find their harmonics in our +personality. The artist does not particularize through peculiarity, +which is the discord of the unique, but through the personality, which +is its harmony. Art is man’s answer to the “Supreme Person.” Art is +personal and beyond science. So, too, is beauty. Beauty is not a fact +but an expression. “Facts are like wine-cups that carry it.” To all the +confusion and misconceptions about beauty in Art he answers: The +creation of beauty is not the object of Art. Beauty in Art has merely +been an instrument and not its complete and ultimate significance. And +to those who demand teaching or utility in Art there is this answer: The +stage of pure utility is like a state of heat which is dark. When it +surpasses itself it becomes white heat and then it is expressive; and +when man thwarts his desire for delight, wanting to make it into good or +into knowledge, it loses its bloom and healthiness. + +Taking up the old controversy of Art for Art’s sake, the fact that the +phrase has fallen into disrepute is a sign of the return of the ideals +of the puritanic age when enjoyment as an end in itself was held to be +sinful. The idea of Art for Art’s sake had its origin in a surplusage of +life, not in asceticism or decadence. When our personality is at its +flood-tide with love or other emotion it longs to express itself for the +sake of expression, and we forget the claims of usefulness and the +thrift of necessity. + +After all the fighting and arguing one has to do up and down the world +over what is Art, and Art for Art’s sake, one comes from this lecture +feeling: “He leadeth me beside the still waters; he maketh me to lie +down in green pastures; he restoreth my soul.” + + + _Little Theatre Atrocities_ + +Last month the Chicago Little Theatre strayed down into the Playhouse +with _Mrs. Warren’s Profession_. I won’t say anything about the acting, +nor even of Mrs. Warren and her Oak Park vulgarity—Mrs. Warren of +London, Brussels, Budapest! But I can’t let the scenery go by without a +protest. + +There is a subtle but definite sense of analogy of line which goes +through all the arts. It is obvious in acting and painting. Why +shouldn’t it be sought in decoration when decoration is dependent upon +words? Bernard Shaw has perhaps but one line—the straight horizontal +line. He cuts through clear and straight—a cross-section of life. He +brings people and all their relations out upon this broad flat plane. +That’s Shaw. I didn’t mind that the text of _Mrs. Warren_ called for +period architecture; it was the insistence on the long perpendicular +line that maddened me. And the color! There, too, was a chance for line. +But—well, who can tell how bad the performance was with the futile +effort of the denying horizontal lines of the play against the asserting +perpendicular lines of the scenery? + + + _Moore and More_ + +I have been reading Frank Harris in _Pearson’s_ on George Moore’s _The +Brook Kerith_. What Mr. Harris really does is to jump on George Moore +for not writing a history of the life of Christ—the sociology, biology, +and geology of Jerusalem. + +Only in books of information and science does the writer have to +submerge his personality and let the facts have first place. But Mr. +Moore thought he was making a work of art, and here no one will deny the +first right to the personality of the artist. Mr. Harris cavils about +types, landscapes, customs, etc. + +Almost the only presentation of Christ outside the Bible has been in +painting. Have those painters “defiled our most sacred spiritual +possessions” who, from the day when Florence knelt in her streets before +Cimabue’s Madonna, have painted every incident in the life of Christ and +of the Holy Family in every setting from an Italian pasture to a Medici +palace, using Italian types, Italian dress, Italian gestures? Has the +great El Greco defiled the Christian religion because he painted Spanish +Christs and saints in tomb-damp colors? Did Michael Angelo dethrone God +because in his _Creation_ he painted him with beard and flowing robe on +his own authority? And the Germans and the Dutch? They must have been +all leagued together to “misrepresent through ignorance,” according to +such critics as Mr. Harris. But who can say that they have not raised +the tradition to a height the old Jews dared not dream? + + + “_A. E._” + +There is a great interest in America just now over A. E.—poet, painter, +mystical teacher, labor leader, economist, and editor. There are +lectures by Colum, reviews of his books, studies of his life, a revival +of the reading of George Moore’s _Salve_ where he is portrayed with such +love, and in January we are to have an exhibition of his paintings +brought from Ireland by a Chicago woman at her own expense and loaned to +the Art Institute. To my knowledge only once before have any of A. E.’s +paintings been seen in Chicago. There were two with the “Cubists.” + +The coming exhibitions will have pictures in several manners: a group of +wood interiors where gay young things sport—the trees human and the +girls wild; joyous sea pictures with cockle-gatherers and bathers; and +one frankly symbolic. One is called _Dove-Grey Sands: The Face of +Brooding Love in the Sky_. I love most those close-toned ones in which +he has seemed to paint the very spirit of the air to create his +subject—a painted intuition of mood. Most painters do no more than paint +the nature of the atmosphere to give the mood of their subjects. There +seems to be in all A. E.’s painting a sense of a living divine soul in +all things that make up the universe, and their unity with the soul of +man. + + + _Fritz Kreisler; Pianist_ + +Kreisler came and played the piano!—accompanying a young Russian +baritone, de Warlich. It was a lesson for all pianists and accompanists; +but of course they were not there. Very few were there, so excited are +people in Chicago over music. + +It was good to see how Kreisler subdued the strength of his own +personality and the sound of the piano and let the boy sing. But he did +more than that: he subdued the authority of a great violinist and let +the piano play. + +It would have made you glad to see how he came to the instrument. He +reached out as if he were drawing it to him; with hands and feet at once +he seemed to swing it into place. + + + _H. M. for Art; H—L for Artists_ + +At a recent exhibition in the Art Institute a committee granted +honorable mention to Stanislaw Szukalski, the young Polish sculptor, and +it is told that he tore up the H. M. before their faces. He would +undoubtedly have thrown back the thousand-dollar prize to them. + +Well, who of them all is able to give him place? Better be free of their +praise for his work if he cannot be free of their criticism for his +personality. The newspapers take it up and call him the eccentric young +sculptor. A citizen may be eccentric—so eccentric that his fellows may +shut him up in an asylum; but that’s a game among themselves. How on +earth can a sculptor be eccentric? It’s a waste of terms. One who +creates as indirectly as through Art must always seem eccentric to +society; but he is not eccentric to life: he creates as an artist: he +exists as an artist. + + + _Paint and Personality_ + +The new Arts Club opened its galleries with an exhibition of Sargent and +Dearth—just wild enough contrast for great interest: Sargent resting +back on old methods, expressing himself only in his subjects; Dearth +vitalizing his method with feeling and creating a manner full of +life-stuff to express himself in his peculiar subjects. + +Next came an exhibition of Henri, Bellows, and Sloan—a matter of men, +not of manner. + +The courtesy with which Mr. Henri treats all his subjects stamps his +technique and his color with that final necessary thing. In Mr. Bellows +the organization stands the test, but Bellows seems to be wanting. Mr. +Sloan, with his humpy line, makes one feel a soul that has never blown +out like an unfurled scroll. + + + _Frederic Stuck!_ + +There is an unintentional explanation in the German pronunciation of Mr. +Stock’s name as to why the Orchestra programs never “move on” with new +music or with much variation of the old. + + + + + “Huppdiwupp”[1] + + +He lived on the side of a mountain near a dark pine forest. His house +was built of great pine logs and the cracks were so well plastered with +clay that the wind could never blow in. When it blew very hard the +little house laughed and sent the smoke gaily up the chimney which had +once been a stove pipe. There was only one room in the house, with one +window, but the sun loved the little room and shone in always when the +day was at its height. + +Friedel lived here almost alone, for his father was dead and his mother +washed clothes for strangers. With the money she earned every day she +bought bread and a little butter for her boy, and every year trousers or +a coat; but she could not earn enough to send Friedel to school. This +gave him no sorrow, and that they were so poor had no meaning for him. +In the summer he grazed his goat on the mountain-side—a willful goat who +always sought his feed where it was steepest and always ran away; but +Friedel knew that at last he would come back and so he sat quietly by +the brook which sprang zig-zag down the mountain and through the +thickets of slender pines. The pines tried to catch the water but they +were not quick enough; and the little stream leaped down to a great city +which lay not far away in the valley. As it dashed over the bare feet of +the little boy it said, “Come, little Friedel, run with me, run with me +and help turn the great water-wheel of the mill.” + +“I’m not so stupid as that,” answered Friedel. “I wouldn’t get a penny +for it. But you will wash away a few shovels of yellow clay for me, +won’t you?” + +Out of the clay he made all kinds of curious things: Meckerbart, his +goat, and Hans, the miller’s boy, who always let him ride on his donkey; +or even the donkey himself. And as he worked he thought of nothing but +his work; he saw nothing, heard nothing—not even the blackbird singing +like a flute. + +So it was in the summer. But when winter came Friedel sat in the room on +a chair which he had made himself, and in the stove crackled the +fir-wood which he had gathered. At his feet lay Miez, the cat, who was +so old and lazy that she could scarcely make her spinning-sound. When +the clouds would allow it the sun looked in through the window and +wondered over the boy who carved such lovely things. He carved with a +knife which had belonged to his father—a knife so sharp that he could +have cut both hair and beard with it. + +It was the day before Christmas and Friedel was working on a +Wonder-Beautiful horse which held one foreleg lifted and threw back his +head proudly. One would not be surprised to hear him neigh the next +moment. With three feet he stood upon a smooth board on which were +wheels so that he could run. He had no saddle but there was a bridle, a +narrow strip of brown leather. As the sun went down Friedel’s work was +finished and his eyes shone with joy. “Now will I ride out, old Miez,” +he said; “will you come with me?” + +“No,” said the cat, “it is too cold outside for me and this evening it +will snow; then I couldn’t find my way back home again when you fall off +your steed.” + +“Do you really think I shall fall off?” + +“Of course,” muttered the cat; “you have no claws: with what will you +hold fast?” + +Then the mother came home from work and said, “Lay your knife away, +Friedel. Holy Evening is here, when one must not whittle and carve or +the great Mountain Chopper will come and carry you off.” + +“No, mother, when it grows dark two little angels will very softly open +heaven’s door, which is there where the sun is gone down, and the +Christ-child will ride down to earth on a silver white horse and visit +the good children.” + +“Yes,” said the woman, and turned away to light some pine chips; then +she opened the cupboard and placed bread and butter upon the table. +Friedel said very thoughtfully, “Why doesn’t he come to us? We have +always been good!” + +But the mother sunk her eyes and whispered, “Because we are too poor. +The Christ-child comes only to people who have money and we have none.” + +“But that’s a shame,” said the little fellow. And when his mother heard +that she began to cry bitterly. Friedel ran to her, put his head in her +lap and said, “I have a big horse called Huppdiwupp which I will sell. I +shall get much money for him, and then the Christ-child will come.” + +When he had said this he took his horse and went out of the room; his +mother, crying softly, did not watch after him; and then, because she +was so very tired, she closed her eyes and sank into a deep sleep. + +The little boy opened the door very gently, put his horse outside, got +upon it and cried, “Hü!” But the horse didn’t understand: he was still +too young; and besides he had a hard head and would not run. + +“If I only had a whip!” said Friedel; and because he had none he +dismounted and dragged his steed by the bridle behind him. + +When the sun had gone down there rose slowly a great cloud mountain, but +the greater part of the sky was still clear. There the dear moon +wandered. She shone brightly but she was no longer full, for she had +given of her light to the young stars as she rose over them. In return +they let her cling to them a little, for it is no small thing to walk +there above much higher than the highest church tower and not grow +dizzy. In all the air a solemn silence ruled; the dark pines stood +motionless; they held their breath, as though they waited for a king to +pass. But the earth trembled softly; she was freezing and she longed for +a soft white covering in which she might wrap herself to sleep. At first +the little boy froze too, but soon he grew warm from running and his +heart beat fast with the desire to sell his precious horse. As he +trotted along he met a fox. + +“Where are you going, Friedel?” + +“To sell my horse. Will you have him? I hear that you are a rich man and +eat roast goose every day. You should not go on foot.” + +“Of course not,” said the fox. “But I see what you hold there is a white +horse. I prefer to ride my own red-brown one.” + +“Oh well, pardon,” said Friedel, and went on. Soon he came upon a raven +who wore a heavy black coat and called out in a deep voice: “Trot, +trot!” + +“Yes,” answered Friedel, “but he won’t trot, and alas, I have no whip. +But tell me, won’t you buy my horse?” + +“I don’t want it,” croaked the raven, very much hurt. “I have wings and +can fly.” + +“That’s different,” said Friedel, “I didn’t know that.” + +A little farther on he came upon a sparrow and he asked again: “Master +Greyhead, you have so much to do on the streets, won’t you buy my +horse?” + +“Yes, if it were only summer,” said the sparrow, “I could make good use +of him; now in winter I find it very difficult to get enough food +together for my own span of horses. But we will go down into the city: +there it’s easy to get rid of a horse like this any day. See how it +shines out there with her thousand lights. Come, I will guide you. I +must visit a few courtyards which are under my care.” Friedel was glad +in his heart, for where could he have found a better guide or one who +knew the world so well? + +The street sloped down rapidly. The sparrow and Friedel stepped along +lightly, the horse close upon their heels. “Now you may see how well he +can run, if he only will,” said Friedel; and Master Greyhead said very +calmly: “One must have much patience with such unreasonable animals.” + +They went past the water-mill: the great wheel had made a holiday and +was standing still, so the brook had nothing to do and called out to +Friedel: + + “Go back home, go back home; + It is cold here outside; + Flowers are gone to bed, + Frogs sleep deep in the mud, + Bats hang in the corners, + Cuckoos sing no more, + Behind the mountain waits the wind— + Back home, go back, dear child!” + +“Hear what he’s trying to make you believe,” said the sparrow. “You +mustn’t give heed to him; he is one who is always coming down. He who +would rise in the world must have no fears.” + +The boy intended to remember this good advice but as he saw the +brightly-lighted windows of the miller’s house he thought: “Now they sit +within by the warm stove having Christmas.” + +It was not long before they were in the city. There stood high houses, +crowded so close together that the street could scarcely pass through, +and the little fellow was afraid. Sometimes his mother had taken him +with her to the city, but that had always been in bright day. He had +never wanted to wander about the streets alone; he would rather be where +the leaves rustled and the birds sang. Now all the windows were bright +and behind the polished panes stood the loveliest things. Along the +footpaths hurried many people, all carrying packages and bundles under +their arms. Fortunately there were no more wagons, so Friedel chose the +street. But even there he was not safe. First a fat woman crossed over +the way; she carried on either side a great pack, puffed like an old +steam engine, and gave him such a shove that he fell to the ground—and +his horse too. But he stood up quickly and helped Huppdiwupp to his +feet. “One mustn’t make anything of that,” said the sparrow; “that +happens every day. But there come some dangerous fellows; we must pass +them very cautiously.” + +But this didn’t happen. Three street urchins came along who could see +more with one eye than ten men with two. The first two seized Friedel by +the jacket and the third planted himself impudently in front of the boy +and said: “You wooden-shoe fellow, are you taking your horse to the +blacksmith? You can get it done cheaper here; we’ll shoe him for +nothing.” + +“That’s not necessary,” said Friedel, “I wish to sell him.” Then the +three shouted and the boldest one began to talk again: “Listen, you, you +can’t sell your horse; we won’t have it. Give it to me and I won’t tell +that you stole it.” And then he reached out for the bridle and tried to +snatch away from the boy the only thing that he owned. Then the sparrow +whispered: “Take off your wooden shoe and give him one on the head.” +Friedel thought this good advice and followed it. There began a great +battle, and even though there were three of the others they lacked a +weapon and got many blows. Perhaps it might have gone badly with the boy +at the end, but like thunder and lightning a man came between them. He +had a polished helmet on his head and a sword at his side; under his +nose he wore an enormous mustache which always trembled as though in +fear of the frightful words that flew past it. He shouted: “Separate, +you boys! keep the peace or I’ll pepper and salt your backs! Who started +this?” + +“He!” cried the three, as one mouth. + +“No, they!” peeped the sparrow; but no one heard him. + +“You see, Watch Master, he still has his wooden shoe in his hand,” said +the boldest one; “he attacked us with that.” + +“Be silent!” thundered the man, “we’ll get the right of this. You, put +on your shoe, and tell me what you want here in the street with the +horse.” + +“He has stolen the horse,” said one of the boys. + +“No,” said Friedel, very boldly and clearly, “the horse belongs to me; I +made it myself.” + +The man couldn’t well believe that and said: “That’s very suspicious. +Follow me, we’ll soon find out.” + +So Friedel had to follow him and the bad boys exulted. They gave a howl +of joy and started after; but he with the helmet motioned toward his +sword and they gladly ran away. + +The man stalked ahead while Friedel, the sparrow, and Huppdiwupp +followed as fast as their legs would carry them. The poor little fellow +was very disheartened and thought it a bad adventure. But the sparrow +whispered to him: “This is nothing; I can manage it.” At the next corner +he gave Friedel a sign and they swung to the right, unnoticed, while the +man of law went straight ahead, seeing nothing, intent only on his own +steps. + +“That’s the way to manage such people,” said the sparrow. “You must +never follow their orders if you wish to be a clever fellow. But wait! +Here we are at the right place. In this old house lives a merchant who +deals in cats and dogs, donkeys and horses. Take a look; his window is +full of them. Go in and try your luck.” + +The small boy opened the door, went into the shop, and asked the +merchant: “Here is my horse Huppdiwupp. I want very much to sell him. +Will you take him?” + +“Why not?” said the merchant. “What does he cost?” + +“A thousand thaler.” + +“That’s too dear for me,” said the merchant, and made a very thoughtful +face. “Just look, my horses are much handsomer than yours and even then +much cheaper than a thousand thaler.” + +“Yes,” said Friedel, “I believe that. But your horses are dead and mine +is alive. I should know, I made it myself. But tell me, what will you +give me?” + +“Half a pfennig.” + +“That’s much too little,” said the boy and went quickly out the door. +Huppdiwupp sprang over the threshold, as enraged as he. Little Greyhead +was much annoyed when he heard the story and peeped very distinctly: +“Such a common fellow! It’s a pity I didn’t go in with you, so that I +could have given him a piece of my mind. But wait! See that strange +fellow coming there? Notice how his spider legs bend under him. His body +is so thin that he throws no shadow, and his face looks as though it +were plastered with copper money. Ask him, he is surely a horseman. I +tell you the best horse deals are always made in the street.” + +Friedel waited until the man came up and then said, very shyly: “Dear +Sir, won’t you buy my little horse? My mother and I have no money.” But +the man merely said, “Beggar!” and passed on, leaving the three not +knowing what to do. + +“Don’t cry,” said the sparrow, who recovered quickest; “that’s the way +with people. I know them from my grain deals.” + +“I’m not crying,” said Friedel bravely, but he was as sad at heart as a +horse who has won a race and waits in vain for his rider to pat his +neck. “I shall stay no longer in the city, and I shall have nothing more +to do with these people. I know very well what I must do. Tell me, +Master Greyhead, have you already seen the Christ-child this evening?” + +“To be sure. I see him every year. Today he came riding in from the door +of the East and he will go out again at the West door. If you wish to +speak with him we must hurry and reach the bench by the spring where he +will surely pass.” + +And now the three went together out of the city. There was no one to be +seen and Friedel’s wooden shoes made klapp, klapp on the hard frozen +road. He pulled his fur cap down over his ears, because he was so cold, +and thrust his hands into his trousers pockets. “Shall I lend you my +handkerchief, Master Greyhead?” he asked. “Out of it you can make some +stockings for your bare legs.” + +But the sparrow laughed. “Never mind; even in winter my feet are quite +comfortable. Now look about you—this is the place. Sit down on the bench +and rest, but take care not to go to sleep. Meanwhile I’ll watch and +tell you when the Christ-child comes.” + +The little fellow sat down, and the sky grew darker and darker. The +stars put out their lights and the moon disappeared. Then it seemed to +Friedel that the world grew stiller, and he himself grew wearier, and +soon there came fluttering down through the air, very softly, thousands +and thousands of butterflies. They settled on the bare branches of the +trees, and when there was no more room there they sank down on the road +and the ground, covering the whole earth. “They have woven a white +cloth,” said the sparrow; “that is really too bad. But what can one do? +The Christ-child has given away his horse and stockings and shoes and +must not walk on the bare ground. See, there he comes.” + +Great heavens, Friedel had fallen asleep. But he had to open his eyes +again. He saw a shimmering light coming nearer and nearer. Then Friedel +stood up and walking was so easy for him, so wonderfully easy, that he +moved toward the light. At last came an angel’s child with long hair and +a blue robe, with nothing in his hands, who went with bare feet and +stepped so lightly that not a trace of him remained in the snow. All the +light which Friedel had seen came from his two eyes, and about his mouth +played a smile as though the Mother Maria had just kissed his lips. + +“Are you the Christ-child?” asked Friedel. + +“Yes,” answered he, and looked so long at Friedel that a strange warmth +ran through the boy’s whole body. + +Then the little fellow took heart and asked fervently: “Dear +Christ-child, people will have nothing to do with me and no one sees my +need. Buy my little horse Huppdiwupp. I have carved him with my own +hand. You cannot go back to heaven on foot. You can pay me what you +will.” + +“Oh,” said the Christ-child. “I have no money.” + +Friedel was astonished: “No money? And yet you bring such lovely things +to the children? Every year you’ve gone to the rich miller; of course +you have never known where we poor people live.” + +“Yes, little boy,” said the Christ-child and smiled so strangely. “How +that comes to be I cannot say. And then you are not poor.” + +“But mother says so.” + +“Give me your hand. Did you carve that beautiful horse with this hand?” + +“Yes.” + +“There is a gift in your hand,” said the Christ-child, “which a rich man +cannot buy for a whole sack of gold,” and he stroked his hand and +blessed him. But Friedel was not content and pleaded: “Haven’t you one +more nut in your pocket or at least a fig or a cake?” + +Then the Christ-child said sadly: “I really didn’t think of you and I +have given everything away. But if you will lend your little horse +Huppdiwupp to me then you shall see a lovelier Christmas tree than any +child on earth has owned tonight.” + +Friedel was satisfied. The Christ-child seated himself on the horse, +took the little boy in his arms, and before them, between the ears of +the horse, Master Greyhead perched himself. And now it was wonderful to +see how the horse grew larger and larger. It was as if wings grew to +him, and he rose slowly up and left the earth beneath. It snowed no +more, the sky had become clear again, and the stars gleamed like +diamonds in the dark hair of a queen. And as they kept rising steadily +higher and higher the heart of the boy rose too. It was wide with joy, +but it was strange that he could not feel it beating. His body was so +light that he felt he could jump to the stars; he could not feel when +his foot touched the neck of the horse. But he thought no more of this +for he was so happy: his own work was bearing him up to the highest +places. Far below he saw meadows and forests which shone whitely up; +there, too, were the mountains and the cliffs stretching up like giants +and yet unable to reach him. From the distance the bells toned very +softly—as if their clappers were wound round with velvet. They were +calling to Holy Festival. Friedel flew higher and higher and the earth +grew as small as the wheel of the water-mill, and even smaller. Finally +they went past the moon who was polishing her lamp which had almost gone +out. She nodded to Friedel very kindly: “Bravo! You’ll soon be able to +fly yourself!” + +And then they came into heaven, a place so splendid that one cannot tell +of it. There stood a great palace of transparent blue crystal; in it was +a hall with walls of white marble and a table which gleamed like a +single diamond. Upon this table was a green pine tree and on it hung a +thousand stars: five hundred of them burned with a quiet light, the +other five hundred glittered and flamed like children of the sun. + +“Is it not lordly, Master Sparrow?” asked the boy. + +The other answered: “Yes, but a full cherry-tree with the fruit showing +dark red through the green—I do not know but what I should prefer that.” + +Then the Christ-child led them to the table, for under the pine tree, in +a very simple arm chair, sat the dear God. He was stone old but he +looked about him as kindly as a father looks at his children. Upon his +left knee he rocked a little angel who sang. + +“Ah, dear God,” said Friedel very shyly, “now that I am up here I should +like so much to see my father again.” + +“I believe he is not here,” said the Christ-child. “He has gone to +another place because he scolded and beat your mother.” + +“Oh,” said Friedel, “that doesn’t make any difference. Mother has often +beaten me, but I love her just the same.” + +“That’s very different,” said the Christ-child, and the dear God smiled +a very little. Friedel was near to tears but he took heart and said: +“See, dear God, I have brought a beautiful horse with me. His name is +Huppdiwupp. He is without, before the door, for it is too slippery for +him in here, as he has no iron hoofs. But he is no common horse. He has +brought us all up to heaven. The people would not buy my horse. They did +not know what he was worth. The Christ-child has no money, so you take +it and give me for him what I beg you.” + +And as Friedel finished the dear God set the little angel on the floor +and it tripped away. Then he stretched out his right hand and drew the +little boy toward him; and Friedel knew that he was to receive his wish. + +At ten o’clock a lusty fellow knocked at the window of Friedel’s mother. +“Wash Margaret, get up! It’s I, the miller’s Hans. I found your +youngster down below by the fountain almost frozen to ice.” + +How frightened the mother was! But she rubbed her little boy with snow +and he grew slowly warm again. She held him the whole night through and +kept saying, “My poor boy! My poor boy!” + +But Friedel stammered, sleepy and snow-drunk: “I am not poor. I can make +the Christ-child out of snow-white stone and he will shine like the +sun.” + +The poor woman did not know what to say but she clasped her child with +both arms to keep him warm; for outside the wind had risen and was +slashing the roof. + +Finally they both fell asleep, mother and son; and at their right stood +Need and at their left stood Sorrow, watching over them. For these are +the angels of the poor, and whom they lift up they make the Conquerors. + +---------- + + [1] _Retold from the German._ + + + + + The Reader Critic + + + “Mutable Emotions” + +_Alan Adair, Fovant Camp_: + +Yesterday your paper came to me, sent forward from my home. For the last +four months it has come to me through change of camp and bullets, the +delays of censorship, and the uncertainties of civil and military posts. +And each time it has provoked me, and tonight, as I read it in the +flickering obscurity of my hut, it provokes me excessively. For I am a +soldier and my life is the immemorial life of soldiers. That is to say +it is the life of a barbarian; of an antique legionary; of a serf of the +Middle Age; of those that fought before the Arts were born of leisure +and the life of cities. I am a soldier and live according to the ancient +lore of camps: incessant occupation and equally unceasing tedium; +recurring orgies of physical exertion prolonged to the verge of utter +exhaustion; an inexorable discipline that is with classic exactness +termed blind; the constant and elementary hardships of animal existence +experienced in forms unmitigated by any of the devices of civilization; +above all, a complete and almost splendid intellectual vacuity, a +complete and almost splendid indifference to the customary enthusiasms +and inclinations of a life outside the armies: these are the chief +elements that shape the life of a soldier on active service and these +are the influences amongst which, throughout Europe, the men of my years +are coming to maturity. That is why you provoke me, and your paper +provokes me, and your contributors all provoke me when there is talk of +the Arts. Our experiences are alien to each other; and Art is so +completely a matter for man’s inner soul, for that inner soul wherein +distil to essence the labors, sufferings and lusts of a man’s life and +from which the deepest elements of individual character take form and +color. As your quotation from de Gourmont puts it, there is a difference +in our sensibility; and that difference lies in this: that we in Europe +are soldiers. The other influences that separate us in sympathy are +negligible, and spring solely from our different opportunities of +acquaintance with the cults and works of contemporary schools and +artists. But the military influence has turned the city of Art to a +tower of Babel. We who are soldiers no longer understand the tongues +that Art once spoke to us. The old language of unrest, of delicate +eclecticism, of an indecision of taste that hungers by turn for the +remotely archaic and the fantastically modern, is become unintelligible +to us who amid the discipline and adventures of arms are learning new +values for all the sacraments of life. + +In a Philistine world, where money was a god indecently obtruded and +death a presence solicitously hidden, it was well enough to seek among +the Arts for spells to dissipate reality. With life secure in our lands +and without imperative desires in our hearts, it was reasonable to find +in contemplation of the creations of man’s love of beauty a satisfaction +of the many dissatisfactions of the spirit. But when a man has seen +death, very clear and huge, straddling the way, and learned to think +patiently of the final extinction; lost many friends; met fear in twenty +shapes, and in the light of an unhoped-for morning felt the fresh, +unshattered joy of living, the Arts, if they do not lose influence, do +at least change in the significance that they have for his soul. + +They become not a means for satisfying the inexpressible and vacillating +impulses of the spirit, but a means of satisfying the desires of a whole +man. To have lived and survived as a soldier teaches a man the worth of +his life; and life is desire. To live fully is to desire much and to +have found means for the satisfaction of one’s desires. Art as you speak +of it, as you advertise for it, is not a thing to minister to the +desires of a man. It is a coloring matter to conceal an anaemia of the +spirit, a way of spinning dainty webs across the void of a purposeless +existence. At the best it is an echo for awakening the senses to the +mysteries and subtleties of life, but without power to interpret them +into action. I suspect, it is merely a device to avoid boredom. But for +us, with lives still in hazard, the world holds too many desirable +things for our souls to feel need of an art of this kind. + +Art for us is no longer a means for the evocation of emotion; a magic +net cast over all the nude and undesirable body of life. We are too full +of lusts for such an art. We are done with “the brooding East”, with the +Tagores; with the Ajanta caves; with the dun yellows and faded crimsons +of Hindustan. We know ourselves again to be of the European tradition: +the tradition of men who think and act. Our art must serve life. Which +is to say it must serve our wills and desires. For we desire +multitudinous things: loves, travels and insurrections. We have lived +too long as mud in the hands of chance and a military system. Every +fibre of body and soul is athirst. We desire women, horses and dogs, and +wines. We desire adventures that are adventures of the spirit and not +solely a hazard of blood and health. We desire a society reshaped and to +be concerned in that inflaming and organization of the people that alone +can precipitate so vast a change. We are ready to turn again to our old +purposes: to that large movement that will control the fate of all +existing polities and is called Syndicalism, the new Unionism, +Industrial Unionism, Anarchy as latitude or language alters; to our +intentions in Ireland, Catalonia, or among the broken nations of the +Slavs; to the fantastic keenness of a sculpture and a painting become +militant and seeking ever further into the reality of man’s +consciousness and semblance. + +But we return to these enthusiasms disciplined by unaccustomed rigors. +We have learned to live directly; to think clearly, to act and have no +doubts. Henceforward, for us Art will be a thing of clear outlines, +simplicity, and practical purpose. It must administer to our desires. It +must be part of our will: that is of our philosophy and lust. It must be +evangelist. It must carry a sword in its cloak. We shall have no use for +the Imagist telling three lines of the passage of some faint tremor of +joy or repugnance. Nor shall we applaud the Vorticist poet jerking in +angular words a cinematograph picture across the mind. We want a verse +with blood in it. We want verse in a hundred manners—aphrodisiac or +insurrectionary, mournful, obscene, or profound. Only we want a verse +that is not trivial and is not cold. Similarly we want plays and essays +and tales. But we want a drama that is less a drama of discussion than +one of action, essays that are shaped to a purpose, stories that show +life untruly, venomous, unfair, eloquent tales that inflame, that +espouse and condemn. We want an art inspired by a love of action. We +want an art that is the evocation of sustained and coherent desire. We +want an art astir with the conscious movement of a soul that wills; an +art of purposes and lusts. For we have ventured our lives and received +them back invigorated by danger: we have learned in hardships the value +of desire and through endurance have discovered how contemptible is an +art of delicate and unsure pleasures, of dilettantism, of varied, +sterile, and mutable emotions. + +And such is the Art of your contributors and such the definition of Art +that even the blank pages of your paper imply. + +[This is so beautiful an expression of the typical confusions about Art +that I scarcely know where to begin to answer it. + +In the first place, you say that the life of war is an artificial life—a +Philistine world. Then why talk about wanting Art in such a world? Art +and Philistinism have never mixed. + +In the second place, why did you need to go to war to learn to live +directly, to think clearly, to act and have no doubts? The artist never +has life secure in his hands; he always has an imperative desire in his +heart; and he is always “seeing death, very clear and huge, straddling +the way,” always “thinking of the final extinction,” always “losing many +friends, meeting fear in twenty shapes, and feeling the fresh +unshattered joy of living.” If going to war did these things to you, +then you simply confess that it took war to “quicken” you: but the +artist is born “quickened.” And now that you wish to react against +something, after the quickening, you complain that Art will not receive +your reaction. Why on earth do you insist on going to Art for all those +things you want? If you want blood and lust, go on fighting. If you want +meat, eat meat: don’t try to eat Art. Who ever imagined that Art +administers to men’s desires? When Bernhardt acts for the French +soldiers, are they “too full of lusts for such an Art” or does she +change her immortal Art to meet their desires for “women, horses and +dogs, and wine”? + +You say that Art for you is _no longer_ a means for the evocation of +emotion. Remember that the evocation of emotion has _never_ been a test +of Art, any more than Art has been “a magic net cast over all the nude +and undesirable body of life” or “a spell to dissipate reality.” Life +serves life; Art doesn’t do that. Art will never be part of _your_ will: +it is the artist’s will. Your philosophy and lust can be served by the +claims of philosophy and lust. What you call your Art-need will be +served by Art; but only when you have fulfilled your part of the +bargain: since you are not a creator your will must go toward +appreciation—or, first, toward the capacity for appreciation.—_M. C. +A._] + + + Growing Pains + +_Stephan Böchlin, Denver_: + +I did enjoy the Greek sketches by Richard Aldington. Some of them are +very beautiful: the first, fourth, and sixteenth especially so. I am +glad that a few of our writers are beginning to see the capacities of +what Baudelaire calls “poetic prose.” + +And there is one article, _Paderewski and Tagore_, which gave me much +pleasure. It is an excellent study in contrasts. A score or so of such +impressions would be well worth publishing in a more permanent form. + +The rest of this issue left me cold—if I may be pardoned for possessing +standards as exacting as, if somewhat different from, yours. But this is +only saying that nine-tenths of what passes as “art” in America leaves +me cold: and on this I suspect you would heartily agree with me. + +I should dearly love to open a discussion with you on “art”. Your views, +as you expressed them here, interested me greatly, and also tantalized +me. I had the feeling that you were eternally trying to catch a flame +between your hands—a flame that eternally eluded you—or burned you into +silence. You left me wondering whether there was any value in trying to +perform this feat: and as I have already told you, I felt that you were +nearest to “understanding” art when you _were_ burned into silence. + +As for me, I have no “views” at all. Sometimes I write something—a line, +a phrase, that seems made to live forever. For lack of any other word I +call the result “art”. But I do not know _why_ it is “art”, and I am a +little afraid that if I try to find out I shall lose the gift, such as +it is. It is something like the Medusa-head: one cannot look upon it +direct without being frozen into stone—or, what is worse, into dogma. + +You are very fond of the word “miracle”. Your highest praise for +anything is to say of it, “It has the miracle”. But tell me: is it not +in the very nature of a miracle that we cannot tell in what way or how +it will come about—let alone trying to determine within what fixed +conditions it _ought_ to come about? Perhaps I am mistaken, but it has +seemed to me that you have, in your magazine, frequently taken the stand +that this “miracle” has certain fixed qualities, which must be +recognized by all. And my own personal feeling is that there are as many +kinds of miracles as there are faiths: and that every faith whatsoever +can produce a “miracle” which is anything but art—is, indeed, the +rankest form of fanaticism or superstition—to the holders of an opposite +belief. + +You understand, of course, that I am not speaking ex cathedra: I so much +dislike to “make a circle” around my ideas: especially when it is a +question of things as little understood as the reasons for our belief in +immortality—or in beauty.... We seek the beautiful when our sense of the +tragic in life becomes too keen, too poignant, too unendurable: we wish +to _escape_ from this bitter and sardonic realization, to falsify it +somehow, to invest it with qualities that have no existence beyond our +own minds. And the result—each after his own fashion—is beauty. + +But “art”? Well: one might say that this ceaseless falsification of life +through the escape into Beauty becomes Art when it compels all men—or +all those men who act as the interpreters of life—to look upon reality +and to see there, as though it had always been there, awaiting our +attention through the ages, just that one particular type of Beauty. +“How strange that we could not see it before!” men will cry, after some +great artist has performed a “miracle” through his passionate +sensitiveness to the spirit of Tragedy.... And so, we rediscover the +meaning of Art.... + +But I said that I had no “views”—and I immediately give myself the lie. +I have views—one must, I suppose, when one deeply believes in anything. +Let my genuine interest in your efforts to find a needle in this +haystack of American culture-philistinism serve me as a partial buffer +against your impatience with my ideas. + +[What do you mean by Beauty?—the idea that education puts upon the minds +of people, meaning lovely, pleasing to the senses and the emotions? That +isn’t Art; it is not necessarily a feature but may be an “instrument” of +Art. What of real Beauty, which surpasses the spirit of joy or tragedy? +_It_ may be “too keen, too poignant, too unendurable” for the mind; but +the soul claims it always. The artist does not falsify or interpret +life: he _creates_ with joy!—even if the joy in the creating is the +surplus of his agony.—_j. h._] + + + The Blindness of the Social Vision + +_Louis Puteklis, Cambridge, Mass._: + +When I looked on the empty pages of your September issue, two important +questions arose, along with many minor ones. Not having the time to go +into details I will ask one question: What is _your_ definition of art? + +You say: “Art for Art’s sake”; that is only a phrase. But in this world +people have different understandings of art: what is beautiful for one +is ugly for another. What is praised by the capitalist class with its +religious atmosphere is despised by the proletarian class with its +progressive atheism. What is a picture of an angel to an atheist? Such a +product of an artist’s imagination, which perpetuates religious humbug, +is to be condemned without hesitation. What is a poem about the Virgin +worth to a class-conscious worker if his own daughter or sister is +slaving in the sweat shop, is ever in all kinds of danger and +temptations under this glorious capitalistic system? So we cannot say +“Art for Art’s sake,” until we know what is meant by Art. + +Moreover, nobody fell down from heaven a master artist. We shall teach +and train them _with patience_, and not with ... “scolding”.... + +Why is there no encouraging editorial on Art? Thirteen empty pages and +not a word from the pen of the Art-sick Editor? Why was not the whole +magazine a blank, or is only half of it to be devoted to art? What was +the idea, for Art’s sake, in printing the frivolous caricatures of the +Editor? Her ways of spending her leisure moments have scarcely enough of +the universal to stimulate the artistic nature of the readers. I am +glad, of course, that she has fudge for breakfast, but I am sorry for +the thousands that go without bread. Hunger does not produce art nor +does upbraiding.... + +In looking over the pictures I should judge that in comparison with +others the Editor must be placed among the fortunate ones; the +unhappiness she lays claim to must come from within her own nature. + +Again, for whom is _The Little Review_ published? For artists only, or +for all people? I must admit that since I have known _The Little +Review_—for more than a year—it has not always been artistic; many +articles have been artificial only (for the simple reason that there are +not enough real artists in the country to support such a venture). And +as for the general run of readers, they want stories, that, whether +artistic or not, have the ring of real life in them. + +There can be no art without social vision, and without definite +ideas—progressive or retrogressive. If _The Little Review_ takes both of +the ways, it can satisfy no class of readers. _Art has ever been the +handmaid of oppression and superstition, even more than of progress: the +church, by music, architecture, oratory, and pictures has held the minds +of men enthralled._ It is sad to think how artists in the past have used +their energies to perpetuate dreamy imaginations, things non-existent. +It is painful to see the artists doing the same thing now. + +The free human intellect must and will develop the most beautiful art +there has ever been, but not for Art’s sake,—_for truth’s sake and for +humanity’s sake_. And if _The Little Review_ will take one of the ways, +let her take the progressive one. I appeal to the Editor’s Art-sick +heart to make more definite her policy; to look less on the empty form +and more on the animating _truth_ which agrees with reality and life. + +Life is short. Don’t call on the artists already in the grave, but +encourage the genius that lives now and may soon disappear without a +chance of development and self-expression. Be sincere and please don’t +pose. Don’t put Art in a frame and don’t “frame-up” artists. + +[What is this you’re telling us about Art? The greatest and freest human +_intellects_ in the past have never created Art. Intellects do not have +aesthetic experiences. (You might as well ask a gas-engine to run a +human being instead of that indefinable force called life.) The +dreamers, the ones of imagination, have the whole vision—the outside and +the inside, and the vision of the two working together with all things. +Why do you want to limit them to one—the social vision? You say that Art +has always been the handmaiden of oppression and superstition, that the +Church has used all forms of Art to hold men to it. True. Let me salute +the far-seeing and mighty wisdom of the Catholic Church that has so +recognized the power of Art. If you who are trying to extend the social +vision could learn that one lesson, what a strength you could add unto +yourselves:—the only strength. + +You say “Look less on the empty form and more on the animating truth +which agrees with reality and life.” Form is the only thing that remains +forever: truth changes every day; form gives a thing its truth in Art +and in life. Even the great social movement will have no truth until it +has Form. + +And for whom is _The Little Review_ published? God knows.—_j. h._] + + + So This Is Art! + +_“Sue Golden”_: + + + MURINE AND KOKA-KOLA + + + I. + The Lamp + +Darkness enveloped us. I led her under a street-lamp of wrought iron +from which hung suspended a round white moon which shone upon her unreal +beauty. She turned her hurt eyes away from the hard light, and rested +them upon an electric sign overhead which, flashing in and out, read: + + “Don’t tell your age. Murine your eyes.” + +Sign, if you are a lie, you must be broken. But if you tell the truth, +you may increase the ecstasy of our manufactured passion. + + + II. + The Jar + +This is a common jar set in the druggist’s window to attract attention. +It is without design, filled with a burning red liquid, flashing +iridescent lights from concealed depths. Near it is another jar filled +with a bright green liquid which leaps like fire whenever the light from +a passing automobile falls upon it. + +My soul is like the red jar, burning within itself; yours is like the +green one, attracted by each passing fancy. + + + III. + After the Orgy + +It is morning; the revellers of last night have departed; the music of +the phonograph and the voices of the cabaret singers are silent now. In +the pale light of morning, frayed wisps of paper float up and down the +street; from the brass handle of the saloon door a drenched veil is +hanging; on the floor of the automobile lie scattered hair-pins. Ah, +frail hair-pins, ah, tender veil, how slight you are beside my grief! + +Silence and pale dawn, and empty emptiness. Ah, the last silence and the +last heart-ache, and the last nickel, and the last green pickle lying on +the last cold plate on the last free-lunch counter in the world! How sad +it all is! + +[Yes, how sad it all is that some minds have to jeer everything in the +world, from Helen’s beauty to Bernhardt’s “wooden leg.”—_jh._] + + + The Iliad of America + +_Daphne Carr, Columbia, Missouri_: + +The first number of _Blast_ had among its veins of gold ore and volcanic +deposit a certain precious spot: “American Art When It Appears Will be +Immense.” + +That is the way I feel about Sherwood Anderson’s Art as revealed in his +first novel, _Windy McPherson’s Son_. Here is the beginning of our story +telling art, primitive, to be sure, coarse, but a-quiver with that life +whose pulsing reality we are forever eager to touch, to know. + +Sherwood’s hero is the typically primitive hero—a brother to Aggamemnon +and Charlemagne, the born leader, the maker of destinies. But Sam +McPherson’s background is not the helmet plumes of the knights or the +nodding heads of the Council of Elders. He is of our time, of our own +middle West, with our well-known background of nodding corn tassels and +steer-fattening farmers, with our stinking, deafening Chicago for a +battleground. For he fights, furiously, and, like Achilles, for the love +of fighting, but not, like Achilles, with the lives of men, but with +their potential lives—foodstuffs—with their time, and their peace of +mind, their happiness, their everything—summed up in money. And, for the +love of the fight he wins. And then, because he is a white American with +twenty centuries of Christianity behind him and not a pagan Aggamemnon +to be satisfied with the mere winning, he turns aside from his victory +and goes seeking an ideal. + +So there is our hero, the forever worshiped König-man. But Sam McPherson +is not the glorious part of the book, or the reason that our +grandchildren, and probably our great-great grandchildren will still +keep _Windy McPherson’s Son_ as living words. + +Sherwood Anderson has dredged up from the mud of our prairies the same +apalling rhythm of life that Æschylus found in the stone of the +Acropolis. And even as Aeschylus built his rhythm in cedar-wood and +overlaid it with ivory and gold and polished marble and carved it and +set it with jewels balancing his ornaments to the nicety of a hair, and +so finished his symphony to please the blue and white spirit of Hellas, +so Sherwood Anderson has taken his discovery, re-built its same rhythmic +proportions and scooping up grey gravel and sand and concrete rocks from +his own prairie has built his symphony. Will we see the wonder of its +form in spite of its grey surface? Can we feel the force, the +genuineness of Sherwood’s discovery? Can we see the bareness of American +reality and yet shut our eyes to that reality? + +“Oh, then this Anderson is a realist”, you say. “We’re getting tired of +them.” + +No, he is not a realist. He does not cypher as the realists do, adding +and subtracting cause and effects to reach a hypothetical absolute. +Sherwood Anderson is a primitive, reflecting the immense movements of +the life about him. + +Yes, he is cinematagraphic. + +He is the American epic, just appeared. + +[I read clear through your spasm about Sherwood Anderson and wondered +what was the matter with you until I came upon “He is cinematagraphic.” +Then I saw you knew what you were talking about. You’ve got them all in, +too—it’s as good as a Griffith show: Aggamemnon, Charlemagne, Achilles, +Æschylus, etc.—_jh._] + +[_Windy McPherson’s Son_ will never be “living words” for any age +because it was done before Sherwood Anderson had learned to write. In +some of his short stories, done quite recently, he has achieved that +organization known as Form. But _Windy McPherson_ is as devoid of Form, +and consequently of Art, as any of Theodore Dreiser’s catalogues. It +stands as a faithful record of life, touched even with imagination, but +quite untouched by that quality which makes a good story literature. As +Rebecca West would say: it is simply another book coming out of America +teaching the great lesson of style.—_M. C. A._] + + + Information + +_Charles F. Roth, New York_: + +That _Paderewski and Tagore_ in the November issue was a delight. But to +be exact violin strings are not made of catgut, but of sheep sinews and +skins. Can’t you hear the bleat of the sheep—the baah of the tender lamb +at times? Can you imagine that such music as Kreisler or Maud Powell +draw forth could come from a cat? No! But from a lamb. Ah yes! + + + STATEMENT OF OWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, + CIRCULATION, ETC., REQUIRED BY THE ACT OF + CONGRESS OF AUGUST 24, 1912. + + Of THE LITTLE REVIEW, published monthly at + Chicago, Ill., for October 1st, 1916. + + State of Illinois, County of Cook—ss. + + Before me, a Notary Public in and for the State + and county aforesaid, personally appeared C. A. + Zwaska, who, having been duly sworn according + to law, deposes and says that he is the + business manager of THE LITTLE REVIEW, and that + the following is, to the best of his knowledge + and belief, a true statement of the ownership, + management (and if a daily paper, the + circulation), etc., of the aforesaid + publication for the date shown in the above + caption, required by the Act of August 24, + 1912, embodied in section 443, Postal Laws and + Regulations, printed on the reverse of this + form, to wit: + + 1. That the names and addresses of the + publisher, editor, managing editor, and + business managers are: + + Publisher, Margaret C. Anderson, Fine Arts + Building; Editor, Margaret C. Anderson, Fine + Arts Building; Managing editor, Margaret C. + Anderson, Fine Arts Building; Business manager, + C. A. Zwaska, Fine Arts Building. + + 2. That the owners are: (Give names and + addresses of individual owners, or, if a + corporation, give its name and the names and + addresses of stockholders owning or holding 1 + per cent or more of the total amount of stock.) + + Margaret C. Anderson, Fine Arts Building. + + 3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and + other security holders owning or holding 1 per + cent or more of total amount of bonds, + mortgages, or other securities are: (If there + are none, so state). + + None. + + 4. That the two paragraphs next above, giving + the names of the owners, stockholders, and + security holders, if any, contain not only the + list of stockholders and security holders as + they appear upon the books of the company but + also in cases where the stockholder or security + holder appears upon the books of the company as + trustee or in any other fiduciary relation, the + name of the person or corporation for whom such + trustee is acting, is given: also that the said + two paragraphs contain statements embracing + affiant’s full knowledge and belief as to the + circumstances and conditions under which + stockholders and security holders who do not + appear upon the books of the company as + trustee, held stock and securities in a + capacity other than that of a bona fide owner; + and this affiant has no reason to believe that + any other person, association, or corporation + has any interest direct or indirect in the said + stock, bonds, or other securities as so stated + by her. + + MARGARET C. ANDERSON. + + Sworn to and subscribed before me this 16th day + of November, 1916. + + (SEAL) + + MITCHELL DAWSON, Notary Public. + (My commission expires December 20, 1917.) + + + The + Consumer’s + Company + + 220 South State Street, Chicago + + We had hoped to publish the prize poem in this issue, after + having arranged to do so for the last four months. But the poems + are stuck fast with one of the judges, from whom it has been + impossible to extract a verdict. + + We promise it definitely for February. + + This issue will be officially known as the December-January. (The + usual excuse, explanation, and regret.) + + The February issue will contain the most inspired article ever + written about Mary Garden, and will have a deep-purple label in + her honor. + + + + + M.A.C. + + (Modern Art Collector) + + An authoritative magazine published monthly in conjunction with + the national movement instituted for the promotion and + development of Modern Art in this country. + + It abounds in beautifully colored plates which are very suitable + for framing. The work of the foremost artists, together with + informative text matter, poster stamp and students’ supplements, + etc., make this portfolio de luxe, an ideal reference + book—something valuable, interesting and exceptional. + + Lend your enthusiastic support—write for a copy on approval. + + Ten dollars annually. Single copies, one dollar. + + SOCIETY OF MODERN ART, INC., + 17 West 38th Street, + New York City + + + + + THE EGOIST + + + An Individualist Review + + Present Features + + LINGUAL PSYCHOLOGY: THE SCIENCE OF SIGNS: a series of subtle and + illuminating articles working out a new conception of the + function of philosophic inquiry—by Miss Dora Marsden (started in + July number). + + Literary criticism, reviews and other prose articles. + + Paris chronicle and a series of articles on modern French prose + writers, by Madame Ciolkowska. + + DIALOGUES OF FONTENELLE, translated by Mr. Ezra Pound (started in + May number). + + TARR, a brilliant modern novel by Mr Wyndham Lewis, leader of the + English “_Vorticist_” group (started in April number). + + Poem by young English and American poets, mostly belonging to the + Imagist group. + + PUBLISHED MONTHLY + + Price Fifteen Cents a Number + Yearly Subscription, One Dollar Sixty Cents + + OAKLEY HOUSE, BLOOMSBURY STREET, LONDON, W. C. + + + + + 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. Some idiosyncratic spelling was not +changed: _Aggamemnon_, _cinematagraphic_. All other changes are shown +here (before/after): + + [p. 13]: + ... said very thoughtfully, “Why doesn’t he come to us? have + always been ... + ... said very thoughtfully, “Why doesn’t he come to us? We + have always been ... + + [p. 27]: + ... lie scattered hair-pins. Ah, frail hair-pins, ah, tender + vail, how slight you are ... + ... lie scattered hair-pins. Ah, frail hair-pins, ah, tender + veil, how slight you are ... + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76275 *** |