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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8d22ae3 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67047 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67047) diff --git a/old/67047-0.txt b/old/67047-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3b46615..0000000 --- a/old/67047-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4023 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Little Review, December 1915 (Vol. -2, No. 9), by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Little Review, December 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 9) - -Author: Various - -Editor: Margaret C. Anderson - -Release Date: January 5, 2022 [eBook #67047] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images - made available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and - Tulsa Universities. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, DECEMBER -1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 9) *** - - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Literature Drama Music Art - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - EDITOR - - DECEMBER, 1915 - - Hellenica Edward J. O’Brien - Sister Sherwood Anderson - Toward Revolution The Editor - Images of Life and Death Maxwell Bodenheim - Preparedness: Universal Slaughter Emma Goldman - Ellie Mary Aldis - The Ecstasy of Pain: Alexander S. Kaun - Fragmentary Reflections on the Art of Przybyszewski - “Homo Sapiens” Discussed by Readers - The Spring Recital Theodore Dreiser - Editorials: - John Cowper Powys at the Hebrew Institute - The Foreigner in America - The Russian Literature Class - The Illusions of “The Art Student” - The Theatre: - “Grotesques,” by Cloyd Head - Book Discussion: - “Plays for Small Stages,” by Robert M. Lovett - “The State Forbids” - The Reader Critic - - Published Monthly - - 15 cents a copy - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher - Fine Arts Building - CHICAGO - - $1.50 a year - - Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago - - - - - THE LITTLE REVIEW - - - Vol. II - - DECEMBER, 1915 - - No. 9 - - Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson - - - - - Hellenica - - - EDWARD J. O’BRIEN - - - I. - - The scent of mint on the sandy grave of Nicias - Crieth unto the wanderer - For remembrance. - - - II. - - Here in the arms of the harvest - Lieth the gleaner, Bion, - Whose sickle shineth above him in the evening. - - - III. - - Far from tides and sand - On the slope of Cithaeron - Resteth Eumenes - In the purple distance. - His fellow tunny-fishers erect this stone. - - - IV. - - Chaste Clearista flowereth in the heavens, - For dearer than Helen’s beauty in April sunlight - The gods love the spotless dreams of a maiden. - - - V. - - Fairer than iris blossoms slenderly swaying - Under the sighing zephyrs of sandy Argos, - The harvest breezes stole the heart of Erinna. - Now she dreameth under the meadow grasses. - - - VI. - - The swan afloat on the rippling azure waters - Remembereth thy fairness, Rhododaphne, - And dreameth on time’s surface of thy passing. - - - VII. - - Nerissa played with the swallows till the twilight. - Now they soar above her, - And they wonder. - - - VIII. - - Barefoot, a little lad hath wandered far, - And we have sought in vain, - For he hath found - The amaranthine meadows. - - - IX. - - Far from Cos where the sailors hail in passing, - Cleonicus lieth unmarked on the ocean strand. - The crying gulls bring tidings of ancient summer, - But not to me the sound of his glad coming. - - - X. - - Now that the flower is blown - And the rosy petals - Render earth more fragrant - With their body, - Myrrhis dreameth of spring in the flaming ground. - - - XI. - - Lightly I walked the hills of my native Hellas. - Lightly I rest in the heart of her rushing forest, - Hermas, the hunter, - At peace, - With the moon above me. - - - XII. - - Thyrsis, who loved the rain in the dreaming hollows, - Wandereth now soft-sandalled in misty ways, - Where the scent of flag - Recalleth not - Hylas, lonely. - - - - - Sister - - - SHERWOOD ANDERSON - -The young artist is a woman, and at evening she comes to talk to me in -my room. She is my sister, but long ago she has forgotten that and I -have forgotten. - -Neither my sister nor I live in our father’s house, and among all my -brothers and sisters I am conscious only of her. The others have -positions in the city and in the evening go home to the house where my -sister and I once lived. My father is old and his hands tremble. He is -not concerned about me, but my sister who lives alone in a room in a -house on North Dearborn Street has caused him much unhappiness. - -Into my room in the evening comes my sister and sits upon a low couch by -the door. She sits cross-legged and smokes cigarettes. When she comes it -is always the same—she is embarrassed and I am embarrassed. - -Since she has been a small girl my sister has always been very strange. -When she was quite young she was awkward and boyish and tore her clothes -climbing trees. It was after that her strangeness began to be noticed. -Day after day she would slip away from the house and go to walk in the -streets. She became a devout student and made such rapid strides in her -classes that my mother—who to tell the truth is fat and -uninteresting—spent the days worrying. My sister, she declared, would -end by having brain fever. - -When my sister was fifteen years old she announced to the family that -she was about to take a lover. I was away from home at the time, on one -of the wandering trips that have always been a passion with me. - -My sister came into the house, where the family were seated at the -table, and, standing by the door, said she had decided to spend the -night with a boy of sixteen who was the son of a neighbor. - -The neighbor boy knew nothing of my sister’s intentions. He was at home -from college, a tall, quiet, blue-eyed fellow, with his mind set upon -foot-ball. To my family my sister explained that she would go to the boy -and tell him of her desires. Her eyes flashed and she stamped with her -foot upon the floor. - -My father whipped my sister. Taking her by the arm he led her into the -stable at the back of the house. He whipped her with a long black whip -that always stood upright in the whip-socket of the carriage in which, -on Sundays, my mother and father drove about the streets of our suburb. -After the whipping my father was ill. - -I am wondering how I know so intimately all the details of the whipping -of my sister. Neither my father nor my sister have told me of it. -Perhaps sometime, as I sat dreaming in a chair, my mother gossiped of -the whipping. It would be like her to do that, and it is a trick of my -mind never to remember her figure in connection with the things she has -told me. - -After the whipping in the stable my sister was quite changed. The family -sat tense and quiet at the table and when she came into the house she -laughed and went upstairs to her own room. She was very quiet and -well-behaved for several years and when she was twenty-one inherited -some money and went to live alone in the house on North Dearborn Street. -I have a feeling that the walls of our house told me the story of the -whipping. I could never live in the house afterwards and came away at -once to this room where I am now and where my sister comes to visit me. - -And so there is my sister in my room and we are embarrassed. I do not -look at her but turn my back and begin writing furiously. Presently she -is on the arm of my chair with her arm about my neck. - -I am the world and my sister is the young artist in the world. I am -afraid the world will destroy her. So furious is my love of her that the -touch of her hand makes me tremble. - -My sister would not write as I am now writing. How strange it would seem -to see her engaged in anything of the kind. She would never give the -slightest bit of advice to any one. If you were dying and her advice -would save you she would say nothing. - -My sister is the most wonderful artist in the world, but when she is -with me I do not remember that. When she has talked of her adventures, -up from the chair I spring and go ranting about the room. I am half -blind with anger, thinking perhaps that strange, furtive looking youth, -with whom I saw her walking yesterday in the streets, has had her in his -arms. The flesh of my sister is sacred to me. If anything were to happen -to her body I think I should kill myself in sheer madness. - -In the evening after my sister is gone I do not try to work any more. I -pull my couch to the opening by the window and lie down. It is then a -little that I begin to understand my sister. She is the artist right to -adventure in the world, to be destroyed in the adventure, if that be -necessary, and I, on my couch, am the worker in the world, blinking up -at the stars that can be seen from my window when my couch is properly -arranged. - - - - - Toward Revolution - - - MARGARET C. ANDERSON - -On Thanksgiving Day some five thousand men and women marched in Joe -Hillstrom’s funeral. Why didn’t they march for Joe Hillstrom before he -was shot, everybody is asking. - -Yes, naturally. Why not? - -Incidentally, why didn’t some one shoot the governor of Utah before he -could shoot Joe Hill? It might have awakened Capital—_and Labor_. Or why -didn’t five hundred of the five thousand get Joe Hill out of jail? It -could have been done. Or why didn’t fifty of the five thousand make a -protest that would set the nation gasping? - -There are Schmidt and Caplan. Why doesn’t some one see to it that they -are released? Labor _could_ do it. And there are the Chicago garment -strikers. Why doesn’t some one arrange for the beating-up of the police -squad? That would make a good beginning. Or set fire to some of the -factories, or start a convincing sabotage in the shops? - -Why aren’t these things done? - -For the same reason 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; for -the same reason that you are a slave when you want to be free, or a -nonentity when you would like to have a personality. - -It is a matter of Spirit. Spirit can do anything. It is the only thing -in the world that can. - - * * * * * - -For God’s sake, why doesn’t some one start the Revolution? - - - - - Images of Life and Death - - - MAXWELL BODENHEIM - - - Life - - - I. - - The sky is the thin, strong expanse of a God, - And the trees are lines of black Hindus - Praying in black shrivelled attitudes. - - - II. - - The grass is a priest in dream-gold cloth, - Lying on his back, hard with years of thought-spinning. - The lateral-gray, snarled clouds over him - Are the thoughts he has solemnly woven. - - - III. - - The slender lagoon holds the laughter of a child - With his lips to a huge, full cup. - - - Death - - - I. - - A fan of smoke, in the long, green-white reverie of the horizon, - Slowly curls apart. - So shall I rise and widen out in the silence of air. - - - II. - - An old man runs down a little yellow road - To an out-flung, white thicket uncovered by morning. - So shall I swing to the white sharpness of death. - - - - - Preparedness. - The Road to Universal Slaughter - - - EMMA GOLDMAN - -Ever since the beginning of the European conflagration the people of -Europe have thrown themselves into the flames of war like panic-stricken -cattle. And now America, pushed to the very brink by unscrupulous -politicians, by ranting demagogues, and by military sharks, is preparing -for the same terrible feat. - -In the face of this approaching disaster it behooves men and women not -yet overcome by the war madness to raise their protest, to call the -attention of the people to the crime and outrage which are about to be -perpetrated upon them. - -America is essentially the melting pot. No national unit composing it is -in a position to boast of superior race purity, particular historic -mission, or higher culture. Yet the jingoes and war speculators are -filling the air with the sentimental slogan of hypocritical nationalism, -“America for Americans,” “America first, last, and all the time.” This -cry has caught the popular fancy from one end of the country to the -other. In order to maintain America military preparedness must be -engaged in at once. A billion dollars of the people’s sweat and blood is -to be expended for dreadnaughts and submarines for the army and the -navy, all to protect this precious America. - -The pathos of it all is that the America which is to be protected by a -huge military force is not the America of the people, but the America of -the privileged class; the class which robs and exploits the masses, and -controls their lives. And it is no less pathetic that so few people -realize that preparedness never leads to peace, but is indeed the road -to universal slaughter. - -The American military ring with its Roosevelts, its Garrisons, its -Daniels, and lastly its Wilsons, is moving the very heavens to place the -militaristic heel upon the necks of the American people—using the same -methods of the German diplomats to saddle the masses with Prussian -militarism. If it is successful America will be hurled into the storm of -blood and tears now devastating the countries of Europe. - -Forty years ago Germany proclaimed the slogan: “Germany above -everything. Germany for the Germans, first, last and always. We want -peace; therefore we must prepare for war. Only a well-armed and -thoroughly-prepared nation can maintain peace, can command respect, can -be sure of its national integrity.” And Germany continued to prepare, -thereby forcing the other nations to do the same. The European war is -the fruition of the gospel of military preparedness. - -Since the war began, miles of paper and oceans of ink have been used to -prove the barbarity, the cruelty, the oppression of Prussian militarism. -Conservatives and radicals alike are giving their support to the Allies -for no other reason than to help crush that militarism, in the presence -of which, they say, there can be no peace or progress in Europe. But -though America grows fat on the manufacture of munition and war loans to -the Allies to help crush Prussianism, the same cry is now being raised -in America which, if carried into national action, will build up an -American militarism far more terrible than German or Prussian militarism -could ever be; because nowhere in the world has capitalism become so -brazen in its greed as in America, and nowhere is the state so ready to -kneel at the feet of capital. - -Like a plague the mad spirit of militarism is sweeping the country, -infesting the clearest heads and staunchest hearts. National security -leagues, with cannon as their emblem of protection, naval leagues with -women in their lead, have sprung up all through the United States. -Americanization societies with well-known liberals as members, they who -but yesterday decried the patriotic clap-trap of today, are now lending -themselves to the befogging of the minds of the people, to the -building-up of the same destructive institutions in America which they -are directly and indirectly helping to pull down in Germany—militarism, -the destroyer of youth, the raper of woman, the annihilator of the best -in the race, the very mower of life. - -Even Woodrow Wilson, who not so long ago talked of “a nation too proud -to fight,” who in the beginning of the war ordered prayers for peace, -who in his proclamations spoke of the necessity of watchful waiting—even -he has been whipped into line. He has now joined his worthy colleagues -in the jingo movement, echoing their clamor for preparedness and their -howl of “America for Americans.” The difference between Wilson and -Roosevelt is this: Roosevelt, the bully, uses the club; Wilson, the -historian, the college professor, wears the smooth polished university -mask, but underneath it he, like Roosevelt, has but one aim: to serve -the big interests, to add to those who are growing phenomenally rich by -the manufacture of military preparedness. - -Woodrow Wilson, in his address before the Daughters of the American -Revolution, gave his case away when he said: “I would rather be beaten -than ostracized.” To stand out against the Bethlehem, Du Pont, Baldwin, -Remington, Winchester metallic cartridges and the rest of the armament -ring means political ostracism and death. Wilson knows that; therefore -he betrays his original position, goes back on the bombast of “too proud -to fight,” and howls as loudly as any other cheap politician for -preparedness and national glory, for the silly pledge the Navy League -women intend to impose upon every school child: “I pledge myself to do -all in my power to further the interests of my country, to uphold its -institutions and to maintain the honor of its name and its flag. As I -owe everything in life to my country, I consecrate my heart, mind, and -body to its service and promise to work for its advancement and security -in times of peace and to shrink from no sacrifice or privation in its -cause should I be called upon to act in its defense for the freedom, -peace, and happiness of our people.” - -To uphold the institutions of our country—that is it; the institutions -which protect and sustain a handful of people in the robbery and plunder -of the masses, the institutions which drain the blood of the native as -well as of the foreigner and turn it into wealth and power; the -institutions which rob the alien of whatever originality he brings with -him and in return give him cheap Americanism, whose glory consists in -mediocrity and arrogance. - -The very proclaimers of “America first” have long before this betrayed -the fundamental principles of real Americanism, of the kind of -Americanism Jefferson had in mind when he said that the best government -is that which governs least; the kind of an America David Thoreau worked -for when he proclaimed that the best government is the one that doesn’t -govern at all; or the other truly great Americans who aimed to make of -this country a haven of refuge, who hoped that all the disinherited and -oppressed coming to these shores would give character, quality and -meaning to the country. That is not the America of the politicians and -the munition speculators. Their America has been powerfully portrayed by -a young New York sculptor I know; he has made a hard cruel hand with -long lean merciless fingers, crushing in over the heart of the -foreigner, squeezing out its blood in order to coin dollars. - -No doubt Woodrow Wilson has reason to defend these institutions. But -what an ideal to hold out to the young generation! And how is a -military-drilled and trained people to defend freedom, peace, and -happiness? This is what Major General O’Ryan has to say of an -efficiently trained generation: “The soldier must be so trained that he -becomes a mere automation; he must be so trained that it will destroy -his initiative; he must be so trained that he is turned into a machine. -The soldier must be forced into the military noose; he must be jacked -up; he must be ruled by his superiors with pistol in hand.” - -This was not said by a Prussian Junker; not by a German barbarian; not -by Treitska or Bernhardi, but by an American major general. And he is -right. You cannot conduct war with equals; you cannot have militarism -with free born man; you must have slaves, automatons, machines, obedient -disciplined creatures, who will move, act, shoot, and kill at the -command of their superiors. That is preparedness, and nothing else. - -It has been reported that among the speakers before the Navy League was -Samuel Gompers. I have long ceased to believe what is reported in the -press. But if that is true, it signalizes the greatest outrage upon -labor at the hands of its own leaders. Preparedness is directed not only -against the external enemy; it aims much more at the internal enemy. It -is directed against that element of labor which has learned not to hope -for anything from our institutions, that awakened part of the working -people who have realized that the war of the classes underlies all wars -among nations, and that if war is justified at all it is the war against -economic dependence and political slavery, the two dominant issues -involved in the struggle of the classes. - -Already militarism has been acting its bloody part in every economic -conflict, with the approval and support of the state. Where was the -protest from Washington when “our men, women and children” were killed -in Ludlow? Where was that high-sounding outraged protest contained in -the note to Germany? Or is there any difference in killing “our men, -women and children” in Ludlow or on the high seas? Yes, indeed. The men, -women, and children at Ludlow were working people, belonging to the -disinherited of the earth, foreigners who had to be given a taste of the -glories of Americanism, while the passengers of the Lusitania -represented wealth and station; therein lies the difference. - -Preparedness, therefore, will only add to the power of the privileged -few and help them to subdue, to enslave, and crush labor. Surely Gompers -must know that, and if he joins the howl of the military clique he must -stand condemned as a traitor to the cause of labor. - -It will be with preparedness as it has been with all the other -institutions in our confused life which were created for the good of the -people and which have accomplished the very reverse. Supposedly, America -is to prepare for peace; but in reality it will prepare for the cause of -war. It has always been so and it will continue to be so until nation -refuses to fight against nation, and until the people of the world stop -preparing for slaughter. Preparedness is like the seed of a poisonous -plant; placed in the soil, it will bear poisonous fruit. The European -mass destruction is the fruit of that poisonous seed. It is imperative -that the American workers realize this before they are driven by the -jingoes into the madness that is forever haunted by the spectre of -danger and invasion; they must know that to prepare for peace means to -invite war, means to unloose the furies of death over land and sea. - -You cannot build up a standing army and then throw it back into a box -like tin soldiers. Armies equipped to the teeth with highly-developed -instruments of murder and backed by their military interests have their -own dynamic functions. We have but to examine into the nature of -militarism to realize the truth of this contention. - -Militarism consumes the strongest and most productive elements of each -nation. Militarism swallows the largest part of the national revenue. -Even in times of peace almost nothing is spent on education, art, -literature, and science in comparison with the amount devoted to -militarism; while in times of war everything else is set at naught: all -life stagnates, all effort is curtailed, the very sweat and blood of the -masses are used to feed this insatiable monster—militarism. Under such -circumstances it must become more arrogant, more aggressive, more -bloated with its own importance. If for no other reason, it is out of -surplus energy that militarism must act to remain alive; therefore it -will find an enemy or create one artificially. In this civilized purpose -militarism is sustained by the state, protected by the laws of the land, -fostered by the home and the school, and glorified by public opinion. In -other words, the function of militarism is to kill. It cannot live -except through murder. - -But the most dominant factor of military preparedness, and the one which -inevitably leads to war, is the creation of group interests which -consciously and deliberately work for the increase of armament whose -purposes are furthered by creating the war hysteria. This group interest -embraces all those engaged in the manufacture and sale of munition and -in military equipment for personal gain and profit. For instance, the -family Krupp, which owns the largest cannon munition plant in the world; -its sinister influence in Germany, and in fact in many other countries, -extends to the press, the school, the church, and to statesmen of -highest rank. Shortly before the war, Karl Liebknecht, the one brave -public man in Germany now, brought to the attention of the Reichstag the -fact that the family Krupp had in its employ officials of the highest -military position, not only in Germany, but in France and in other -countries. Everywhere its emissaries have been at work, systematically -inciting national hatreds and antagonisms. The same investigation -brought to light an international war supply trust which gives a hang -for patriotism, or for love of the people, but which uses both to incite -war and to pocket millions of profits out of the terrible bargain. - -It is not at all unlikely that the history of the present war will trace -its origin to this international murder trust. But is it always -necessary for one generation to wade through oceans of blood and heap up -mountains of human sacrifice that the next generation may learn a grain -of truth from it all? Can we of today not profit by the cause which led -to the European war, can we not learn that it was preparedness, thorough -and efficient preparedness on the part of Germany and the other -countries for military aggrandizement and material gain; above all can -we not realize that preparedness in America must and will lead to the -same result, the same barbarity, the same senseless sacrifice of life? -Is America to follow suit, is it to be turned over to the American -Krupps, the American military cliques? It almost seems so when one hears -the jingo howls of the press, the blood and thunder tirades of bully -Roosevelt, the sentimental twaddle of our college-bred President. - -The more reason for those who still have a spark of libertarianism and -humanity left to cry out against this great crime, against the outrage -now being prepared and imposed upon the American people. It is not -enough to claim being neutral; a neutrality which sheds crocodile tears -with one eye and keeps the other riveted upon the profits from war -supplies and war loans, is not neutrality. It is merely hypocritical. -Nor is it enough to join the bourgeois pacifists, who proclaim peace -among the nations, while helping to perpetuate the war among the -classes, a war which in reality is at the bottom of all other wars. - -It is this war of the classes that we must concentrate upon, and in that -connection the war against false values, against evil institutions, -against all social atrocities. Those who appreciate the urgent need of -cooperating in great struggles must oppose military preparedness imposed -by the state and capitalism for the destruction of the masses. They must -organize the preparedness of the masses for the overthrow of both -capitalism and the state. Industrial and economic preparedness is what -the workers need. That alone leads to revolution at the bottom as -against mass destruction from on top. That alone leads to true -internationalism of labor against Kaiserdom, kingdom, diplomacies, -military cliques, and bureaucracies. That alone will give the people the -means to take their children out of the slums, out of the sweat-shops -and the cotton-mills; that alone will enable them to inculcate in the -coming generation a new ideal of brotherhood, to rear them in play and -song and beauty; to bring up men and women, not automatons; that alone -will enable woman to become the real mother of the race, to give to the -world creative men, and not soldiers who destroy. That alone leads to -economic and social freedom, and does away with war. - - - - - Ellie - - - MARY ALDIS - - She came to do my nails. - Came in my door and stood before me waiting, - A great big lummox of a girl— - A continent. - Her dress was rusty black - And scant, - Her hat, a melancholy jumble of basement counter bargains. - Her sullen eyes, - Like a whipped animal’s, - Shone out between her silly bulging cheeks and puffy forehead. - - She dropped her coat upon a chair - And waited; - Then, at a word, busied herself - With files and delicate scissors, - Sweet-smelling oils and my ten finger tips. - - She proved so deft and silent - I bade her come again; - And twice a week - While summer dawned and flushed and waned - She used me in her parasitic trade. - The dress grew rustier, - The hat more melancholy, - And Ellie fatter. - - Each time she came I wondered as she worked - If thought lay anywhere - Behind that queer uncouthness. - She had a trick of seizing with her eyes - Each passing thing, - An insatiate greediness for something out of reach; - And yet she seemed enwrapped - In a kind of solemn patience, - Large, aloof and waiting. - We hardly ever spoke— - I could not think of anything worth saying; - One does not chatter with a continent. - - Finally it was homing time; - The seashore town was raw and desolate - And idlers flitted. - The last day Ellie came - Her calm was gone, she had been crying. - Fat people never ought to cry; - It’s awful.... - The hot drops fell upon my hand - While Ellie dropped the scissors suddenly - And sniffed and blew and sobbed - In disconcerting and unreserved abandonment. - I said the usual things; - I would have patted her but for the grease, - But Ellie was not comforted. - Not until the storm was spent - And only little catching breaths were left - I got the reason. - “I’m so fat,” she gulped, “so awful, awful fat - The boys won’t look at me.” - And then it came, the stammered passionate cry: - Could I not help? - Could I not find a medicine? - We talked and talked - And when at dusk she went, a teary smile - Hovered a moment on her mouth - And in those sullen, swollen eyes - A little hope perhaps; - I did not know. - - The city and its interests soon engulfed me. - A letter or two, - A doctor’s vague advice to bant and exercise, - And Ellie and her woes passed from my mind - Until, as summer dawned again, - I heard that she was dead. - A curious letter written stiffly, - From Ellie’s mother, - Told me I was invited to the funeral - “By wish of the Deceased.” - - Wondering I travelled to the little town - Where the sea beat and groaned - And sorrowed endlessly, - And made my way down the steep street - To Ellie’s door. - Her mother met me in the hall - And motioned,— - “She wanted you to see her,” - Then ushered me into an awful place, the parlor— - A place of emerald plush and golden oak - Set round with pride and symmetry, - And in the midst - A black and silver coffin— - Ellie’s coffin. - Raising the lid she pointed and I looked. - - Somewhere in Florence Mino da Fiesole - Has made a tomb - Where deathless beauty lies with upturned face. - Two gentle hands, palms meeting, - Touch with their pointed forefingers - A delicate chin, and over the vibrant body - Clings a white robe - Enshrouding chastely - Warm curving lines of adolescent grace. - No sleeper this,— - The figure glows, alert, awake, aware, - As if some sudden ecstacy had stolen life - And held imprisoned there - The moment of attainment - Rapt, imperishable and fair. - - Even so lay Ellie, - And when from somewhere far I heard - The mother’s voice - I listened vacantly. - - The woman chattered on, - “The dress you know, white chiffon, like a wedding dress— - I never knew she had it, - She must ’a made it by herself. - It’s queer it fitted perfectly - An’ her all thin like that— - She must ’a thought—” - - Then black-robed relatives came streaming in - To look at Ellie. - I watched them start - And look around for explanation. - The mother pinched my arm: - “Don’t ask me anything now,” she whispered; - “Come back tonight.” - - Then old, old words were sung and prayed and droned, - While everybody dutifully cried, - And when the village parson - Rhythmically proclaimed— - And this mortal shall put on immortality,— - With a great welcoming - And a great lightening - I knew at last the ancient affirmation. - When evening came I found the mother - Sitting amidst her golden oak and plush - In a kind of isolated stateliness. - - She led me in. - “’Twas the stuff she took that did it,” - She began; “I never knew till after she was dead. - The bottles in the woodshed, hundreds of ’em - All labelled “Caldwell’s Great Obesity Cure - Warranted Safe and Rapid.” - Oh ain’t it awful?” and she fell to crying miserably; - “But wasn’t she real pretty in her coffin?” - And then she cried again - And clung to me. - - - - - The Ecstasy of Pain - - - (Fragmentary Reflections on the Art of Przybyszewski) - - ALEXANDER S. KAUN - -... Out of the effervescent hurricane of light burst forth a terrible -song. - -Despair, as if thousands of graves had torn open. As if the heavens had -rent asunder, and the Son of Man had descended upon the earth to judge -the good and the wicked. Millions of hands rose up to heaven in a mad -horror of death—hands that prayed for mercy and charity. He heard a -beastly roar, which like a geyser of a smoking sea of blood spurtled -upward; and above all this he saw bony fingers that twisted and writhed -in convulsions of fear and shouted to heaven: “Ad te clamamus exules -filii Hevae, ad te suspiramus gementes et flentes.” - -And he saw a multitudinous crowd that was lashed with an insane ecstacy -of destruction, and above them a heaven that yawned with disease and -fire. He saw how those miserable creatures wriggled and serpentined in -hellish madnesses of life; he saw the bleeding backs furrowed by the -whips into chunks; he saw all humanity demented, obsessed, with an -inspired frenzy in the bestialized eyes. - -Slowly disappeared the procession of the doomed; wild cries intoxicated -with despair died away in a death-rattle, and a sun, red like copper, -shed a chatoyant green light on the puddles of blood. - -“Ad te clamamus exules filii Hevae!” - - * * * * * - -This is a fragment from an early poem of Przybyszewski, _De Profundis_. -It is a proper background to all the works of the Pole, to his plays, -essays, novels, poems. At least I see him in that light. - -A reminiscence: On a rainy autumn night I went to hear him lecture. “... -and if the psychologists will find contradictions in my words—I shall -not feel dismayed. There are contradictions that are dearer to me than -most perfect consequentialities.” From the dim light of the platform -ached a face distorted with contempt and suffering, with the grim -clairvoyance of the Beyond. At moments the eyebrows leaped up and bulged -the forehead into thick, strained furrows, and the eyes suddenly burst -in a flash that revealed unknown worlds, twisting your soul with awe and -mystery. But soon the flame would extinguish, and the face would resume -the masque of contemptuous weariness; the mouth-corners congealed a -satanic would-be smile that prepared one for his famous “Heh-heh.” That -face haunted me for many days and nights, as if my inner vision had been -scalded by an unearthly chimera. My friends, who have seen his -exaggerated portrait painted by Krzyzanowski, will understand me. Those -who will read his works (if they are translated), will understand me. -_Homo Sapiens_[1] is but a nuance of his multiplex creative spirit, -though perhaps a most characteristic nuance. Przybyszewski, like -Nietzsche, like Wilde, is a unique mosaique, in which the personality, -the artist, his life and his works, are inseparable, indivisible units -of the wonderful whole. Who can fathom this hellish cosmos, this mare -tenebrarum of the modern man’s soul, which the mad Pole has traversed -and penetrated to the bottom, and has cast out shrieking monsters and -gargoyles illuminated with blinding, dazzling, infernal flames? - - [1] _Homo Sapiens, by Stanislaw Przybyszewski. New York: Alfred - A. Knopf._ - -I cannot. Perhaps only pale glimpses of reflections. - - * * * * * - -Those who have heard Przybyszewski play Chopin tell us that no virtuoso -can compare with his creative interpretation of his melancholy -compatriot. In his profound essay on _Chopin and Nietzsche_ I have been -impressed not so much with the morbid theory as with the characteristic -feature present in all his work—the reflection of his own personality. -In his favorite artists, in his heroes, in his women, he has painfully -sought an expression of his restless, boundless self. Thus Chopin -becomes one of the numerous selves of Przybyszewski. Let me picture the -Composer in the light of the Poet. - -Specifically Slavic features: extreme subtility of feeling, easy -excitability, passionateness and sensuousness, predilection for luxury -and extravagance, and, chief of all, a peculiar melancholy lyricism, -which is nothing but the expression of the most exalted egoism, whose -sole and highest criterion is his own “I.” These, and the profound -melancholy of his native limitless plains with their desolate sandy -expanses, with the lead-skies over them, have been influences keenly -contradicting his flexible, light vivaciousness of the Gallic, his -coquettish effeminacy, his love for life and light. - -Subtracting the last two strokes, who is it: Chopin or Przybyszewski? - -The trait most obviously common to both Poles is the unquenchable -yearning, the eternal Sehnsucht, which filters through all their -productions. In neither of them was it the yearning of healthy natures, -in whom, as in a mother’s womb, it bears the embryo of fruitful life; it -is not the yearning of Zarathustra “in a sunny rapture of ecstacy -greeting new, unknown gods with an exalted ‘Evoi’!” Chopin’s longing, as -reflected in Przybyszewski, is tinted with the pale color of anemia -peculiar to a representative of a degenerate aristocracy (the Poet’s -progenitor died of delirium tremens), with his transparent skin -projecting the tiniest veins, with his slender figure and prolongated -limbs that breathe with each movement incomparable gracefulness, with -his overdeveloped intellect which shines in his eyes, as in the eyes of -frail children who are doomed to early death. This longing is the -incessant palpitation of a nervous, over-delicate nature, something akin -to the constant irritability of open wounds, the continuous change of -ebbs and flows of morbid sensitiveness, the eternal dissatisfaction of -acute emotions, the fatigableness of a too-susceptible spirit, the -weariness of one oversatiated with suffering. Yet this longing has in it -also wild passion, “the convulsive agony of deadly horror,” -self-damnation and thirst for destruction, delirium and madness of one -who strains his gaze into the vast—and sees nothing. - -Indeed I should like to hear Chopin’s _Preludes_ recreated under the -longing fingers of Stanislaw. - - * * * * * - -Stanislaw Przybyszewski. Do pronounce it correctly, that you may hear -the sound of rain swishing through tall grass. Przybyszewski has come to -know himself so thoroughly and unreservedly, and, in himself, to know -the modern man of the widest intellectual and artistic horizons, through -a long excruciating internal purgatory. From the study of architecture -and general aesthetics his restless, ever-searching spirit hurled him -into natural sciences in the hope of finding positive answers to his -burning questions. He came out loaded with an enormous baggage of facts -and information; yet he had not quenched his everlasting -dissatisfaction, but had acquired a sceptical “heh-heh” towards life and -knowledge. He plunged into psychology, and found Nietzsche—to him the -deepest searcher, possessor of the keen eye of a degenerate, which like -a wintersun sheds its light with morbid intensity upon snowfields, -clearly illuminating each crystal. With a “heh-heh” he dismissed the -Loneliest One. For was not Nietzsche driven to create for himself a -superman, as a consolation, as a hope, as “a soft pillow upon which -could rest his weary inflamed head”? Did he for one moment believe in -that ghost which he erected in the heavy hours of despair? Nonsense. -Heh-heh. Had not his Falk, his homo sapiens, been crushed in his -struggle to attain liberation and supermanship? Recall Falk’s -self-rending meditations: “Conscience! Heh-heh-heh! Conscience! How -ridiculously silly is your superman! Herr Professor Nietzsche left out -of account tradition and culture which created conscience in the course -of hundreds of centuries.... Oh, how ridiculous is your superman sans -conscience!” Thus, step after step, killing god after god, burning his -ships behind him, the all-knowing, the all-denying degenerate-nobleman -Slav-cosmopolite has ascended the loftiest summit, or, as he would -rather say, has descended into deepest hell—Art. An equipment hardly -appropriate for an artist who sees “Life Itself” in color and fragrance -and petals and varicolored mornings and varicolored nights and Japanese -prints and ... but you may find the catalogue in the Editor’s rhapsody -of last month. Przybyszewski’s background served him as an Archimedean -lever to gauge and fathom the soul of modernity. - - * * * * * - -Let me attempt to present the quintessence of Przybyszewski’s modern -Individuum, as he prefers to call an exceptional personality. - -He considers himself a superman, aloof from the market-interests of the -crowd. He is conscious of the fetters of his instincts and of the -gradual sapping of his strength—hence the history of the Individuum -turns into a sad monography of suppressed will and distorted instincts, -a history of a mountain torrent which cannot find an outlet, and rushes -into depth, dissolving obstructing strata, destroying and washing them -away, and ruining the structure of the rocks in their very bowels. - -Hence the longing for liberation and the yearning for expanse, a -perilous “palpitating Sehnsucht and craving of the heights, of the -beyond.” But this longing has another distinctive symptom: the -consciousness of its hopelessness, the clear conviction that the -passionately-desired goal is but an idée fixe. In this longing is -expressed a spirit that ruins everything in itself with the corrosive -acid of reason, a spirit that had long lost faith in itself, that -considers its own activity diffidently and critically, a spirit that -spies and searches itself, that has lost the faculty of taking itself -seriously, that has become accustomed to mock itself and to play with -its own manifestations as with a ball; a spirit not satisfied with the -highest and finest human perceptions, that has come at last, after many -searchings, to the gloomy decision that all is in vain, that it is -incapable of surpassing itself. - -Hence the pursuit of enjoyment. But this morbid seeking of enjoyment -lacks that direct, self-sufficient bliss that results from the -accumulated surplus of productive strength. The modern Individuum is -deprived of that healthy instinct, therefore in place of naive joy -experienced from the liberation of surcharged power he plunges into -self-forgetfulness. All his life is reduced to pure self-narcotization. -In the morbid straining of his abnormally-functioning nerves the -Individuum-decadent rises to those mysterious borders where the joy and -the pain of human existence pass into one another and intermingle, where -the two are brought in their extreme manifestations to a peculiar -feeling of destructive rapture, to an ecstatic being outside and above -himself. All his thoughts and acts acquire a character of something -devastating, maniacal, and over all of them reigns a heavy, depressing, -wearying atmosphere, like the one before the outbreak of a storm, -something akin to the passionate tremor of delirious impotence, -something similar to the consumptive flush of spiritual hysteria. - -In such clinical terms Przybyszewski sees the modern homo sapiens. -Through this prism I perceive his Falk, doomed to utter failure and -futility. - - * * * * * - -Falk an erotomaniac? Nonsense. His sexual relations are as pathological -as the functions of his other faculties, not more. In his incessant -search for an outlet, for discharge, for some quantity that might fill -up his hollowed heart, Falk grasps woman as a potentional complement to -his emptiness. He fails, naturally. To the artist woman is a narcotizer -and wing-clipper; more often a Dalila or Xantippe than a Cosima Wagner -or a Clara Schumann. Neither the exoticism of Ysa, nor the -pillow-serviceability of Yanina, nor the medieval fanaticism of Marit, -nor Olga’s revolutionary resignedness, have the power of checking the -hurricane of his questing spirit for more than a moment, such moments -when the tormented man erects for his consolation a phantom, be it a -superman or a Christ. Falk’s quest for self-forgetfulness is futile. He -lacks the healthy capacity of us, normal beings, for finding salvation -in befogging our vision. No matter how we may indulge in -self-analization, we usually stop at the perilous point and brake our -searching demon with the same happy instinct that closes our eyes -automatically at the approach of danger. Falk’s mental motor has no -brakes; it hurls him into the precipice. - -“I have never suffered on account of a woman,” boasts the old rake, -Iltis. - -“Because your organism is very tough, a peasant’s organism, my dear -Iltis. Your sensibilities have not yet reached the stage of dependence -upon the brain. You are like a hydromedusa which suddenly parts with its -feelers stocked with sexual organs and sends them off to seek the -female, and then does not bother about them any more. You are a very -happy creature, my dear Iltis. But I don’t envy you your happiness. I -never envy the ox his enjoyment of grass, not even when I am starving.” - -Przybyszewski’s Individuum seeks in woman the miraculous expression of -his most intimate, most precious “I.” He speaks in one place about the -love of the “anointed artist,” which is a painful conception of an awful -unknown force that casts two souls together striving to link them into -one; an intense torment rending the soul in the impossible endeavor to -realize the New Covenant, the union of two beings, a matter of absolute -androgynism. For such an artist love is “the consciousness of a terrible -abyss, the sense of a bottomless Sheol in his soul, where rages the life -of thousands of generations, of thousands of ages, of their torments and -pangs of reproduction and of greed for life.” Now recall Falk’s dream: - -“He saw a meadow-clearing in his father’s forest. Two elks were -fighting. They struck at each other with their large horns, separated, -and made another terrific lunge. Their horns interlocked. In great leaps -they tried to disentangle themselves, turning round and round. There was -a crunching of horns. One elk succeeded in freeing himself and ran his -horns into the other’s breast. He drove them in deeper and deeper, tore -ferociously at his flesh and entrails. The blood spurted.... And near -the fighting animals a female elk was pasturing unmindful of the savage -struggle of the passion-mad males.... In the centre stood the victor -trembling and gory, yet proud and mighty. On his horns hung the entrails -of his rival.” - -The epitomy of the sex-problem, heh-heh. - - * * * * * - -“I don’t envy the ox his enjoyment.” Przybyszewski despises happiness as -something unworthy of an artist. A happy soul, he believes, is a -miracle, the squareness of a circle, a whip made of sand. The soul is -sombre, stormy, for it is the aching of passion and the madness of -sweeps, living over ecstacies of boiling desire, the stupendous anxiety -of depths and the boundless suffering of being. For the artist who -creates the world not with his brain, but with his soul, all life is one -“sale corvée,” a filthy burden, eternal horror, despair, and submission, -fruitless struggle and impotent stumbling. For this reason love, the -greatest happiness for ordinary males, becomes for the artist the -profoundest disastrous suffering. - -Take away from Przybyszewski his ecstacy of pain, and you rob him of his -very essence, of his raison d’être, of his creative breath. When you -read his _Poems in Prose_ you face a soul writhing in hopeless despair, -in futile longing, in maddening convulsions. But you cannot pity the -artist. You are aware of the sublime joy in his sorrow, of the unearthly -bliss that is wrapped in the black wings of his melancholy. In his poem -_At the Sea_, the elemental yearning of his soul reaches cosmic -dimensions. Only one other poem approaches it in its surcharged -grief—Ben Hecht’s _Night-Song_, if we overlook the latter’s redundancy. -Allow me to give you a pale translation of the “Introibo” to _At the -Sea_:—may the Pole’s spirit forgive me my sacrilegious impertinence. - - - INTROIBO - - Thou, who with ray-clad hands wreathest my dreams with the beauty - of fading autumn, with the splendor of off-blooming grandeur, - with inflamed hues of the burning paradise,— - - Radiant mine! - - How many pangs have passed as if in a dream, since I saw Thee for - the last time, and yet mine heart doth shine amidst the stars - which Thou hast strewn in my life, yet the thirsting hands of my - blood yearn for the bliss Thou didst once kindle in my soul. - - Thou, who in evening twilight spinnest for me with still hands on - enchanted harps heavy meditation on moments of joy that have - flown away like a distant whisper of leaves,—on suns that, - sinking into the sea, sparkle in the east with bloody dew,—on - nights that press to their warm breast tortured hearts,— - - Radiant mine! - - How many times has the sun set since those hours when with Thy - magic songs Thou pacified the sorrow of my soul,—and yet I see - Thine eyes, full of moans and sadness, burning in an unearthly - rapture, see the radiant hand stretching towards me and grasping - mine with a hot cry. - - Thou, who transformest stormy nights into sunny days, in the - depths of my dreams quenchest reality, removest into an infinite - distance all near,— - - Thou, who enkindlest in my heart will-o’-the-wisps and bearest - unto life black flowers— - - Radiant mine! - - A thousand times has the world transfigured since Thy look - consumed the tarnishing glitter of my soul, and yet I see Thy - little child-like face and the golden crown of hair over Thy - brow, see how two tears had spread into a pale smile that glowed - on Thy mouth, and hear the dark plaint of Thy voice. - - Thou, who breakest before me the seals of all mysteries and - readest the runes of hidden powers, and in all the madnesses of - my life flingest Thyself in a rainbow of blessing from one heaven - to the other,— - - Never yet has the storm so strewn the rays of my stars, never yet - has the aureole played with such bleeding radiancy around Thy - head, as now, when I have lost Thee forever. - - - “Homo Sapiens” Discussed by Readers - -In another place I called _Homo Sapiens_ “the book of the age.” Surely -there has not been a more stirring work of literature since _Werther_. -Will the public respond? Is it true that the wall of American -indifferentism is impregnable? I am still optimistic about the -intellectual aristocracy of this country; that small circle of the young -in spirit, brave searchers and earnest livers, for whom art and life are -not merely diversions between meals and business transactions, but the -italicized essence of existence. To those few Przybyszewski’s book -should appeal; those should react. - -I have been getting curious, and at times interesting, opinions of such -readers. I hope to receive more, and acquaint the _Little Review_ family -with them. On the whole, there prevails a note of depression and -uneasiness. One writes: “I had hoped to be left alone on a mountain peak -in a blaze of light and in the stress of wind; instead there is a -sardonic laugh, and I am again hurled into the maelstrom of a world that -cannot rise above suffering from its own passions.” A feminist remarks -sadly that the book demonstrates “the limit of man’s penetration. The -women are women still—not even women of the transition.” An incurable, -hopelessly struggling Puritan rages and curses both me and the author; I -give a few gems: “I’ve read your devilishly wonderful book!... It did -many things to me, which, thank God, have passed like a drunken -dream.... For three days I’ve been hideously torn up, slashed into -tatters, savage and fundamental. But you want my opinion! How can I tell -you, divorce it from myself, tear it out of my living flesh, when it has -become imbedded. That terrible, wonderful Falk! It makes you shudder -away from all temperamental people with experimental souls in their -fingers, and few convictions.... I became paralyzed with horror. At last -I cried out, writhed on the floor and prayed to some Power, any Power, -for pity, not to see myself, not to see life beneath the superficial -surface.... Go away, take your Slav fingers out of my soul! They force -me to look at truth, when I want to deal in lies. They force me to climb -the heights and peer into the hideous crevasses, when I want to browse -fatuously on the hillocks.” More such “drunken dreams,” -and the comfortable blinders will fall off the eyes of the -happiness-by-all-means-fiends. - -I submit two letters of friends who have read my article and wished to -supplement my views. I humbly think that what they say is included in my -“reflections”; but I am also conscious of my inherent fault—conciseness -which borders on obscurity. Hence clarification is gratefully welcome. - - - I. - -What you say about Przybyszewski I also think. But what you do not say -about _Homo Sapiens_ is what I feel most of all. There is something very -definite about _Homo Sapiens_, the book. It rises out of the mass of -flaming gibberish, dissected nerves, and poetical slashings. It rings in -the ears long after the book is closed. It is the most poignant cry of -the dying nineteenth century, and it comes out of lower depths than the -cry of Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov,—shriller, madder, and more -penetrating.... - -Eric Falk is not a nuance. He is the whole of Stanislaw Przybyszewski, -the whole of modern wisdom and introspection, which is another word for -degeneracy. - -Come now, pretend I am not reviewing it. Pretend I am something of a -clairvoyant. - -See Przybyszewski creating him—Erick Falk. He is sitting at his desk. He -is going to write a book about man, not a type, not a silhouette, but -about Man complete. He wants the final man of his day, the Homo Sapiens, -the Zarathustran phantom. - -This Przybyszewski is a thorough fellow, a biologist, a poet, a -physician, an historian, a psychologist. He lives on an operating table. -Knows his own insides. - -“Come here, Zarathustra,” chuckles this Przybyszewski, and he coaxes him -off the heights, off the peaks where he is waiting to be fed by the -eagles. - -And striding from the peaks comes Zarathustra. Who do you suppose it is? -Przybyszewski, of course. - -They greet each other. - -And Przybyszewski says to this self of his: “So you are the ultimate -clay, ha, ha.” - -And this self answers: “Yea, behold in me the finite evolution, man -crowned by his own hard and subtly-won glories.” - -“Come here,” purrs Przybyszewski. Remember, he is talking to himself—at -his desk. - -Hesitating, frowning, and yet with the pure grimace of superiority -stamped on his face, this self approaches. And the book is on. - -Przybyszewski’s inspiration is the fury of a madman, the derisive, -diabolical chuckling of a fanatical cynic. - -“Come now, we will fly,” whispers Przybyszewski, and off they go—the -innocent Zarathustra and the steeped, slashbuckling Przybyszewski. And -remember still—they are one. - -And the rest of it is the plot of _Homo Sapiens_, the book, which I will -skip.... - -Thus Eric Falk soars and Przybyszewski shows the sorry mechanics of his -wings, laughing, chuckling, for they are his own. Thus toward the middle -of the book you begin wondering. Falk is going to pieces, Falk the -immutable, the all knowing, the transcender, the ... the ... the ... the -Homo Sapiens. What is the matter? When he betrays a woman and causes her -death a hideous vapor suddenly envelopes his soul and befouls it. -Przybyszewski thrusts his radiant leer from behind Zarathustra’s mask -and hisses, “Conscience, ha!” - -And thus it goes its merry way. To the edge of the precipice this mad -Pole pushes his whirling Falk, to the utter edge of known reason, known -psychology and known Passions. - -And then suddenly the soarer falls. The mechanism comes clattering to -earth—to the bottom of the precipice. The lugubrious Stanislaw has led -his creation—himself—to the limits. - -He has finished his book. - -Piled on the desk lies the heap of glowing sentences, the history of -rhapsodic vivisection. - -Przybyszewski has expressed himself. - -He has uttered his most internal cry, the cry of a poet, a weaver of -plots, an anatomical expert, of an introspective vulture-minded -Disbeliever. - -And now I call your attention to Mr. Przybyszewski at his desk—too tired -to rise. Gone are the golden thrills that quivered in him, gone -everything but the thin sardonic grin that lights the face of Eric -Falk—on the last page. And only Eric Falk’s last cry, “Vive L’Humanité” -is left him. So our Stanislaw, the idol of Bohemia, the tortured demon, -sits chuckling, a glass of cognac trembling in his fingers. - -“Homo Sapiens,” he sighs with his inevitable sneer, that pierces through -his pity and pain like the point of a rapier, “behold thyself. Thou, -Eric, art man. Thou art the creaking vehicle for the golden theories, -the rainbow fantasies which have sifted out of the mental mists of the -century. And behold, thou creakest, thou groanest, thou breakest under -this lightest of burdens.” - -The tired Przybyszewski quivers. His lips, mocking their way through the -delirious poison of thought and passion have kissed the intangible. He -has stripped his brain to its last cell and looked at it. And the cry -that rises out of the book comes condensed from his lips now—after it is -done. Nowhere is it written, nowhere is it heard except at Stanislaw -Przybyszewski’s desk—in Bohemia. - -It is the answer, ha. Is it? - -“Homo Sapiens, thou art clay. Thy mind is a super-chaos. Thy soul is a -petty mirage.” - - - II. - -Przybyszewski transplants his readers from their ordinary mental -environment into those astral regions where metaphysical subtleties are -clothed with reality. Life is dealt with not on the surface strata of -its expressions but at its base where motives and ideas and emotions -have their source. And in spite of this fact, or rather because of the -uncanny clairvoyance of its author there is no perversion or befogging -of one’s point of view. These nebulous regions are lit up by the -ruthless penetration of an artist who is a scientist as well. - -One’s first sensations are like seeing for the first time with the naked -eye the fan of nerves which spread out from the corona radiata, or -touching the single nerve trunks with the dissecting knife. In the same -manner the pathological Pole brings you into actual contact with the -cargos of these nerves, ideas, emotions, sensations. All the concealing -layers of evasions and of equivocations have been dissected away; there -lies spread out before you sections of naked consciousness. And so -subtle has been the dissecting work that there has been no -disarrangement and no death. All is still living, still functioning. And -your sensation of strangeness, almost of horror, is born out of -revulsion against a self-consciousness so intense as to seem almost -morbid. “I feel,” said a friend of mine, “as if I had been vivisected.” -Not so much this as that one has been vivisecting. Przybyszewski compels -you to co-operate with him in analysing psychological phenomena. At -moments you lift your eyes from the page, panting, almost physically -exhausted from the effort of concentrating on those tortuous, subtle -reactions which occur in the farthest recesses of consciousness and -spread upward in waves to the surface, where they often take on curious -irrelevant expression. - -But that is sheer morbidity, cries your friend the Philistine. It is -introspection carried past the point of decency. But to the investigator -there is no point past which it is indecent to press. In him there is no -affectation of scruple to erect its artificial barricade. He must have -transcended all such petty egotism and have depersonalized himself. He -is constrained to this by that curiosity which is his master passion, -which generates itself and is dynamic in him as hunger or sex are -dynamic in the ordinary individual. This curiosity of the artist brooks -no bounds, short of the facts against which it brings up abruptly. And -so Przybyszewski for all his uncanny subtlety cannot be accused of -morbidity since he uses it not to distort but merely to reveal the -truth. If he has no false reverence neither has he irreverence. His -scalpel, always flashing and leaping, pauses a moment on a state of -emotion and, pointing, calls it by name. “For I am I,” says Falk. “I am -a criminal diabolic nature.” Or again: - -“And so a certain man is suffering from love induced by auto-suggestion. -Very well. But at the same time he loves his wife unqualifiedly. And he -loves her so much that there can be no doubt of the reality of his love. -In a word he loves both the one and the other.” - -But such a condition isn’t possible, the Philistine will cry out, -wounded at his most vulnerable point, his inflexible principles. “A man -can’t love two women at the same time.” This isolated case would -undermine the whole monogamistic theory. He sees one of his cherished -institutions tottering. And so he takes fright and refutes the fact. “It -can’t be, it isn’t possible.” But Przybyszewski continues to stand with -the scalpel wearily pointing. “My dear Sir, this is no question of -postulates, it’s a question of an individual instance. It _is_ possible, -because it occurs. Falk _does_ love two women at the same moment.” And -the Philistine will doubtless turn away snorting furiously and -unconvinced. “Przybyszewski,” he will sneer, “that degenerate Pole, -always half drunk with cognac, a Slav to boot. What does he know of life -or reality? They were all neurasthenics. Look at Artzibashev and -Andreyev and Dostoevsky. Yes, let us look at them, and remembering -Dostoevsky’s epilepsy, remember also Raskolnikov. A criminal’s -psychology lifted onto paper out of the limbo regions of consciousness -by the mammoth Russian’s bloody pen. Something more than neurasthenia, -this gift of analysis. - -What, finally, is Homo Sapiens? Who is this writer-fellow, Falk, with no -conscience, with his “criminal, diabolic nature?” Does he only exist to -analyse himself, and his tortuous, painful psychologizings? Why is he, -what is he?—He is the self-conscious man, par excellence. This book is -the epic of consciousness. “The thing must be thought out,” says Falk. -And nuance by nuance it is thought out, rapidly but faithfully, under -your very eyes. You are invited,—no, compelled,—to take part in the -operation. Hence your feeling of fatigue. And again, after a page or -two, “He examined his own feelings.” - -“But why a Falk?” the Philistine demands. “Falk is no average man. He is -a genius, and as such his psychology is specialized and distinct. Falk -is a neurasthenic, victim of erotomania. Even his lucidity is not to his -credit. Since he is a writer it is implicit in him, as muscle is in the -circus rider. He is bound to analyse his acts, to trace them back to -their motives. Falk presents an isolated case. If one is going to deal -with consciousness why not choose a less precocious exponent? Why not -the everyday consciousness of the average human being?” - -And by the same token, why not a Falk, Mr. Philistine, since we are -agreed that this is a drama of consciousness. Of what use is the average -man in this extremity? The artist is the Homo Sapiens par excellence, -for it is in him that consciousness has reached its most complex -differentiation. “I am,” says Falk, “what they call a highly -differentiated individual. I have, combined in me, everything—design, -ambition, sincerity of knowledge and ignorance, falsehood and truth. A -thousand heavens, a thousand worlds are in me.” And recognizing this -fact he wrestles with it through some four hundred odd pages. That Falk -loved two women, or ten women, is not only possible, but probably -inevitable. What in the average man is a temperate reaching out for a -few specific joys becomes in a Falk the impulse of his whole being for -self-expression. It bursts out along a thousand channels, requiring as -many outward aspects as there are sources in his personality. And it is -this devious stream of a human consciousness that we are following -outward to its expression in words or acts, and backward to its source, -as we dissect with Przybyszewski Falk’s mental protoplasm. - -“Futile,” sneers the Philistine, “utterly futile. If that is a Homo -Sapiens, give me a subman. Your Falk knew no happiness and he gave none. -He only strewed suffering in his wake both for himself and others. He -was without scruples and without conscience. Where did he get to with -all his differentiation? He wrote a few books, to be sure, but what were -they in the scale of the women he ruined, the men he did to death? Even -of his own misery? His gift of introspection was a sharp knife turned -against himself, since he cried out in the end: ‘to be chemically -purified of all thoughts.’ Homo Sapiens indeed!” - -You can see Przybyszewski wearily twisting the scalpel in his nerveless -hands, you can see the smile that twists his lips just before they curve -about the waiting cognac glass. “No, he was not happy, it is true he did -strew misery in his wake. He was neurasthenic and degenerate and -criminal. He was all these things and all the other things which you -have forgotten or never perceived. For he was Homo Sapiens. And such as -he is I have drawn him. Ha, ha—Vive l’Humanité!” - - - - - The Spring Recital - - - THEODORE DREISER - - - SCENE: - - A prosperous First Church in the heart of a great city. Outside the - city’s principle avenue, along which busses and vehicles of all - descriptions are rolling. Surrounding the church a graveyard, - heavily shaded with trees, the branches of which reach to the - open windows bearing soft odours. Over the graves many full blown - blossoms, and in the sky a full May moon. An idling sense of - spring in the gait and gestures of the pedestrians. In front of - the church hangs a small lighted cross, and under it swings the sign - “Organ Recital, 8:30, Wilmuth Tabor, Organist.” The doors giving - into the church are open. The interior, save for the presence of - a caretaker in a chair, is empty. On either side of the pulpit, - below a great dark rose window, burns a partially lighted - electrolier. In the organ loft, over the street doors, a single - light. - -FIRST STREET BOY (to his companion, ambling to discover what the world -contains, and glancing in as they pass). Gee! Who’d wanta go to church -on a night like this? - -SECOND STREET BOY. I should say! Didjah see the old guy with the -whiskers sitten’ inside? - -FIRST STREET BOY. Sure. A swell job, eh? (Their attention is attracted -by an automobile spinning in the opposite direction, and they pass on). - -AN OLD LADY (to her middle-aged daughter, on whose arm she is leaning -... sympathetically and reminiscently). The dear old First Church! What -a pity its parishioners have all moved away. I don’t suppose the younger -generation cares much for church going anymore. People are so -irreligious these days. - -THE DAUGHTER. Poor Mr. Tabor. I went to one of his concerts in the -winter and there were scarcely forty people there. And he plays so -heavenly, too. I don’t suppose the average person cares much for organ -music. - -(They pass with but a glance at the interior.) - -A BELATED SHOE CLERK (hurrying to reach Hagan’s Olio Moving Picture and -Vaudeville Theatre before the curtain rises, but conscious that he ought -to pay some attention to the higher phases of culture, turning to the -old door-keeper). When does this concert begin? - -THE OLD DOOR-KEEPER (heavily). Half past eight. (He glances at the sign -hanging over the youth’s head.) - -THE BELATED SHOE CLERK. Do they have them every Wednesday night? - -THE OLD DOOR-KEEPER. Every Wednesday. (The Clerk departs, and the old -man scratches his head.) They often ask, but they don’t come in. (He -shifts to a more comfortable position in his chair.) I see no use to -playin’ to five or six people week in and week out all summer long. -Still, if they want to do it they have the money. It looks like a good -waste of light to me. - -(Mrs. Pence and Mrs. Stillwater, two neighbors of the immediate -vicinity, enter the church door.) - -MRS. PENCE (a heavy pasty faced woman in white lawn, lowering her voice -to a religious whisper as they enter). Yes, I like to come here now and -then. I don’t know much about music but the organ is so soothing. We had -a parlor organ when I was a little girl and I learned to play on that. - -MRS. STILLWATER (short, blonde, and of a romantic turn, but with three -grown sons). I just think the organ is the loveliest of all instruments. -It’s so rich and deep. Isn’t it dim here? So romantic! I love an old -church. (They seat themselves in a pew.) I don’t suppose people want -much light when they hear music. See the moonlight in that window over -there, isn’t it lovely? - -(A pair of lovers enter.) - -THE BOY. I’ve heard of him. He’s a well-known organist. I love Grieg. I -wish he would play the Nocturne in G Minor. - -THE GIRL. Oh yes, or Solveig’s Lied. Isn’t it dim here. - -(They enter a pew in the most remote corner. She squeezes his hand and -he returns the pressure.) - -THE ORGANIST (a pessimistic musician of fifty, entering and climbing -slowly to the organ loft. As he does so he surveys the empty auditorium -gloomily.) Only four people! (He turns on the bracket lights, uncovers -the keys, and adjusts the sheets of his programme before him. Surveying -himself in the mirror, and then examining the opening bars of The -Toccata and Fugue in D by Bach, he pulls out various stops and looks -into the dim, empty auditorium once more.) What a night! And me playing -in this dim, empty church. It’s bad enough to be getting along in years -and have no particular following, but this church! All society and -wealth away to the sea shore and the mountains and me here. Ah, well (he -sighs). Worse and worse times still succeed the former. (He sounds a -faint tremolo to test the air pressure. Finding all satisfactory, and -noting the hour by his watch, which stands at eight-thirty, he begins -the Overture to “The Magic Flute,” this being a purely secular -programme). - -(Enter through a north window, open even with the floor of the organ -loft, a horned fawn, with gay white teeth grimacing as he comes, begins_ -_pirouetting. He carries a kex on which he attempts to imitate the -lovely piping of the overture). - -THE FAWN (prancing lightly here and there). Tra aa ala-lala! Ah, -tra-la-la, Ah, tra-la-la! Tra-la-leee! Tra-la-leee! Very excellent! Very -nice! (He grins from ear to ear and espying the church cat, a huge -yellow tom who is mousing about, gives a spirited kick in its -direction). Dancing’s the thing! Life is better than death, thin shade -that I am! - -THE CAT (arching his back and raising his fur). Pfhs-s-st! Pfhs-s-st! - -(The fawn pirouettes nearer, indicating a desire to dance with it, -whereupon the cat retreats into a corner under the organ). - -THE FAWN. Ky-ey-ey! You silly dolt! (Kicks and spins away). - -THE ORGANIST (noticing the spit-fire attitude of the cat). He seems to -see something. What the deuce has got into him, now? I wonder whether -cats do see anything when they act like that. (He drifts into a frail -dance harmony, yielding to the seduction of it and closing his eyes). - -THE BOY LOVER. Wonderful! So delicately gay and sad! It’s just like -flowers blooming in the night, isn’t it? (His sweetheart squeezes his -hand and moves closer). - -SIX HAMA-DRYADS (sweeping in from the trees and circling about, -wreath-wise under the groined arches of the ceiling. They are a pale, -ethereal company, suiting their movements to the melody and its -variations). - - Arch of church or arch of trees, - Built of stone or built of air, - Spirits floating on a breeze, - Dancing gayly anywhere. - - Out of lilac, out of oak, - Hard by asphodel and rose, - Never time when music spoke - But a dryad fled repose. - - Weaving, turning, high and low - Where the purpled rhythms fall, - Where the plangent pipings call, - Round and round and round we go. - -THE FAWN (dancing forward and about them). I can dance! Let me dance! -(He grins in the face of one). - -THE HAMA-DRYADS. Go away! Don’t bother! - -THE CAT (prowling under the organ). I saw a mouse peeping out of that -hole just now. Wait! (He crouches very low, ready to spring). - -THE ORGANIST (dreamily). This passage always makes me think of moonlight -on open fields and the spicy damp breath of a dark dewy wood, and of -lilacs blowing over a wall, too. So suitable, but I would rather live -than play. (He sighs. A gloomy ghost with sharp green eyes enters from -the sacristy, and pauses in the dark angle of the wall). - -THE GHOST (a barrel house bum a dozen years dead, and still enamored of -the earth). What’s doing here, I wonder? (He stares). A lot of fools -dancing. (Turns and departs). - -THE GIRL. Oh Sweetheart, isn’t it perfect. (She lays her head on his -shoulder). - -THE BOY. Darling! - -THE CAT (springing). There! I almost caught him. (Peers into the hole). -Just the same, I know where he is now. (He strolls off with an air of -undefeated indifference). - -THE ORGANIST (missing a note). This finale isn’t so easy. And I don’t -like it as well, either. I always stumble in the allegro. (He wipes his -brow, improvises a few bars, interpolating also a small portion of the -triumphal march from “Aida”). This is different. I can do it better. (He -begins upon the Grail motif from “Parsifal”). - -MRS. STILLWATER (shifting her arm and moving her knee). I never like -loud music as well as the softer kind. That middle part was beautiful. - -MRS. PENCE. Well, I can’t say I like loud music, either, but now this— - - (The Hama-dryads cease dancing and drift out of the window, followed - by the fawn. An English minister, once of St. Giles, Circenster, who - died in 1631, a monk of the Thebaid, A. D. 300, and three priests of - Isis, B. C. 2840, enter, each independently of the others. On - detecting the odour of reverence they visualize themselves to - themselves as servitors of their respective earthly religions—the - Egyptians in their winged hoods, the monk of the Thebaid in his - high pointed cowl, the Rector of St. Giles in his broad-brimmed - hat with the high conical crown, knee-length coat, and heavy, - silver-buttoned shoes.) - -THE MINISTER (to himself). An unhappy costume, yet it is all that -identifies me with my former earthly self, or with life. (He notes the -Egyptians and the monk, but pays no attention to them for the moment). - -FIRST PRIEST OF ISIS (to his brothers). A house of worship. How the awe -of man persists. I thought I detected the rhythm of melody here. - -SECOND PRIEST (tall and severely garbed, yet in the rich colors of his -order). And I. It is melody. I feel the waves. - -THIRD PRIEST (signing in the direction of the organist). There is the -musician. He is arranging something. And here is a very present reminder -of one of our earthly stupidities. We worshiped the forerunner of that -in our day. (He motions to the church cat who strolls by with great -dignity. They smile). - -THE CAT (surveying them with indifferent eyes). At least I am alive. - -FIRST PRIEST (a master of astrology). Small comfort. You will be dead -within the year. I see the rock that ends you. Then no more airs for -you. - -THE MONK OF THE THEBAID (to himself). This is a religious -edifice—heavily material and of small pomp—christian, possibly. That -spirit yonder (he surveys the minister of St. Giles) was also a priest -of sorts, I take it, and these three Egyptians—how they strut! They give -themselves airs because of the thin memory of them and of their rites -that endures in the world. - -THE MINISTER OF ST. GILES (surveying the monk). A sombre flagellant. I -wonder has he outgrown his earthly illusion. (He approaches). Brother, -do I not meet an emancipated spirit? - -THE MONK. You do. Centuries of observation have taught me what earthly -search could not. I smile at the folly of this. (He waves an inclusive -hand about him). - -THE MINISTER. And I, I also—though I was of stern faith in my day, and -of this very creed—even now I suspect some discoverable power worthy of -worship. My mere persistence causes me to wonder though it does not -explain itself. - -THE MONK. Nor does mine to me, nor the persistence of their seeming -reality to them. (He points through the transparent walls of the church -to where outside moving streams of shadows—automobiles, belated wagons, -and pedestrians are to be seen—and to the lovers). Yet there is no -answer. They have their faith, futile as it is. A greater darkness has -fallen on you and me. Endless persistence for us if we must, let us say, -but merging at last into what? - -THE MINISTER. And when I died I imagined I should meet my maker face to -face. - -THE MONK (smiling). And I the same. And they,—(he nods toward the -Egyptians),—their gods were as real to them,—shadows all, of the -unknowable. - -THE ORGANIST (plunging into the sub-theme which speedily dies off into -unfathomable mysteries of dark notes and tones). I wonder if I’m boring -them by this heavy stuff. Still what do I care. There are only four. -(Nevertheless he fuses the Grail motif to the dance of the flower -maidens). - -THE BOY. Isn’t it lovely! - -THE GIRL. Perfect! - -THE ORGANIST. Lovely and very difficult. These pedals are working rather -stiffly,—and that automobile has to honk just now. (He fingers lightly -three notes of a major key indicative of woodland echoes and faint bird -notes. Re-enter the barrel house bum who is seeking anything that will -amuse him). - -THE BUM. Still playing! And there are those two old stuffs of women. Not -an idea between ’em. (He turns to go but catches sight of_ _the monk and -the Egyptians. Pauses, and then turns back). - -THE MONK. Soothing harmonies these! More strange combinations, the -reason for which we cannot guess, the joy and beauty of which we know. I -find earthly harmonies very grateful. But then, why? - -(He and the priest forget their quondam materiality for a moment and -disappear from sight; recovering themselves as shadows only by -thinking). - -THE BUM (staring interrogatively and irritatingly at the monk and the -Egyptians, who, however, pay not the slightest attention to him). You -thought you knew somepin’ when you were alive, didn’jah? You thought you -were smart, huh? You thought you’d find out somepin’ when yuh died, huh? -Well, yuh got fooled didn’jah? You’re like all the other stuffs that -walk about and think they know a lot. Yuh got left. Har! Har! Har! (He -chortles vibrantly). I know as much as you fellers, and I’ve only been -dead a dozen years. There aint no answer! Har! Har! Har! There aint no -answer! An’ here you are floatin’ aroun’ in them things! (He indicates -their dress). Oh, ho, ho ho! (He grins maliciously and executes a crude -clog step). - -THE MONK (repugnantly and pulling his cowl aside). Away, vile -creature—unregenerate soul! Has even the nothingness of materiality -taught you nothing? - -THE BUM (straightening up and leering). Who’s vile? What’s vile? (He -thinks to become obstreperous but recalling his nothingness grins -contemptuously). You think you’re still a monk, don’cha? You think -you’re good—better’n anybody else. Whatcha got to be good about? Oh ho, -ho, ho, ho! Ah har, har, har, har! He thinks he’s still a monk— - -FIRST EGYPTIAN (to the monk sympathetically). Come away, friend. Leave -him to his illusions. - -SECOND EGYPTIAN. Time alone can point out the folly of his mood. - -THE MINISTER OF ST. GILES (drawing near and scowling at the Bum). Out, -sot. - -THE BUM (defiantly and yet indifferently). Who’s a sot? An’ where’s out? -Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! - -THE ORGANIST (passing into the finale). And this is even more beautiful. -It suggests graves and shrines—and fawns dancing. But I don’t propose to -play long for four people. - - (A troup of fawns and nymphs dance in, pursuing and eluding each - other. The six Hama-dryads return, weaving and turning in diaphanous - line. A passing cloud of hags and wastrels, the worst of the earth - lovers, enticed by the gaiety of sound, enter and fill the arches - and the vacant spaces for the moment, skipping about in wild - hilarity. The Bum joins them, dancing deliriously. Persistances - of fish and birds and animals, attracted by the rhythm which is - both colour and harmony to them, turn and weave among the others. - Ancient and new dead of every clime, enamored of the earth life - and wandering idly, enter. A tired pedestrian of forty, an - architect, strolling for the air and hearing the melody, enters. - After him come spirits of the streets—a doctor and two artisans, - newly dead, wondering at the sound). - -THE MINISTER OF ST. GILES (noting the flood of hags and wastrels). And -these are horrible presences! Succubi! Will they never get enough of -materiality? - -THE MONK. In my day the Thebaid was alive with them—the scum of Rome and -Alexandria, annoying us holy men at our devotions. - -THE MINISTER. Do you still identify yourself with earthly beliefs? - -THE MONK. A phase! A phase! In the presence and thought of materiality I -seem to partake of it. - -THE FIRST EGYPTIAN. And I! A sound observation! - -THE THIRD EGYPTIAN. The lure of life! It has never lost its charm for -me. - -THE MINISTER (to himself). Nor for me. - -THE FAWN (cavorting near, his kex to his lips, piping vigorously). Heavy -dolts! Little they know of joy except to stare at it. - -THE MINISTER (indicating the fawn). And this animal—to profane a temple! - -THE MONK (mischievously). And do you still cling to earthly notions of -sanctity? - -THE MINISTER. I hold as I have said, that there must be some power that -explains us. - -THE TWELVE HAMA-DRYADS (dancing and singing): - - Round and round a dozen times, - Three times up and three times down, - Catch a shadow circlewise, - Fill it full of thistledown. - - Fill it up and then away— - How can stupid mortals know - All the gladness of our play— - Where the dew wet odours blow, - Round and round and round we go! - -THE BUM (spinning near). This is glorious! Gee! - -FIRST EGYPTIAN (unconscious of anything save the charm of the rhythm). -Sweet vibrations these. But not our ancient harmonies. In our time they -were different. - -SECOND EGYPTIAN. Our day! Our day! Endless memories of days. Oh, for an -hour of sealed illusion! - -THE BOY LOVER. Isn’t it perfect! - -THE GIRL. Divine! It’s like a dream and I want to cry. - -THE THIRD EGYPTIAN. The harmony! The harmony! (He points_ _to the boy -and girl. The three approach and stand before the lovers, viewing them -with envious eyes). In ancient Egypt—on the banks of the Nile—how keen -was this thrill of existence. How much greater is their reality than -ours. And all because of their faith in it. - -(The minister and the monk approach). - -THE ORGANIST (finishing with a flourish). Well, there’s the end of my -work tonight. (He closes various stops, begins to gather up his music -and turn out the lights. The dryads and nymphs flood out of the windows, -followed by the fawns, the hags, and the wastrels. The green-eyed bum -starts to go, but pauses, looking back wistfully. The Egyptians, fading -from their presence as such, appear only as pale flames of blue). - -MRS. STILLWATER. Now that was lovely, wasn’t it? - -MRS. PENCE. Charming, very charming! - -THE BOY. Don’t you love Wagner? - -THE GIRL. I do! I do! (In the shadows they embrace and kiss). - -THE ORGANIST (wearily as he bustles down the stairs). Why should I play -any more for four people? It is nine o’clock. A half hour is enough. At -least I can find a little comfort at the Crystal Garden. (He thinks of -an immense beer place, and shrugs his shoulders the while. The old -doorman, hearing him go out, prepares to put out the lights). - -MRS. STILLWATER (rising). I do believe it’s over. - -MRS. PENCE. Well, there are so few you can scarcely blame him. - -THE BUM (gloomily). Now I gotta find somepin’ else. - -THE CHURCH CAT (prowling toward the organ loft in the dark of the closed -church). Now for one more try at that mouse. - - FINIS. - - - - - Editorials and Announcement - - - _Powys at the Hebrew Institute_ - -On page 43 there is announcement of a series of lectures by John Cowper -Powys. I can hear him now on the philosophical basis of democracy: “My -dear friends, the philosophical basis of democracy is individualism”! As -to the Nietzsche and Dostoevsky lecture, you may count upon it being one -of the memorable occasions of your life. - - - _The Foreigner in America_ - -Mary Antin is talking all through the country of the wonderful things -America does for the foreigner. These things are not true. - -I went the other night to an affair given by a Norwegian woman and her -husband before a gathering of Chicago’s representative intellectuals. -The woman was Borgny Hammer, an actress of tremendous power from the -National Theatre, Christiania. Mme. Hammer plays Ibsen so well that -there is not much chance of her playing it very often. On this -particular evening she gave some Björnson things and talked with naive -fervor of Norway as compared with this commercialized land. Her -intensity was so authentic and so beautiful and so moving that it became -almost pitiable in that stiff, self-contained room. Mme. Hammer could be -playing _Ghosts_ and _Master Builder_ and _Beyond Human Power_, could be -giving nightly inspiration to thousands of unimaginative Americans if -America was able to offer the foreigner one tenth of what the foreigner -brings to America. - -Not long ago the Hebrew Institute of Chicago refused its platform to -Alexander Berkman who was to speak there on the Schmidt and Caplan case. -Some one who sympathized with the action of the directors explained to -me that it was a wise move on their part because the foreigners, -especially the Russian Jews, are so easily inflamed. Thank heaven they -are! If only something could be done to inflame the American. Well—there -is always the flag.... - - - _The Russian Class_ - -The group for the study of Russian literature will have a preliminary -meeting in room 612 Fine Arts Building on Friday, January 14, 1916, at 8 -p. m. All interested are invited. - - - - - The Illusions of “The Art Student” - - -There has made its appearance in this city of ours a new magazine, _The -Art Student_. Its desire, according to the editor’s announcement, is to -“help establish a bond of understanding between the American student of -the allied arts and the public.” - -This aim is commendable and deserves the co-operation of everybody -unselfishly interested in the promotion of American art. - -The reason for this publication at the present time is also given in -that announcement. It says there: “With all Europe at war and its art -centers crippled, it is not only America’s opportunity, but her duty, to -preserve and promote art in its various forms.” - -I am afraid the youthful enthusiasm of _The Art Student_ is the cause -both of this exaggeration as concerns Europe and the illusion as -concerns America. - -We have heard much and read more about America’s opportunity these last -fourteen months. First it was the trade fields deserted by the warring -nations in South America and the Orient; then it was the sea routes -closed to the second biggest merchant fleet of the world—the opportunity -for an American merchant marine; and now it is our opportunity in the -field of Art! - -What has become of the first illusions of which our papers and magazines -were full? England expanded her commerce in South America, having forced -for the time being her German rival from that field of hottest -competition, and Japan practically monopolized the commerce of China. -England increases her merchant fleet by capering American ships, and the -Pacific Mail retires voluntarily from the Pacific ocean. - -That is the result of our boasted opportunity in the realm of trade and -commerce. Why? Because we underestimated others and because we talked -about our own foreign methods instead of changing our own and acting. - -And now in Art we are doing exactly the same thing. We point with horror -to the war that cripples European art and acclaim loudly the superiority -of our civilization. - -Gentlemen, you are all wrong. Art is not crippled in Europe through the -war! Inter arma silent musae! The arts are silent, they sleep. Silence -and sleep we all understand are good things. The first helps us to -concentrate and find ourselves, the latter gives us new strength. - -And that is the worst that the war does to Art in Europe. Art is at -present less active, a self-imposed inactivity, owing to circumstances; -not crippled, a result of direct unartistic influences. - -European Art is free of such crippling influences. Art schools are not -run by local millionaires, galleries not governed by rich manufacturers, -academy instructors not selected by wealthy trustees with the sole idea -that their insignificance will insure submittance to the layman rule! - -Is Sir Thomas Lipton president of the Royal Academy? No! Is Herr von -Krupp president of the Duesseldorf Academy? No! Do they make bankers and -brewers directors and trustees of art institutions in Paris or Munich? -No! Do they in St. Petersburg or Vienna? No! Do they in Berlin or Rome? -No! Do they in Brussels or Madrid? No! - -_Do they in America? Yes!_ - -Do they in England, France, Russia, Italy, Germany, or Australia invite -their best painters and sculptors to teach in their academies? Yes! _Do -they in America? No!_ Do they in England, France, Russia, Italy, -Germany, or Austria select these teachers from mediocrities who will be -sure not to revolt against the incompetent decisions of a layman board -of trustees? They don’t! - -_Do they in America? They do!_ - -What is “city beautiful” in Europe? It is a fact! _What is it in -America? It is a “slogan.”_ - -No, gentlemen, you need not be worried about European Art! War is not -inartistic. Money is! A general staff in war time can destroy what art -has created! Our system of millionaire trustees is preventing Art from -creating! - -War in Europe can kill artists, it cannot kill art. - -In America we kill art and our artists escape to Europe. - - —_Garnerin._ - - - - - The Theatre - - - “Grotesques” - -Cloyd Head—Maurice Browne: comparatively misty names, far below the -golden monolith at whose base is carefully engraved the word—Granville -Barker. Mr. Barker resurrects Greek tragedies and Shakespeare plays and -produces them acceptably; Cloyd Head and Maurice Browne have evolved an -absolutely new stage method and draped it about a poetic concept. -Therefore Cloyd Head and Maurice Browne will probably be heralded and -worshipped ten years from now, at the earliest. They must pay the -penalty of originality and the ability of appreciating it. - -In _Grotesques_ recently produced at the Chicago Little Theatre, for the -first time, actors posed as black and white marionettes in a series of -decorations created by Fate, masquerading as a sardonic artist. The idea -of Fate moving human beings together as one shuffles a pack of cards is -old. But the portraying of this shuffling through conventional -decorations with the actors giving the jerking semblance of puppets, and -with Fate personified, directly addressing the audience, is sparklingly -new. Capulchard, the artist, has made a decoration symbolizing the -background of life—an utterly simple picture composed of a -conventionalized black and white wave effect, a black sky, a round white -moon, stiff white trees, an owl on one of their branches, and a -lotus-flower. From his marionette boxes at both sides of the decoration -he drags forth his puppets—man motif, woman motif, crone motif, sprite -motif, girl motif, and carelessly waves them into various poses, the -main incidents of their lives. But they gradually become aware of him, -they begin to speak out of their lines, to burst into tiny rebellions -which he controls with difficulty. They show increasing determination to -mar his series of decorations. Finally in a moment of sublime defiance, -headed by the man-motif, they slash their strings. The result—Death. -Capulchard carelessly erases the decoration—it has served its purpose. - -I shall probably fully drain _Grotesques_ after slowly reading it again -and again. But even now, Cloyd Head’s huge child whose face is like the -pointed petals of sun-flowers, has aroused a little cluster of reactions -within me. To sharply visualise the play, you need not see the actual -black and white of the decoration, and the über-marionettes who move -stiffly through it. The words of the play themselves are black and -white: you feel them as an inextricable part of the picture: there is -something in their staccato rising and falling that suggests light and -darkness evenly spread upon a canvass. Something in the even placing and -sounding of phrases like this: - - Who am I that come, - Caressing tenderly the sign of bird? - A Girl, in white, alone, beside the pattern brook. - I wander without fear, of fear not having heard. - -It is not easily explained. It is a feeling that can only come to one -after repeated reading of the play. - -A second reaction comes to one while loitering with the images in their -jerking procession. Each image, with its absolute minimum of words, has -two clear virtues—the expression of emotion half-human and half -artificial, and the concentration of just enough of this emotion to -produce an illusion of the whole. Consider this speech of the sprite -motif: - - Tiptoe a-tread—thru the wood—by the brook—the sprite - enters—oh, ho! - Dance, crinkled stream! - Ha; a dragon-fly poised upon air. - (_Blows_) ... Begone. - (_Reflectively_) It is night. - (_Bowing_) Madame Owl. - Hoot! To-whoo! - -An actual sprite-soul in life would babble, would use more extravagant -phrasing. In this sprite passage, just enough of the babbling and -exuberance has been given, to suggest the essence of it; just enough -words have been given, to suggest the steady motion of the invisible -strings. These qualities run throughout the speeches of all the -über-marionettes. - - - - - Book Discussion - - - _Plays for Small Stages, by Mary Aldis. New York: Duffield and - Company._ - -These plays are among those acted by the Lake Forest Players, and, -written especially for them, they exemplify certain qualities of drama -and stage-craft which are of special value in amateur production. First -of all they are real in situation. Two of the five, _Mrs. Pat and the -Law_ and _Extreme Unction_, deal with slum life, but with phases of it -which the amateur can study at first hand, and is, indeed, the better -for studying. The juxtaposition in both types of the submerged tenth and -the reachers of helping hands suggests that the plays have in fact, -grown out of such study. The former sketch is done with a brilliancy of -Irish humor and fancy that reminds the reader of Lady Gregory’s best. -The latter is the grim tragedy of a dying prostitute—a situation -relieved first by the mordant irony of the conventional religious -pouncet-box of the well-meaning lady visitor, and later by the -sympathetic imagination of the physician. A third play, _The Drama -Class_, presents with broad humor an occasion familiar to all uplifters -of the drama in regions which on the “culture map” are lightly -shaded—the discussion of a modern European play by a woman’s club. _The -Letter_ and _Temperament_ represent the maladjustments of monogamy—the -one with tragic emphasis, the other in pure farce. The point should be -noted, however, that all five are plays of situation, static rather than -dynamic, expository and revealing rather than developing—the type most -suited to the dimensions of the one-act play, and made familiar by the -playwrights of the Abbey and Manchester Theatres. As Mrs. Aldis says in -her preface, speaking of the general policy of the Lake Forest Players: -“In selecting plays we have departed radically from the amateur -tradition of resuscitating ‘plays with a punch,’ which have fared well -in the hands of professionals. In the established tricks of the trade, -of course the amateur cannot compete with the professional.” In writing -as well as in selecting plays for amateur performance Mrs. Aldis has -wisely preferred truth of situation to the “punch.” - -In the second place Mrs. Aldis has made her characters speak the -language of life rather than that of the stage. This trait again fits -her plays for amateur production, especially in a small theatre where -effects can be gained without the emphasis of stage talk. Working as she -says for a small stage Mrs. Aldis has been able to reproduce with -striking fidelity not only the vocabulary but the movement, the rhythm, -even the intonations of human speech. This kind of naturalism is of -great importance in the drama of situation. The words in which Mrs. -Aldis calls attention to this connection, and to the possibilities of -artistic success in amateur acting depending thereon might have occurred -in Maeterlinck’s essay _The Drama in Daily Life_. “We seek,” she says, -“plays in which the mental attitude and the interplay of character are -more important than the physical action. Here, if anywhere, lies the -amateur’s opportunity. So we are not afraid of plays with little action -and much talk.... It is in talk, low and intense, gay and railing, -bitter and despairing as the case may be, that we moderns carry on the -drama of life, the foundation of the drama of the stage.” - - —_Robert M. Lovett._ - - _The State Forbids: A Play in One Act, by Sada Cowan. New York: - Mitchell Kennerley._ - -The mother speaks: “The State won’t let us women help ourselves. We -_must_ have children whether we want them or not, and then the State -comes and takes them from us. It doesn’t ask. It commands. We’ve got to -give them up. [_Shrilly_] I’ve got to give my boy. [_Again shrilly_] -What are we, we women? Just cattle. Breeding animals ... without a -voice! Dumb—powerless! Oh, the State! The State commands! and the State -forbids! Damn the State!” - -It is to appear in vaudeville. Like _War-Brides_ it is woman propaganda; -but here the emphasis is on Birth Control. Like _War-Brides_ it is -negative as literature, but the woman speeches make smashing vaudeville. -We wonder whether it is the importance of its idea or its evident value -as a thriller and shocker which prompts its production. - - - - - The Reader Critic - - -_Ben Hecht, Chicago_: - -I congratulate you on the roseate misconceptions of “Life Itself.” Long -live your fancies—mine didn’t. The perfumes of Araby are short-lived in -a slop-jar. - -I envy you your dogmatic naïveté until I remember something I thought of -long ago:—that ideals are for the weak; that people who live on fancies -starve for lack of sorrow, shrivel for lack of cynicism, and finally die -of inhibition. - -I remember, in a discussion on art the other evening, your crying out -about “the eternal standard” and I feeling it was true but not knowing -what it meant. I know now. It meant nothing. It is just another fancy. - -Vive la divinité! - -Remember what Homo Sapiens discovered: the limitations of the -infinite—of his brain. They are as nothing to the limitations of our -Gods. - - - _GOD’S GARDEN—THE WORLD_ - - (_Yes, this still happens. We get hordes of such letters._) - -I feel sure that at heart your idea of freedom is right, but I do not -believe that you altogether understand how to carry it out. - -To get at the bottom of things—you want to be just a natural, normal -human being. You want to live, to grow, to expand like a flower. How -then is this most easily accomplished? Simply this, to be what nature or -God or the power back of the universe intended for you to be. What then -is your place in the universe, and what is your relation to it? You are -by God’s grace a woman; then the greatest thing you can do is to be a -woman. But what does it mean to be a woman? To love, to create, to -protect, to uplift, and to purify. What do these words mean? You can -love the out-of-doors, you can love books, music, art, people, all the -world, everything your heart desires. All that you love you can create -by writing, by making things grow, by building and constructing. You can -protect by being a mother to all those weaker than yourself who need -your help. You can uplift and purify by inspiring all you meet with -goodness and high ideals. - -Yes, you say, but how can I be free to do these things when I am -hampered and bound by conventionalities and surroundings? No one is -bound down who knows that freedom comes from within, not from without. -The girl in the factory, the girl in college, the girl in her own home, -or the girl out of doors can be just as free as she makes up her mind to -be. Freedom is not a matter of clothes or environment. - -As to conventionalities—most of them have been formed because time and -culture have taught us to have regard for our fellow beings. There is -nothing immorally wrong in a man going to the opera in his shirt sleeves -but it might not be agreeable to the gentleman seated next to him. Then -the psychology of the close relationship between thoughts and -actions—free thoughts result in free actions, likewise carelessness in -our habits of daily life make careless thinking. I believe in keeping -your own individuality above all things if you can back up your ideas by -good reasons; but you will find that there is a reason for most -conventionalities that can’t be overthrown. If we were not an integral -part of a whole we could do just as we pleased because no one would be -affected and no one would care; but everything we do, every move we -make, affects some part of the whole, and that is why we care and why -everybody cares. - -Stick to your idea of freedom and of being natural, but be careful how -you apply it and of its effect on others. Whatever is good and helpful -will live and what is not good will die. - -Remember, too, that this is America, 1915, not Greece, B. C. 400. - -Do not think I mean to be critical for I love you just the same as I -love everybody and all things in God’s garden, the world, so much so -that I want you to fully understand what it means to be a real woman. - - - - - WAR LETTERS - FROM THE LIVING - DEAD MAN - - FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS - FROM “X,” WRITTEN DOWN BY - - - ELSA BARKER - - “WHEN I TELL YOU THE STORY OF THIS WAR AS SEEN FROM ‘THE OTHER - SIDE’ YOU WILL KNOW MORE THAN ALL THE CHANCELLERIES OF THE - NATIONS” - - MITCHELL KENNERLEY, PUBLISHER, NEW YORK - - - - - John Cowper Powys - - Jan. 5—Dostoevsky and Nietzsche - Jan. 12—The Philosophical Basis of Democracy - Jan. 19—Walt Whitman: The Humanist - - At the Chicago Hebrew Institute - 1258 West Taylor Street, near Racine Avenue - - 8:30 P. M. Admission, 10 Cents - - Doors Open at 8 P. 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Order direct from the - Gotham Book Society, 142 W. 23rd St., N. Y., Dept. K. Don’t fail - to mention Department K. Here are some suggestions of the books - the Gotham Book Society is selling at publishers’ prices. All - prices cover postage charges. - - POETRY AND DRAMA - - SEVEN SHORT PLAYS. By Lady Gregory. Contains the following plays - by the woman who holds one of the three places of most importance - in the modern Celtic movement, and is chiefly responsible for the - Irish theatrical development of recent years: “Spreading the - News,” “Hyacinth Halvey,” “The Rising of the Moon,” “The - Jackdaw,” “The Workhouse Ward,” “The Traveling Man,” “The Gaol - Gate,” together with music for songs in the plays and explanatory - notes. Send $1.60. - - THE MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFE. By Anatole France. Translated by - Curtis Hidden Page. Illustrated. Founded on the plot of an old - but lost play mentioned by Rabelais. Send 85c. - - DRAMA LEAGUE SERIES OF PLAYS. Six new volumes. Doubleday, Page & - Company. This Autumn’s additions will be: “The Thief,” by Henri - Bernstein; “A Woman’s Way,” by Thompson Buchanan; “The Apostle,” - by Paul Hyacinth Loyson; “The Trail of the Torch,” by Paul - Hervieu; “A False Saint,” by Francois de Curel; “My Lady’s - Dress,” by Edward Knoblauch. 83c each, postpaid. - - DOME OF MANY-COLORED GLASS. New Ed. of the Poems of Amy Lowell. - Send $1.35. - - SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY. By Edgar Lee Masters. Send $1.35. - - DREAMS AND DUST. A book of lyrics, ballads and other verse forms - in which the major key is that of cheerfulness. Send $1.28. - - SOME IMAGIST POETS. An Anthology. The best recent work of Richard - Aldington, “H. D.,” John Gould Fletcher, F. S. Flint, D. H. - Lawrence and Amy Lowell. 83c, postpaid. - - THE WAGES OF WAR. By J. Wiegand and Wilhelm Scharrelman. A play - in three acts, dedicated to the Friends of Peace. Life in Russia - during Russo-Japanese War. Translated by Amelia Von Ende. 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These 40,000 - prose and poetical quotations are selected from standard authors - of ancient and modern times, are classified according to subject, - fill 2,000 pages, and are provided with a thumb index. $3.15, - postpaid. - - DRINK AND BE SOBER. By Vance Thompson. The author has studied the - problem of the drink question and has endeavored to write upon it - a fair-minded book, with sympathetic understanding of the drinker - and with full and honest presentation of both sides of the - question. Send $1.10. - - THE CRY FOR JUSTICE. An anthology of the literature of social - protest, edited by Upton Sinclair. Introduction by Jack London. - “The work is world-literature, as well as the Gospel of a - universal humanism.” Contains the writings of philosophers, - poets, novelists, social reformers, selected from twenty-five - languages, covering a period of five thousand years. 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The schools of yesterday that were - designed to meet yesterday’s needs do not fit the requirements of - today, and everywhere thoughtful people are recognizing this fact - and working out theories and trying experiments. $1.60 postpaid. - - AFFIRMATIONS. By Havelock Ellis. A discussion of some of the - fundamental questions of life and morality as expressed in, or - suggested by, literature. The subjects of the five studies are - Nietzsche, Zola, Huysmans, Casanova and St. Francis of Assisi. - Send $1.87. - - LITERATURE - - COMPLETE WORKS. Maurice Maeterlinck. The Essays, 10 vols., per - vol., net $1.75. The Plays, 8 vols., per vol., net $1.50. Poems, - 1 vol., net $1.50. Volumes sold separately. In uniform style, 19 - volumes. Limp green leather, flexible cover, thin paper, gilt - top, 12mo. Postage added. - - INTERPRETATIONS OF LITERATURE. By Lafcadio Hearn. A remarkable - work. Lafcadio Hearn became as nearly Japanese as an Occidental - can become. English literature is interpreted from a new angle in - this book. Send $6.50. - - BERNARD SHAW: A Critical Study. By P. P. Howe. Send $2.15. - - MAURICE MAETERLINCK: A Critical Study. By Una Taylor. 8vo. Send - $2.15. - - W. B. YEATS: A Critical Study. By Forest Reid. Send $2.15. - - DEAD SOULS. Nikolai Gogol’s great humorous classic translated - from the Russian. Send $1.25. - - ENJOYMENT OF POETRY. By Max Eastman. “His book is a masterpiece,” - says J. B. Kerfoot in Life. By mail, $1.35. - - THE PATH OF GLORY. By Anatole France. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth. An - English edition of a remarkable book that M. Anatole France has - written to be sold for the benefit of disabled soldiers. The - original French is printed alongside the English translation. - Send $1.35. - - THE PILLAR OF FIRE: A Profane Baccalaureate. By Seymour Deming. - Takes up and treats with satire and with logical analysis such - questions as, What is a college education? What is a college man? - What is the aristocracy of intellect?—searching pitilessly into - and through the whole question of collegiate training for life. - Send $1.10. - - IVORY APES AND PEACOCKS. By James Huneker. A collection of essays - in Mr. Huneker’s well-known brilliant style, of which some are - critical discussions upon the work and personality of Conrad, - Whitman, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and the younger Russians, while - others deal with music, art, and social topics. The title is - borrowed from the manifest of Solomon’s ship trading with - Tarshish. Send $1.60. - - INTERPRETATIONS OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. By Lafcadio Hearn. Two - volumes. Mr. Hearn, who was at once a scholar, a genius, and a - master of English style, interprets in this volume the literature - of which he was a student, its masterpieces, and its masters, for - the benefit, originally, of the race of his adoption. $6.50, - postpaid. - - IDEALS AND REALITIES IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE. By Prince Kropotkin. - Send $1.60. - - FICTION - - THE TURMOIL. By Booth Tarkington. A beautiful story of young love - and modern business. Send $1.45. - - SET OF SIX. By Joseph Conrad. Short stories. Scribner. Send - $1.50. - - AN ANARCHIST WOMAN. By H. Hapgood. This extraordinary novel - points out the nature, the value and also the tragic limitations - of the social rebel. Published at $1.25 net; our price, 60c., - postage paid. - - THE HARBOR. By Ernest Poole. A novel of remarkable power and - vision in which are depicted the great changes taking place in - American life, business and ideals. Send $1.60. - - MAXIM GORKY. Twenty-six and One and other stories from the - Vagabond Series. Published at $1.25; our price 60c., postage - paid. - - SANINE. By Artzibashef. The sensational Russian novel now - obtainable in English. Send $1.45. - - A FAR COUNTRY. Winston Churchill’s new novel is another realistic - and faithful picture of contemporary American life, and more - daring than “The Inside of the Cup.” Send $1.60. - - BOON—THE MIND OF THE RACE. Was it written by H. G. Wells? He now - admits it may have been. It contains an “ambiguous introduction” - by him. Anyhow it’s a rollicking set of stories, written to - delight you. Send $1.45. - - NEVER TOLD TALES. Presents in the form of fiction, in language - which is simplicity itself, the disastrous results of sexual - ignorance. The book is epoch-making; it has reached the ninth - edition. It should be read by everyone, physician and layman, - especially those contemplating marriage. Cloth. Send $1.10. - - PAN’S GARDEN. By Algernon Blackwood. Send $1.60. - - THE CROCK OF GOLD. By James Stephens. Send $1.60. - - THE INVISIBLE EVENT. By J. D. Beresford. Jacob Stahl, writer and - weakling, splendidly finds himself in the love of a superb woman. - Send $1.45. The Jacob Stahl trilogy: “The Early History of Jacob - Stahl,” “A Candidate for Truth,” “The Invisible Event.” Three - volumes, boxed. Send $2.75. - - OSCAR WILDE’S WORKS. Ravenna edition. Red limp leather. Sold - separately. The books are: The Picture of Dorian Gray, Lord - Arthur Saville’s Crime, and the Portrait of Mr. W. H., The - Duchess of Padua, Poems (including “The Sphinx,” “The Ballad of - Reading Gaol,” and Uncollected Pieces), Lady Windermere’s Fan, A - Woman of No Importance, An Ideal Husband, The Importance of Being - Earnest, A House of Pomegranates, Intentions, De Profundis and - Prison Letters, Essays (“Historical Criticism,” “English - Renaissance,” “London Models,” “Poems in Prose”), Salome, La - Sainte Courtisane. Send $1.35 for each book. - - THE RAT-PIT. By Patrick MacGill. 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The - scene is a little Swedish village whose inhabitants are bound in - age-old custom and are asleep in their narrow provincial life. - The story tells of their awakening, of the tremendous social and - religious upheaval that takes place among them, and of the - heights of self-sacrifice to which they mount. Send $1.45. - - BREAKING-POINT. By Michael Artzibashef. A comprehensive picture - of modern Russian life by the author of “Sanine.” Send $1.35. - - RUSSIAN SILHOUETTES. By Anton Tchekoff. Translated by Marian - Fell. Stories which reveal the Russian mind, nature and - civilization. Send $1.47. - - THE FREELANDS. By John Galsworthy. Gives a large and vivid - presentation of English life under the stress of modern social - conflict, centering upon a romance of boy-and-girl love—that - theme in which Galsworthy excels all his contemporaries. Send - $1.45. - - FIDELITY. Susan Glaspell’s greatest novel. The author calls it - “The story of a woman’s love—of what that love impels her to - do—what it makes of her.” Send $1.45. - - FOMA GORDEYEFF. By Maxim Gorky. Send $1.10. - - THE RAGGED-TROUSERED PHILANTHROPIST. By Robert Tressall. A - masterpiece of realism by a Socialist for Socialists—and others. - Send $1.35. - - RED FLEECE. By Will Levington Comfort. A story of the Russian - revolutionists and the proletariat in general in the Great War, - and how they risk execution by preaching peace even in the - trenches. Exciting, understanding, and everlastingly true; for - Comfort himself is soldier and revolutionist as well as artist. - He is our American Artsibacheff; one of the very few American - masters of the “new fiction.” Send $1.35. - - THE STAR ROVER. By Jack London. Frontispiece in colors by Jay - Hambidge. A man unjustly accused of murder is sentenced to - imprisonment and finally sent to execution, but proves the - supremacy of mind over matter by succeeding, after long practice, - in loosing his spirit from his body and sending it on long quests - through the universe, finally cheating the gallows in this way. - Send $1.60. - - THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT. By H. G. Wells. Tells the story of the - life of one man, with its many complications with the lives of - others, both men and women of varied station, and his wanderings - over many parts of the globe in his search for the best and - noblest kind of life. $1.60, postpaid. - - SEXOLOGY - - Here is the great sex book of the day: Forel’s THE SEXUAL - QUESTION. A scientific, psychological, hygienic, legal and - sociological work for the cultured classes. By Europe’s foremost - nerve specialist. Chapter on “love and other irradiations of the - sexual appetite” a profound revelation of human emotions. - Degeneracy exposed. Birth control discussed. Should be in the - hands of all dealing with domestic relations. Medical edition - $5.50. Same book, cheaper binding, now $1.60. - - Painful childbirth in this age of scientific progress is - unnecessary. THE TRUTH ABOUT TWILIGHT SLEEP, by Hanna Rion (Mrs. - Ver Beck), is a message to mothers by an American mother, - presenting with authority and deep human interest the impartial - and conclusive evidence of a personal investigation of the - Freiburg method of painless childbirth. Send $1.62. - - FREUD’S THEORIES OF THE NEUROSES. By Dr. E. Hitschmann. A brief - and clear summary of Freud’s theories. Price, $2. - - PLAIN FACTS ABOUT A GREAT EVIL. By Christobel Pankhurst. One of - the strongest and frankest books ever written, depicting the - dangers of promiscuity in men. This book was once suppressed by - Anthony Comstock. Send (paper) 60c, (cloth) $1.10. - - SEXUAL LIFE OF WOMAN. By Dr. E. Heinrich Kisch (Prague). An - epitome of the subject. Sold only to physicians, jurists, - clergymen and educators. Send $5.50. - - KRAFFT-EBING’S PSYCHOPATHIA SEXUALIS. Only authorized English - translation of 12th German Edition. By F. J. Rebman. Sold only to - physicians, jurists, clergymen and educators. Price, $4.35. - Special thin paper edition, $1.60. - - THE SMALL FAMILY SYSTEM: IS IT IMMORAL OR INJURIOUS? By Dr. C. V. - Drysdale. The question of birth control cannot be intelligently - discussed without knowledge of the facts and figures herein - contained. $1.10, postpaid. - - MAN AND WOMAN. By Dr. Havelock Ellis, the foremost authority on - sexual characteristics. A new (5th) edition. Send $1.60. - - A new book by Dr. Robinson: THE LIMITATION OF OFFSPRING BY THE - PREVENTION OF PREGNANCY. The enormous benefits of the practice to - individuals, society and the race pointed out and all objections - answered. Send $1.05. - - WHAT EVERY GIRL SHOULD KNOW. By Margaret Sanger. Send 55 cents. - - WHAT EVERY MOTHER SHOULD KNOW. By Margaret Sanger. Send 30 cents. - - THE THEORY OF PSYCHOANALYSIS. By Dr. C. Jung. A concise statement - of the present aspects of the psychoanalytic hypotheses. Price, - $1.50. - - SELECTED PAPERS ON HYSTERIA AND OTHER PSYCHONEUROSES. By Prof. S. - Freud, M.D. A selection of some of the more important of Freud’s - writings. Send $2.50. - - THREE CONTRIBUTIONS TO SEXUAL THEORY. By John C. Van Dyke. Fully - illustrated. New edition revised and rewritten. Send $1.60. - - THREE CONTRIBUTIONS TO SEXUAL THEORY. By Prof. Sigmund Freud. The - psychology of psycho-sexual development. Price, $2. - - FUNCTIONAL PERIODICITY. An experimental study of the mental and - motor abilities of women during menstruation by Leta Stetter - Hollingworth. Cloth, $1.15. Paper, 85c. - - ART - - MICHAEL ANGELO. By Romain Rolland. Twenty-two full-page - illustrations. A critical and illuminating exposition of the - genius of Michael Angelo. $2.65, postpaid. - - INTERIOR DECORATION: ITS PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE. By Frank Alvah - Parsons. Illustrated. $3.25, postpaid. - - THE BARBIZON PAINTERS. By Arthur Hoeber. One hundred - illustrations in sepia, reproducing characteristic work of the - school. $1.90, postpaid. - - THE BOOK OF MUSICAL KNOWLEDGE. By Arthur Elson. Illustrated. - Gives in outline a general musical education, the evolution and - history of music, the lives and works of the great composers, the - various musical forms and their analysis, the instruments and - their use, and several special topics. $3.75, postpaid. - - MODERN PAINTING: ITS TENDENCY AND MEANING. By Willard Huntington - Wright, author of “What Nietzsche Taught,” etc. Four color plates - and 24 illustrations. “Modern Painting” gives—for the first time - in any language—a clear, compact review of all the important - activities of modern art which began with Delacroix and ended - only with the war. Send $2.75. - - THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI. By A. J. Anderson. Photogravure - frontispiece and 16 illustrations in half-tone. Sets forth the - great artist as a man so profoundly interested in and closely - allied with every movement of his age that he might be called an - incarnation of the Renaissance. $3.95, postpaid. - - THE COLOUR OF PARIS. By Lucien Descaves. Large 8vo. New edition, - with 60 illustrations printed in four colors from paintings by - the Japanese artist, Yoshio Markino. By the members of the - Academy Goncourt under the general editorship of M. Lucien - Descaves. Send $3.30. - - SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY - - CAUSES AND CURES OF CRIME. A popular study of criminology from - the bio-social viewpoint. By Thomas Speed Mosby, former Pardon - Attorney, State of Missouri, member American Institute of - Criminal Law and Criminology, etc. 356 pages, with 100 original - illustrations. Price, $2.15, postpaid. - - THE PSYCHOLOGY OF RELAXATION. By G. T. W. Patrick. A notable and - unusually interesting volume explaining the importance of sports, - laughter, profanity, the use of alcohol and even war as - furnishing needed relaxation to the higher nerve centres. Send - 88c. - - PSYCHOLOGY OF THE UNCONSCIOUS. By Dr. C. G. Jung, of the - University of Zurich. Translated by Beatrice M. Hinkle, M.D., of - the Neurological Department of Cornell University and the New - York Post-Graduate Medical School. This remarkable work does for - psychology what the theory of evolution did for biology; and - promises an equally profound change in the thought of mankind. A - very important book. Large 8vo. Send $4.40. - - SOCIALIZED GERMANY. By Frederic C. 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All other changes are shown here -(before/after): - - [p. 11]: - ... the war, Carl Liebknecht, the one brave public man in Germany - now, ... - ... the war, Karl Liebknecht, the one brave public man in Germany - now, ... - - [p. 16]: - ... Hevae, ad te supiramus gementes et flentes.” ... - ... Hevae, ad te suspiramus gementes et flentes.” ... - - [p. 16]: - ... shed a chatoyant green light on the poodles of blood. ... - ... shed a chatoyant green light on the puddles of blood. ... - - [p. 26]: - ... What, finally, is Homo Sapiens? Who is this writter-fellow, - Falk, with ... - ... What, finally, is Homo Sapiens? Who is this writer-fellow, - Falk, with ... - - [p. 29]: - ... The Girl. Oh yes, or Solvieg’s Lied. Isn’t it dim here. ... - ... The Girl. Oh yes, or Solveig’s Lied. Isn’t it dim here. ... - - [p. 31]: - ... his brow, improvises a few bars, interpreting also a small - portion of the ... - ... his brow, improvises a few bars, interpolating also a small - portion of the ... - - [p. 32]: - ... take it, and these three Egyptians—how they strut! They - give themselves ... - ... take it, and these three Egyptians—how they strut! They - give themselves airs ... - - [p. 33]: - ... (He and the priest forget their quondom materiality for a - moment and ... - ... (He and the priest forget their quondam materiality for a - moment and ... - - [p. 34]: - ... The Fawn (cavorting near, his key to his lips, piping - vigorously). ... - ... The Fawn (cavorting near, his kex to his lips, piping - vigorously). ... - - [p. 36]: - ... Americans if America had was able to offer the foreigner one - tenth ... - ... Americans if America was able to offer the foreigner one - tenth ... - - [p. 38]: - ... academy instructiors not selected by wealthy trustees with - the sole idea ... - ... academy instructors not selected by wealthy trustees with the - sole idea ... - - [p. 38]: - ... make bankers and brewers directiors and trustees of art - institutions in ... - ... make bankers and brewers directors and trustees of art - institutions in ... - - [p. 42]: - ... Vivi le divinité! ... - ... Vive la divinité! ... - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, DECEMBER -1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 9) *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Little Review, December 1915 (Vol. 2, No. 9)</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Various</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Editor: Margaret C. Anderson</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January 5, 2022 [eBook #67047]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Jens Sadowski and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. This book was produced from images made available by the Modernist Journal Project, Brown and Tulsa Universities.</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, DECEMBER 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 9) ***</div> - -<div class="frontmatter chapter"> -<h1 class="title"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</h1> - -<p class="subt"> -<em>Literature</em> <em>Drama</em> <em>Music</em> <em>Art</em> -</p> - -<p class="ed"> -<span class="line1">MARGARET C. ANDERSON</span><br /> -<span class="line2">EDITOR</span> -</p> - -<p class="issue"> -DECEMBER, 1915 -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="tocn" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#HELLENICA">Hellenica</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Edward J. O’Brien</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#SISTER">Sister</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Sherwood Anderson</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#TOWARDREVOLUTION">Toward Revolution</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>The Editor</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#IMAGESOFLIFEANDDEATH">Images of Life and Death</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Maxwell Bodenheim</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#PREPAREDNESSUNIVERSALSLAUGHTER">Preparedness: Universal Slaughter</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Emma Goldman</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#ELLIE">Ellie</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Mary Aldis</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEECSTASYOFPAIN">The Ecstasy of Pain:</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Alexander S. Kaun</em></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#FRAGMENTARYREFLECTIONSONTHEARTOFPRZYBYSZEWSKI">Fragmentary Reflections on the Art of Przybyszewski</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#HOMOSAPIENSDISCUSSEDBYREADERS">“Homo Sapiens” Discussed by Readers</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THESPRINGRECITAL">The Spring Recital</a></td> - <td class="col2"><em>Theodore Dreiser</em></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#EDITORIALS">Editorials:</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#POWYSATTHEHEBREWINSTITUTE">John Cowper Powys at the Hebrew Institute</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#THEFOREIGNERINAMERICA">The Foreigner in America</a></td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2"><a href="#THERUSSIANCLASS">The Russian Literature Class</a></td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEILLUSIONSOFTHEARTSTUDENT">The Illusions of “The Art Student”</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THETHEATRE">The Theatre:</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2">“<a href="#GROTESQUES">Grotesques</a>,” by Cloyd Head</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#BOOKDISCUSSION">Book Discussion:</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2">“<a href="#PLAYS">Plays for Small Stages</a>,” by Robert M. Lovett</td> - </tr> - <tr class="i"> - <td class="col1" colspan="2">“<a href="#STATE">The State Forbids</a>”</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1"><a href="#THEREADERCRITIC">The Reader Critic</a></td> - <td class="col2"> </td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> -<p class="monthly"> -Published Monthly -</p> - - <div class="table"> - <div class="footer"> -<p class="pricel"> -15 cents a copy -</p> - -<p class="pub"> -MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher<br /> -Fine Arts Building<br /> -CHICAGO -</p> - -<p class="pricer"> -$1.50 a year -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="postoffice"> -Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="frontmatter chapter"> -<a id="page-1" class="pagenum" title="1"></a> -<p class="tit"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span> -</p> - - <div class="table"> - <div class="issue"> -<p class="vol"> -Vol. II -</p> - -<p class="issue"> -DECEMBER, 1915 -</p> - -<p class="number"> -No. 9 -</p> - - </div> - </div> -<p class="cop"> -Copyright, 1915, by Margaret C. Anderson -</p> - -</div> - -<h2 class="article1" id="HELLENICA"> -Hellenica -</h2> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Edward J. O’Brien</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="I"> -I. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The scent of mint on the sandy grave of Nicias</p> - <p class="verse">Crieth unto the wanderer</p> - <p class="verse">For remembrance.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="II"> -II. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Here in the arms of the harvest</p> - <p class="verse">Lieth the gleaner, Bion,</p> - <p class="verse">Whose sickle shineth above him in the evening.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="III"> -III. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Far from tides and sand</p> - <p class="verse">On the slope of Cithaeron</p> - <p class="verse">Resteth Eumenes</p> - <p class="verse">In the purple distance.</p> - <p class="verse">His fellow tunny-fishers erect this stone.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="IV"> -IV. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Chaste Clearista flowereth in the heavens,</p> - <p class="verse">For dearer than Helen’s beauty in April sunlight</p> - <p class="verse">The gods love the spotless dreams of a maiden.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="V"> -V. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Fairer than iris blossoms slenderly swaying</p> - <p class="verse">Under the sighing zephyrs of sandy Argos,</p> - <p class="verse">The harvest breezes stole the heart of Erinna.</p> - <p class="verse">Now she dreameth under the meadow grasses.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="VI"> -<a id="page-2" class="pagenum" title="2"></a> -VI. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The swan afloat on the rippling azure waters</p> - <p class="verse">Remembereth thy fairness, Rhododaphne,</p> - <p class="verse">And dreameth on time’s surface of thy passing.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="VII"> -VII. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Nerissa played with the swallows till the twilight.</p> - <p class="verse">Now they soar above her,</p> - <p class="verse">And they wonder.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="VIII"> -VIII. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Barefoot, a little lad hath wandered far,</p> - <p class="verse">And we have sought in vain,</p> - <p class="verse">For he hath found</p> - <p class="verse">The amaranthine meadows.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="IX"> -IX. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Far from Cos where the sailors hail in passing,</p> - <p class="verse">Cleonicus lieth unmarked on the ocean strand.</p> - <p class="verse">The crying gulls bring tidings of ancient summer,</p> - <p class="verse">But not to me the sound of his glad coming.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="X"> -X. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Now that the flower is blown</p> - <p class="verse">And the rosy petals</p> - <p class="verse">Render earth more fragrant</p> - <p class="verse">With their body,</p> - <p class="verse">Myrrhis dreameth of spring in the flaming ground.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="XI"> -XI. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Lightly I walked the hills of my native Hellas.</p> - <p class="verse">Lightly I rest in the heart of her rushing forest,</p> - <p class="verse">Hermas, the hunter,</p> - <p class="verse">At peace,</p> - <p class="verse">With the moon above me.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="XII"> -XII. -</h3> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Thyrsis, who loved the rain in the dreaming hollows,</p> - <p class="verse">Wandereth now soft-sandalled in misty ways,</p> - <p class="verse">Where the scent of flag</p> - <p class="verse">Recalleth not</p> - <p class="verse">Hylas, lonely.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="SISTER"> -<a id="page-3" class="pagenum" title="3"></a> -Sister -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Sherwood Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> young artist is a woman, and at evening she comes to talk to me -in my room. She is my sister, but long ago she has forgotten that -and I have forgotten. -</p> - -<p> -Neither my sister nor I live in our father’s house, and among all my -brothers and sisters I am conscious only of her. The others have positions -in the city and in the evening go home to the house where my sister and I -once lived. My father is old and his hands tremble. He is not concerned -about me, but my sister who lives alone in a room in a house on North Dearborn -Street has caused him much unhappiness. -</p> - -<p> -Into my room in the evening comes my sister and sits upon a low -couch by the door. She sits cross-legged and smokes cigarettes. When -she comes it is always the same—she is embarrassed and I am embarrassed. -</p> - -<p> -Since she has been a small girl my sister has always been very strange. -When she was quite young she was awkward and boyish and tore her -clothes climbing trees. It was after that her strangeness began to be noticed. -Day after day she would slip away from the house and go to walk in the -streets. She became a devout student and made such rapid strides in her -classes that my mother—who to tell the truth is fat and uninteresting—spent -the days worrying. My sister, she declared, would end by having -brain fever. -</p> - -<p> -When my sister was fifteen years old she announced to the family that -she was about to take a lover. I was away from home at the time, on one -of the wandering trips that have always been a passion with me. -</p> - -<p> -My sister came into the house, where the family were seated at the -table, and, standing by the door, said she had decided to spend the night -with a boy of sixteen who was the son of a neighbor. -</p> - -<p> -The neighbor boy knew nothing of my sister’s intentions. He was at -home from college, a tall, quiet, blue-eyed fellow, with his mind set upon -foot-ball. To my family my sister explained that she would go to the boy -and tell him of her desires. Her eyes flashed and she stamped with her foot -upon the floor. -</p> - -<p> -My father whipped my sister. Taking her by the arm he led her into -the stable at the back of the house. He whipped her with a long black whip -that always stood upright in the whip-socket of the carriage in which, on -Sundays, my mother and father drove about the streets of our suburb. After -the whipping my father was ill. -</p> - -<p> -I am wondering how I know so intimately all the details of the whipping -of my sister. Neither my father nor my sister have told me of it. Perhaps -<a id="page-4" class="pagenum" title="4"></a> -sometime, as I sat dreaming in a chair, my mother gossiped of the -whipping. It would be like her to do that, and it is a trick of my mind -never to remember her figure in connection with the things she has told me. -</p> - -<p> -After the whipping in the stable my sister was quite changed. The -family sat tense and quiet at the table and when she came into the house -she laughed and went upstairs to her own room. She was very quiet and -well-behaved for several years and when she was twenty-one inherited some -money and went to live alone in the house on North Dearborn Street. I -have a feeling that the walls of our house told me the story of the whipping. -I could never live in the house afterwards and came away at once to this -room where I am now and where my sister comes to visit me. -</p> - -<p> -And so there is my sister in my room and we are embarrassed. I do -not look at her but turn my back and begin writing furiously. Presently -she is on the arm of my chair with her arm about my neck. -</p> - -<p> -I am the world and my sister is the young artist in the world. I am -afraid the world will destroy her. So furious is my love of her that the -touch of her hand makes me tremble. -</p> - -<p> -My sister would not write as I am now writing. How strange it would -seem to see her engaged in anything of the kind. She would never give the -slightest bit of advice to any one. If you were dying and her advice would -save you she would say nothing. -</p> - -<p> -My sister is the most wonderful artist in the world, but when she is -with me I do not remember that. When she has talked of her adventures, -up from the chair I spring and go ranting about the room. I am half blind -with anger, thinking perhaps that strange, furtive looking youth, with whom -I saw her walking yesterday in the streets, has had her in his arms. The -flesh of my sister is sacred to me. If anything were to happen to her body -I think I should kill myself in sheer madness. -</p> - -<p> -In the evening after my sister is gone I do not try to work any more. -I pull my couch to the opening by the window and lie down. It is then a -little that I begin to understand my sister. She is the artist right to adventure -in the world, to be destroyed in the adventure, if that be necessary, and -I, on my couch, am the worker in the world, blinking up at the stars that -can be seen from my window when my couch is properly arranged. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="TOWARDREVOLUTION"> -<a id="page-5" class="pagenum" title="5"></a> -Toward Revolution -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Margaret C. Anderson</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">O</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> Thanksgiving Day some five thousand men and women marched -in Joe Hillstrom’s funeral. Why didn’t they march for Joe Hillstrom -before he was shot, everybody is asking. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, naturally. Why not? -</p> - -<p> -Incidentally, why didn’t some one shoot the governor of Utah before -he could shoot Joe Hill? It might have awakened Capital—<em>and Labor</em>. -Or why didn’t five hundred of the five thousand get Joe Hill out of jail? -It could have been done. Or why didn’t fifty of the five thousand make -a protest that would set the nation gasping? -</p> - -<p> -There are Schmidt and Caplan. Why doesn’t some one see to it that -they are released? Labor <em>could</em> do it. And there are the Chicago garment -strikers. Why doesn’t some one arrange for the beating-up of the police -squad? That would make a good beginning. Or set fire to some of the -factories, or start a convincing sabotage in the shops? -</p> - -<p> -Why aren’t these things done? -</p> - -<p> -For the same reason 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; for the -same reason that you are a slave when you want to be free, or a nonentity -when you would like to have a personality. -</p> - -<p> -It is a matter of Spirit. Spirit can do anything. It is the only thing -in the world that can. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -For God’s sake, why doesn’t some one start the Revolution? -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="IMAGESOFLIFEANDDEATH"> -<a id="page-6" class="pagenum" title="6"></a> -Images of Life and Death -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Maxwell Bodenheim</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="LIFE"> -Life -</h3> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="I5"> -I. -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The sky is the thin, strong expanse of a God,</p> - <p class="verse">And the trees are lines of black Hindus</p> - <p class="verse">Praying in black shrivelled attitudes.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="II5"> -II. -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The grass is a priest in dream-gold cloth,</p> - <p class="verse">Lying on his back, hard with years of thought-spinning.</p> - <p class="verse">The lateral-gray, snarled clouds over him</p> - <p class="verse">Are the thoughts he has solemnly woven.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="III3"> -III. -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The slender lagoon holds the laughter of a child</p> - <p class="verse">With his lips to a huge, full cup.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="DEATH"> -Death -</h3> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="I6"> -I. -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">A fan of smoke, in the long, green-white reverie of the horizon,</p> - <p class="verse">Slowly curls apart.</p> - <p class="verse">So shall I rise and widen out in the silence of air.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="II6"> -II. -</h4> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">An old man runs down a little yellow road</p> - <p class="verse">To an out-flung, white thicket uncovered by morning.</p> - <p class="verse">So shall I swing to the white sharpness of death.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article u" id="PREPAREDNESSUNIVERSALSLAUGHTER"> -<a id="page-7" class="pagenum" title="7"></a> -Preparedness.<br /> -The Road to Universal Slaughter -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Emma Goldman</span> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">E</span><span class="postfirstchar">ver</span> since the beginning of the European conflagration the people of -Europe have thrown themselves into the flames of war like panic-stricken -cattle. And now America, pushed to the very brink by unscrupulous -politicians, by ranting demagogues, and by military sharks, is preparing -for the same terrible feat. -</p> - -<p> -In the face of this approaching disaster it behooves men and women -not yet overcome by the war madness to raise their protest, to call the attention -of the people to the crime and outrage which are about to be perpetrated -upon them. -</p> - -<p> -America is essentially the melting pot. No national unit composing it -is in a position to boast of superior race purity, particular historic mission, -or higher culture. Yet the jingoes and war speculators are filling the air -with the sentimental slogan of hypocritical nationalism, “America for -Americans,” “America first, last, and all the time.” This cry has caught -the popular fancy from one end of the country to the other. In order to -maintain America military preparedness must be engaged in at once. A -billion dollars of the people’s sweat and blood is to be expended for dreadnaughts -and submarines for the army and the navy, all to protect this precious -America. -</p> - -<p> -The pathos of it all is that the America which is to be protected by a -huge military force is not the America of the people, but the America of -the privileged class; the class which robs and exploits the masses, and controls -their lives. And it is no less pathetic that so few people realize that -preparedness never leads to peace, but is indeed the road to universal slaughter. -</p> - -<p> -The American military ring with its Roosevelts, its Garrisons, its Daniels, -and lastly its Wilsons, is moving the very heavens to place the militaristic -heel upon the necks of the American people—using the same methods of -the German diplomats to saddle the masses with Prussian militarism. If -it is successful America will be hurled into the storm of blood and tears -now devastating the countries of Europe. -</p> - -<p> -Forty years ago Germany proclaimed the slogan: “Germany above -everything. Germany for the Germans, first, last and always. We want -peace; therefore we must prepare for war. Only a well-armed and thoroughly-prepared -nation can maintain peace, can command respect, can be -<a id="page-8" class="pagenum" title="8"></a> -sure of its national integrity.” And Germany continued to prepare, thereby -forcing the other nations to do the same. The European war is the fruition -of the gospel of military preparedness. -</p> - -<p> -Since the war began, miles of paper and oceans of ink have been used -to prove the barbarity, the cruelty, the oppression of Prussian militarism. -Conservatives and radicals alike are giving their support to the Allies for -no other reason than to help crush that militarism, in the presence of which, -they say, there can be no peace or progress in Europe. But though America -grows fat on the manufacture of munition and war loans to the Allies -to help crush Prussianism, the same cry is now being raised in America -which, if carried into national action, will build up an American militarism -far more terrible than German or Prussian militarism could ever be; because -nowhere in the world has capitalism become so brazen in its greed -as in America, and nowhere is the state so ready to kneel at the feet of -capital. -</p> - -<p> -Like a plague the mad spirit of militarism is sweeping the country, infesting -the clearest heads and staunchest hearts. National security leagues, -with cannon as their emblem of protection, naval leagues with women in -their lead, have sprung up all through the United States. Americanization -societies with well-known liberals as members, they who but yesterday decried -the patriotic clap-trap of today, are now lending themselves to the befogging -of the minds of the people, to the building-up of the same destructive -institutions in America which they are directly and indirectly helping -to pull down in Germany—militarism, the destroyer of youth, the raper -of woman, the annihilator of the best in the race, the very mower of life. -</p> - -<p> -Even Woodrow Wilson, who not so long ago talked of “a nation too -proud to fight,” who in the beginning of the war ordered prayers for peace, -who in his proclamations spoke of the necessity of watchful waiting—even -he has been whipped into line. He has now joined his worthy colleagues -in the jingo movement, echoing their clamor for preparedness and their -howl of “America for Americans.” The difference between Wilson and -Roosevelt is this: Roosevelt, the bully, uses the club; Wilson, the historian, -the college professor, wears the smooth polished university mask, but underneath -it he, like Roosevelt, has but one aim: to serve the big interests, to -add to those who are growing phenomenally rich by the manufacture of -military preparedness. -</p> - -<p> -Woodrow Wilson, in his address before the Daughters of the American -Revolution, gave his case away when he said: “I would rather be beaten -than ostracized.” To stand out against the Bethlehem, Du Pont, Baldwin, -Remington, Winchester metallic cartridges and the rest of the armament -ring means political ostracism and death. Wilson knows that; therefore -he betrays his original position, goes back on the bombast of “too proud -to fight,” and howls as loudly as any other cheap politician for preparedness -and national glory, for the silly pledge the Navy League women intend -to impose upon every school child: “I pledge myself to do all in my power -<a id="page-9" class="pagenum" title="9"></a> -to further the interests of my country, to uphold its institutions and to -maintain the honor of its name and its flag. As I owe everything in life -to my country, I consecrate my heart, mind, and body to its service and -promise to work for its advancement and security in times of peace and to -shrink from no sacrifice or privation in its cause should I be called upon -to act in its defense for the freedom, peace, and happiness of our people.” -</p> - -<p> -To uphold the institutions of our country—that is it; the institutions -which protect and sustain a handful of people in the robbery and plunder -of the masses, the institutions which drain the blood of the native as well -as of the foreigner and turn it into wealth and power; the institutions which -rob the alien of whatever originality he brings with him and in return give -him cheap Americanism, whose glory consists in mediocrity and arrogance. -</p> - -<p> -The very proclaimers of “America first” have long before this betrayed -the fundamental principles of real Americanism, of the kind of -Americanism Jefferson had in mind when he said that the best government -is that which governs least; the kind of an America David Thoreau -worked for when he proclaimed that the best government is the one that -doesn’t govern at all; or the other truly great Americans who aimed to make -of this country a haven of refuge, who hoped that all the disinherited and oppressed -coming to these shores would give character, quality and meaning -to the country. That is not the America of the politicians and the munition -speculators. Their America has been powerfully portrayed by a young -New York sculptor I know; he has made a hard cruel hand with long lean -merciless fingers, crushing in over the heart of the foreigner, squeezing out -its blood in order to coin dollars. -</p> - -<p> -No doubt Woodrow Wilson has reason to defend these institutions. -But what an ideal to hold out to the young generation! And how is a military-drilled -and trained people to defend freedom, peace, and happiness? -This is what Major General O’Ryan has to say of an efficiently trained -generation: “The soldier must be so trained that he becomes a mere automation; -he must be so trained that it will destroy his initiative; he must be -so trained that he is turned into a machine. The soldier must be forced -into the military noose; he must be jacked up; he must be ruled by his superiors -with pistol in hand.” -</p> - -<p> -This was not said by a Prussian Junker; not by a German barbarian; -not by Treitska or Bernhardi, but by an American major general. And he -is right. You cannot conduct war with equals; you cannot have militarism -with free born man; you must have slaves, automatons, machines, obedient -disciplined creatures, who will move, act, shoot, and kill at the command of -their superiors. That is preparedness, and nothing else. -</p> - -<p> -It has been reported that among the speakers before the Navy League -was Samuel Gompers. I have long ceased to believe what is reported in the -press. But if that is true, it signalizes the greatest outrage upon labor at -the hands of its own leaders. Preparedness is directed not only against the -external enemy; it aims much more at the internal enemy. It is directed -<a id="page-10" class="pagenum" title="10"></a> -against that element of labor which has learned not to hope for anything -from our institutions, that awakened part of the working people who have -realized that the war of the classes underlies all wars among nations, and -that if war is justified at all it is the war against economic dependence and -political slavery, the two dominant issues involved in the struggle of the -classes. -</p> - -<p> -Already militarism has been acting its bloody part in every economic -conflict, with the approval and support of the state. Where was the protest -from Washington when “our men, women and children” were killed in -Ludlow? Where was that high-sounding outraged protest contained in -the note to Germany? Or is there any difference in killing “our men, women -and children” in Ludlow or on the high seas? Yes, indeed. The men, -women, and children at Ludlow were working people, belonging to the disinherited -of the earth, foreigners who had to be given a taste of the glories -of Americanism, while the passengers of the Lusitania represented wealth -and station; therein lies the difference. -</p> - -<p> -Preparedness, therefore, will only add to the power of the privileged -few and help them to subdue, to enslave, and crush labor. Surely Gompers -must know that, and if he joins the howl of the military clique he must -stand condemned as a traitor to the cause of labor. -</p> - -<p> -It will be with preparedness as it has been with all the other institutions -in our confused life which were created for the good of the people and which -have accomplished the very reverse. Supposedly, America is to prepare for -peace; but in reality it will prepare for the cause of war. It has always -been so and it will continue to be so until nation refuses to fight against -nation, and until the people of the world stop preparing for slaughter. Preparedness -is like the seed of a poisonous plant; placed in the soil, it will bear -poisonous fruit. The European mass destruction is the fruit of that poisonous -seed. It is imperative that the American workers realize this before -they are driven by the jingoes into the madness that is forever haunted by -the spectre of danger and invasion; they must know that to prepare for -peace means to invite war, means to unloose the furies of death over land -and sea. -</p> - -<p> -You cannot build up a standing army and then throw it back into a -box like tin soldiers. Armies equipped to the teeth with highly-developed -instruments of murder and backed by their military interests have their own -dynamic functions. We have but to examine into the nature of militarism -to realize the truth of this contention. -</p> - -<p> -Militarism consumes the strongest and most productive elements of -each nation. Militarism swallows the largest part of the national revenue. -Even in times of peace almost nothing is spent on education, art, literature, -and science in comparison with the amount devoted to militarism; while in -times of war everything else is set at naught: all life stagnates, all effort -is curtailed, the very sweat and blood of the masses are used to feed this -insatiable monster—militarism. Under such circumstances it must become -<a id="page-11" class="pagenum" title="11"></a> -more arrogant, more aggressive, more bloated with its own importance. If -for no other reason, it is out of surplus energy that militarism must act to -remain alive; therefore it will find an enemy or create one artificially. In -this civilized purpose militarism is sustained by the state, protected by the -laws of the land, fostered by the home and the school, and glorified by public -opinion. In other words, the function of militarism is to kill. It cannot -live except through murder. -</p> - -<p> -But the most dominant factor of military preparedness, and the one -which inevitably leads to war, is the creation of group interests which consciously -and deliberately work for the increase of armament whose purposes -are furthered by creating the war hysteria. This group interest embraces -all those engaged in the manufacture and sale of munition and in military -equipment for personal gain and profit. For instance, the family Krupp, -which owns the largest cannon munition plant in the world; its sinister influence -in Germany, and in fact in many other countries, extends to the press, -the school, the church, and to statesmen of highest rank. Shortly before -the war, <a id="corr-0"></a>Karl Liebknecht, the one brave public man in Germany now, -brought to the attention of the Reichstag the fact that the family Krupp had -in its employ officials of the highest military position, not only in Germany, -but in France and in other countries. Everywhere its emissaries have been -at work, systematically inciting national hatreds and antagonisms. The -same investigation brought to light an international war supply trust which -gives a hang for patriotism, or for love of the people, but which uses both -to incite war and to pocket millions of profits out of the terrible bargain. -</p> - -<p> -It is not at all unlikely that the history of the present war will trace -its origin to this international murder trust. But is it always necessary for -one generation to wade through oceans of blood and heap up mountains of -human sacrifice that the next generation may learn a grain of truth from it -all? Can we of today not profit by the cause which led to the European -war, can we not learn that it was preparedness, thorough and efficient preparedness -on the part of Germany and the other countries for military aggrandizement -and material gain; above all can we not realize that preparedness -in America must and will lead to the same result, the same barbarity, -the same senseless sacrifice of life? Is America to follow suit, is it to be -turned over to the American Krupps, the American military cliques? It -almost seems so when one hears the jingo howls of the press, the blood and -thunder tirades of bully Roosevelt, the sentimental twaddle of our college-bred -President. -</p> - -<p> -The more reason for those who still have a spark of libertarianism and -humanity left to cry out against this great crime, against the outrage now -being prepared and imposed upon the American people. It is not enough -to claim being neutral; a neutrality which sheds crocodile tears with one -eye and keeps the other riveted upon the profits from war supplies and war -loans, is not neutrality. It is merely hypocritical. Nor is it enough to join -the bourgeois pacifists, who proclaim peace among the nations, while helping -<a id="page-12" class="pagenum" title="12"></a> -to perpetuate the war among the classes, a war which in reality is at -the bottom of all other wars. -</p> - -<p> -It is this war of the classes that we must concentrate upon, and in that -connection the war against false values, against evil institutions, against -all social atrocities. Those who appreciate the urgent need of cooperating -in great struggles must oppose military preparedness imposed by the state -and capitalism for the destruction of the masses. They must organize the -preparedness of the masses for the overthrow of both capitalism and the -state. Industrial and economic preparedness is what the workers need. -That alone leads to revolution at the bottom as against mass destruction -from on top. That alone leads to true internationalism of labor against -Kaiserdom, kingdom, diplomacies, military cliques, and bureaucracies. That -alone will give the people the means to take their children out of the slums, -out of the sweat-shops and the cotton-mills; that alone will enable them to -inculcate in the coming generation a new ideal of brotherhood, to rear them -in play and song and beauty; to bring up men and women, not automatons; -that alone will enable woman to become the real mother of the race, to give -to the world creative men, and not soldiers who destroy. That alone leads -to economic and social freedom, and does away with war. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="ELLIE"> -Ellie -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Mary Aldis</span> -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">She came to do my nails.</p> - <p class="verse">Came in my door and stood before me waiting,</p> - <p class="verse">A great big lummox of a girl—</p> - <p class="verse">A continent.</p> - <p class="verse">Her dress was rusty black</p> - <p class="verse">And scant,</p> - <p class="verse">Her hat, a melancholy jumble of basement counter bargains.</p> - <p class="verse">Her sullen eyes,</p> - <p class="verse">Like a whipped animal’s,</p> - <p class="verse">Shone out between her silly bulging cheeks and puffy forehead.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">She dropped her coat upon a chair</p> - <p class="verse">And waited;</p> - <p class="verse">Then, at a word, busied herself</p> - <p class="verse">With files and delicate scissors,</p> - <p class="verse">Sweet-smelling oils and my ten finger tips.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-13" class="pagenum" title="13"></a> - <p class="verse">She proved so deft and silent</p> - <p class="verse">I bade her come again;</p> - <p class="verse">And twice a week</p> - <p class="verse">While summer dawned and flushed and waned</p> - <p class="verse">She used me in her parasitic trade.</p> - <p class="verse">The dress grew rustier,</p> - <p class="verse">The hat more melancholy,</p> - <p class="verse">And Ellie fatter.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Each time she came I wondered as she worked</p> - <p class="verse">If thought lay anywhere</p> - <p class="verse">Behind that queer uncouthness.</p> - <p class="verse">She had a trick of seizing with her eyes</p> - <p class="verse">Each passing thing,</p> - <p class="verse">An insatiate greediness for something out of reach;</p> - <p class="verse">And yet she seemed enwrapped</p> - <p class="verse">In a kind of solemn patience,</p> - <p class="verse">Large, aloof and waiting.</p> - <p class="verse">We hardly ever spoke—</p> - <p class="verse">I could not think of anything worth saying;</p> - <p class="verse">One does not chatter with a continent.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Finally it was homing time;</p> - <p class="verse">The seashore town was raw and desolate</p> - <p class="verse">And idlers flitted.</p> - <p class="verse">The last day Ellie came</p> - <p class="verse">Her calm was gone, she had been crying.</p> - <p class="verse">Fat people never ought to cry;</p> - <p class="verse">It’s awful....</p> - <p class="verse">The hot drops fell upon my hand</p> - <p class="verse">While Ellie dropped the scissors suddenly</p> - <p class="verse">And sniffed and blew and sobbed</p> - <p class="verse">In disconcerting and unreserved abandonment.</p> - <p class="verse">I said the usual things;</p> - <p class="verse">I would have patted her but for the grease,</p> - <p class="verse">But Ellie was not comforted.</p> - <p class="verse">Not until the storm was spent</p> - <p class="verse">And only little catching breaths were left</p> - <p class="verse">I got the reason.</p> - <p class="verse">“I’m so fat,” she gulped, “so awful, awful fat</p> - <p class="verse">The boys won’t look at me.”</p> - <p class="verse">And then it came, the stammered passionate cry:</p> -<a id="page-14" class="pagenum" title="14"></a> - <p class="verse">Could I not help?</p> - <p class="verse">Could I not find a medicine?</p> - <p class="verse">We talked and talked</p> - <p class="verse">And when at dusk she went, a teary smile</p> - <p class="verse">Hovered a moment on her mouth</p> - <p class="verse">And in those sullen, swollen eyes</p> - <p class="verse">A little hope perhaps;</p> - <p class="verse">I did not know.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The city and its interests soon engulfed me.</p> - <p class="verse">A letter or two,</p> - <p class="verse">A doctor’s vague advice to bant and exercise,</p> - <p class="verse">And Ellie and her woes passed from my mind</p> - <p class="verse">Until, as summer dawned again,</p> - <p class="verse">I heard that she was dead.</p> - <p class="verse">A curious letter written stiffly,</p> - <p class="verse">From Ellie’s mother,</p> - <p class="verse">Told me I was invited to the funeral</p> - <p class="verse">“By wish of the Deceased.”</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Wondering I travelled to the little town</p> - <p class="verse">Where the sea beat and groaned</p> - <p class="verse">And sorrowed endlessly,</p> - <p class="verse">And made my way down the steep street</p> - <p class="verse">To Ellie’s door.</p> - <p class="verse">Her mother met me in the hall</p> - <p class="verse">And motioned,—</p> - <p class="verse">“She wanted you to see her,”</p> - <p class="verse">Then ushered me into an awful place, the parlor—</p> - <p class="verse">A place of emerald plush and golden oak</p> - <p class="verse">Set round with pride and symmetry,</p> - <p class="verse">And in the midst</p> - <p class="verse">A black and silver coffin—</p> - <p class="verse">Ellie’s coffin.</p> - <p class="verse">Raising the lid she pointed and I looked.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Somewhere in Florence Mino da Fiesole</p> - <p class="verse">Has made a tomb</p> - <p class="verse">Where deathless beauty lies with upturned face.</p> - <p class="verse">Two gentle hands, palms meeting,</p> - <p class="verse">Touch with their pointed forefingers</p> - <p class="verse">A delicate chin, and over the vibrant body</p> - <p class="verse">Clings a white robe</p> -<a id="page-15" class="pagenum" title="15"></a> - <p class="verse">Enshrouding chastely</p> - <p class="verse">Warm curving lines of adolescent grace.</p> - <p class="verse">No sleeper this,—</p> - <p class="verse">The figure glows, alert, awake, aware,</p> - <p class="verse">As if some sudden ecstacy had stolen life</p> - <p class="verse">And held imprisoned there</p> - <p class="verse">The moment of attainment</p> - <p class="verse">Rapt, imperishable and fair.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Even so lay Ellie,</p> - <p class="verse">And when from somewhere far I heard</p> - <p class="verse">The mother’s voice</p> - <p class="verse">I listened vacantly.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">The woman chattered on,</p> - <p class="verse">“The dress you know, white chiffon, like a wedding dress—</p> - <p class="verse">I never knew she had it,</p> - <p class="verse">She must ’a made it by herself.</p> - <p class="verse">It’s queer it fitted perfectly</p> - <p class="verse">An’ her all thin like that—</p> - <p class="verse">She must ’a thought—”</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Then black-robed relatives came streaming in</p> - <p class="verse">To look at Ellie.</p> - <p class="verse">I watched them start</p> - <p class="verse">And look around for explanation.</p> - <p class="verse">The mother pinched my arm:</p> - <p class="verse">“Don’t ask me anything now,” she whispered;</p> - <p class="verse">“Come back tonight.”</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Then old, old words were sung and prayed and droned,</p> - <p class="verse">While everybody dutifully cried,</p> - <p class="verse">And when the village parson</p> - <p class="verse">Rhythmically proclaimed—</p> - <p class="verse">And this mortal shall put on immortality,—</p> - <p class="verse">With a great welcoming</p> - <p class="verse">And a great lightening</p> - <p class="verse">I knew at last the ancient affirmation.</p> - <p class="verse">When evening came I found the mother</p> - <p class="verse">Sitting amidst her golden oak and plush</p> - <p class="verse">In a kind of isolated stateliness.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> -<a id="page-16" class="pagenum" title="16"></a> - <p class="verse">She led me in.</p> - <p class="verse">“’Twas the stuff she took that did it,”</p> - <p class="verse">She began; “I never knew till after she was dead.</p> - <p class="verse">The bottles in the woodshed, hundreds of ’em</p> - <p class="verse">All labelled “Caldwell’s Great Obesity Cure</p> - <p class="verse">Warranted Safe and Rapid.”</p> - <p class="verse">Oh ain’t it awful?” and she fell to crying miserably;</p> - <p class="verse">“But wasn’t she real pretty in her coffin?”</p> - <p class="verse">And then she cried again</p> - <p class="verse">And clung to me.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEECSTASYOFPAIN"> -The Ecstasy of Pain -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="FRAGMENTARYREFLECTIONSONTHEARTOFPRZYBYSZEWSKI"> -(Fragmentary Reflections on the Art of -Przybyszewski) -</h3> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Alexander S. Kaun</span> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -... Out of the effervescent hurricane of light burst forth a terrible -song. -</p> - -<p> -Despair, as if thousands of graves had torn open. As if the heavens -had rent asunder, and the Son of Man had descended upon the earth to -judge the good and the wicked. Millions of hands rose up to heaven in -a mad horror of death—hands that prayed for mercy and charity. He -heard a beastly roar, which like a geyser of a smoking sea of blood spurtled -upward; and above all this he saw bony fingers that twisted and writhed -in convulsions of fear and shouted to heaven: “Ad te clamamus exules filii -Hevae, ad te <a id="corr-3"></a>suspiramus gementes et flentes.” -</p> - -<p> -And he saw a multitudinous crowd that was lashed with an insane -ecstacy of destruction, and above them a heaven that yawned with disease -and fire. He saw how those miserable creatures wriggled and serpentined -in hellish madnesses of life; he saw the bleeding backs furrowed by the -whips into chunks; he saw all humanity demented, obsessed, with an -inspired frenzy in the bestialized eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Slowly disappeared the procession of the doomed; wild cries intoxicated -with despair died away in a death-rattle, and a sun, red like copper, -shed a chatoyant green light on the <a id="corr-4"></a>puddles of blood. -</p> - -<p> -“Ad te clamamus exules filii Hevae!” -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -<a id="page-17" class="pagenum" title="17"></a> -This is a fragment from an early poem of Przybyszewski, <em>De Profundis</em>. -It is a proper background to all the works of the Pole, to his plays, essays, -novels, poems. At least I see him in that light. -</p> - -<p> -A reminiscence: On a rainy autumn night I went to hear him lecture. -“... and if the psychologists will find contradictions in my words—I -shall not feel dismayed. There are contradictions that are dearer to -me than most perfect consequentialities.” From the dim light of the platform -ached a face distorted with contempt and suffering, with the grim -clairvoyance of the Beyond. At moments the eyebrows leaped up and -bulged the forehead into thick, strained furrows, and the eyes suddenly -burst in a flash that revealed unknown worlds, twisting your soul with -awe and mystery. But soon the flame would extinguish, and the face -would resume the masque of contemptuous weariness; the mouth-corners -congealed a satanic would-be smile that prepared one for his famous “Heh-heh.” -That face haunted me for many days and nights, as if my inner -vision had been scalded by an unearthly chimera. My friends, who have -seen his exaggerated portrait painted by Krzyzanowski, will understand -me. Those who will read his works (if they are translated), will understand -me. <em>Homo Sapiens</em><a class="fnote" href="#footnote-1" id="fnote-1">[1]</a> is but a nuance of his multiplex creative spirit, -though perhaps a most characteristic nuance. Przybyszewski, like Nietzsche, -like Wilde, is a unique mosaique, in which the personality, the artist, his -life and his works, are inseparable, indivisible units of the wonderful whole. -Who can fathom this hellish cosmos, this mare tenebrarum of the modern -man’s soul, which the mad Pole has traversed and penetrated to the bottom, -and has cast out shrieking monsters and gargoyles illuminated with blinding, -dazzling, infernal flames? -</p> - -<p> -I cannot. Perhaps only pale glimpses of reflections. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -Those who have heard Przybyszewski play Chopin tell us that no virtuoso -can compare with his creative interpretation of his melancholy compatriot. -In his profound essay on <em>Chopin and Nietzsche</em> I have been impressed -not so much with the morbid theory as with the characteristic feature -present in all his work—the reflection of his own personality. In his favorite -artists, in his heroes, in his women, he has painfully sought an expression -of his restless, boundless self. Thus Chopin becomes one of the numerous -selves of Przybyszewski. Let me picture the Composer in the light of the -Poet. -</p> - -<p> -Specifically Slavic features: extreme subtility of feeling, easy excitability, -passionateness and sensuousness, predilection for luxury and extravagance, -and, chief of all, a peculiar melancholy lyricism, which is nothing -<a id="page-18" class="pagenum" title="18"></a> -but the expression of the most exalted egoism, whose sole and highest criterion -is his own “I.” These, and the profound melancholy of his native -limitless plains with their desolate sandy expanses, with the lead-skies over -them, have been influences keenly contradicting his flexible, light vivaciousness -of the Gallic, his coquettish effeminacy, his love for life and light. -</p> - -<p> -Subtracting the last two strokes, who is it: Chopin or Przybyszewski? -</p> - -<p> -The trait most obviously common to both Poles is the unquenchable -yearning, the eternal Sehnsucht, which filters through all their productions. -In neither of them was it the yearning of healthy natures, in whom, as in a -mother’s womb, it bears the embryo of fruitful life; it is not the yearning -of Zarathustra “in a sunny rapture of ecstacy greeting new, unknown gods -with an exalted ‘Evoi’!” Chopin’s longing, as reflected in Przybyszewski, -is tinted with the pale color of anemia peculiar to a representative of a -degenerate aristocracy (the Poet’s progenitor died of delirium tremens), -with his transparent skin projecting the tiniest veins, with his slender figure -and prolongated limbs that breathe with each movement incomparable gracefulness, -with his overdeveloped intellect which shines in his eyes, as in the -eyes of frail children who are doomed to early death. This longing is the -incessant palpitation of a nervous, over-delicate nature, something akin to -the constant irritability of open wounds, the continuous change of ebbs and -flows of morbid sensitiveness, the eternal dissatisfaction of acute emotions, -the fatigableness of a too-susceptible spirit, the weariness of one oversatiated -with suffering. Yet this longing has in it also wild passion, “the convulsive -agony of deadly horror,” self-damnation and thirst for destruction, delirium -and madness of one who strains his gaze into the vast—and sees nothing. -</p> - -<p> -Indeed I should like to hear Chopin’s <em>Preludes</em> recreated under the longing -fingers of Stanislaw. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -Stanislaw Przybyszewski. Do pronounce it correctly, that you may -hear the sound of rain swishing through tall grass. Przybyszewski has -come to know himself so thoroughly and unreservedly, and, in himself, to -know the modern man of the widest intellectual and artistic horizons, through -a long excruciating internal purgatory. From the study of architecture and -general aesthetics his restless, ever-searching spirit hurled him into natural -sciences in the hope of finding positive answers to his burning questions. He -came out loaded with an enormous baggage of facts and information; yet -he had not quenched his everlasting dissatisfaction, but had acquired a -sceptical “heh-heh” towards life and knowledge. He plunged into psychology, -and found Nietzsche—to him the deepest searcher, possessor of the -keen eye of a degenerate, which like a wintersun sheds its light with morbid -intensity upon snowfields, clearly illuminating each crystal. With a “heh-heh” -he dismissed the Loneliest One. For was not Nietzsche driven to create -for himself a superman, as a consolation, as a hope, as “a soft pillow -upon which could rest his weary inflamed head”? Did he for one moment -believe in that ghost which he erected in the heavy hours of despair? Nonsense. -<a id="page-19" class="pagenum" title="19"></a> -Heh-heh. Had not his Falk, his homo sapiens, been crushed in his -struggle to attain liberation and supermanship? Recall Falk’s self-rending -meditations: “Conscience! Heh-heh-heh! Conscience! How ridiculously -silly is your superman! Herr Professor Nietzsche left out of account tradition -and culture which created conscience in the course of hundreds of -centuries.... Oh, how ridiculous is your superman sans conscience!” -Thus, step after step, killing god after god, burning his ships behind him, -the all-knowing, the all-denying degenerate-nobleman Slav-cosmopolite has -ascended the loftiest summit, or, as he would rather say, has descended into -deepest hell—Art. An equipment hardly appropriate for an artist who sees -“Life Itself” in color and fragrance and petals and varicolored mornings and -varicolored nights and Japanese prints and ... but you may find the catalogue -in the Editor’s rhapsody of last month. Przybyszewski’s background -served him as an Archimedean lever to gauge and fathom the soul of -modernity. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -Let me attempt to present the quintessence of Przybyszewski’s modern -Individuum, as he prefers to call an exceptional personality. -</p> - -<p> -He considers himself a superman, aloof from the market-interests of -the crowd. He is conscious of the fetters of his instincts and of the gradual -sapping of his strength—hence the history of the Individuum turns into a -sad monography of suppressed will and distorted instincts, a history of a -mountain torrent which cannot find an outlet, and rushes into depth, dissolving -obstructing strata, destroying and washing them away, and ruining -the structure of the rocks in their very bowels. -</p> - -<p> -Hence the longing for liberation and the yearning for expanse, a perilous -“palpitating Sehnsucht and craving of the heights, of the beyond.” But -this longing has another distinctive symptom: the consciousness of its hopelessness, -the clear conviction that the passionately-desired goal is but an idée -fixe. In this longing is expressed a spirit that ruins everything in itself with -the corrosive acid of reason, a spirit that had long lost faith in itself, that -considers its own activity diffidently and critically, a spirit that spies and -searches itself, that has lost the faculty of taking itself seriously, that has -become accustomed to mock itself and to play with its own manifestations -as with a ball; a spirit not satisfied with the highest and finest human perceptions, -that has come at last, after many searchings, to the gloomy decision -that all is in vain, that it is incapable of surpassing itself. -</p> - -<p> -Hence the pursuit of enjoyment. But this morbid seeking of enjoyment -lacks that direct, self-sufficient bliss that results from the accumulated surplus -of productive strength. The modern Individuum is deprived of that -healthy instinct, therefore in place of naive joy experienced from the liberation -of surcharged power he plunges into self-forgetfulness. All his life -is reduced to pure self-narcotization. In the morbid straining of his abnormally-functioning -nerves the Individuum-decadent rises to those mysterious -borders where the joy and the pain of human existence pass into one another -<a id="page-20" class="pagenum" title="20"></a> -and intermingle, where the two are brought in their extreme manifestations -to a peculiar feeling of destructive rapture, to an ecstatic being outside and -above himself. All his thoughts and acts acquire a character of something -devastating, maniacal, and over all of them reigns a heavy, depressing, -wearying atmosphere, like the one before the outbreak of a storm, something -akin to the passionate tremor of delirious impotence, something similar -to the consumptive flush of spiritual hysteria. -</p> - -<p> -In such clinical terms Przybyszewski sees the modern homo sapiens. -Through this prism I perceive his Falk, doomed to utter failure and futility. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -Falk an erotomaniac? Nonsense. His sexual relations are as pathological -as the functions of his other faculties, not more. In his incessant search -for an outlet, for discharge, for some quantity that might fill up his hollowed -heart, Falk grasps woman as a potentional complement to his emptiness. -He fails, naturally. To the artist woman is a narcotizer and wing-clipper; -more often a Dalila or Xantippe than a Cosima Wagner or a Clara -Schumann. Neither the exoticism of Ysa, nor the pillow-serviceability of -Yanina, nor the medieval fanaticism of Marit, nor Olga’s revolutionary -resignedness, have the power of checking the hurricane of his questing spirit -for more than a moment, such moments when the tormented man erects for -his consolation a phantom, be it a superman or a Christ. Falk’s quest for -self-forgetfulness is futile. He lacks the healthy capacity of us, normal -beings, for finding salvation in befogging our vision. No matter how we -may indulge in self-analization, we usually stop at the perilous point and -brake our searching demon with the same happy instinct that closes our eyes -automatically at the approach of danger. Falk’s mental motor has no -brakes; it hurls him into the precipice. -</p> - -<p> -“I have never suffered on account of a woman,” boasts the old rake, -Iltis. -</p> - -<p> -“Because your organism is very tough, a peasant’s organism, my dear -Iltis. Your sensibilities have not yet reached the stage of dependence upon -the brain. You are like a hydromedusa which suddenly parts with its feelers -stocked with sexual organs and sends them off to seek the female, and then -does not bother about them any more. You are a very happy creature, my -dear Iltis. But I don’t envy you your happiness. I never envy the ox his -enjoyment of grass, not even when I am starving.” -</p> - -<p> -Przybyszewski’s Individuum seeks in woman the miraculous expression -of his most intimate, most precious “I.” He speaks in one place about the -love of the “anointed artist,” which is a painful conception of an awful unknown -force that casts two souls together striving to link them into one; -an intense torment rending the soul in the impossible endeavor to realize the -New Covenant, the union of two beings, a matter of absolute androgynism. -For such an artist love is “the consciousness of a terrible abyss, the sense of -a bottomless Sheol in his soul, where rages the life of thousands of generations, -of thousands of ages, of their torments and pangs of reproduction and -<a id="page-21" class="pagenum" title="21"></a> -of greed for life.” Now recall Falk’s dream: -</p> - -<p> -“He saw a meadow-clearing in his father’s forest. Two elks were fighting. -They struck at each other with their large horns, separated, and made -another terrific lunge. Their horns interlocked. In great leaps they tried -to disentangle themselves, turning round and round. There was a crunching -of horns. One elk succeeded in freeing himself and ran his horns into the -other’s breast. He drove them in deeper and deeper, tore ferociously at his -flesh and entrails. The blood spurted.... And near the fighting animals -a female elk was pasturing unmindful of the savage struggle of the passion-mad -males.... In the centre stood the victor trembling and gory, yet -proud and mighty. On his horns hung the entrails of his rival.” -</p> - -<p> -The epitomy of the sex-problem, heh-heh. -</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p class="noindent"> -“I don’t envy the ox his enjoyment.” Przybyszewski despises happiness -as something unworthy of an artist. A happy soul, he believes, is a miracle, -the squareness of a circle, a whip made of sand. The soul is sombre, stormy, -for it is the aching of passion and the madness of sweeps, living over ecstacies -of boiling desire, the stupendous anxiety of depths and the boundless -suffering of being. For the artist who creates the world not with his brain, -but with his soul, all life is one “sale corvée,” a filthy burden, eternal horror, -despair, and submission, fruitless struggle and impotent stumbling. For this -reason love, the greatest happiness for ordinary males, becomes for the artist -the profoundest disastrous suffering. -</p> - -<p> -Take away from Przybyszewski his ecstacy of pain, and you rob him of -his very essence, of his raison d’être, of his creative breath. When you read -his <em>Poems in Prose</em> you face a soul writhing in hopeless despair, in futile -longing, in maddening convulsions. But you cannot pity the artist. You are -aware of the sublime joy in his sorrow, of the unearthly bliss that is wrapped -in the black wings of his melancholy. In his poem <em>At the Sea</em>, the elemental -yearning of his soul reaches cosmic dimensions. Only one other poem approaches -it in its surcharged grief—Ben Hecht’s <em>Night-Song</em>, if we overlook -the latter’s redundancy. Allow me to give you a pale translation of the -“Introibo” to <em>At the Sea</em>:—may the Pole’s spirit forgive me my sacrilegious -impertinence. -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> -<h4 class="excerpt" id="INTROIBO"> -INTROIBO -</h4> - -<p class="noindent"> -Thou, who with ray-clad hands wreathest my dreams with -the beauty of fading autumn, with the splendor of off-blooming -grandeur, with inflamed hues of the burning paradise,— -</p> - -<p> -Radiant mine! -</p> - -<p> -How many pangs have passed as if in a dream, since I saw -Thee for the last time, and yet mine heart doth shine amidst the -stars which Thou hast strewn in my life, yet the thirsting hands -of my blood yearn for the bliss Thou didst once kindle in my soul. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-22" class="pagenum" title="22"></a> -Thou, who in evening twilight spinnest for me with still -hands on enchanted harps heavy meditation on moments of joy -that have flown away like a distant whisper of leaves,—on suns -that, sinking into the sea, sparkle in the east with bloody dew,—on -nights that press to their warm breast tortured hearts,— -</p> - -<p> -Radiant mine! -</p> - -<p> -How many times has the sun set since those hours when with -Thy magic songs Thou pacified the sorrow of my soul,—and -yet I see Thine eyes, full of moans and sadness, burning in an -unearthly rapture, see the radiant hand stretching towards me -and grasping mine with a hot cry. -</p> - -<p> -Thou, who transformest stormy nights into sunny days, in -the depths of my dreams quenchest reality, removest into an infinite -distance all near,— -</p> - -<p> -Thou, who enkindlest in my heart will-o’-the-wisps and -bearest unto life black flowers— -</p> - -<p> -Radiant mine! -</p> - -<p> -A thousand times has the world transfigured since Thy look -consumed the tarnishing glitter of my soul, and yet I see Thy -little child-like face and the golden crown of hair over Thy brow, -see how two tears had spread into a pale smile that glowed on -Thy mouth, and hear the dark plaint of Thy voice. -</p> - -<p> -Thou, who breakest before me the seals of all mysteries and -readest the runes of hidden powers, and in all the madnesses of -my life flingest Thyself in a rainbow of blessing from one heaven -to the other,— -</p> - -<p> -Never yet has the storm so strewn the rays of my stars, -never yet has the aureole played with such bleeding radiancy -around Thy head, as now, when I have lost Thee forever. -</p> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="HOMOSAPIENSDISCUSSEDBYREADERS"> -“Homo Sapiens” Discussed by Readers -</h3> - -<p class="noindent"> -In another place I called <em>Homo Sapiens</em> “the book of the age.” Surely -there has not been a more stirring work of literature since <em>Werther</em>. Will -the public respond? Is it true that the wall of American indifferentism is -impregnable? I am still optimistic about the intellectual aristocracy of -this country; that small circle of the young in spirit, brave searchers and -earnest livers, for whom art and life are not merely diversions between meals -and business transactions, but the italicized essence of existence. To those -few Przybyszewski’s book should appeal; those should react. -</p> - -<p> -I have been getting curious, and at times interesting, opinions of such -readers. I hope to receive more, and acquaint the <em>Little Review</em> family with -them. On the whole, there prevails a note of depression and uneasiness. -One writes: “I had hoped to be left alone on a mountain peak in a blaze -of light and in the stress of wind; instead there is a sardonic laugh, and I -<a id="page-23" class="pagenum" title="23"></a> -am again hurled into the maelstrom of a world that cannot rise above suffering -from its own passions.” A feminist remarks sadly that the book -demonstrates “the limit of man’s penetration. The women are women still—not -even women of the transition.” An incurable, hopelessly struggling -Puritan rages and curses both me and the author; I give a few gems: “I’ve -read your devilishly wonderful book!... It did many things to me, -which, thank God, have passed like a drunken dream.... For three -days I’ve been hideously torn up, slashed into tatters, savage and fundamental. -But you want my opinion! How can I tell you, divorce it from -myself, tear it out of my living flesh, when it has become imbedded. That -terrible, wonderful Falk! It makes you shudder away from all temperamental -people with experimental souls in their fingers, and few convictions.... -I became paralyzed with horror. At last I cried out, writhed on the -floor and prayed to some Power, any Power, for pity, not to see myself, -not to see life beneath the superficial surface.... Go away, take your -Slav fingers out of my soul! They force me to look at truth, when I want -to deal in lies. They force me to climb the heights and peer into the hideous -crevasses, when I want to browse fatuously on the hillocks.” More such -“drunken dreams,” and the comfortable blinders will fall off the eyes of the -happiness-by-all-means-fiends. -</p> - -<p> -I submit two letters of friends who have read my article and wished to -supplement my views. I humbly think that what they say is included in my -“reflections”; but I am also conscious of my inherent fault—conciseness -which borders on obscurity. Hence clarification is gratefully welcome. -</p> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="I7"> -I. -</h4> - -<p class="noindent"> -What you say about Przybyszewski I also think. But what you do not -say about <em>Homo Sapiens</em> is what I feel most of all. There is something very -definite about <em>Homo Sapiens</em>, the book. It rises out of the mass of flaming -gibberish, dissected nerves, and poetical slashings. It rings in the ears long -after the book is closed. It is the most poignant cry of the dying nineteenth -century, and it comes out of lower depths than the cry of Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov,—shriller, -madder, and more penetrating.... -</p> - -<p> -Eric Falk is not a nuance. He is the whole of Stanislaw Przybyszewski, -the whole of modern wisdom and introspection, which is another word for -degeneracy. -</p> - -<p> -Come now, pretend I am not reviewing it. Pretend I am something -of a clairvoyant. -</p> - -<p> -See Przybyszewski creating him—Erick Falk. He is sitting at his -desk. He is going to write a book about man, not a type, not a silhouette, -but about Man complete. He wants the final man of his day, the Homo -Sapiens, the Zarathustran phantom. -</p> - -<p> -This Przybyszewski is a thorough fellow, a biologist, a poet, a physician, -an historian, a psychologist. He lives on an operating table. Knows his own -insides. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-24" class="pagenum" title="24"></a> -“Come here, Zarathustra,” chuckles this Przybyszewski, and he coaxes -him off the heights, off the peaks where he is waiting to be fed by the eagles. -</p> - -<p> -And striding from the peaks comes Zarathustra. Who do you suppose -it is? Przybyszewski, of course. -</p> - -<p> -They greet each other. -</p> - -<p> -And Przybyszewski says to this self of his: “So you are the ultimate -clay, ha, ha.” -</p> - -<p> -And this self answers: “Yea, behold in me the finite evolution, man -crowned by his own hard and subtly-won glories.” -</p> - -<p> -“Come here,” purrs Przybyszewski. Remember, he is talking to himself—at -his desk. -</p> - -<p> -Hesitating, frowning, and yet with the pure grimace of superiority -stamped on his face, this self approaches. And the book is on. -</p> - -<p> -Przybyszewski’s inspiration is the fury of a madman, the derisive, diabolical -chuckling of a fanatical cynic. -</p> - -<p> -“Come now, we will fly,” whispers Przybyszewski, and off they go—the -innocent Zarathustra and the steeped, slashbuckling Przybyszewski. And -remember still—they are one. -</p> - -<p> -And the rest of it is the plot of <em>Homo Sapiens</em>, the book, which I will -skip.... -</p> - -<p> -Thus Eric Falk soars and Przybyszewski shows the sorry mechanics of -his wings, laughing, chuckling, for they are his own. Thus toward the middle -of the book you begin wondering. Falk is going to pieces, Falk the -immutable, the all knowing, the transcender, the ... the ... the -... the Homo Sapiens. What is the matter? When he betrays a woman -and causes her death a hideous vapor suddenly envelopes his soul and befouls -it. Przybyszewski thrusts his radiant leer from behind Zarathustra’s -mask and hisses, “Conscience, ha!” -</p> - -<p> -And thus it goes its merry way. To the edge of the precipice this mad -Pole pushes his whirling Falk, to the utter edge of known reason, known -psychology and known Passions. -</p> - -<p> -And then suddenly the soarer falls. The mechanism comes clattering -to earth—to the bottom of the precipice. The lugubrious Stanislaw has led -his creation—himself—to the limits. -</p> - -<p> -He has finished his book. -</p> - -<p> -Piled on the desk lies the heap of glowing sentences, the history of -rhapsodic vivisection. -</p> - -<p> -Przybyszewski has expressed himself. -</p> - -<p> -He has uttered his most internal cry, the cry of a poet, a weaver of -plots, an anatomical expert, of an introspective vulture-minded Disbeliever. -</p> - -<p> -And now I call your attention to Mr. Przybyszewski at his desk—too -tired to rise. Gone are the golden thrills that quivered in him, gone everything -but the thin sardonic grin that lights the face of Eric Falk—on the -last page. And only Eric Falk’s last cry, “Vive L’Humanité” is left him. -<a id="page-25" class="pagenum" title="25"></a> -So our Stanislaw, the idol of Bohemia, the tortured demon, sits chuckling, a -glass of cognac trembling in his fingers. -</p> - -<p> -“Homo Sapiens,” he sighs with his inevitable sneer, that pierces through -his pity and pain like the point of a rapier, “behold thyself. Thou, Eric, art -man. Thou art the creaking vehicle for the golden theories, the rainbow fantasies -which have sifted out of the mental mists of the century. And behold, -thou creakest, thou groanest, thou breakest under this lightest of burdens.” -</p> - -<p> -The tired Przybyszewski quivers. His lips, mocking their way through -the delirious poison of thought and passion have kissed the intangible. He -has stripped his brain to its last cell and looked at it. And the cry that rises -out of the book comes condensed from his lips now—after it is done. Nowhere -is it written, nowhere is it heard except at Stanislaw Przybyszewski’s -desk—in Bohemia. -</p> - -<p> -It is the answer, ha. Is it? -</p> - -<p> -“Homo Sapiens, thou art clay. Thy mind is a super-chaos. Thy soul is -a petty mirage.” -</p> - -<h4 class="subsection" id="II7"> -II. -</h4> - -<p class="noindent"> -Przybyszewski transplants his readers from their ordinary mental environment -into those astral regions where metaphysical subtleties are clothed -with reality. Life is dealt with not on the surface strata of its expressions -but at its base where motives and ideas and emotions have their source. And -in spite of this fact, or rather because of the uncanny clairvoyance of its -author there is no perversion or befogging of one’s point of view. These -nebulous regions are lit up by the ruthless penetration of an artist who is -a scientist as well. -</p> - -<p> -One’s first sensations are like seeing for the first time with the naked -eye the fan of nerves which spread out from the corona radiata, or touching -the single nerve trunks with the dissecting knife. In the same manner -the pathological Pole brings you into actual contact with the cargos of -these nerves, ideas, emotions, sensations. All the concealing layers of evasions -and of equivocations have been dissected away; there lies spread out -before you sections of naked consciousness. And so subtle has been the dissecting -work that there has been no disarrangement and no death. All is -still living, still functioning. And your sensation of strangeness, almost of -horror, is born out of revulsion against a self-consciousness so intense as -to seem almost morbid. “I feel,” said a friend of mine, “as if I had been -vivisected.” Not so much this as that one has been vivisecting. Przybyszewski -compels you to co-operate with him in analysing psychological phenomena. -At moments you lift your eyes from the page, panting, almost -physically exhausted from the effort of concentrating on those tortuous, -subtle reactions which occur in the farthest recesses of consciousness and -spread upward in waves to the surface, where they often take on curious -irrelevant expression. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-26" class="pagenum" title="26"></a> -But that is sheer morbidity, cries your friend the Philistine. It is introspection -carried past the point of decency. But to the investigator there -is no point past which it is indecent to press. In him there is no affectation -of scruple to erect its artificial barricade. He must have transcended -all such petty egotism and have depersonalized himself. He is constrained -to this by that curiosity which is his master passion, which generates itself -and is dynamic in him as hunger or sex are dynamic in the ordinary individual. -This curiosity of the artist brooks no bounds, short of the facts -against which it brings up abruptly. And so Przybyszewski for all his uncanny -subtlety cannot be accused of morbidity since he uses it not to distort -but merely to reveal the truth. If he has no false reverence neither has -he irreverence. His scalpel, always flashing and leaping, pauses a moment -on a state of emotion and, pointing, calls it by name. “For I am I,” says -Falk. “I am a criminal diabolic nature.” Or again: -</p> - -<p> -“And so a certain man is suffering from love induced by auto-suggestion. -Very well. But at the same time he loves his wife unqualifiedly. And -he loves her so much that there can be no doubt of the reality of his love. -In a word he loves both the one and the other.” -</p> - -<p> -But such a condition isn’t possible, the Philistine will cry out, wounded -at his most vulnerable point, his inflexible principles. “A man can’t love two -women at the same time.” This isolated case would undermine the whole -monogamistic theory. He sees one of his cherished institutions tottering. -And so he takes fright and refutes the fact. “It can’t be, it isn’t possible.” -But Przybyszewski continues to stand with the scalpel wearily pointing. -“My dear Sir, this is no question of postulates, it’s a question of an individual -instance. It <em>is</em> possible, because it occurs. Falk <em>does</em> love two women -at the same moment.” And the Philistine will doubtless turn away snorting -furiously and unconvinced. “Przybyszewski,” he will sneer, “that degenerate -Pole, always half drunk with cognac, a Slav to boot. What does he -know of life or reality? They were all neurasthenics. Look at Artzibashev -and Andreyev and Dostoevsky. Yes, let us look at them, and remembering -Dostoevsky’s epilepsy, remember also Raskolnikov. A criminal’s psychology -lifted onto paper out of the limbo regions of consciousness by the mammoth -Russian’s bloody pen. Something more than neurasthenia, this gift of -analysis. -</p> - -<p> -What, finally, is Homo Sapiens? Who is this <a id="corr-10"></a>writer-fellow, Falk, with -no conscience, with his “criminal, diabolic nature?” Does he only exist to -analyse himself, and his tortuous, painful psychologizings? Why is he, -what is he?—He is the self-conscious man, par excellence. This book is -the epic of consciousness. “The thing must be thought out,” says Falk. -And nuance by nuance it is thought out, rapidly but faithfully, under your -very eyes. You are invited,—no, compelled,—to take part in the operation. -Hence your feeling of fatigue. And again, after a page or two, “He examined -his own feelings.” -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-27" class="pagenum" title="27"></a> -“But why a Falk?” the Philistine demands. “Falk is no average man. -He is a genius, and as such his psychology is specialized and distinct. Falk -is a neurasthenic, victim of erotomania. Even his lucidity is not to his credit. -Since he is a writer it is implicit in him, as muscle is in the circus rider. -He is bound to analyse his acts, to trace them back to their motives. Falk -presents an isolated case. If one is going to deal with consciousness why -not choose a less precocious exponent? Why not the everyday consciousness -of the average human being?” -</p> - -<p> -And by the same token, why not a Falk, Mr. Philistine, since we are -agreed that this is a drama of consciousness. Of what use is the average -man in this extremity? The artist is the Homo Sapiens par excellence, for -it is in him that consciousness has reached its most complex differentiation. -“I am,” says Falk, “what they call a highly differentiated individual. I -have, combined in me, everything—design, ambition, sincerity of knowledge -and ignorance, falsehood and truth. A thousand heavens, a thousand -worlds are in me.” And recognizing this fact he wrestles with it through -some four hundred odd pages. That Falk loved two women, or ten women, -is not only possible, but probably inevitable. What in the average man -is a temperate reaching out for a few specific joys becomes in a Falk the -impulse of his whole being for self-expression. It bursts out along a thousand -channels, requiring as many outward aspects as there are sources in -his personality. And it is this devious stream of a human consciousness -that we are following outward to its expression in words or acts, and backward -to its source, as we dissect with Przybyszewski Falk’s mental protoplasm. -</p> - -<p> -“Futile,” sneers the Philistine, “utterly futile. If that is a Homo -Sapiens, give me a subman. Your Falk knew no happiness and he gave -none. He only strewed suffering in his wake both for himself and others. -He was without scruples and without conscience. Where did he get to -with all his differentiation? He wrote a few books, to be sure, but what -were they in the scale of the women he ruined, the men he did to death? -Even of his own misery? His gift of introspection was a sharp knife turned -against himself, since he cried out in the end: ‘to be chemically purified of -all thoughts.’ Homo Sapiens indeed!” -</p> - -<p> -You can see Przybyszewski wearily twisting the scalpel in his nerveless -hands, you can see the smile that twists his lips just before they curve -about the waiting cognac glass. “No, he was not happy, it is true he did -strew misery in his wake. He was neurasthenic and degenerate and criminal. -He was all these things and all the other things which you have forgotten -or never perceived. For he was Homo Sapiens. And such as he is -I have drawn him. Ha, ha—Vive l’Humanité!” -</p> - -<hr class="footnote" /> - -<p class="footnote"> -<a class="footnote" href="#fnote-1" id="footnote-1">[1]</a> <em>Homo Sapiens, by Stanislaw Przybyszewski. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.</em> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THESPRINGRECITAL"> -<a id="page-28" class="pagenum" title="28"></a> -The Spring Recital -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="aut"> -<span class="smallcaps">Theodore Dreiser</span> -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="SCENE"> -SCENE: -</h3> - -<p class="dir"> -A prosperous First Church in the heart of a great city. Outside the -city’s principle avenue, along which busses and vehicles of all descriptions -are rolling. Surrounding the church a graveyard, heavily shaded with trees, -the branches of which reach to the open windows bearing soft odours. Over -the graves many full blown blossoms, and in the sky a full May moon. An -idling sense of spring in the gait and gestures of the pedestrians. In front -of the church hangs a small lighted cross, and under it swings the sign -“Organ Recital, 8:30, Wilmuth Tabor, Organist.” The doors giving into -the church are open. The interior, save for the presence of a caretaker in -a chair, is empty. On either side of the pulpit, below a great dark rose window, -burns a partially lighted electrolier. In the organ loft, over the street -doors, a single light. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">First Street Boy</span> (<span class="dir">to his companion, ambling to discover what the -world contains, and glancing in as they pass</span>). Gee! Who’d wanta go to -church on a night like this? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Second Street Boy.</span> I should say! Didjah see the old guy with the -whiskers sitten’ inside? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">First Street Boy.</span> Sure. A swell job, eh? (<span class="dir">Their attention is attracted -by an automobile spinning in the opposite direction, and they pass -on</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">An Old Lady</span> (<span class="dir">to her middle-aged daughter, on whose arm she is leaning -... sympathetically and reminiscently</span>). The dear old First Church! -What a pity its parishioners have all moved away. I don’t suppose the -younger generation cares much for church going anymore. People are so -irreligious these days. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Daughter.</span> Poor Mr. Tabor. I went to one of his concerts in -the winter and there were scarcely forty people there. And he plays so -heavenly, too. I don’t suppose the average person cares much for organ -music. -</p> - -<p> -(<span class="dir">They pass with but a glance at the interior.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">A Belated Shoe Clerk</span> (<span class="dir">hurrying to reach Hagan’s Olio Moving Picture -and Vaudeville Theatre before the curtain rises, but conscious that he -ought to pay some attention to the higher phases of culture, turning to the -old door-keeper</span>). When does this concert begin? -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-29" class="pagenum" title="29"></a> -<span class="smallcaps">The Old Door-keeper</span> (<span class="dir">heavily</span>). Half past eight. (<span class="dir">He glances at -the sign hanging over the youth’s head.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Belated Shoe Clerk.</span> Do they have them every Wednesday -night? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Old Door-keeper.</span> Every Wednesday. (<span class="dir">The Clerk departs, and -the old man scratches his head.</span>) They often ask, but they don’t come in. -(<span class="dir">He shifts to a more comfortable position in his chair.</span>) I see no use to -playin’ to five or six people week in and week out all summer long. Still, -if they want to do it they have the money. It looks like a good waste of -light to me. -</p> - -<p> -(<span class="dir">Mrs. Pence and Mrs. Stillwater, two neighbors of the immediate vicinity, -enter the church door.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Mrs. Pence</span> (<span class="dir">a heavy pasty faced woman in white lawn, lowering her -voice to a religious whisper as they enter</span>). Yes, I like to come here now -and then. I don’t know much about music but the organ is so soothing. -We had a parlor organ when I was a little girl and I learned to play on that. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Mrs. Stillwater</span> (<span class="dir">short, blonde, and of a romantic turn, but with three -grown sons</span>). I just think the organ is the loveliest of all instruments. It’s -so rich and deep. Isn’t it dim here? So romantic! I love an old church. -(<span class="dir">They seat themselves in a pew.</span>) I don’t suppose people want much light -when they hear music. See the moonlight in that window over there, isn’t -it lovely? -</p> - -<p> -(<span class="dir">A pair of lovers enter.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Boy.</span> I’ve heard of him. He’s a well-known organist. I love -Grieg. I wish he would play the Nocturne in G Minor. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Girl.</span> Oh yes, or <a id="corr-12"></a>Solveig’s Lied. Isn’t it dim here. -</p> - -<p> -(<span class="dir">They enter a pew in the most remote corner. She squeezes his hand -and he returns the pressure.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist</span> (<span class="dir">a pessimistic musician of fifty, entering and climbing -slowly to the organ loft. As he does so he surveys the empty auditorium -gloomily.</span>) Only four people! (<span class="dir">He turns on the bracket lights, uncovers -the keys, and adjusts the sheets of his programme before him. Surveying -himself in the mirror, and then examining the opening bars of The Toccata -and Fugue in D by Bach, he pulls out various stops and looks into the dim, -empty auditorium once more.</span>) What a night! And me playing in this -dim, empty church. It’s bad enough to be getting along in years and have -no particular following, but this church! All society and wealth away to -the sea shore and the mountains and me here. Ah, well (<span class="dir">he sighs</span>). Worse -and worse times still succeed the former. (<span class="dir">He sounds a faint tremolo to -test the air pressure. Finding all satisfactory, and noting the hour by his -watch, which stands at eight-thirty, he begins the Overture to “The Magic -Flute,” this being a purely secular programme</span>). -</p> - -<p> -(<span class="dir">Enter through a north window, open even with the floor of the organ -loft, a horned fawn, with gay white teeth grimacing as he comes, begins<em> -<a id="page-30" class="pagenum" title="30"></a> -</em>pirouetting. He carries a kex on which he attempts to imitate the lovely -piping of the overture</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Fawn</span> (<span class="dir">prancing lightly here and there</span>). Tra aa ala-lala! Ah, -tra-la-la, Ah, tra-la-la! Tra-la-leee! Tra-la-leee! Very excellent! Very -nice! (<span class="dir">He grins from ear to ear and espying the church cat, a huge yellow -tom who is mousing about, gives a spirited kick in its direction</span>). Dancing’s -the thing! Life is better than death, thin shade that I am! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Cat</span> (<span class="dir">arching his back and raising his fur</span>). Pfhs-s-st! Pfhs-s-st! -</p> - -<p> -(<span class="dir">The fawn pirouettes nearer, indicating a desire to dance with it, whereupon -the cat retreats into a corner under the organ</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Fawn.</span> Ky-ey-ey! You silly dolt! (<span class="dir">Kicks and spins away</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist</span> (<span class="dir">noticing the spit-fire attitude of the cat</span>). He seems -to see something. What the deuce has got into him, now? I wonder -whether cats do see anything when they act like that. (<span class="dir">He drifts into a -frail dance harmony, yielding to the seduction of it and closing his eyes</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Boy Lover.</span> Wonderful! So delicately gay and sad! It’s just -like flowers blooming in the night, isn’t it? (<span class="dir">His sweetheart squeezes his -hand and moves closer</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Six Hama-dryads</span> (<span class="dir">sweeping in from the trees and circling about, -wreath-wise under the groined arches of the ceiling. They are a pale, -ethereal company, suiting their movements to the melody and its variations</span>). -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Arch of church or arch of trees,</p> - <p class="verse">Built of stone or built of air,</p> - <p class="verse">Spirits floating on a breeze,</p> - <p class="verse">Dancing gayly anywhere.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Out of lilac, out of oak,</p> - <p class="verse">Hard by asphodel and rose,</p> - <p class="verse">Never time when music spoke</p> - <p class="verse">But a dryad fled repose.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Weaving, turning, high and low</p> - <p class="verse">Where the purpled rhythms fall,</p> - <p class="verse">Where the plangent pipings call,</p> - <p class="verse">Round and round and round we go.</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Fawn</span> (<span class="dir">dancing forward and about them</span>). I can dance! Let -me dance! (<span class="dir">He grins in the face of one</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Hama-dryads.</span> Go away! Don’t bother! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Cat</span> (<span class="dir">prowling under the organ</span>). I saw a mouse peeping out -of that hole just now. Wait! (<span class="dir">He crouches very low, ready to spring</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist</span> (<span class="dir">dreamily</span>). This passage always makes me think of -moonlight on open fields and the spicy damp breath of a dark dewy wood, -<a id="page-31" class="pagenum" title="31"></a> -and of lilacs blowing over a wall, too. So suitable, but I would rather live -than play. (<span class="dir">He sighs. A gloomy ghost with sharp green eyes enters from -the sacristy, and pauses in the dark angle of the wall</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Ghost</span> (<span class="dir">a barrel house bum a dozen years dead, and still enamored -of the earth</span>). What’s doing here, I wonder? (<span class="dir">He stares</span>). A lot of fools -dancing. (<span class="dir">Turns and departs</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Girl.</span> Oh Sweetheart, isn’t it perfect. (<span class="dir">She lays her head on -his shoulder</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Boy.</span> Darling! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Cat</span> (<span class="dir">springing</span>). There! I almost caught him. (<span class="dir">Peers into -the hole</span>). Just the same, I know where he is now. (<span class="dir">He strolls off with an -air of undefeated indifference</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist</span> (<span class="dir">missing a note</span>). This finale isn’t so easy. And I -don’t like it as well, either. I always stumble in the allegro. (<span class="dir">He wipes -his brow, improvises a few bars, <a id="corr-15"></a>interpolating also a small portion of the -triumphal march from “Aida”</span>). This is different. I can do it better. -(<span class="dir">He begins upon the Grail motif from “Parsifal”</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Mrs. Stillwater</span> (<span class="dir">shifting her arm and moving her knee</span>). I never like -loud music as well as the softer kind. That middle part was beautiful. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Mrs. Pence.</span> Well, I can’t say I like loud music, either, but now -this— -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -(<span class="dir">The Hama-dryads cease dancing and drift out of the window, followed -by the fawn. An English minister, once of St. Giles, Circenster, who -died in 1631, a monk of the Thebaid, A. D. 300, and three priests of Isis, -B. C. 2840, enter, each independently of the others. On detecting the odour -of reverence they visualize themselves to themselves as servitors of their -respective earthly religions—the Egyptians in their winged hoods, the monk -of the Thebaid in his high pointed cowl, the Rector of St. Giles in his -broad-brimmed hat with the high conical crown, knee-length coat, and -heavy, silver-buttoned shoes.</span>) -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister</span> (<span class="dir">to himself</span>). An unhappy costume, yet it is all that -identifies me with my former earthly self, or with life. (<span class="dir">He notes the -Egyptians and the monk, but pays no attention to them for the moment</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">First Priest of Isis</span> (<span class="dir">to his brothers</span>). A house of worship. How the -awe of man persists. I thought I detected the rhythm of melody here. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Second Priest</span> (<span class="dir">tall and severely garbed, yet in the rich colors of his -order</span>). And I. It is melody. I feel the waves. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Third Priest</span> (<span class="dir">signing in the direction of the organist</span>). There is -the musician. He is arranging something. And here is a very present -reminder of one of our earthly stupidities. We worshiped the forerunner -of that in our day. (<span class="dir">He motions to the church cat who strolls by with -great dignity. They smile</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Cat</span> (<span class="dir">surveying them with indifferent eyes</span>). At least I am alive. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="page-32" class="pagenum" title="32"></a> -<span class="smallcaps">First Priest</span> (<span class="dir">a master of astrology</span>). Small comfort. You will be -dead within the year. I see the rock that ends you. Then no more airs -for you. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk of the Thebaid</span> (<span class="dir">to himself</span>). This is a religious edifice—heavily -material and of small pomp—christian, possibly. That spirit -yonder (<span class="dir">he surveys the minister of St. Giles</span>) was also a priest of sorts, I -take it, and these three Egyptians—how they strut! They give themselves <a id="corr-17"></a>airs -because of the thin memory of them and of their rites that endures in the -world. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister of St. Giles</span> (<span class="dir">surveying the monk</span>). A sombre flagellant. -I wonder has he outgrown his earthly illusion. (<span class="dir">He approaches</span>). -Brother, do I not meet an emancipated spirit? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk.</span> You do. Centuries of observation have taught me what -earthly search could not. I smile at the folly of this. (<span class="dir">He waves an -inclusive hand about him</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister.</span> And I, I also—though I was of stern faith in my -day, and of this very creed—even now I suspect some discoverable power -worthy of worship. My mere persistence causes me to wonder though -it does not explain itself. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk.</span> Nor does mine to me, nor the persistence of their seeming -reality to them. (<span class="dir">He points through the transparent walls of the church -to where outside moving streams of shadows—automobiles, belated wagons, -and pedestrians are to be seen—and to the lovers</span>). Yet there is no answer. -They have their faith, futile as it is. A greater darkness has fallen on you -and me. Endless persistence for us if we must, let us say, but merging -at last into what? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister.</span> And when I died I imagined I should meet my maker -face to face. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk</span> (<span class="dir">smiling</span>). And I the same. And they,—(<span class="dir">he nods toward -the Egyptians</span>),—their gods were as real to them,—shadows all, of the -unknowable. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist</span> (<span class="dir">plunging into the sub-theme which speedily dies off -into unfathomable mysteries of dark notes and tones</span>). I wonder if I’m -boring them by this heavy stuff. Still what do I care. There are only -four. (<span class="dir">Nevertheless he fuses the Grail motif to the dance of the flower -maidens</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Boy.</span> Isn’t it lovely! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Girl.</span> Perfect! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist.</span> Lovely and very difficult. These pedals are working -rather stiffly,—and that automobile has to honk just now. (<span class="dir">He fingers -lightly three notes of a major key indicative of woodland echoes and faint -bird notes. Re-enter the barrel house bum who is seeking anything that -will amuse him</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Bum.</span> Still playing! And there are those two old stuffs of -women. Not an idea between ’em. (<span class="dir">He turns to go but catches sight of<em> -<a id="page-33" class="pagenum" title="33"></a> -</em>the monk and the Egyptians. Pauses, and then turns back</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk.</span> Soothing harmonies these! More strange combinations, -the reason for which we cannot guess, the joy and beauty of which we -know. I find earthly harmonies very grateful. But then, why? -</p> - -<p> -(<span class="dir">He and the priest forget their <a id="corr-18"></a>quondam materiality for a moment and -disappear from sight; recovering themselves as shadows only by thinking</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Bum</span> (<span class="dir">staring interrogatively and irritatingly at the monk and the -Egyptians, who, however, pay not the slightest attention to him</span>). You -thought you knew somepin’ when you were alive, didn’jah? You thought -you were smart, huh? You thought you’d find out somepin’ when yuh died, -huh? Well, yuh got fooled didn’jah? You’re like all the other stuffs that -walk about and think they know a lot. Yuh got left. Har! Har! Har! -(<span class="dir">He chortles vibrantly</span>). I know as much as you fellers, and I’ve only been -dead a dozen years. There aint no answer! Har! Har! Har! There -aint no answer! An’ here you are floatin’ aroun’ in them things! (<span class="dir">He -indicates their dress</span>). Oh, ho, ho ho! (<span class="dir">He grins maliciously and executes -a crude clog step</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk</span> (<span class="dir">repugnantly and pulling his cowl aside</span>). Away, vile -creature—unregenerate soul! Has even the nothingness of materiality -taught you nothing? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Bum</span> (<span class="dir">straightening up and leering</span>). Who’s vile? What’s vile? -(<span class="dir">He thinks to become obstreperous but recalling his nothingness grins -contemptuously</span>). You think you’re still a monk, don’cha? You think you’re -good—better’n anybody else. Whatcha got to be good about? Oh ho, ho, -ho, ho! Ah har, har, har, har! He thinks he’s still a monk— -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">First Egyptian</span> (<span class="dir">to the monk sympathetically</span>). Come away, friend. -Leave him to his illusions. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Second Egyptian.</span> Time alone can point out the folly of his mood. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister of St. Giles</span> (<span class="dir">drawing near and scowling at the Bum</span>). -Out, sot. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Bum</span> (<span class="dir">defiantly and yet indifferently</span>). Who’s a sot? An’ where’s -out? Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist</span> (<span class="dir">passing into the finale</span>). And this is even more beautiful. -It suggests graves and shrines—and fawns dancing. But I don’t -propose to play long for four people. -</p> - -<p class="dir"> -(<span class="dir">A troup of fawns and nymphs dance in, pursuing and eluding each -other. The six Hama-dryads return, weaving and turning in diaphanous -line. A passing cloud of hags and wastrels, the worst of the earth lovers, -enticed by the gaiety of sound, enter and fill the arches and the vacant -spaces for the moment, skipping about in wild hilarity. The Bum joins -them, dancing deliriously. Persistances of fish and birds and animals, -attracted by the rhythm which is both colour and harmony to them, turn -and weave among the others. Ancient and new dead of every clime, enamored -of the earth life and wandering idly, enter. A tired pedestrian of -<a id="page-34" class="pagenum" title="34"></a> -forty, an architect, strolling for the air and hearing the melody, enters. -After him come spirits of the streets—a doctor and two artisans, newly -dead, wondering at the sound</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister of St. Giles</span> (<span class="dir">noting the flood of hags and wastrels</span>). -And these are horrible presences! Succubi! Will they never get enough of -materiality? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk.</span> In my day the Thebaid was alive with them—the scum -of Rome and Alexandria, annoying us holy men at our devotions. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister.</span> Do you still identify yourself with earthly beliefs? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk.</span> A phase! A phase! In the presence and thought of -materiality I seem to partake of it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The First Egyptian.</span> And I! A sound observation! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Third Egyptian.</span> The lure of life! It has never lost its charm -for me. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister</span> (<span class="dir">to himself</span>). Nor for me. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Fawn</span> (<span class="dir">cavorting near, his <a id="corr-21"></a>kex to his lips, piping vigorously</span>). -Heavy dolts! Little they know of joy except to stare at it. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister</span> (<span class="dir">indicating the fawn</span>). And this animal—to profane -a temple! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Monk</span> (<span class="dir">mischievously</span>). And do you still cling to earthly notions -of sanctity? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Minister.</span> I hold as I have said, that there must be some power -that explains us. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Twelve Hama-dryads</span> (<span class="dir">dancing and singing</span>): -</p> - -<div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Round and round a dozen times,</p> - <p class="verse">Three times up and three times down,</p> - <p class="verse">Catch a shadow circlewise,</p> - <p class="verse">Fill it full of thistledown.</p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Fill it up and then away—</p> - <p class="verse">How can stupid mortals know</p> - <p class="verse">All the gladness of our play—</p> - <p class="verse">Where the dew wet odours blow,</p> - <p class="verse">Round and round and round we go!</p> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -<span class="smallcaps">The Bum</span> (<span class="dir">spinning near</span>). This is glorious! Gee! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">First Egyptian</span> (<span class="dir">unconscious of anything save the charm of the -rhythm</span>). Sweet vibrations these. But not our ancient harmonies. In -our time they were different. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Second Egyptian.</span> Our day! Our day! Endless memories of days. -Oh, for an hour of sealed illusion! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Boy Lover.</span> Isn’t it perfect! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Girl.</span> Divine! It’s like a dream and I want to cry. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Third Egyptian.</span> The harmony! The harmony! (<span class="dir">He points<em> -<a id="page-35" class="pagenum" title="35"></a> -</em>to the boy and girl. The three approach and stand before the lovers, viewing -them with envious eyes</span>). In ancient Egypt—on the banks of the Nile—how -keen was this thrill of existence. How much greater is their reality -than ours. And all because of their faith in it. -</p> - -<p> -(<span class="dir">The minister and the monk approach</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist</span> (<span class="dir">finishing with a flourish</span>). Well, there’s the end of -my work tonight. (<span class="dir">He closes various stops, begins to gather up his music -and turn out the lights. The dryads and nymphs flood out of the windows, -followed by the fawns, the hags, and the wastrels. The green-eyed bum -starts to go, but pauses, looking back wistfully. The Egyptians, fading from -their presence as such, appear only as pale flames of blue</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Mrs. Stillwater.</span> Now that was lovely, wasn’t it? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Mrs. Pence.</span> Charming, very charming! -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Boy.</span> Don’t you love Wagner? -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Girl.</span> I do! I do! (<span class="dir">In the shadows they embrace and kiss</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Organist</span> (<span class="dir">wearily as he bustles down the stairs</span>). Why should -I play any more for four people? It is nine o’clock. A half hour is enough. -At least I can find a little comfort at the Crystal Garden. (<span class="dir">He thinks of -an immense beer place, and shrugs his shoulders the while. The old doorman, -hearing him go out, prepares to put out the lights</span>). -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Mrs. Stillwater</span> (<span class="dir">rising</span>). I do believe it’s over. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">Mrs. Pence.</span> Well, there are so few you can scarcely blame him. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Bum</span> (<span class="dir">gloomily</span>). Now I gotta find somepin’ else. -</p> - -<p> -<span class="smallcaps">The Church Cat</span> (<span class="dir">prowling toward the organ loft in the dark of the -closed church</span>). Now for one more try at that mouse. -</p> - -<p class="center"> -<span class="smallcaps">Finis.</span> -</p> - -<div class="editorials chapter"> -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="editorials" id="EDITORIALS"> -Editorials and Announcement -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="POWYSATTHEHEBREWINSTITUTE"> -<em>Powys at the Hebrew Institute</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">O</span><span class="postfirstchar">n</span> <a href="#page-43">page 43</a> there is announcement of a series of lectures by -John Cowper Powys. I can hear him now on the philosophical -basis of democracy: “My dear friends, the philosophical -basis of democracy is individualism”! As to the Nietzsche and -Dostoevsky lecture, you may count upon it being one of the memorable -occasions of your life. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THEFOREIGNERINAMERICA"> -<a id="page-36" class="pagenum" title="36"></a> -<em>The Foreigner in America</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">M</span><span class="postfirstchar">ary</span> Antin is talking all through the country of the wonderful -things America does for the foreigner. These things -are not true. -</p> - -<p> -I went the other night to an affair given by a Norwegian -woman and her husband before a gathering of Chicago’s representative -intellectuals. The woman was Borgny Hammer, an -actress of tremendous power from the National Theatre, Christiania. -Mme. Hammer plays Ibsen so well that there is not much chance -of her playing it very often. On this particular evening she gave -some Björnson things and talked with naive fervor of Norway as -compared with this commercialized land. Her intensity was so -authentic and so beautiful and so moving that it became almost -pitiable in that stiff, self-contained room. Mme. Hammer could be -playing <em>Ghosts</em> and <em>Master Builder</em> and <em>Beyond Human Power</em>, -could be giving nightly inspiration to thousands of unimaginative -Americans if America <a id="corr-22"></a>was able to offer the foreigner one tenth -of what the foreigner brings to America. -</p> - -<p> -Not long ago the Hebrew Institute of Chicago refused its -platform to Alexander Berkman who was to speak there on the -Schmidt and Caplan case. Some one who sympathized with the -action of the directors explained to me that it was a wise move -on their part because the foreigners, especially the Russian Jews, -are so easily inflamed. Thank heaven they are! If only something -could be done to inflame the American. Well—there is -always the flag.... -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="THERUSSIANCLASS"> -<em>The Russian Class</em> -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">he</span> group for the study of Russian literature will have a preliminary -meeting in room 612 Fine Arts Building on Friday, -January 14, 1916, at 8 p. m. All interested are invited. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEILLUSIONSOFTHEARTSTUDENT"> -<a id="page-37" class="pagenum" title="37"></a> -The Illusions of “The Art Student” -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">here</span> has made its appearance in this city of ours a new magazine, -<em>The Art Student</em>. Its desire, according to the editor’s announcement, -is to “help establish a bond of understanding between the American student -of the allied arts and the public.” -</p> - -<p> -This aim is commendable and deserves the co-operation of everybody -unselfishly interested in the promotion of American art. -</p> - -<p> -The reason for this publication at the present time is also given in -that announcement. It says there: “With all Europe at war and its art -centers crippled, it is not only America’s opportunity, but her duty, to -preserve and promote art in its various forms.” -</p> - -<p> -I am afraid the youthful enthusiasm of <em>The Art Student</em> is the cause -both of this exaggeration as concerns Europe and the illusion as concerns -America. -</p> - -<p> -We have heard much and read more about America’s opportunity -these last fourteen months. First it was the trade fields deserted by the -warring nations in South America and the Orient; then it was the sea -routes closed to the second biggest merchant fleet of the world—the opportunity -for an American merchant marine; and now it is our opportunity -in the field of Art! -</p> - -<p> -What has become of the first illusions of which our papers and magazines -were full? England expanded her commerce in South America, -having forced for the time being her German rival from that field of hottest -competition, and Japan practically monopolized the commerce of China. -England increases her merchant fleet by capering American ships, and the -Pacific Mail retires voluntarily from the Pacific ocean. -</p> - -<p> -That is the result of our boasted opportunity in the realm of trade and -commerce. Why? Because we underestimated others and because we -talked about our own foreign methods instead of changing our own and -acting. -</p> - -<p> -And now in Art we are doing exactly the same thing. We point with -horror to the war that cripples European art and acclaim loudly the superiority -of our civilization. -</p> - -<p> -Gentlemen, you are all wrong. Art is not crippled in Europe through -the war! Inter arma silent musae! The arts are silent, they sleep. -Silence and sleep we all understand are good things. The first helps us -to concentrate and find ourselves, the latter gives us new strength. -</p> - -<p> -And that is the worst that the war does to Art in Europe. Art is at -present less active, a self-imposed inactivity, owing to circumstances; not -crippled, a result of direct unartistic influences. -</p> - -<p> -European Art is free of such crippling influences. Art schools are -<a id="page-38" class="pagenum" title="38"></a> -not run by local millionaires, galleries not governed by rich manufacturers, -academy <a id="corr-23"></a>instructors not selected by wealthy trustees with the sole idea -that their insignificance will insure submittance to the layman rule! -</p> - -<p> -Is Sir Thomas Lipton president of the Royal Academy? No! Is -Herr von Krupp president of the Duesseldorf Academy? No! Do they -make bankers and brewers <a id="corr-24"></a>directors and trustees of art institutions in -Paris or Munich? No! Do they in St. Petersburg or Vienna? No! Do -they in Berlin or Rome? No! Do they in Brussels or Madrid? No! -</p> - -<p> -<em>Do they in America? Yes!</em> -</p> - -<p> -Do they in England, France, Russia, Italy, Germany, or Australia -invite their best painters and sculptors to teach in their academies? Yes! -<em>Do they in America? No!</em> Do they in England, France, Russia, Italy, -Germany, or Austria select these teachers from mediocrities who will be -sure not to revolt against the incompetent decisions of a layman board of -trustees? They don’t! -</p> - -<p> -<em>Do they in America? They do!</em> -</p> - -<p> -What is “city beautiful” in Europe? It is a fact! <em>What is it in -America? It is a “slogan.”</em> -</p> - -<p> -No, gentlemen, you need not be worried about European Art! War is -not inartistic. Money is! A general staff in war time can destroy what -art has created! Our system of millionaire trustees is preventing Art -from creating! -</p> - -<p> -War in Europe can kill artists, it cannot kill art. -</p> - -<p> -In America we kill art and our artists escape to Europe. -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -—<em>Garnerin.</em> -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THETHEATRE"> -The Theatre -</h2> - -</div> - -<h3 class="section" id="GROTESQUES"> -“Grotesques” -</h3> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">C</span><span class="postfirstchar">loyd</span> Head—Maurice Browne: comparatively misty names, far below -the golden monolith at whose base is carefully engraved the word—Granville -Barker. Mr. Barker resurrects Greek tragedies and Shakespeare -plays and produces them acceptably; Cloyd Head and Maurice Browne -have evolved an absolutely new stage method and draped it about a poetic -concept. Therefore Cloyd Head and Maurice Browne will probably be -heralded and worshipped ten years from now, at the earliest. They must -pay the penalty of originality and the ability of appreciating it. -</p> - -<p> -In <em>Grotesques</em> recently produced at the Chicago Little Theatre, for the -first time, actors posed as black and white marionettes in a series of decorations -created by Fate, masquerading as a sardonic artist. The idea of -<a id="page-39" class="pagenum" title="39"></a> -Fate moving human beings together as one shuffles a pack of cards is old. -But the portraying of this shuffling through conventional decorations with -the actors giving the jerking semblance of puppets, and with Fate personified, -directly addressing the audience, is sparklingly new. Capulchard, the -artist, has made a decoration symbolizing the background of life—an utterly -simple picture composed of a conventionalized black and white wave effect, -a black sky, a round white moon, stiff white trees, an owl on one of their -branches, and a lotus-flower. From his marionette boxes at both sides of -the decoration he drags forth his puppets—man motif, woman motif, crone -motif, sprite motif, girl motif, and carelessly waves them into various poses, -the main incidents of their lives. But they gradually become aware of -him, they begin to speak out of their lines, to burst into tiny rebellions -which he controls with difficulty. They show increasing determination to -mar his series of decorations. Finally in a moment of sublime defiance, -headed by the man-motif, they slash their strings. The result—Death. -Capulchard carelessly erases the decoration—it has served its purpose. -</p> - -<p> -I shall probably fully drain <em>Grotesques</em> after slowly reading it again -and again. But even now, Cloyd Head’s huge child whose face is like -the pointed petals of sun-flowers, has aroused a little cluster of reactions -within me. To sharply visualise the play, you need not see the actual -black and white of the decoration, and the über-marionettes who move -stiffly through it. The words of the play themselves are black and white: -you feel them as an inextricable part of the picture: there is something in -their staccato rising and falling that suggests light and darkness evenly -spread upon a canvass. Something in the even placing and sounding of -phrases like this: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Who am I that come,</p> - <p class="verse">Caressing tenderly the sign of bird?</p> - <p class="verse">A Girl, in white, alone, beside the pattern brook.</p> - <p class="verse">I wander without fear, of fear not having heard.</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -It is not easily explained. It is a feeling that can only come to one after -repeated reading of the play. -</p> - -<p> -A second reaction comes to one while loitering with the images in -their jerking procession. Each image, with its absolute minimum of -words, has two clear virtues—the expression of emotion half-human and -half artificial, and the concentration of just enough of this emotion to -produce an illusion of the whole. Consider this speech of the sprite motif: -</p> - -<div class="excerpt"> - <div class="poem-container"> - <div class="poem"> - <div class="stanza"> - <p class="verse">Tiptoe a-tread—thru the wood—by the brook—the sprite enters—oh, ho!</p> - <p class="verse">Dance, crinkled stream!</p> - <p class="verse">Ha; a dragon-fly poised upon air.</p> -<a id="page-40" class="pagenum" title="40"></a> - <p class="verse">(<em>Blows</em>) ... Begone.</p> - <p class="verse">(<em>Reflectively</em>) It is night.</p> - <p class="verse">(<em>Bowing</em>) Madame Owl.</p> - <p class="verse">Hoot! To-whoo!</p> - </div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class="noindent"> -An actual sprite-soul in life would babble, would use more extravagant -phrasing. In this sprite passage, just enough of the babbling and exuberance -has been given, to suggest the essence of it; just enough words have -been given, to suggest the steady motion of the invisible strings. These -qualities run throughout the speeches of all the über-marionettes. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="BOOKDISCUSSION"> -Book Discussion -</h2> - -</div> - -<p class="book"> -<a id="PLAYS"></a><em>Plays for Small Stages, by Mary Aldis. New York: Duffield -and Company.</em> -</p> - -<p class="first"> -<span class="firstchar">T</span><span class="postfirstchar">hese</span> plays are among those acted by the Lake Forest Players, and, -written especially for them, they exemplify certain qualities of drama and -stage-craft which are of special value in amateur production. First of all -they are real in situation. Two of the five, <em>Mrs. Pat and the Law</em> and <em>Extreme -Unction</em>, deal with slum life, but with phases of it which the amateur -can study at first hand, and is, indeed, the better for studying. The juxtaposition -in both types of the submerged tenth and the reachers of helping -hands suggests that the plays have in fact, grown out of such study. The -former sketch is done with a brilliancy of Irish humor and fancy that reminds -the reader of Lady Gregory’s best. The latter is the grim tragedy -of a dying prostitute—a situation relieved first by the mordant irony of the -conventional religious pouncet-box of the well-meaning lady visitor, and -later by the sympathetic imagination of the physician. A third play, <em>The -Drama Class</em>, presents with broad humor an occasion familiar to all uplifters -of the drama in regions which on the “culture map” are lightly shaded—the -discussion of a modern European play by a woman’s club. <em>The Letter</em> -and <em>Temperament</em> represent the maladjustments of monogamy—the one -with tragic emphasis, the other in pure farce. The point should be noted, -however, that all five are plays of situation, static rather than dynamic, expository -and revealing rather than developing—the type most suited to the -dimensions of the one-act play, and made familiar by the playwrights of -the Abbey and Manchester Theatres. As Mrs. Aldis says in her preface, -<a id="page-41" class="pagenum" title="41"></a> -speaking of the general policy of the Lake Forest Players: “In selecting -plays we have departed radically from the amateur tradition of resuscitating -‘plays with a punch,’ which have fared well in the hands of professionals. -In the established tricks of the trade, of course the amateur cannot -compete with the professional.” In writing as well as in selecting plays for -amateur performance Mrs. Aldis has wisely preferred truth of situation to -the “punch.” -</p> - -<p> -In the second place Mrs. Aldis has made her characters speak the language -of life rather than that of the stage. This trait again fits her plays -for amateur production, especially in a small theatre where effects can be -gained without the emphasis of stage talk. Working as she says for a small -stage Mrs. Aldis has been able to reproduce with striking fidelity not only -the vocabulary but the movement, the rhythm, even the intonations of human -speech. This kind of naturalism is of great importance in the drama of -situation. The words in which Mrs. Aldis calls attention to this connection, -and to the possibilities of artistic success in amateur acting depending thereon -might have occurred in Maeterlinck’s essay <em>The Drama in Daily Life</em>. -“We seek,” she says, “plays in which the mental attitude and the interplay -of character are more important than the physical action. Here, if anywhere, -lies the amateur’s opportunity. So we are not afraid of plays with -little action and much talk.... It is in talk, low and intense, gay and -railing, bitter and despairing as the case may be, that we moderns carry -on the drama of life, the foundation of the drama of the stage.” -</p> - -<p class="sign"> -—<em>Robert M. Lovett.</em> -</p> - -<p class="book"> -<a id="STATE"></a><em>The State Forbids: A Play in One Act, by -Sada Cowan. New York: Mitchell Kennerley.</em> -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -The mother speaks: “The State won’t let us women help ourselves. -We <em>must</em> have children whether we want them or not, and then the State -comes and takes them from us. It doesn’t ask. It commands. We’ve got -to give them up. [<em>Shrilly</em>] I’ve got to give my boy. [<em>Again shrilly</em>] What -are we, we women? Just cattle. Breeding animals ... without a voice! -Dumb—powerless! Oh, the State! The State commands! and the State forbids! -Damn the State!” -</p> - -<p> -It is to appear in vaudeville. Like <em>War-Brides</em> it is woman propaganda; -but here the emphasis is on Birth Control. Like <em>War-Brides</em> it is negative -as literature, but the woman speeches make smashing vaudeville. We wonder -whether it is the importance of its idea or its evident value as a thriller -and shocker which prompts its production. -</p> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2 class="article" id="THEREADERCRITIC"> -<a id="page-42" class="pagenum" title="42"></a> -The Reader Critic -</h2> - -</div> - -<div class="letters"> -<p class="from"> -<em>Ben Hecht, Chicago</em>: -</p> - -<p> -I congratulate you on the roseate misconceptions of “Life Itself.” Long live your -fancies—mine didn’t. The perfumes of Araby are short-lived in a slop-jar. -</p> - -<p> -I envy you your dogmatic naïveté until I remember something I thought of long -ago:—that ideals are for the weak; that people who live on fancies starve for lack of -sorrow, shrivel for lack of cynicism, and finally die of inhibition. -</p> - -<p> -I remember, in a discussion on art the other evening, your crying out about “the -eternal standard” and I feeling it was true but not knowing what it meant. I know -now. It meant nothing. It is just another fancy. -</p> - -<p> -<a id="corr-27"></a>Vive la divinité! -</p> - -<p> -Remember what Homo Sapiens discovered: the limitations of the infinite—of -his brain. They are as nothing to the limitations of our Gods. -</p> - -<h3 class="section" id="GODSGARDENTHEWORLD"> -<em>GOD’S GARDEN—THE WORLD</em> -</h3> - -<p class="note"> -(<em>Yes, this still happens. We get hordes of such letters.</em>) -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -I feel sure that at heart your idea of freedom is right, but I do not believe that -you altogether understand how to carry it out. -</p> - -<p> -To get at the bottom of things—you want to be just a natural, normal human -being. You want to live, to grow, to expand like a flower. How then is this most -easily accomplished? Simply this, to be what nature or God or the power back of -the universe intended for you to be. What then is your place in the universe, and -what is your relation to it? You are by God’s grace a woman; then the greatest -thing you can do is to be a woman. But what does it mean to be a woman? To -love, to create, to protect, to uplift, and to purify. What do these words mean? -You can love the out-of-doors, you can love books, music, art, people, all the world, -everything your heart desires. All that you love you can create by writing, by making -things grow, by building and constructing. You can protect by being a mother to -all those weaker than yourself who need your help. You can uplift and purify by -inspiring all you meet with goodness and high ideals. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, you say, but how can I be free to do these things when I am hampered -and bound by conventionalities and surroundings? No one is bound down who knows -that freedom comes from within, not from without. The girl in the factory, the girl -in college, the girl in her own home, or the girl out of doors can be just as free as -she makes up her mind to be. Freedom is not a matter of clothes or environment. -</p> - -<p> -As to conventionalities—most of them have been formed because time and culture -have taught us to have regard for our fellow beings. There is nothing immorally -wrong in a man going to the opera in his shirt sleeves but it might not be agreeable -to the gentleman seated next to him. Then the psychology of the close relationship -between thoughts and actions—free thoughts result in free actions, likewise carelessness -in our habits of daily life make careless thinking. I believe in keeping your -own individuality above all things if you can back up your ideas by good reasons; -but you will find that there is a reason for most conventionalities that can’t be overthrown. -If we were not an integral part of a whole we could do just as we pleased -because no one would be affected and no one would care; but everything we do, -every move we make, affects some part of the whole, and that is why we care and -why everybody cares. -</p> - -<p> -Stick to your idea of freedom and of being natural, but be careful how you -apply it and of its effect on others. Whatever is good and helpful will live and what -is not good will die. -</p> - -<p> -Remember, too, that this is America, 1915, not Greece, B. C. 400. -</p> - -<p> -Do not think I mean to be critical for I love you just the same as I love everybody -and all things in God’s garden, the world, so much so that I want you to fully -understand what it means to be a real woman. -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<p class="h1 u adh"> -WAR LETTERS<br /> -FROM THE LIVING<br /> -DEAD MAN -</p> - -<p class="u c"> -FURTHER COMMUNICATIONS<br /> -FROM “X,” WRITTEN DOWN BY -</p> - -<p class="h2 ada"> -ELSA BARKER -</p> - -<p class="narrow"> -“WHEN I TELL YOU THE STORY OF THIS -WAR AS SEEN FROM ‘THE OTHER SIDE’ -YOU WILL KNOW MORE THAN ALL THE -CHANCELLERIES OF THE NATIONS” -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -MITCHELL KENNERLEY, PUBLISHER, NEW YORK -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-43" class="pagenum" title="43"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -John Cowper Powys -</p> - -<hr class="hr10" /> - -<p class="u c"> -Jan. 5—Dostoevsky and Nietzsche<br /> -Jan. 12—The Philosophical Basis of Democracy<br /> -Jan. 19—Walt Whitman: The Humanist -</p> - -<hr class="hr10" /> - -<p class="u s c"> -At the Chicago Hebrew Institute<br /> -1258 West Taylor Street, near Racine Avenue -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<b>8:30 P. M.</b> <b>Admission, 10 Cents</b> -</p> - -<p class="s c"> -Doors Open at 8 P. 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A remarkable achievement.” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -NEW YORK EVENING SUN: -</p> - -<p> -“The poet had the insight to trust the people with a book of the people and the -people replied ‘Man, what is your name?’ ... He forsakes utterly the claptrap -of pastoral song, classical or modern.... His is soil stuff, not mock bucolics.” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -BOSTON TRANSCRIPT: -</p> - -<p> -“The first poet for half a century to express New England life completely with a -fresh, original and appealing way of his own.” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -BROOKLYN DAILY EAGLE: -</p> - -<p> -“The more you read the more you are held, and when you return a few days later -to look up some passage that has followed you about, the better you find the meat -under the simple unpretentious form. <em>The London Times</em> caught that quality when -it said: ‘Poetry burns up out of it, as when a faint wind breathes upon smouldering -embers.’ ... That is precisely the effect....” -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -REEDY’S MIRROR: -</p> - -<p> -“Genuine poetry, these ‘North of Boston’ tales, they hold one with the grip of a -vivid novel.... I can only refer my readers to ‘North of Boston’ for acquaintance -with what seems to me a fine achievement; such achievement, indeed, as contributes -vitally to the greatness of a country’s most national and significant literature.” -</p> - -<p class="h2 adh"> -A BOY’S WILL <span class="s">Mr. Frost’s First Volume of Poetry</span> -</p> - -<p class="lattr"> -THE ACADEMY (LONDON): -</p> - -<p> -“We have read every line with that amazement and delight which are too seldom -evoked by books of modern verse.” -</p> - - <div class="table"> -<table class="table044" summary=""> -<tbody> - <tr> - <td class="col1">NORTH OF BOSTON.</td> - <td class="col2">Cloth. $1.25 net, 4th printing.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">NORTH OF BOSTON.</td> - <td class="col2">Leather. $2.00 net.</td> - </tr> - <tr> - <td class="col1">A BOY’S WILL.</td> - <td class="col2">Cloth. 75 cents net, 2d printing.</td> - </tr> -</tbody> -</table> - </div> - </div> -<hr /> - -<p class="u fr s ade"> -34 WEST 33d STREET<br /> -NEW YORK -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-45" class="pagenum" title="45"></a> -<p class="h2 adh"> -Any <span class="larger"><span class="underline">Winston</span> Book</span> May Be <span class="larger">Ordered <span class="underline">on Approval</span></span> -</p> - -<p class="c"> -THROUGH YOUR BOOKSELLER OR FROM US DIRECT -</p> - -<p class="narrow"> -Any of the books described below may be ordered from <b>your bookseller</b>, -or <b>from us</b> direct, <b>on approval, all charges prepaid</b>. 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Introduction -by Jack London. “The work is world-literature, as -well as the Gospel of a universal humanism.” Contains the -writings of philosophers, poets, novelists, social reformers, -selected from twenty-five languages, covering a period of five -thousand years. Inspiring to every thinking man and woman; -a handbook of reference to all students of social conditions. -955 pages, including 32 illustrations. <b>Cloth Binding</b>, vellum -cloth, price very low for so large a book. Send $2.00. -<b>Three-quarter Leather Binding</b>, a handsome and durable -library style, specially suitable for presentation. Send $3.50. -</p> - -<p> -<b>MY CHILDHOOD.</b> By Maxim Gorky. The autobiography -of the famous Russian novelist up to his seventeenth year. -An astounding human document and an explanation (perhaps -unconscious) of the Russian national character. Frontispiece -portrait. 8vo. 308 pages. $2.00 net, postage 10 cents. -(Ready Oct. 14). -</p> - -<p> -<b>SCHOOLS OF TOMORROW.</b> By John Dewey and Evelyn -Dewey. The most significant and informing study of educational -conditions that has appeared in twenty years. This -is a day of change and experiment in education. The schools -of yesterday that were designed to meet yesterday’s needs do -not fit the requirements of today, and everywhere thoughtful -people are recognizing this fact and working out theories -and trying experiments. $1.60 postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>AFFIRMATIONS.</b> By Havelock Ellis. A discussion of -some of the fundamental questions of life and morality as -expressed in, or suggested by, literature. The subjects of the -five studies are Nietzsche, Zola, Huysmans, Casanova and St. -Francis of Assisi. Send $1.87. -</p> - -<p class="h4 adh"> -LITERATURE -</p> - -<p> -<b>COMPLETE WORKS.</b> Maurice Maeterlinck. The Essays, -10 vols., per vol., net $1.75. The Plays, 8 vols., per vol., -net $1.50. Poems, 1 vol., net $1.50. Volumes sold separately. -In uniform style, 19 volumes. Limp green leather, flexible -cover, thin paper, gilt top, 12mo. Postage added. -</p> - -<p> -<b>INTERPRETATIONS OF LITERATURE.</b> By Lafcadio -Hearn. A remarkable work. Lafcadio Hearn became as -nearly Japanese as an Occidental can become. English literature -is interpreted from a new angle in this book. Send -$6.50. -</p> - -<p> -<b>BERNARD SHAW: A Critical Study.</b> By P. P. Howe. -Send $2.15. -</p> - -<p> -<b>MAURICE MAETERLINCK: A Critical Study.</b> By Una -Taylor. 8vo. Send $2.15. -</p> - -<p> -<b>W. B. YEATS: A Critical Study.</b> By Forest Reid. Send -$2.15. -</p> - -<p> -<b>DEAD SOULS.</b> Nikolai Gogol’s great humorous classic -translated from the Russian. Send $1.25. -</p> - -<p> -<b>ENJOYMENT OF POETRY.</b> By Max Eastman. “His -book is a masterpiece,” says J. B. 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Jacob -Stahl, writer and weakling, splendidly finds himself in the -love of a superb woman. Send $1.45. The Jacob Stahl -trilogy: “The Early History of Jacob Stahl,” “A Candidate -for Truth,” “The Invisible Event.” Three volumes, boxed. -Send $2.75. -</p> - -<p> -<b>OSCAR WILDE’S WORKS.</b> Ravenna edition. Red limp -leather. Sold separately. The books are: The Picture of -Dorian Gray, Lord Arthur Saville’s Crime, and the Portrait -of Mr. W. H., The Duchess of Padua, Poems (including -“The Sphinx,” “The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” and Uncollected -Pieces), Lady Windermere’s Fan, A Woman of No -Importance, An Ideal Husband, The Importance of Being -Earnest, A House of Pomegranates, Intentions, De Profundis -and Prison Letters, Essays (“Historical Criticism,” “English -Renaissance,” “London Models,” “Poems in Prose”), Salome, -La Sainte Courtisane. Send $1.35 for each book. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE RAT-PIT.</b> By Patrick MacGill. 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The scene is a little Swedish village whose inhabitants -are bound in age-old custom and are asleep in -their narrow provincial life. The story tells of their awakening, -of the tremendous social and religious upheaval that -takes place among them, and of the heights of self-sacrifice -to which they mount. Send $1.45. -</p> - -<p> -<b>BREAKING-POINT.</b> By Michael Artzibashef. A comprehensive -picture of modern Russian life by the author of -“Sanine.” Send $1.35. -</p> - -<p> -<b>RUSSIAN SILHOUETTES.</b> By Anton Tchekoff. Translated -by Marian Fell. Stories which reveal the Russian -mind, nature and civilization. Send $1.47. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE FREELANDS.</b> By John Galsworthy. Gives a large -and vivid presentation of English life under the stress of -modern social conflict, centering upon a romance of boy-and-girl -love—that theme in which Galsworthy excels all -his contemporaries. Send $1.45. -</p> - -<p> -<b>FIDELITY.</b> Susan Glaspell’s greatest novel. The author -calls it “The story of a woman’s love—of what that love -impels her to do—what it makes of her.” Send $1.45. -</p> - -<p> -<b>FOMA GORDEYEFF.</b> By Maxim Gorky. Send $1.10. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE RAGGED-TROUSERED PHILANTHROPIST.</b> By -Robert Tressall. A masterpiece of realism by a Socialist -for Socialists—and others. Send $1.35. -</p> - -<p> -<b>RED FLEECE.</b> By Will Levington Comfort. A story of the -Russian revolutionists and the proletariat in general in the -Great War, and how they risk execution by preaching peace -even in the trenches. Exciting, understanding, and everlastingly -true; for Comfort himself is soldier and revolutionist as -well as artist. He is our American Artsibacheff; one of -the very few American masters of the “new fiction.” Send -$1.35. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE STAR ROVER.</b> By Jack London. Frontispiece in -colors by Jay Hambidge. A man unjustly accused of murder -is sentenced to imprisonment and finally sent to execution, -but proves the supremacy of mind over matter by succeeding, -after long practice, in loosing his spirit from his -body and sending it on long quests through the universe, -finally cheating the gallows in this way. Send $1.60. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT.</b> By H. G. Wells. Tells -the story of the life of one man, with its many complications -with the lives of others, both men and women of varied -station, and his wanderings over many parts of the globe in -his search for the best and noblest kind of life. $1.60, -postpaid. -</p> - -<p class="h4 adh"> -SEXOLOGY -</p> - -<p> -Here is the great sex book of the day: Forel’s <b>THE -SEXUAL QUESTION</b>. A scientific, psychological, hygienic, -legal and sociological work for the cultured classes. By -Europe’s foremost nerve specialist. Chapter on “love and -other irradiations of the sexual appetite” a profound revelation -of human emotions. Degeneracy exposed. Birth control -discussed. Should be in the hands of all dealing with -domestic relations. Medical edition $5.50. Same book, -cheaper binding, now $1.60. -</p> - -<p> -Painful childbirth in this age of scientific progress is unnecessary. -<b>THE TRUTH ABOUT TWILIGHT SLEEP</b>, by -Hanna Rion (Mrs. Ver Beck), is a message to mothers by -an American mother, presenting with authority and deep -human interest the impartial and conclusive evidence of a -personal investigation of the Freiburg method of painless -childbirth. Send $1.62. -</p> - -<p> -<b>FREUD’S THEORIES OF THE NEUROSES.</b> By Dr. E. -Hitschmann. A brief and clear summary of Freud’s theories. -Price, $2. -</p> - -<p> -<b>PLAIN FACTS ABOUT A GREAT EVIL.</b> By Christobel -Pankhurst. One of the strongest and frankest books ever -written, depicting the dangers of promiscuity in men. 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Gives in outline a general musical education, -the evolution and history of music, the lives and -works of the great composers, the various musical forms and -their analysis, the instruments and their use, and several -special topics. $3.75, postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>MODERN PAINTING: ITS TENDENCY AND MEANING.</b> -By Willard Huntington Wright, author of “What Nietzsche -Taught,” etc. Four color plates and 24 illustrations. “Modern -Painting” gives—for the first time in any language—a -clear, compact review of all the important activities of -modern art which began with Delacroix and ended only with -the war. Send $2.75. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI.</b> By A. J. -Anderson. Photogravure frontispiece and 16 illustrations in -half-tone. Sets forth the great artist as a man so profoundly -interested in and closely allied with every movement -of his age that he might be called an incarnation of the -Renaissance. $3.95, postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE COLOUR OF PARIS.</b> By Lucien Descaves. Large -8vo. New edition, with 60 illustrations printed in four -colors from paintings by the Japanese artist, Yoshio Markino. -By the members of the Academy Goncourt under the general -editorship of M. Lucien Descaves. Send $3.30. -</p> - -<p class="h4 adh"> -SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY -</p> - -<p> -<b>CAUSES AND CURES OF CRIME.</b> A popular study of -criminology from the bio-social viewpoint. By Thomas Speed -Mosby, former Pardon Attorney, State of Missouri, member -American Institute of Criminal Law and Criminology, etc. -356 pages, with 100 original illustrations. Price, $2.15, -postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE PSYCHOLOGY OF RELAXATION.</b> By G. T. W. -Patrick. A notable and unusually interesting volume -explaining the importance of sports, laughter, profanity, the -use of alcohol and even war as furnishing needed relaxation -to the higher nerve centres. Send 88c. -</p> - -<p> -<b>PSYCHOLOGY OF THE UNCONSCIOUS.</b> By Dr. C. G. -Jung, of the University of Zurich. Translated by Beatrice -M. Hinkle, M.D., of the Neurological Department of Cornell -University and the New York Post-Graduate Medical -School. This remarkable work does for psychology what the -theory of evolution did for biology; and promises an equally -profound change in the thought of mankind. A very important -book. Large 8vo. Send $4.40. -</p> - -<p> -<b>SOCIALIZED GERMANY.</b> By Frederic C. Howe, author -of “The Modern City and Its Problems,” etc., etc.; Commissioner -of Immigration at the Port of New York. “The real -peril to the other powers of western civilization lies in the -fact that Germany is more intelligently organized than the -rest of the world.” This book is a frank attempt to explain -this efficiency. $1.00, postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>SCIENTIFIC INVENTIONS OF TODAY.</b> Illustrated. By -T. W. Corbin. The modern uses of explosives, electricity, -and the most interesting kinds of chemicals are revealed to -young and old. Send $1.60. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE HUNTING WASPS.</b> By J. Henri Fabre. 12mo. -Bound in uniform style with the other books by the same -author. In the same exquisite vein as “The Life of the -Spider,” “The Life of the Fly,” etc. Send $1.60. -</p> - -<p> -<b>SCHOOLS OF TOMORROW.</b> By John Dewey and Evelyn -Dewey. Illustrated. A study of a number of the schools -of this country which are using advanced methods of experimenting -with new ideas in the teaching and management -of children. The practical methods are described and the -spirit which informs them is analyzed and discussed. Send -$1.60. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE RHYTHM OF LIFE.</b> By Charles Brodie Patterson. -A discussion of harmony in music and color, and its influence -on thought and character. $1.60, postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE FAITHFUL.</b> By John Masefield. A three-act tragedy -founded on a famous legend of Japan. $1.35, postpaid. -</p> - -<p> -<b>INCOME.</b> By Scott Nearing. An economic value is created -amounting to, say, $100. What part of that is returned -to the laborer, what part to the manager, what part -to the property owner? This problem the author discusses -in detail, after which the other issues to which it leads -are presented. Send $1.25. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE STOIC PHILOSOPHY.</b> By Gilbert Murray. An -account of the greatest system of organized thought that the -mind of man had built up in the Graeco-Roman world -before the coming of Christianity. Dr. Murray exercises his -rare faculty for making himself clear and interesting. -Send 82c. -</p> - -<p> -<b>A MESSAGE TO THE MIDDLE CLASS.</b> By Seymour -Deming. A clarion call so radical that it may well provoke -a great tumult of discussion and quicken a deep and perhaps -sinister impulse to act. Send 60c. -</p> - -<p> -<b>DRIFT AND MASTERY.</b> An attempt to diagnose the current -unrest. By Walter Lippmann. Send $1.60. -</p> - -<p> -<b>FIRST AND LAST THINGS.</b> By H. G. Wells. A confession -of Faith and a Rule of Life. Send $1.60. -</p> - -<p> -<b>THE SOCIALISTS AND THE WAR.</b> By William English -Walling. No Socialist can adequately discuss the war without -the knowledge that this remarkable new book holds. -512 pages. Complete documentary statement of the position -of the Socialists of all countries. Send $1.50. -</p> - -<p> -<b>DREAMS AND MYTHS.</b> By Dr. Karl Abraham. A lucid -presentation of Freud’s theory of dreams. A study in comparative -mythology from the standpoint of dream psychology. -Price, $1.25. -</p> - -<p> -<b>WHAT WOMEN WANT.</b> By Beatrice Forbes-Robertson -Hale. $1.35 net; postage, 10c. -</p> - -<p> -<b>ARE WOMEN PEOPLE?</b> A collection of clever woman suffrage -verses. The best since Mrs. Gilman. Geo. H. Doran -Co. Send 75c. -</p> - -<p> -<b>HOW IT FEELS TO BE THE HUSBAND OF A SUFFRAGETTE.</b> -By “Him.” Illustrated by Mary Wilson Preston. -Send 60c. -</p> - -<p> -<b>ON DREAMS.</b> By Prof. Sigmund Freud. Authorized -English translation by Dr. M. D. Eder. Introduction by -Prof. W. Leslie Mackenzie. This classic now obtainable for -$1.10. -</p> - -<p> -<b>MODERN WOMEN.</b> By Gustav Kobbe. Terse, pithy, -highly dramatic studies in the overwrought feminism of the -day. A clever book. Send $1.10. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="h2 ade"> -GOTHAM BOOK SOCIETY -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -Marlen E. Pew, Gen. Mgr., Dept. K, 142 West 23rd St., New York -</p> - -<p class="c"> -“You Can Get Any Book on Any Subject” -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-52" class="pagenum" title="52"></a> -<p class="h3 adh"> -We do with Talking Machines what Ford did with Autos -</p> - -<p class="h1 u adh"> -<span class="underline">YOU ASK</span> <span class="larger">WHY</span> THIS<br /> -BEAUTIFUL, <span class="underline">LARGE SIZE</span><br /> -<span class="musigraph fr"><img src="images/musigraph.jpg" alt="" /></span> -TALKING MACHINE<br /> -SELLS FOR ONLY<br /> -<span class="larger">$10</span> -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - - <div class="box w40 fr s"> -<p> -Size 15¾ inches at base: 8½ high. Ask for -oak or mahogany finish. Nickel plated, -reversible, tonearm and reproducer, playing -Edison, Victor, Columbia and other disc -records, 10 and 12 inches. Worm gear -motor. Threaded winding shaft. Plays 2 -ten-inch records with one winding—Tone -controlling door. Neat and solidly made. -</p> - - </div> -<p> -If you have never been willing to spend -$25 for a talking machine this is your chance. -</p> - -<p> -The MUSIGRAPH is as large, good-looking, -right-sounding as machines selling for $25. -</p> - -<p> -How do we do it? Here’s the answer: Gigantic -profits have been made from $25 machines because of -patent right monopoly. Millions have gone for advertising -$25 machines, and these millions came back -from the public. The attempt is to make $25 the standard price. It’s too much. -</p> - -<p> -The trust price game is broken. Here is a machine which gives perfect satisfaction -(guaranteed) for only <b>$10</b>. It will fill your home with dancing, good music, fun and happiness. -<b>Money back if it isn’t as represented.</b> MUSIGRAPHS are selling by the -thousands. People who can afford it buy showy autos, but common-sense people gladly ride -Fords—both get over the ground. Same way with talking machines, only the MUSIGRAPH -looks and works like the high-priced instruments. -</p> - -<p> -<b>WHAT BETTER CHRISTMAS GIFT CAN YOU THINK OF? Musigraphs -play any standard disc record, high-priced or even the little five and -ten cent records. Hurry your order to make sure of Christmas delivery.</b> -</p> - -<p> -We are advertising these big bargain machines through our customers—one MUSIGRAPH -in use sells a <b>dozen more</b>. -</p> - -<p> -One cash payment is our plan. So to-day, <b>to insure Christmas delivery</b>, send $10, -by P. O. money order, check, draft, express order or postage stamps. All we ask is that you -tell your neighbors how to get a MUSIGRAPH for only $10. -</p> - - <div class="box w40 fl s"> -<p class="h3 adh"> -GUARANTEE. -</p> - -<p> -This machine is as represented, both as to -materials and workmanship, for a period of -one year. If the MUSIGRAPH is not as -represented send it back immediately and -</p> - -<p class="c"> -<b>Get your money back.</b> -</p> - - </div> -<p class="u ade"> -Address <span class="larger"><b>MUSIGRAPH</b></span>, Dept. K<br /> -Distributors Advertising Service (Inc.)<br /> -<b>142 West 23rd Street, New York City</b> -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-53" class="pagenum" title="53"></a> -<p class="h1 adh"> -FINE ARTS THEATRE -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="h3 u adh"> -For TWO WEEKS, Beginning<br /> -January 17, 1916 -</p> - -<p class="h2 u adh"> -TWO PRODUCTIONS<br /> -by<br /> -THE CHICAGO PLAYERS<br /> -with<br /> -MME. BORGNY HAMMER -</p> - -<p class="h3 u adh"> -EVENINGS<br /> -“AGNETE”<br /> -by<br /> -AMALIE SKRAM<br /> -(First Time in English) -</p> - -<p class="h3 u adh"> -SPECIAL MATINEES<br /> -“THERESE RAQUIN”<br /> -by<br /> -EMILE ZOLA -</p> - -<p class="h3 adp"> -Prices 25c to $1.50 -</p> - -<p class="u ade"> -CLARENCE THOMAS<br /> -Manager<br /> -925 Fine Arts Building -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="b c"> -<span class="larger">FINE ARTS THEATRE</span> -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="ads chapter"> -<a id="page-54" class="pagenum" title="54"></a> -<div class="centerpic gift"> -<img src="images/gift.jpg" alt="" /></div> - -<p class="h1 hidden adh"> -Gift Books -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Song of the Lark -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By WILLA SIBERT CATHER -</p> - -<p> -The story of a prima donna’s career. “A story of something better than suggestiveness -and charm—a thing finished, sound and noble.”—<em>The Nation.</em> -</p> - -<p> -“A distinct improvement on her previous novels, ‘O Pioneers,’ and ‘Alexander’s -Bridge.’”—<em>New York Herald.</em> $1.40 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -David Penstephen -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By RICHARD PRYCE -</p> - -<p> -David is the most lovable of all the author’s creations, a boy who grew to manhood -under conditions that might have warped a soul less noble. $1.35 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Little Book of American Poets -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -Edited by JESSIE B. RITTENHOUSE -</p> - -<p> -This book, a companion volume to “The Little Book of Modern Verse,” gives a -bird’s-eye view of the 19th century, beginning with Philip Freneau and ending with the -period of Madison Cawein, Bliss Carman and Richard Hovey. 140 poets are represented, -and the book includes 230 poems. Cloth, $1.25 net; limp leather, $1.75 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Log of a Noncombatant -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By HORACE GREEN -</p> - -<p> -An absorbing narrative of the adventures and experiences of an American correspondent -and dispatch bearer who saw fighting both with the Germans and Allies and -who, as messenger for the American Embassy at Berlin, had exceptional opportunities -for a glimpse behind the scenes in war-time Germany. Illustrated. $1.25 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Greatest of Literary Problems -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By JAMES PHINNEY BAXTER -</p> - -<p> -This work meets a long-felt need for a complete presentation of the Bacon-Shakespeare -question, and will prove as useful to students of Shakespeare as of Bacon. It -presents an exhaustive review of Shakespearean authors from Rowe to Lee, as well as -a bibliography covering all printed works upon the subject in English, French, German, -Spanish, Scandinavian, Italian, and Russian, articles in periodical literature, and a -wealth of illustrations of great value to students and collectors. Illustrated. 8vo. $5.00. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Red Wine of Roussillon -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By WILLIAM LINDSEY -</p> - -<p> -“A really good romantic drama, one of the best that has been produced in a generation.... -Compact and well made, developing swiftly and logically a tragic love -story of uncommon interest.... Genuinely poetic.... A remarkable work, both -in the literary and dramatic sense.”—<em>The Nation.</em> $1.25 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Affirmations -</p> - -<p class="ada"> -By HAVELOCK ELLIS -</p> - -<p> -A discussion of some of the fundamental questions of life and morality as expressed -in, or suggested by, literature. The subjects of the first five studies are Nietzsche, Zola, -Huysmans, Casanova and St. Francis of Assisi. $1.75 net. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The New Poetry Series -</p> - -<p> -This series aims to produce artistic and inexpensive editions of representative contemporary -verse. -</p> - -<p> -The new volumes added this fall are:— -</p> - - <div class="s"> -<p class="adb"> -Stillwater Pastorals and Other Poems -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Paul Shivell</span>. With a Preface by <span class="smallcaps">Bliss Perry</span>. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -The Cloister: A Verse Drama -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Emile Verhaeren</span>. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Interflow -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Geoffrey C. Faber</span>. -</p> - -<p class="adb"> -Afternoons of April -</p> - -<p class="r ada"> -By <span class="smallcaps">Grace Hazard Conkling</span>. -</p> - -<p class="adp"> -<span class="larger">Each, boards, 75 cents net</span> -</p> - - </div> -<p class="s u fl ade"> -4 Park St.<br /> -Boston -</p> - -<p class="s u fr ade"> -16 E. 40th St.<br /> -New York -</p> - -<p class="ade"> -Houghton Mifflin Co. -</p> - -<p class="cb vspace"> - -</p> - -</div> - -<div class="trnote chapter"> -<p class="transnote"> -Transcriber’s Notes -</p> - -<p> -Advertisements were collected at the end of the text. -</p> - -<p> -The table of contents on the title page was adjusted in order to reflect correctly the -headings in this issue of <span class="smallcaps">The Little Review</span>. -</p> - -<p> -The original spelling was mostly preserved. A few obvious typographical errors -were silently corrected. All other changes are shown here (before/after): -</p> - - - -<ul> - -<li> -... the war, <span class="underline">Carl</span> Liebknecht, the one brave public man in Germany now, ...<br /> -... the war, <a href="#corr-0"><span class="underline">Karl</span></a> Liebknecht, the one brave public man in Germany now, ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... Hevae, ad te <span class="underline">supiramus</span> gementes et flentes.” ...<br /> -... Hevae, ad te <a href="#corr-3"><span class="underline">suspiramus</span></a> gementes et flentes.” ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... shed a chatoyant green light on the <span class="underline">poodles</span> of blood. ...<br /> -... shed a chatoyant green light on the <a href="#corr-4"><span class="underline">puddles</span></a> of blood. ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... What, finally, is Homo Sapiens? Who is this <span class="underline">writter</span>-fellow, Falk, with ...<br /> -... What, finally, is Homo Sapiens? Who is this <a href="#corr-10"><span class="underline">writer</span></a>-fellow, Falk, with ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... The Girl. Oh yes, or <span class="underline">Solvieg’s</span> Lied. Isn’t it dim here. ...<br /> -... The Girl. Oh yes, or <a href="#corr-12"><span class="underline">Solveig’s</span></a> Lied. Isn’t it dim here. ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... his brow, improvises a few bars, <span class="underline">interpreting</span> also a small portion of the ...<br /> -... his brow, improvises a few bars, <a href="#corr-15"><span class="underline">interpolating</span></a> also a small portion of the ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... take it, and these three Egyptians—how they strut! They give themselves ...<br /> -... take it, and these three Egyptians—how they strut! They give themselves <a href="#corr-17"><span class="underline">airs</span></a> ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... (He and the priest forget their <span class="underline">quondom</span> materiality for a moment and ...<br /> -... (He and the priest forget their <a href="#corr-18"><span class="underline">quondam</span></a> materiality for a moment and ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... The Fawn (cavorting near, his <span class="underline">key</span> to his lips, piping vigorously). ...<br /> -... The Fawn (cavorting near, his <a href="#corr-21"><span class="underline">kex</span></a> to his lips, piping vigorously). ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... Americans if America <span class="underline">had was able</span> to offer the foreigner one tenth ...<br /> -... Americans if America <a href="#corr-22"><span class="underline">was able</span></a> to offer the foreigner one tenth ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... academy <span class="underline">instructiors</span> not selected by wealthy trustees with the sole idea ...<br /> -... academy <a href="#corr-23"><span class="underline">instructors</span></a> not selected by wealthy trustees with the sole idea ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... make bankers and brewers <span class="underline">directiors</span> and trustees of art institutions in ...<br /> -... make bankers and brewers <a href="#corr-24"><span class="underline">directors</span></a> and trustees of art institutions in ...<br /> -</li> - -<li> -... <span class="underline">Vivi le</span> divinité! ...<br /> -... <a href="#corr-27"><span class="underline">Vive la</span></a> divinité! ...<br /> -</li> -</ul> -</div> - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITTLE REVIEW, DECEMBER 1915 (VOL. 2, NO. 9) ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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