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THE NEW

FREEWOMAN AN

No. 10

I.

VOL.

INDIVIDUALIST

SATURDAY,

REVIEW.

NOVEMBER

1st,

1913.

SIXPENCE. Editor: DORA MARSDEN, B.A.

CONTENTS. PAGE

THE

ART

VIEWS

OF

THE

AND

FUTURE.

181

COMMENTS.

183

PAGE

RABINDRANATH

TAGORE.

By

PAGE

187

THE

Ezra Pound. SAYINGS

OF

K'UNG

THE

MASTER.

188

GRAVEYARD

By Allen Upwards. WHAT

IS

"SANITY."

B y Alice

185

Serial

Groff. THE ON

INTERFERENCE ENVIRONMENT.

WITH By

THE Steven

186

T. B y i n g t o n .

THE

HORSES

ARTIST.

By

Ezra

194

Story:— OF

DIOMEDES

OF

THERE is, about artists when asked to define their

FRUIT.

By Bolton

195

Hall. DISCIPLINE BEAUTY.

191

THE

( C h . 11). T h e B a r g e . ( C h . 12). Perfumes. B y R e m y de G o u r m o n t .

ART

SERIOUS

Pound.

AND THE By E. A.

HOUSE

OF

NEW 196 Mowrer.

VISION.

By

197

Huntly Carter. CORRESPONDENCE.

THE

199

FUTURE.

gators was wasted in spinning these futile

guesses.

business, a coyness w h i c h would be exquisitely

But the experiment, i.e., the essaying what could be

ludicrous

done to a t h i n g and what could be done with it, put

if it were

evinced by chemists or

mathematicians, by carpenters o r brick-layers.

This

an end to all that.

E x p e r i m e n t broke the dominion

coyness, and the vague w a v i n g of hands to give the

of the guess—the imaginative interpretation.

expression of helplessness, in-a-sort, in the g r i p of

idea broke upon the perception of the fact.

some h i g h force, w h i c h i f not divine, is at least too

was

bridled

by

knowledge

of

the

The

Thought "thing";

m u c h above the c o m m o n level to be comprehended by

thought's utmost reach attained only to a " s u g g e s ­

the P h i l i s t i n e , o r common-sense man—these are quite

tion";

sufficient to place art as we now k n o w it, in its sub­

only until the experiment should dissolve it into error

conscious period.

or

There is nothing to be gained by

the hypothesis

fact.

holding

T h e experimental

tentative

method

existence

brought

the

c a l l i n g out against a r t i s t s : their lack of comprehen­

scientific free-thought period to an end.

sion as to what they are about, is a matter for regret

of the subject put verbal notions out of court.

rather than reprehension.

T h e y are in the position

art on the other hand, matters have but reached at

the alchemists and astrologers were, before alchemy

their ultimate limit the " i n t e r e s t " of the verbal treat­

became

ment, the imaginative interpretation.

Nothing truding

chemistry, deterred

and

by the caveat

of " o u t s i d e r s ' "

tory, we make

astrology

bold

as the complement

astronomy.

against

the i n ­

opinions into their terri­

to define of Science.

the sphere of A r t , If science is the

with the few.

Observation With

A n d this only

M o s t artists are content to pass o n the

conventional tradition with a few personal variations. It is only the few w h o have entered upon the freethought period, where a l l the variety

of unbridled

k n o w l e d g e gained by a p p l y i n g to non-vital pheno­

fancy is spread out before them to be seized upon.

mena, the method of accurate description as opposed

These are attached to no reality.

to that of i m a g i n a t i v e interpretation, art is the product

unaware

of the same method

reality by

humanly vital)

applied to vital

(and mainly

phenomena.

judged.

The knowledge massed by science is stupendous in bulk relatively to that amassed by art, which

boasts

only the unco-ordinated w o r k of geniuses, few and far between. the

Science has made its advance chiefly in

last three hundred years, because d u r i n g this period

it has trusted

to the results of unprejudiced observation

of the " t h i n g . "

Before, as n o w in art, save for one

or t w o o u t s t a n d i n g geniuses,

it had guessed

about

things, and its guesses made a pile of useless words and

ideas,

as the conventional

unproved and incapable of proof.

The

e n e r g y of the greatest as well as the least of investi­

faithfulness They

conventional charlatanry

T h e y are indeed as that

there

are the half-charlatans

are the dullards. of art

exists

to which their work's will

has invaded

a be

where the

The unconscious every

sphere of

c u l t u r e : it is indeed the substance of e x i s t i n g culture. In

philosophy, theology

psychology,

and theosophy,

and sociology, throughout

length and breadth

in ethics, the whole

of literature, there spreads the

record of the charlatan a r t i s t s ; of those who pretend they

follow the motions of the soul, but who follow

merely the i d e a ; of those who speak with the certainty of knowledge c o n c e r n i n g that made a bold guess.

of which

they

have

182

THE NEW FREEWOMAN

The enthusiastic entry into the free thought domain by the arts, more conventionally so-called—drama, poetry, and p a i n t i n g — i s the m a i n feature of modern "progress." F r e e t h o u g h t is r e a c h i n g its c u l m i n a t ­ ing point. In the theatre the d r a m a of ideas is established. T h e verbal conception has ousted the "thing." T h e conflict is one of w o r d s not of l i v i n g movements. Its c l i m a x is the s c o r i n g of a point of view ,or the defeat of one. W h e r e the genuine dramatist needs to guage the measure of h u m a n forces so that in the nature of their being they will mount and converge to a c o m m o n c l i m a x at a point which he predicts and pre­ pares for, the dramatist in the d r a m a of ideas, has merely to direct words. T h e difference between the two is similar to that between a snake-charmer surrounded by reptiles o r a lion-trainer in a cage of p e r f o r m i n g lions, and the expert c h a i r m a n of a wellbehaved debating society settling rules for conduct. The one manipulates l i v i n g forces, the other ver­ balities. There is a great outcry just now that some­ t h i n g is w r o n g w i t h the d r a m a . D r a m a is all right. A s l o n g as there are a few planks for a platform, and a few lengths of material l o r stage curtains, d r a m a is secure, provided there are dramatists. Just now it appears that it is the dramatists that are m i s s i n g . When a man of genius appears, that is an articulate man who understands men, drama will touch high-water mark at a single bound. (The stage just now merely reflects a state of affairs which obtains outside, one in w h i c h attempts are being made to redress evils by ideas. It is a special case of the general fear of setting l i v i n g forces i n movement.) In poetry the swerve away from the stupidity of convention has likewise been caught up by freethought, by the fancy unattached to reality. A perfect example of a genuine emotional impulse being rendered abortive by p l u n g i n g it into ideas is given by the w o r k of M r . F . T . M a r i n e t t i , the futurist leader, w h o expounds his creed in the current issue of " P o e t r y and D r a m a . " In an astounding blend of wisdom and nonsense he illustrates how a healthy revolt which might have alighted on reality, is s w u n g off into the folly of ideas. N o wonder that the pendulum starts off again, as a writer in this issue points out ( ' D i s c i p l i n e and the N e w B e a u t y " ) on its return swing towards A u t h o r i t y — t h e continual s w i n g between mutually negating alternatives of tradition and freethought, stupidity and fancy, authority and ideas, discipline and individual whim. It seems to occur to no one that the one alternative is as bad as the other, and that both avoid the reality with which it is art's sole business to be concerned. The artist thus finds himself in the position of an accountant to a shady firm, the head of which asks him to cook the accounts to suit his interests; and upon refusing, imagines his sole alternative to be the production of an account hatched wholly in his own i m a g i n a t i o n , apparently unaware that it is his busi­ ness to look at the ledger and keep his account in touch with that. So while the artist who makes his productions to the orders of authority, is uncompre­ hending and stupid, his freethought brother, w h o

November

w o r k s to fancy, is equally so.

1st,

1913.

W o r k bound fast by

the facts of the case is no more amenable to discipline than it is capable of being adjusted to the w h i m of fancy. S u c h a definition of the sphere of A r t as we have g i v e n , w o u l d seem at once to land its activities into the sphere of the occult.

S o it does, but the occult

is the sense of the at-present

hidden, but d i s c o v e r ­

able, the at-present u n k n o w n , but k n o w a b l e , capable of

being observed.

T h e soul is not the soundless,

unseen thing which c o m m o n speech makes of it.

If

it were soundless how c o u l d we express our souls in sound, as we k n o w we do, or if unseen how could it be expressed by the painter's brush or poet's w o r d s ? If it be immeasurable, by what faculty do we g a u g e the force of the emotion which contorts the syllables of

a simple phrase

energy which

has

into an expression of the surged

through

it?

soul

T h e most

superficial observation makes it clear that the

soul

breaks into evidence as readily as pain breaks into a cry,

and

the

work

of

genius

has

been

just

the

delineation of the manner how. The line of true delineation of the soul is the direction winch all progress in A r t must take. If progress is to be made in A r t , as it has been made in science, artists will have to put off their a g n o s t i c i s m and the vague w a v i n g of hands as to what their business is, and come to their tasks with as much sense of purpose as the carpenter who lays down a floor, or puts in window-frames. F o r there is little done. " I n mystery the soul r e s i d e s . " The artist must be prepared to begin humbly with the matter which lies to h a n d : as Archimedes began with the physics observable in his bath, or N e w t o n w a t c h i n g an apple fall, or W a t t s the spluttering of a tea-kettle. A good artist could begin by delineating the movements of the soul when It loves Is cruel, Shy, Joyous, Courageous, Exalted, Angry, Lustful, Repelled, Hopeful, Fearful, Depressed, Jealous, and when it sleeps. He

might go further and make clear what is meant

to the soul by those things which we call Inspiration, and

F r i e n d s h i p , Intellect,

Beauty,

Sex, G o d , Good

Evil.

The only one of the above to which continuous and serious attention has been given is l o v e ; yet the k n o w ­ ledge

which

amounts

to

such

attention

nothing.

Love

has

made

available

still

means

a

mentalism, or a bestiality, or a jest grades between.

Yet

or

any

sentiof

the

love offers suggestions of phe­

nomena so concrete that were they offered in respect

November

1st,

THE NEW FREEWOMAN

1913.

of the existence of the aether they w o u l d be accepted

tortion;

readily as data a w a i t i n g co-ordination.

other;

ness,

the

sense

of

melting surrender

mitted. spirit,

of

The arc

barriers made

of

and

interpretation

T h e tender­

exclusion, spirit

that

are unprepared-for,

not

a

losss

substance,

a

of

the

interest,

definite

loss but

and

a

loss

tangible

these

in their

arts,

hurtling

presented;

against each poetry,

the

self-consciousness,

re­

in terms of self-recognised emotion.

In

manifestation

of

in

presented

poetry self-consciousness c u l m i n a t e s : in it alone emo­

severances

appears

in

highest

drama

per­

and not verbalities.

S i m i l a r l y in the mishaps of love, in the

in

with

surrender of

genuine phenomena

the

183

tion rounds on itself, articulate, and says " I

know

you."

prose

T h a t is the broad difference between

actual;

and poetry (not rhyme and poetry)—a difference w h i c h

soul-

we, unlike M r . P o u n d , think it w o r t h while i n q u i r i n g

of

mutilation

as

into.

T h e difference is one of brevity, completeness

though a drop-trap had fallen and taken off a h a n d ;

and finish simply because in poetry all the evidence of

with a like irreconcilableness against p i c k i n g up one's

laboratory

life and abandoning the lost portions.

thinking-machine is not t h e r e : it has done its w o r k .

w o r k is r e m o v e d ;

the

c r e a k i n g of

the

much

Poetry is the expression of the s o u l - m o t i o n : perfect

debated, and likely to prove no matter at a l l , to be

knowledge free both of redundance and h e s i t a n c y : it

merged and explained in the tale of the e m o t i o n s ;

is brief because it is reduced to the exact equivalent

And

there

is the

matter

of

intellect,

so

likely to be proved that it is instinct, well served by

it has reached the completeness of knowledge w h e n

senses; so well served that it is in the way to forget its

its dimensions can be expressed in a formula.

o r i g i n and m e a n i n g ; that the senses are attenuated

the formula.

feeling, filaments of the soul-stuff drawn f i n e , told off

anthing added w o u l d be confusion and irrelevance.

from the deeper-seated well of life to stand on sentinel duty at the p e r i p h e r y ; their attention turned o u t w a r d ;

Prose

is

It is

A n y t h i n g omitted w o u l d make it e r r o r ;

the

proper

ledge, the " I t h i n k . "

place

for

the

half-know­

It is essentially " e s s a y " w o r k ,

placed mainly in the head because the head goes first,

i.e., trial w o r k .

cautious, e x p e n d i n g little emotion until sure of their

it is preliminary.

s u r r o u n d i n g s ; the intenser vitalised life of soul t r a i l i n g

gestion.

b e h i n d ; the

attention as does any useful uncompleted process.

their

senses occupied w i t h the

attention

monopolised

by

environment,

that;

the

deeper

It is honest, it is indispensable, but It is furzy with opinion and sug­

It is " i n t e r e s t i n g , " that is, it holds the

is ephemeral;

it

is

the

fore-runner.

It

It

makes

reaches of emotion busy with the o r g a n i s i n g person­

straight

the

way

for

ality, k n e a d i n g memory, the record of the buffeting of

comprehends

and

supersedes

experience into the permanence of the i n d i v i d u a l ego.

a genuine " p o e m " is beyond the reach o f argument.

poetry,

the

formula

it.

That

which

is

why

It has to be found what part the eye, the gateway of

It makes a statement that is to be taken or left.

the exploring

m a k i n g statements, the poet takes the very same risks

the

filament has played in b r i n g i n g about

misunderstanding

that

intellect is other

than

as the scientist:

he

stands to

be

In

discredited.

A

i n s t i n c t ; likely to be found that feeling is all in a l l ,

veritable D a y of Judgment looms ahead for the poets

and knowledge but the co-ordination of feeling re­

when vital delineation shall have made headway.

peated

the meantime,

in experience; that all the senses are senses

of touch, i.e., contact—the

i m p i n g i n g of

organised

make

essays

it is for those who write prose, in

honest

fashion

to

encourage

In and the

life upon the things foreign to itself; the shiver of

abandoning of problems

difference,

is

offer no data for observation; to break the spell of the

touched by the " n o t I " — s u g g e s t i o n s merely, indica­

occult by m a k i n g plain the things which lie nearest

tive of the things which await the insight of the artists

us.

of the future.

" U n i v e r s a l Correspondences," " C o s m i c " F o r c e s and

of art.

and

the

s h r i n k i n g where

the

" I "

T o delineate these things is the w o r k

In music, painting and sculpture to project

them afresh in analogues of sound, colour and con­

VIEWS THE

t u r n i n g on matters

T h e abstractions, the ultimates and

which

absolutes;

" E t e r n a l R e c u r r e n c e " we shall do well to leave to an age winch can approach them as realities.

AND COMMENTS.

poor poor find themselves again in the limelight. There is poor M r . C a u d l e in prison in C a r l i s l e ; poor M r . L a r k i n in D u b l i n d i t t o ; the poor W e l s h miners buried alive in the e a r t h ; poor M r s . P a n k h u r s t with b r e a k i n g voice held up on E l l i s Island, suspected of moral turpitudes; poor M i s s K e n n y and M i s s P a n k h u r s t borne about on stretchers; there has been a veritable marshalling of the poor p o o r : M r . R u f u s Isaacs meanwhile m o u n t i n g the legal throne—plainly the w o r k i n g s of poetic justice, a phrase which means that the amount of rope you hold depends on the amount of force with which you pull. T h e poor poor are a species to themselves, specially catered for by the C l e r g y . The mark of the species is the peculiar soft spot in the structure of the brain which makes them understand "poetic justice" i n the reverse sense, i.e., that one obtains more rope the more one slacks the g r i p . O f course matters d o not fall out like that o n this planet,—a discrepancy

between fact and creed which the species are em­ powered to overcome by a certain vehemence of language, especially in regard to the little w o r d "must." T h i n g s are thus, but surely they " m u s t " be the opposite. T h a t " s t u r d y " friend of the poor, " T h e D a i l y H e r a l d , " b r i n g s out a new "must" every m o r n i n g . " T h e kiddies must be f e d , " though the D u b l i n mothers of the bairns w o n ' t hear of it, swiftly despatching the k i n d ladies who had arrived to do the deed. " C a r s o n must be i m p r i s o n e d , " " C a u d l e must be released," " D i r e c t o r s must be i n d i c t e d , " and " L a r k i n must go f r e e . " " M u s t " excellent v o c a b l e : v a r y i n g so radically with the amount of amunition it carries. " M r . A s q u i t h must l e a r n , " " W o m e n must v o t e , " " T h e y must be f r e e , " " F o r c i b l e feeding must cease," "The cat and mouse Act must g o . " T h u s docs the species imagine a vain t h i n g . .

184

THE NEW FREEWOMAN

Consider the miners. W e must of necessity c o n ­ sider the miners. It is their offence, that inevitably they intrude. One is supposed to be grateful to them for the dangers they undergo to provide us with coal. W e are not grateful. W h y on earth a body of people should conceive it their " w o r k " to toil and moil underground to produce the rest of the people's c o a l is beyond our comprehension. It is not w o r k which we would u n d e r t a k e : we see no reason why others should undertake the w o r k for us. T h e fact of the matter is that they do not " u n d e r t a k e " the w o r k e i t h e r : they slither into it because someone offers them w a g e s : because they need bread and clothes and shelter and are devoid of the initiative to f i n d a decent manner how. C o a l is not w a n t e d : certainly it was not needed. Its advent has done an inordinate amount of h a r m and only made possible a h i g h l y speculative good. Its filth and grime has been splotched from one end of the earth to the other—its progress has had squalor and misery as chosen atten­ dants. C e r t a i n l y the benefits of coal do not even make a b e g i n n i n g towards compensating one for the horror of h a v i n g to k n o w that one miner has been entombed. W h e n one realises that a like horror befals a heavy proportion of all the " w o r k e r s " concerned in it, one is driven to the conclusion that there is something radically w r o n g with miners and all self-elected victims. The conviction grows as one reads that the disastrous effects of the tragedy are added to by the fact that, o w i n g to lire, s u r v i v i n g miners are not allowed to w o r k in the mines. It apparently never occurs to these survivors that they have put in their full quota in the coal-getting line. P r e s u m a b l y they are born coal-getters. If when two men are w o r k i n g at a scam, one is taken and the other is left, the anxiety of the left one is to return to the seam.

The sentence passed upon M r . L a r k i n is very much what could have been expected. If a n y t h i n g its length is s u r p r i s i n g in the way of " l e n i e n c y , " and as such is an expression of scarcely disguised con­ tempt for M r . L a r k i n ' s followers. It perhaps recog­ nises that though he is a spirited " l e a d e r , " he leads sheep, and that the fiercest invocation of the fiercest leader is powerless to turn them into a n y t h i n g other. Seven months therefore: It would have been seven years had the Dublinites shown restiveness. There was perhaps a point overlooked in our last notes when we calculated the chances of the advent of an "adviser of the poor," who should be of the "rich" easte. It is a dangerous and well-nigh hopeless position, not because of the strength of the rich but because of the spirit of the poor. They so believe in themselves—as the poor. It is their funda­ mental belief, and however much they may appear under the spur of momentary irritation, to give car to the creed of the rich, they w i l l invariably abandon its exponent to the fate which awaits h i m , first as a traitor to his o w n caste, and second as the confuser of the caste of the poor. T h a t in effect is what is in­ volved in a l l o w i n g M r . L a r k i n to submit himself for " t r i a l " in the courts of law. T h e law is framed just to perpetuate the two castes. The agitator who is confusing the two brought before the law stands in the position of a soldier who has deserted to the other side, and has been recaptured and is being tried by c o u r t - m a r t i a l . Those w h o essay to fill the rôle adopted by M r . L a r k i n w i l l find for a long time yet that the poor are as ardent in their belief in the " l a w " as are those who frame and administer it. T h e y arc as acquiescent as the high priests are eager that their " a d v i s e r s " should be tried by Caiaphas. T h e con­ clusions are foregone: and it is to the credit of the L a r k i n s that they are not deterred thereby. It may be that their unquenchable faith is due to the percep­ tion that the poor are as valiant in their advisers' defence as their strength of arm makes it judicious for

November

1st,

1913.

them to b e ; and their strength of a r m should have been the first concern of their advisers. If they failed to see to that in the first place it is inevitable that they should be involved in its effects in the l o n g r u n .

A n d the unending g r i n d of events has its effects, which by the likelihoods of sheer chance must on occasions achieve good satire. That M r . Isaacs should be appointed L o r d Chief Justice, and that " J u s t i c e " should decree that M r . C a u d l e ' s place is in prison about one and the same moment effects a coincidence w h i c h belongs to the region of exceed­ ingly good fun. There exists a k i n d of person who w o u l d argue the s y n c h r o n i s i n g events re­ ferred to above in a spirit of seriousness. It is a pity, for while one c a n be certain that " D r i v e r " Caudle, for instance, has everyone's sympathy (if that is any use to him), he cuts an exceedingly humorous figure, like the blindfolded person in blind m a n ' s buff whom the children pluck by the sleeve and c o n ­ fuse, by p u s h i n g forward unfamiliar objects. The press has christened him " D r i v e r " C a u d l e , and d r i v i n g is his business. H e must drive if he c a n , and he must drive if he can't. In sprite-like m o o d , " J u s t i c e " draws the admissions from h i m , admis­ sions of what he acknowledges to be his responsi­ bility. " Y e s s i r , yessir, quite r e s p o n s i b l e , " and when he has ingeniously bound himself r o u n d w i t h his admissions, " J u s t i c e " leans forward and says, " N o w you see, by your own admissions, you agree with me that you have failed to discharge all your responsi­ bilities; that you are an unfortunate but reprehensible person, and your proper quarters are in j a i l ? " " Y e s s i r , y e s s i r ! T h a n k y o u , k i n d g e n t l e m a n , " and D r i v e r Caudle drives to prison. In view of the obseqiousness of the " p o o r " before the l a w , it is refreshing to note the genial contempt for it of the politicians who make it. T h e gay, irreverent mockery involved in M r . Isaacs' appointment is greatly to be commended. M a y all things goodly and h u m a n forbid that he should endeavour to live up to the traditions of his office. One is saddened by the mere suggestion that this sportive adventurer m i g h t find his facile powers overcome, for instance, by the awe and reverence of the poor for his s t a t i o n ; or that he might b r i n g himself to believe he is a " s y m b o l , " and like another A l e x a n d e r , a s s u m i n g the G o d , affect to nod. No, rather would we hear of h i m as an innovator, a bringer of new things, relieving perchance the tedium of h i s office by p l a y i n g pitch and toss w i t h a j u r y m a n , or with the poor wretch upon w h o m he must perforce pass sentence when eloquence shall have run its course. W e are encouraged by our recent success in per­ suading M r s . P a n k h u r s t to abandon her public death, to make further effort, to induce her to abandon the " d e a d b o d y " which apparently travels with her i n company with her dressing-case. It is evidently some alien mummified corpse which the lady c h e r i s h e s : It has been brought with skilful effect into the argument for more than two years now, and presumably it is doing business as briskly as ever. W e k n o w without a w a i t i n g confirmation when we read that her k i n d l y disposed A m e r i c a n audiences were washed in tears that the valise once more has been unstrapped and the—can we say it?—dusted and exhibited. Could not Mrs. Pankhurst, after conducting "It" through a successful tour in A m e r i c a , be per­ suaded to c o n s i g n it to the c o m p a n i o n s h i p of that other symbol which d i d valiant service in that other "fight for f r e e d o m " — t h e tea-chest in B o s t o n Harbour. F o r , although we look forward to M r s . P a n k h u r s t ' s return, hoping that the minions of the law will leave her unmolested, we feel our c o r d i a l i t y w i t h e r i n g somewhat at thought of the return of the valise. A r i s i n g out of causes into w h i c h it w o u l d perhaps be indelicate to inquire, we realise that parental

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authority exercises itself w i t h slackened bands. If however, any virtue should still reside in i t , we w o u l d supplicate that M r s . P a n k h u r s t exercise it o n S y l v i a , and in the measure of a friend upon M i s s A n n i e Kenney. It is the stretcher! O n the principle per­ haps that if the leader has the valise, the leaderettes may have the stretcher. " I f one can't be dead, be half d e a d , " as it were. H e r e is an ungarbled quotation from the " D a i l y Herald":— " A m i d scenes of enthusiasm M i s s A n n i e K e n n e y w a s c a r r i e d into the W.S.P.U. meeting at the K n i g h t s b r i d g e H a l l yesterday. Miss Kenney, who completed a l o n g hunger strike a week ago, arrived in a horse-drawn ambulance, preceded by about halfa-dozen t a x i s c o n t a i n i n g supporters. T h e famous militant, w h o was l o o k i n g extremely i l l and h a g g a r d , was borne into the hall on a stretcher. C r i e s of " B r a v o " were raised by the women, and loud cheers were g i v e n . T h e stretcher c o n t a i n i n g M i s s K e n n e y was placed across two chairs o n the platform. She lay almost motionless, and whispered only a few w o r d s to her f r i e n d s . " A n d another from the " D a i l y News and L e a d e r " : — " W h i l s t l y i n g on a stretcher, M i s s S y l v i a P a n k h u r s t addressed a large Suffragette gathering at the B o w B a t h s last night. A s she was being placed on the platform and made comfortable by a nurse and doctor, the people stood up and saluted, and a little g i r l pre­ sented her w i t h a bunch of flowers. She spoke for ten minutes." It is useless to discuss a matter of taste. One is prepared to acknowledge it is conceivable that one w h o is cause-ridden will hawk exhibitions of suffering before a public. It must be added, how­ ever, that the k i n d of public which w i l l pay to witness such, is one w i t h which association is dearly purchased no matter at what price. T h e modern diminution of business executed publicly at the block and the scaf­ fold has turned adrift a type of appetite which is now apparently bent on m o u l d i n g the militant suffrage movement to meet its own starved needs.

What is "Sanity." INSANITY is a w o r d of very simple content, as to its d e r i v a t i o n : it means merely want of health. W e apply it exclusively to the m i n d , however, and to a very special and extreme condition of mental ill health. But the truth is that insanity exists in all degrees, from the inhibition by a " f e e l i n g - b i a s which prevents the acceptance of a fact, to the inability to distinguish between fact and a figment of the i m a g i n a t i o n . These degrees of insanity are not generally accepted as such, but the evolution of psychological science is b r i n g i n g us more and more fully to a realisation of the truth, that such they really are. M i n d — o r brain if you choose—is an organ of the human body whose chief function it is, to reason. T o reason is to make a comparison of the resemblances and differences among all of the available facts bearing upon the subject under consideration and to adjust these resem­ blances and differences into a judgment that may be experimentally and practically applied to life; always h o l d i n g the mind plastic however to the admission of a new fact that may be revealed by science and to the consequent necessity of a new c o m p a r i s o n , a new adjustment, and a new judgment, all f o l l o w i n g upon the admission of the new fact. T h i s shows reason to be a l i v i n g t h i n g , a g r o w i n g t h i n g , an e v o l v i n g t h i n g , in a w o r d a function of l i f e ; and the m i n d that is capable of it, a perfectly sane m i n d . L o g i c , is not reason, though to the average untechnicanl m i n d they are the same t h i n g . Logic and reason are farther apart than the poles, as scientific psychological truth is demonstrating to us more and more fully every day. Reason is the l i v i n g

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t i l i n g — a function of l i f e — w h i l e l o g i c is the mechani­ cally constructed dead t h i n g . R e a s o n starts w i t h an impartial consideration of all of the available facts— L o g i c sets out with a premise defining a fixed point of a i m , and proceeds to manufacture a chain of argument which keeps the fixed point always in view, and which deliberately ignores any fact that w o u l d side track the m i n d from the end aimed at. Thus l o g i c shows itself to be a manufactured t h i n g , an artificial t h i n g , a t h i n g without life, and incapable of the processes of life. T h e stupidest m i n d can use logic when it has learned its parrot lesson, of the way to construct a path to any fixed end—a machine could be invented to use l o g i c . V e r y few minds on the contrary can reason, because very few minds can g r a s p a large number of facts—very few minds are free from " f e e l i n g - b i a s " in the comparison of resemblances and differences a m o n g facts—very few minds are capable of a judgment which is a perfect adjustment of these resemblances and differences on any large scale. It would seem then from the foregoing that the power to reason supremely, either actual or potential, is the indubitable characteristic of the perfectly sane m i n d and that the m i n d that cannot thus freely reason is insane in the degree of this inability. Such minds may have but one point of " f e e l i n g b i a s , " or prejudice—one idée fixe—that inhibits the freedom of its reasoning processes—or it may have many—and these inhibitions may cover all of the g r o u n d from inability to accept a new scientifically demonstrated fact, to inability to d i s t i n g u i s h between fact and a figment of the i m a g i n a t i o n . S u c h mind is insane therefore to the degree of the number and intensity of these inhibitions. There are men with minds of a low order of intelligence, because of ignorance of the higher scientific facts of life—minds of what is called the "common s e n s e " type that have not had the education and wide contact that gives broad k n o w l e d g e — w h i c h are nevertheless per­ fectly sane minds, minds which reason freely w i t h i n the range of the facts which they possess—minds that are always plastic to the admission of a new fact that may come w i t h i n their ken. There are also people of almost cosmic intelligence, w h o are utterly unable to reason because of " f e e l i n g - b i a s " or prejudice—utterly unable to co-ordinate fully into any reasoning process the enormous number of facts they may have knowledge of—minds that are insane to the degree and intensity of this inability. Max Stirner's was a m i n d that might be called cosmically insane; his " f e e l i n g - b i a s " or prejudice in favour of the importance of his own ego, inhibit­ i n g any co-ordination whatever of all of the other facts of life. Herbert Spencer is an example of a m i n d starting mature life with a wonderful reasoning power a m o n g an enormous number of facts—a m i n d however that permitted " f e e l i n g - b i a s " to control it to such an extent that free reasoning processes became greatly inhibited in his later years. Nietzsche, with a marvellous genius of imagination was always more or less insane, the insanity that finally drove him out of himself altogether, being simply a multiplication and intensification of the " f e e l i n g - b i a s e s " that inhibited his reasoning faculty to the point of ultimately destroying his ability to distinguish between a fact and a figment of his o w n imagination. T o l s t o i also, in spite of his wonderful imaginative powers and marvellous intellectual versatility was insane in the sense that he was unable to reason freely—his reasoning processes being enormously inhibited by his " f e e l i n g - b i a s , " in the direction of the doctrine of " n o n - r e s i s t a n c e . " Great t h i n k e r s — that is, great originators of new ideas—arc often very defective reasoners. T h i s is why genius is so often allied to insanity. Great scientific discoverers even are often wretched interpreters of the relational value to life—even of the synthetic scientific value—

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of their own discoveries, and this would seem to be o w i n g , not to their specialised greatness but to the fact that they had had not set before them from the d a w n of intelligence, as an object of the highest aspiration in life—the ideal of free reasoning—the purpose of a l l o w i n g n o t h i n g to inhibit the l i v i n g function of m i n d . O u r first duty in education then would seem to be to train the g r o w i n g physically normal m i n d into the ability to reason freely, to w a r d youth off the rock of the " i d é e fixe"—the " f e e l i n g - b i a s " — t h e prejudice that m i g h t inhibit reasoning processes. A l l of our education on the contrary in the present and in the past is, and has been, of a character to encourage such inhibitions through doctrine and tradition—to encourage specialisation in a false sense. Specialisation in the true sense being the t r a i n i n g of one's special faculty or endowment to its highest power of w o r k i n g activity, so as to use it as a psycho­ logical centre for the broadest reasoning possible in co-ordination w i t h other facts of life, while sternly refusing to allow this faculty to inhibit through " f e e l i n g - b i a s " in its favour the most absolute freedom of the reasoning processes. I would not be understood as repudiating logic in such education as a method of t r a i n i n g any more than any other form of mathematics. W e must needs use logic in presenting any one subject—both as to the meaning and the use of the subject—if for no better reason than to fix the centre of psychologic attention for the time being until all of the available facts bearing upon this subject are covered by the m i n d . But logic is not reason. A n insane mind may be brilliantly logical a l o n g lines that do not run against its inhibitions—while a perfectly sane mind may be unable to use logic on any lines, where there is ignorance of facts pertaining to these lines. It will thus be seen that the possession of supreme reasoning power indicates a certain character of mind that may be called sane, while logic may or may not be a faculty of a m i n d whether sane or insane—the power to use logic, depending only upon experience in certain lines of culture. M o d e r n neurological science calls insanity " C o n ­ f l i c t , " meaning by this that the m i n d in attempting to exercise its natural function of reasoning, brings the freely co-ordinating ideas into conflict with whatever i n h i b i t i n g " f e e l i n g - b i a s " or prejudice the mind may contain. Out of this science there has been developed a new neurological or alienist therapeutics, called " T h e F r e u d i a n M e t h o d , " after D r . F r e u d of B e r l i n , who originated it. T h i s method is based upon the theory that if the individual i n whose m i n d there exists this sort of conflict—can be brought to a consciousness and an acknowledgment of the inhibiting " f e e l i n g b i a s " or prejudice, he can be cured and his mind restored to free reasoning processes with regard to that one point at least. A s the mind entertaining this " f e e l i n g - b i a s " or prejudice is practically uncon­ scious of it, h a v i n g relegated it to his subconscious mind—this therapeutic is obliged to use the hypnoidal treatment in order to b r i n g out into consciousness and hence to the possibility of acknowledgment, this i n h i b i t i n g element. L e t us give to this science due welcome and support as a wonderful remedial agency for the physically normal m i n d infected with inhibi­ tions—but let us depend much more confidently upon the infinitely greater and more efficacious preventive agency of education of the young—education that will entirely prevent the planting of any inhibitions to the perfect freedom of the reasoning processes, and thus do away in the physically normal mind with insanity in all of its forms. ALICE

GROFF.

BOOKS on all subjects, Secondhand, at HalfP r i c e s . N e w , 25 per cent. Discount. Catalogue 761 free. State W a n t s , B o o k s B o u g h t . — F O Y L E , 121, C h a r i n g Cross R o a d , L o n d o n .

November

1st,

1913.

On the Interference with the Environment. IV.—THOROUGHFARES; AND PISCICULTURE. The mere demand to use a route may involve a conflict of claims, apart from the question of b a r r i n g one route by opening another; but there seems to be nothing puzzling about most of the conflicts so a r i s i n g . W h e r e two people are u s i n g the same right of way, each must facilitate the other's passage as much as possible; fortunately men are already as familiar with c a r i n g for their n e i g h b o u r s ' rights in this respect as in any. In the comparatively rare case where two railroads require to go t h r o u g h a pass too narrow for two tracks, any railroad man can arrange for both to use the road if once he is assured that his own line cannot monopolize it. A tide-mill is a form of industry which cannot be carried on anywhere without putting a dam in the way of n a v i g a t i o n ; there must be some truth in the counter-claim that the tide-mill also helps n a v i g a t i o n by slackening the current, but I do not k n o w how m u c h ; on a stream that carried almost exclusively export cargoes however this might even be an additional e v i l . The tide-mill problem can be better solved when the rising price of coal has led to the building of more tide-mills than are now legally permitted. In the absence of the experience to be thus gained, we can at least say that the builder of a tide-mill must provide his dam with all necessary weirs and l o c k s and operate these gratuitously, putting himself to an expense which I suppose might become prohibitive on a river c a r r y i n g a great deal of commerce—on such a river as the Thames I take it that his dam would be nothing but locks, all g o i n g at once. Also, that the dam must be high enough up the stream to allow all possible use of the mouth as a harbour— there could rarely be a motive for putting it lower anyhow. Under these conditions it seems to me, till I have such information as few men are to-day competent to give, that the b u i l d i n g of tidemills should be a free industry. The higher coal goes, the more we shall want all sources of p o w e r ; and a single lock on a river is no such great obstruc­ tion to commerce at best. Another question of thoroughfares is that of road­ ways artificially built for general free use. We profess to be speaking of natural opportunities, but in practice we shall hardly find it possible to separate this problem altogether from that of opportunities artificially created with the intent that they be open to the public in a fashion more or less analogous to that of natural opportunities. O f such things the most obvious example is a paved public road. Of such artificial opportunities that is true what­ ever is true of private property in general, so far as the special conditions of the case do not require specific exceptions. The reason for h a v i n g such an institution as private property at all is that I some­ times work with the intention of p r o d u c i n g a particular result, that the satisfaction of my w o r k is spoiled if somebody steps in and starts his own w o r k on the same thing in such a way as to prevent my w o r k from producing its result, and hence that if the boys insist on stealing my melons I shall positively get a hive of the most irascible bees I can hear of and set it in my melon-patch. A l s o , of course, that I can raise more melons for myself than I could trust these boys to raise l o r me if we were supposed to be all w o r k i n g selflessly for each other; but I am not sure that this last, which is the motive oftenest spoken of, is in fact the strongest. N o w the men who paved a road for the public to ride on wanted their w o r k to come out in a certain w a y ; and if somebody inter­ feres with its c o m i n g out in that w a y , they w i l l have the same motive for complaint that I have when my melons are stolen. If the creators of such a public

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utility have not got i n the p u b l i c ' s w a y , there is no reason w h y they should not, if they choose, keep the same absolute control as i n the case of their other property. If they choose to b u i l d a free public l i b r a r y and refuse to let red-haired people use it, well and g o o d : the red-haired suffer no w r o n g , for they w o u l d have had no l i b r a r y there if these fools had not built it. B u t if they refuse to let a red-haired m a n w a l k on the road they pave, they cut h i m off from a w a l k w h i c h he could have taken w i t h some satisfaction if the g r o u n d had been uncared-for, and he has a grievance. O n the other hand, if they have built a g o o d road for horses and it w i l l be torn to pieces by motors, they have a grievance against any motor that runs on their road unless the motorist w i l l do an amount of repairing that corresponds to his damage. O u r friends the game laws come up again under this head. T h e A m e r i c a n lobster is considered such a dainty that it is in danger of extermination. Here step i n a number of men w h o go into the business of r a i s i n g infant lobsters and s t o c k i n g the coast w i t h them to keep up the breed. (It happens just now to be the U n i t e d States g o v e r n m e n t ; but it m i g h t , and at some better future day it w i l l , be a piscicultural association w h i c h gets its money honestly.) T h e i r w o r k is not thought to have a hopeful prospect unless the y o u n g lobsters are allowed to g r o w to the age at w h i c h they reproduce their k i n d . T h e fisher­ men are grateful for all new stock, but are not disposed to show their gratitude by s p a r i n g the lives of the h a l f - g r o w n lobsters, especially as their customers like these best of a l l . A s a general t h i n g , if one man finds a form of w i l d life most useful in life and another finds it most useful in death, I do not see how the first man is to inhibit the second m a n ' s ravages except by merely p e r m i t t i n g his preferences to override the other m a n ' s ; if we are to plan a human society with the least possible o v e r r i d i n g , the birds and blossoms w i l l have to suffer till there is found some other method of protecting them than a direct prohibition of destruction. B u t when the life is no longer w i l d in the sense of being the spontaneous g r o w t h of the non-human w o r l d , but is the universally-welcome product of human industry directed to the manufac­ ture of such w i l d life, then the industrious producers have the same grievance against one who cuts off the fruit of their w o r k , exactly the same, as if they had not intended that this fruit should at its maturity be for the free g a t h e r i n g of everybody. W e have not quite yet, probably, come to the point where the lobsters of the N e w E n g l a n d coast can as a mass be considered to be the product of the pisciculturists' l a b o u r s ; there are a considerable per­ centage of aboriginal w i l d ones left. B u t we are approaching that p o i n t ; and when we get to it, it w i l l doubtless not be beyond the power of science to demonstrate the fact. W h e n it is demonstrated, I think the pisciculturists can claim to be merely defending their o w n labours if they enforce any restrictions on lobster-catching that may be necessary to the preservation of the breed in its desired numbers. If there were two piscicultural associa­ tions both w o r k i n g in the same field, but not agreeing on the amount of restriction to be enforced, it would be the business of the more rigorous restricters to prove that the stock was dependent on their cultural activities and would go to the dogs if no more y o u n g were put in than their rivals furnished. If any persons who want short-lobster fishing to continue w i l l show that they are p r o v i d i n g sufficiently for the upkeep of lobsterdom, then nobody else can reason­ ably c l a i m to stop this fishing on the g r o u n d of the w o r k he is d o i n g in the same cause. If (as will hardly happen in the case of pisci­ culture, but m i g h t easily happen in the case of the roadway if there were freedom of competition) there are two claimants for the privilege of m a i n ­ t a i n i n g the public convenience, and both cannot

m a i n t a i n it at once, I do not see but that the one which was first in the field must have the preference. I am not fully satisfied to leave the game-law question in this shape. T h e t r a i l i n g arbutus, N e w E n g l a n d ' s most admired s p r i n g flower, is in danger of b e i n g exterminated by its p o p u l a r i t y , and nobody has yet discovered a w a y to propagate or cultivate it. But I do not see h o w to provide protection for the arbutus without g i v i n g up the rule of a c t i n g as if one m a n ' s wishes were as g o o d as a d o z e n ' s ; and when I see the present consequences of not i n s i s t i n g on that rule, I think l e a v i n g the arbutus to its fate is the lesser evil. Perhaps we can persuade the public to regard the purchase of arbutus bouquets as

unpopular.

STEVEN T. BYINGTON.

Rabindranath Tagore. HIS SECOND BOOK INTO ENGLISH. "The yellow b i r d sings in their tree and makes my heart dance with gladness. W e both live in the same village, and that is our one piece of joy. H e r pair of pet lambs come to graze in the shade of our garden trees. If they stray into our barley field, I take them up in my arms. T h e name of our village is K h a n j a n a , and A n j a n a they call our river. M y name is k n o w n to all the village, and her name is R a n j a n a . " It is always better to quote M r . T a g o r e than to review h i m . It is always much more c o n v i n c i n g . E v e n when I tried to lecture about h i m I had to give it up and read from the then proofs of G i t a n j a l i . M r . T a g o r e has come and gone, he has been wept over and he has been prayed over and they tried to get h i m into the academy and they tried to make h i m poet laureate. H e suffered many fools w i t h great patience. H e went as quietly as he came. With— to use his own w o r d s — " W i t h no exaggerated idea of his own i m p o r t a n c e . " H i s attitude was the same the last time I saw h i m as it was almost the first, when he said to me quite simply, " W h a t is it that y o u see in these translations? I did not k n o w that they would interest a E u r o p e a n . " If his admirers have confused his position in E n g l i s h literature with his position in B e n g a l litera­ ture, it is equally certain that he has not. If his entourage has presented h i m as a religious teacher rather than as an artist, it is much to be lamented. " I do not w i s h to be represented in E n g l i s h by Gitanjali a l o n e , " said this author whose voice has almost as many shades as one might have expected from V o l t a i r e ; and whose sense of humour is as delicate as that of any writer in P a r i s , and who might have written as well as another, " O u q u e l j ' a y plus qu'autre g a l l é . " H e has written something of the sort, and was vastly amused at the consternation which it caused a m o n g the pious of N e w Y o r k . W h y the good people of this island are unable to honour a fine artist as s u c h ; why they arc incapable, or apparently incapable, of devising for his honour any better device than that of w r a p p i n g his life in cotton wool and p a r a d i n g about with the effigy of a sanctimonious moralist, remains and will remain for me an unsolvable mystery. R a b i n d r a n a t h T a g o r e is not to be confused with that jolly and religious bourgeois A b d u l B a h a ; nor with any Theosophist p r o p a g a n d a ; nor with any of the various missionaries of the seven and seventy isms of the mystical L a s t . The

Gardener. B y Rabindranath millan and C o . 4 / 6 net.)

Tagore.

(Mac­

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In Gitanjali he gave us the poems of his later life, poems which D a v r a y of the M e r c u r e de F r a n c e calls " p l u s pur que les psaumes de D a v i d . " It is a phrase which only a F r e n c h m a n would apply to the w o r k of that barbarous H e b r e w k i n g . Let us clear away the rubbish. L e t me deny that M r . T a g o r e is, in any exact sense, a mystic. L e t us confine ourselves to a consideration of his art, as such, and as such sufficient. Let us say that M r . T a g o r e has an emotional contact w i t h nature, an intuition more beautiful, in its o w n peculiar w a y , than any I have yet found in poetry. I do not mean to say that there are not other beauties just as beautiful. I do not mean to say that his sense of the life-flow and sun-flow is more beautiful than the mythopœic sense. It is different. It is by virtue of this sense that his poems, his poems translated as they now are into F r e n c h and E n g l i s h have a certain place in world-literature, a place quite different from that w h i c h the originals, furnished w i t h all sorts of rhyme and technical fineness, hold in the literature of contemporary India. In Gitanjali he gave us the reflective songs of his late period, in " T h e G a r d e n e r " * he gives us the T h e o c r i t a n idylls of his youth. H e gives us pure Imagisme in such verses a s : " O v e r the green and yellow rice fields sweep the shadows of the autumn clouds, followed by the swift-chasing sun. The bees forget to sip their honey; drunken with light they foolishly hum and h o v e r ; and the ducks in the sandy riverbank clamour in joy for mere nothing. N o n e shall g o back home, brothers, this m o r n i n g , none shall go to w o r k . W e w i l l take the blue sky by storm and plunder the space as we run. L a u g h t e r s fly floating in the air liks foams in the flood. Brothers, we shall squander our morning in futile songs." (I give the poem as it originally appeared in E n g l i s h , the later version is available in " T h e Gardener.") I am not w r i t i n g this article for M r . T a g o r e ' s admirers, who have already canonized and deified him and set h i m with a tin harp on the right hand of G o d the Father A l m i g h t y world without end amen. There have been various attacks on M r . T a g o r e . Some have accused h i m of insincerity. They think that no man can be sincere unless he is also embittered. Some have said that he was reaping credit really due to the older writers of India. I think they do not k n o w how diligent M r . T a g o r e has been in his endeavours to get earlier H i n d i and B e n g a l i poems edited and translated. I k n o w that it was he who urged the B e n g a l i edition of K a b i r and I k n o w that he has helped with the E n g l i s h translation of that author, and that he has urged other translations. I do not think that an appreciation of M r . T a g o r e ' s w o r k need in any way interfere with an appreciation of P r a t a r a C h a n d r a R a y ' s heroic translation of the Mahabhârata. The slow recognition of this latter w o r k is a disgrace to the E n g l i s h w o r l d of letters, but M r . T a g o r e cannot be held responsible. The fact that this great classic is practically unavailable is a disgrace to E n g l i s h publishers. T h e y have printed a rhymed synopsis, which is about what one might expect. T o say that M r . T a g o r e did not compose the M a h a b h a r a t a , is to say that M e l e a g a r did not write the Odyssey. I cannot see that it pertains. M r . T a g o r e is a lyric poet, it is with lyrists that one should compare h i m , and a m o n g them he will find his position. In estimating his lyrics the critic should consider two t h i n g s : the original and the translation. Any

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translation is a makeshift, it is one side of an o r i g i n a l . C o n s i d e r what would remain of most of our best loved songs if they were turned into G e r m a n prose, or into Italian or R u s s i a n prose. C o n s i d e r that in any volume of M r . T a g o r e ' s lyrics all the subtle varieties of rhyme order and of cadence w h i c h diversify a collection of the o r i g i n a l s , must of necessity be lost. The refreshment which would come i n the change from one meter to another is of necessity sacrificed. T h e intelligent reader w i l l do more than read the prose, he will try to reconstruct some idea of the o r i g i n a l , of the l o n g hyper-feminine r h y m e s , of the rhyme-arrangements like those of the pleiade, of the long bars of the O r i e n t a l r a g i n i . H e w i l l try to fit into this sound picture the meaning expressed in translation. N o one but an imbecile ever tries to read a translation without attempting in some w a y to reconstruct the o r i g i n a l setting. W i t h that in mind the reader may turn to the poem (44), " R e v e r e n d sir, forgive this pair of s i n n e r s , " or to 49 which is even less set in the E n g l i s h , or to 57 or 62, or to 43 where he re-echoes the delicacy of L a Chastelaine de S t . C i l l e s , which itself echoes an older ballad, " N u s de dois les le bois aller Sanz son c o m p a i g n e t t e . " " N o , my friends, I shall never be an ascetic, whatever you may s a y . " I think what I am t r y i n g to say about these poems is that one must read each poem as a whole and then reconceive it as a song, of which y o u have half forgotten the words. Y o u must see them not as you see stars on a flag but as you half see stars in the heaven. The joy is in the under-running quality of the emotion, not in verbal felicities. It is where only the wise will seek it. " I tried to answer, but our language had been lost and forgotten. . . . our names would not come to my m i n d . " " Y e s , Tagore is a good l o v e r " (as a friend from B u r m a h has said of him). It is not the V i t a N u o v a but it is as delicate. H e kisses a chance-passing blind girl and s a y s : you are as blind as your flowers. W h e r e the y o u n g Dante would have w r i t t e n , and does write constantly " D o n n a , gloriosa, della mia mente," T a g o r e sees the figure always or nearly always out of doors, or at least a m o n g real surroundi n g ; as if "Cantando ed iscegliendo fior da fiore.'' H e belongs " n e l P a r a d i s o terrestre." "Volsesi

in sui vermigli ed in sui gialli."

" Non di più colpo, che soave vento. "Ed una melodia dolce correva Per l'aer luminoso." H o w many of the lines of these canti are in keeping with R a b i n d r a n a t h ' s c o n t e n t ! H o w they come back upon one's mind as one reads h i m ! EZRA POUND.

Sayings of K'ung the Master. Selected, with an introduction, by ALLEN UPWARD.

THE

name Confucius is an attempt on the part of W e s t e r n missionaries to reproduce in L a t i n the sound of the Chinese K'ung-fu-Tsze, w h i c h may be rendered in E n g l i s h — " K ' u n g the M a s t e r . " The notions which prevail in the W e s t c o n c e r n i n g the character and w o r k of the M a s t e r , it is to be feared, are not much less crude and illiterate than the current version of his name.

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K ' u n g had n o t h i n g in c o m m o n w i t h the great religion-founders of A s i a , w i t h w h o m he has been so often compared by the w e l l - m e a n i n g scholars w h o have unfortunately made the M a s t e r the subject of their w r i t i n g s . O n l y on one occasion d i d he intimate any consciousness of h a v i n g been entrusted by H e a v e n w i t h a m i s s i o n . A n d this m i s s i o n was not to reveal the counsels of P r o v i d e n c e and the secrets of the Hereafter, but merely to recall the precepts of the ancient sages of C h i n a , and to urge his fellowc o u n t r y m e n to live a c c o r d i n g to the voice of con­ science and the rules of g o o d behaviour. N o great teacher w h o ever lived taught men so little about the U n k n o w n as K ' u n g . H e refused to discuss the supernatural with his disciples, professing ignorance of the subject. Questioned on the subject of the duties owed by men towards spirits, he answered by u r g i n g the questioner first to fulfil his duties towards his fellow-men. It is on this plane that his morality is established. M a k i n g no claim to knowledge of the future life, it followed that he did not pretend to t r a i n men for it, but contented himself w i t h the humbler task of teach­ i n g them how to live on earth. M e a n and insufficient as such an a i m may seem to those w h o have been vouchsafed a clear and certain revelation from the B e y o n d , it entitles the M a s t e r to a lofty rank a m o n g creatures of mortal b i r t h . T h e questions w h i c h have been raised by W e s t e r n missionaries concerning the religious belief of the M a s t e r could h a r d l y have seemed to h i m to be other­ wise than childish and impertinent. That unseen P o w e r w h i c h encompasses the life of man, and for w h i c h men have found so many names and attributes, is k n o w n to the Chinese as Tien, a w o r d which seems very nearly to correspond w i t h our E n g l i s h Heaven. T h e m e a n i n g of this w o r d extends from the visible firmament to the Providence which shapes our l i v e s : it is wide enough to furnish a common term for physics and metaphysics, and to embrace every variety of religious belief. W e tread upon the borders of mystery, a mystery of w h i c h the ancient Gnostics were dimly aware. W h e n the first proselytizing zealots from the W e s t were t r y i n g to insert their squared and geometrical dogmas into the round Chinese m i n d , they stumbled at this w o r d , for which their clerical dialect had no equivalent. T h e question was solemnly argued before their P o p e , whether Tien should be translated by the L a t i n coelum, or deus. The P o p e pronounced i n favour of coelum, and branded one-third of m a n k i n d as materialists. H a d the language of his C h u r c h been E n g l i s h , he m i g h t have better understood the problem, and the w o r l d have been spared a judgment so calculated to confirm the Chinese in their contempt and dislike for the barbarian missionaries. B y their possession of this sublime term, one which can be used w i t h equal satisfaction by the philosopher and the c h i l d , the followers of K ' u n g have been preserved from that anthropomorphic vein of language which has so deeply tinctured all W e s t e r n theology, and has tended to keep down our notions of the D i v i n e P o w e r to the level of the savage. T h e attitude of K ' u n g towards theology was part of his general attitude, which may be summed up in the expression—Deeds, not words. A s he sought to learn and obey the will of H e a v e n , rather than to inquire curiously into the personality and attributes of D i v i n e B e i n g s , so he over and over again insists that the loftiest moral sentiments are of insignificant value as compared with good conduct. T h e W e s t e r n belief that it is a good t h i n g if men can be induced regularly to profess exalted principles, however little they may carry them into practice, is disapproved by the teacher of C h i n a . " T h e superior man is modest in his speech, but goes further in his a c t i o n s . " If it be materialism to prefer example to precept, K ' u n g must indeed be regarded as a materialist. H e even wished not to preach. B y his life he sought to influence men, without many words.

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A s radium is a source of heat, so certain men are founts of moral energy. S u c h was the character of K ' u n g the M a s t e r , and it fitted h i m for the task to w h i c h he was called. H e was born (B.C. 551) in an age when the Chinese E m p i r e , already venerable and vast, seemed b r e a k i n g up into a number of w a r r i n g principalities, whose chiefs or dukes had reduced the authority of the Imperial throne to a shadow, while they themselves had sunk to be the pensioned creatures of corrupt and ambitious ministerial families. B u t the memory lingered of a better age, when the " b l a c k - h a i r e d p e o p l e " had been ruled and civilised by paternal emperors and sages. T h e aim w h i c h the M a s t e r set before himself was to revive those happier conditions, by impressing the rulers and ministers of states with the great truths of political morality as understood by the Chinese. These truths are not those with which we are most familiar in the W e s t . T h e idea of the family lies at the root of the Chinese constitution. T h e E m p e r o r is the father of his people; he owes them a father's tender care, and is entitled to their filial reverence in return. T h u s , while the language of the M a s t e r towards princes is as bold as that of any W e s t e r n reformer, he nowhere introduces the ideas of demo­ cracy or political freedom. T o find fault w i t h h i m for this is to find fault w i t h h i m for not h a v i n g been born in the meridian of Greenwich in the nineteenth century. K ' u n g sought to reform men, not systems of government. H e taught that virtuous magistrates make virtuous subjects, and his o w n example went some way to prove his doctrine. T h e descent of K ' u n g has been traced to the famous Y e l l o w E m p e r o r , who established the Chinese era some two thousand years before. It is certain that he was related to the ducal house which reigned in L o o ; and thus, although born to poverty, an official career lay open to h i m . In the humble office of keeper of the grain-stores he showed integrity and prudence. After his learning and apostolic life had gained him renown he rose gradually to the high office of M i n i s t e r of C r i m e . A c t i n g in this capacity, we are told, he nearly succeeded in b a n i s h i n g e v i l ­ doers from the State. T h e r e i g n i n g D u k e placed entire confidence in h i m , and was on the eve of m a k i n g K ' u n g P r i m e M i n i s t e r , when a n e i g h b o u r i n g ruler, who dreaded the g r o w i n g prosperity of L o o , sent a present of dancing girls to the D u k e . F o r three days the D u k e neglected the affairs of State, and on the third day K ' u n g resigned his office. F r o m that time forth his life was that of a poor and wandering missionary of virtue, ever ready to take office on condition of being allowed to carry out his o w n h i g h principles, and ever rebuffed by the selfish and short-sighted princes a m o n g whom he came. H o w great a part the M a s t e r assigned to good government in p r o m o t i n g the happiness of m a n k i n d , is illustrated by a famous anecdote. T r a v e l l i n g in company with some disciples, he came one day upon a woman who was weeping the loss of her son, the third member of her family who had been devoured on the same spot by a tiger. O n the M a s t e r i n q u i r i n g why she did not leave the neighbourhood where she had suffered such calamities, the woman answered,— " T h e government here is not b a d . " K ' u n g at once turned to those with h i m : " Y o u see that bad government is worse than a t i g e r . " A n empire governed by the wise, under the shield of a sacred dynasty, in the interest, and for the happiness, of the humble,—such is the ideal which K ' u n g placed before his countrymen, and to whose realisation the efforts of Chinese statesmen have been directed ever since. The Master employed his enforced leisure from public business in editing the literary monuments of the past, chief among which must be reckoned the Book of the Odes. H e himself wrote nothing save a meagre chronicle to which he gave the title of

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" S p r i n g and A u t u m n . " Some of his utterances were collected by his disciples, and embodied in the w o r k , " S a y i n g s and A n s w e r s . " F o r a knowledge of this volume, and the other w o r k s of the Confucian Bible, the E n g l i s h public are indebted chiefly to L e g g e , from whose translation of the " A n a l e c t s " the present selection has been for the most part drawn. T h e passages chosen are generally those which seem most widely interesting, o m i t t i n g such as apply more particularly to the circumstances of the M a s t e r ' s o w n age and country. In reading them it must be borne in m i n d that they represent not the full expression of a philosophy, but rather the scattered observations of one who was first and foremost a practical statesman. The real monument of K ' u n g the M a s t e r is not the literary canon associated with his name, but the Chinese E m p i r e itself, the greatest and most e n d u r i n g of human societies, under whose shelter nearly a third of the human race have lived i n comparative civilisa­ tion and happiness from an age far antedating the foundation of T r o y or the E x o d u s of the H e b r e w s , down to the present day, and w h i c h , d u r i n g that vast period, has been k n o w n to those who inhabit it as the Heavenly K i n g d o m . T h i s stupendous creation now lies, helpless through its o w n love of peace, at the mercy of the armed C h r i s t i a n powers who invaded it to avenge their missionaries, immediately after h o l d i n g a conference to proclaim the gospel of peace and disarmament. But though the State which K ' u n g re-established may pass away, his w o r k cannot be wholly destroyed. A s a m o r a l teacher he must continue to appeal more and more to minds w h i c h have o u t g r o w n the emotional phases of primitive religion. Some truths are for all time. W h e n the Master declared that a rule of morality b i n d i n g on himself need not bind a disciple whose o w n conscience did not enjoin it on h i m , he reached a height to which m a n k i n d have hardly yet lifted their eyes, and announced a freedom com­ pared with which ours is still an empty name. SAYINGS AND ANSWERS. I. THE MASTER ON HIMSELF. The M a s t e r s a i d , — " I will not be afflicted because men do not k n o w m e ; I w i l l be afflicted because I do not k n o w m e n . " * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " A t fifteen I had my mind bent on l e a r n i n g . " A t thirty, I stood firm. " A t forty, I had no doubts. " A t fifty, I knew the decrees of H e a v e n . " A t sixty, my ear was an obedient vessel. " A t seventy, I could follow what my heart desired, without transgressing what was r i g h t . " * * * * Tsze-lu s a i d , — " I should like, sir, to hear your wishes." The Master s a i d , — " I n regard to the aged, to give them rest; in regard to friends, to show them s i n c e r i t y ; in regard to the y o u n g , to treat them tenderly." The Master s a i d , — " I t is all o v e r ! I have not seen one w h o could perceive his faults and inwardly accuse h i m s e l f . " * * * * The Master s a i d , — " I n a hamlet of ten families there may be found one as honourable and sincere as I am, but not so fond of l e a r n i n g . " *

*

*

*

The M a s t e r s a i d , — " A transmitter, and not a maker, believing in and l o v i n g the ancients, I venture to compare myself with our old P ' a n g . " * * * * * The Master s a i d , — " T h e h a v i n g virtue without proper c u l t i v a t i o n ; the not thoroughly discussing what is learned; not being able to move towards

* Believed to have been an official of the Shang dynasty.

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righteousness of which I have gained the k n o w l e d g e ; and not being able to change what is not g o o d : — these are the things w h i c h cause me s o l i c i t u d e . " * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " E x t r e m e is my decay. For a l o n g time I have not dreamed, as I was wont to do, that I saw the D u k e of C h o w . " † * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " F r o m the m a n b r i n g i n g his bundle of dried flesh upwards, I have never refused instruction to any o n e . " * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " I do not open up the truth to one who is not eager, nor help out any one w h o is not anxious to explain himself. W h e n I have presented one corner of a subject to any one, and he cannot from it learn the other three, I do not repeat m y lesson." * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " I am not concerned that I have no place; I am concerned how I may fit myself for o n e . " * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " M y doctrine is one t h r o u g h ­ out."§ T s a n g the learner r e p l i e d , — " Y e s . " The M a s t e r went out, and the disciples a s k e d , — " W h a t do his words m e a n ? " T s a n g s a i d , — " T h e doctrine of our master is to be true to the principles of our nature, and the benevolent exercise of them towards others,—this and n o t h i n g m o r e . " * * * * Tsae Y u being asleep d u r i n g the daytime, the Master s a i d , — " R o t t e n wood cannot be c a r v e d ; m u d will not receive the trowel. T h i s Y u — w h a t is the use of my r e p r o v i n g h i m ? " The M a s t e r s a i d , — " A t first my w a y w i t h men was to hear their words, and give them credit for their conduct. N o w my way is to hear their w o r d s , and look at their conduct. It is from Y u that I have learned to make this c h a n g e . " * * * * W h e n the Master was i n C h ' i n he s a i d , — " L e t me r e t u r n ! L e t me r e t u r n ! T h e little children of m y school are ambitious and too hasty. T h e y are accomplished and complete so far, but they do not know how to restrict and shape t h e m s e l v e s . " * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " W i t h coarse rice to eat, with water to drink, and my bended arm for a p i l l o w , — I still have joy in the midst of these things. R i c h e s and honour acquired by unrighteousness are to me as a fleeting c l o u d . " * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " I am not one who was born in the possession of k n o w l e d g e ; I am one w h o is fond of antiquity, and earnest i n s t u d y . " The Master s a i d , — " D o you think, my disciples, that I have any concealments? There is n o t h i n g I do which is not shown to y o u : — t h a t is my w a y . " * * * * The Master was in danger in K ' w a n g . He said,— " A f t e r the death of K i n g W a n , was not the cause of truth lodged here? If H e a v e n had wished the cause of truth to perish, then I, a future m o r t a l , should not have been placed in such a relation to that cause. W h i l e Heaven does not let the cause of truth perish, what can the people of K ' w a n g do to m e ? " * * * * The M a s t e r s a i d , — " T h e F u n g bird does not c o m e ; the river sends forth no c h a r t : it is all over with m e . " * * (To be continued.)

† An

ancient ruler whose institutions K ' u n g had hoped to revive. § These words are esteemed by the Chinese the most profound of the " S a y i n g s . " **The F u n g was fabled to appear as a herald of righteousness. The oldest of the Chinese sages was fabled to have learnt his wisdom from the markings on the back of a river monster. The missionary Legge is not ashamed to say that K ' u n g " e n d o r s e s " these legends.

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"The Horses of Diomedes." By REMY DE GOURMONT. (Translated by C. Sartoris.) XI.—THE BARGE. I w i s h to s p r i n g unto another vessel and to have the old barge sink w i t h all m y sins. SEATED in the arm-chair which Néobelle had just quitted, he mused, c l a s p i n g the letter between his fingers, surprised at h a v i n g abandoned himself so frankly to pathetic discourse and gesture. B u t so many emotions, both modes, sensual and sentimental, had wearied h i m as much as l o n g wanderings a m o n g conflicting sorts of scenery, would have done. H e mused without thought, numbed rather into a pleasant fatigue, uneasy and yet satisfied as if w i t h a victory. S o o n , he ceased even to muse. H e perceived the near sounds of d a n c i n g . Astonished that no couple should have attempted to intrude into a corner so well k n o w n and where so many shoulders had been kissed perhaps greedily, he went to lift the tapestry which separated the little, solitary d r a w i n g r o o m from the others. T h e door was locked. T h e other one, that which gave directly on to the antechamber and by which Néobelle had disappeared, remained open. Servants were half asleep. O n the tables there lay the few r e m a i n i n g coats from which he chose his o w n . T h e music ceased, people came o u t ; he retreated quickly, not w i s h i n g to see anyone. A t the same instant the locked door opened and C y r è n e appeared. — I knew y o u were there, I was w a t c h i n g you. H o w I must love you Diomedes, to leave you locked in alone w i t h my daughter. — T h e whole w o r l d m i g h t have come in by the other door. — N o , this evening the inner door was open only from w i t h i n . — I am just as pleased not to have k n o w n all that beforehand, resumed Diomedes, N é o knew i t ? — N o , I d i d it a l l . I k n o w you love each other and it pleases me. — She is really your daughter? — M y real daughter. Y o u would prefer not? — Almost. — She is so little like me. In stature and figure and that is a l l . I adore her and she despises me. If she had my disposition, she would love me. . . . It is better thus. . . . N é o is an admirable creature before w h o m I kneel, dazzled and faltering. I adore without understanding. . . . Y o u alone perhaps could unravel that hieratic w r i t i n g . One does not k n o w what she wishes. . . . A t last she loves y o u . — Y e s , resumed Diomedes very simply, I believe she loves me. . — A n d you? . . — I, I am crushed. I await the stroke of mercy —and mercy.... — A h ! be w i t t y , the joy and life of an unhappy g i r l depend on y o u . She offers you all her beauty and all her heart. — O h , don't be sentimental Cyrène. H a v e the modesty of sentiment; that is what I call not being sentimental, and let me love with irony if such be my manner of l o v i n g . — W o m e n , said C y r è n e , have no modesty, you k n o w it, without doubt, better than I do, but modesty is the last t h i n g of which they are capable. T o speak of love is to them perhaps more pleasing than to love. D o you really believe that I can love C y r a n secretly? N o , I wish to scream my feelings for

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him, spread them, expose them—on every w a l l , on my forehead and on his. I am happier i n h a v i n g seen him one hour ceremoniously in my house than to have passed eight days of solitude w i t h h i m . T h e w o r l d k n o w s he left me, the w o r l d k n o w s it grieves m e ; the w o r l d w i l l k n o w that we met. . . . Cyrène mused a m o m e n t ; she r e s u m e d : — H e has taken the first step; he w i l l take others. I wish to die near h i m . . . . I am no more such as y o u think me and such as I seem, D i o m e d e s ; and if I w i s h to be loved again by C y r a n (loved the w a y he wishes) it is to be able to appear at least such as I have become. . . . T h e adolescents, D i o m e d e s , youthful charmers and y o u n g sirens, I would so w i s h to escape t h e m ! I feel I am l o s i n g myself, m y barge is s i n k i n g ; the water is blue and w a r m but deep; I w i l l disappear wholly. . . . N o , I wish to live, and remain beautiful and p r o u d ; leave the w o r l d and not be left by the w o r l d . I wish to s p r i n g unto another vessel and to let the old barge sink w i t h all my s i n s ; they are heavy, it w i l l touch the bottom. O n the other vessel, I shall establish myself very sensibly but with great d i g n i t y , as a queen w h o has just abdicated but w h o keeps her royal habits and demeanour. H a v e I not reigned truly over a whole people? B y my beauty and by my l u s t ? Y e s by that almost alone, for the rest would have been n o t h i n g without the scandal of my life. — A h , Cyrène, is it then the hour of flagellation? — It would have struck already but C y r a n delayed the clock. — Y o u will be regretted. — A n d I leave no heiress. — I hope not, answered Diomedes. Cyrène looked at h i m without anger. — That is the first touch of the lash, continue. — H a r d l y , a small silken c o r d , my friend. Send me away. — E v e r y t h i n g is closed, said C y r è n e , you will pass through m y room and the small staircase. — N o , that would be too much temptation. H e followed however, troubled, fearing the weakness of the flesh but Cyrène c r o s s i n g the room without hesitation, had already opened the hidden door. Diomedes, through instinct or remembrance, glanced towards the bed the place of which he k n e w , it was undone and in the d i m light he thought he saw a head bury itself in the pillow. T h e n , in a fit of hypocritical indignation—for would he, Diomedes, have resisted the violent arms—he railed at C y r è n e and in a l o w voice, as she held a light for h i m on the staircase. — Cyrène, you lie to your own words. W h o is there? Cyrène answered coldly. — Elian. — T h e n all you said to me? — I shall renounce myself but in the security of my heart. — Sacrifice that. — Diomedes I entreat you. — But why give me this exhibition and force me into an absurd part? Here I am m o r a l i z i n g , at two in the m o r n i n g , on the third step of the stairway which leads to the alcove. I am inclined to laugh. It is true you are free, but to believe y o u Cyrène, to believe y o u ! — If I had so willed, it would be you who would be in the alcove. A n d to punish Diomedes, leaning over h i m , she touched his forehead with her bare shoulder. Diomedes went down one step. — G o away. — Sacrifice E l i a n . — I leave y o u . — I will believe you no more. — H e is the last one, Diomedes. Still that one, I longed for E l i a n , he is the last. — And Flavie? — A bagatelle. — Sacrifice E l i a n .

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— N o , my friend, I w i s h to choose my last w o r d . Good-night. She went back. Diomedes heard the r a t t l i n g of the locks. T h e n he w a l k e d back up the four steps, and listened. E l i a n had left the couch when the first lock rattled and there, close to the little door, it was a slow and curious possession with a c r u s h i n g of stuffs and rapid embraces. . . . H e heard C y r è n e pronounce an obscene w o r d then it seemed to h i m that she carried off the adolescent in her arms. H e mused whilst the street door was being opened for h i m . " C y r è n e has arrived at the excitement of the filthy w o r d . . . . I pity her. . . . H o w e v e r , it goes with her a g e . " T h e n further: "Decidedly, the loves of others, are very uninteresting." XII.—PERFUMES. T h a t perfume of lavender and nuts as yet untroubled by male touch. Diomedes awakened in the sunshine and had, before any thought, the feeling of happiness. It was w a r m ; the curtains smiled on the clear panes; he rose, w a l k e d unclothed. F l o w e r s bloomed naively in a b o w l ; green plants spread their leaves, their stalks were bent under clusters of blossoms. H e was l o n g amused at l i v i n g thus, free and attentive to the h u m m i n g peace of the spring-like morning. H a v i n g opened a w i n d o w g i v i n g on n o t h i n g , on summits of trees, on the heavens, he stood erect, divinely proud, on the threshold of renewed nature. T h e n , his state of nudity inclining him towards sexual thoughts, he understood the cause of his joy, ran towards his clothes, opened the letter with haste. It was still fragrant with a perfume of flesh; he read it standing amongst the flowers and the leaves that softly brushed his s k i n . F o u r leaflets well filled and as if adorned with arabesques. H e found this straight w r i t i n g , full of loops, noble, cordial, sensual also in the undulating curves of the dashes, which seemed to p r o l o n g the words like k i s s e s ; which folded themselves back like arms, to keep longer the delight of the idea. T h e avowals did not surprise h i m , of the restrictions and doubts he had but an indistinct perception; all that was neither desire nor g i l t , was swamped in the remembrance of recent ecstasies. H i s happiness was heightened by the certitude of d o m i n a t i n g this superb creature henceforward; she had come to h i m , stripped of her pride and almost of her dress, torn in sign of submission.... M o v e d , he gave himself the promise to be for Néo a magnificent friend, a sensual and sentimental treasure diffused as a rain of summer over all her body and even over the obscure depths of her verdant soul. H e loved her under the form of a y o u n g , fresh, s t r o n g , and leafy tree, which one clasps, of which one plucks a branch, at the foot of w h i c h , one lies in a fragrant and w a r m shade. She gave him the sensation of firmness, of security and from dreaming of the young tree with a verdant soul, he saw himself, rooted to the same soil, q u i v e r i n g in the m o r n i n g w i n d , s w o o n i n g in an e n t w i n i n g of boughs, fraternal and voluptuous. Suddenly he desired her. T h e pathetic scenes of the night reascended slowly to his eyes, then redescended along his nerves, d r a i n i n g the blood from his arteries, closing the maddened gates of his v e i n s ; he recealled, almost s w o o n i n g , the golden arms in which the blue lines coursed like waves, the gently sloping shoulders, the large, deep breasts, rendered whiter by the purple of their g e m m æ ; and he breathed in that perfume of lavender and nuts, as yet untroubled by male touch.

November

1st,

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The sun disappeared behind a c l o u d ; D i o m e d c s dressed himself, recovered his calm and his l u c i d i t y , but still f o l l o w i n g the same train of thought, he discoursed inwardly on the peculiarity and the d i v e r s i t y of feminine perfumes, their part in the things of love, the absurdity of w e d d i n g a w o m a n without h a v i n g inhaled the fragrance of her flesh. H e then understood the usefulness of balls, amused that sensual exigencies should have imposed upon the most chaste of maidens, the offering of themselves, open flowers, to the discreet pursuings of the suitors. G o i n g even further, he admitted the necessity of the majority of traditional customs, even those of which the significanse is f o r g o t t e n : thus, sea b a t h i n g and the seminudity of the beach, it was the revenge of natural immodesty on the i m p r i s o n i n g of bosoms and arms, on the length of s k i r t s , on the deceit of dresses and bodices. A people accustomed to a certain nakedness w o u l d bathe in a s w e a t i n g r o o m and not in the hard and treacherous water of the ocean. B u t it is necessary that women, the m a t r i x of the race, should disrobe at least once a year under the eye of the males. Stronger than all religions, than all moralities, instinct commands and modesty obeys. Reflecting on his recent conversation w i t h Pascase he regretted not h a v i n g proved to h i m that the dress of a y o u n g g i r l , after three or four years of balls and sea-side pleasures, covers but a flesh as well k n o w n as a whole, to the eyes, the hands of male intuition as the public flesh of the model or the courtesan. A n d yet, he did not condemn either the m o r a l i t y or the modesty, or the struggle against n a t u r e ; to him this perpetual state of oscillation between the animal instinct and human instinct was i n t e r e s t i n g ; the w o r k of geniuses, t r a i n i n g collar and necklace, ornament singularly happy and significant. " I t is the frontal of the high-priest, the s i g n of election. Such as he has become, man is a b e i n g opposed to n a t u r e : in that is his beauty. B u t it is not a bad t h i n g that nature should sometimes recall him to his o r i g i n , bend him towards her hard breasts and her hips of stone, so that he should k n o w that the joy is to be a man and not to be an a n i m a l . O h ! how unnatural Néo really i s ! It is not natural that a woman should be beautiful, fair and somewhat golden. It is her soul that renders her beautiful, the obscurity of houses and of clothes that makes her fair, the hot house of civilisation that discolours her hair and gives the pale colour of amber to the down of her arms, smooths her s k i n , and has made of all her body, a t h i n g of softness. . . . The men of our race who would live nude, would acquire the colour of old red copper kettles, and the women who give us our pleasures, would resemble the watermen who empty sand-filled boats a l o n g the river. Diomedes smiled at the thought of the naïve draughtsmen who illustrate prehistorical novels with small Praxiteles, or have lilacious bosoms and pure shoulders blossoming amongst the stench of putrid viands on the outskirts of the caverns. H e smiled also at the thought of the writers. " A n i m a l beauty is natural. H u m a n beauty is not natural. It is an invention slowly perfected, one of the visible w o r k s and the masterpiece of i n t e l l i g e n c e . " H a v i n g breakfasted, he read over the letter. Then the doubts and reticences assailed h i m , b u r s t i n g like a seedling of ink stains amongst the cordial arabesques. H e suffered. " H a v e not the gestures and the words of yesterday evening effaced the little ink stains? A l l this retraction of herself, and this d i v i d i n g in two beings, one of blood, the other of soul, is it a n y t h i n g else but the gesture of l o w e r i n g her dress when the passer-by gazes with too s t r o n g desire at the l i m b s of the passing w o m a n ? H e r fichu crossed doubly on her breast? B u t she tore it herself, tearing all the lines of the letter by which she denied her l o v e . ' ' A n d little by little, he was comforted.

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1913.

THE NEW FREEWOMAN

F e a r dominated h i m no longer. T h e g l o o m y b i r d w h i c h hovered over his head, had fallen at his feet, w i n g s closed, but the beast, still p a l p i t a t i n g w r i t h e d , and its feathers fluttered. H e felt that in himself a great renewal was about to take place, that the manifold horizons which stayed his amused gaze, were about to be veiled in mist, one only r e m a i n i n g clear in the universal twilight. T h e n he wished for himself the necessary power to to . suffer this darkness . and this a n g u i s h , watchful . k n o w whether Néobelle w o u l d be resplendent enough to illuminate, a unique star, the w o r l d of his thoughts, of his desires, and of his d r e a m s ! The knowledge of this singular maiden, of dissimilar purposes, was still confused in his m i n d , impressed w i t h enthusiasm but not freed from all egoistical apprehension. Bee, wasp, or drone, w o u l d she not convey to his b r a i n , illogical germs and prepare there in the secrecy of the g y n æ c e u m , anomalous fecundations and an illusive posterity? " S h e will wish to substitute for my l i n g e r i n g and ironical pleasures, felicities too certain and too precise, for she must have, being a w o m a n , a practical and determined goal in life,—and I, I only desire to live a little, a little at a time, s p a r i n g my nerves and my sensitiveness, my whole intelligence folded and unfolded slowly, a c c o r d i n g to the opportunities of prey, such as the lazy vertebrae of a large snake that seems to sleep amongst the reeds.... T o play with life, to play with ideas, to have t w o or three principles, solid, but netted as a racket, so that e v e r y t h i n g should pass through save the essential. . . . A n d what is essential except accomp l i s h i n g one's salvation, a c c o r d i n g to the very noble C h r i s t i a n expression, that is to say, to realise oneself a c c o r d i n g to one's nature and a c c o r d i n g to one's g e n i u s ? . . . If that alone is essential, I will love Néobelle, whatever happens; the p i l g r i m who travels in the snow, must love the house which opens at his call and the hearth which kindles for his wet limbs. But the house should not be divided into two halls, one ardent and the other morose, there should be but one flame, one table, one bed and the smile of the w o m a n should acknowledge an intelligent sensuality and all the spiritual refinements. . . ." Here his meditations were interrupted by the a r r i v a l of Pascase. Diomedes, once more, was pleased by it. T h e w h i r l w i n d of ideas was stayed. Pascase was satisfied and irritated. Softened by the promises of Cyrène he still revolted against the immoralities with which he had come in contact. K n o w i n g beforehand, the tenure of all pleadings in the moral theme, Diomedes listened with indifference. At the end, he r e t o r t e d : — T w o or three times in a century, one changes or one cleans the glass panes of the hot house in which one lives. A t first the more luminous light enables us to see more closely and to understand more clearly, the playings of our morals, but little bv little the rain and the dust dull the panes; they become lined with m o s s ; flies multiply their shadows and their s p e c k s ; first comes opacity, then almost night. . . . But be it clear or dark, morals are always the same, for the same sexes dance the same roundelay, in the same w o r l d . . . . You live at a time when the panes have just been changed (or cleansed), the light is clear, your eyes have all their clairvoyance—and you sincerely believe that E l i a n or F l a v i e are exceptional little monsters endowed with a special mission on an earth threatened with catastrophes and conflagrations. . . . Jehovah himself was thus mistaken when he destroyed the towns which he wished to curse, but experience has doubtless taught h i m , or perhaps indulgence, since he looks upon P a r i s without anger. . . . — W h a t do you k n o w of i t ? said Pascase. Diomedes continued g e n t l y :

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— . . . and perhaps s m i l i n g . I believe G o d has become, as we have, indulgent. Have you noticed Pacsase, the kindness of G o d and his infinite patience in m o d e l l i n g his divine soul on the h u m a n soul? H i s thoughts always conform to those of the thirty intellectual, righteous men who g o v e r n the w o r l d without the w o r l d o b s e r v i n g it, themselves led in their course by a chosen one w h o often remains ignored by men. G o d has thought as P y t h a g o r a s , who is now but a n a m e ; as Saint B e r n a r d , whose ideas shock u s ; as S p i n o z a w h o m no one has read. G o d is alive, Pascase. H e is truly the E t e r n a l . H e is transformed without l o s i n g a particle of his d i v i n i t y , and P h œ n i x , he bursts forth a l w a y s , although different, essentially like himself, from the P y r e where burns the intellectual flame. Introduced to an idea Pascase knew how to stir therein. H e s a i d : — Y o u r way of e x p l a i n i n g G o d is equivalent to denying h i m . — O h ! what more candid assertion? I have the faith of an old w o m a n . But Diomedes smiled slightly. — I believe G o d immutable, resumed P a s c a s e ; perhaps indulgent, perhaps patient. . . . But I believe also, and it is one of your sayings that I have meditated, that at certain hours in the centuries, he ceases to look, that is to say, to think the w o r l d . T h e n the divine slowly ebbs from h u m a n souls. The fragrance of the infinite abandons the creatures; the perfume which had impregnated the earth returns to its source, and souls close themselves as the blossoms of convolvuluses close at night. It is the interreign. Sometimes I dream that perhaps we are l i v i n g at such a period. T h e night is soft but dreary, the grasses sway under the mist, the leaves are silent, the moon sleeps and the stars are sad. G o d is t h i n k i n g other w o r l d s . Diomedes terrifying:

thought

this

very

beautiful,

very

— W h a t a subject for dreams, P a s c a s e ! This universe delivered up to laws, to the brutal causality, to the implacable rule of affinities and repulsions, to F o r c e , that is to say, to S t u p i d i t y ! In short, a universe without Intelligence which is the perpetual negation of L a w , which is love, w h i c h is bliss, which is the sword against which the imbecile force rushes and pierces i t s e l f ! — T h a t state of horror, said Pascase, is agreeable to many men. After a l l , it is the scientific conception of the w o r l d . It is perhaps the true one. — Perhaps, answered Diomedes sadly. Besides which the thought of a man binds but one man. There are many truths. Some live, others are d e a d ; the others will die. . . . B u t according to that system Pascase, if you adopted it (which would surprise me) on what w o u l d y o u establish the basilica of your good mother M o r a l i t y ? — O n n o t h i n g . It would even be absurd to try and lay its foundation stone. Diomedes r e s u m e d : — Pascase, is not all this in the main somewhat indifferent to y o u ? W o u l d you not prefer to kiss the hair of little F l a v i e ? — No, it is too short. — Short, but pretty and fine. Yet you are right, for she would refuse your man's lips. F l a v i e has principles, she will die v i r g i n of male caresses. These aberrations are not unpleasant as are those of E l i a n . A n d besides, he is mercenary. — Oh! — Y e s ; it is ugly and very squalid, but illnesses also are u g l y yet must be touched. M y friend, if one wrote something of our lite, could one deny that we have lived, we who are innocent of such low vices, amongst the E l i a n s with curled l o c k s ? Should one refrain in d e p i c t i n g a forest scenery, from painting mushrooms because they are venenous? My character does not allow indignation. I am curious

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and not a moralist, I practise anatomy and not medicine. I wish to k n o w h o w the heart of the a n i m a l is r o o t e d ; I do not d r a w up prescriptions. W h i l e d i n i n g , they were occupied w i t h the w o r k that Pascase could accept in the newspapers ruled by C y r è n e , and D i o m e d e s smiled at the eagerness of his friend to introduce himself into a milieu w h i c h he despised. He mused: "He also, is mercenary, and yet he is the most honest m a n in the w o r l d and the purest of hearts. A l l is but i r o n y . " (To be continued.)

The Serious Artist. III.—EMOTION AND POESY. OBVIOUSLY, it is not easy to be a great poet. If it were, many more people w o u l d have done so. A t no period in history has the w o r l d been free of people who have mildly desired to be great poets and not a few have endeavoured conscientiously to be such. I am aware that adjectives of magnitude are held to savour of b a r b a r i s m . S t i l l there is no shame in d e s i r i n g to g i v e great gifts and an enlightened c r i t i c i s m does not draw i g n o m i n i o u s comparisons between V i l l o n and D a n t e . T h e so-called major poets have most of them given their own gift, but the peculiar term " m a j o r " is rather a gift to them from C h r o n o s . I mean that they have been born upon the stroke of their hour and that it has been given them to heap together and arrange and harmonize the results of many men's labour. T h i s very faculty for a m a l g a m a t i o n is a part of their genius and it is, in a w a y , a sort of modesty, a sort of unselfishness. T h e y have not wished for property. The men from w h o m D a n t e borrowed are remembered as much for the fact that he d i d b o r r o w as for their o w n compositions. A t the same time he gave of his o w n , and no mere compiler and classifier of other men's discoveries is g i v e n the name of " m a j o r p o e t " for more than a season. If D a n t e had not done a deal more than b o r r o w rhymes from A r n a u t D a n i e l and theology from A q u i n a s he w o u l d not be published by Dent in the year of grace 1913. W e m i g h t come to believe that the t h i n g that matters in art is a sort of energy, something more or less like electricity or radio-activity, a force transfusing, w e l d i n g , and u n i f y i n g . A force rather like water when it spurts up t h r o u g h very bright sand and sets it in swift m o t i o n . Y o u may make what image you l i k e . I do not k n o w that there is much use in c o m p o s i n g an answer to the often asked q u e s t i o n : W h a t is the difference between poetry and prose? I believe that poetry is the more h i g h l y energized. But these things are relative. Just as we say that a certain temperature is hot and another cold. In the same way we say that a certain prose passage " I s p o e t r y " m e a n i n g to praise it, and that a certain passage of verse is " o n l y p r o s e " meaning dispraise. A n d at the same time " P o e t r y ! ! ! " is used as a synonym for " B o s h ! R o t t ! ! R u b b i s h ! ! ! ' The thing that counts is " G o o d W r i t i n g . " A n d " G o o d w r i t i n g " is perfect control. A n d it is quite easy to control a t h i n g that has in it no energy—provided that it be not too heavy and that you do not w i s h to make it move. A n d , as all the w o r d s that one would use in w r i t i n g about these things are the vague w o r d s of daily speech, it is nearly impossible to write w i t h scientific preciseness about " p r o s e and v e r s e " unless one writes a complete treatise on the " a r t of w r i t i n g , " defining each word as one would define the terms in

November

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a treatise on chemistry. A n d on this account a l l essays about " p o e t r y " are usually not only dull but inaccurate and w h o l l y useless. A n d on l i k e account if y o u ask a g o o d painter to tell y o u what he is t r y i n g to do to a c a n v a s he w i l l very probably w a v e his hands helplessly and m u r m u r that " H e eh— —eh—he can't talk about i t . " A n d that if y o u " s e e a n y t h i n g at a l l , he is quite—eh—more or less— eh—satisfied." Nevertheless it has been held for a shameful t h i n g that a m a n should not be able to g i v e a reason for his acts and w o r d s . A n d if one does not care about being taken for a mystificateur one may as well try to g i v e a p p r o x i m a t e answers to questions asked i n g o o d faith. It m i g h t be better to do the t h i n g thoroughly in a properly accurate treatise, but one has not always two or three spare years at one's disposal, and one is d e a l i n g w i t h very subtle and complicated matter, and even so, the very algebra of logic is itself open to debate. R o u g h l y then, G o o d w r i t i n g is w r i t i n g that is perfectly controlled, the writer says just w h a t he means. H e says it w i t h complete c l a r i t y and s i m plicity. H e uses the smallest possible number of words. I do not mean that he s k i m p s paper, or that he screws about like T a c i t u s to get his thought crowded into the least possible space. But, granting that two sentences are at times easier to understand than one sentence c o n t a i n i n g the double m e a n i n g , the author tries to communicate w i t h the reader w i t h the greatest possible despatch, save where for any one of forty reasons he does not wish to do so. A l s o there are various k i n d s of clarity. T h e r e is the clarity of the request: Send me four pounds of ten-penny nails. A n d there is the syntactical s i m plicity of the request: B u y me the k i n d of R e m b r a n d t I like. T h i s last is an utter c r y p t o g r a m . It presupposes a more complex and intimate understanding of the speaker than most of us ever acquire of anyone. It has as many meanings, almost, as there are persons who m i g h t speak it. T o a stranger it conveys n o t h i n g at a l l . It is the almost constant labour of the prose artist to translate this latter k i n d of clarity into the f o r m e r ; to say " S e n d me the k i n d of R e m b r a n d t I l i k e " in the terms of " S e n d me four pounds of ten-penny nails." The whole t h i n g is an evolution. In the b e g i n n i n g simple words were e n o u g h : F o o d ; w a t e r ; fire. B o t h prose and poetry are but an extension of language. M a n desires to communicate w i t h his fellows. He desires an ever increasingly complicated c o m m u n i c a tion. Gesture serves up to a point. S y m b o l s may serve. W h e n you desire something not present to the eye or when you desire to communicate ideas, you must have recourse to speech. G r a d u a l l y y o u wish to communicate something less bare and ambiguous than ideas. Y o u wish to communicate an idea and its modifications, an idea and a c r o w d of its effects, atmospheres, contradictions. Y o u w i s h to question whether a certain formula w o r k s in every case, or in what percent. of cases etc. etc. etc. y o u get the H e n r y James novel. Y o u wish to communicate an idea and its concomitant emotions, or an emotion and its concomitant ideas, or a sensation and its derivative emotions, or an impression that is emotive, etc. etc. etc. You begin with the yeowl and the bark, and you develop into the dance and into music, and into music w i t h words, and finally into w o r d s w i t h m u s i c , and finally into words with a vague adumbration of m u s i c , words suggestive of music, w o r d s measured, or words in a r h y t h m that preserves some accurate trait of the emotive impression, or of the sheer character of the fostering or parental emotion. W h e n this r h y t h m , or when the vowel and consonantal melody or sequence seems t r u l y to bear the trace of emotion w h i c h the poem (for we have come at last to the poem) is intended to c o m m u n i c a t e , we say that this part of the w o r k is g o o d . A n d " t h i s

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part of the w o r k " is by now " t e c h n i q u e . " That " d r y , d u l l , p e d a n t i c " technique, that all bad artists r a i l against. It is only a part of technique, it is r h y t h m , cadence, and the arrangement of sounds. A l s o the " p r o s e , " the w o r d s and their sense must be such as fit the emotion. O r , from the other side, ideas, or fragments of ideas, the emotion and concomitant emotions of this " I n t e l l e c t u a l and E m o t i o n a l C o m p l e x " (for we have come to the intellectual and emotional complex) must be i n h a r m o n y , they must form an o r g a n i s m , they must be an oak s p r u n g from one acorn. W h e n y o u have words of a lament set to the r h y t h m and tempo of " T h e r e ' l l be a H o t T i m e in the O l d T o w n t o - n i g h t " y o u have either an intentional burlesque or you have rotten art. Shelley's " S e n s i t i v e P l a n t " is one of the rottenest poems ever w r i t t e n , at least one of the worst ascribable to a recognized author. It j i g g l e s to the same tune as " A little peach i n the orchard g r e w . " Y e t Shelley recovered and wrote the fifth act of the C e n c i . II.

It is occasionally suggested by the wise that poets should acquire the graces of prose. T h a t is an extension of what has been said above anent control. P r o s e does not need emotion. It may, but it need not, attempt to portray emotion. P o e t r y is a centaur. T h e t h i n k i n g w o r d , a r r a n g i n g , clarifying faculty must move and leap w i t h the energ i z i n g , sentient, musical faculties. It is precisely the difficulty of this amphibious existence that keeps d o w n the census record of good poets. T h e accomplished prose author w i l l tell you that he " c a n only write poetry when he has a b e l l y - a c h e " and thence he w i l l argue that poetry just isn't an art. I dare say there are very good m a r k s m e n who just can't shoot from a horse. L i k e w i s e if a good m a r k s m a n only mounted a few times he m i g h t never acquire any proficiency in shooting from the saddle. O r l e a v i n g metaphor, I suppose that what, in the l o n g run, makes the poet is a sort of persistence of the emotional nature, and, joined w i t h this, a peculiar sort of control. The s a y i n g that " a lyric poet might as well die at t h i r t y " is simply saying that the emotional nature seldom survives this age, or that it becomes, at any rate, subjected and incapable of m o v i n g the whole man. O f course this is a generality, and, as such, inaccurate. It is true that most people poetize more or less, between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three. T h e emotions are new, and, to their possessor, interesting, and there is not much mind or personality to be moved. A s the man, as his mind, becomes a heavier and heavier machine, a constantly more complicated structure, it requires a constantly greater voltage of emotional energy to set it in harmonious motion. It is certain that the emotions increase in v i g o u r as a vigorous man matures. In the case of G u i d o we have his strongest w o r k at fifty. M o s t important poetry has been written by men over thirty. "En l ' a n trentiesme de mon e a g e , " begins V i l l o n and considering the nature of his life thirty would have seen him more spent than forty years of more orderly l i v i n g . Aristotle will tell y o u that " T h e apt use of metaphor, being as it is, the swift perception of relations, is the true hall-mark of g e n i u s . " T h a t abundance, that readiness of the image is indeed one of the surest proofs that the mind is upborne upon the emotional surge. B y " a p t u s e , " I should say it were well to understand, a swiftness, almost a violence, and certainly a vividness. T h i s does not mean elaboration and complication. There is another poignancy which I do not care to analyze into component parts, if, indeed, such v i v i section is possible. It is not the formal phrasing of F l a u b e r t (which y o u have seen recently praised by

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another writer in these columns) much as such formality is desirable and noble. It is such p h r a s i n g as we find in " E r a gìa l ' o r a che volge il disio Ai naviganti" . . . O r the opening of the ballata which b e g i n s : " P e r c h 'io non spero d i tornar gìa m a i Ballatetta, in T o s c a n a . " Or " S ' i l s n'ayment fors que pour l'argent, O n ne les ayme que pour l ' h e u r e . " O r , in its c o n t e x t : " T h e fire that stirs about her, when she s t i r s , " or, in its so different setting, "Ne ne for in

maeg w e r i g m o d w y r d e w i d h s t o n d a n se hreo hyge helpe g e f r e m m a n : dhon domgeorne dreorigne oft h y r a breostcofan bindath faeste."

F o r these things have in them that passionate simplicity which is beyond the precisions of the intellect. T r u l y they are perfect as fine prose is perfect, but they are in some way different from the clear statements of the observer. T h e y are in some way different from that so masterly ending of the H e r o d i a s : " C o m m e elle etait tres lourde ils la portaient alternativement," or from the constatation in St. J u l i a n H o s p i t a l i e r : " E t l'idee l u i vient d'employer son existence au service des a u t r e s . " The prose author has shown the t r i u m p h of his intellect and one k n o w s that such t r i u m p h is not without its sufferings by the way, but by the verses one is brought upon the passionate moment. This moment has brought with it n o t h i n g that violates the prose simplicities. The intellect has not found it but the intellect has been moved. There is little but folly in seeking the lines of division, yet if the two arts must be divided we may as well use that line as any other. In the verse something has come upon the intelligence. In the prose the intelligence has found a subject for its observations. T h e poetic fact pre-exists. In a different way, of course, the subject of the prose pre-exists. Perhaps the difference is undemonstrable, perhaps it is not even communicable to any save those of good w i l l . Yet I think this o r d e r l i ness in the greatest poetic passages, this quiet statement that partakes of the nature of prose and is yet afloat and tossed in the emotional surges, is perhaps as true a test as that mentioned by the Greek theorician. EZRA

POUND.

(To be continued.)

Graveyard

Fruit.

AVEGETARIANarose from his pillow with the sweet thought that not for him on that bright day was innocent blood to be shed. H e was a dainty and particular man. H e put on a cotton s u i t ; laced his shoes, made of felt, that he might not be a party to the death of cattle; brushed his clothes with his usual c a r e ; and after his breakfast of coffee and toast, he buttoned his overcoat snugly about h i m , put on his silk hat and overshoes, and ordered a hack, to go to his office. O n the way he stopped to have a drop of oil put on the hinge of his watch, and, afterward, to buy, at a bankrupt sale, a quantity of preserved fruit. His mind was pure and quiet, and all went well with him that d a y ; and when he bought some stock, it largely advanced in price. But when he went home, he fell ill of a fever, and the fever brought the memories of m a n y lives into his brain. He heard a rising sound, like the fearful m u r m u r of a mob of men. H e saw a d r i v i n g cloud

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like fine d u s t ; and the murmur shaped itself into a Voice. " T h i s is a show of h u m a n i t y , " it said, " a n d we are the m i l l i o n s of animalculæ, boiled that you might have coffee, roasted that you might have b r e a d ; and we, the s i l k w o r m s , scalded that you might have a shiny hat, the fowls slaughtered to get eiderdown for your couch, the porpoises harpooned to furnish oil for y o u , the cattle whose bones made the handle of your brush, whose compressed blood forms the buttons on your coat, whose skins made the harness of your cab, whose ashes clarified your sugar, and fertilized the fields for your w h e a t . " For a moment the V o i c e was more d i s t i n c t — " I am the bankrupt driven by monopoly to the w a l l , whose fruit you bought so cheap—I, the broker, that ruined himself selling your stock. Y e s , it was business c o m p e t i t i o n ; 1 died by my own hand. W i l l you have another slice of my c o r p s e ? — M y shares w i l l be sold out t o - m o r r o w . " A n d the cloud drove in with a perishing w a i l , and below the cloud a countless army spread, pallid, indefinite, and immeasurable as the waves of the sea, and their m u r m u r was like the wind in the g r o w i n g corn. T h e y shook their fists, and waved maimed, limbs, and chattered with drooping jaws,—at h i m , the humane, the v i r t u o u s ; and he could not choose but hear their c r i e s : — " W e are the ghosts of the babes that died of burns and o v e r w o r k , sixteen hours a day in the factories in Illinois that you might drink from polished g l a s s ; we, of the girls that sacrificed maidenhood that you might be served cheaply in the department store; we are the children, who died like flies in tenements of your t o w n ; the shares are we of coolies brought to an early grave by enforced and unrequited toil, that you might have your coffee; the men were we, strong and v i g o r o u s , whose jaws were rotted so that as ghosts we gibber how we made matches for y o u ; we are troops of Africans that the Belgian drivers slew because we did not b r i n g in enough rubber for y o u . " A n d the murmur grew until he caught only confused c r i e s — " f e l l from your house s c a f f o l d i n g " — " u n g u a r d e d railroad c r o s s i n g " — " s t e e l polishers dead of inhaling d u s t " — " s u f f o c a t e d in the m i n e " — " h a l l childish men killed for the honour of your f l a g " — " w o m e n choked with cotton dust in the m i l l s , " and when there were so many, so many that he could no longer hear, one stood out and s a i d : " A l l from avoidable causes—none by the necessity of nature—every one because of the brutal indifference of influential men, like y o u ; we died—and such as we are d y i n g , body and soul, by thousands every d a y ; yes, and l i v i n g lives more frightful than daily death, that you that do nothing, may live. A n d , by G o d , you don't eat m e a t ! " A n d the V e g e t a r i a n cried, " I t is unjust—I was not a party to the deaths of these." A n d the V o i c e replied, " O f which of these are you innocent, and what was the cause of their d e a t h s ? " A n d the V e g e t a r i a n answered never a w o r d . BOLTON

HALL.

Discipline and the New Beauty AT last we have i t ! Science has stretched forth her abundant helping hands and fashioned a wonderful device for enriching the "new beauty." T h i s masterpiece is a phonograph capable of rendering the sounds impressed upon its records both forwards and backwards. It is even now (September 20, 1913) being exhibited at the Concours Lépine, an inventors' e x h i b i t i o n at P a r i s . The prospectus announces that the effect produced by a piece of music played w r o n g end to is " s o m e t i m e s c u r i o u s , " which we may believe without any difficulty. If from now o n musical compositions are to be submitted to the test of rendition in either direction, they

November 1st, 1913.

will certainly be more carefully composed, w i t h more flexible harmony. But why reserve such an i m p r o v e ment in musical composition for the future? We have with us already harmonies flexible enough to suit the taste of anyone. In the w o r d s of a grateful contemporary: " T h e r e is a whole y o u n g musical school that has erased from its p r o g r a m m e tone, harmony and rhythm. W h e t h e r one commence their productions at the b e g i n n i n g or the end these remain the same, and it is not certain that the composers themselves w o u l d be capable of telling w h i c h w a y the record disc was r e v o l v i n g . " At this point the C o n t e m p o r a r y , a F r e n c h journalist, becomes inspired. Is not genius the gift of d r a w i n g necessary conclusions from given premises, and of observing the subtile refinements of s i m i l a r i t y and difference? H e continues: " L i k e w i s e , are there not to-day poems w h i c h can be indifferently declaimed from the last verse to the first, as well as from the first to the last, w i t h o u t the sense being thereby altered? D o not, moreover, some of them gain in both depth and mystery by the procedure, and, thus favoured, give a better sensation of the inexpressible? " A n d in p a i n t i n g ? A r e there not certain pictures that present whatever subject they intend to portray with the same intensity of expression whether they be placed d o w n side up or upside d o w n ? "Let us not then hasten to cover with our ribaldry the reversible phonograph. " P o s s i b l y it is the logical and necessary complement of certain productions in contemporary a r t ! " It may be considered that the w r i t e r ' s indulgence in a certain levity is incongruous with the serious announcement of a (possibly) valuable invention. Hut the Contemporary has said the just w o r d apropos of the present situation. E u r o p e is literally s w a r m i n g with freaks. They indulge in the most extravagant devices in order to obtain the pearl of great price, publicity. Matters have now arrived at a state where serious thinkers are g i v i n g to these intellectual, artistic and sociological parasites a great deal more thought than, intrinsically, they deserve, for by their numbers and ingenious ways of becoming conspicuous, they are gradually c o r r u p t i n g the public taste. The result of this inquiry is a unanimous answer from varied m i n d s : the need of the present age is discipline. A n y suggestion of discipline immediately raises a problem. W e have to-day gone so far along the way of individualism that we cannot return. T h e cry of more than a hundred years a g o to greater emotional expansion is still sounded. A n d the individual cannot forego his enfranchisement. H a p p i l y it appears that independent thought is gradually becoming more and more general, and that it will not be long until each man will feel the necessity for disciplining himself. This, at least, is the only solution of the present artistic tangle that seems compatible with an ideal of democracy and personal freedom. In the meantime chaos reigns—an a m u s i n g , a fascinating, fermenting chaos that juggles the great ideas of the past and the hopes for the future, w i t h a sort of feverish grace—but still a chaos. In politics we have rabid revolutionaries and equally rabid ameliorists and reactionaries. W i t h the status of graphic art we are already f a m i l i a r — c u b i s m , postimpressionism, p r i m i t i v i s m and futurism—all of them almost equally unintelligible, almost in the same measure unlikely to develop into a n y t h i n g valuable. And each of them is more than a way of p a i n t i n g . It is a religion, with its cult and its worshippers. T r u l y , art is almost independent of d o g m a , for where the mind will see, the eye follows in obedience. Consider a moment this citation from the futurists' " m a n i f e s t o , " issued in 1909 by the leader, F . T . Marinetti: " 9 . W e wish to glorify war—the w o r l d ' s only hygiene—militarism, patriotism, the destructive

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violence of the anarchists, beautiful Ideas that k i l l , and the scorn of w o m e n . " 1 0 . W e w i s h to demolish museums and l i b r a r i e s : to combat m o r a l i s m , f e m i n i s m , and all opportunists and u t i l i t a r i a n b a s e n e s s . " A n d a g a i n : " T o admire an old picture is to pour our sensibility into a funeral u r n , instead of projecting it f o r w a r d in violent jets of creation and a c t i o n . " A n d t h i s : " A r t can be only violence, cruelty and injustice." A certain drama of M . M a r i n e t t i is dedicated " t o W i l b u r W r i g h t , w h o was able to raise our migrant hearts higher than the c a p t i v a t i n g mouth of Woman." E n o u g h . T h i s is now an old story, and the only excuse for r e v i v i n g it is that conditions seem to be g r o w i n g constantly worse. " W h y does not someone set M a x N o r d a u on the trail of these young gentlem e n ? " asks a friend w h o has seen many " m o v e m e n t s " sink into icy graves. A m e r i c a suffers more than Europe from these aberrations. F o r this there are at least two reasons. P r i m a r i l y , the output of high-class legitimate art in A m e r i c a is not yet up to the demand. Secondly, the A m e r i c a n artists and art lovers still look up slavishly to E u r o p e , the former for i n s p i r a t i o n , the latter for culture. A l m o s t universally they are impressed by the most s t r i k i n g novelties. E u r o p e looks o n with amazement at the avidity w i t h w h i c h A m e r i c a n s adopt a new artistic, intellectual or social fad, and, one m i g h t say, colour their entire sky w i t h it, when in its native climate it was only a tiny cloud. T h e r e is not an art c r i t i c in P a r i s but w o u l d have been thoroughly surprised to see the amount of time and attention o u r magazines, newspapers and tongues consecrated to discussing post-impressionism. " D o you not see," he w o u l d ask, " t h a t by such notice you encourage eccentricity? T h e real fault is not that of a few mad artists. There w i l l always be artists, messieurs, and artists are usually m a d . The blame must be laid entirely on the public, upon whose favour the artist must inevitably live. If the public does not approve an artist's w o r k , either he is a genius and starves—a martyr to our s t u p i d i t y ; or he changes his style to something more p o p u l a r ; or he converts others to his madness and lives on their sympathy. T h a t is what happened in A m e r i c a . " The need of the w o r l d , then, and particularly of A m e r i c a , in these matters, is independent judgment, coupled w i t h some slight reliance o n the good faith of critics. Protests are being raised everywhere by men o f parts against the encouragement given to freaks. In A m e r i c a M r . K e n y o n C o x and Prof. I r v i n g B a b b i t t have both recognized the necessity for sanity in the social order. In E n g l a n d and France a society has recently been organized for the avowed purpose of c o n v i n c i n g the public that art may be both intelligible and genuine. It counts a m o n g its numbers the novelist, M r . Joseph C o n r a d . M . Guy-Grand (L'Effort Fibre, P a r i s ; March, 1913, title, " R e n a i s s a n c e s " ) expressed himself as f o l l o w s : " O n l y a vast culture, a profound seriousness, an exacting discipline, and an ardent sociological sentiment are capable of regenerating an anæmic literature and shabby politics, and c u r i n g writers of the poor little vanities of the c o t e r i e . " T h i s sounds refreshing. P e r h a p s we shall not need to call upon M . N o r d a u for another " D e g e n e r a t i o n . " EDGAR

A.

MOWRER.

The House of Vision. THERE was a profound philosopher who had d r u n k at the fount of many queer inspirations. H e had tasted P l a t o , L e i b n i t z , C o m t e , C a r l y l e , H u x l e y , D a r w i n , Spencer, R u s k i n , Recluse, and L e P l a y ; and by a c q u i r i n g a large stock of precise information about P l a c e , P e r s o n and O c c u p a t i o n , or

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as he learnedly termed them, E n v i r o n m e n t , O r g a n i s m and F u n c t i o n , and the periods t h r o u g h w h i c h they had passed, and by r e v i s i n g this o v e r w h e l m i n g supply of trustworthy material by a critical reference to logic and r i g i d judgment, he came to raise his disciplined I m a g i n a t i o n to the point of V i s i o n . A n d when at last he had got the bitter taste of the city really in his mouth after it had caused h i m violent indigestion and several v o m i t i n g s , he s a i d , " N o w I can describe how this present form of environment poisons its inhabitants and cripples their activities, and how it can be transformed and its poisons changed to t o n i c s . " A c c o r d i n g l y he sat d o w n and wrote his description from the vision which his disciplined i m a g i n a t i o n aided by scientific fact and law had prepared. A s he wrote suddenly there appeared before h i m the C i t y Beautiful that was accidentally called forth by an unguarded amount of trance and prayer. A n d it w o u l d have taken h i m captive w i t h golden dreams. Hut he pushed it away w i t h his precise information s a y i n g , " B e gone you H a l l u c i n a t i o n , I want to idealise this o u t w a r d s p e c t a c l e " (not k n o w i n g that by idealising the o u t w a r d w o r l d he was merely cont i n u i n g to deface the inner w o r l d with repulsive splashes of a temporal w o r l d that is inherently false). And straightway V i s i o n put on the mask of H a l l u c i n a t i o n . B e i n g a person of i m a g i n a t i o n our P . P . agreed that on the whole he could not do better than follow H a l l u c i n a t i o n , and accept its i n v i t a t i o n to attempt higher and more difficult pinnacles. " T h i s e n v i r o n m e n t , " he s a i d , " i s a poor t h i n g as it stands, a bauble and a snare, and I must enrich the vision of human beings so that they may see it as I see it and thereby be led to improve i t . " He continued, " I w i l l build a H o u s e of V i s i o n wherein all may cultivate a visionary habit, perhaps less v i v i d than my o w n but equally well d i s c i p l i n e d . " And Vision winked. H o t in pursuit of his world-full of trained seers, he contrived to build a tower h a v i n g many u n c o m m o n features. F o r one t h i n g it stood on a tall hill that overlooked a fair and ancient c i t y ; for another it was so built that the city could come inside and arrange itself in sections in rooms r i s i n g one above the other, and upon the w a l l s in queer forms of representation called g r a p h i c s , a c c o r d i n g to its logical g r o w t h in time and space. A n d when the tower had got the city inside arranged as the P . P . desired at a w h o l l y new angle, it was observed to assume a strut. A n d they asked it to e x p l a i n its unusual p r a n c i n g . A n d the tower said w i t h a s t r o n g S c o t c h accent, " I w o u l d have y o u k n o w that I a m engaged in restoring the v i r g i n i t y of the eye. I possess the three requisites for this, a changed point of view, an u n s p a r i n g and systematic application of thought to detail, and a place for meditation where the visitor may have time to compose himself after a voyage through my i n t e r i o r . " T h e tower then proceeded to describe how the changed point of view was affected, u s i n g the city as an illustration. T h e o r d i n a r y observer sees it as a mass of associations connected with the events of his everyday life. T h e trained observer sees its outlines in history. A n d the educated observer regards it as phenomena a r i s i n g out of phenomena in the past and g i v i n g rise to phenomena in the future. At this point someone remarked, " Y o u arc all d e s i g n ; y o u ' v e left no r o o m for chance. W h a t y o u stand for is reason in the deduction of relation and law from classified f a d . " A n d a v u l g a r C o c k n e y person put it more plainly, " G o r blimey, it ain't er ' O u s e er V i s h u n arter a l l ; i t ' s the o l ' perfesser i s s e l f . " A n d V i s i o n shook with laughter. The vulgar person was perfectly right in b e l i e v i n g that the H o u s e of V i s i o n was n o t h i n g of the k i n d . The P . P . had not w o r k e d from V i s i o n but from I m a g i n a t i o n assisted by science. H e had not seen his C i t y Beautiful in a Bash and thereupon constructed

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it in his tower as a whole, but had taken each item of which the e x i s t i n g city was composed, piecemeal, and laboriously built up a structure based upon scientific fact, law and o r d e r ; and with his eye upon this object he then proceeded to deduct the city of the future from it. In d o i n g so he demonstrated that the imaginative mind (which even a scientist may possess) never conceives a n y t h i n g absolutely, and indeed lacks the power of c o n c e i v i n g a n y t h i n g at all except as a phenomenon. T h e act of i m a g i n a t i o n is therefore the memory simple or combined, of thoughts or ideas actually seen or felt. F r o m this it may be gathered that an imaginative person simply repre­ sents a h i g h order of sensational creature incapable of any but physical ideas and impressions. The fallacious belief that the stimuli of V i s i o n reside in external objects is a very common one, and it accounts for the prevalent widespread confusion concerning V i s i o n and I m a g i n a t i o n . R i g h t l y con­ sidered, V i s i o n and Imagination have n o t h i n g in c o m m o n ; they are not on the same level, nor in the same w o r l d . T h e one is eternal; the other ephemeral. V i s i o n enables its possessor to identify himself with the Absolute k n o w n variously as S o u l , A r t , D r a m a , R e l i g i o n , and so on. Imagination presents things at a new angle, just as it repictured the city in the mind of the P . P . In fact, the difference between V i s i o n and I m a g i n a t i o n is just the difference between the artist and the psuedo-artist. A n d it is o w i n g to the general inability to perceive this difference that the H a l l u c i n a t e d are mistaken for artists and artists are k n o w n as the H a l l u c i n a t e d . A n artist then is one w h o possesses V i s i o n and is concerned with externalising V i s i o n ; while a pseudoartist is one who is occupied with re-picturing exist­ i n g things and t u r n i n g novelties out of external objects. B l a k e , for instance, was an artist. Like C h r i s t and Swedenborg he had the v i s i o n a r y ' s power of identifying himself with the Absolute. T h e act of vision with h i m was not the memory of material things that he had seen or felt, but a spiritual stimulus which led h i m to project himself in space (or H e a v e n as his biographers term it) where he sought to create symbols of his visionary experiences. B u t in externalising these experiences he sometimes ran perilously near disaster o w i n g to his careless habit of adulterating his creative forms with conven­ tional forms of expression. Take his wonderful designs " T h e B o n d , " " T h e Rider of the Pale H o r s e , " " T h e Ancient of D a y s , " and we find them full of conventional expression. The " A n c i e n t " is simply a very carefully d r a w n portrait of a Jewish patriarch. T h e " W i s e and F o o l i s h V i r g i n s " have forms which have stepped out of F l a x m a n ' s drawings. It may be objected that I have narrowed the H o u s e of V i s i o n d o w n to absurd proportions by means of my definition; and that not more than two or three contemporary men would g o into it. B u t , I reply, it is not so. I believe that many men have absolute vision but are prevented by the present inverted order of things from expressing it. F o r one t h i n g , men have become so accustomed by the extraordinary g r o w t h of the communal idea, to seek nourishment from without that they have quite lost the capacity of l i v i n g on themselves. It is conceivable that the visionary at one time did possess the secret of l i v i n g on himself without w e a r i n g himself out, that he did in fact find himself in an environment which enabled him to derive all the nourishment, by way of encouragement, praise, reward, he needed from within himself, and he was impelled to achievement by the i n w a r d necessity of creating new form out of his inner vision. T o him fine achievement was its own reward. To-day it is different and we find that even the visionary has ceased to live wholly on h i m ­ self, but has been d r a w n by polluted civilisation out of his inner world in search of the new form of nourishment of the emotions. S u c h nourishment he

November 1st, 1913.

draws from other human bodies by means of every­ day symbols with which he externalises hsi v i s i o n . In short the present-day visionary is a person w h o is balanced between the w o r l d without and the w o r l d w i t h i n flashing a l i g h t round eternity and r e c o r d i n g his impressions in a reporter's notebook.

It comes to this, that every man is either a visionary or a local. I do not think that every m a n w h o is born a local can become a v i s i o n a r y , but I am sure that a born visionary has local seeds in h i m and can develop these at the expense of his visionary power. There is a book before me w h i c h proves it. I refer to M r . G o r d o n C r a i g ' s b i g and important volume " T o w a r d s a N e w T h e a t r e " (Dent). T h e author was, and still is, a v i s i o n a r y . H e d i d , and still does, attain that higher state, w h i c h is natural to visionaries, in which the A b s o l u t e is seen and contemplated, and looked d o w n upon from the pinnacle of visionary experience. B u t there are signs that in this connection he acts unconsciously. T u r n ­ ing to his book I find that M r . C r a i g has fallen into the error of s t r i v i n g to contemplate the A b s o l u t e from the throne of actual experience of the civilised man. H e seems to have forgotten that it is from the uncivilised part of man that all the creative forms have come, and that on the other hand, the object of the civilised part has been, and still is, destruction. Perhaps he will be surprised to hear that he, himself, is uncivilised and that he ought not to have affected the civilised habit but to have lived retired w i t h i n himself and to have trusted to the greatness of his aim to b r i n g him satisfaction. H e spoiled his chance of visionary development when he looked beyond himself for recognition, praise and r e w a r d ; for he invited a sense of neglect, m i s u n d e r s t a n d i n g , and injustice to prey upon his vision, to dwarf and wither it. T h e text of his present book suggests the great amount of time he has lost in endeavouring to live on others. H e r e we meet h i m seeking external harmony whereas internal harmony is the t h i n g . We watch him e x a m i n i n g the roots of the plant to which he has given b i r t h , and a c k n o w ­ ledging his numerous debts; e x p l a i n i n g the present ten-year-old branch to which he gives the name of " s c e n o g r a p h y " ; indicating the shoots which have sprung from that, in this country and a b r o a d ; and prophesying the formation of their leaves and wealth of blossom. B u t he is silent as to his v i s i o n ; probably because there is no written language that can describe it. W e however k n o w that he has had a v i s i o n . It is clearly indicated in the forty tremendously b i g designs contained in his book—designs which stagger between the C o s m i c and the L o c a l a c c o r d i n g as they are externalisations of objects seen in vi si on and the mere repicturing of external forms. We realise that behind these scenes there is a vast structure which is intended to contain eternal creative space and to present the drama of the Cosmos afresh (not in the new w a y by the individual expressing the C o s m o s , but in that of the C o s m o s expressing itself), and to enable humanity to renew that contact w i t h the elemental and eternal w h i c h civilisation has severed. A n d we are aware that M r . C r a i g is standing on the threshold of civilisation bare to the elements and forces by w h i c h m a n becomes possessed of great themes, w i t h this structure i n view. B u t we are also aware that the realisation of the structure is only grasped confusedly by h i m , for contemporary conditions obscure what past condi­ tions w o u l d make possible. A C o s m i c theatre, according to M r . C r a i g ' s v i s i o n , w o u l d , in fact, be a vast theatre in the sun. It could not be otherwise. B u t a C o s m i c theatre under the present method of " h i g h - b r o w " t h i n k i n g in the theatre, w o u l d have to be something quite different. T h i s t h i n k i n g has led reformers to see that, (1) T h e d r a m a expresses the C o s m i c not the L o c a l , (2) the theatre should be a sensitised and highly efficient instrument for receiv­ ing and t r a n s m i t t i n g the C o s m i c d r a m a , (3) the

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theatre cannot represent the C o s m o s realistically, seeing that any attempt to do so w o u l d mean an e n o r m o u s increase of c o m p l e x mechanical devices l e a d i n g to grotesque artificiality. Therefore (4) the only w a y to b r i n g the C o s m o s on to the stage is to symbolise it, (5) a simple s y m b o l is needed for the purpose, (6) w h i c h leads to the importance of the i n d i v i d u a l as the true expression of the C o s m o s , and (7) to the importance of a s m a l l theatre as a sensitised a n d h i g h l y efficient instrument for e n a b l i n g the s y m b o l i c m a n to strut his brief hour. T h e inference is that M r . C r a i g w i l l attain his end soonest by t a k i n g care of the C o s m i c symbol and l e a v i n g the C o s m i c scenery to take care of itself. R o d i n affords another instance of the development of the local habit at the expense of the v i s i o n a r y . H i s sculpture indicates that he has had a vision, w h i c h vitiated i m a g i n a t i o n has b r o u g h t d o w n to mere l o g i c a l abstraction. A p p a r e n t l y , however, R o d i n is not to be blamed altogether for the absurdity into w h i c h he has fallen. F o r as his latest interpreter M a d a m e M u r i e l C i o l k o w s k a reveals i n her comprehensive and illustrated little volume on the F r e n c h sculptor and his w o r k viewed racially and historically ( R o d i n : Methuen), he has been urged on to selfdestruction. " N o t u n t i l he w a s w e l l a d v a n c e d i n years a n d e x p e r i e n c e d i d R o d i n o p e n l y i n d u l g e i n theories, a n d then o n l y i n a n s w e r to oft repeated s o l i c i t a t i o n s , first o n the p a r t of h i s friends, a n d l a t t e r l y o n the p a r t of journalists. H a d it not been for their respective r e v e l a t i o n s R o d i n m i g h t have l i v e d w i t h o u t g i v i n g the p u b l i c a w o r d of h i s o p i n i o n s i n response to a l l the n u m e r o u s q u e s t i o n s i n a r t i s t i c , as i n other, d i r e c t i o n s to w h i c h he has r e p l i e d so lucidly a n d profoundly. It is, indeed, to the intervention of enthusiasts—and they must be thanked far it— that we owe acquaintance with Rodin the thinker, as without them we might, perhaps, only have known Rodin the artistcraftsman, for R o d i n ' s life is a s i m p l e , u n e v e n t f u l tale, whose c h a p t e r s are m a r k e d only by the p r o d u c t i o n of h i s l e a d i n g w o r k s u n t i l we r e a c h the last few years w h i c h reveal a n e w phase." I c l a i m the i t a l i c s . W a s there ever s u c h a c o n s p i r a c y to destroy the v i s i o n a r y i n a m a n by l e a d i n g h i m to suppose t h a t the k e y to h i s g e n i u s does not lie i n its development a n d m a y be k n o w n o n l y by t r a c i n g this d e v e l o p m e n t t h r o u g h h i s w o r k s of a r t , but is to be s o u g h t i n theories a n d opinions? It seems t h a t R o d i n the t h i n k e r is necessary to i l l u m i n a t e R o d i n the a r t i s t . A n d h o w does he do i t ? Here are some s a m p l e s of h i s h i g h t h i n k i n g . " T o m e the w o r d (artist) t a k e n i n its broadest sense, m e a n s a m a n w h o finds p l e a s u r e i n h i s w o r k . " " I n a r t o n l y that w h i c h is g i f t e d w i t h c h a r a c t e r is b e a u t i f u l . C h a r a c t e r is the intensely t r u t h f u l interp r e t a t i o n of the u g l y o r b e a u t i f u l . " " N a t u r e o n l y s h o u l d be c o p i e d ; the very p r i n c i p l e of a r t forbids the copy of w o r k s of art." " I believe i n science. I have a l w a y s been very scientific i n m y s c u l p t u r e . " " A t the present t i m e the w h o l e of E u r o p e is i g n o r a n t of a r t i s t i c m a t t e r s . It has a c q u i r e d m u c h scientific l e a r n i n g ; but science affects the a r m s , the eyes, the ears. T e l e g r a p h y is the a r m s ; the telephone is the e a r s ; r a i l w a y s are the l e g s ; p h o t o g r a p h y are the e y e s " (are i t ? ) . " B u t there are t h i n g s w h i c h leave the m o r e i n t e l l e c t u a l p a r t of the soul i n ignorance. W e o n l y c u l t i v a t e o u r five senses. Y o u are p h o t o graphed, y o u r voice is r e g i s t e r e d , these are extraordinary things. B u t the m i n d , that w h i c h c o m m a n d s , the g o d w h i c h is o u r h e a d — w e g i v e no t h o u g h t t o . " If this is the sort of stuff t h a t a r t i s t s t a l k w h e n at the j o u r n a l i s t s ' c o m m a n d they arise out of the " s i m p l e a n d u n e v e n t f u l l i f e " the best t h i n g they c a n d o is to keep s i l e n t . T h e b i o g r a p h e r ' s v e r s i o n of R o d i n s h o u l d be t a k e n f r o m the " s i m p l e a n d u n e v e n t f u l l i f e " p e r i o d , for it w a s d u r i n g this p e r i o d t h a t R o d i n c o u l d not find a w o r d to say — e x c e p t i n stone. It w a s t h e n , no d o u b t , t h a t , i n the w o r d s of E u g è n e C a r r i è r e , quoted i n the present b o o k , " R o d i n ' s art e m a n a t e d f r o m a n d r e t u r n e d to the E a r t h l i k e g i a n t b l o c k s , r o c k s a n d d o l m e n w h i c h e m p h a s i s e the g r e a t solitudes, a n d i n whose h e r o i c g r o w t h m a n r e c o g n i s e s h i m s e l f . . . . These e a r t h l y f o r m s were R o d i n ' s r e a l teachers. They emancipated h i m f r o m A c a d e m i c t r a d i t i o n s ; w i t h i n t h e m he f o u n d h i s b e i n g a n d h i s creative i n s t i n c t . . . h i s c r a v i n g after human n a t u r e b r o u g h t h i m i n t o affinity w i t h the e t e r n a l f o r m s N a t u r e assumes." C a r r i è r e m i g h t have added, " a f t e r she has been m o u l d e d by s e n s u a l p a s s i o n . "

R o d i n ' s sculpture is an introduction to his vision of p h y s i c a l love. It leads us to see how the sculptor w o r k s in hot passion, and why he came to represent M r . B e r n a r d S h a w as a blend of bourgeois and eunuch. In fact, it tells us as plainly as possible that R o d i n is P a n seducing N a t u r e w i t h magnificent intensity.

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Correspondence. NOTE TO C O R R E S P O N D E N T S . — W h i l e quite willing

THE ANGEL CLUB.

To

the

Editor

of

THE

CARTER.

NEW

FREEWOMAN.

MADAM,

I have read w i t h very g r e a t pleasure M r . E z r a Pound's s u g g e s t i o n s on the scope of o u r O r d e r . C o m i n g as they do from one of the few m e n whose c l a i m to be c o n s i d e r e d m e m b e r s of the O r d e r is u n d o u b t e d , they are e n t i r e l y i n a c c o r d a n c e w i t h our design. So far as I can see at present the O r d e r w i l l c o m p r i s e at least three g r a d e s or degrees, w h i c h , l i k e the D r u i d s , H a r d s a n d O v a t e s of the B r i t i s h G o r s e d d , w i l l be e q u a l in p o i n t of h o n o u r . T h e i n n e r c i r c l e w i l l consist of those w h o , w i t h o u t c l a i m i n g t o be themselves m e n of g e n i u s , r e c o g n i s e in g e n i u s the h i g h e s t m a n i f e s t a t i o n of the D i v i n e , a n d devote themselves to its servicea c c o r d i n g l y ; a n d it is from their r a n k s t h a i I a m s e e k i n g to r e c r u i t a select c o m p a n y of c o l o n i s t s . O u t s i d e these " r e g u l a r " m e m b e r s of the O r d e r w i l l be t h e class on behalf of w h i c h M r . E z r a P o u n d m a k e s his a p p e a l . T h e y w i l l be under no o b l i g a t i o n beyond that of b e i n g true t o t h e i r o w n nature, and it w i l l be o u r business to r e c o g n i s e , t o assist a n d to protect t h e m to the m e a s u r e of o u r a b i l i t y . They w i l l live w h e r e their w o r k r e q u i r e s , a n d I hope that in time we s h a l l be able to b u i l d c o l l e g e s for t h e m i n g r e a t centres l i k e P a r i s and L o n d o n a n d C h i c a g o , w h e r e they c a n enjoy that quiet a n d p r i v a c y w h i c h are at present beyond the reach of a l l but the r i c h . A t h i r d circle m a y be m a d e up of those w h o a p p r o v e of the p r i n c i p l e of the O r d e r , a n d desire to support it, w i t h o u t f o r s a k i n g their u s u a l e n v i r o n m e n t for the special career of the full members. It is evident that the f o s t e r i n g of the a r t s is an essential part of o u r d e s i g n , a n d that we s h a l l become the c u s t o d i a n s of w h a t ever a r t i s t i c w o r k w o u l d o t h e r w i s e be l i a b l e to p e r i s h . T h e question of s u b s i d i s i n g the artist is one that is o n l y deferred u n t i l the t i m e w h e n o u r funds are sufficient for t h e purpose. My o w n feeling is that the f i n a n c i a l profits of art are m o r e t h a n sufficient for the purpose, w i t h o u t any aid in the shape of m e r e l y benevolent c o n t r i b u t i o n s , w h i c h I do not s o l i c i t . A t present those profits are lost—to use no h a r s h e r t e r m — i n m a i n t a i n i n g the parasites of l i t e r a t u r e and art, in b u i l d i n g palaces for p u b l i s h e r s , and p r o v i d i n g pensions tor the f a m i l i e s of auctioneers. W h e n our o r g a n i s a t i o n is f a i r l y set g o i n g , we s h a l l not l a c k funds, and o u r f e l l o w s h i p s w i l l not g o to r e w a r d D r y a s d u s t for c o u n t i n g the c o m m a s i n the First F o l i o , w h i l e D a v i d s o n s a n d M i d d l e t o n s are reduced to c o m m i t s u i c i d e at o u r doors. THE CHANCELLOR.

A p a r a g r a p h of " L e g o et P e n s o , " by M r . Benj. R . T u c k e r c r i t i c i s i n g our r e m a r k s in reference to P r o u d h o n w i l l appear in our next issue. It has been unavoidably held over, as has also the reply to M r . W . P . A r n o l d ' s letter on " B e a u t y and F o r m . " — E D .

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Note.

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THE NEW FREEWOMAN

200

November

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1913.

THE

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