With the money he bought himself a suit of cheap, flashy clothes. Then he got .....
corner, and a homemade cot close beside it. A deep dish of ..... As a photograph
taken by lightning flash,. Giving a brief ..... The electric traction swings a town's
millions to work . .... is the land of experiments in government, education, industry.
THE SEVEN ARTS
THE UNTOLD LIE B y Sherwood Anderson J A N U A R Y , 1917 25 Cents
NOTES
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S H E R W O O D A N D E R S O N has w r i t t e n a series of intensive studies o n the arche type of the small O h i o t o w n of w h i c h he is a native. H e calls it " W i n e s b u r g . " T h e story i n this issue is the second of the series to appear i n The Seven Arts; and others w i l l f o l l o w . W h e n the whole is gathered into a volume, A m e r i c a w i l l see that a prose complement to E . L . Masters's "Spoon R i v e r A n t h o l o g y " has been created. S T E P H E N V I N C E N T B E N E T is still a student at Y a l e . V A N W Y C K B R O O K S is the author of " A m e r i c a ' s C o m i n g - o f - A g e . " H i s articles, n o w appearing in The Seven Arts, w i l l go to make up a n e w volume and a n e w expression of c u l t u r a l criticism. K A H L I L G I B R A N was born on M o u n t L e b a n o n . H i s w o r k s , w r i t t e n in A r a b i c , are accepted by the millions whose tongue it is, as their greatest contemporary expression. H e is a painter, a critic, a dramatist and a poet. H e has chosen A m e r i c a for his home and w o r k because of his great faith i n o u r future. M A R S D E N H A R T L E Y is one of the leaders in the N e w A m e r i c a n art movement. H i s paintings are perhaps better k n o w n in B e r l i n and P a r i s than here. H e comes of N e w E n g l a n d stock. W A L T E R L I P P M A N N , author of " A Preface to P o l i t i c s " and " T h e Stakes of D i p l o m a c y , " is one of the editors of The New Republic. E D N A W A H L E R T M C C O U R T , w h o lives i n S t . L o u i s , is a beginner as regards publication of fiction. She has introduced a n e w vital element into the ex pression of the M i d d l e W e s t . W I L L I A M M U R R E L L is a young critic of the arts w h o , at present, holds a position w i t h the M e t r o p o l i t a n M u s e u m of A r t i n N e w Y o r k C i t y . L E O O R N S T E I N , the Russian composer and pianist, has, like M r . G i b r a n , chosen A m e r i c a for his home. H e occupies a distinctive place i n the field of music and already is looked o n as one of the greatest figures i n the musical revolt, of w h i c h S t r a w i n s k y and R a v e l and Schoenberg are also leaders. P A U L R O S E N F E L D , although but recently out of college, has already w o n his spurs as a creative critic of the arts. E L I Z A B E T H S T E A D T A B E R writes us that this is her first published story. She lives i n O s s i n i n g , N e w Y o r k .
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THE
SEVEN
JANUARY,
ARTS
1917. PAGE
David's Birthright The Untold Lie The Scar The Astronomer On Giving and Taking Rain After a Vaudeville Show . Prelude (to "Creation"—a drama) The Music of New Russia Editorials The Splinter of Ice Our
E D N A
W A H L E R T
SHERWOOD ELIZABETH
.
. .
STEPHEN .
.
215
T A B E R
222
K A H L I L GIBRAN
236
K A H L I L GIBRAN
237
VINCENT
B E N E T
238
OPPENHEIM
240
L E O ORNSTEIN
260
265 V A N W Y C K P A U L
The Twilight of the Acrobat The Wave Vicarious Fiction A Reply .
BROOKS
270
ROSENFELD
281
M A R S D E N
H A R T L E Y
287
WILLIAM
M U R R E L L
292
W A L D O W A L T E R
Design
199
ANDERSON
STEAD
JAMES
Day
Cover
MCCOURT
by Rollo
F R A N K
294
LIPPMANN
304
Peters
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T h i s is the doctrine of P r a g m a t i s m i n a n e w f o r m . A i m i n g at a f o r m u l a t i o n more comprehensively considered, more w i d e l y based than W i l l i a m James' prophetic but tentative expression of a few years past, the authors here repudiate a l l that is purely academic i n contemporary thought, and demand for philosophy direct preoccupation w i t h present-day problems. O n this basis the authors direct a vigorous polemic against the dialectics and "dis ingenuous apologetics" of current Idealism, and construct an exposition of safe and sane thought, leaving little room for the vague mysticism w h i c h has sought to intrench itself behind the scientific conceptions of the hour. T h e book should appeal to philosophers as being the first considered pronunciamento of the pragmatists as a school, and to the public at large as l i n k i n g philosophy, so far too remote, w i t h the life of every m a n and of every day. C o n t e n t s : T h e N e e d for Recovery in Philosophy— B y J o h n D e w e y . T h e R e f o r mation of L o g i c — B y A . W . M o o r e . Intelligence and M a t h e m a t i c s— B y H a r o l d C . B r o w n . Scientific M e t h o d and the I n d i v i d u a l T h i n k e r — B y G . H . M e a d . Con sciousness and Psychology— B y B . H . Bode. T h e Phases of E c o n o m i c Interest — B y H . W . Suart. M o r a l L i f e and the C o n s t r u c t i o n of V a l u e s — B y J . H . T u f t s . V a l u e and Existence in Philosophy, A r t , and R e l i g i o n — B y H . M . K a l l e n .
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David's Birthright By Edna Wahlert M c C o u r t W H E N D a v i d was six, his friends could not tell whether he was going to evolve into poet or pugilist. There were periods of abstraction and a casual quivering of his upper l i p which, together with a dreamy darkening of his grey eyes, suggested the poet. But then, there was the square jaw, sturdy body, ready fists, queer little frown line between his brown brows, and above a l l a passion for physical activity that made his mother hide the green sheets of the " I can fight anybody," D a v i d would declare. " I — I can knock down any feller—even if he's ten. A n ' I can—I can almost k i l l girls—even—even if they're twelve! I can pretty near k i l l 'em." W h e n he came home from a boy-fight he was merely exul tant, naturally flushed. But after he had pulled a girl's hair until she howled for mercy, after he had kicked a girl's shins or torn her clothes or twisted her wrists, his eyes burned queerly. " I — I can almost kill girls!" he'd vow. O f course his mother, being a decent lady with the loftiest of ideals, always sent h i m to bed, supperless and unkissed, when he voiced his ability and desire to mutilate or annihilate the members of the fair sex. She even shed tears over his ungentlemanliness, his unnaturally brutal tendencies; and she worried terribly. D a v i d would weep in his little bed, too— hot blinding tears that quite dampened the pillow. But they were tears of happiness. [199]
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" I can whip em all !" he'd sob. " E v e r y feller an'—an' every g i r l I know! O h , I'm so glad I can fight 'em a l l ! I f I couldn't I'd—I'd die, I would. W h e n I ' m a man I ' l l — I ' l l fight mother 1" A n d with d i z z y visions of that delicious millenium, he would forget to obey her commands, and, jumping from the bed, would run to her like a mad thing and almost smother her with kisses, quite dampening her with his tears. David's father came from a long line of southern gentle men. H e had never struck a g i r l in his life, and the mere fancy of physically hurting a woman made his head swim a little. But the defect in his boy's character d i d not trouble him. "There are thousands of fine boys that fight. H e ' l l get over it. H e ' l l outgrow it. I don't want to punish h i m yet. There are thousands of boys who love to fight." " B u t there aren't thousands of nice boys who love to fight girls," his wife would reply sadly. A n d of course he had no answer to make to that. " I can't bear to think he's just a cow ard—just glorying in fighting the weaker element. It seems more like a disease." A n d when D a v i d was seven, as he still loved to beat up little girls and to tell of his conquests with quivering lips and queer fanatical gleams in his eyes, she actually took h i m to a physician. But the doctor only laughed. "He's a fine boy," he assured the troubled woman. " D o n ' t worry for five or six years. D o what you can to influence h i m to like girls, or at least to be indifferent to them. But I am sure there is nothing abnormal about your child. There are more youngsters in the world than you imagine with natural per versities. That is all David's passion for superiority is. H e ' l l outgrow it." But D a v i d d i d not outgrow his so-called natural perversity. H i s relation to small girls continued to be very much like that [200]
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between serpent and bird, lion and prey, bull and red rag. II It was a warm Spring afternoon, two or three years later, that a very white little boy with blue lips and dilated pupils that made his eyes appear abnormally round, crept into his mother's room. " D a v i d ! " she almost screamed. " W h a t has happened! A r e you sick?" T h e voice that answered her was hoarse and the grey eyes that gazed at her with a sort of inhuman fascination were almost black. " N o , I'm not sick," he said. " I ' m just—I'm just—wicked." It flashed through her mind that at last the thing she had been fearing had come to pass; he had seriously hurt some one or perhaps . . . She would not permit herself to imagine the logical possibilities of her fear. "What have you done?" she cried. The far-away voice answered dreamily, " N o t h i n g . " "Don't lie to me, D a v i d , " she commanded. " T e l l me ex actly what has happened. W h a t have you done?" " I — I don't know," he told her. " H e just said—he just said I hurt the girls. H e just said I was—too wicked to come to school any more." " Y o u are n o t — " H e said the word for her bravely: "Expelled" H e handed her the note from his principal. She read things about her son she knew and yet d i d not know; she read judgments she had never permitted herself to formulate; she read prophesies that made her teeth chatter a little. T h e fact emerged, as unsuspected mountain peaks emerge when the mist lifts, that her son—her son and her gentlemanly hus band's son—was too cruel to girls to be allowed to associate with children in the public schools. She would a million times rather have read that he had the small-pox. [201]
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D u r i n g the eternal afternoon hours before the father came home, they two sat silently, and every tick of the clock was stentorian. W i t h o u t a word she handed her husband the principal's letter, and, as D a v i d watched h i m read it and realized, for the first time in his little life how handsome his father was and how white his blue veined temples and hands were, tears came to his eyes, quite unconsciously. David's father whipped h i m , terribly, that night. " I want you to understand," his white lips managed to tell the boy, "that I am only doing this because your mother's and my reasoning with you during a l l these years has been of no avail." But after it was a l l over, the boy threw his arms about his father's neck passionately, and, kissing h i m all over the front of his shirt, sobbed: " O h , D a d d y ! D a d d y ! It was a grand fight you put u p ! H o w long w i l l it be before I ' m a man like you?" T h e father's lower jaw dropped then, foolishly. H e had intended to lock the boy up and keep h i m on the frugalest of diets until he promised never to touch a little g i r l again. B u t instead he talked—carefully. H e explained to the very best of his ability the sanctioned and conventional attitude of man towards woman and the wisdom of forming chivalrous habits during boyhood. W h e n he exhausted his supply of admoni tions and inspirations and warnings, D a v i d gazed at h i m adoringly. " Y o u talk—Oh you talk beautiful, D a d d y ! " he sobbed. " B u t s t i l l — O h Daddy!—it seems right for me to—to fight girls! It seems right for me to make 'em do what I—want 'em to do—if I—want to. O h Daddy," he cried earnestly, his white, tear-stained face a l l a-quiver, "can't you see?"
III T h e y put h i m in a boy's school and practically isolated h i m from the society of little girls; so that, as the years passed, he [202]
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seemed to develop into quite a normal youth. T h e y even grew able to smile over their fears as to his future, and the young ster came to be able to pass a g i r l with the same indifference with which he would pass a gate post. But when he was fourteen, D a v i d fell in love. T h e object of his young passion was a blonde g i r l about his own age with long silly curls that her mother, and kids, manufactured over night. She had a simpering little face and affected manners, and her skinny body was togged out in a l l the ridiculous fluff-fluffs and fashionablenesses and in congruities of the absurd ruling mode. Y o u cannot imagine a greater contrast than that between her useless white hand, bedecked as crudely as any savage's, and David's great base ball-hardened paw. In fact, hers was the last type of g i r l his parents would have expected him to take for his first sweet heart. But how he adored her! H e carried her books to and from her school (although his gallantry caused h i m to be repeatedly tardy himself, for which offense he was assigned tremendously long extra exercises, which he performed, however, without batting an eyelash). H e fetched her all the books she wanted from the library; she had a passion for reading absurd novels, but was too lazy to go after them herself. H e spent all his allowance taking her to moving picture shows and providing her with candy, hot-waffles, and ice-cream. A n d once, when she told h i m how she loved to wear chains and things around her neck, he broke open his nickle-and-penny-bank and, with the savings of years, purchased every string of beads in the 5-and-1o-cent store for her. H e would have died for her or slaved for her or starved for her. W h i c h really means a great deal, for D a v i d was enamoured of l i v i n g and of loafing and above all of eating. W h i l e David's fourteenth year marked the glorious cul mination of an inspired childhood, Jessie's ushered in all the [203]
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false standards, a l l the hardness, selfishness and illogicalness of budding womanhood. A l t h o u g h she basked, like a cat at the hearth, in the deliciousness of David's devotion and purred her absolute satisfaction inwardly, yet she manifested her com placency i n a fashion that D a v i d could no more correctly i n terpret than a fervent bull could the struttings and coquetries of a peacock. W h e n their courtship was four or five months old, Jes sie began to make eyes at and call trivialities to a fellow who lived across the street. But D a v i d had a physical interview with his near-rival and, although what transpired between them has not been recorded, his opponent ever afterwards, whenever Jessie entered his line of vision, pulled his cap hastily over his eyes and rapidly disappeared beyond the ho rizon. But after a few weeks of peace, Jessie commenced Dancing School where D a v i d , of course, scorned to go. F o r a while the boy was not suspicious of the constancy of his sweetheart, and was absolutely content escorting her to and from the acad emy. One day, however, a certain Joseph Jones walked home with them. Jessie was in her element, mincing along between the boys, and she laughed and giggled and simpered and frol icked deliciously. D a v i d had really no conscious disturbing thoughts; but when, after the next lesson and the next, Joseph again accompanied them homeward, his face became very white and he frequently stumbled. F o r things swam before his eyes and the bright sunshine cavorted about in purple-blue spirals. Jessie understood intuitively that he was in an unusual mood, but did not aggravate him. W i s e l y she devoted her entire attention to Joseph. D a v i d d i d not hear a word of their conversation; he was solving his problem. H e figured out that there wouldn't be any sense in fighting Joseph, because he and Joseph were good friends and because Jessie had evidently asked Joseph to walk [204]
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home with her. H e recalled the difficulty with the boy across the street and realized that, even if he did away with Joseph in like manner, Jessie would probably get interested in yet an other fellow. A n d , he couldn't spend the rest of his life beat ing up his rivals, could he? H e decided that there was only one way to settle his eternal firstness in Jessie's heart for all time to come, and that way was to subdue Jessie. W h e n they reached the girl's home, he picked up a bit of wood and, whittling carefully, whistled meaningly. Joseph took the hint and left, in what an outsider would have termed unnecessary haste. But then, Joseph had heard of the episode of the boy across the street. Jessie hummed a frivolous tune. A n d , "Isn't Joseph a grand looking fellow?" she asked. D a v i d closed his knife carefully and put it in his pocket. Then he stood up, and, as magnificently as though he were throwing the discus at an athletic contest, hurled the piece of wood far down the street. H e caught the admiration that leaped to Jessie's eyes, but instead of following his impulse to josh her and forgive her, he listened to something in his brain which kept repeating: It's got to be settled for good! H e kicked the steps rhythmically and avoided meeting her coquet tish glance. "You've got to quit dancing school," he said slowly. H e r heart fluttered delightedly. " O h , do I ? " she inquired pertly. " W h y ? " H i s breath was sucked backwards and his fists clenched. "Because—I—want—you—to," he answered, and this time he looked at her steadily. She laughed nervously and flirted with the ruffles of her pretty frock. " W h y should I do what you want?" "Because," everything turned perfectly black to h i m as, for the first time, he uttered the glorious words, "because you're my g i r l . " [205]
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She walked across the veranda to her front door with ridic ulous dignity. " O h , is that so?" A n d she tossed her head w i t h the offended pride of her favorite tragedy queen of the movies. H e sprang to her and grabbed her wrists. " A i n ' t y o u — " he choked, "ain't you—my g i r l ? " W i t h the intuition of a seasoned flirt she answered prissily, without meaning a word that she said or implied, " I f your eyes'd been open, lately, you wouldn't have to ask that." David's brain grew clear as ether, and the words w h i r l e d through his heart: "She's my g i r l — i f I want her. N o matter what she thinks or says. Whatever I want her to do, she's got to do. She's got to want to do what I want her to. Because I ' m a boy!" A n d with all his strength, and D a v i d was an unusually strong boy, he twisted her wrists. She screamed at the top of her voice. H e covered her mouth with his hand. She bit his fingers and screamed louder than before. T h e n he shook her, —not furiously, but so violently and passionately, that she fainted in his arms. A s inmates of the house rushed to the door in response to her cries, he handed her over to—someone. T h e n he was seized with a nervous c h i l l ; but somehow he managed to stumble home and to his mother. "I—I've killed Jessie," he moaned. "She wouldn't do what I wanted—her—to. She got the—best of me. A n d I ' m a boy . . ." A n d he crumpled up at her feet. IV I might consume the pages of a good sized novel recounting the conditions and adventures of the next ten years of David's life. H e emerged from a long seige of illness into an epoch dis tinguished by ardent poise and extreme intellectual activity. H e endeavored, almost feverishly, to imitate the good manners [206]
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of his parents, and he read and studied voraciously, chiefly science and anthropology. A g a i n he seemed dead, dumb, and blind to the existence of womankind. But during his third year at the secondary school he read an original oration on Woman's Place in Nature that quite electrified the institution. Teachers listened in astonishment, wondering i f it were pos sible that he had read Nietzsche, and students forgot to applaud. That night he ran away from home and joined the army. H e was only seventeen, but easily passed a l l tests. In less than a year, however, he returned, having learned very little of patriotism but a great deal of life. H e kissed the grey hairs that had come to streak his mother's head during his absence, and studiously prepared himself for college. W h e n he made Sophomore Honors, a tremendous fury seized him. " W h a t good is it!" he cried to himself. " A n y g i r l could do as much! I want to do something that is manly! I want to be a man! W h y didn't I live a hundred years ago? Studying is well and good for girls and for fellows who want to live like women and for great men. I—I shall never be great. I don't want to be! I want to be just a man—an ordinary man—but a man. A l l this studying is the absorbing of a feminine type of knowledge. M y professors are no different from my mother. Everything is saturated with this feminism,—the newspapers are mere organs for women, sanctioned literature is what the women approve of, the professions, commerce, even politics . . . O, I must live a life that is manly as life used to be! I shall! I w i l l ! " H e joined the navy, and for two years sailed the high seas and carved his way through the life of the ports. W i t h the militia he had learned of life. N o w he lived it. A n d he came to know a l l types of women well, though chiefly the lower orders. H e worshipped beauty and kindliness in women: [207]
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everything else he despised. N o t very clearly, not very logic ally, not with reason, but w h o l l y because he was fiercely jealous of womankind and her perpetually evident superiority, or at least, her importance. T h e twenty-three year old boy who finally returned to his mother looked thirty. But he told himself he was a hundred. 'Ts there no place in the world for me?" he asked himself, bitterly. " T h e w o r l d today is a world for women and for feminine men who are afraid to be manly, and for men who could be manly if they d i d not prefer to cater to the women. I am greater than any woman! I was born knowing i t . . ." H e started for "Out West," and though "Out West" is no particular spot on earth, but is only a spirit of freedom and a significance, yet he did gravitate to the Rockies, and he took to ranching and to loving it. V But he chose his ranch in empty country, empty save for a tawny road, a blue-gold river, the green glory of the pines, and an infinite wave of violet hills backgrounded by tall massive peaks whose white uplifted faces kissed the sky. Such cabins as were in his neighborhood were scattered far apart. I n fact, he grew so out of the habit of expecting to see indication of human life that, frequently, he mistook white smoke from a chimney for cloud or mist or forest fire. H i s gentle cattle and pretty sheep flocked his hills rhythmically. H e loved them. "Because I control their destinies," he told himself. H e rode five miles each day for his mail, and when the ground was firm returned by way of Blue B e l l Canyon. T h e scenery there was of unparalleled beauty, and besides, his good friends, the Waltons, had their cabin near the head of the ravine. M r . W a l t o n was an ex-college-professor whose library had been conveyed to the mountains in spite of the fact that the professorial savings account had been considerably de[208]
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pleted thereby. T h e library attracted D a v i d as much as the Waltons did. O n a late Spring morning, as the intoxicating odor of new life dilated David's nostrils, his mare, Peggy, from force of habit, slowed her pace as a bend in the road revealed the W a l ton's whitewashed cabin and fences. N o w D a v i d , for more than seven years, had ridden by this, place about three hundred times each twelve months and he knew it well. H e stared at the stranger who was calmly sitting in the orchard. She was quite young, about twenty, and not especially beau tiful. But an unusual serenity lay upon her delicate features that ennobled them with something that struck D a v i d as more beautiful than beauty. H e r lap was full of flowers,—wild flox, the mariposa lily, galardia, harebells, lupine, sulfur, bedstraw . . . and her white fingers touched them caressingly. D a v i d had not the faintest idea who she was, but so well was he acquainted with the Waltons that, just as though he had encountered her on his own verandah, he raised his hat. She lifted her calm face, as Peggy pranced gently at the gate, but, as though D a v i d were an invisible thing, she gazed past h i m to the farther wall of the canyon. There could be no doubt from the expression of her face that she was aware of his presence, but her calm eyes ignored him. N o woman had ever before ignored David, and he winced as though he were ashamed. T h e n his eyes blazed at her; he turned perfectly white, and wheeling Peggy with a terrible pull, dashed up the trail. "She—she looked through me! I might have been an in sect! She was more concerned with the weeds in her lap!" Peggy caught his mood and galloped furiously. T h e next day M r s . Walton phoned an invitation to come to dinner and "meet her niece." " I didn't tell you I expected her to visit me," she said, "be[209]
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cause I was afraid you would manufacture a pretext for a visit to the hills. A n d I want you to know her." But D a v i d excused himself. It was the end of the month . . . he would be busy with his accounts . . . H e changed the subject abruptly, then longed to hear more of her. M r s . W a l ton volunteered no information, but in the midst of a discus sion on crops he blurted out, angrily. " C a n she sing?" " V e r y beautifully." L i k e an overwrought child he brought the conversation to a close. "I've hunted all over the world for that face," he whispered. "It has the expression I have always longed to see on a woman's face. I've so often been afraid she wouldn't sing. T o think that she can . . . and then to have her ignore me." T h e thought was very bitter. One cannot disapprove without approving; nor can one cen sure without appreciating. A n d so because of the anger and the jealousy and the contempt for women that he had felt in his youth, and, too, because of the poignant antagonism he had experienced in his maturer years, D a v i d had formed a more v i v i d picture of his ideal than most men do. H e knew just what his perfect woman should be and what she should not be. H e had dreamed of meeting her a m i l l i o n times. H e knew he would not fail to recognize her and he had never even vaguely suspected that she would not recognize his superiority. One of the essentials of his ideal woman was that she should know h i m as her mate and as, if not the creator of her destiny, the chiefest determining factor. Everywhere he turned, in all his day dreams, a l l his nightly visions, he saw the calm face of the g i r l in the Walton's or chard, saw her expression of awareness yet of ignoring, of seeing and yet of looking beyond and through h i m . H e was ashamed. It was as though he had found himself wanting. [210]
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H e dreaded meeting her. " I f she s h o u l d l o o k at me l i k e that again, I don't believe I c o u l d c o n t r o l m y s e l f . " H e got out his c a m p i n g outfit and went, w i t h P e g g y , to the h i g h h i l l s for a week, i n o r d e r to "forget her." B u t w h e n he returned home he c o u l d not do that, o r stay away f r o m B l u e Bell. H e rode d o w n the canyon. P e g g y t r i e d to slow up as they a p p r o a c h e d the W a l t o n ' s ranch, but w h e n he swore she g a l l o p e d by, a l l too swiftly. Y e t she h a d been i n the o r c h a r d ! She h a d d r o p p e d her s e w i n g as he flew b y ! She h a d s m i l e d at h i m ! T h e r e was something i n the smile even that made his heart leap—not shyness but rather h u m i l i t y . O , fool that he had been, w a s t i n g a l l these days w h e n he m i g h t have had that smile sooner, that shy, h u m b l e s m i l e ! F o r days he h u n g around the telephone h o p i n g , almost pray i n g for M r s . W a l t o n to invite h i m to her home again. B u t w h e n he r e a l i z e d that she w o u l d not, he made up his m i n d to visit her unasked. N o sooner was his m i n d made up than he was on Peggy's back. F o r D a v i d never yet h a d failed to obey an impulse, nor h a d he ever first procrastinated. M r s . W a l t o n met h i m at the gate. " I ' m g l a d you've come, D a v i d . ' ' " I — I wanted to hear her s i n g . " " I t is a rare treat to hear her. B y the way, D a v i d , I want to tell y o u she is b l i n d . " VI I n d i a n s u m m e r : the w h i t e beards of the mountains have g r o w n l o n g e r ; the angiosperms below have turned l e m o n c o l o r ; and B l u e B e l l canyon has donned her most gorgeous array. " I never thought I should ask a w o m a n to m a r r y me," D a v i d told M a r y C a t h e r i n e . " Y o u p r o b a b l y planned a sort of Y o u n g L o c h i n v a r cere mony. N o w d i d n ' t y o u ? " she questioned. [211]
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H e l a u g h e d a little, but the eyes that w a t c h e d her w h i t e fingers c r o t c h e t i n g s w i f t l y w e r e serious. " I want to tell y o u about m y s e l f , " he answered. " H a v e n ' t y o u told me a g o o d bit about that person a l r e a d y ? " " I w a n t to tell y o u l o g i c a l l y , before I ask y o u to m a r r y m e . " " I ' m a l l ears, S i r K n i g h t . " " W h e n I was a little shaver, I used to—fight g i r l s . I h u r t them l i k e everything. I was e x p e l l e d f r o m school, even, be cause I treated them so a b o m i n a b l y . I guess I r e a l l y tortured them." She caught her breath. D a v i d c o u l d not tell w h e t h e r f r o m surprise or dismay. " W h e n I was fourteen," he went on, " I had a — g i r l . B e cause she w o u l d n ' t do just w h a t I w a n t e d her to, I h u r t her so and frightened her so that—she fainted." H e was a f r a i d to look into her expressive face. " I hope y o u w o n ' t hate me," he continued q u a i n t l y , "but I ' m not even ashamed o f — a l l that. T h e s u p e r i o r airs they assumed seemed wicked to me, w h e n I was a boy. I fought g i r l s as the Crusaders d i d the H e a t h e n , I suppose. T h e y were, they seemed the usurpers of the T e m p l e , y o u k n o w — t h e T e m p l e of M a n h o o d . " " W h a t made y o u that k i n d of a c h i l d , D a v i d ? " " I haven't the faintest idea." H e fell into a bit of m u s i n g . " G o o n , " she urged. " I was t h i n k i n g of M o t h e r . F a t h e r , too. O f course I was a t e r r i b l e disappointment to t h e m . " " W h y 'of course'?" she demanded p r o u d l y , for her, almost defiantly. " T h e y are v e r y m o d e r n , v e r y conventional people, y o u see. It h u r t them to have a freak for a son. A l l d u r i n g m y y o u t h . . . I hope y o u w o n ' t l a u g h at me . . . but it was l i k e Jeanne d ' A r c . I always heard V o i c e s c r y i n g out for f r e e d o m , — c r y i n g out against W o m a n the T y r a n t , the u s u r p e r of that supe[212]
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r i o r i t y w h i c h had been w h o l l y man's. I heard V o i c e s c a l l i n g for the o l d conditions w h e n men were the a c k n o w l e d g e d M a s t e r s of the E a r t h . " " Y o u were just a poet." H e kept on w i t h his confession. " I had a f a i r amount of brains, but a l l m y school w o r k and a l l m y college w o r k was tainted. F o r I knew that every r e a l m of knowledge, a l l learning, the sphere w h i c h d u r i n g a l l the ages has been the sanctuary, the h o l y of holies of m a n alone!— it h a d been besieged, stormed, conquered by," he s m i l e d , "the enemy." " S u c h thoughts robbed book l e a r n i n g of a l l its pleasure for me. M o t h e r and F a t h e r wanted me to be a great p h y s i c i a n o r a professor of p h i l o s o p h y . B u t I — I just couldn't. W o m e n c o u l d do that. I longed to w o r k at something that was i m b u e d w i t h the o l d time s p i r i t of manliness. T h e r e was the a r m y and the navy. I — I learned them both by heart. T h e r e were m a n y w o m e n i n m y life, at that time, too. B u t I d i d not find w h a t I was seeking for. It was not u n t i l I was twenty-five that I r e a l i z e d the fact had to be accepted: M a n was no longer the C z a r of the E a r t h ; W o m a n h a d come to stay." " D a v i d , " she began. B u t he h a d made up his m i n d to confess everything. " I haven't told y o u the worst. L i s t e n . O f course I k n o w that w o m a n has been e v o l v i n g a c c o r d i n g to her god-given rights, even though mistakes have been made i n the e v o l v i n g . I k n o w that h u r t i n g her body as I d i d w h e n a youngster, and h u r t i n g her, as I d i d w h e n I was older, is futile. B u t . . . but I s t i l l believe men s h o u l d be, I s t i l l w i s h men were, the more complete. A m a n ought to confess that before he asks a g i r l to m a r r y h i m . " She gave a little cry. " D a v i d — p l e a s e ! Y o u are too w o n d e r f u l . D o n ' t ask me." H e caught her hands. [213]
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" W h y n o t ? " he demanded. " I ' v e been honest always. E v e r y honest m a n m a y ask." " Y o u don't understand, I mean . . . i f I w e r e l i k e others, I s h o u l d be so p r o u d . B u t , D a v i d . . . I cannot see. I cannot see." H e r w o r d s seemed to reach h i m l i k e a joyous announcement. " Y o u are m y b i r t h r i g h t , M a r y C a t h e r i n e , " he said.
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The Untold Lie By Sherwood Anderson W H E N I was a boy and l i v e d i n m y home town of W i n e s b u r g , O h i o , R a y Pearson and H a l W i n t e r s were f a r m hands e m p l o y e d on a f a r m three miles n o r t h of us. I can't for m y life say h o w I k n o w this story c o n c e r n i n g them, but I v o u c h for its truth. I have k n o w n the story always just as I k n o w m a n y things c o n c e r n i n g m y o w n town that have never been told to me. A s for R a y and H a l I can recall w e l l enough h o w I used to see them on o u r M a i n Street w i t h other country fellows of a Saturday afternoon. R a y was a quiet,rather nervous m a n of perhaps fifty w i t h a b r o w n beard and shoulders rounded by too m u c h and too h a r d labor. I n his nature he was as u n l i k e H a l W i n t e r s as two men can be u n l i k e . R a y was an altogether serious m a n , as I remember h i m , and had a little sharp featured w i f e w h o h a d also a sharp voice. T h e two, w i t h half a dozen t h i n legged c h i l d r e n , l i v e d i n a t u m b l e - d o w n frame house beside a creek at the back end of the W i l l s ' f a r m , w h e r e R a y was e m p l o y e d . H a l W i n t e r s , his f e l l o w employee, was a y o u n g fellow. H e was not of the N e d W i n t e r s f a m i l y , w h o were v e r y respectable people a m o n g us, but was one of the three sons of the o l d m a n w e c a l l e d W i n d p e t e r W i n t e r s , w h o h a d a s a w m i l l over near U n i o n v i l l e , six miles away, and w h o was l o o k e d u p o n by everyone i n W i n e s b u r g as a confirmed o l d reprobate. P e o p l e f r o m m y town w i l l remember o l d W i n d p e t e r by his unusual and tragic death. H e got d r u n k i n W i n e s b u r g and [215]
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started to d r i v e home to U n i o n v i l l e a l o n g the r a i l r o a d tracks. H e n r y B r a t t e n b u r g , the butcher, w h o l i v e d out that w a y , stopped h i m at the edge of the t o w n and told h i m he was sure to meet the d o w n t r a i n , but W i n d p e t e r slashed at h i m w i t h his w h i p and drove on. W h e n the t r a i n struck and k i l l e d h i m and his two horses, a f a r m e r and his w i f e w h o w e r e d r i v i n g home a l o n g a nearby road saw the accident. T h e y said that o l d W i n d p e t e r stood up on the seat of his w a g o n , r a v i n g and s w e a r i n g at the o n r u s h i n g l o c o m o t i v e and that he f a i r l y screamed w i t h d e l i g h t w h e n the team, m a d d e n e d by his inces sant slashing at them, rushed straight ahead to certain death. I myself remember the i n c i d e n t quite v i v i d l y because, a l t h o u g h everyone i n o u r t o w n said that the o l d m a n w o u l d go straight to h e l l and that the c o m m u n i t y was better off w i t h o u t h i m , I h a d a secret c o n v i c t i o n that he k n e w w h a t he was d o i n g and I a d m i r e d his foolish courage. L i k e most boys I h a d already h a d m y seasons of w i s h i n g I m i g h t die g l o r i o u s l y i n stead of just b e i n g a g r o c e r y c l e r k and g o i n g on w i t h m y h u m d r u m life. I k n o w n o w that m a n y i n o u r t o w n must have felt the same w a y . B u t this is not the story of W i n d p e t e r W i n t e r s nor yet of his son H a l w h o w o r k e d on the W i l l s f a r m w i t h R a y Pearson. It is R a y ' s story. B u t I must tell y o u a l i t t l e of y o u n g H a l so that y o u w i l l get into the s p i r i t of it. H a l was a bad one. E v e r y o n e said that. T h e r e w e r e three of the W i n t e r ' s boys i n that f a m i l y , J o h n , H a l and E d w a r d , a l l b r o a d s h o u l d e r e d b i g fellows l i k e o l d W i n d p e t e r h i m s e l f and a l l fighters and woman-chasers and g e n e r a l l y a l l - a r o u n d b a d ones. H a l was the worst of the lot and always u p to some d e v i l ment. F o r example, I can remember h o w he once stole a l o a d of boards f r o m his father's m i l l and sold them i n W i n e s b u r g . W i t h the money he bought h i m s e l f a suit of cheap, flashy clothes. T h e n he got d r u n k and w h e n his father came r a v i n g [216]
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into t o w n to find h i m they met and fought w i t h their fists on M a i n Street and were arrested and put into j a i l together. H a l went to w o r k on the W i l l s f a r m because there was a country school teacher out that w a y w h o h a d taken his fancy. H e was o n l y twenty-two then but h a d already been i n two or three of w h a t we used to speak of as " w o m a n scrapes." E v e r y one w h o heard of his infatuation for the school teacher was sure it w o u l d t u r n out badly. " H e ' l l only get her into trouble, y o u ' l l see," was the w o r d that went around. A n d so these two men, R a y and H a l were at w o r k i n a field on a day i n the late October. T h e y were h u s k i n g corn and. occasionally something was said and they l a u g h e d . T h e n came silence. R a y , w h o was the more sensitive and always m i n d e d things more, h a d c h a p p e d hands and they hurt. H e put them into his coat pockets and l o o k e d away across the fields. H e was i n a sad distracted m o o d and was affected by the beauty of the country. I f y o u k n e w o u r country i n the f a l l and h o w the l o w h i l l s are a l l splashed w i t h yellows and blacks y o u w o u l d understand his feeling. H e began to t h i n k of the time, l o n g ago w h e n he was a y o u n g f e l l o w l i v i n g w i t h his father, then a baker i n W i n e s b u r g , and h o w on days l i k e this he w a n d e r e d away to the woods to gather nuts, hunt rabbits or just to loaf about and smoke his pipe. H i s m a r r i a g e h a d come about t h r o u g h one of these days of w a n d e r i n g . H e h a d i n d u c e d a g i r l w h o w a i t e d on trade i n his father's shop to go w i t h h i m and something h a d happened. H e was t h i n k i n g of that after noon l o n g ago and h o w it h a d affected his w h o l e life, w h e n a s p i r i t of protest awoke i n h i m . H e h a d forgotten about H a l and muttered w o r d s . " T r i c k e d by G a d , that's w h a t I w a s ; t r i c k e d by life and made a fool of," he said i n a l o w voice. A s though understanding his thoughts, H a l W i n t e r s spoke up. " W e l l , has it been w o r t h w h i l e ? W h a t about it, eh, w h a t about m a r r i a g e and a l l that?" he asked and then l a u g h e d . H a l tried to keep on l a u g h i n g but he too was i n an earnest m o o d . [217]
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H e began to talk earnestly. " H a s a f e l l o w got to do i t ? " he asked. " H a s he got to be harnessed u p and d r i v e n l i k e a horse?" H e d i d n ' t w a i t for an answer but s p r a n g to his feet and began to w a l k back and f o r t h between the c o r n shocks. H e was getting m o r e and m o r e excited. B e n d i n g s u d d e n l y d o w n he p i c k e d u p an ear of the y e l l o w c o r n and t h r e w it at the fence. " I ' v e got N e l l G u n t h e r i n t r o u b l e , " he said. " I ' m t e l l i n g y o u , but y o u keep y o u r m o u t h shut." R a y Pearson arose and stood staring. H e was almost a foot shorter than H a l and w h e n the younger m a n came and put his two hands on the o l d e r man's shoulders they made a p i c ture. T h e r e they stood i n the b i g e m p t y field w i t h the quiet c o r n shocks standing i n rows b e h i n d them and the red and y e l l o w h i l l s i n the distance and f r o m b e i n g just two indifferent w o r k m e n they had become a l l a l i v e to each other. H a l sensed it and because that was his w a y he l a u g h e d . " W e l l o l d d a d d y , " he said a w k w a r d l y , "come on, advise me. I ' v e got N e l l i n trouble. P e r h a p s y o u ' v e been i n the same fix yourself. I k n o w w h a t everyone w o u l d say is the r i g h t t h i n g to do but w h a t do y o u say? S h a l l I m a r r y and settle d o w n ? S h a l l I put myself into the harness to be w o r n out l i k e an o l d horse? Y o u k n o w me, R a y . T h e r e can't anyone break me but I can break myself. S h a l l I do it o r s h a l l I t e l l N e l l to go to the d e v i l ? C o m e on, y o u tell me. W h a t e v e r y o u say, R a y , I ' l l do." R a y c o u l d n ' t answer. H e shook H a l ' s hands loose and t u r n i n g w a l k e d straight a w a y t o w a r d the barn. A s I ' v e said he was a sensitive m a n and there were tears i n his eyes. H e k n e w there was o n l y one t h i n g to say to H a l W i n t e r s , son of o l d W i n d p e t e r W i n t e r s , o n l y one t h i n g that a l l his o w n t r a i n i n g and a l l the beliefs of the people he k n e w w o u l d a p p r o v e , but for his l i f e he c o u l d n ' t say w h a t he k n e w he s h o u l d say. A t h a l f past f o u r that afternoon R a y was p u t t e r i n g about [218]
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the b a r n y a r d w h e n his w i f e came up the lane a l o n g the creek and c a l l e d h i m . A f t e r the talk w i t h H a l he hadn't returned to the cornfield but w o r k e d about the barn. H e h a d already done the evening chores and had seen H a l , dressed and ready for a roistering n i g h t i n town, come out of the f a r m house and go into the road. A l o n g the path t o w a r d his o w n house he t r u d g e d b e h i n d his w i f e , l o o k i n g at the g r o u n d and t h i n k ing. H e c o u l d n ' t make out w h a t was w r o n g . E v e r y time he raised his eyes and saw the beauty of the country i n the f a i l i n g l i g h t he wanted to do something he h a d never done before, shout or scream or h i t his w i f e w i t h his fist o r something e q u a l l y unexpected and t e r r i f y i n g . A l o n g the path he went s c r a t c h i n g his head and t r y i n g to make it out. H e l o o k e d h a r d at his wife's back but she seemed a l l right. She o n l y wanted h i m to go into town for groceries and as soon as she h a d told h i m w h a t she wanted, began to scold. " Y o u ' r e always p u t t e r i n g , " she said. " N o w I want y o u to hustle. T h e r e isn't a n y t h i n g i n the house for supper and you've got to get to town and back i n a h u r r y . " R a y went into his o w n house and took an overcoat f r o m a hook back of the door. I t was torn about the pockets and the c o l l a r was shiny. T h e w i f e went into the b e d r o o m and pres ently came out w i t h a soiled cloth i n one h a n d and three silver dollars i n the other. Somewhere i n the house a c h i l d w e p t b i t t e r l y and a d o g that h a d been sleeping by a stove arose and yawned. A g a i n the w i f e scolded. " T h e c h i l d r e n w i l l c r y and cry. W h y are y o u always p u t t e r i n g ? " she said. R a y went out of the house and c l i m b e d a fence into a field. I t was just g r o w i n g d a r k and the scene that l a y before h i m was lovely. A l l the l o w h i l l s were washed w i t h c o l o r and even the little clusters of bushes i n the corners b y the fences were alive w i t h beauty. T h e w h o l e w o r l d seemed to R a y Pearson to have become alive w i t h something just as he and H a l h a d [219]
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suddenly become alive when they stood in the cornfield staring into each other's eyes. T h e beauty of our country there about Winesburg was just too much for R a y on that fall evening. That's a l l there was to it. H e couldn't stand it. O f a sudden he forgot a l l about being a quiet old farm hand, and throwing off the torn over coat began to run across the field. A s he ran he shouted a protest against his life, against a l l life, against everything that makes life ugly. "There was no promise made," he cried into the empty spaces that lay about him. " I didn't promise my M i n n i e anything and H a l hasn't made any promise to N e l l . I know he hasn't. She went into the woods with h i m because she wanted to go. W h a t he wanted she wanted. W h y should I pay? W h y should H a l pay? W h y should anyone pay? I don't want H a l to become old and worn-out. I ' l l tell h i m . I won't let it go on. I ' l l catch H a l before he gets to town and I ' l l tell h i m . " Ray ran clumsily and once he stumbled and fell down. " I must catch H a l and tell h i m , " he kept thinking and although his breath came in gasps he kept running harder and harder. A s he ran he thought of things that hadn't come into his m i n d for years—how at the time he married he had planned to go west to his uncle in Portland, Oregon—how he hadn't wanted to be a farm hand but had thought when he got out west he would go to sea and be a sailor or get a job on a ranch and ride a horse into western towns shouting and laughing and waking the people in the houses with his w i l d cries. T h e n as he ran he remembered his children and in fancy felt their hands clutching at h i m . A l l of his thoughts of himself were involved with the thoughts of H a l and he thought the children were clutching at the younger man also. " T h e y are the accidents of life, H a l , " he cried. " T h e y are not mine or yours. I had nothing to do with them." Darkness began to spread over the fields as R a y Pearson ran [220]
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on and on. H i s breath came in little sobs. W h e n he came to the fence at the edge of the road and confronted H a l Winters all dressed up and smoking a pipe as he walked jauntily along, he couldn't have told what he thought or what he wanted. I suppose R a y Pearson lost his nerve and that this is really the end of the story of what happened to him. It was almost dark when he got to the fence and he put his hands on the top bar and stood staring. H a l Winters jumped a ditch and coming up close, put his hands in his pockets and laughed heartily. H e seemed to have lost his own sense of what had happened in the cornfield and when he put up a strong hand and took hold of the lapel of Ray's coat he shook the old man as he might have shaken a dog that had misbehaved. " Y o u came to tell me, eh?" he said. " W e l l , never mind telling me anything. I'm not a coward and I've already made up my mind." H e laughed again and jumped back across the ditch. " N e l l ain't no fool," he said. "She didn't ask me to marry her. I want to marry her. I want to settle down and have kids." Ray Pearson also laughed. H e felt like laughing at himself and all the world. A s the form of H a l Winters disappeared in the dusk that lay over the road that led to Winesburg he turned and walked slowly back across the fields to where he had left his torn over coat. A s he went, some memory of pleasant evenings spent with the thin legged children in the tumble-down house by the creek must have come into his mind, for he muttered words. "It's just as well. Whatever I told him would have been a l i e , " he said softly and then his form also disappeared into the darkness of the fields.
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The Scar By Elizabeth Stead Taber IN a certain remote road valley among the foothills of the N o r t h Woods country, the W i l d Cat Road forms a jagged, unsightly scar upon the otherwise lovely face of Nature,—a scar which is the more hideous by its contrast to the w i l d , alluring beauty around it. T h e law of Nature works here in harsh ways which are in accord with the g r i m aspect of the place. Bald, rocky steeps; gaunt, struggling pines; and in the lower ground, tall grey corpses of trees still standing upright in the swamps that had brought death to them,—it was on such an outlook that R i l l y W a r d gazed from the doorway of the tar-papered shanty that was her home. T h e dead trees stood in a ghastly company on the opposite side of the strag gling road which here and there took a turn around a rocky outcrop on its way; beyond the swampy ground B i g Elephant Mountain reared its bulky mass; back of the shanty the dry fields were covered with the pale greenish-yellow of the coarse bent grass; upward from them sloped the seared and scarred form of L i t t l e Elephant Mountain which had burned over the year before. T h e woman in the doorway possessed a certain d u l l comeli ness. T h e dark, cheap wrapper which she wore hung in shapeless folds; her brown hair had no lights and shadows but was all the dun color of earth; her hands were coarse and large; yet there was an air about her that was almost pleasing. H e r eyes were lustreless but they brightened as she stepped [222]
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down to the broad flat stone in front of the door and called, "Almy." I n response to her call, a strange-looking little creature of six or seven years crept from behind the big tamarack tree, carrying in her hands cones which she had been gathering. D a r k hair encircled her colorless face, the eyes were hidden by lowered lids; it was when she raised her glance to her mother's and held out the cones that a foolish smile broke over the face which had, at first glance, seemed almost pretty. It was a smile singularly like the silly grin of a drunken man. " Y o u set here, A l m y , and watch for your pa to come; I ' l l be makin' supper." T h e child sat down on the high doorstep and the woman went within the shanty. A moment later a tall young giant swung into view around the bend of the road. H e was dark and roughly handsome with an animal beauty; uncouth and like an untrained animal he looked as he came nearer with lounging strides. T h e child in the doorway shrank aside as he reached her, but if he was aware of her presence he ignored it, and passed on into the shanty. T h e little g i r l entered when her mother called out, " A l m y , " and the three sat down to eat from the thick plates on the bare table near the door. T h e furniture was scanty and rude; a worn-out stove was at one side of the room, a rough bed stood in the darkest corner, and a homemade cot close beside it. A deep dish of raccoon meat in thick greasy gravy was the chief food. Joe W a r d ate for some time in silence, his wife glancing at him furtively. She was wondering "what ailed Joe" tonight; he had not been drinking, but there was a sub dued excitement and unnatural manner about him which dis turbed her. " F i r s t coon I've got in a year and it'll be the last for a while, I guess," announced Joe. "Can't nobody else do nothin' [223]
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huntin' with R u d d y M u n r o e gettin' it a l l . " H e shook back the dark hair from his forehead, and looked at the woman facing him. " R u d d y Munroe's got luck," he continued; "he won't never lack skins to sell nor meat to eat." "He's been fixin' a new house up the W i l d Cat R o a d , " ven tured R i l l y ; "he does get along." A l m y remained silent most of the time, but occasionally she glanced at her mother, the same silly grin disfiguring her face. She was strikingly like her father; it was when that expression came over her countenance that he avoided looking at her. "Yes, a four-roomed one, all sided up and painted, lookin' off to Blueberry P o n d , " Joe was saying. " D o you suppose he'd be l i v i n ' in a place like this? Neither would I be if I'd ever had any luck. Can't raise nothin' on land that'll only grow hell-bent grass; can't do trappin' where R u d d y Munroe's gettin' rich on it. If it hadn't been for the sawmill comin' in this year, I'd cleaned out before this. But we're w i n d i n ' up the clearin' and that'll be movin' soon." R i l l y had heard Joe talk against his luck before, although perhaps not quite so fiercely. " W h y , Joe, you ain't never tried no farmin'," she said. " H u n t i n ' or farmin' or whatever, Ruddy Munroe's got along because he's a smart man and—" " R u d d y M u n r o e don't drink. H o w ' d you like it if he'd chose you for his woman?" " W h y , Joe, Ruddy M u n r o e wouldn't 'a' looked at me. He's fine set u p ; but maybe I wouldn't be so bad off," she said musingly. R i l l y had risen and stepped to the door. She was emptying the greasy gravy outside where it fell on the broad stone. She turned back into the room as Joe went on, "That's the last grease gravy you'll be emptyin' out o' this door, R i l l y . " A l m y ' s big eyes looked at him wonderingly and the woman, too, d i d not seem to understand. [224]
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"Yes, R i l l y W a r d , how'd you like to live up to that new house of R u d d y Munroe's?" Before she could speak he con tinued, " W e l l , that's where you're goin'. R u d d y wants a woman,—been havin' his eye on you for some time, he says,— ain't you pleased?" " W h y , what do you mean, Joe? Y o u ain't been d r i n k i n ' again?" she questioned, for he spoke with a reckless laugh. A t her words he gave a quick glance at the child, who was still gazing at him with wide open eyes, but he quickly looked away. " N o , I ain't been drinkin'. I mean you're goin' to be his woman, R i l l y . H e don't mind takin' her"—he jerked his head at A l m y without looking at her—"for the sake o' gettin' a good woman like you. I t ' l l be a big thing for you." " W h y Joe," she protested, "you ain't tired o' me?" "It ain't no new idea; I've been thinkin' of it for a long time." H i s eyes wandered back again to A l m y for a moment. "It's no more'n B i l l y Tompkins and J u d Camp done,—didn't they swap wives? I'm goin' to clear out, R i l l y . I ' m goin' down to the Falls, and I'm goin' to get me another woman down there." H e said the last words with an air of bravado. " R u d d y M u n r o e don't drink, neither," he repeated grimly, keeping his eyes upon her. " O h Joe," she cried, " I don't mind your drinkin'. I mean," — she looked at A l m y , " I ' d rather live with you anyhow." " W e l l , I wouldn't, so that's settled," he declared flatly. " A i n ' t it enough for you that I ' m goin' to get me another woman?" T h e woman seemed to sense this thought for the first time. T h e dog-like look of submission passed from her face, and in its place came a sort of boldness, as with a quick toss of her head she said, " W e l l , course I ain't wantin' to stay much." " T h e bargain's all made and you'll like it first rate," he said. " R u d d y M u n r o e ! " she muttered. "It's awful sudden, Joe; I wish you'd told me before. But it's real excitin' and I'm [225]
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glad to go," she declared. " R u d d y ain't bad if you aim to please h i m , " Joe responded weakly. Just then they heard the sound of wheels outside. Joe's name was called in a hard ringing voice. H e turned to R i l l y saying: " Y o u ain't got much to leave and you ain't got much to take, so it won't take you long to get ready." "Yes, I ' m goin', Joe," she answered as he went out of the door. R i l l y looked around her in a dazed way and then, seeming to awake to the situation, she spoke to the child who all the while had been staring in wonderment at her father. " A l m y , we're goin'. P i c k up them things. G o i n ' for good." She added to herself, " Y o u r pa won't never have to see your face again." The things were an old cape and a cap w h i c h the c h i l d sometimes wore. There was indeed but little to take; R i l l y soon made a bundle of their only clothes, and w i t h no other preparation she was ready. N o looking glass was in sight but she smoothed her hair back with her hands, as if she stood before one. "He's goin' to get another woman," she muttered. " B u t it ain't me so much as it is A l m y , — h e never could stand her, and I might 'a' known he'd do somethin' like this some day. W e l l , he never treated her bad, and R u d d y M u n r o e shan't neither." Grasping the c h i l d tightly by the hand, she stepped to the doorway. Joe was entering and R i l l y saw that there was green money in his hand, which he placed on the shelf, setting a heavy dish from the table over it. T h e n he went out after R i l l y into the dusk of the evening. The short stocky form of R u d d y M u n r o e was dimly outlined in the half light as he sat in the buckboard; his face could not be clearly seen, but R i l l y W a r d knew the full straight line [226]
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of his thick lips, and the bulging eyes that almost seemed to hang over his cheeks. She felt those eyes upon her even in the darkness. " W e l l , so long, Joe," Ruddy said in an easy tone, while Joe was awkwardly pushing A l m y into the buckboard after her mother. "Don't forget your old friends, Joe, when you get down to the Falls." R i l l y was holding her head high. " W h e n you leavin', Joe?" she asked casually. " D a y or two," he answered, adding shortly, "Goodbye." H i s tone sounded relieved. They drove off in the darkness, A l m y clinging close to her mother. They went some distance in silence; then the man spoke in a natural manner. " W e l l , R i l l y , we're goin' to hitch up all right, I guess, eh?" R i l l y gave an almost unintelligible murmur. It sounded like assent. A l m y nestled closer to her. " ' C o u r s e nobody could be sorry for leavin' that place. Even Joe's glad to get out." T h e man's voice rang out loudly in the night air. R i l l y thought, "It ain't that, he's glad to be gettin' away from," but she did not speak. "I knew you'd be glad to leave," he went on with as surance. " ' C o u r s e we all know Joe's a good sort, but he gets drunk most too much sometimes, eh?" R i l l y tightened her hold on Almy's small form. She seemed to see that white face even in the blackness of the night, the face which was to Joe W a r d a constant reminder that he was drunk "most too much." W i t h a real physical effort she tried to master her feeling of undesire. It was not that she wished to hold to Joe,—no, if he was to get another woman, she could put h i m out of her thoughts and let someone take his place. She did not know why she should mind much leaving Joe, but it had a l l hap[227]
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pened so suddenly, and a feeling of blackness oppressed her, as heavy as the darkness of the night. Once R u d d y gave the horse a sharp cut w i t h the w h i p . R i l l y winced and she felt the c h i l d cringe. W h i l e he talked and R i l l y joined in now and then with acquiescence, the two miles along the W i l d Cat Road were covered. T h e y drew up to the new house which was only a square black spot in the dark night. W h e n they had entered R i l l y saw that the room in w h i c h they stood was clean but bare-looking; it seemed to invite a woman's care. She looked around her at the white plaster walls, and thought of the dark discolored sides of the room she had left, but Ruddy, standing awkwardly nearby, inter preted her glance in his own way. "Pretty good lookin', ain't i t ? " he questioned. She nodded approval and then glanced down at the c h i l d who still clung to her. " A l m y , you're getting sleepy." T h e n she looked questioningly at the man. "She's so quiet she gets forgot," he said. " B u t that's a l l right,—she won't be no bother then. H e r e you,"—he turned to the child, speaking not roughly but without any feeling— "you sleep there tonight." H e indicated a couch in the room. " W e ' l l fix up a place in the loft for you later." T h e n he turned to the woman. " Y o u ain't never had no real bedroom to sleep in, l i v i n ' w i t h Joe, have you? W e l l , this ain't no tar-papered shanty." H e was close to her; his cheeks were flushed with cold pas sion. H e caught the woman roughly in his arms, and his kisses were as brutal as blows. H e had forgotten A l m y , but while he held her mother he felt the small strong hands of the c h i l d upon h i m . T h e y were like claws ready to tear him. H e turned and caught her by [228]
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the arm, twisting it in his strong grasp. A s she gave a low cry he flung her aside. " Y o u damn brat!" H i s hard voice was shrill. " Y o u foolface like your drunken daddy! N o wonder he wanted to get rid of you!" T h e woman caught up the child in her arms and he went on calmly, "Come now, R i l l y , you and me have took each other, and she ain't goin' to be no trouble. I paid a price for you and I ain't goin' to go back on my bargain now. But you little devil,"—he paused and looked at the little creature whose eyes evaded him, "you take yourself to sleep and you and me'll get along all right tomorrow." H i s full lips loosened into a smile that was meant to be friendly. A l m y was already on the couch, as far as possible from him. Submissively R i l l y followed h i m into the bedroom, but the air of dumb coquetry which she had tried to assume was gone. Hours later she lay, wide-eyed and wakeful, beside the form of the man now sunk in deep slumber. One thought only filled her mind,—that he had laid his hands on A l m y to hurt her, but gradually this gave place to the desire to get away. B r u tality to herself she would have taken and borne as a part of her new life, but to A l m y — n o , she should not be touched. They must get away before it could happen again. T h e y must go while the creature beside her slept. But where? Back to Joe? N o , he was going to get another woman, he had said, and she herself had told h i m that she was glad to go. N o , they could not go back there. Presently she thought that it was the remembrance of the money she had seen which made her thoughts go back to him. She saw h i m as when he had entered the door of the shanty, the money in his hand, the money which he had put on the shelf under the heavy dish. H e r crude mind grasped the idea of the money as a possibility of escape. [229]
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She could not formulate any clearly conceived plan, but she felt that if the money could only be secured, they might use it in some way to get away. She thought of reaching Stormytown,—it was only six miles away and there was a stage from there to the railroad at Thurston. H e r thoughts ran w i l d ; she had no aim in mind but to get away before R u d d y M u n r o e awoke. T h e only thing which she saw clearly was that the money might help,—the money which had been paid for her. Slowly and stealthily she slid from the bed, and passed into the room where A l m y lay on the couch. A t her mother's touch she rose without a sound, and in a minute more they were out upon the W i l d Cat Road. N o words were spoken until they were far from the house, when R i l l y said, "We're never goin' back there, A l m y , never." After a pause she went on, " W e ' l l go somewhere away, I don't know where, but we'll aim first to Stormytown. W e can get there by mornin'." T h e child asked no questions but trudged along by her mother's side with her hand tightly clasped in the woman's. Neither thought of the dense blackness of the night that sur rounded them, but a sudden sound broke the stillness and brought terror to their hearts. A cry m i n g l i n g the w a i l of human agony with the laughter of fiendish glee sounded from Blueberry Pond. F o r a moment the woman shivered with fear, but as the child cowered closer to her she said, "It's only a loon, A l m y . " T h e y hastened on, at times almost breaking into a run. T h e familiar smell of the swamp greeted their nostrils as they approached the little shanty. T h e y slackened their pace and finally they stopped, until their quick breathing had quieted somewhat. "It's goin' to rain," R i l l y murmured, sniffing the air. [230]
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Then they went closer toward the doorway, stepping sound lessly. U p o n the intense blackness around them the b i g tamarack tree seemed to cast a still heavier shadow. T h e sound of Joe's heavy breathing came through the open doorway. R i l l y dropped the child's hand from her tight grasp and seemed to tell her, without words, to stand still while she went forward. She was within the doorway, her ears sensing the regular breathing, her mind reaching forward to her grasp upon the money which was now almost within her reach. She raised her hand to the shelf and lifted the dish. As she took it up and her other hand closed upon the money, the cry of the loon rang out again more faintly like a hideous distorted echo of the earlier sound still ringing in her ears. She gave a nervous shiver and the heavy dish dropped to the floor with a crash. She started toward the doorway but Joe, aroused by the sound, was before her. " W h a t ! " he thundered. "Who's there?" She could feel his nearness although she could not see him. She thought of A l m y , crouching in the night outside, and she spoke calmly. "It's only me, J o e , — R i l l y . I come—" " R i l l y ! Y o u come back?" H e was touching her. " W h a t —why—where's A l m y ? " "I didn't mean to wake you, Joe. I just come back. I—I somehow knocked the dish off when I heard the loon. A l m y ! " she called from the doorway, and in an instant the child was beside her. Joe was making a light. Almy's pale face was chalky white in the yellow glare; the fear in her eyes and the ghastly grin of her mouth made a picture of sickening horror. Joe turned from it and looked into Rilly's eyes. [231]
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" H o w — h o w — " he stammered, bewildered. " W h e r e is he?" and he peered into the night as if expecting to see R u d d y M u n r o e enter the doorway. " H i m ! " she exclaimed fiercely. " H i m ! G o d curse h i m ! H e laid his hands on A l m y ; he hurt her and I ' l l never go back to him. I was a fool to go!" H e r strong ejaculations seemed to have spent her force and her voice trailed off weakly. " H e didn't let us come away,—no, we come while he was sleepin'." " Y o u come back to me?" Joe questioned. " N o , we ain't come back. W e ' r e goin' to Stormytown and take the stage out—we just stopped—" she faltered. "But, R i l l y , where'd you go? Y o u can't go on," he pro tested. " W e l l , we ain't comin' here, you needn't fear," she answered shortly. She failed to bring disdain into her words. Joe's thoughts went back to the cause of their appearance. " R u d d y M u n r o e ! H e ' l l be huntin' for you," he exclaimed, "and he'll be comin' here, I bet!" A t these words A l m y reached out her thin nervous fingers and caught her mother's hand again. " W e ' l l rest a bit," R i l l y soothed her. " I can't go on just yet. Y o u don't mind our stayin' a while, Joe? W e ' l l go on before R u d d y M u n r o e should come." " W e made a bargain, R u d d y and me, and I wouldn't want him to think I ' d gone back on it," Joe responded. " B u t you can't go on, R i l l y . " " W e l l , I've said we was goin' and that's a l l there is to it." " ' C o u r s e you must rest a while, R i l l y , and w e ' l l talk it over. I don't see what you're goin' to do," he ended, going to the door again. H e stood there a long time while A l m y and her mother sat within. N o t a word was spoken. R i l l y glanced now and then at Joe's broad back, but for the most part she sat silently in a dejected attitude of fatigue and despair. [232]
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W h e n streaks of grey dawn began to show over the dark outline of B i g Elephant Mountain, and the tamarack tree showed its huge shape dimly, Joe turned and said: "Well, Rilly?" A s he spoke new force seemed to straighten her figure. B u t before she could answer they heard the sound of wheels on the W i l d Cat Road, and in another moment a horse and wagon showed obscurely at the turn of the road. It stopped, and Ruddy M u n r o e jumped out and approached the shanty. Joe filled the doorway as R u d d y stood on the ground outside. " H a s she come back here?" Ruddy's loud voice rang out. " D i d n ' t I pay for that woman, and didn't she come o' her own accord? What's she get up and leave me in the middle o' the night for?" R i l l y , with A l m y clinging to the back of her skirts, had come up to the door. She saw only the big bulging eyes of the man before her as she pushed past Joe. She started to answer Ruddy but Joe spoke first. "It means that R i l l y don't choose to stay, that's a l l . There ain't no law against it, as I know of, if she wants to." " H u h ! " the man sneered. "So she's come back to you!" " N o , I didn't come back to Joe," R i l l y spoke up. " B u t you shan't never touch A l m y again. W h y , her own father—" she hesitated—"her own father, what can't bear the sight o' her face, ain't never been mean to her." " R i l l y , " Joe interrupted her quietly, "hand back that money to Ruddy, and he can go." It was the only intimation Joe had given that he knew R i l l y held the money and she stared at h i m in surprise. Neverthe less she held out the money to Ruddy. H e reached out his hand for it, and as he did so something in the face of the woman seemed to call the passion of cold anger within him. T h e money dropped to the ground as he seized her a r m ; [233]
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he held her face back and laid his full lips roughly against it. " I guess that was comin' to me," he said as he stepped back. But the words were scarcely spoken when A l m y was upon him. H e r fierce little hands were reaching for his face and her big eyes were blazing. O n l y for a moment, however, d i d she expend her force upon him, for he hurled her from h i m with a strong thrust that sent her falling back into the shanty doorway. " Y o u little devil, born of a drunken—". H e started to speak, stepping forward as he d i d so, when Joe's arm struck out. It d i d not touch him, for R u d d y dodged the blow, but A l m y , starting to rise as her lips twisted in a half-frightened, half-pained whimper, caught the spent force of it. She fell, slipping on the spot of greasy gravy which R i l l y had thrown from the doorway the night before. H e r temple struck the edge of the doorstep and she sank in a little sprawling heap upon the big stone. She lay strangely still in the grey light of the morning that was dawning. F o r a moment Joe stepped back within the doorway, and R u d d y stood outside, a bulky mass of indecision. But R i l l y was picking up A l m y from the broad stone. T h e little body sagged as she raised it. Joe stooped beside her and, looking into his face, R i l l y spoke dully. "She's dead, Joe." " D e a d ! " breathed Joe, and as he leaned down he saw that it was so. H e took the body from her arms, and carried it to the cot in the dark corner within. T h e small face looked whiter than ever before, and the thin lips smiled at h i m fixedly. R i l l y sank down on the rough floor beside the cot and h i d her face in the old cape which A l m y had worn. She moaned quietly once or twice, and Joe looked down at her helplessly. R u d d y had stepped inside the doorway and [234]
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stood there awkwardly. H e cleared his throat with a thick sound a few times, and then he spoke. " ' T w a s n ' t your fault, Joe, you know. She sort o' slipped on the step." "I guess it wasn't nobody's fault," Joe answered weakly. "But what's goin' to be done?" R i l l y raised her head. "There ain't nothin' to be done; nothin' but a pine box now, Joe." She looked at the quiet face. "Just a little bruise on the temple," she whispered. " W e ' l l tell 'em she slipped. W e don't want no trouble. It wouldn't do no good now," she muttered. Ruddy's hard tones became a little lower as he said, " A n ' what about after the—the—?" H e motioned his hand loosely toward the cot, without looking at it. " M a y b e R i l l y won't mind comin' now," said Joe. " N o , I don't mind comin' now," she repeated. "After it's over." A few minutes later she heard the sound of wheels growing fainter on the W i l d Cat Road, and she saw in her thoughts the four-roomed house on the shore of Blueberry Pond, white in the cold morning light, awaiting her.
[235]
The Astronomer (From the Drama, "The
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By Kahlil Gibran IN T H E shadow of the temple my friend and I saw a blind man sitting alone. A n d my friend said, " B e h o l d , the wisest man of our land." T h e n I left my friend and approached the b l i n d man and greeted him. A n d we conversed. A n d after a while I said, "Forgive my question; but since when hast thou been b l i n d ? " " F r o m my birth," he answered. Said I, " A n d what path of wisdom followest thou?" Said he, " I am an astronomer." T h e n he placed his hand upon his breast, saying, " I watch all these suns and moons and stars."
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On Giving and Taking (From the Drama, "The
Madman")
By Kahlil Gibran
O
N C E there lived a man who had a valleyful of needles. A n d one day the mother of Jesus came to h i m and said: " F r i e n d , my son's garment is torn and I must needs mend it before he goeth to the temple. Wouldst thou not give me a needle?" A n d he gave her not a needle; but he gave her a learned discourse on G i v i n g and T a k i n g to carry to her son before he should go to the temple.
[237]
Rain After a Vaudeville Show By Stephen Vincent Benet THE last pose flickered, f a i l e d . T h e screen's dead w h i t e G l a r e d i n a sudden flooding of harsh l i g h t S t a b b i n g the eyes; and as I s t u m b l e d out T h e c u r t a i n rose. A fat g i r l w i t h a pout A n d legs l i k e hams, began to sing " H i s M o t h e r . " Gusts of bad a i r rose i n a c h o k i n g s m o t h e r ; Smoke, the wet steam of clothes, the stench of p l u s h , P o w d e r , cheap perfume, m i n g l e d i n a rush. I stepped into the l o b b y — a n d stood s t i l l S t r u c k d u m b by sudden beauty, b o d y and w i l l . Cleanness and rapture—excellence made p l a i n — T h e s t o r m i n g , t h r a s h i n g arrows of the r a i n ! P o u r i n g and d r i p p i n g on the roofs and rods, S m e l l i n g of woods and h i l l s and fresh-turned sods, B l a c k on the sidewalks, g r a y i n the far sky, C r a s h i n g on thirsty panes, on gutters dry, H u r r y i n g the c r o w d to shelter, m a k i n g f a i r T h e streets, the houses, and the heat-soaked a i r , — M e r c i f u l , holy, c h a r g i n g , sweeping, flashing, I t smote the soul w i t h a most i r o n c l a s h i n g ! . . . L i k e dragons' eyes the street-lamps s u d d e n l y g l e a m e d , Y e l l o w and r o u n d and d i m - l o w globes of flame. A n d , scarce perceived, the c l o u d s ' t a l l banners streamed. O u t of the petty wars, the d a i l y shame, B e a u t y strove suddenly, and rose, and flowered. . . . I g r i p p e d m y coat and p l u n g e d w h e r e a w n i n g s l o w e r e d . [238]
Stephen
Vincent
Benet
M a d e one w i t h hissing blackness, caught, embraced B y splendor and by cleansing and swift haste, S p r i n g c o m i n g i n w i t h thunderings and strife! . . . I stamped the g r o u n d i n the strong joy of life.
[239]
Prelude (To "Creation"—a
Drama)
By James Oppenheim PROLOGUE
A s a p h o t o g r a p h taken by l i g h t n i n g flash, G i v i n g a brief g l i m p s e of the night, So is this d r a m a . . . Its hero is L i f e . . . T h a t w h i c h f r o m the b e g i n n i n g rose, and w i t h s w i f t changes of garment, R u s h e d up f r o m the sun to the h u m a n beings we are . . . O n l y a g l i m p s e , a flash, A l o o k into self . . . F o r self is the w h o l e of C r e a t i o n . . . T h e n d a y l i g h t — a n d darkness . . . P a r t , curtains . . . A n d i n the g l o o m , let the o r i g i n a l C h a o s be i m a g i n e d . . . L i f e i n its o w n w o m b , before the stars of the heavens were, O r any planet s w u n g i n the sky . . . T h e p l a y begins . . . H e r e is—yourself . . . (As curtains part, darkness, silence; a sort of mist, with and then a dim watery light upon it.) (Far echoing voices, thin, almost immaterial.) [240]
now
James
Oppenheim
FIRST
VOICE
Sleep . . . sleep . . . sleep . . . SECOND
VOICE
I stir . . . VOICES
(Floating space.) Longing
like .
.
soft winds, .
with
undulation
through
all
longing . . . THIRD VOICE
W h a t cries i n C h a o s ? VOICES
Longing . . . A G A T H E R I N G O F VOICES
L i f e is l o n g i n g . . . FOURTH
Woe!
VOICE
T h e Silence breaks open . . . FIFTH
VOICE
T h e D e e p begins to move . . . SIXTH VOICE
T h e r e is a r o l l i n g and a w r i t h i n g . . . CHORUS
(A low chant, gradually lifting.) O v e r the face of the deep, O v e r the face of the still deep, T h e s p i r i t of L o n g i n g moves, t r o u b l i n g the w o m b of Night . . . COUNTER-CHORUS
A b i d e i n Darkness . . .
i n Sleep abide . . . CHORUS
(Rising.)
B e h o l d , I am a heaven of thirst, I am a sky of hunger . . . [241]
Prelude COUNTER-CHORUS
A b i d e , abide i n Darkness . . . CHORUS
(With a rising chant.) W h o s h a l l p o u r the waters of L i f e into the m o u t h of H e a v e n A n d g i v e meat to the throat of C h a o s ? COUNTER-CHORUS
L i e i n the arms of yourself, and be hushed, be s t i l l ! CHORUS
(Bursting forth in triumphant chant.) C r e a t i o n thunders g l o r i o u s l y and the lips of L i f e opened . . . T h e g l o r y of the heavens s h a l l be made manifest . . . T h e skies s h a l l declare themselves i n flame, A n d darkness shall be advertised i n fires . . .
are
COUNTER-CHORUS
T h e n woe unto C r e a t i o n , that becomes as a W a n d e r e r i n the N i g h t . . . CHORUS
G l o r y unto C r e a t i o n that becomes a M o t h e r seeking C h i l dren. COUNTER-CHORUS
A c h i l d is the death of the M o t h e r . . . CHORUS
A c h i l d is the i m m o r t a l i t y of the M o t h e r . . . She doth conceive beyond herself: She doth arise above herself: She putteth forth a h a n d and a s p i r i t to w o r k her w i l l o n the world . . . COUNTER-CHORUS
D e a t h s h a l l come . . . [242]
James
Oppenheim CHORUS
D e a t h must come . . . COUNTER-CHORUS
S o r r o w s h a l l come . . . CHORUS
S o r r o w must come . . . COUNTER-CHORUS
H a t e shall come . . . CHORUS
B u t L o v e s h a l l come, and joy, divinest joy . . . T h e r e s h a l l be L a u g h t e r i n m y Skies . . . T h e r e s h a l l be C h i l d r e n of L a u g h t e r r i d i n g some little atom in the N i g h t . . . C o m e to m y l o n g i n g , C h i l d r e n . . . F o r the c r y of L i f e is the c r y for C h i l d r e n , A n d the u n b o r n lures the woman-soul of the w o r l d . . . THE CRY
(As of wind again.) L o n g i n g . . . l o n g i n g . . . L i f e is L o n g i n g . (Thunder, lightning, welter of chaos.) COUNTER-CHORUS
T h e n darted be on the deep the javelins of l i g h t n i n g . . . R o l l , parturient thunder, r u m b l i n g i n tumbled Chaos, D e a t h , death, and a doom of death on the l o n g i n g one . . . CHORUS
D o w n , Self, m i n e E n e m y : I battle for the l i g h t . . . COUNTER-CHORUS
Y o u s h a l l not rise . . . CHORUS
I am r i s i n g : t r a v a i l of b i r t h is on me . . . COUNTER-CHORUS
T r a v a i l of death! [243]
Prelude CHORUS
I a m the W o m b : I am the Seed . . . COUNTER-CHORUS
D e s t r u c t i o n overtakes y o u . . . CHORUS
I a m the A L L - M O T H E R (The
. . . Battle.)
CHORUS
Higher!
H i g h e r ! F l a m e is b o r n ! COUNTER-CHORUS
D o w n ! D o w n ! Q u e n c h the b l a z i n g ! CHORUS
V i c t o r y ! F l a m e ! C h i l d r e n run f r o m m e ! (Blackness, confusion . . . a wild running forth, as from a flinging scarf, of youths with blowing flaming hair: the STARS . . . They come dancing, laughing, joyous . . .) CHORUS (THE ALL-MOTHER)
N o w a l l the heavens t h r i l l w i t h C r e a t i o n , A n d L o v e is established . . . T h e Silence breaks w i t h the c r y of c h i l d r e n . . . Vastness sings w i t h a m i l l i o n lips of flame . . . STARS
(In Chorus.) W e a v e i n a dance of fires : A n d let the g l o r y of our flaming night . . . I n the M o t h e r ' s arms we l a u g h . . . ALL-MOTHER
(Calling
to them.)
Youth undying! STARS
W e hearken . . . [244]
m a k e a path i n the
James
Oppenheim
ALL-MOTHER
W h a t news i n heaven? STARS
W e d r o p golden flakes of flame on o u r paths before and after . . . ALL-MOTHER
W h a t is this r u n n i n g of w h i t e feet up and d o w n the slopes of n i g h t ? STARS
H e r a l d s of C r e a t i o n . . . ALL-MOTHER
W h y do I hear the m o r n i n g stars s i n g i n g together? STARS
N e w s of the u n b o r n planets . . . ALL-MOTHER
Galaxy, where wander you? GALAXY
H a n d i n hand, across an a r c h of the sky . . . (A crowd of stars, weaving across the stage.) ALL-MOTHER
A n d y o u b r i g h t seven? THE
PLEIADES
W e t w i n k l e together i n a corner . . . N i g h t , unscalable, overhead, N i g h t , undescendable, under o u r feet . . . ALL-MOTHER
W h o is the lonely one d o w n y o n d e r ? (They pause and gaze downward, as over a A
precipice.)
STAR
M a n y a sky b e l o w us, he twinkles i n the abyss . . . [245]
Prelude ANOTHER
STAR
I r u n d o w n the slants of space to speak h i m . . . D r o p p i n g f r o m heaven to heaven . . . (Darkness . . . Through the darkness, the Star, trailing fire like a shoots curving downward for a long time . . . While he descends, the Chorus sings.)
Comet,
ALL-MOTHER
Stars! m y flames! M y risen and s h i n i n g fires! I b u r n h i g h e r t h r o u g h you, I push beyond y o u . . . F o r I must have a stronger l i g h t , a finer tool . . . (A bursting radiance, as from a powerful searchlight. Standing in the glow is a Man, the Sun . . . The Star is poised above him, tiptoe like a Mercury.) STAR
Hail! SUN
H a i l , star! W h e r e do y o u w a n d e r ? STAR
I jostle w i t h the c r o w d up y o n d e r across the belt of the heavens . . . W h y are y o u parted f r o m us? SUN
M y fate is o t h e r w i s e : I a m the l o n e l y W a n d e r e r , the S u n . . . I n m y o w n abyss I c i r c l e . . . STAR
W h y do y o u b l a z e so? SUN
M y longing—my longing— [246]
James
Oppenheim
M y flame burns to leap beyond itself, M y fires r o l l and w r i t h e to create . . . L i f e ! G i v e me c h i l d r e n ! (A cloud begins to swallow
him.)
STAR W h e r e do y o u go? SUN T o p a i n of death! ALL-MOTHER (Thundering.) T o p a i n of b i r t h ! STAR D e a t h ? I fly a h u n d r e d skies a w a y ! (Darts off: a blaze: is gone . . . The Sun is lost in
cloud.)
ALL-MOTHER F r o m A d a m - S u n i n his E d e n of still space, S l e e p i n g , a r i b is torn . . . E v e - E a r t h is sundered from h i m . . . These two are a greater hand for me than is one, T h r o u g h these the greater c h i l d r e n . . . (Out of the cloud gropes a beautiful girl, the Earth, flying, dazed, hand outstretched.)
hair
EARTH W h e r e am I ? (Cloud vanishes . . . SUN lying sleeping . . . She turns to him.) O h , sleeping G o d ! (Bends and kisses him . . . He opens his eyes.) SUN B e a u t i f u l one! ALL-MOTHER (Thundering.) A w a y ! O u t of his arms! [247]
Prelude SUN C o m e to m e ! EARTH I a m affrighted! (Runs from him: he rises and pursues circling around him.)
.
.
. She
SUN I cannot come to y o u ! EARTH Y o u r l i g h t comes to m e ! SUN I dart arrows of flame u p o n y o u ! EARTH I a m stricken, m y beloved . . . SUN M y passion folds y o u . . . EARTH I yearn—I long— SUN Y e a , for our c h i l d r e n . . . EARTH O u r straying ones . . . SUN T h e seed is sown . . . EARTH (With Save m e !
a cry of
I dread m y d o o m !
anguish.) L e t me go b a c k !
SUN T h e seed is s o w n ! (Sudden
darkness.)
[248]
keeps
James
Oppenheim
ALL-MOTHER T o w a r d finer tools, t o w a r d h i g h e r l i f e ! T h e l o n g i n g burns o n ! (Scene unfolds . . . hills, trees, the sea in the distance . . . in a cranny of the hill lies the g i r l , the Earth.) EARTH A h , so m a n y sounds of l i t t l e life . . . W h o sings i n the w i n d ? W h o cries i n the sea? W h o whispers i n the rustle of the grasses? W h o slides there i n the moss? A n d w h a t b r i g h t wings flicker i n the sun? Speak . . . THIN
VOICE
W e are the tiny grass-blades, M o t h e r . . . EARTH W h a t lifts i n y o u ? VOICE Flame . . . A STRANGE VOICE I a m the Serpent, s l i d i n g i n the moss . . . ANOTHER I a m the Bee, b u r n i n g i n the sunny a i r . . . ANOTHER I a m the y e a r n i n g and unsatisfied sea . . . I break, I break, t h i r s t i n g and unslaked on the sands . ANOTHER I am F l a m e i n W a t e r : I am the g l i n t i n g F i s h . . . ANOTHER I a m F l a m e i n A i r : I am the v e e r i n g B i r d . . . ANOTHER I a m F l a m e i n F o r e s t : I am the r u n n i n g Beast . . . [249]
Prelude EARTH M y children! W h y do y o u consume each other? ALL F l a m e consumes! EARTH W h y do y o u m u l t i p l y ? ALL F l a m e creates! EARTH A n agony enters me . . . Y o u struggle, y o u tear each other, Y o u dart poison and death u p o n each other, Some go f o r w a r d , some go b a c k w a r d , W h e n I gather y o u close, y o u r u n f r o m me, W h e n I d r i v e y o u forth, y o u c l i n g to me . . . E v e r death, ever b i r t h , ever p a i n . . . B u t t h r o u g h a l l runs a l o n g i n g : and I feel i n the a i r and the soil T e r r i b l e flame-agitation: desire: tremblings of love . . . SOME OF T H E VOICES B e y o n d ourselves! C h i l d r e n ! C h i l d r e n ! OTHERS N o t w e : we sleep i n the ooze and the w a r m t h of the E a r t h ! VOICES Forward! O T H E R VOICES Backward! (A Man-like
Ape
enters.)
EARTH W h o are y o u ? APE I a m the A p e . . . (Enter a group
of Apes, circling [250]
about.)
James
Oppenheim APES
G l e a m s are i n o u r b r a i n s ! Streaks of a strange d a w n ! T h e beginnings of l a u g h t e r ! FIRST A P E I a m on the w a y to greatness . . . A greater follows me . . . I l o n g for h i m . . . SECOND APE W h e r e do y o u go? FIRST A P E T o the greater one! THIRD APE W o u l d y o u leave the boughs of the trees w h e r e w e are safe f r o m the beasts? A r e y o u different f r o m us? FIRST A P E I am driven . . . AN OLD APE B u t I am y o u r M o t h e r . Y o u cannot go . . .
Y o u must stay w i t h me . . .
ANOTHER APE I am your Mate.
I h o l d y o u . . . y o u cannot go . . . FIRST A P E
A w a y I I leave y o u ! (They pounce
on him . . . Darkness.) ALL-MOTHER T h e l o n g i n g ! the l o n g i n g ! T h e flame burns hotter! T h e finer tool, the greater l i g h t I I rise at last! A t last I burst t h r o u g h the c l o u d y fires into the clear [251]
Prelude radiance! D i v i n e thought and beautiful v i s i o n are b o r n ! (A dim twilight . . . From pair, savage, wild, step forth.)
among
the apes, a human
FIRST A P E W h o are these tailless ones? SECOND A P E T h e y are deformed : they are u n l i k e us . . . THIRD APE T h e y have lost a lot of h a i r . . . FOURTH APE W h a t is this?
They laugh! FIFTH APE
D e a t h to them . . . (Voices from all
directions.)
FIRST VOICE T h e serpent s h a l l sting them . . . SECOND VOICE T h e tiger s p r i n g on them . . . T H I R D VOICE T h e sea o v e r w h e l m them . . . F O U R T H VOICE T h e mountains burst and smother them . . . FIFTH VOICE C o l d and famine s h a l l stalk them . . . SIXTH VOICE A n d the sun sicken them . . . SEVENTH VOICE A n d flame d e v o u r them . . . [252]
James
Oppenheim
(The Apes start toward the pair, who have been around, now and then rudely embracing.)
groping
WOMAN Beware!
O u r enemies! MAN
I must reach beyond myself . . . (Snatches a bough, tears it clean, and attacks the Apes as they come . . . They run off.) WOMAN I yearn, too, to reach beyond myself . . . MAN For what? WOMAN For children! (They embrace and kiss.) WOMAN Look! (Points upward at the sun.) MAN T h a t is a god. H e was b o r n of the waters of the mother. H e shall die i n darkness and be b o r n again . . . WOMAN T h e g r o u n d underfoot . . . MAN T h a t is our M o t h e r : a goddess . . . WOMAN Y o n d e r tree . . . MAN A god! WOMAN T h e waters there . . . [253]
Prelude MAN A god or a demon . . . WOMAN T h o s e apes . . . MAN Devils . . . WOMAN I am a f r a i d :
I am in torment. MAN
W e must learn to fight. W e are e n c i r c l e d w i t h enemies . . . (Darkness.) ALL-MOTHER B e h o l d , a d a r k e r d i v i s i o n has come into the w o r l d . . . A greater l i g h t . . . F o r M a n has eaten of the T r e e of K n o w l e d g e ; H e knows . . . A n d now he can never move i n the half-sleep of the a n i m a l and the E a r t h . . . N e v e r r o l l i n the harmonious tides of C r e a t i o n . . . F o r k n o w i n g , he can choose: H e is the hand I awaited, he is the l i g h t . . . H e can choose to slink back to me, and lose h i m s e l f i n sloth and abandon O r he can choose terrific new creation b e y o n d h i m s e l f . . . A w a y f r o m the M o t h e r is his c o m m a n d m e n t . . . H e must go forth to the uncreated, to the unforseeable . . . Fire-hearted, fire-lashed, F o r e v e r away and away, the unsatisfied W a n d e r e r ! B u t l o ! t h r o u g h h i m I reach to a new d a w n of conscious ness . . . H e is flesh on the w a y t o w a r d g o d h o o d , O n the w a y to m y greater Self . . . [254]
James
Oppenheim
(As darkness lifts, a draped fine figure of a man standing at front on right side . . . Clouds at rear, and on left and right: open space in center.) MAN T h e l i f e of M a n . . . O u t of the darkness I rise i n m y generation, A s the sun rises, Into the darkness I sink, A s the sun sinks . . . B u t forth f r o m the death s p r i n g c h i l d r e n as the new sun rises. B e h o l d , the m a r c h of the army of h u m a n i t y : See the ages go b y : m o v i n g by m i l l i o n s , between the sun and the moon, O u t of vastness and into vastness, I m p o u n d e d life ever p u s h i n g forth. T h e w h i p of the great god, L o n g i n g , drives them . . . A w a y ! away! A w a y f r o m the A l l - M o t h e r , away f r o m the sun, away f r o m the E a r t h , A w a y f r o m the beast, A w a y f r o m a l l mothers . . . So age lifts up f r o m age : so m a n mounts by c l i m b i n g on his o w n shoulders . . . (A pageant of man starts over the stage from right to left. As they pass, he marks them.) F r o m the ape, the savage . . . D r i v e n f r o m the beast, they make i n their o w n image, Shadow-gods . . . T h i s is their l o n g i n g beyond themselves, shaped i n dreamsymbols . . . A n d f o l l o w i n g after, they rise into c i v i l i z a t i o n . . . [255]
Prelude T h e greater race passes: E g y p t , f o l l o w i n g O s i r i s , b o r n of l o n g i n g , W i t h sun-bright cities of the N i l e and the w o n d e r of C l e o patra, D r i v e s on the w i n d , and vanishes . . . B u t n o w Zeus leads . . . R a d i a n t f r o m the dust, leaps G r e e c e W i t h g o l d e n clouds of gods, A n d H e l e n w a l k s again . . . B u t the g i r l s go d o w n to the dust, and the heroes a re no more. U p rises the sun of J u p i t e r , R o m e shines: A n d Ceasar's legions come f r o m the conquest: B u t c o l u m n on p i l l a r falls, E a r t h devours the E m p i r e , A n d the s h o u t i n g hosts are hushed . . . B e h o l d , f r o m the East, the stream . . . Jehovah's c h i l d r e n , the seed of A b r a h a m , C o m e out of A s i a , D a v i d s i n g i n g , Isaiah t h u n d e r i n g , A n d f o l l o w i n g them, the l o n g i n g of h u m a n i t y S h a p e d i n a l o w l y god, y o u n g Jesus . . . N o w under G o d , the F a t h e r , T h e E a r l y C h r i s t i a n s p r a y and fast and are persecuted . . . B u t they scatter the strange c o m m a n d m e n t : Save that ye be born again, ye shall surely die . . . C h r i s t ' s Crusaders come . . . Steel-clad knights and s h i n i n g kings g o i n g d o w n to the H o l y Land, B r i g h t i n the sun they shine, but their banners pass into death . . . [256]
James
Oppenheim
L o , then a new god b o r n of man's l o n g i n g . . . T h e g o d of a l l men i n one, Democracy . . . F r a n c e shouts f r o m the dust, and flames i n her T e r r o r . . . T h e T u m b r i l s r u m b l e by . . . T h e E a g l e s of N a p o l e o n sink t o w a r d St. H e l e n a . . . (The
procession
stops.)
N o w man's m a n h o o d begins: G o n e are the c h i l d i s h gods, gone is the M o t h e r H e a v e n , M a r y is gone, and M i t h r a , and the G a l i l e a n : T h e r e is no g o d i n the past w h e n w e l o n g to r u n home to a haven: T h e new gods are the gods of the future, Ourselves g r o w n greater . . . Y e t , as of o l d , S p r i n g ' s floods rush d o w n the h i l l s ; T h e blue sea breaks: T h e sowers of seeds are s w i n g i n g a l o n g b r i g h t f u r r o w s : T h e towers of t a l l cities t a k i n g the first g o l d of the m o r n i n g sun, c r y D a w n : T h e toilers bend to their tasks, Steam and l i g h t n i n g serve l i k e g e n i i under the hands of men: A n d the w h o l e of the l i v i n g w o r l d is as the flashing crest of the breaker bursting about us R i s e n f r o m the ocean of the past: T h e sea that shall l i f t a new wave w h e n ours has van ished . . . W h o buried Atlantis A n d devoured E g y p t ? Into w h a t jaws has A t h e n s gone? [257]
Prelude G a l l e y - s l a v e and A g a m e m n o n , the great k i n g , are shoveled under, A n d the g i r l that c o m b e d the h a i r of H e l e n is dust w i t h her g o l d e n mistress . . . C i t i e s of great p r i d e , w i t h their multitudes, H a v e gone d o w n , A n d S p r i n g , that c a l l e d the boy D a n t e out into the streets of Florence, Silent when Beatrice walked, Opens w i l d roses i n the ruins over the dead . . . T h e snow w h e r e Saga heroes fought M e l t e d w i t h those w a r r i o r s , A n d the desert girls of A r a b i a are o n l y a song and an echo i n o u r brains . . . W h o has kept a tally of the souls that have been on the seven continents? W h o m a r k e d the nameless slave-boy i n R o m e , i n the c r o w d h a i l i n g Ceasar home? O r some mother of A f r i c a , fifteen thousand years ago, w a i l i n g because her c h i l d was b l i n d ? I n w h a t books are the records kept? I n w h a t d i v i n e i n d e x are listed the struggles of m i l l i o n s multiplied by millions? A h , we are the w a v e into w h i c h this m o u n t i n g sea has risen . . . T h e height of o u r curve measures the infinite i m p u l s e of those stopped hearts . . . T h e shine of o u r flashing waters retains the g l o w of t h e i r visions and their w o r k s . G a t h e r e d into i m m o r t a l i t y they c i r c l e and s i n g i n us . . . I n us, their H e a v e n , I n us, t h e i r H e l l , [258]
James
Oppenheim
I n us, w h o are they, b r e a t h i n g again and b a r g a i n i n g i n streets of steel . . . B e h o l d , f r o m the doorways, T h e school c h i l d r e n p o u r to the streets, the pavements golden w i t h m o r n i n g . . . T h e electric traction swings a town's m i l l i o n s to w o r k . . . T h e lovers w h i s p e r across the miles i n the telephone booths . . . T h e scientist tracks d o w n a g e r m on his microscope's slide . . . T h e m i l l s roar, p u d d l i n g w h i t e i r o n , the great ships put to sea . . . A m o n g the engines h u m a n i t y yearns, and phantoms l u r e us, G i g a n t i c w i t h tools we weep as of o l d on our dead, A n d m a m m o t h w i t h power, w e falter, crushed b y a doubt . . . T h e same great w a r : the same great u r g e : the same b i r t h and death . . . A r e kisses sweeter than i n C a r t h a g e ? Is f a i l u r e more bitter than on the h i l l of Gethsemene? H a s death lost its sting since R a c h e l ? W h i t h e r goes the pageantry and the v i s i o n - c l o u d e d a r m y ? D u s t — f l a m e : dust—flame . . . O u t of a cry, silence . . . O u t of silence, a c r y . . . (Darkness.) ALL-MOTHER T h e Wanderer, M a n . . . T h r o u g h h i m I l i f t : t h r o u g h h i m I flame . . . H e seeks the u n f o u n d : H e longs for the unattainable . . . H e searches for the T r e a s u r e . . . [259]
The Music of N e w Russia By Leo Ornstein IT is a m a z i n g h o w s i m i l a r i n t h e i r conditions of ferment two such w i d e l y v a r i e d countries are, as A m e r i c a and R u s s i a . I n both of them we find an u n c o u t h , i n a r t i c u lated s p i r i t , a naive and unleashed p o w e r that are extinct i n the peoples of W e s t e r n E u r o p e . O f course, R u s s i a is m o r e closely a l l i e d to the E u r o p e a n cultures, even as A m e r i c a has a greater k i n s h i p w i t h E u r o p e a n p o l i t i c s . A n d , in consequence, Russia's chances c u l t u r a l l y have been greater than those of m o r e isolated A m e r i c a . If, therefore, analogous conditions i n both countries point to a great native art, it is n a t u r a l that R u s s i a s h o u l d have begun to achieve m o r e quickly. M u s i c i a n s i n A m e r i c a s t i l l seek to d r a w their i n s p i r a t i o n f r o m an established f o r m u l a that has not o n l y l o n g been dor mant, but is p o s i t i v e l y dead. H o w e v e r , i n the eventual course of e v o l u t i o n the necessity for expressing the characteristics of the c o u n t r y w i l l have become so strong that the i d i o m of ex pression w i l l be f o r m e d subconsciously. A n o t h e r element beside the p r o x i m i t y of the l i v i n g E u r o p e a n cultures w h i c h has hastened the florescence i n Russia—the necessary f o r m a t i o n of a native i d i o m — h a s been that the m i x e d races there have h a d a l o n g e r p e r i o d i n w h i c h to m e l l o w and to m i n g l e . I n this country, the m e r g i n g of the races has scarce begun. The varied peoples that today constitute A m e r i c a are s t i l l aggres sively self-assertive, m u t u a l l y repellant. T h e y have not w o n the h a r m o n y of concerted i m p u l s e and u n i f i e d action w h i c h [260]
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is the basis of any c u l t u r a l expression. H o w perfectly this underlying u n i t y has been achieved i n Russia is shown by the music of M o u s s o r g s k y . T h e distinctive q u a l i t y of the new i m p u l s e i n art has been the need of ex pression t h r o u g h direct contact w i t h the emotions—a redis covery and restatement of man's experience. A r t has torn itself f r o m the admitted routines and honored i d i o m s ; it has come to realize the inadequacy of c o n c e i v i n g m o d e r n life ac c o r d i n g to the o l d and accepted formulae. T h e great l i b e r ating w o r k of M o u s s o r g s k y i n this d i r e c t i o n makes h i m the founder of m o d e r n music. Russia is the one m o d e r n religious state; and M o u s s o r g s k y is her great h i g h priest. T h e r e is a certain p u r i t y i n his con ceptions that overwhelms one w i t h its s i m p l i c i t y . S o r r o w shrouds those w h o , listening to his music, realize h o w s i m p l e l i f e is after a l l ; and h o w futile our c o m p l i c a t e d dogmas of m o d e r n c i v i l i z a t i o n have become. T o have conceived a sim ple truth is to have penetrated a l l the intricacies of the u n i verse. T h i s is the secret of the great art of M o u s s o r g s k y . H o w different is the modern G e r m a n m u s i c ! W i t h the era of W a g n e r , music i n G e r m a n y became the v e h i c l e for an i n tellectualized conception. It left the p r o f o u n d domains of i n tuition and became m e r e l y another f o r m u l a for the surface sophistications of T e u t o n i c thought—of politics and meta physics. I t was as i f the emotions were u n i m p o r t a n t save as they c o u l d be translated into mental problems, into m e c h a n i c a l devices. A n example of this is the W a g n e r i a n Leitmotif, since rendered s t i l l more grossly a r b i t r a r y by R i c h a r d Strauss. T h i s is surely one of the most erroneous and stagnant adaptations that has ever stultified the true i m p u l s e i n music. L i f e is always creatively e v o l v i n g , and the i n d i v i d u a l is e v o l v i n g w i t h it. T o conceive of m a n as static against the r h y t h m of this evolution is to force an artificial yoke u p o n the creative i m pulse. W a g n e r defeats the possibility of a d y n a m i c v i s i o n i n [261]
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his w o r k w i t h this c l e v e r and superficial t r i c k . B y l a b e l l i n g the i n d i v i d u a l , regardless of that i n d i v i d u a l ' s g r o w t h , he manufactures a static p h o t o g r a p h that is b a s i c a l l y false. H i s variations, however b r i l l i a n t , on this untrue conception, cannot save his art f r o m the fixation w h i c h must e v e n t u a l l y p r o v e to be its death. I s h o u l d except f r o m this the Meistersaenger— u n d o u b t e d l y W a g n e r ' s greatest w o r k . H e r e , at least, he freed h i m s e l f f r o m his false i n t e l l e c t u a l toy, the Leitmotif; here he became h u m b l e before w h a t i m p e l l e d h i m . I n M o u s s o r g s k y , we have once m o r e the p u r e style of m e l ody and harmony. T h e m e l o d i c l i n e becomes once m o r e a v e h i c l e for direct expression, and for direct g r o w t h . I a m convinced, on the other hand, that G e r m a n m u s i c has h a d its day—at least for the present. R e g e r and Strauss and Schoenberg have a l l shown themselves incapable of any new i n t u i t i o n and have, instead, w o r k e d out a v i r t u o s i c art that has, as its m a i n source, the intellect. N o thought, h o w e v e r i m p r e s s i v e it m a y appear on the surface, can have any real permanent value, save as it springs f r o m an emotional source. T h e intel lect is g i v e n us o n l y as a means of manifesting and m a t e r i a l i z i n g l i f e ; but never as creating it. R u s s i a is the c o u n t r y i n E u r o p e most e m o t i o n a l l y q u i c k e n e d to s u r r o u n d i n g life. R u s sia u n d o u b t e d l y is b a r b a r i c and savage i n her intensity; but can any real art be p r o d u c e d w i t h o u t just some such elemental contact? F o r Russia, to m i n g l e w i t h another c i v i l i z a t i o n w o u l d mean to become submerged. T h i s truth is s y m b o l i z e d i n the w o r k of a m a n l i k e T s c h a i k o w s k y w h o , a l t h o u g h a R u s s i a n , was lost to R u s s i a i n consequence of his absorption i n W e s t e r n culture. A s Do st o i e v sk y pointed out, a R u s s i a n cannot l i v e i n W e s t e r n E u r o p e and survive. O v e r w h e l m e d and stifled by foreign codes, he becomes an i m i t a t o r and eventually loses a l l self-realization. T s c h a i k o w s k y substituted for real emotion a theatrical and academic realism. H e created his heights [262]
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and climaxes of feeling by artificial means, quite as Beethoven d i d i n his Pastorale, and as P u c c i n i , i n a lesser manner, does today. P r o b a b l y this was due i n part to his m o r b i d nature—a nature that h a d been perverted f r o m the deep current of reality. T s c h a i k o w s k y perceived his o w n sorrows as greater than the sorrows of the w o r l d . H e submerged a real consciousness of life i n his o w n grief. A n y m a n w h o cannot master his o w n personal equation but w h o is mastered by it, must produce a harassed and stilted art. T h e difference between T s c h a i k o w sky and the G e r m a n s of this p e r i o d was s i m p l y that the R u s sian was the greater maniac. O u t of his vaster p o w e r — h o w ever perverted—came the Pathétique. A f t e r T s c h a i k o w s k y , the false t r a d i t i o n was for a w h i l e i n force. R i m s k y - K o r s a k o w , his p u p i l and d i s c i p l e G l a z o u n o w , R a c h m a n i n o f f and others, w h i l e they are unquestionably b r i l liant craftsmen, failed to meet and p l u m b reality. G e r m a n counterpoint was more important to them than their o w n R u s s i a n soil. B u t at last came I g o r Strawinsky. H e r e for once we have a m a n w i t h i n d o m i t a b l e courage, w h o creates as he perceives, w i t h o u t c o m p r o m i s e w i t h any previous standards. S t r a w i n s k y has penetrated deep into reality. H e has brought to life a new gospel of nature. A n d his influence on music can scarcely be overestimated. H i s one s h o r t c o m i n g is perhaps that he tends to separate m a n f r o m nature; that he takes too little interest i n his brothers. N o m a n has the r i g h t to become so s u b l i m e that he loses the h u m a n contact. S t r a w i n s k y has refused to find poetry i n d a i l y life. I n this, perhaps, he lacks h u m i l i t y . T h e pulse of l i f e runs e v e r y w h e r e ; there is i n e v e r y t h i n g a source of true s p i r i t u a l sustenance. S t r a w i n s k y , w h e n he discovers this, w i l l have transcended his one l i m i t a t i o n . B u t the impetus to r h y t h m w h i c h this composer has afforded is so great, that it overshadows any shortcomings we m a y detect i n h i m . A n d [263]
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it must not be forgotten that S t r a w i n s k y is s t i l l y o u n g and growing. R h y t h m h a d stagnated since the days of M o z a r t . M e n l i k e W a g n e r and Strauss m e r e l y took o l d established r h y t h m s a n d wove them together into new manners. B u t S t r a w i n s k y actu a l l y creates his rhythms. T h e y beat and throb w i t h the beat i n g of the m o d e r n pulse. A n d even i n the great savage m o ments of his music, there is always the u n d e r c u r r e n t of a r e l i g i ous p u l s i n g that is h u m i l i t y indeed. T o say that S t r a w i n s k y lacks m e l o d y is an outrage. M e l o d y is not necessarily an accepted series of notes; but it is the l y r i c i m p u l s e i n every m u s i c a l c o m p o s i t i o n . A n d sometimes b y a few consecutive notes an infinitely greater sweep of m e l o d y can be suggested than by a c o m p l e t e l y elaborated theme. A n d therein lies the i m p o r t a n c e of S t r a w i n s k y . H e takes great blocks of granite, m o u l d s them, suggests the w a y , and then w i t h d r a w s , l e a v i n g y o u to exercise y o u r i m a g i n a t i o n . A n d after y o u have t r a v e l l e d the w a y w i t h h i m , y o u r e a l i z e that y o u have gained one m o r e significant expression. M u s i c has become too finished, too m e c h a n i c a l l y perfect. So l i t t l e has been left to the i m a g i n a t i o n of the listener, that he is no longer r e q u i r e d to create toward the artist. I n a l l epochs of great m u s i c a l art—the epoch of B a c h , the epoch of César F r a n c k , for instance—it was r e a l i z e d that the p r o v i n c e of the art was not to instil a passive pleasure i n the listener. G r e a t m u s i c must w a k e i n us a creative i m p u l s e . Unless it does that, it has f a i l e d to f u l f i l l its destiny.
[264]
THE
SEVEN
ARTS
A N EXPRESSION O F ARTISTS FOR T H E COMMUNITY
James Oppenheim, Editor
W a l d o Frank, Associate Editor
Advisory Board K a h l i l Gibran Robert Frost Louis Untermeyer Edna Kenton V a n W y c k Brooks David Mannes Robert E d m o n d Jones
D O U B T L E S Smuch of high-spirited American youth to-day is seeking a new strength through draughts of Pessimism. It takes toughness of fibre to contemplate life as horror with Andreyev, as dark spiritual conflict with Ibsen and Strindberg, as contemptible and only-to-be-trans cended with Nietzsche. Where the early Christian was heroic in maintaining that he had an immortal soul, youth today is heroic in renouncing immortality and all goals of perfection and peace, and in agreeing with a mechanistic science that human consciousness is a flicker in universal darkness, and yet a flicker that must be fought for and increased in spite of the fate of the individual. But in America this is truly a re doubtable spirit. Horace Traubel has given to his book of poems a title which might almost be the name of our coun try. That title is "Optimos." [265]
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O P T I M O S is the land of large-scale life—of the vastest crops, the tallest skyscrapers, the largest railroad trackage, the heaviest tonnage, the most complete per sonal comfort. It is the land of Bigness. It is the land of Kindness. It is the nation wrought out of a l l nations. It is the land where women may rise to domination. It is pre eminently the Children's L a n d , for nowhere else is the c h i l d given such freedom and regarded with so much respect. Tides of immigration sweep i t : rivers pouring into our sea, and for ever changing that sea and keeping it in unstable restless motion. L i f e has nowhere time to set: and our cities are like caravans moving in circles. E a c h new transportation line shifts the population: and the family seeks a new home every other year. T h i s physical change and newness has its coun terpart in the intellectual and spiritual realm, and Optimos is the land of experiments in government, education, industry and religion. Europe's latest thought finds a home here be fore the Continent has absorbed it. W e become Bergsonians, Freudians, Nietzscheans overnight. W e gave shelter to M e r e dith and to J u n g before their own nations welcomed them. A n d what year passes without its N e w Movement, its N e w Religion?
ADD to a l l this an exhaustless energy, a torrential N i agara of human power: the bursting speed and effi ciency of Pittsburgh, the mighty roll of the tonnage of Chicago, the rush and toil of N e w Y o r k , the sense that the foreigner gets of high-tension and explosive speed. Physi cal isolation is broken down in every direction: even the re mote farm opening into the community through the telephone, the tractor, the cheap automobile, the trolley, the postal ser vice and the railroad. A n d on a certain intellectual and emotional plane there is the same intercommunication and maelstrom: the Associated Press, the cheap periodical, the [266]
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phonograph and pianola, the distribution of books and re prints of art works, the universal primary education. T r u l y Optimos is the land of sensations and facts: full of change, movement, color, full of a bright newness and quite without the solidity and rootage in tradition and attitude of the elder nations. W e are almost as used to the N e w as the European is used to the O l d . Change is the air we breathe. A D O L E S C E N C E is our period: adolescence when everything is possible, when the miracle of facts is the daily communion, when the mood turns from high to low and back again in passionate unreasonableness, when a l l is in flux and the next tide may destroy us. These are the days of high ambition, of unresting activity, of lack of self-knowledge, of brutal sport and animal spirits, of sud den sporadic attempts at nobility and transcendentalism, of the seesaw between the gross and the supernatural. These are the days too when the Hamlet-mood of doubt and distrust attacks us, and when all Hamlets—the sensitive noble youths —are paralyzed with inhibition, and bitterly question life. A n d so the Hamlets among us, or their more modern broth ers, the Zarathustras, turn to Pessimism for something strong and abiding and absolute in this rainbow welter of optimism. They protest against the weary brightness, the dismal new ness, the childish turmoil. A n d i f they are artists they feel that there is nothing to seize upon in such a kaleidoscopic life, that there is no deep pool of quiet from w h i c h to draw the clear waters of inspiration, that there is no American type to delineate and no American tradition to give their art that "re-echo of the archaic" which is said to be the very stuff of song and literature. Heroically they tilt against the wind mills and feel themselves alone, isolated, fragmentary, in a land which refuses to despair. They agree with the Russian who says, life is a horror, end i t : or with the Scandinavian [267]
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who says, man is to be pitied. T h e y think cheaply of the American who looks at life's misery and futility and asks spiritedly, W e l l , what's to be done? Y E T . . . .yet! M a y not a new heroism be demanded of the American Zarathustra? M i g h t we not say to h i m that it takes more real strength and superiority to swim the changeful sea than to walk the solid land? Is there not a real greatness to gain in adapting oneself to a life full of sur prises and uncertainties, and a l l the hazards and risks of transiency? Is there not need here of creators, of "powerful persons" to seize and shape the welter, to project and carry through great tendencies, to deal with the different realms— whether of politics or education or art—in the spirit of true statesmanship? A n d have we not even a heroic compulsion here toward a sort of disillusioned optimism: an optimism based on the real fact of the limitless possibility of A m e r i c a n life, but an optimism understood and utilized only as a creative spirit, a spirit which commands rather than obeys? NOR should the artist despair because he cannot tap a rich national past, because he has no ready-made American legendry and mythology, no echoing words and colors out of d i m and distant epochs. H e has the dream of the future, the life flowing v i v i d l y and rankly around h i m , and he has as great a past to tap as a German or an Italian. F o r he is not American in the sense that Indians are A m e r i can: he is a European, and he is a son of the E a r t h . H e has only really to go to himself, to descend the inner stairway of the ages, to go down layer beneath layer of his human nature, to tap the stored heritage of the life of man. W h a t he draws forth and projects may not have certain colors in it w h i c h are part of the enchantment of European art, but nevertheless it w i l l carry possibly a new enchantment—the old and univer[268]
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sal tipped and sharpened with a new edge of l i f e : the life of a colossally energetic and future-working nation—America. I f there are times when authentic American work wearies us and drives us overseas, there are other times when we are drawn back home to the freshness and difference, the sharp tang and courage, the native flavor of our own men, our own days, our own art.
J. O.
[269]
The Splinter of Ice By Van Wyck Brooks Ce n'est pas les tenèbres, c'est seulement l'absence du jour.
I. W H E N the idea of The Seven Arts first became known and it was said that we were to have a new magazine to focus the new movement in our literature, many people, I think, whose hope and faith are wrapped up in the artistic future of America, experienced a shock of delight and expectation. T h e y felt that a propitious moment had come, that multitudinous forces were pressing together toward this one point, and that in short an enterprise of this kind, inaugurated at this time and with these aims, had every chance of succeeding that wind and wave could offer i t ; and yet, the first flush over, they must to a degree temper their confidence, as they recall how many are the lights that have misled our dawn. W i t h o u t consciousness of the failures of the past, their enthusiasm cannot build on a real basis. I n any other country than A m e r i c a one's instinctive i m pulse to welcome what is new would not have been so i m mediately checked. F o r the newness of new movements in Europe, the enterprise of enterprises, are the very elements that most excite enthusiasm. A n d very naturally; for new movements, new schools of thought, new magazines have on such countless occasions proved to be points of departure in the intellectual life of society. T h i n k of the European maga[270]
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zines, think of the European groups and brotherhoods that have been inaugurated on lines approximating those of The Seven Arts or that have come together in a spirit similar to the spirit that actuates the contributors to The Seven Arts! T o name them is almost to tell the story of English, French, German, Russian literature during the last hundred years. Where literature has a tradition, where it is bound up with society, where society is itself an organism, a new movement, in order to get on its feet at all, has to overcome the inertia of the established fact; and thus by the time it has reached the point of articulation it has been fined and rarified, it has passed through a pre-natal process of maturation, and it emerges not only fully conscious of itself but saturated with the under-currents of the racial life. H o w different it is in A m e r i c a ! O u r society has never been an organism and in consequence our social history presents none of the phenomena of development. F o r a hundred and fifty years we have been called, and have called ourselves, a "young" people, and we are just as "young" now as we were in the days of Washington. Youth is our convention as age is the convention of other countries, and it is the newness of new things and the enterprise of enterprises that have ever been the hallmarks of this convention. That is why they cannot thrill us now. T h e history of our literature alone would be enough to ex plain our disillusionment, for it chronicles an endless succes sion of impulses that have spent themselves without being able to grapple, or to be grappled by, the soul of the race. If you read those of the historians who are ignorant of what literature has meant in the life of other peoples, you w i l l be surprised to find that our literature has gone through all the motions of a complete historic evolution—although not per haps in the right order. W e have had our age of chronicles (Cotton M a t h e r ) , our classical age (Benjamin F r a n k l i n ) , our [271]
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Sturm und Drang (Brockden B r o w n ) , our Renaissance (in N e w E n g l a n d ) , and at last, though sadly transposed from a chronological point of view, our H o m e r ( W a l t W h i t m a n ) . A l l of these epithets can be found in one or another of the his tories turned out by our industrious professors; and at the end of it a l l we feel that we have not yet, artistically speak ing, begun to exist. It is not difficult to see why this is so; the very use of these epithets explains it. T h a t our H o m e r came at the end instead of at the beginning of what is called our standard literature, that he rings down the curtain in a l l the orthodox histories, illustrates as clearly as anything could that our standard literature in the mass was created out of whole cloth and that it had an integrity as distinct from the multifarious chaotic life of the American people as the crust of a pie has from the less decorative contents it serves to con ceal. Consequently none of the sincere and repeated innovations of American writers have been able to incorporate themslves in a tradition. E v o l v i n g from their studies in European literature not only an artistic technique but a technique of social expression, they have never been able to find in our society a fulcrum upon which to base the lever they hold in their hands. Priceless talents have passed across our horizon, fluttering into sight only to flutter out again. T o name only the classic examples : there was Poe, whose work, thanks to the law that to h i m that hath shall be given, has enriched the literature of Europe only to leave ours the more barren by contrast. There were the Transcendentalists, apostles of the first "Newness" whose aim it was to dethrone the dollar, minds many of them at least of the second or third order that lost their edge in the fogs of their own bewilderment. There were Emerson and Thoreau, who have found their true liter ary fruition not among their own countrypeople but in N i e tzsche and Maeterlinck and the nature-writers of E n g l a n d . [272]
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A n d there is Whitman, our own authentic Whitman, who, for one poet that he has leavened in America, has leavened three poets, three novelists, three thinkers in the O l d W o r l d . A n d if our superior talents have in this way been lost in the quick sand of our life, what shall we say of our lesser talents? T h e former have sown their seed in alien soil, the latter have sown no seed whatever, although England has found room amid her fertile acres even for Ambrose Bierce and Stephen Crane. First steps, in short, have been taken, times without number. T h e spirit of initiative has never been wanting; but it has never been able to initiate anything permanent, it has never been able to set the ball rolling. T h e American mind revolves round and round in a sphere as it were miraculously proof against the attacks and incursions of experience, as if, like the hero of Hans Andersen's story, it had a splinter of ice buried in the midst of it, a splinter of ice that literature has never been able to melt.
II. It is a commonplace that immigration from without and migration within the Republic have prevented the formation of any structure in our society for literature to build a nest in. N o sooner has the nucleus of a living culture begun to take shape than the tides of enterprise and material oppor tunity have swept away its foundations. But the point for us is that long before this material opportunity had fully re vealed itself—in the great pioneering epoch of the nineteenth century—our society had spontaneously generated a frame of mind favorable to its pursuit, a frame of mind that the pur suit itself inevitably rendered chronic. F o r there is only one thing that retards the pursuit of material success; a sceptical attitude with regard to the importance of its attainment. A n d there is only one thing that can give birth to this sceptical attitude; a richly matured emotional experience that endows [273]
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life w i t h a value and a significance i n and of itself. C e r t a i n l y if o u r forbears had not p r e v i o u s l y undergone a systematic course of e m o t i o n a l starvation they c o u l d never have leaped forth, l i k e famished hounds, at the c a l l of the wilderness. N o r , h a v i n g done so, and h a v i n g f o u n d i n adventure a sub stitute for a l l they h a d forgone, c o u l d they a d m i t the v a l u e of a n y t h i n g that stood between them and the rewards of t h e i r sacrifice. T h e literature they knew, the l i t e r a t u r e they p r o duced, corroborated them. E m e r s o n t o l d them that the arts and traditions of the past, the tragic discoveries of s o c i a l m a n , were vapors i n a w o r l d that k n e w no r e a l i t y but the self-re liant i n d i v i d u a l . A n d M a r k T w a i n , the innocent abroad, the Y a n k e e at the court of K i n g A r t h u r , established the pioneer m i n d once for a l l i n the sentiment of its o w n sufficiency. T h e y d i d not realize, those o l d prophets of self-reliant i n d i v i d u a l i s m , that it is one t h i n g to be self-reliant as against an a l i e n o u t w o r n c u l t u r e and another t h i n g to m a i n t a i n that self-reliance i n a w o r l d that possesses no c u l t u r e at a l l but o n l y an over-plus of " t h i n g s . " F u l l of the o l d P u r i t a n con tempt for h u m a n nature and the sensuous and i m a g i n a t i v e ex perience that seasons it and gives it m e a n i n g , the A m e r i c a n m i n d was g r a d u a l l y subdued to w h a t it w o r k e d i n . F o r pos sessing as it d i d a m i n i m u m of e m o t i o n a l equipment, it h a d no barriers to t h r o w up against the o v e r w h e l m i n g m a t e r i a l forces that beleaguered it, and it g r a d u a l l y went out of itself as it were and assumed the values of its environment. T h i s is the root of the p e c u l i a r o p t i m i s m , the so-called sys tematic o p t i m i s m , that can be f a i r l y taken as w h a t p s y c h o l o gists c a l l the "total reaction u p o n l i f e " of the A m e r i c a n m i n d i n o u r day. M r . H o r a c e F l e t c h e r has defined this o p t i m i s m i n terms that leave no doubt of its b e i n g at once the effect and the cause of o u r s p i r i t u a l i m p o t e n c e : " O p t i m i s m can be pre scribed and a p p l i e d as a m e d i c i n e . Is there a n y t h i n g new and p r a c t i c a l i n this, or is it but a c o n t i n u a t i o n of the endless dis[274]
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cussion of the p h i l o s o p h y of life, morals, m e d i c i n e , etc.? Is it something that a busy person m a y put into practice, take w i t h h i m to his business, w i t h o u t i n t e r f e r i n g w i t h his business, and profit b y ; and, finally, w h a t does it cost? Does a d o p t i o n of it i n v o l v e d i s c h a r g i n g one's doctor-friend, displeasing one's pastor, a l i e n a t i n g one's social companions, o r s h o c k i n g the sacred traditions that were dear to father and m o t h e r ? I t is ameliorative, preventive, and h a r m o n i z i n g ; and also it is easy, agreeable, ever available, and altogether profitable. B y these h a l l - m a r k s of T r u t h w e k n o w that it is true." Grotesque as this m a y seem, y o u w i l l search i n v a i n for a m o r e accurate presentation of the w o r k a d a y point of v i e w of o u r t u m b l i n g A m e r i c a n w o r l d . T h i s is the w a y A m e r i c a n s think, and w h a t they think, whether they profess the r e l i g i o n of m i n d cure, u p l i f t , sunshine, p o p u l a r pragmatism, the gospel of advertising, o r p l a i n business; and they mean exactly w h a t the beauty experts mean w h e n they say, " A v o i d strong emo tions i f y o u w i s h to retain a y o u t h f u l c o m p l e x i o n . " Systematic o p t i m i s m , i n other words, effects a complete revaluation of values and enthrones truth u p o n a conception of a n i m a l suc cess the prerequisite of w h i c h is a t h o r o u g h - g o i n g d e n i a l and evasion of emotional experience. I n this latter respect it re sembles the systematic pessimism of I n d i a . F o r just as the pessimism of I n d i a is u n d o u b t e d l y the c h r o n i c result of con tact w i t h a pitiless and monstrous t r o p i c a l nature, an i m m e m o r i a l subjection to the jungle, to the b u r n i n g sun, to famine, conditions i n w h i c h i n o r d e r to m a i n t a i n one's equi l i b r i u m one's o n l y course is to deny the v a l u e of e v e r y t h i n g the possession of w h i c h demands so impossible a price, so also this o p t i m i s m of ours is the c h r o n i c result of contact w i t h a p r o d i g a l nature too easily borne under by a too great excess of w i l l , w i t h opportunities so abundant and so a l l u r i n g that w e have been l e d to reverse the situation, t r a d i t i o n a l l y unaware as w e are of the mature faculties, the potentialities, the justifi[275]
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cations of h u m a n nature, and establish o u r scale of values i n the i n c o m p a r a b l y r i c h m a t e r i a l t e r r i t o r y that surrounds us. E a c h of these conditions of l i f e has resulted i n its o w n p e c u l i a r m y s t i c i s m ; each of these types of m y s t i c i s m is g r o u n d e d i n a c h r o n i c evasion of e m o t i o n a l experience. A n d i f today there is no p r i n c i p l e of i n t e g r i t y at w o r k i n any department of o u r life, if r e l i g i o n competes w i t h advertising, art competes w i t h trade, and trade gives itself out as p h i l a n t h r o p y , i f we present to the w o r l d at large the spectacle of a vast undifferentiated h e r d of g o o d - h u m o r e d animals, it is because we have pas sively surrendered our h u m a n values at the d e m a n d of c i r cumstance. III. H o w then can our literature be a n y t h i n g but i m p o t e n t ? It is i n e v i t a b l y so, for it springs f r o m a national m i n d that has been standardized in another sphere than that of experience. H o w true this is can be seen f r o m almost any of its e n u n c i ations of p r i n c i p l e , especially on the p o p u l a r , that is to say the frankest, level. I open, for instance, one of o u r so-called better-class magazines and f a l l u p o n a character-sketch of W i l l i a m G i l l e t t e : " W h a t a w o r d ! Forget! W h a t a feat! W h a t a f a c u l t y ! L u c k y the m a n w h o can h i m s e l f forget. H o w gifted the one w h o can make others forget. It is the t r i u m p h of the art of W i l l i a m G i l l e t t e that i n the m a g i c of his s p e l l an audience forgets." O p e n i n g another m a g a z i n e I turn to a reported i n t e r v i e w i n w h i c h a w e l l - k n o w n p o p u l a r poet expatiates on his craft. " M o d e r n l i f e , " he tells us, "is f u l l of problems, c o m p l e x and difficult, and the m a n w h o con centrates his m i n d on his problems a l l day doesn't w a n t to concentrate it on tediously obscure poetry at night. The newspaper poets are forever p r e a c h i n g the sanest o p t i m i s m , designed for the people w h o r e a l l y need the influence of op t i m i s m — t h e breadwinners, the weary, the heavy-laden. T h a t ' s the k i n d of poetry the people want, and the fact that they [276]
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want it shows that their hearts and heads are a l l r i g h t . " H e r e are two t y p i c a l pronouncements of the A m e r i c a n m i n d , one on the art of acting, one on the art of poetry, and they unite i n expressing a perfectly coherent doctrine. T h i s doctrine is that the function of art is to turn aside the problems of life f r o m the current of emotional experience and create i n its audience a c o n d i t i o n of cheerfulness that is not o r g a n i c a l l y s p r u n g f r o m experience but added f r o m the outside. It as sumes, i n short, w h a t we i n general assume, that experience is not the stuff of life but something essentially meaningless; and not m e r e l y meaningless but an obstruction w h i c h retards and complicates o u r real business of getting on i n the w o r l d and getting up i n the w o r l d , and w h i c h must therefore be ignored and forgotten and evaded and beaten d o w n by every means i n our power. W h a t is true on the p o p u l a r level is not less true on the level of serious literature, i n spite of e v e r y t h i n g our conscien tious artists have been able to do. T h i r t y years ago an acute foreign c r i t i c remarked, apropos of a novel by M r . H o w e l l s , that o u r novelists seemed to regard the C i v i l W a r as an oc currence that separated lovers, not as something that ought n o r m a l l y to have colored men's w h o l e thoughts on life. A n d it is true that i f we d i d not k n o w h o w m u c h our literature has to be discounted we c o u l d h a r d l y escape the impression, for a l l the documents w h i c h have come d o w n to us, that our grandfathers really d i d pass t h r o u g h the w a r w i t h o u t under g o i n g the p u r g a t i o n of soul that is said to justify the w o r k i n g s of tragic mischance i n h u m a n affairs. M r . H o w e l l s has h i m self g i v e n us the Comédie humaine of our post-bellum so ciety, M r . H o w e l l s whose w h o l e a i m was to measure the h u m a n scope of that society and w h o c e r t a i n l y far less than any other novelist of his time falsified his vision of reality i n the interests of mere story-telling. W e l l , we k n o w w h a t sort of society M r . H o w e l l s p i c t u r e d and h o w he p i c t u r e d it. H e [277]
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has h i m s e l f e x p l i c i t l y stated i n connection w i t h c e r t a i n R u s sian novels that A m e r i c a n s i n general do not u n d e r g o the varieties of experience that R u s s i a n fiction records, that "the m o r e s m i l i n g aspects of l i f e " are "the m o r e A m e r i c a n , " and that i n b e i n g true to o u r " w e l l - t o - d o actualities" the A m e r i c a n novelist does a l l that can be expected of h i m . I n m a k i n g this statement M r . H o w e l l s v i r t u a l l y d e c l a r e d the b a n k r u p t c y of o u r literature. F o r i n the name of the A m e r i c a n people he denied the f u n d a m e n t a l fact of artistic c r e a t i o n : that the reality of the artist's v i s i o n is s o m e t h i n g quite different f r o m the apparent r e a l i t y of the w o r l d about h i m . T h e great artist floats that r e a l i t y on the sea of his o w n i m a g i n a t i o n and measures it not a c c o r d i n g to its o w n scale of values but a c c o r d i n g to the values that he has h i m s e l f de r i v e d f r o m his o w n descent into the abysses of l i f e . The sketchiest, the most i m m a t u r e , the most t r i v i a l society is just as susceptible as any other of the most p r o f o u n d artistic re construction. A l l that is r e q u i r e d is an artist capable of pene t r a t i n g beneath it. T h e fact is that o u r w r i t e r s are themselves v i c t i m s of the universal taboo the i d e a l of m a t e r i a l success has p l a c e d u p o n experience. It matters n o t h i n g that they themselves have no part or lot i n this i d e a l , that they are m e n of the finest ar tistic conscience. I n the first place, f r o m their earliest c h i l d hood they are taught to repress e v e r y t h i n g that conflicts w i t h the m a t e r i a l w e l f a r e of their environment, i n the second place their environment is itself so denatured, so s t r i p p e d of every t h i n g that m i g h t n o u r i s h the i m a g i n a t i o n , that they do not so m u c h mature at a l l as e x t e r n a l i z e themselves i n a w o r l d of externalities. U n a b l e to achieve a sufficiently active con sciousness of themselves to return u p o n their e n v i r o n m e n t and o v e r t h r o w it and dissolve it and recreate it i n the terms of a personal vision, they g r a d u a l l y come to accept it on its o w n terms. I f Boston is their theme they become B o s t o n i a n ; i f it [278]
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is the Y u k o n they become " a b y s m a l brutes;" i f it is nature, nature itself becomes the hero of their w o r k ; and i f it is m a c h i n e r y the machines themselves become v o c a l and ex press their n a t u r a l contempt for a h u m a n i t y that is incapable, either m o r a l l y o r artistically, of p u t t i n g them i n their place and k e e p i n g them there. T h u s , for example, i n M r . H o w e l l s ' s " A M o d e r n Instance," the w h o l e tragedy is v i e w e d not f r o m the angle of an e x p e r i ence that is w i d e r and deeper, as the experience of a great novelist always is, than that of any character the novelist's i m a g i n a t i o n is able to conceive, but f r o m the angle of B e n H a l l e c k , the best that Boston has to offer. Boston passes j u d g m e n t and M r . H o w e l l s c o n c u r s ; and y o u close the book feeling that y o u have seen life not t h r o u g h the eyes of a free personality but of a certain social convention, at a certain epoch, i n a certain place. It is exactly the same, to ignore a thousand i n c i d e n t a l distinctions, i n the w o r k of J a c k L o n d o n . Between the superman of certain E u r o p e a n writers and J a c k L o n d o n ' s superman there is a l l the difference that separates an i d e a l achieved i n the m i n d of the w r i t e r and a fact accepted f r o m the w o r l d outside h i m ; a l l the difference, i n short, that separates the truth of art from the appearance of life. I f these two talents, perhaps the freshest and most o r i g i n a l o u r indigenous fiction has k n o w n since H a w t h o r n e ' s day, have thus been absorbed i n an atmosphere w h i c h no one has ever been able to condense, is it r e m a r k a b l e that the rank and file have s l i p p e d and fallen, that they have never learned to stand u p r i g h t and possess themselves? Is it r e m a r k a b l e that they sell themselves out at the first b i d , that they dress out their souls i n the ready-made clothes the w o r l d offers them? So great is the deficiency of personal i m p u l s e i n A m e r i c a , so o v e r w h e l m i n g the d e m a n d l a i d u p o n A m e r i c a n s to serve u l t e r i o r and i m p e r s o n a l ends, that it is as i f the springs of s p i r i t u a l action h a d altogether evaporated. L a u n c h e d i n a [279]
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society w h e r e i n d i v i d u a l s and t h e i r faculties a p p e a r o n l y to pass away, almost w h o l l y apart f r o m a n d w i t h o u t a c t i n g u p o n one another, o u r w r i t e r s find themselves e n v e l o p e d i n an i m p a l p a b l e atmosphere that acts as a p e r p e t u a l dissolvent to the w h o l e field of r e a l i t y both w i t h i n and w i t h o u t themselves, an atmosphere that invades every sphere of l i f e and takes its discount f r o m e v e r y t h i n g that they can do, an atmosphere that prevents the f o r m a t i o n of oases of r e a l i t y i n the u n i v e r s a l chaos. Is it r e m a r k a b l e that they take refuge i n the abstract, the non-human, the i m p e r s o n a l , i n the "bigness" of the phe nomenal w o r l d , i n the surface values of " l o c a l c o l o r , " a n d i n the "social conscience," w h i c h enables t h e m to do so m u c h good by w r i t i n g b a d l y that they come to t h i n k of artistic t r u t h itself as an enemy of progress? T h i s is the tale of o u r past and of the present o u r past has made for us. W e k n o w n o w that a l l the fresh enthusiasm i n the w o r l d cannot p r o d u c e an A m e r i c a n literature. T o create that o u r w r i t e r s have to create the life that l i t e r a t u r e springs f r o m ; they have to create a respect for experience, a p r o f o u n d sense both i n t h i r audience and i n themselves of the signifi cance and v a l u e of just those things of w h i c h literature is the expression. W i l l they be able to do this? imperative.
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Our Day (Aspects of Johannes
V.
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By Paul Rosenfeld T H E R E is a moment w h e n for the first time we t r u l y see the l i g h t of the w o r l d . It is w h e n there comes over us, i n a l l its naturalness, the beauty of o u r o w n day. A t that moment o n l y do we commence l i v i n g . Before, we have been sunk into ourselves, riveted to the past i n each of us that w i l l not let us free. W e have been unable to l a y h o l d on the w o r l d , to e m p l o y to the f u l l o u r energy, to create life anew. T h e v i s i o n of the beauty of o u r o w n time comes w i t h the p o w e r of l i b e r a t i o n . I t is as i f the v e r y sluices of o u r b e i n g opened. F o r we have g l i m p s e d i n w h a t hitherto seemed a hostile, malevolent unreality, the blood-brother of our dreams, the likeness of ourselves. W e are set free to create, to be created. T h e r e is scarcely a boon more to be desired than the v i s i o n of the proportions of the w o r l d i n w h i c h we l i v e . T h e r e is scarcely a n y t h i n g more necessary. T h a t v i s i o n comes to us i n the w o r k s of the D a n i s h author, Johannes V . Jensen. N o t that other writers have not attempted s i m i l a r revelations. W h a t sets Jensen apart f r o m H . G . W e l l s and the m a n y others is the q u a l i t y of a p r o f o u n d artistry. F o r Jensen is pre-eminently an artist. T h e strength and freshness of his genius, the deep richness and nervousness of his style, the boldness and o r i g i n a l i t y of his ideas, place h i m a m o n g the dominant l i t e r a r y figures of the hour. T h e r e is another trait that sets h i m above the rest of those w h o have taken it u p o n themselves to interpret o u r day to us. Jensen's [281]
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ideas are not the result of an i n t e l l e c t u a l process. T h e y came to h i m as experiences. I n them breathes a l l the w a r m t h o f a p r o f o u n d v i t a l i t y . T h e m a n n e r i n w h i c h he came b y t h e m recalls n o t h i n g so m u c h as the story of Faust's s a l v a t i o n as G o e t h e tells it. Jensen, too, h a d his G o t h i c l a b o r a t o r y ; t u r n e d with loathing from culture coupled w i t h ignorance of reality. I n the late nineties, fresh f r o m the u n i v e r s i t y , he was s c r i b b l i n g d i m e novels and l i t e r a r y reviews i n C o p e n h a g e n . A n d there came over h i m a hatred of himself, of his w o r l d , the w o r l d " f o r w h i c h he was neither b a d enough n o r v u l g a r enough." " S i c k w i t h the northern sickness, an i n c u r a b l e l o n g i n g , " he w a n d e r e d forth, and t r a m p e d and s h i p p e d about the globe. O n c e he mentions an u n h a p p y love affair as the cause of his u p r o o t i n g . I n a l l p r o b a b i l i t y , it was the g r o w i n g - p a i n of reality, c o m i n g to h i m as weariness of an over-refined and impotent society. H a l f h u m o r o u s l y , w i t h the touch of H e i n e l i k e i r o n y that is ever present i n h i m , he tells u s : " I was nervous, q u i v e r i n g l i k e a d e l i r i o u s m a n . T h e p i t y of it a l l was that a l c o h o l i s m hadn't made me so. D r i n k , at least, quiets you. T h e trouble w i t h me was that I was i n a c t i v e l y self-con scious, conscious of m y s e l f i n every nerve, the v i c t i m of an u n b r i d l e d i m a g i n a t i o n . " A n d for years, Jensen w a n d e r e d over the globe, d i s a p p e a r i n g and d u c k i n g u p again i n S e v i l l e , i n C h i n a , i n the M a l a y a r c h i p e l a g o , i n C h i c a g o . W h e r e J e n sen a c t u a l l y went, is of secondary i m p o r t a n c e . O f p r i m a r y , is the fact that his p i l g r i m a g e made Jensen anew. I t is as i f the age h a d entered into h i m and transformed h i m i n its p r o p e r image. I t was W h i t m a n w h o first announced the c o m i n g of a race of men for w h o m no past existed, whose dreams were d r a w n to no sunken ages, w h o w e r e w h o l e - h e a r t e d l y a l i v e and w h o l e - h e a r t e d l y a part of their o w n time. S u c h a one is Jensen. A n d so it is g i v e n h i m to reveal to his day its g r a n d proportions. H e does m o r e than reassure us that it has p r o p o r t i o n s of [282]
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its o w n . H e comes to tell us that we are l i v i n g i n a R e n a i s sance. F o r Jensen, a l l great ages have sought either to turn h u m a n energy f r o m the w o r l d , or to restore it f u l l y to it. C h a r a c t e r i s t i c of the first d i r e c t i o n were the C h r i s t i a n i z i n g centuries. T h e Renaissance, the R e f o r m a t i o n , the F r e n c h R e v o l u t i o n , on the other hand, sought to b r i n g h u m a n energy back to the battles of reality. B u t they were unsuccessful. T h e i m p u l s e of the H u m a n i s t i c r e v i v a l went into the h e a p i n g u p of e r u d i t i o n for its o w n sake, and ended as p h i l o l o g y i n the l i b r a r y . T h e R e f o r m a t i o n substituted one b o n d for another. T h e R e v o l u t i o n attempted to transform h u m a n beings into ideas. N o t so our day. It alone has succeeded i n r i d d i n g itself of a l l the theories and conceptions that divert m a n f r o m his earthly existence. It alone has come again to the con sciousness, so characteristic of the youth of the race, of the self-sufficiency of existence, the supreme importance of life itself. T h e stream of the libido has returned f r o m theories, f r o m hopes of extra-mundane heavens, to the one reality, the struggle w i t h nature. A n d so, w i t h the re-employment of man's force i n the outer w o r l d , the dreams that have been humanity's since the cave-man i n his cave dreamt of flying, have begun to be r e a l i z e d . O t h e r ages had dreamt, too, of p o w e r over nature, of defiance of natural laws. T h e y had been content to find satisfaction i n myths, i n r e a l i z i n g their wishes as gods. O u r s has begun to turn the stuff of dreams into actuality. T h e i m a g i n a t i o n of m a n has returned f r o m the c l o u d confines. T h e new man, fixed on the l i v i n g of life, on the r e a l i z a t i o n of his dreams on earth, has appeared. T h e w o r l d is y o u n g once more. A n d Jensen tells us, h o w w h i l e g a z i n g out over P a r i s , he p i t i e d N i e t z s c h e , w h o h a d l i v e d into himself, instead of out into a w o r l d that was far better than he. Jensen's book of essays " T h e N e w W o r l d , " tells us h o w that v i s i o n came to h i m . It was w h i l e he was at the P a r i s [283]
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W o r l d ' s F a i r , before the m a c h i n e r y e x h i b i t e d there. I n the machines, he saw that man's i m a g i n a t i o n and strength, instead of w a n d e r i n g off i n theories and systems, h a d returned to the w o r l d as energy. I n them, he saw the type of the new beauty that was c o m i n g to be, the beauty that f o l l o w s strength, a n d results f r o m an economy of means based on p r a c t i c a l i t y . A n d that beauty he finds i n a l l h u m a n creations m a d e f o r use, i n steamships and locomotives, i n bridges and steel con structed b u i l d i n g s . N a y , he tells us that steel-construction is the n a t u r a l classic style, since it combines greatest strength w i t h greatest economy. H e tells us that the architecture of A m e r i c a , the skyscrapers, the grain-elevators, the c o l l i e r i e s , embody the essential a r c h i t e c t u r a l style, a n d w i l l one d a y be considered b e a u t i f u l . F o r Jensen, M e m p h i s , Tennessee, is far l o v e l i e r than the ruins of E g y p t i a n M e m p h i s . I t is i n A m e r i c a , i n the teeming A m e r i c a n cities, that he finds nature i n the g l o r y of her energy. H e loves o u r c r u d i t y , the lushness and extravagance of o u r life. " W h a t stories of m y t h o l o g i c a l wonders," he cries, " c a n c o m p a r e w i t h the n a r r a t i o n of the life that goes on i n A m e r i c a t o d a y ? " H e tells us of the ro mance of o u r existence, of the poetry of o u r b i g business, of the y o u n g sound strength of it a l l . H e wants no better story of m a g i c than the r e b u i l d i n g of San F r a n c i s c o after the earth quake. F o r i n A m e r i c a , nature has the strength to m a k e l i f e anew. I f " T h e N e w W o r l d " is Jensen's most b r i l l i a n t book, " T h e G l a c i e r " and its sequel " T h e S h i p , " are his best. I n them, his genius has most f u l l y , most permanently, r e a l i z e d itself. E v e r y generation of m e n produces a few w o r k s of art that s y m b o l i z e for future ages its Weltanschauung, its a s p i r a t i o n , its self-justification. S u c h a w o r k , i n o u r o w n day, is A n dreyev's " L i f e of M a n . " S u c h a w o r k is Jensen's d o u b l e masterpiece. I t is one of the actual accomplishments of o u r time. Into it has gone something of the struggle of o u r o w n [284]
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day, its break w i t h the d i c t a of past ages, its faith i n w o r k as the revealer of life. Into it has gone the g l o r i f i c a t i o n of the virtues c a r d i n a l to o u r o w n day—energy, strength, courage, self-expression. W a x i n g throughout Jensen's eighteen o d d volumes, his poetic v i s i o n at last w h o l l y realizes itself i n those two books. T h e e a r l i e r Jensen, the m a n one visualizes as a surface of n-th p o w e r sensitivity, registering w i t h d e l i c a c y a n d p r e c i s i o n whatever of sight and sound and s m e l l presented itself, is s t i l l here. H e is still the w r i t e r w h o can transfer, b r i l l i a n t l y , e c o n o m i c a l l y , unmatchably, a landscape, a city, c o l o r f u l and exotic nature, to the p r i n t e d page. O n l y , he has become a deep romantic poet, w h o expresses h i m s e l f i n a f o r m that unites a science based on the most recent F r e u d i a n con tributions to a n t h r o p o l o g y w i t h a l l the l y r i c w o n d e r of the o l d myths. H e has p r o d u c e d a perfect piece of w o r k . Jensen calls his story a " m y t h , " the " M y t h of the F i r s t Man." It is the fable of the b i r t h of Jensen's o w n G o t h i c race, i n prehistoric times, w h e n the g l a c i e r came d o w n over S c a n d i n a v i a and o v e r w h e l m e d the t r o p i c a l forest that once flourished there. B u t i n this fable, Jensen has s y m b o l i z e d the life of every m a n w h o , b r e a k i n g w i t h the past i n h i m , returns to the giant realities, and is created anew out of his v e r y struggle w i t h nature for l i v e l i h o o d . D r e n g , the hero of " T h e G l a c i e r , " is the first anarchist. D r i v e n f r o m his tribe, w h i c h is flying south before h a r d s h i p and w i n t e r , he turns north and combats the c o l d . I n the bitter struggle, he adapts h i m s e l f to the needs of existence. H u m a n w i l l is born. H u m a n w i l l is victor. D r e n g maintains his life. H e learns to make fire. O n an island i n the m i d s t of the glacier, he rears sons and d a u g h ters. A n d , one night, i n his cave, the F i r s t M a n dreams. F i r s t , he seems s w i m m i n g t h r o u g h a t r o p i c a l sea, r i s i n g t o w a r d the steaming shore. T h e n , he is i n a m i g h t y city. I t is C h i c a g o , alive w i t h noise and m a c h i n e r y and the b r i l l i a n c e of the combat for existence. A n d last, D r e n g dreams of a [285]
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forest of l i v i n g trees, rocks of bone, an earth of b r e a t h i n g flesh. O v e r it floats "the sign of eternal resurgence." A n d , l o o k i n g eagerly ahead into the l a n d w h e r e his w i f e has pre ceded h i m , the F i r s t M a n dies. " T h e S h i p " sings i n accents d i f f e r i n g l i t t l e f r o m those of the o l d N o r s e ballads, the day of a race that h a d the p o w e r to destroy l i f e and create it new again. I t is the story of the Danes w h o conquered N o r m a n d y and E n g l a n d , and gave the w o r l d an i m p u l s e that, after m a n y centuries, comes to l i f e again i n the hard-headed p r a c t i c a l i t y of A m e r i c a . Again, the story is but a s y m b o l for the l i f e of o u r time. O n e episode m i g h t stand as the epitome of Jensen's thought. A b a n d of famished lads i n search of food have b r o k e n into a N o r s e temple. " F o r a m o m e n t they stood rooted. I n the g l o w of their torches, the G o d s , misshapen figures, covered w i t h crusts of d r i e d b l o o d , seemed to step out of the blackness and stand staring at them. F o r an instant, the y o u n g m a r a u d e r s t r e m b l e d . It was so silent here. T h e d r e a d G o d s seemed to gaze at them f r o m a l l parts of their forms. B u t at last G e r m u n d came to himself. S h a k i n g the sparks f r o m his torch, he stepped f o r w a r d , and b o l d l y said 'Is there any c o r n h i d den h e r e ? ' " So Jensen sees o u r day. I n the p i c t u r e he has made of it for us lies his genius. O n e has to go far to find another w r i t e r so d y n a m i c . F r o m h i m there radiates an energy, a fresh ness, an encouragement otherwheres almost u n m a t c h a b l e . O n e cannot read Jensen statically. T h e stimulus is too p o w e r f u l . T h e lust of life, the love of the hour, is infectious. T h e r e comes over us, too, the desire to l i v e , to feel, to do, to betake ourselves into the w o r l d of reality, and l e a r n for ourselves the g l o r y of creation. So b e a u t i f u l l y has Johannes V . Jensen t o l d us of the day that awaits us.
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The Twilight of the Acrobat By Marsden Hartley W H E R E is our once c h a r m i n g acrobat—our m i n s t r e l of m u s c u l a r m u s i c ? W h a t has become of these groups of fascinating people gotten up i n s i l k and spangle? W h o m a y the e v i l genius be w h o has taken them and their fascinating art f r o m our stage, w h o the ogre of taste that has dispensed w i t h them and their c h a r m ? H o w seldom it is i n these times that one encounters them, as f o r m e r l y w h e n they were so m u c h the c h a r m i n g part of our l i g h t e r entertainment. W h a t are they d o i n g since p o p u l a r and fickle notions have removed them f r o m our midst? It is two years since I have seen the A m e r i c a n stage. I used to say to myself i n other countries, at least A m e r i c a is the home of real v a r i e t y and the real lover of the acrobat. B u t I hear no one saying m u c h for h i m these days, and for his c h a r m i n g type of art. W h a t has become of them a l l , the graceful little l a d y of the slack w i r e , those c h a r m i n g and l o v e l y figures that undulate u p o n the a i r by means of the simple trapeze, those fascina t i n g ensembles and a l l the various types of m e l o d i c m u s c u l a r virtuosity? W e have been g i v e n m u c h , of late, of that v i r t u o s i t y of foot and l e g w h i c h is u s u a l l y c a l l e d d a n c i n g ; and that is excel lent a m o n g us here, quite the contribution of the A m e r i c a n , so s i n g u l a r l y the product of this special physique. Sometimes I t h i n k there are no other dancers but A m e r i c a n s . It used to be so d e l i g h t f u l a diversion w a t c h i n g o u r acrobat and his [287]
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g r o u p w i t h t h e i r strong a n d g r a c e f u l bodies w r i t h i n g w i t h r h y t h m i c a l certitude over a b a r o r u p o n a trapeze against a h a p p i l y c o l o r e d space. N o w w e get l i t t l e m o r e i n the field of acrobatics beyond a v a r i e d b u c k and w i n g ; e v e r y t h i n g seems tuxedoed for d r a w i n g r o o m purposes. W e get no m o r e than a decent h a n d s p r i n g o r two, an over-elaborated f o r m of s p l i t . I t a l l seems to be over w i t h o u r once so fashionable acrobat. T h e r e is no end of good stepping, as witness the C o h a n R e v u e , a d a n c i n g team i n R o b i n s o n C r u s o e J r . , and " A r c h i e and B e r t i e " ( I t h i n k they c a l l themselves). T h i s i n itself m i g h t be c a l l e d the m o d e r n A m e r i c a n s c h o o l : the elongated and elastic gentleman w h o finds his co-operator a m o n g the t h i n ones of his race a r t i s t i c a l l y speaking. I d i d not get to the circus this year, m u c h to m y regret; perhaps I w o u l d have found m y lost genius there, a m o n g the animals d i s p o r t i n g themselves i n less c h a r i t a b l e places. B u t w e cannot f o l l o w the circus n a t u r a l l y , and these m i n s t r e l folk are d i s a p p e a r i n g rapi d l y . V a r i e t y seems quite to have g i v e n them up and r e p l a c e d them w i t h often v e r y tiresome and m e d i o c r e acts of s i n g i n g . H o w can one forget, for instance, the F a m i l l e B o u v i e r w h o used to appear r e g u l a r l y at the fêtes i n the streets of P a r i s i n the s u m m e r season, l i v i n g a l l of them i n a r o v i n g g i p s y w a g o n as is the custom of these fête people. W h a t a c h a r m i n g moment it was always to see the s i m p l e but w e l l b u i l t M l l e . Jeanne of twenty-two p i c k u p her stalwart and b e a u t i f u l l y p r o p o r t i o n e d brother of nineteen, a strong, broad-shouldered, m a n l y chap, and balance h i m on one h a n d u p r i g h t i n the air. It was a classic m o m e n t i n the art of the acrobat, interesting to w a t c h the father of them a l l t r a i n i n g the f r a g i l e bodies of the younger boys and g i r l s to the systematic movement of the business w h i l e the m o t h e r sat i n the d o o r w a y of the c a r a v a n n u r s i n g the youngest at the breast, no doubt the perfect future acrobat. A n d h o w c h a r m i n g it was to l o o k i n at the doors of these little houses on wheels and [288]
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note the excellent domestic o r d e r of them, most always w i t h a canary or a linnet at the curtained w i n d o w and at least one cat or d o g or maybe both. T h i s type is the p r o g e n i t o r of o u r stage acrobat, it is the p r i m i t i v e stage of these o l d - t i m e trou badours, and it is s t i l l prevalent i n times of peace i n F r a n c e . T h e strong m a n gotten i n t a w d r y p i n k tights and m u c h w o r n b l a c k velvet w i t h his v e r y elaborate and d r a w n out speeches, i n delicate F r e n c h , c o n c e r n i n g the marvels of his art and the l o n g w a i t for the stipulated number of dix centimes pieces before his marvellous demonstration c o u l d begin. T h i s is, so to say, the vagabond element of o u r type of entertainment, the w a n d e r i n g m i n st re l w h o keeps generation after genera tion to the art of his forefathers, this fine o l d art of the pave ment and the open country road. B u t we look for o u r artist i n v a i n these days, those groups whose one art is the exquisite r h y t h m i c a l display of the h u m a n body, concerted m u s c u l a r m e l o d y . W e cannot find h i m on the street i n the shade of a stately chestnut tree as once i n P a r i s we found h i m at least twice a year, and we seek h i m i n v a i n i n our m o d e r n music hall. Is o u r acrobatic artist really gone to his aesthetic d e a t h ; has he g i v e n his place permanently to the ever present s i n g i n g l a d y w h o is always t e l l i n g y o u w h o her modiste is, sings a sentimental song or two and then disappears; to the sleek little gentleman w h o dances off a moment or two to the tune of his d o l l - l i k e partner whose voice is u s u a l l y l i t t l e r than his o w n ? P e r h a p s o u r acrobat is s t i l l the d e l i g h t of those more charac teristic audiences of the road whose taste is less fickle, less blasé. T h i s is so m u c h the case w i t h the arts i n A m e r i c a — t h e fashions change w i t h the season's end and there is never enough of n o v e l t y ; d a n c i n g is already d y i n g out, skating w i l l not p r e v a i l for l o n g a m o n g the i d l e ; w h a t shall we predict for o u r v a r i e t y w h i c h is i n its last stages of boredom for us? I suspect the so-called politeness of v a u d e v i l l e of the e l i m i [289]
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nation of o u r once revered acrobats. T h e c i r c u s n o t i o n has been r e p l a c e d by the p a r l o r entertainment notion. W h o s h a l l revive them for us w h o a d m i r e t h e i r s i m p l e and unpreten tious a r t ; w h y is there not someone a m o n g the designers w i t h sufficient interest i n this type of beauty to m a k e attractive settings for them, so that w e m a y be able to enjoy them at t h e i r best, w h i c h i n the theater w e have never quite been able to do—designs that w i l l i n some w a y a d d luster to an a l r e a d y b r i g h t and p l e a s i n g show of talents. I can see, for instance, a y o u n g and attractive g i r l bare back r i d e r on a c a n t e r i n g w h i t e horse i n s c r i b i n g w o n d r o u s circles u p o n a stage e x q u i s i t e l y i n h a r m o n y w i t h herself and her w h i t e o r b l a c k horse as the case m i g h t b e ; a r i c h c l o t h of g o l d b a c k d r o p c a r e f u l l y suffused w i t h rose. T h e r e c o u l d be n o t h i n g handsomer, for example, than y o u n g and g r a c e f u l trapezists s w i n g i n g m e l o d i c a l l y i n turquoise blue doublets against a fine peacock b a c k g r o u n d or it m i g h t be a r i c h pale c o r a l — a l l the artificial and spectacular ornament dispensed w i t h . W e are expected to get an e x c e p t i o n a l t h r i l l w h e n some d u l l person appears before a w o r n velvet c u r t a i n to expatiate w i t h i n a p p r o p r i a t e gesture u p o n a theme of C h o p i n or of Beethoven, ideas and attitudes that have n o t h i n g what soever to do w i t h the m u s i c a l i n t e n t i o n ; yet o u r acrobat whose expression is c e r t a i n l y as attractive, i f not m u c h m o r e so gen erally, has always to p e r f o r m a m i d fatigued settings of the worst sort against red velvet of the most d e p r a v e d shade pos sible. W e are t i r e d of the elaborately costumed person whose charms are t r i v i a l and insignificant, w e are w e l l t i r e d also of the o r d i n a r y gentleman dancer and of the songwriter, w e are b o r e d to e x t i n c t i o n by the perfectly d u l l type of p l a y l e t w h i c h features some w e l l k n o w n l e g i t i m a t e star for i l l e g i t i mate reasons. O u r plea is for the re-creation of v a r i e t y into s o m e t h i n g m o r e c o n d u c i v e to l i g h t pleasure for the eye, some t h i n g m o r e c o n d u c i v e to p l e a s i n g and s t i m u l a t i n g enjoyment. [290]
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P e r h a p s the reinstatement of the acrobat, this r e v i v a l of a r e a l l y w o r t h y k i n d of expression, w o u l d effect the change, relieve the monotony. T h e argument is not too t r i v i a l to present, since the spectator is that one for w h o m the d i v e r s i o n is p r o v i d e d . I hear cries a l l about f r o m people w h o once were fond of theater and m u s i c h a l l that there is an inconceivable dullness p e r v a d i n g the stage; the h a b i t u a l patron can no longer endure the offerings of the present time w i t h a degree of pleasure, m u c h less w i t h ease. I t has ceased to be w h a t it once was, w h a t its name i m p l i e s . I f the o l d school i n c l i n e d t o w a r d the rough too m u c h , then certainly the new inclines distressingly t o w a r d the refined—the stage that once was so f u l l of knock about is n o w so f u l l of s t a n d s t i l l ; variety that was once a joy is n o w a bore. Just some uninteresting songs at the piano be fore a g i d d y d r o p is not enough these days; and there are too m a n y of such. T h e r e is need of a greater activity for the eye. T h e return of the acrobat i n a more m o d e r n dress w o u l d be the a p p r o p r i a t e acquisition, for we still have a p p r e c i a t i o n for a l l those c h a r m i n g geometries of the trapeze, the bar, and the w i r e . I t is to be hoped that these men w i l l return to us, s t i m u l a t i n g anew their d e l i g h t f u l k i n d of poetry of the body and saving our variety performances f r o m the p r e v a i l i n g plague of mono tone.
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The Wave By William Murrell HOW many are there who, having read Tolstoi's " W h a t is A r t ? " have really understood him? In that book he sets forth the dogma that no art is good but that which has some moral allusion. N o w , how are we to recon cile such an attitude w i t h the life-work of Tolstoi himself? T h e book has been dismissed as the evidence of the c r u m b l i n g of a once powerful brain. But look deeper,—bethink you how his whole life's endeavor was to come at some spiritual peace, how his every book was a personal experience, by means of which he mounted, step by step, to that height from w h i c h he could at last behold the much-desired D a w n . Is it any wonder—exhilarated by the vision, and by the purified air of his newly-gained freedom—that he deplored the long years spent in struggling to attain? and, thinking he could have won sooner by another path, denounced the very one by w h i c h he had ascended? . . . Then, too, there is cause to wonder whether this denial of the artistic highway as one leading to spiritual truth was not influenced by the consideration of the fate of such extremists as W i l d e , in whom the eagerness for exquisite sensations became a disease; Nietzsche, in his brilliant disastrous attempt to create a Superman in his own mental image; and V a n Gogh, in his equally unfortunate passion to paint the Sun. Tolstoi must have observed that these men, or their lesser Russian prototypes, were lacking in that sense of controlling rhythm, in that fine balance w h i c h is the sine qua non [292]
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of a l l highest achievement;—a quality so wonderfully exem plified in a recently exhibited Chinese painting, a succes sion of mountains, ranged in individual yet rhythmic pro gression, the one behind and above the other, the sublimity of which fills one with ecstatic awe as the eye follows the everupward tending of the simply-varied design;—or in the some what similar emotion aroused by the playing of the "Liebe stod" from "Tristan and Isolde," that wondrous thing which progresses with such power, such passion, reaches such stu pendous heights,—and flows so reluctantly yet exquisitely down . . . But the mountain always has its other side; the wave its backward-sweep; and the "Liebestod" has its masterly, sane conclusion. That is their secret,—the reason why they live. A n d it is because W i l d e , Nietzsche, and V a n Gogh had, literally, no other side to their mountains that they fell into the waiting abyss. Yet who so rash as to condemn either the men or their methods? I feel that Tolstoi wished rather to stem the tide of wasted energy, as so much of this " A r t for Art's sake" talk really is. But I myself think that the artistic route is perhaps the purest because, at bottom, it is the least selfishly concerned: for in striving for the im personal, abstract beauty it somewhat unconsciously arrives at that large spiritual freedom which is the objective of all religious endeavor.
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Vicarious Fiction By Waldo Frank OUR centers of civilization differ from those of Europe in this: that they are cities not so much of men and women as of buildings. T h e imperious structures that loom over us seem to blot us out. A n d if our life is vital, we w i n our knowledge of it rather in what oppresses us than in ourselves. Indeed, we have lavished our forces altogether on the immensities about us, turned our genius into steel and stone, and to these abdicated it. There is a chasm between the created thing and the creator; and everywhere we are the underling and the unformed. W e find ourselves smaller than our buildings, and yet we know that until we are greater than the vastest of these, we shall be no true nation. T h e march of our struggle to w i n back our power is the American drama. T o an astonishing degree, we have objectified our lives. A n d we have failed to hold within us the power to experience what we put forth. T h e results of this have been far-reaching. N o t alone our buildings crush us: the laws that we so pro digally spin are shackles; the traditions which in our old homes were the ground beneath our feet, here weigh upon our heads. F o r all the splendor of our achievements, we have not approached that mastering consciousness w h i c h alone can make man greater than the parts of his existence. T h e old visions, focussed to old lights, that we brought w i t h us, seem to have been unequal to the task of knitting our American welter of unrelated facts. So, as the chaos cools [294]
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and the specific groups congeal, we find ourselves inexorably set within them. Each of our little clusters of activity has be come a world. A n d we are now where the process leads. W e have be come powerful in particular technics; we have studied the materials of living. But politics and trade and human law are not pivots of existence; and to exalt them so, is to lower ourselves; to become, like them, the creatures and symptoms of uncharted forces. If we stand today more submerged than ever in the American Fact, the reason is that all of us are clinging to some part of it that lies cluttered with the rest. W e have the insufferable sense of a wide futility, of the want of sensitive reaction between ourselves and the whole. But we escape our chaos, not by steeping it with an inclusive vision, but by making ourselves comfortable in it. O u r in tellectuals are no exception. W i t h a religious earnestness, they fix on whatever element in life is sweetest to their mental habit. They pore over the sentimental or the mechanical or the political man. They deny the existence of what moves beyond their radius and so wall themselves into a smug se clusion. So that today, the superb American opportunity is threatening to break into a wilderness of purposes, tangled, unfriendly, sterile; to shrink into a herd of little men, cowed by the unleashed grandeur of their forces. W h a t we require is vision. M a n is the culmination of the blind life that spews h i m up, only when he has felt that life, when it is fused into his consciousness. H i s power of vision is his power to experience; to make the boundaries of ex istence the boundaries of his spirit. Only insofar as he feels infinitude within himself is he a master. A n d all the elements of nature, all the materials of his hand are hard things in deed to make his own. Intuitively, man has felt this issue and realized that he must be forever re-creating life into a form that he can grasp, if he would not be submerged. A n d one of [295]
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the ways of his effort is religion; and the other way is art. B y art, he lifts up the more hidden bases of existence and makes them his experience; he achieves that sense of unity and at-homeness with an exterior w o r l d w h i c h saves h i m from becoming a mere pathetic feature of it. In all ages, this conduit to mastery seems to have been open to mankind. It is not an intellectual thing. W e make our own not what we think, but what we feel. A n d since through art, the essence and depth of being enters our senses and is absorbed by us, the scope of a people's mastery over life may be indeed the scope of a people's art. Moreover, there have been primitive races rich in these conduits to dominion, even as there have been others, deft and powerful in the mechanics of existence, yet helpless to control them. T h e tragic thing is that art also can lose itself in the sur face complexities of a c i v i l i z a t i o n ; can end by becoming a mere expression of the materials from whose tyranny it right fully should free us. This, in fact, is the situation that con fronts A m e r i c a . A n d it is amply typified by the contemporary English N o v e l w h i c h today holds so large a place in the American mind. There is no mystery in the strategic power of the novel. T h e palette of the novelist is substantially the life around h i m . T h i s he directs to the aesthetic end, quite as the painter handles pigment. A n industrial w o r l d turns naturally to that art whose language is so near to its industrial pre-occupation. Moreover, it seems right enough that of a l l novels, those of contemporary England should appeal to the cultured reader of A m e r i c a . T h e one formed tradition of our past that has not altogether gone in the diffusion of many races, is the English. A n d a l l these novelists write competent, timely and engaging works in a language w h i c h is our own. W e have no rivals for them here. But Americans are attracted to these writers not through [296]
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their inspiration but because of the material that they employ. A n d they confound the two. A t all times, the artist takes what is at hand. If he is a painter of the Renaissance, he w i l l use the conventions and symbols of his Church. I f he is a novelist of N e w York, he w i l l depict the frangor of machin ery, the strident unrest of man beneath the tyranny of men. These are his stuffs. But if his art is great, it w i l l have its source in truths of which these are symptoms. If it fails in this, it is bad art: for it lacks the roots by which the vitality of life's source can reach us. A n d its influence is i l l , for it comes to us lacking the sustenance that we require of it. In this light, consider H . G . Wells. Somewhere in "TonoBungay"—somewhere near the book's conclusion—Mr. W e l l s has his hero say: " I might have called this novel Waste." N o w , the canvas of "Tono-Bungay" is a wide one. O n it are flung (ostensibly) the color and line of modern enterprise: the passion of the struggle, the pathos of the victor. A n d at the end, M r . Wells thinks that all of it is waste. T h e reason is not far to seek. M r . Wells has one engrossing thought: to lay low the capitalistic state. H i s purpose is commendable. Most of us share it with him. Most of us would have agreed that " a l l of it was wrong." In fact, the true artist would have made this one hundredfold more clear, simply because he must have made his picture one hundredfold more true. T h e point is, that to no artist can life be waste however far, in its present symptoms, it fail of a specific economic doctrine. A n d the point is, farther, that with this attitude, no novelist can present life at a l l . M r . Wells does not. I f he can sensibly say that the thing he shows is waste, the reason is that this thing is not life but merely a certain surface, a certain result of living. It is this alone that occupies him. N o r do we quarrel with him, because of his concern with political mechanics. W h e n M r . Wells writes " N e w W o r l d s for O l d , " he is strong. But his novel is an anaemic, superficial sem[297]
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blance, concocted mentally, of life. A n d it is this because it is altogether wanting in what marks off a work of art from the most compelling tract. It is the same with his other novels. A s a work of art, " M r . P o l l y " is a feeble thing; its method and color are plainly acquired from Dickens. W e rush unchallenged through m i l d pages of genre-work; and then betimes M r . W e l l s strikes to his true occupation and holds us with a paragraph quoted from some enlightened economist in London, and put there to illumine that external and unfortunately necessary thing, his story. T h e idea of " M r . P o l l y " is not impregnate in his book; the conclusions forced on us are not the integral results of M r . Polly's life. O n the one hand is the weak creative gesture; on the other is the acute political theory. T h e consequence is an unfused novel, warped from the meager composition it does possess by the thrust-in of quite excellent political doctrine. A n d without these isolated paragraphs from the economist of London, no educated person would have bothered twice about the book. T h e later novels sin still more flagrantly, since with an unflagging journalistic instinct, M r . W e l l s has increased his canvas. A s politics bellied out and burst in the W o r l d W a r , so " T h e Research Magnificent" transcribes the globe—and " M r . B r i t l i n g Sees It T h r o u g h . " T h i s last novel leaves one amazed at how maturity has puddled the fine early style of M r . W e l l s . If, in this book, one gropes through three hundred pages of journalistic w r i t i n g that sound like a hasty handbook clipped together from a thousand daily columns, one arrives at last at the one thing M r . W e l l s was interested in, from the beginning. T h i s thing has been the subject of many serious volumes: Lowes Dickinson's " T h e European Anarchy," Romain Rolland's "Audessus de la Mêlée," W a l t e r Lippmann's " T h e Stakes of D i p l o m a c y " among them. One wonders why M r . W e l l s felt himself constrained to brush [298]
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through so much tiresome depiction of the humanities, be fore he allowed himself his thesis. F o r in the process, he has maimed his material and missed his goal. T h e splendid sub ject of the state of England turns, in his hands, to impedi menta. A n d his political faith falls down, simply because he has pivoted it, not on an honest mental base, but on a falsely motivated novel. "The Research Magnificent" is even a worse hybrid. It holds several striking pictures—a mob in China, warfare in the Balkans. But its grasp of source and impulse is really on a level with that of a cinema like "Intolerance," where, with a like good purpose of pursuing an idea, five continents and thirty centuries are flashed before us. The same grandiose externality, the same blindness to the deeper dimensions of life stamp and shrivel these two works. In the films a false ethical view, in the novel a splen did political passion, excuses the panorama. But in both there is the same untrue divorce between idea and material which is the unfailing mark of falsity in art. N o w , it is plain not alone that novels may include the poli tical factor, but that great novels are unlikely to escape it. Rabelais and Cervantes summed up scholasticism and the Feudal Age, foretold the sweep of individualism, projected a whole vast human epoch. Similarly Stendhal called his " L e Rouge et le N o i r , " which appeared in 1830, a chronicle of the Nineteenth Century; and in a way so deeply prophetic was this true, that France herself was not aware of the grand eur of the book until the century was done. In his book, Stendhal traced the bitter aftermath of individualism, its rise and fall, told the tragedy of post-Napoleonic France, and fur nished an undying commentary, a hundred years at least be fore the fact, for socialism. But the political factor in the works of these great artists sprang—like politics itself—from a deeper source. T h e i r need was to create life in a sensory mold. A n d such a formulation of the complete human im[299]
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pulse may well include the political in art, as indeed it must, in life. But all this is totally removed from M r . W e l l s who starts not with the intuitive need of creation, but with the in tellectual program of discussion; who begins w i t h the endsymptom where art may incidentally leave off. M r . W e l l s in his books is like ourselves in life. H e has failed to impregnate his materials with his ideas. H e flound ers through his works and ends adrift, because his impulse is not channeled from a source beneath the confusion of his senses, but is itself a symptom of that confusion. Consider another of our favorites: A r n o l d Bennett, who, also, is a force thrown out by the industrial hysteria of Great Britain. M r . Bennett would seem the antithesis of an up rooted aesthete like George M o o r e , but this deep quality unites them: that they have both discovered the realists of France. M r . Bennett has read these masters carefully. A n d he has observed that their outstanding character is a profound devotion to details. M r . Bennett thinks he can "do" detail, himself. H e finds plenty of it—and finds it master—in his own " F i v e Towns." H i s one error is in his understanding of why detail abounds in the novels of his patterns: and of what he should have done with his own crop of it, at home. It is impossible here to trace the genesis of French realism: to show how thoroughly it expressed the post-revolutionary search for consciousness, and the revolt from the sort of search that the Encyclopedia set up. France, in her recurrent bewilderments—the intellectual mechanism of Voltaire, the accession of the bourgeoisie, the body-blow of Prussia— needed an Inventory. W h i l e E n g l a n d was still m u l l i n g over Dickens, the art of France passed on to an evaluation of what that Inventory gave her: to impressionism, and in the novel to such masters of it as Charles-Louis P h i l i p p e and Anatole France, André G i d e and Jules Romains. B u t the point is, that the accumulations of genre notings in Balzac, the G o n [300]
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court brothers, Flaubert and Zola were simply fuel for their inspiration. Details occupied their novels because their i m pulse toward orientation had need of them; because their spirit required material, as a furnace requires coal. I f the Comédie humaine narrates more details than any other work, the reason is the consuming vastness of the spirit of Balzac. They are the means by which the need of light in Balzac could burst to flame. T h e details in Balzac are incandes cent. T h e details in M r . Bennett are sodden. In the case of the one, creation glows through his pages and transfigures them. In the case of the other, the detail is everything. It serves nothing. It proclaims itself master in his books, as it is master in his world. It lacks the interstices of light. . . . W i t h John Galsworthy, however, we have a direct artist, one in whose better work the aesthetic impulse is unrefractedly at play. But if we look deep enough, we find that here also, the creative need is weak. M r . Galsworthy is inspired by the malady of his own senses, by the fragility of his own sinew rather than by the lush urge of a race spirit coursing through him. Often, he reaches into pleading and propaganda—as in his plays: we find h i m sinning the sin of the school of M r . Bennett, reliance on unquickened incident, emphasis on massed detail. But when M r . Galsworthy is most authentic, he lapses into an extended and exotic dirge that gives him quite away: he dwells on the withering of lopped-off social limbs, the iridescent whirlings of secluded problems. H i s spirit is a gorgeous, past-nourished flower, uprooted and athirst and rotting with the fair glow of putrefaction. A t bottom, these men are one—and supplement each other. They fail to cut below the upper levels of life. A n d in consequence, their readers cannot w i n from them the vision which profound experience affords. M r . Galsworthy weaves from his helplessness an expression that is at least sincere. T h e others escape theirs, by ponderous and specific study of [301]
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the chaos that has overwhelmed them—by an obsession w i t h the mechanics and details of existence. A l l of them create not out of strength, but weakness. Indeed, it would look i l l for the E n g l i s h N o v e l , were it not for two men who stand out clearly as exceptions. D . H . Lawrence, author of "Sons and Lovers" and J . D . Beresford suggest at last the vital rebirth of an art w h i c h in E n g l a n d has been largely given over since the Eighteenth Century to unquickened spirits. I n the novels of M r . Beresford, a superb sense of the present moves with a pregnant racial restlessness. W e feel in h i m that E n g l a n d is once more to be strong. But while M r . Lawrence and M r . Beresford indubitably point to a potential England, they do not p r i m a r i l y concern us here: for they are practically without influence in our country. . . . A m e r i c a needs, above a l l things, spiritual adventure. It needs to be absorbed in a vital and v i r i l e art. It needs to be lifted above the harry of details, to be loosed from the fixity of results. A n d it is devoted to an art whose chief attribute is abdication of what it most requires. W e are bound to England by our childhood, by our tradi tions and habits. W e are bound to E n g l a n d by our weak nesses. A n d we glean from our alliance chiefly the weak nesses of England. T h e i r reflected form of art we choose to reflect once more. T h e i r momentary surrender to the chaos of new industrial conditions, we gladly lean on and make to justify our own. T h e artists of E n g l a n d who are here most in vogue are precisely those artists who have begged their own spiritual question. T h e truth is that we shun the artists who would force us to face ourselves, who might inspire us to work upon ourselves. It is easy at any rate to read about the troubles of other coun tries; to make remote lands suffer and vicariously solve, to the exclusion of our own reality. Devoted as we are to the con[302]
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sideration of surface parts of our dilemma, we find great joy in books that repeat the tendency. O u r spiritual lack makes us read, as theirs makes these authors write. W e go to them, since they flatter our weakness, and save our effort. W e go to them because, spiritually and geographically, they are re mote enough not to prick our bubbles. It would be experi ence to read Theodore Dreiser; it is only the witnessing of a gladiatorial combat to read M r . Wells. Similarly, we ignore W a l t Whitman. F o r W h i t m a n offers no help in the mechanics of existence. H i s political ideas are inadequate to our immediate problem. A n d this lack in our greatest poet is the touchstone of his disfavor. W e have a consuming fondness for the pat and special seer—be he polit ical or scientific. W e cannot forgive the man who would drag us into grips with the entire, uneasy problem. O u r sickness is the kind that resists cure: our symptoms are the sort that crave encouragement. The naive find their opiate in the magazines; the more sophisticated find theirs in the contemporary English N o v e l . A smaller group, more highly sensitized, achieve their mood of righteousness by read ing of reality as it exists in Russia. But all alike, we seek the comfort of the L i m i t , the ease of what is at once specific and remote. W e weaken our receptivity for a provocative and a dynamic art. . . .
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A Reply By Walter Lippmann J A M E S O P P E N H E I M says there is a strong young modern stalking the earth and trying to abolish fairy-tales, symbols, Utopias, scientific con cepts, and the dreams of mankind.
I have read almost all that this strong
young modern has written, and never did he write such nonsense.
He
knows, for example, that men will dream and have fantasies, and that no one can stop them.
H e knows that human thought is a texture of symbolism,
and that great myths crystallize the energy of social life. read some of the works of D r . Jung.
In short he also has
W h a t this strong young modern was
discussing when James Oppenheim fell upon him was not whether children love fairy-tales or whether crowds follow Billy Sunday, but the fact that recent thought when it is vigorous means the use of fantasy to explore reality and follow its pace.
Surely it is beside the point to say that unredeemed
utopia-making is a fact among the other facts.
O f course it is.
Does James
Oppenheim suppose this modern fellow would let himself in for the exploded error of the nineteenth century materialists who argued that because people believed something that was untrue, their belief had no significance?
That
fairy-tales or social myths serve life and may even enhance it is too obvious to be worth discussing. Misunderstanding aside, it appears that James Oppenheim is himself one of these strong young moderns. the want from which it arises. lost his innocence.
H e too is trying to see through the myth to A n d because he is trying to do this he too has
W i t h cold sophistication he proposes to feed fairy-tales
and myths to the world because he thinks the world needs them. takes good care to insist that he knows that a myth is a myth.
But he
H e too has
eaten of the fruit that grows on the tree of knowledge, and he too is lost to the romantics. I don't see why James Oppenheim should accept the Machiavellian prin ciple that mankind is foolish and must be led by lies.
F o r a myth consciously
fed to a people is a lie, and James Oppenheim's notion that people are too weak to endure reality is a poor gospel to preach.
A l l the bloody exploitation
of the world exists because of these lies dressed up as fantasies, lies about
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property, about sex, about honor, about loyalty, about patriotism.
T h e youth
of Europe is being devastated because the people of Europe are fed on large symbols and great myths.
T h e price is so terrible that we dare not coun
tenance for a moment any complacency with it, and complacency is what James Oppenheim's argument comes down to. O u r business is to tear down this mighty structure of words, these im perial will-o'-the wisps, these Union League romances about property and protection by a relentless effort to confront them always with the sharpest report of reality we can make.
That report will include, of course, a study
of the impulses which make the myths, and a constant wariness of our own tendency to self-deception.
I cannot believe that James Oppenheim and The
Seven Arts magazine intend to scoff at this task.
Surely they are not going
to range themselves with those who say tut, tut, mankind is foolish, let it dream and suffer. [ N o t e :
This reply speaks for itself. That our strong young modern has
to draw the conclusion he does, shows clearly that he is capable of seeing only that half of the proposition which he thinks is the whole.
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CENSORSHIP IN AMERICA ITS CAUSES
AND ITS
CURE
By T H E O D O R E DREISER A n authoritative paper on this subject will appear in the February Issue. M r . Dreiser is the author, among other monumental works, of " T h e 'Genius'" which has recently been suppressed. H e has brought his issue to the courts and this article will be a part of the fight he is waging in the name of all who hope for the intellectual integrity of America.
A N N A
PARMLY
PARET
LITERARY AGENT 291 F I F T H A V E N U E .
NEW YORK
After many years of editorial experience with Harper
