{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_sha256": "83c8bb6fe98725a7309bce7c4b3809e8933ec9bdd26da9ae4f4c79eedf6ccb93", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1921/11_01/bmtnaap_1921-11_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1921/11_01/bmtnaap_1921-11_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Table of Contents", "titre_sommaire": "Table of Contents", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1068, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2098, "texte": "Cover Design (Woodcut) — E. Prampouni. PaBe\nIyAKE — Bayard Boyesen ' 1\nBrooklyn Bridge — Joseph Stella 2\nHunger — James Stephens 3\nMarnia — Waeeace Goued 12\nA Union Of Beggars — Manuee Komroff 17\nDrawing Of Igor Strawinsky — Pabeo Picasso . . 22\nPortrait — Andrf; Derain 23\nStiee IviFE — Juan Gris 24\nPainting — Aebert Geeizes 25\nChinese Poems Of J. Wing — E. Powys Mathers 26\nThe Function Of Criticism ? — Conrad Aiken 33\nDrawing — Bepi Fabiano. . .. 39\nDrawing — Frediano Frediani 40\nLilacs — Amy 41\nSculpture — Jacques Ivlpchitz * 45\nHe Laughed At The Gods — James Oppenheim 46\nSeguidieea — Man Ray . . . 54\nIn The Dock — W. De la Mare 55\nThe Soue Of An Artist — J. D. Beresford 56\nTwo Drawings — Wieijam Gropper 69\nHospital Nights — Lola Ridge 70\nFairy Tale — Donald Corley 72\nMaple-Sugar Song — Lew Sarett . 76\nBambino's Beginning — Haniel Long 80\nEinstein And The Poets — Louis Untermeyer 84\nAmerica Invades Europe — Emmy Veronica Sanders 89\nBroomides : Communications From Edgar Varicse, Wallace Gould, David O'Neil .... 94"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "1", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Lake", "titre_sommaire": "Lake", "signature_source": "Bayard Boyesen", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 422, "texte": "LAKE.\nBayard Boyesen.\nThere's too much selfhood in this lake :\nThough, varying, four streams partake\nIn amber rushes till they break\nWhen softening confusions shake\nIdentities into the lake.\nI know the four streams, all their ways;\nI've paddled in their amber sprays\nAnd flung them into bubbled praise\nOf sunlight; but I see too well\nThe lake complacently will tell\nOnly selfhood, nor admit\nHow four streams engendered it."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "2", "page_fin": "2", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Brooklyn Bridge", "titre_sommaire": "Brooklyn Bridge", "signature_source": "Joseph Stella", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 31, "texte": "Joseph Stella.\nBrooklyn Bridge."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "3", "page_fin": "11", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Hunger : A Dublin Story", "titre_sommaire": "Hunger : A Dublin Story", "signature_source": "James Stephens", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1928, "texte": "HUNGER.\nA DUBLIN STORY.\n\nOn some people misery comes unrelentingly, with such a continuous rage\nthat one might say destruction had been sworn against them, and that they\nwere doomed beyond appeal, or hope. That seemed to her to be the case as\nshe sat, when her visitor had departed, looking on life as it had moved about\nher, and she saw that life had closed on her and crushed her, and that there\nwas nothing to be said about it, and no one to be blamed.\nShe was four years married, and she had three children. One of them\nhad fallen when he was quite young, and had hurt his back so badly that the\ndispensary doctor instructed her not to let him walk for a few years.\nShe loved all her children, but this child she loved greatly, for, of the three\nshe had to do the most for him. Indeed she had to do everything for him, and\nshe loved to do it. He was the eldest and he was always with her : so were\nthe others, of course, for a woman in needy circumstances can never get away\nfrom her children ; but the other youngsters were with her as screamings and\ndemands, to be attended to and forgotten, while he was with her as a compan-\nion eye, a consciousness to whom she could talk and who would reply to her,\nand who would not by any means get into mischief. He could not get into\nanything else either.\nHer husband was a housepainter, and when work was brisk he got good\nwages :he could earn thirty-five shillings a week when he was working. But\nhis work was constant only in the summer months : through the bad weather\nthere was no call for him, for no one wanted housepainting done in the winter>\nand so the money which he earned in the five months had to be stretched and\nmade to cover the remaining seven months of the year.\nNor were these five months to be entirely depended upon : here and there\nin a week days would be missed, and with that his Society dues had to be paid,\nfor he would pay those though he starved for it"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2965, "texte": "Wages which have to be stretched so lengthily give but the slenderest sum\ntowards a weekly budget: it was she who had to stretch them, and the doing\nof that occupied all the time she could spare for thinking. She made ends\nmeet where nothing was but ends, and they met just over the death line of\nstarvation. She had not known for three years what it was like not to be hun-\ngry for one day, but life is largely custom, and neither she nor her husband\nnor the children made much complaint about a condition which was normal\nfor them all, and into which the children had been born. They could scarcely\ndie of hunger for they were native to it: they were hunger, and there was no other\nhunger but them : and they only made a noise about food when they saw food.\nIf she could have got work how gladly she would have taken it, how gladly\nshe would have done it: sweated work, any work, so that it brought in if it\nwas no more than two or three coppers in the day. But the children were there,\nthree of them, and all were young and one was a cripple. Her own people, and\nthose of her husband, lived, existed, far away in the country : they could not\ntake the children off her hands : she could not give a neighbour anything to\nlook after them while she went out working : she was held to them as fast as if\nshe were chained to them, and, for to think in such cases is only to be worried,\nthere was no use in thinking about it. She had already all the worry she could\ndeal with, and she wanted no more.\nShe remembered the tale she had laughed at, when she was young, about\na woman who had been circumstanced as she was now : this woman used to\nput her two children into a box, for she had to go out every day to work in or-\nder that she might feed them, and she kept them in the box so that they might\nnot injure themselves during her absence. It was a good idea, but the children\ncame out of the box hunchbacks, and so stunted in their growth that it might\nbe said they never grew thereafter. It would have been better for the chil-\ndren, and easier for them, if they had died ; anyhow, their mother died, and the\npoor little oddities went to the workhouse, and must all their lives have got\nall the jeers which their appearance sanctioned.\nThere was nothing to be done ; even her husband had long ago given up\nthinking of how this could be arranged, and although she still and continually\nthought about it, she knew that nothing could be done.\nHer husband was a jolly man ; he used to make up lists of the gigantic\nfeeds they would have when the ship came home (what ship he did not say,\nnor did he ever say that he expected one), and he or she or the children would\nremind each other of foods which had been left out of his catalogue, for no\nfood of which they knew the name could justly be omitted from their future.\nHe was a robust man, and could have eaten a lot if he got it; indeed he had\noften tempted his wife to commit an act of madness and have one wild blow-"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2734, "texte": "out, for which, as she pointed out to him, they would have to pay by whole\ndays of whole starvation, instead of the whole days of semi-hunger to which\nthey were accustomed.\nThis was the only subject on which they came near to quarrelling, and\nhe brought it forward with fortnightly regularity.\nSometimes she went cold at the thought that he might on some pay-day\ngo in for a wild orgy of eating, and perhaps spend half-a-crown ; less than that\nsum could not nearly fill him, and the double of it would hardly fill him the\nway be wanted to be filled ; for he wanted to be filled as tightly as a drum,\nand with such a weight and abundance of victual that he could hardly be lifted\nby a crane.\nBut he was an honourable man, and she knew he would not do this un-\nless she and the children were with him and could share and go mad with him.\nHe was very fond of them, and if she could have fed him on her own flesh she\nwould have sacrificed a slice or two, for she was very fond of him.\nThe mild weather had come, and he got a cut in his hand, which festered\nand seemed stubbornly incurable : the reason was that the poor, gaunt man was\nnot fed well enough to send clean blood down to doctor his cut hand ; but in\nthe end he did get over it. But for three weeks be had been unable to work,\nfor who will give employment to a man whose hand looks like a poultice or a\nsmall football ?\nThe loss of these three weeks almost finished her. The distinguishing mark\nof her family had been thinness, it was now bonyness. To what a food-getting\nfervour she was compelled ! She put the world of rubbish that was about her\nthrough a sieve, and found nourishment for her family where a rat would have\nfound disappointment. She could not beg, but she did send her two children\ninto the street, and sometimes one of these got a copper from a passing stran-\nger ; then that youngster gave out a loyal squeal for his c ompanion, like the\ncall of a famished crow who warns his brothers that he has discovered booty;\nand they trotted home with their penny. The sun shone on the day they got\na penny : on the days when they got nothing the sun might split the bricks,\nbut it did riot shine.\nHer man returned to his work, and if she could hold on they would be able\nto regain the poverty of a few months previously, but which now beamed to\nher as distant, unattainable affluence. She could hold on, and she did; so that\nthey tided feebly across those evil days, and came at last to the longed-for\nscarcity which yet was not absolute starvation, and whereby they could live\nin the condition of health to which they were accustomed, and which they re-\ncognised and spoke of as good-health.\nThey could not absolutely come to this for at least a year; provision had"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2852, "texte": "still to be made for the lean months to come, the winter months, and more than\nthree weeks' wages which should have been skimmed in this precaution had\nbeen unprofitable, had not existed. The difference had to be made up by a\ndouble skimming of the present wage, which must also pay the present necessi-\nties and recoup the baker and grocer for the few weeks' credit these shop peo-\nple had given her.\nIn all, their lot for a long time was not to be envied, except by a beast\nin captivity, and by him only because he lusts for freedom and the chance of\nit as we lust for security and the destruction of chance.\nThe winter came—the winter will come tho' the lark protest and the worm\ncries out its woe ; and she entered on that period with misgiving, with resolution,\nand a facing of everything that might come. What bravery she had ! What\na noble, unwearying courage, when in such a little time and as such small la-\nbour she might have died ! But such an idea never came to her head. She\nlooked on the world, and she found that the world was composed of a man and\nthree children; while they lasted she could last, and when they were done it\nwould be time enough to think of personal matters and her relation to things.\nBefore the summer had quite ended, before autumn had tinted a leaf, the\nwar broke out, and with its coming there came insecurity : not to her, not to\nthem : they had no standard to measure security by; it came to the people\nwho desire things done, who pay to have doors varnished and window-frames\npainted. These people drew silently but resolutely from expense ; while he\nand she and the children sunk deeper into their spending as one wallows into\na bog. The prices of things began to increase with a cumulative rapidity, and\nthe quality of things began to deteriorate with equal speed. Bread and the\neater of it came to a grey complexion. Meat got the cut direct instead of the\ndirect cut. The vegetables emigrated with the birds. The potato got a rise\nin the world and recognised no more its oldest friends. There seemed to be\nnothing left but the rain, and the rain came loyally.\nThey, those others, could retrench and draw in a little their horns, but\nfrom what could she go back ? What could she avoid ? What could she eli-\nminate, who had come to the bare bone and shank of life ? The necessity for\nthe loaf comes daily, recurs pitilessly from digestion to digestion, and with\nthe inexorable promptitude of the moon the rent collector wanes and waxes.\nThey managed : she and he managed : work still was, although it was\nspaced and intervalled like a neglected storm-blown hedge. Here was a week\nand there another one, and from it they gleaned their spare constricted ex-\nistence.\nThey did not complain : those who are down do not complain. Nor did\nthey know they were down; or, knowing it, they did not admit their downness;"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2881, "texte": "for to face a fact is to face with naked hands a lion, and to admit is to give in,\nto be washed away and to be lost and drowned; anonymous, unhelpable, alive\nno more, but debris, or a straw which the wind takes and sails or tears or drifts\nor rots to powder and forgetfulness. A bone in a world of bones ! And they\ngnawed these bones until it seemed that nothing moved in the world or was\nalive except their teeth.\nThe winter came, and his work stopped as it always did in that season ;\nhe got jobs cleaning windows, he got jobs at the docks hoisting things which\nnot Hercules nor the devil himself could lift, but which he could lift, or which\nhis teeth and the teeth of his children detached from the ground as from founda-\ntions and rivettings ; he got a job as a coalman, and as a night-watchman sit-\nting in the angle of a black street before a bucket of stinking coal which had\nbeen a fire until the rain put it out; to-day he had a job, but tomorrow and for\na week he had none.\nWith what had been saved, skimmed, strained from the summer wages,\nand with what came from the jobs, and with the pennies the children unearthed\nfrom strangers as though they dug in those loath souls for coin, they lived\nthrough the winter, and did not feel they had passed through any experience\nworth recording, or that their endurance might have been rewarded with\nmedals and a pension. They were living, as we all manage amazing to live,\nand, if others had an easier time that was their chance ; but this was their\nlife, and there were those who were even worse off than they were ; for they\npaid the rent, and when that was done what a deed had been accomplished,\nhow notable an enemy circumvented !\nThe Spring came, but it brought no leaves to their tree; the Summer came\nbut it did not come to them, nor warn them of harvest and a sickle in the yield\nThere was no building done that summer ; the price of material had gone up\nand the price of wages. The contractors did not care for that prospect, and\nthe client thought of his income-tax and decided to wait. And her husband\nhad no work ! He had almost given up even looking for work. He would go\nout of the house and come into the house, and he and she would look at each\nother in a dumb questioning. Sometimes she would say — not that she had\nanything to say, but to ease his heart with a comradely word — \" Any chance\nto-day, do you think ? \" and he would reply : \" Chance ! \" and sit down and\nbrood upon that lapsing word. They were not angry, they had not the blood\nto be angry with; for wrath you must be well fed or you must be drunk.\nThe youngest child died of a disease which, whatever it was at the top,\nwas hunger at the bottom, and she grew terrified. She heard that there was\nwork to be had in plenty in the Munition Factories in Scotland, and by some\nmeans she gathered together the fare and sent her husband across the sea."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2715, "texte": "\" Write, if yon can, \" said she, \" the minnte you get a place. \"\n\"Yes,\" he replied.\n\" And send us what you can spare, \" she said. Send something this week\nif you can. \"\n\" Yes, \" he said ; and he went away.\nThen she went into the streets to beg. She left the boy behind in his\nchair, and brought the other little one with her. She was frightened, for one\ncan be arrested for begging, and she was afraid not to beg, for one can die of\nhunger. She got a penny here and a penny there, and bought bread ; some-\ntimes even she got a twist of tea: she could manage until the end of the week,\nuntil her man sent the money : she had thoughts of singing at the corners of\nstreets, as she had so often seen done by toneless, ashenfaced women, who creak\nrusty music at the passer, and fix him with their eyes ; but she was ashamed,\nand no song that she could remember seemed suitable, and she only could re-\nmember bits of songs ; and she knew her voice would not work for her, but\nwould creak and mourn like a rusty hinge.\nHer earnings were small, for she could not get in touch with people ; they\nrecognised her at a distance as a beggar, and she could only whisper to the back\nof a head or a cold shoulder. Sometimes when she went towards a person that\nperson instantly crossed the road and walked for a while hastily. Sometimes\npeople fixed upon her a cold, prohibitive eye, and she drew back from them\nhumbled, her heart panting and her eyes hot at the idea that they took her\nfor a beggar. At times someone, without glancing at her, stuck a hand in a\npocket and gave her a penny without halting in their stride. One day she\ngot twopence, one day she got sixpence, one day she got nothing. But she\ncould hold out to the end of the week.\nThe end of the week came, but it brought no letter. \" It will come tomor-\nrow, \" she said ; \" he is in a strange country ; he must have missed the post,\nGod help him ! \" But on the following day there was no letter, and on the day\nafter, and the day that succeeded to it there was no letter.\n\"He... ! \" she said. But she could not speculate on him. She knew\nhim too well, and this was not him ; he could no more leave them in the lurch\nthan he could jump across Ireland in one jump.\n\" He has not got work \", she said ; and she saw him strayed and stranded,\nwithout a hand, without a voice, bewildered and lost among strangers ; going\nup streets and down streets, and twisting himself into a maze, a dizziness of\nloneliness and poverty and despair, or, she said, \" The submarines had blown\nup the ship that was coming with the money. \"\nThe week went by, another came, and still she did not hear from him. She\nwas not able to pay the rent. She looked at the children, and then she looked"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2786, "texte": "away from them distantly to her strayed husband, and then she looked inwardly\non herself and there was nothing to see. She was down. No littlest hope could\nfind a chink to peer through, and while she sat staring at nothing, in an immo-\nbile maze of attention her mind — she had no longer a heart, it had died of star-\nvation — her mind would give a leap and be still, and would leap again as though\nan unknown, wordless action were seeking to be free, seeking to do some work,\nseeking to disprove stagnation and powerlessness and death, and a little burn-\ning centre of violence hung in her head like a star.\nShe followed people with her eyes, sometimes a little way her feet, saying\nto herself :\n\" The pockets of that man are full of money; he would rattle if he fell. \"\nOr, \" That man had his breakfast this morning, he is full of food to the\nchin ; he is round and tight and solid, and he weighs a ton.\nShe said : \" If I had all the money of all the people in this street I would\nhave a lot of money. \"\nShe said: \"If I owned all the houses in this street I would have a lot of\nmoney. \"\nThe rent collector told her imperatively that she must leave at the end of\nthe week. The children called to her for bread clamourously, unceasingly,\nlike little dogs that yap and whine and cannot be made to stop.\nRelief kitchens had been started in various parts of the City, but she only\nheard of them by chance, and she went to one. She told a lady in attendance\nher miserable tale, and was given the address of a gentleman who might assist\nher. He could give her a ticket which would enable her to get food, and he\nmight be able to set her in the way of earning what would pay the rent. The lady\nthought her husband had deserted her, and said so without condemnation, as\none who states a thing which had been known to happen, and the poor woman\nagreed without agreeing, for she did not believe it. But she did not argue\nabout the matter, for now that she accepted food, she accepted anything that\ncame with it, whether it was opinions or advice ; she was an acceptor, and she\ndid not claim to possess even an opinion.\nShe set out for the house of the gentleman who could give her the ticket\nwhich would get her food to bring home to the children. He lived at some dis-\ntance, and when she got to his house the servant told her he had gone to his\noffice ;at his office she was informed that he had gone out. She called three\ntimes at the office, and on the third time she was told that he had come in,\nbut had gone home. She trudged to his house again, and would have been\nweary, but that her mind was far away from her trudging feet, and when the\nmind is away the body matters nothing. Her mind was back in the rooms\nlooking at the children, listening to them, consoling them, telling them that"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2867, "texte": "in a little while she would be back and she would bring them something. They\nhad not eaten anything for—how long was it ? Was it a year ! An eternity !\nHad they ever eaten ! And one of them was sick! She must get back : she\nhad been away too long : but she must go forward before she could go back :\nshe must get the ticket which was food and hope and a new beginning, or at\nleast respite ; then she would be able to look about her; the children would\ngo to sleep, and she could plan and contrive and pull together those separated\nand dwindling ends.\nShe came to the gentleman's house. He was in, and she told him her\nstory and how her case was desperate. He also believed that her husband had\ndeserted her, and he promised to write by that night's post to find out the truth\nabout the man, and to see that he was punished for his desertion. He had no\ntickets with him ; he had used them all, for the hungry people in Dublin were\nnumerous, work was slack everywhere, and those who had never before ap-\nplied for assistance were now forced to do so by dire and dreadful necessity.\nHe gave her some money, and promised to call at her rooms on the follow-\ning day to investigate her case.\nShe went homewards urgently, and near home she bought bread and tea.\nWhen she got in the crippled boy turned his dull, dumb eyes on her, and she\nlaughed at him excitedly, exultantly, for she had food, lots of it, two loaves\nof it; but the other child did not turn to her, and would never turn to her again,\nfor he was dead, and he was dead of hunger.\nShe could not afford to go mad, for she still had a boy, and he depended\non her with an utter helpless dependence. She fed him and fed herself, run-\nning from his chair to the other in its cot with the dumb agony of an animal\nwho must do two things at once and cannot think which thing to do. She\ncould not think ; she could hardly feel; she was dulled and distressed and wild,\nand she was weakened by misery and tormented by duties, and life and the\nworld seemed a place of businesses and futilities and unending unregulated\ndemands on her. A neighbour, hearing that curious persistent trotting over\nher head, came up to the room to remonstrate, and remained to shed for her\nthe tears which she could not weep herself. She, too, was in straits, and had\nnothing more to give them than those tears and the banal reiterations which are\ncomfort because they are kindness.\nInto this place the gentleman called on the following day to investigate,\nand was introduced to a room swept almost as clean of furniture as a dog ken-\nnel is ; to the staring, wise-eyed child who lived in a chair, and to the quiet\nmorsel of death that lay in a cot by the wall. He was horrified, but he was\nused to sights of misery, and knew that when things have ceased to move they\nmust be set moving again, and that all he could do was to remove some of the"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1758, "texte": "impediments which he found in the path of life so that it might flow on before it\nhad time to become stagnant and rotten. He took from the dry-eyed, tongue-\ntied woman's shoulders all the immediate worry of death and arranged\nabout the death certificate and registration and burial. He paid the rent,\nand left something to go on with as well, and he promised to get her work either\nin his house or at his office, but he would get her work to do somehow.\nHe came daily, and each day, in reply to her timid question as to news\nabout her husband, he had nothing to say except that enquiries were being\nmade. On the fifth day he had news, and he would have preferred any duty,\nhowever painful, to the duty of telling her his news. But he told it sitting on\nthe one chair, with his hand over his eyes and nothing of his face visible ex-\ncept the mouth which shaped the sentences and spoke them. The munition\npeople in Scotland had reported that a man of the name he was enquiring for\nhad applied for work, and had been taken on a fortnight after his application.\nThe morning after he began work he was found dead in a laneway. He had\nno lodgings in the city, and at the postmortem examination it was found that\nhe had died of hunger and exposure. She listened to that tale, looking from\nthe gentleman who told it to her little son who listened to it. She moistened\nher lips with her tongue, but she could not speak, she could only stammer and\nsmile. The gentleman also was looking at the boy.\n\"We must set this young man up, \" said he, heavily. \" I will send a doc-\ntor to look him over to-day. \"\nAnd he went away all hot and cold, beating his hands together as he walked,\nand feeling upon his shoulders all the weariness and misery of the world.\n\nJames Stephens."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "12", "page_fin": "16", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Marnia", "titre_sommaire": "Marnia", "signature_source": "Wallace Gould", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1238, "texte": "MARNIA.\n\nI remember well the house in which Marnia lived\na large, dark house, with a cupola, and with lightning rods, and looming\nabove the other houses of our neighborhood ;\nand I remember as well the dark back garden\na garden gloomy with the shade of many plum trees, and overgrown\nwith lilies of the valley, and with rank grass.\nI remember both.\nI remember Marnia.\nI remember her mother.\nI remember her lover.\nTo the children of the neighborhood, the garden, inclosed by a high, dark-\npainted picket fence with a gate that was almost always locked, was forbidden ;\nand to me it was forbidding,\nas were the mother, Marnia, and the lover, all three, the mother,\nstatuesque, inscrutable, uncommunicative, forbidding because she seemed to\nglower through the pickets ;\nMarnia, fragile, pallid, impassable, forbidding because she never looked\nat me ;\nand the lover, handsome, well dressed, bland, forbidding because he seemed\nto assume an air of owning the garden.\nBut I remember all.\nFrom the house there never came the sounds\nof rattling pans, of slamming doors, or of voices calling loudly from room\nto room.\nFrom the house there never issued the odors\nof onions, of boiled dinners, or of frying fish or meat that scorched in the\nskillet."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2079, "texte": "From the back verandah there often came the sound of restrained laughter,\nwhenever Marnia, and other girls, sat there together ;\nand often, at twilight, there came from the parlor, which was lighted dimly,\nif lighted at all, the sound of the piano, played softly, always softly, and on the\nlower keys, by Marnia, who at times sang, always lowly, and often subtly, as\nif to another.\nBut the place was almost always odorless and noiseless.\nThe windows of panneled glass were impressively clear and clean and the\ninner blinds, panneled, were often closed at the bottom.\nI remember well the things that were said about Marnia's lover, the Irish\nyouth, whose mother had made a fortune by selling booze in a dive, downtown.\nIt was remarked that he was a sport, a drunkard, an irresponsible lout,\na Catholic,\nand that he was known to have an affair with a woman other than\nMarnia, a certain married woman, the wife of a lawyer.\nI remember much that was said about Marnia and her lover\nMarnia, whose blood was old and accepted, Marnia the Yankee, and Ter-\nrence the Irishman, the upstart, offspring of a biddy who sold booze.\nIt was said that Terrence, drunk, escorted Marnia to a ball, one given in\nhonor of the Governor,\nand that he tottered through the dance\nbut that Marnia danced proudly,\nand that she, departing with her fuddled lover, proudly helped him to\ndescend the stairs,\non the last of which he reeled, senseless, to fall to the floor of the lobby,\nand to sprawl there.\nIt was said that Marnia quietly called for a carriage,\nand that she rode away proudly, imperviously, with Terrence slouching\nbeside her.\nThere was a time that Marnia was ill for months, mysteriously ill, during\nwhich time the lover came not once to the house\nand then it was said that Terrence had abandoned her.\nCertain things were said in whispers,\naccompanied with leers, nods, shrugs.\nI remember that during that time,\nthe mother often sat alone in the garden.\nIt was said, by the neighbors, that she was sullen.\nIt was said that no doubt she approved of the way that Marnia carried on\nwith Terrence."}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1736, "texte": "One afternoon, however, with Marnia convalescent, Terrence appeared\nagain at the house.\nNext morning, Marnia was seen for a moment at a window.\nAfter that she was often seen with Terrence.\nAt times she lay in the hammock, on the dark verandah, with Terrence\nsitting beside her.\nAt other times she sat in a large upholstered chair, in the dark garden,\nwith Terrence sitting at her feet.\nAt first they talked not much, and never save in murmurs, but later they\ntalked more, much more, and louder.\nAt length they strolled together about the garden, Terrence supporting\nher tenderly, and each speaking in dulcet undertones to the other.\nMarnia recovered.\nIt was July.\nThere were no roses\nnone grew in the dark garden\nno roses save a few outside the picket fence, a few blush roses, in another\ngarden, a garden exposed to the sunlight.\nOne afternoon, while the lovers lingered in the garden, the dark garden....\nthe lovers standing face to face under the branches of a plum treee....\nthe breezes, bouyant, enraptured, teasing the branches, the pregnant\nbranches, one and all\nMarnia reached impulsively through the picket fence,\nand plucked a warm rose from a bush in the sunny garden.\nShe laughed.\nShe pinned the rose on Terrence.\nAcross her face, upturned to his, there passed an aureate flash,\none which stole through the foliage of the plum tree\nunder which they, the lovers, stood together.\nI cannot but remember her countenance.\nI cannot but remember the countenance of Terrence.\nThere has never been upturned to me a countenance such as that of\nMarnia,\nas it was at that moment,\nand I have never since beheld a countenence such as that of Terrence,\nas it was at the time.\nIt was latter August.\nThe winds had begun to shudder, to whine."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1700, "texte": "The lovers, who had said their say, perhaps, but who spent their after-\nnoons in the garden, as usual, read to each other, or played at chess.\nOne afternoon, Terrence did not appear.\nMarnia sat alone in the garden.\nShe waited.\nShe read.\nThe winds, shuddering, whining, moved restlessly through the pickets.\nThey jostled the branches of the plum trees.\nThey jostled the branches of the rose bushes, too, on which the scrawny\npericarps, crimson, like the rouged faces of old and desperate courtesans, nodded,\nas if in resignation.\nMarnia waited.\nShe glanced up, frequently, toward the street, and once, as if startled,\nshe glanced behind her.\nShe waited, reading, while the afternoon waned.\nSuddenly there appeared a hack, an empty hack, which stopped at the\nfront door.\nThe driver hurriedly rang the doorbell, and hurriedly spoke with the mother.\nMarnia dropped her book.\nShe rushed across the lawn.\nShe listened.\nShe disappeared in the house.\nIn a moment she reappeared, dressed for the street.\nShe entered the hack.\nShe was driven rapidly away.\nThat was the day that Terrence died.\nIt was said that he was killed.\nIt was said that Terrence was killed in a fist fight,\nin which he defended the name of Marnia.\nSome one hit him over the heart, and within an hour he died.\nIt was said that Marnia reached him\nin time to hear him whisper her name, and to receive his kisses.\nIt was said that she sat alone, and long, beside the dead man,\nand that she kissed his distracted mother.\nIt was said that Marnia, with her mother, went to the church, at the fu-\nneral of Terrence, and to the grave, at his burial.\nI cannot remember Marnia after the day that Terrence was killed.\nI saw her no more in the garden."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 445, "texte": "I often heard moans that came from a certain chamber window, and once,\nin the night, I heard loud sobs, and a shriek or two.\nDuring the autumn I saw her mother, silent, and apparently indifferent,\nor even oblivious, in the garden.\nBut I remember no more about either,\nfor in latter autumn the doors of the house were closed,'the double win-\ndows were fastened to the casements,\nand the neighbors talked of the approach of winter.\n\nWallace Gould."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "17", "page_fin": "21", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 23, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "A Union of Beggars", "titre_sommaire": "A Union of Beggars", "signature_source": "Manuel Komroff", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1938, "texte": "2\n\nA UNION OF BEGGARS.\n\n\" The meeting is called to order, \" shouted the president, rapping on\nthe table with an old fork.\n\" Silence please, \" called someone, as the audience lowered the tone of\nconversation.\n\" You will please give your undivided attention, \" continued the presi-\ndent, \"as this meeting is extremely important. Things have come to such a\nstate that our very existence is threatened. The situation is unparalleled in the\nhistory of the union. As the hour is late I would suggest that we dispense with\nthe reading of the minutes and get straight to work. The floor is open for\ndiscussion. \"\nThe meeting took place in the back room of a squalid flat. Yellow gas\nlights reflected the green painted walls upon the faces of two dozen beggars\ncrowded into the narrow space. The air was filled with the smell of smoke and\nrags. The meeting was called to order.\n\" I would like to impress upon the minds of the members the importance\nof this meeting, \" said the man with the tattoed forehead. \" In former years,\nas you all know, we had the run of the city practically to ourselves ; but now we\nare threatened with a different state of things. Since the high cost of living\nmany people have come into the streets to follow our profession and altho we,\nat one time, thought of taking them into the union, we see now that it is\ngood we did not.\n\" However, these men could not earn a living at their former profes-\nsions and we should tolerate them, to a certain extent. We should even\ninstruct them a little so that in time they will learn that co-operation is more\nprofitable than competition. No matter how untrained and inartistic, we\nbore with them as a necessary evil. But now things are different, it seems as\ntho everyone has taken to begging. It's impossible to walk through a street\nwithout meeting three or four. They are so many that it becomes impos-\nsible for skilled workers to earn a living. If we are not to be deprived"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2691, "texte": "of our professional rights, something must be done to check this state of\naffairs. \"\nThen the blind man stood up, removed his blue glasses, and said :\n\" Our friend is right, something must be done. I have been turning the\nproblem over in my mind and to me there appear but three solutions. Either\nwe must unionize the entire crowd, that is, take them into our union\nand form new branches ; or we must protest to the city authorities against\nthe scabbing on our union and require a severe examination for license to\npractice the profession, or, we must declare ' open shop ' and go out and\ncompete with them; relying, of course, on our experience and past training\nto out-do them. To my mind, these are the only three ways open to us,\nand all have their objections.\n\" First, if we take the whole crowd into the union we run great risk of\ndegrading the profession. Professors are begging ! In fact it has come to\nsuch a state that everyone thinks he can be a beggar as though it were an\nunskilled trade and not an old, well founded profession. And as though the\nprofession were without an art. Will we take such men as these into our\nranks — men without experience or training — just from the streets ?\n\"No ! We must think of some other plan. If we protest to the city au-\nthorities against scabbing we injure ourselves, at the start, by appealing to\npublic sympathy; and secondly, it is doubtful whether the authorities would\ndo anything in this matter, for they surely realize that in these changing times\nthey themselves may soon be required to seek a new profession. Then my\nthird plan, namely to declare ' open shop ' is also not very good, for it would\nindeed be difficult. It's hard to compete against a teacher or a former pol-\niceman, for no matter how unskilled they are there is something about them\nthat attracts. What is to be done ? \"\n\" Does anyone else want the floor ? \" called the chairman, and as no-\nbody responded he continued :\n\" Perhaps our colleague Jim will tell us what he thinks of the problems\nbefore us. I call upon him as we know him to be a tactful and artistic\nworker. Perhaps he will explain to us his new method of coping with the\nsituation.\nJim was a man in shreds, the greater part of his clothing consisting of\ncords and colored rags. He stood up very slowly, looked about and began :\n\" Friends ! Nothing can be solved in our line of work without a good deal\nof thought. That is why it is silly to think of taking untrained persons into our\nunion. We all agree that it is becoming harder and harder to work in the\nstreets each day. So I said to myself, ' I must think of some plan. ' And\nI did ! First, I asked myself, ' Who has money now ? ' And the answer"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2706, "texte": "came ' Those who have made it now. ' ' And who have made it now ?' The\nrich people with the estates ? No ! The Middle Class, of course, the little\nbrokers, and stock gamblers ; the exchange merchants and other profiteers.\nTherefore I decided to work the offices ; the little rooms in the big buildings.\n\" I took my time the first few days and made observations. Never hurry !\nI would enter an office slowly and quietly and go straight to the clerk and say\nsoftly in a tone of ' have pity ' : ' The foxes have holes, and the birds of the\nair have nests; but the son of man hath not where to lay his head ? '\n\" The proprietors of these offices were not to be found. And the clerks\nwere so ignorant that they did not understand that I compared them to foxes\nand birds. Besides this they held a powerful weapon and that was : ' I am\nsorry, but the boss is not in. ' I had to meet this reply, so I dug up a story\nand since then have had little difficulty.\n\" It works something like this ; I walk into an office, take off my hat;\n— always slowfy, and stand near the door. If I get a fee, well and good ;\nif not, I wait. A little two-by-four clerk sits at a large desk, and as soon as\nI enter, pretends to be extremely busy. After a while he glances up and\nsays, ' I am sorry, but the boss is out. ' I do not move and remain as though\nI did not understand., Again he will look up and say, ' The boss is not in. '\nAnd once more, ' What do you want, the boss is not in. '\n\" Then I say, 'Yes, I see the boss is not in, and as you can give me noth-\ning, please allow me to give you something. Let me tell you a little joke ? '\n\" ' I have no time, don't bother me, the boss is not in, ' he replies.\nBut just a little one, I am sure you will not be sorry ' I insist and start\nthe story :\n\" Once upon a time, there lived a Hebrew whose name was Moe. Like\nmost men he had two brains in his head, a big and a little brain. His big brain\nwas very, very fine for he used it often. It was the brain he made his money\nwith. But the little brain was very weak for with this brain he gave charity.\nI do not say that Moe was a miser, but I do know that his little brain had so\nlittle exercise that it became limp and began to rot. This became so serious\nthat it had to be taken from his head by a surgical operation. And as, ac-\ncording to the Hebrew religion, no part of the human body may be thrown away,\nthe little brain was placed in a cigar box and buried in the cemetery. A small\ntomb-stone no bigger than a cash book marked the spot with the inscription:\n' Moe's Little Brain \\\n\" On the day of atonement, according to the Hebrew faith, the Lord walks\namong the dead with his large ledger checking the names. He knocks on a"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2775, "texte": "stone or grave, and those that are buried answer, present or here. But when\nthe Lord knocked on the little stone there came no answer. And again\nhe knocked and there came no answer. He compared the inscription with his\nbook and called, Moe's Little Brain, are you there ? And with these words\nhe struck the earth such a blow with his staff that it almost split in two,\nas he placed his ear close to the grave.\n\" And then came a little thin voice from below : ' Please mister, the boss\nis not in. '\n\" This story averages exactly fifty cents. It is a high class entertainment\nthat I propose to give and naturall.y the fees must be according to the work\nand skill of the practitioner. When the offices are exhausted I will find some\nother plan ; but I will not go back to the streets with the common scum of the\nearth. If a man wants to be a bricklayer he must first know that bricks are\nmade of clay. If he wants to be a lawyer he must know that documents are\nmade of words. And if he wants to succeed as a beggar he must realize that\nthe foundation of the profession is psychology. \"\nThe audience listened attentively to the advice of Jim and after a brief\nsilence there were many calls for the floor.\n\" I would just like to ask a question, \" said the man with one arm. \"In\nformer years a great deal of our income was derived from the church steps and\na good deal more in the name of religion, but now that the free thought move-\nment is attracting such wide interest, and that anti-religious literature is\nsold on almost every corner, is not another source of our incomes threatened ?\nMy question is this : Is there any way of deriving profit from the masses who\nhave forsaken the church ? Would it be proper to ask for fees in the name of\nVoltaire ?\n\" Our comrade Jim \" said the man who could dislocate his left hip and\nthereby make that leg three inches shorter, \" has just touched upon the very\nsubject. I should consider the story he is using now as a mild and inoffensive,\nsatire. In work of this kind, style is important. In the cloak of art much can\nbe done. However, his first quotation regarding the foxes and the birds is a\nmethod of which I would not approve as it appears to me to offend our re-\nligious clients. It is irony ; and when that is used against religion the message\nbecomes agnostic and therefore offensive to certain people. However, when\na little satire is used it tends to create an impression of non-religion which\nis not antagonistic nor offensive. In working the non-religious masses we\nshould be extremely careful not to offend the others for they are our oldest\nand still our best clients. \"\n\" The hour is growing late, \" said the president, \" and I feel that we are\nmore or less digressing from the main issue. Also, because of the complexity"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 342, "texte": "of the questions before us which cannot be decided tonight, I would suggest\nthat this meeting be adjourned till next Sunday night, when we will hear\nthe report of the ways and means committee. A full attendance is request-\ned and please be early so we may start on time. As I hear no objection\nI call this meeting ajourned. \"\n\nManuel Komroff."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "22", "page_fin": "22", "image_debut": 24, "image_fin": 24, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Drawing of Igor Strawinsky", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing of Igor Strawinsky", "signature_source": "Pablo Picasso", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 81, "texte": "Pablo Picasso.\nCourtesy of Galerie Rosenberg - Paris.\nDrawing of Igor Strawinsky."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "23", "page_fin": "23", "image_debut": 25, "image_fin": 25, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "Portrait", "titre_sommaire": "Portrait", "signature_source": "André Derain", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 59, "texte": "André: Derain.\nCourtesy of Galerie Simon - Paris.\nPortrait."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "24", "page_fin": "24", "image_debut": 26, "image_fin": 26, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Still Life", "titre_sommaire": "Still Life", "signature_source": "Juan Gris", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 57, "texte": "JUAN Gris.\nCourtesy of Galerie Simon - Paris.\nStill Life."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "25", "page_fin": "25", "image_debut": 27, "image_fin": 27, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Painting", "titre_sommaire": "Painting", "signature_source": "Albert Gleizes", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 25, "texte": "Albert Gleizes.\nPainting."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "26", "page_fin": "32", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 34, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Chinese Poems of J. Wing", "titre_sommaire": "Chinese Poems of J. Wing", "signature_source": "J. Wing ; E. Powys Mathers", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 667, "texte": "CHINESE POEMS OF J. WING.\n\nI.\nI did not ask another miracle for my day\nThan you undressing beside me,\nWhite under the sunlight;\nBut, look, also, the scarlet moss\nHas turned the water to wine\nIn our pool.\nYellow moon goes up\nWith the smell of night water among rushes.\nEvenings that withered like flowers,\nWe have brought to Barbara\nHours of winter-grey, but also\nThe green of the evergreen, varnished in warm rain.\n\n2.\nThe heavy blue waters of the night\nHave flooded through the sun's scarlet rocks,\nFilling the valley.\nThe flowers are grey as in water,\nThe scarves of mist quiver like sea-weeds ;\nI expect bubbles in the wake of a bird\nWhich swims across the window."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 743, "texte": "Barbara walks with a tawny candle\nOn the pavement of the sea.\n\n3.\nThe square small garden of my paper\nHas turned blue in the night-fall,\nBut my pen works late among the flowers.\nI have written that Li Po, being drunk,\nSought to gather the stars and moon\nTo scent the bed-chamber of his mistress ;\nAnd so was drowned.\nAnd I caught cold yesterday,\nCutting wisteria,\nStanding in the dew by the North wall,\nFor Barbara.\n\n4.\nThe flower-crowned captain of my boat\nLooks down into green and black water.\nSee, faint gold carp and purple fan-fish\nWhich float above two eyes,\nBlack crescents holding child-stars of silver.\nOver all swims\nThat lithe white uncaught fish,\nThe March moon.\n\n5.\nIn the unmoving water\nThat brims this old quarry of grey stones"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 761, "texte": "I have watched an olive-brown perch\nParading his black bars,\nFlirting and floating an open orange fan.\nEach stick of it was thorned and cruel\nLike the bright-coloured fans of emperors\nAnd young girls.\n\n6.\nThe breakers far to the left at night,\nForeign cannons splintering long ago\nBamboo junks of the two-sword men.\nLines of black slaves\nRunning up the beach,\nTo fall exhausted forward.\nThey carry bar-silver against their breasts ;\nIt drags them down in this Spanish sea all night\n\n7.\nYour childishness is a gold hill,\nThere is a sheer fall from it\nInto the cloudy monotonous sea.\nYou dance high in a small blue vesture,\nWith white arms catching at the sky\nAnd feet hardly touching the gold earth.\nYou dance swift and sweet and warm\nTo the edge and back again."}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 727, "texte": "8.\nThree years ago\nI could spin various tops\nBetter even than the masters of song ;\nAnd for this I think you loved me.\nEven if I spin Tu Fu to-day,\nThe gold green banded,\nAnd catch him on his cord\nAnd dance him on the wine-cup's edge,\nThat crystal bridge,\nYou are away learning from silly lips\nThe Love-me-at-evening Song.\nThe wine-cup and the cord remain.\n\n9.\nI have painted abominable devils\nFor your great delight,\nYellow apes with alligators' heads\nAnd scarlet spots ; blue mouths.\nBut now that you demand\nA picture of ourselves playing together,\nWhat shall I put down ?\nA band of cherry-coloured fire\nAcross black paper ?\n\nIO.\nA purple flag-flower, I looked down\nInto the water of your soul,\nA silver trickle in the hills."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 660, "texte": "You wooed down to you and caught\nOne of my leaves.\nI am a splintered mash\nOf green and water and mauve\nEaten by the black teeth of the rocks\n\nII.\nMy mind was an ivory box\nBefore you came ;\nCarved with sayings,\nHolding a scentless pellet\nOf green burning-gum.\nBut now\nHalf the earth is filled\nWith the sweet eternal smell of pain,\nAnd the box is empty.\n\nI2.\nWhen you sat in your dark silk chair,\nRipe with fat fruits of yellow and red silk,\nActive with blue lithe animals,\nPressing your scented rose-ended\nPeach-coloured feet against my face,\nI was humiliated, as you desired.\nBut when your male friend\nTalked to me about Eastern learning\nI was more humiliated."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 617, "texte": "I3.\nA thousand nasturtiums\nBlowing the fire-coloured music of their trumpets,\nPutting forward green shields,\nWalk up the path beside me.\nUnder their brass hangers\nThey move long legs of green\nWith my slow feet.\nIn the yellow rooms of hot hearts\nThey shook their golden hands\nWhen I came back to them.\n\nI4.\nMy mauve dancer, columbine,\nHoisted her pale green flare\nAnd spread her trefoil carpets\nOf crushed emerald.\nShe leapt in the wind\nOn the powdered purple of her feet\nBelow an airy tyrian skirt\nSilken yellow\nto white nakedness.\n\nI5.\nYou swagger from your dry tree,\nSetting apricot vans against the wind,\nHibiscus."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 229, "texte": "Your heart is blood,\nYour white quill comes up out of blood,\nAs if you fed on the murder\nOf crimson roses.\n«\nThe tips of your glad flames\nRise from a fibre of powdered starlight\nAnd you are merry.\n\nTranslated by\nE. Powys Mathers."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "26", "page_fin": "26", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 28, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.1", "titre_corps": "1.", "titre_sommaire": "1.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 27, "fin_caractere_exclue": 414, "texte": "I.\nI did not ask another miracle for my day\nThan you undressing beside me,\nWhite under the sunlight;\nBut, look, also, the scarlet moss\nHas turned the water to wine\nIn our pool.\nYellow moon goes up\nWith the smell of night water among rushes.\nEvenings that withered like flowers,\nWe have brought to Barbara\nHours of winter-grey, but also\nThe green of the evergreen, varnished in warm rain."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "26", "page_fin": "27", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 29, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.2", "titre_corps": "2.", "titre_sommaire": "2.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 416, "fin_caractere_exclue": 667, "texte": "2.\nThe heavy blue waters of the night\nHave flooded through the sun's scarlet rocks,\nFilling the valley.\nThe flowers are grey as in water,\nThe scarves of mist quiver like sea-weeds ;\nI expect bubbles in the wake of a bird\nWhich swims across the window."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 61, "texte": "Barbara walks with a tawny candle\nOn the pavement of the sea."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "27", "page_fin": "27", "image_debut": 29, "image_fin": 29, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.3", "titre_corps": "3.", "titre_sommaire": "3.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 63, "fin_caractere_exclue": 415, "texte": "3.\nThe square small garden of my paper\nHas turned blue in the night-fall,\nBut my pen works late among the flowers.\nI have written that Li Po, being drunk,\nSought to gather the stars and moon\nTo scent the bed-chamber of his mistress ;\nAnd so was drowned.\nAnd I caught cold yesterday,\nCutting wisteria,\nStanding in the dew by the North wall,\nFor Barbara."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "27", "page_fin": "27", "image_debut": 29, "image_fin": 29, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.4", "titre_corps": "4.", "titre_sommaire": "4.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 417, "fin_caractere_exclue": 675, "texte": "4.\nThe flower-crowned captain of my boat\nLooks down into green and black water.\nSee, faint gold carp and purple fan-fish\nWhich float above two eyes,\nBlack crescents holding child-stars of silver.\nOver all swims\nThat lithe white uncaught fish,\nThe March moon."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "27", "page_fin": "28", "image_debut": 29, "image_fin": 30, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.5", "titre_corps": "5.", "titre_sommaire": "5.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 677, "fin_caractere_exclue": 743, "texte": "5.\nIn the unmoving water\nThat brims this old quarry of grey stones"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 200, "texte": "I have watched an olive-brown perch\nParading his black bars,\nFlirting and floating an open orange fan.\nEach stick of it was thorned and cruel\nLike the bright-coloured fans of emperors\nAnd young girls."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "28", "page_fin": "28", "image_debut": 30, "image_fin": 30, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.6", "titre_corps": "6.", "titre_sommaire": "6.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 202, "fin_caractere_exclue": 481, "texte": "6.\nThe breakers far to the left at night,\nForeign cannons splintering long ago\nBamboo junks of the two-sword men.\nLines of black slaves\nRunning up the beach,\nTo fall exhausted forward.\nThey carry bar-silver against their breasts ;\nIt drags them down in this Spanish sea all night"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "28", "page_fin": "28", "image_debut": 30, "image_fin": 30, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.7", "titre_corps": "7.", "titre_sommaire": "7.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 483, "fin_caractere_exclue": 761, "texte": "7.\nYour childishness is a gold hill,\nThere is a sheer fall from it\nInto the cloudy monotonous sea.\nYou dance high in a small blue vesture,\nWith white arms catching at the sky\nAnd feet hardly touching the gold earth.\nYou dance swift and sweet and warm\nTo the edge and back again."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "29", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 31, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.8", "titre_corps": "8.", "titre_sommaire": "8.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 356, "texte": "8.\nThree years ago\nI could spin various tops\nBetter even than the masters of song ;\nAnd for this I think you loved me.\nEven if I spin Tu Fu to-day,\nThe gold green banded,\nAnd catch him on his cord\nAnd dance him on the wine-cup's edge,\nThat crystal bridge,\nYou are away learning from silly lips\nThe Love-me-at-evening Song.\nThe wine-cup and the cord remain."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "29", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 31, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.9", "titre_corps": "9.", "titre_sommaire": "9.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 358, "fin_caractere_exclue": 626, "texte": "9.\nI have painted abominable devils\nFor your great delight,\nYellow apes with alligators' heads\nAnd scarlet spots ; blue mouths.\nBut now that you demand\nA picture of ourselves playing together,\nWhat shall I put down ?\nA band of cherry-coloured fire\nAcross black paper ?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "30", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 32, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.10", "titre_corps": "10.", "titre_sommaire": "10.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 628, "fin_caractere_exclue": 727, "texte": "IO.\nA purple flag-flower, I looked down\nInto the water of your soul,\nA silver trickle in the hills."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 140, "texte": "You wooed down to you and caught\nOne of my leaves.\nI am a splintered mash\nOf green and water and mauve\nEaten by the black teeth of the rocks"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "30", "page_fin": "30", "image_debut": 32, "image_fin": 32, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.11", "titre_corps": "11.", "titre_sommaire": "11.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 142, "fin_caractere_exclue": 351, "texte": "II.\nMy mind was an ivory box\nBefore you came ;\nCarved with sayings,\nHolding a scentless pellet\nOf green burning-gum.\nBut now\nHalf the earth is filled\nWith the sweet eternal smell of pain,\nAnd the box is empty."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "30", "page_fin": "30", "image_debut": 32, "image_fin": 32, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.12", "titre_corps": "12.", "titre_sommaire": "12.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 353, "fin_caractere_exclue": 660, "texte": "I2.\nWhen you sat in your dark silk chair,\nRipe with fat fruits of yellow and red silk,\nActive with blue lithe animals,\nPressing your scented rose-ended\nPeach-coloured feet against my face,\nI was humiliated, as you desired.\nBut when your male friend\nTalked to me about Eastern learning\nI was more humiliated."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "31", "page_fin": "31", "image_debut": 33, "image_fin": 33, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.13", "titre_corps": "13.", "titre_sommaire": "13.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 300, "texte": "I3.\nA thousand nasturtiums\nBlowing the fire-coloured music of their trumpets,\nPutting forward green shields,\nWalk up the path beside me.\nUnder their brass hangers\nThey move long legs of green\nWith my slow feet.\nIn the yellow rooms of hot hearts\nThey shook their golden hands\nWhen I came back to them."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "31", "page_fin": "31", "image_debut": 33, "image_fin": 33, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.14", "titre_corps": "14.", "titre_sommaire": "14.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 302, "fin_caractere_exclue": 531, "texte": "I4.\nMy mauve dancer, columbine,\nHoisted her pale green flare\nAnd spread her trefoil carpets\nOf crushed emerald.\nShe leapt in the wind\nOn the powdered purple of her feet\nBelow an airy tyrian skirt\nSilken yellow\nto white nakedness."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "31", "page_fin": "32", "image_debut": 33, "image_fin": 34, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.12.15", "titre_corps": "15.", "titre_sommaire": "15.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 533, "fin_caractere_exclue": 617, "texte": "I5.\nYou swagger from your dry tree,\nSetting apricot vans against the wind,\nHibiscus."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 196, "texte": "Your heart is blood,\nYour white quill comes up out of blood,\nAs if you fed on the murder\nOf crimson roses.\n«\nThe tips of your glad flames\nRise from a fibre of powdered starlight\nAnd you are merry."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "33", "page_fin": "38", "image_debut": 35, "image_fin": 40, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "The Function of Criticism?", "titre_sommaire": "The Function of Criticism?", "signature_source": "Conrad Aiken", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2192, "texte": "3\n\nTHE FUNCTION OF CRITICISM ?\n\nThe influence of Benedetto Croce on contemporary literary criticism both\nin Europe and in America has been enormous. His \" disciples \" are nu-\nmerous and intelligent, for the most part, and the ideas in his Aesthetic, insofar\nas they are applicable in simple fashion to the writing of criticism, whether\nliterary or journalistic, have been rapidly disseminated and rapidly absorbed.\nThat such ideas form a relatively slight part of his book is true, and this may\nbe considered fortunate or unfortunate, according to the point of view, — the\nFreudian will perhaps consider it a piece of luck. But that doctrine of Croce's\n(to which our attention has lately been called again and again) that a work\nof art should be compared not with something else but with its own ideal self,\nis familiar enough in a hundred gradations. I have paraphrased it, of course —\nthe reader may reshape it to suit himself. But however expressed it is re-\ngarded as a blow at the so-called \" canons \" of taste (which admittedly do not\nabsolutely exist) and at that sort of criticism which pronounces, in accordance\nwith any such canons, pseudo-impartial judgments : or measures the ex-\ncellence of a work of art only in the terms of tradition. The new criticism, —so\nwe are told — should be solely interpretative. Its business will be to un-\nderstand, to appreciate.\nThere is naturally a great deal to recommend this doctrine. How charm-\ning and how valuable a criticism may be which follows it anyone knows\nwho has read \" The Symbolist Movement \" of Arthur Symons. And reason-\nable enough the doctrine seems when we consider, as we must, the non-\nexistence, or at any rate, the extreme vagueness, the almost mythological\ncharacter, of aesthetic law. Attempts to define beauty have invariably failed.\nPlato, Aristotle, Shelley, Goethe, Lessing, Keats, Arnold, Croce, Santayana,\nmay have given us some notion of what they felt it to be, but the thing itself\nremains unrealized. The best definition of it is as inadequate as a definition\nof a bird which describes it as a thing made with feathers. For beauty is not\na thing, but an emotion, and an emotion cannot be photographed. In the\n*"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2975, "texte": "presence of this or that phenomenon we experience the emotion we call\nbeauty ; and while it is of interest to keep records of the phenomena which\nprecipitate this emotion, the clue to the effect of these phenomena will be\nfound only in ourselves, for it is a commonplace that what is to one man an\nobject of beauty is to another an object of ugliness. It is precisely out of\nthis apparently hopeless relativity that certain modern critics have generated\ntheir thesis of aesthetic solipsism. \" Since there can be no standards \" (they\nsay) \" let us make a virtue of multiplicity. us avoid saying that we like\nor dislike, since that is merely to make record of idiosyncrasy, let us avoid the\nterms ' good ' and ' bad ', and all categories. Let our criticism be nothing\nbut exegesis, since values cannot be said to exist, and since one man's opinion\nis as good as another's. \" But how many critics who see the charm of this at-\ntitude foresee also all its implications ? What will result from it in\nthe world of art ? When we have ceased to blame or praise in accordance with\nany standards save those which the particular work of art carries implicit\nwithin itself, may we look for the prompt arrival of a Golden Age, in\nwhich all kinds of art will flourish side by side for the world to choose\nfrom ?\nWithout, for the moment, taking refuge — and possibly a dangerous\nrefuge — in behaviorist or Freudian psychology, one may none the less be\npermitted to be somewhat doubtful. This doubt may take two shapes. In\nthe first place our critics of the new order assure us that what they most desire\nto eliminate from aesthetics is dogmatism, which, whether of praise or censure,\nis vicious. But just how does our new critic escape this ? Is he so naive as\nto suppose that he escapes it merely by removing from his vocabulary the\nwords 'like' and 'dislike', 'good' and 'bad', 'beautiful' and 'ugly', 'great'\nand ' minor' ? He does, of course, no such thing. Suppose he limits\nhimself to \" criticism \" of only those works of art with which he finds himself\nmost in sympathy, limiting himself, again, in such cases, to saying that the\nartist \" has endeavoured to do such-and-such, and has been successful, or bril-\nliantly successful, or only partially successful \" ; and avoiding any attempt\nat classification, any comparison with other sorts or excellences of art. Will\nhe any the less be categorizing ? What on earth is he doing if not saying in\nso many words \"This is the sort of thing I consider important?\" And in\nignoring other sorts and excellences of art he is treating them to just the kind of\ndogmatism he pretends to despise, with the sole difference that is is not out-\nspoken, and is therefore not honest. For the Quarterly to have ignored Keats\nwould have been essentially to have reviewed him just as dogmatically as he\nwas reviewed : it would have been tantamount to saying \" We do not consider\nthis poet to be of any importance. \" Iyikes and dislikes are inevitable, and"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3014, "texte": "it is no use trying to pretend that they are not, or deceiving one another\nby leaving them merely implicit.\nSo much for our first doubt. Our \" interpretative \" critic is, therefore,\nseen to be just as dogmatic as any other, but prefers to veil his dogmatism,\nto leave it for his reader as a none too imponderable overtone. Our second\ndoubt takes us further afield. It concerns the function of criticism, and this\ndoubt is more important; for if we know what the function of criticism is, or can\nguess at it, we may then be able to decide better what its nature should be,\nand whether it should be candidly or uncandidly dogmatic. What, then, is\nthe function of criticism ? By far the commonest answer at present would be,\nno doubt, that criticism should act as mediator between artist and audience :\nthat it should explain. And that this purpose in criticism always has been,\nis, and perhaps always will be among the most important of its characteristics\ncan hardly be doubted. We might even go further and say that it is the most\nideal of its characteristics. It would be an ideal world, certainly, in which\nthe poet's new book should be greeted by a thousand reviews in none of which\nwould be a single slip of blame or praise, but only a studious effort to make\ntransparent the poet's meaning. It would in fact have to be an ideal world — a\nworld in which every poet wrote poetry worth reading ; for with the literary\njournals filled with analyses and interpretations, week after week, and no indi-\ncations anywhere of choice, one would perhaps otherwise waste a great deal\nof time in search of what one liked, and one would be certain to miss many\na treasure. Yes, it would have to be an ideal world, or a world in which\nliterature was a thing of the past. If literature were no longer a living\nthing, if all the evidence, so to speak, were \"in \", then criticism might\nbecome an exact science. Animosities and jealousies would no longer be\nengaged, it would cease to be important from the point of view of poet x-\nthat such-and-such a dogma should be true or not true, and the geologists\nof the soul or mind could without fear of passionate interruption proceed\nto delve through the stratified deposits of the literary generations. But\nour world is not an ideal world, and the \" evidence \" is only beginning ;\nno one knows what the weight of it or the direction of it will be. Literature\nchanges constantly, it may develop in a manner totally unforeseen, and who\nknows if the new book by z. or y. is the turning point or not ? z. or Y.\ndo not know, certainly, though, of course, they hope so ; and it is exactly in\nthis situation that we should begin to see that criticism, under the conditions\nwe now live in, has a function which we have overlooked, a function not perhaps\nnoble, though perhaps, equally, not ignoble, but a function quite natural and\nnecessary. This function is not easy to describe, for it is complex. Perhaps,\nin its light, we might justly say that criticism is the artist's weapon, both of"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2988, "texte": "offense and defence, the weapon whereby he destroys or lames artistic ten-\ndencies inimical to his own ; whereby on occasion he is himself destroyed.\nIn a world in which there were no absolute aesthetic values, such a weapon\nwould be of paramount importance. Where there is no law, strength will\nprevail. Under such conditions every artistic cult would have its cohort of\nBalearic slingers, and to the victors would belong the spoils, in the shape of\npublic acclaim. The natural order of things, as we are accustomed to see\nit, or think we see it, would be reversed : the sole standard of excellence\nwould be success, that poetry would be best which was most brilliantly and\npersuasively brought to our attention, those theories of art would seem to\nus best which were most ingeniously argued, and for which our sensibili-\nties, our mental tone, had been, by the artist's advanced guard, most cun-\nningly and richly prepared. A moral chaos, truly, in which we see our-\nselves doomed to be the slaves of those slingers whose pebbles hit us hardest\nand most accurately, whose ideas, in other words, are most skilfully chosen.\nAre we glad we do not live in such a world ? If so, we are glad prematurely,\nfor it is not demonstrable that our world is much different. The new aes-\nthetic teaches us that standards must be abolished in art — classes, grades,\ncategories, also — and that the only question we have a right to ask before\na poem or statue is ' What is the artist saying, and with what skill does he say\nit ? ' But why stop even there — why not push this aesthetic solipsism to its\nextreme, and admit that we have no right to question even the artist's ' skill' ?\nHow do we know what his conception of ' skill' may be ? ' Skill in expres-\nsion ' — for some that will mean complete expression, for some incomplete,\nfor some it will mean the explicit, for some the implicit. No, we like the\npoem or statue, or we do not like it, and that is all we have any \" right \"\nto say. There is no body of aesthetic \" law \" on which we can call for\nsubstantiation.\nIf we live, therefore, in a world in which all aesthetic values are vague\nand debatable, we observe sharply how important is criticism in a way we had\nnot foreseen. For if these values are debatable, then criticism is the debate, —\nit is the extraordinary, the indispensable process by which, whether we are\nquerulous, abusive, analytical, mystic, candidly or uncandidly dogmatic, we\nstrive to discover aesthetic law, not consciously always, but more often un-\nconsciously, for it is a search which the individual carries forward not with\nthe disinterestedness of the scientist so much as with the passion of the zealot,\nintent on demonstrating that his own tastes and hence his principles, are and\nshould be the norm. We see here what we see so often on other planes, the es-\nsentially competitive order of things, the cruel struggle for survival. Criti-\ncism is the battle-ground of the arts. One theory goes out against another,"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3036, "texte": "and the better theory, the better method wins. ' Better ' ? By ' better ' we\nmean the one which meets with most approval for the moment, whether the\nmoment be a decade, a century, or the whole expense of what Henry Adams\nwould call a historical \" phase Eventually it may itself go down, in part\nor wholly, before another theory, another method, for in the meantime the\nminds and customs of men will have changed. Criticism seen in such a way\npresents itself not as something separate from art, but as an integral part of\nit, almost indeed as the summing up of its members, its consciousness, throw-\ning over it a sharp and searching light which (in accordance with the par-\nticular phase of thought) will dissolve some portions only to cast other por-\ntions into relief. To remove or alter criticism, under these circumstances, will\nbe in all probability to alter art itself and perhaps profoundly . . .\nAnd at this point we reach naturally a fresh view of the contemporary\nquarrel between the \" interpretative \" and \" judicial \" critics. The inter-\npretative critic, as we have seen, decries dogmatism, or positiveness, but\nhides his head in the sand of it none the less. He is as rigidly selective (and\nwhat is that but dogmatic ?) as his more candid brother, but believes in\nbeing more indirect, more deprecatory. Well, which method in criticism is\nmore stimulating to art, which will tend to provoke and release the greater\nnumber of artistic energies ? A question to which the answer is by no means\na foregone conclusion, but it seems to me that the answer whould rather be\nin favor of the dogmatist, whose opinions are vividly outspoken, than of the\ninterpreter, whose opinions are patiently concealed. For since we are talking\nof energies, why should we not take towards art, for the moment the kinetic\nview ? And if we take the kinetic view, it should be clear enough, I think,\nthat the sharper the clash between one theory and another, and the greater\nthe inequalities in level, the greater will be the forces generated, the more\nvaried and powerful will be the successive changes in art. The rivalries\nof factions, the shock of opposed opinions, the relentless warfare between\nidea and idea — these things generate heat and excitement, which are forms\nof energy, and stimulate the individual artist to greater and greater efforts.\nSavage analysis, blind panegyric, even personal abuse, may be justified from\nthis standpoint, for while they are often preposterous in the concrete, and some-\ntimes lethal to the individual artist, they contribute vitally to the sum-\ntotal of productive interest in the art in general. Vigorous action and reac-\ntion, powerful artistic movements, are only generated out of powerful forces.\nCriticism helps to give these forces consciousness and direction. But, on\nthe other hand, if we reduce criticism to a uniformity of bland and dispas-\nsionate interpretation, we have reduced in effect this sum total of productive\ninterest well towards a dead level incapable of supplying further energy, or"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2196, "texte": "at the very least we tend so to reduce it. We shall be doing all we can to\nconceal from the individual artist the essentially competitive nature of the\narts, and thus cause him to relax his efforts. And how inconsistent would\nbe such a course with our belief in the relativity of all aesthetic values !\nFor if we reduce all aesthetic activity to solipsism — in other words to indivi-\ndualism — surely we ought not to be afraid of pursuing that course as critics\nwhich seems best calculated to compel the individual artist to exert him-\nself, to develop himself by competition, to grow by struggle. The more fe-\nral the warfare between one art-method and another, the finer will be the\ncompetitive works produced, the intenser will be the energies flung into them.\nAnd every method will have its turn, in accordance with the prevailing sym-\npathies of the moment.\nIs this view extremely speculative ?. . . Perhaps. But it appears to be\nsound enough, as long as our attitude toward art is wholly aesthteic. If, on\nthe other hand, in the absence of anything like uniform aestehtic values,\nwe take refuge, as I suggested earlier, in a purely psychological view of art,\ntaking thought primarily always of its social function, we find ourselves at\nonce contemplating a change in criticism profound and perhaps deadly.\nFor with the advent of a clear psychological understanding of what is so-\ncially useful in art, and of what is socially undesirable in it, we shall have\nreplaced the now vanishing tyranny of religious ethics with a new and uti-\nlitarian ethics ; a replacement only too likely to occur in a world always be-\ncoming more ' democratic '. . . But that is a question which does not for\nthe moment concern us. As long as criticism is based chiefly on ' taste\nlet us hope that it will be opinionated and individual, — armed cap-a-pie with\ntheory, logic, power of analysis, tactile delicacy, knowledge of psychological\ncauses, — but none the less intrepidly individual, springing out of the individual's\nconfidence in the sacred rightness of his own view. Every artist, every cri-\ntic, for himself, and oblivion take the hindmost! This, it seems to me, is\nthe way to great art.\n\nConrad Aiken."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "39", "page_fin": "39", "image_debut": 41, "image_fin": 41, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Bepi Fabiano", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 22, "texte": "Bepi Fabiano.\nDrawing."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "40", "page_fin": "40", "image_debut": 42, "image_fin": 42, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "Frediano Frediani", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 27, "texte": "Frediano Frediani.\nDrawing."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "41", "page_fin": "44", "image_debut": 43, "image_fin": 46, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Lilacs", "titre_sommaire": "Lilacs", "signature_source": "Amy Lowell", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 850, "texte": "LILACS.\n\nIvilacs,\nFalse blue,\nWhite,\nPurple,\nColour of lilac,\nYour great puffs of flowers\nAre everywhere in this my New England.\nAmong your heart-shaped leaves\nOrange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing\nTheir little weak soft songs ;\nIn the crooks of your branches\nThe bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs\nPeer restlessly through the light and shadow\nOf all Springs.\nLilacs in dooryards\nHolding quiet conversations with an early moon ;\nLilacs watching a deserted house\nSettling sideways into the grass of an old road ;\nLilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom\nAbove a cellar dug into a hill.\nYou are everywhere.\nYou were everywhere.\nYou tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,\nAnd ran along the road beside the boy going to school.\nYou stood by pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1233, "texte": "You persuaded the housewife that her dishpan was of silver\nAnd her husband an image of pure gold.\nYou flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms\nThrough the wide doors of Custom Houses—\nYou, and sandal-wood, and tea,\nCharging the noses of quill-driving clerks\nWhen a ship was in from China.\nYou called to them : \" Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,\nMay is a month for flitting/'\nUntil they writhed 011 their high stools\nAnd wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.\nParadoxical New England clerks,\nWriting inventories in ledgers, reading the \" Song of Solomon \".at night,\nSo many verses before bed-time,\nBecause it was the Bible.\nThe dead fed you\nAmid the slant stones of graveyards.\nPale ghosts who planted you\nCame in the night time\nAnd let their thin hair blow through yonr clustered stems.\nYou are of the green sea,\nAnd of the stone hills which reach a long distance.\nYou are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell\nkites and marbles,\nYou are of great parks where everyone walks and nobody is at home.\nYou cover the blind sides of greenhouses\nAnd lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass\nTo your friends, the grapes, inside.\nIvilacs,\nFalse blue,\nWhite,\nPurple,\nColour of lilac,"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1198, "texte": "You have forgotten your Eastern origin,\nThe veiled women with eyes like panthers,\nThe swollen, aggressive turbans of jewelled Pashas.\nNow you are a very decent flower,\nA reticent flower,\nA curiously clear-cut, candid flower,\nStanding beside clean doorways,\nFriendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles,\nMaking poetry out of a bit of moonlight\nAnd a hundred or two sharp blossoms.\nMaine knows you,\nHas for years and years ;\nNew Hampshire knows you,\nAnd Massachusetts\nAnd Vermont.\nCape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island ;\nConnecticut takes you from a river to the sea.\nYou are brighter than apples,\nSweeter than tulips,\nYou are the great flood of our souls\nBursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts,\nYou are the smell of all Summers,\nThe love of wives and children,\nThe recollection of the gardens of little children,\nYou are State Houses and Charters\nAnd the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows.\nMay is lilac here in New England,\nMay is a thrush singing \" Sun up ! \" on a tip-top ash-tree,\nMay is white clouds behind pine-trees\nPuffed out and marching upon a blue sky.\nMay is a green as no other,\nMay is much sun through small leaves,\nMay is soft earth,"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 519, "texte": "And apple-blossoms,\nAnd windows open to a South Wind.\nMay is a full light wind of lilac\nFrom Canada to Naragansett Bay.\nLilacs,\nFalse blue,\nWhite,\nPurple,\nColour of lilac.\nHeart-leaves of lilac all over New England,\nRoots of lilac under all the soil of New England,\nIvilac in me because I am New England,\nBecause my roots are in it,\nBecause my leaves are of it,\nBecause my flowers are for it,\nBecause it is my country\nAnd I speak to it of itself\nAnd sing of it with my own voice\nSince certainly it is mine.\n\nAmy Lowell."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "45", "page_fin": "45", "image_debut": 47, "image_fin": 47, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Sculpture.", "titre_sommaire": "Sculpture.", "signature_source": "Jacques Lipchitz", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 28, "texte": "Jacques Lipchitz.\nSculpture."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "46", "page_fin": "53", "image_debut": 48, "image_fin": 55, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "He Laughed at the Gods", "titre_sommaire": "He Laughed at the Gods", "signature_source": "James Oppenheim", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2002, "texte": "HE LAUGHED AT THE GODS.\n\nDuring the course of some psychological investigations I was making, I\nfound it necessary to visit an insane asylum near New York. The building was\nno more than an ill-smelling barracks, very desolate : but the young interne,\nwho guided me through the place, finally took me to a series of private rooms,\nwhich were homelike and pleasant and had windows facing the fields and the\nhills. He told me by the way that I must above all things see Dr. Farraday.\nDr. Farraday, he explained, knew a great deal about the human soul: so much\nso that the young doctors often consulted him about puzzling and unusual\ncases.\n\" He is the most interesting man here, \" he told me.\n\" And what is he suffering from ? \" I asked.\nHe smiled. \" You'll have to get his own diagnosis, \"he said. \" Betweeen\nyou and me, I think he has a high regard for our free board and lodging. He\nhas the sort of insanity of the hobo, of the I-Won't-Works. But he came to it\ntoo late in life to make freight cars and hay-lofts at all attractive. He was\ntoo settled down to wander the world, and too — well, insane to work. \"\n\" Well ! \" I laughed, \" I daresay there are many like him — only they are\nquartered on relatives, or wives, or friends. . . In ancient days that form of\ninsanity was highly honorable. It is, isn't it, the insanity of the artist ?\nHis answer was to knock at a door, and a deep and rather pleasing voice\ncried, \" Come in. \" So we went in.\nThe light flooded brightly through the tall wide window, so that at first\nI only saw a dark bulk coming toward us. But I noticed the walls hung with\nmany strange and brilliant drawings, all of a symbolical nature, mythic animals\nand gods, stars and moons, and landscapes that never were. When I was through\nblinking, and had my man on the darker side of me, I saw him quite plainly.\nHe was rather bulky and large, swarthy, and something about his face resembling\nthe face of a turtle.\nHis manner was very courteous, but a little absent. The young interne"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2596, "texte": "excused himself, with a private wink at me, as much as to say : \"I won't inter-\nfere \" ; and so we were left alone.\nI offered him a cigar, which pleased him, and we sat in comfortable arm-\nchairs by the window, and were soon plunged in scientific discussion .. . But\nI saw he was restless. I noticed, too, now, that his clothes were ill-fitting, worn-\nout, patched and rather dirty ; that his nails and fingers were sooted up with\ncrayon and stained with ink ; that his cheeks and chin needed a shave and his\nhair was rather longer than we wear it.\nHis restlessness increased. He rubbed his chin, gazed about abstractedly,\nswung his leg back and forth in a too obvious rhythm. And at last he spoke\nin a voice which did not seem his at all — a voice which appeared to me to belong\nto some other person. The voice he had used was quiet and cool, although sympa-\nthetic. This new voice was personal, hot, and almost bitter.\n\" What is the use of all this talk ?\" he cried out. \"It gets us nowhere.\nIntellect ! science ! theor}*! brain-spinning ! Young man, that is our modern\ndevil. Kill him .. . strangle him out of your soul. He is the Devil of the ice,\nof the cold polar regions. Better a hundred times the old Devil of the burning\nhell, for in fire there is also God ! \"\nFor a moment I thought I was coming to psychic fisticuffs with him ; but\nI reflected, and at once swallowed my pride.\n\" I see, \" I said, looking him in the eyes, \" knew this modern Devil\nvery well ; perhaps intimately. \"\nHe glanced at me.\n\"You sit there, \"he cried, \" a bit of ice yourself. I feel no warmth from\nyou ; I am not a human being to you, but just another case. I\nlook for Christ and find a Devil. But you scientists will never save the world\nwithout love — yea, and hate, too. Fire cleanses and resurrects, but the ice\nfreezes and slays. You would embalm me too in your waste places ; and there\nis no healing in it. Feel this asylum — chilly and cold and full of living death —\nand the blasted crowd waiting for a great lover to cast out their demons, He is\nlate in coming ; he is late in coming. \"\nThe something that was strange in his voice, his manner and in his words\ntroubled me deeply.\n\" You are quite right, \" I said simply. \" Forgive me for my attitude. \"\nHe looked at me attentively and spoke more softly.\n\" There is some hope for you, then, \"he murmured. \" Look, \" and\nhe reached and brought a sheet of drawing paper from the little table\nbeside him.\nHe had drawn a picture in crayon, and done it very well. There was a power-\nful man, with arms crossed on his chest, standing like a Napoleon on an ice-"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2386, "texte": "sheathed rock, and out of the sky a lightning in the form of a great serpent had\nleaped down and was about to fasten his fangs into the man's eyes.\n\" Wonderful! \" I cried. \" And it means ? \"\n\"You tell me what it means, \" he commanded.\nIt flashed intuitively across my mind that it meant: 'He who sees too\nmuch must be struck blind. ' I told him and he was highly pleased :he regarded\nme affectionately.\n\" This is the first human contact I have had in a long time, \"he said. \" Ex-\ncept, of course, some of the lunatics . . . \"\n\" But how, \" I asked, \" can a man see too much, and why is such a man like\nNapoleon ? \"\n\" Ah, \" he said, \" when Christ was shown the kingdoms of the world from a\nhigh mountain, he chose then between Caesar and the Galilean. Seeing, man —\nto see, to know — knowledge, they say, is power .. . But when one is blind\nthen one sees truly .. . sees inwardly. ' They have eyes, but they see not '.. . \"\nI felt his meaning, though, to use the word in his sense, I did not see it.\n\" And what is the serpent ? \" I asked.\n\" The gods. \"\n\" Then you believe in the gods ? \"\n\" I have always believed in them, \" he said in his strange voice again, \" but\nI laughed at them. The great Dr. Farraday laughed at the gods. Believed ?\nOf course. The fool says in his heart, There is no God. And the intellectual\nsays in his heart, There are gods, and I laugh at them. \"\nWe sat in silence, smoking, and now and then I felt him trying to pierce\nme with a look. At last he said :\n\"You are troubled, my friend. \"\n\" Yes, lam troubled, \" I admitted. \"We are all troubled in these days. \"\n\" The days of the great ice, \" he murmured. \" The second Glacial Period. \"\nHe paused, then spoke abruptly. \" I have a strange feeling for you, very unusual.\nlam going to tell you something. You may forget it as soon as you have heard\nit. You may say to yourself : 'It is the phantasy of an insane man. ' Or you may\nfind it material for analysis and so enrich your science. Or perhaps if lam not\nwholly demented, you may take it into your being and find it a gift of the gods . . .\nIt is a story — one of the few that have meaning for me. And it is about a\nman I knew — oh, knew very well. Most intimately .. . Perhaps it is the story\nof our age. Who knows ? \"\nI looked at him. Our eyes met.\n\" Tell me, \" I said.\nAnd he told me . . .\n\" His name was Trudo. That name after all is as good as another .. ."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2888, "texte": "4\n\nI must tell you a little about his childhood . . . not much ... it is not very im-\nportant. Trudo was a sensitive child ; he couldn't compete with the boys :\nhe was a coward and a stay-at-home. He felt everything so intensely that\nhe suffered incessantly. He could not fight, he could not play ball. And his\nfather, whom he worshipped, died. And his mother was practical and embit-\ntered by her .struggles and her poverty. Trudo felt he was a worm. Yes, he\nwas vermin. Until he made a discovery ... If you couldn't beat others with\nyour fists or your skill or your leadership, you could beat them with your mind.\nAnd that was the beginning of the end for Trudo . . .\n\"He resolutely killed all his feelings. It can be done, you know. You\nbecome like the snail. His body is soft and fragile : but he draws it into his\nshell when there is danger of attack. This is what Trudo did. And for the rest,\nhe studied. He became a physician and a man of research. He developed his\nintellect in a truly marvellous way. And he rose, and was well on the path\ntoward greatness.\n\" I won't bore you with the details. They are the same for everyone who\nsucceeds. Think of your own successes. Merely imagine Trudo at the top of\nhis profession, living in a very fine house near Central Park on a chaste side street.\nRespectability, luxury, the waiting room with old masters on the wall, the tiled\nand shining laboratory, the cushioned library, and so on, and so on .. . It\nis not important, is it ?\n\" I pause a moment to speak of his wife. She was a very fine woman,\ndoubtless. Of one of the old New York families. If I mentioned the name,\nyou'd know all about it, I'm sure. And she was religious, in a way, though her\ngod was rather a crude one, a sort of hybrid, not of the sphinx variety exactly,\nbut a good respectable American god. lam not cynical about it either. That\ngod has given us much of America .. . Let me describe him in a word, a line :\nHe was a puritan who believed in hard work, righteousness and business. And\nhe believed in kindness and purity. You see my wife, don't you ? She wanted\nme to be honest and upright, respectable and wealthy, and at the same time\nlowly and obedient, — down on my knees to her deity .. . She found me then\nan anomaly : I was honest, I was wealthy, I was upright ; but I was proud and\nvain and consumed in myself. I had no love in my heart. You know there\nwas John Brown to prove that a puritan can love like a blast of fire. But\nalso, as you know, a puritan can be a peak of ice.\n\" Now I must tell you a great joke. My patients thought me a second Jesus.\nActually. And why ? Because I was remarkably intuitive. I could pierce\ndirect into their souls, and so I knew just what to say and to do to make them\nfeel I was in full sympathy with them. Is there anything more devilish than\nthat ? I ask you. Think. To use the art of love to serve merely one's ambi-"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2829, "texte": "tion and one's egotism. To wear the mask of Christ in order to be a great\ndoctor. Good old American bluff, isn't it ? \"\nHe paused, and took a puff on his cigar. It was as if he had forgotten my\npresence. Indeed he did not seem to realize that he had dropped speaking of\n' Trudo ' and was speaking directly of himself, in the first person.\nThen he went on, his voice growing warm and poignant.\n\"My wife warned me, often. She said I had slain my soul, and was headed\nfor a great crash. She pointed out how many of our great business-men make\nforced marches on success and are killed or driven insane or into a sanitarium\nbefore they are fifty. I agreed with her. But what could Ido ? The greatest\ntragedy of my life was the fact that it was a comedy. I knew all the facts, but\nI didn't care a snap of my fingers. I could not feel the tragedy. I was perfectly\nhappy on the ice — that is, if you can call it happy. Perhaps, to put it more\nhonestly, I was neither glad nor sad, but busy, alert and keen.\n\" Then the symptoms came. I will not enter into the details. Palpitation\nof the heart, for instance — a very bad symptom, as you know. You see,\nI had no heart : so it was just there that the gods began to make mischief.\nAh, yes, I knew then that the gods I had laughed at were preparing a little\ndoomsday for me. Man does not live by intellect alone. If thou hast two\nloaves of bread, sell one, and buy hyacinths for thy soul. Lord ! I said those\nvery words to myself at the time. But of what avail ?\n\" Obviously there was nothing I could do — except one thing. I could\nput away Mammon — I could give up my practice, my fine house, my scientific\nresearches. But what modern successful man can do it ? It was exactly\nlike the rich young man who went to Jesus. And Jesus asked him if he could\ngive up his wealth: leave all, and follow. And the young man could not. That\nwas I.\n\" No. My pride and revolt increase, if anything. And I even became cold\ntoward my wife. And this killed her. I looked on her dead face, and not even\nthen could I break through the ice, and drop one poor tear of pity or self-pity.\n\"You see, I was utterly lost. And now with my wife dead, and no children,\nand no true friends, you might have thought that it would be easy to let go of\nthe power of the world. But not so. Not so. The decks were cleared for ac-\ntion, that was all. I was going to do a great bit of scientific writing. . .\n\" Then the lightning struck me. Oh, it was so simple, so simple. I was\nwalking one night on a side-street on the lower west side. And a prostitute\naccosted me. I had a sudden burning curiosity. I was curious about the\npsychology of prostitution. I would go with this woman, and study her. I\nhad no desire. I was a puritan. I did not want to touch her. Ugh! as a\nphysician I knew too much about the diseases of vice , . ."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2266, "texte": "\" She took me then to her dingy hall bedroom in a cheap lodging house.\nI sat on the cot; she sat on a soap-box. And in the gaslight I saw her : a very\nthin woman, a little tall, and perhaps tubercular. Shining eyes and glowing\ncheeks. And she was very poor. \"\nHe groaned, and stopped. Then he whispered :\n\" Now the story begins ~ . I began questioning her, when suddenly\nshe burst out on me :\n\" ' But you are not a human being. You are terrible. I feel as if the Devil\nhimself were in this room. '\n\" I was startled. I asked her :\n\" ' Who are you ? Where do you come from ? '\n\"' I am a Russian, ' she said, ' and a Jewess. My name is Iyosha. '\n\" ' But are not you in league with the Devil also ? '\n\" ' No, ' she cried defiantly, rising before me and clenching her fists.\n'I am driven by need and loneliness : but you are only vain and learned. You\nare a lost soul. '\n\" ' Yes, ' I admitted in my honest way, 'I am lost. What's to be done\nabout it ? '\n\" ' You know you are lost, ' she cried, ' and yet ask me that ? Oh, this is\nterrible. This is the eternal damnation they talk about. .. '\n\" ' That doesn't help me, ' I said. 112 Talk has never helped me. I can\ntalk myself. '\nShe stared at me, and leaned toward me.\n\" ' You are right. Only an infinite love could help you. '\n\" That was the way we talked. And suddenly I forgot that I was the ques-\ntioner and had a great desire to tell her about myself. I told everything, just\nas I have told you. It was amazing enough :an ignorant sick woman of the\ngutter, one whose body was common merchandise, and who had no life of her\nown, and I, the learned scientist, the respectable and wealthy doctor.\n\" Three times I went to see her. And at the third the lightning passed\nthrough me. She was weeping when I entered and would not rise from the\nbed. Her face was buried in her hands.\n\" ' Why are you crying, Losha ? ' I asked.\n\"' I weep, ' she said, ' because you are to be pitied more than I am. We\nare both prostitutes. But the Devil in me is a god, and you have no god. '\n\" I stood, silent, but quite calm. Then she rose slowly and flung her arms\nabout my neck. I had not expected it. She whispered passionately :\n\"' I love you. I love you. I love you. '\n\" ' Why do you love ? ' I asked.\n\" ' Because I am your lost soul. '"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2566, "texte": "\" And I saw the truth. I saw that what lay buried in me was not only\ndivine love, but also the great beast, and that this woman was both. And first\nI felt a burning steal through my body, a hot and primal fire, the smoky breath\nof hell itself, and for the first time I could remember I had the horrible cannibal\nlust to tear a human body limb from limb. But while I was convulsed with\nthis, something strangely other came up and mingled with the lust. It was as\nif I saw the Christ. It was holy and ecstatic and divine ... Yes, yes, yes, it\nwas love . . .\n\"You can imagine an earthquake that raises some monstrous buried for-\nmation to the surface and buries what if finds there. That happened to me .. .\nIt was like a conversion. But in my conversion both Christ and the beast came\nup and tore asunder the great Dr. Farraday — the fine intellect, the high-\nminded ego . . .\n\" In short, I went suddenly mad, and gave a great shriek, tearing off my\nclothes and foaming at the mouth. I called ' the goddess ' and prostrated\nmyself before her. Then I shrieked aloud for the torture and agony and had\nsomething very like a fit of epilepsy.\n\" She was terrified. She finally put me to bed, and soothed me. She\nnursed me tenderly. I would lie quescient for hours ,in a fever. Then the spell\nwas 011 me. I saw great beasts, kings and gods. I was ground by terrible passion\nand ecstasy. It was a death. .. . \"\nHe paused ; then smiled sadly . . .\n\"You can imagine the sequel. I could not return to my house. It was all\nended. All my interest in my work, my position, my power and place in the\nworld, had vanished. Everything, but the emotions that swept me, was quite\nunreal. And so I ruined myself.\n\" I married Iyosha. It seemed a simple matter. And we opened a little\nstationery shop and kept it together. . . Anf then I began to draw : I became\nan artist. I was alive from head to foot, and yet quite tormented — tormented\nby these terrible passions and ecstasies, these perverted and glorious impulses\nwhich for years had festered in my darkness, and which, when they came upon\nme, came more like monsters than divinities . . .\n\" What can I say of Iyosha ? She was the one woman whom I never knew.\nMy intuition failed me. I never understood. Was she ugly or beautiful ? stupid\nor wise ? base or. noble ? I cannot tell. I only could know her simple and\nundivided love, which never forsook me. It was those fires in which I became\nas ashes.\n\"As ashes, ashes .. . One cold morning she coughed a great big racking\nspasm .. . Then she whispered to me :\n\" ' Trudo, I love you. '"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 968, "texte": "\" And she died .. . I closed the shop ... I did not need the shop. I needed\nonly my own soul, which began to dawn in me like the sun in spring .. . And\nbeing quite insane, I came here\nWe were silent. He fussed about among his papers, and murmured :\n\" I suppose it isn't much of a story. \"\nI smiled at him, but said nothing. Then he showed me a portrait he had made\nof Losha.\nShe was dark and thin, even gaunt, and a look almost of madness in the eyes ...\nThe tears rolled down the Doctor's cheeks . . .\nA little later I said goodby to him. We stood, facing each other and he held\nmy hand.\n\" I am insane, \" he said, \"do not forget that. And out there — \" he\nwaved his other hand in the direction of New York, \" live the sane ones. Losha\nis dead, and Dr. Farraday is dead. You know the ancients, \"he smiled quaintly,\n\" thought the insane were close to the gods. But that's a fable, isn't it ? \"\nI closed the door on him very softly, troubled in spirit.\n\nJambs Oppenheim."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "54", "page_fin": "54", "image_debut": 56, "image_fin": 56, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Seguidilla", "titre_sommaire": "Seguidilla", "signature_source": "Man Ray", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 59, "texte": "Man Ray.\nCourtesy of Daniel Gallery - New York.\nSeguidilla."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "55", "page_fin": "55", "image_debut": 57, "image_fin": 57, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "In the Dock", "titre_sommaire": "In the Dock", "signature_source": "W. de la Mare", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 665, "texte": "IN THE DOCK.\nW. de la Mare.\nPallid, mis-shapen he stands. The world's grimed thumb,\nNow hooked securely in his matted hair,\nHas haled him struggling from his poisonous slum\nAnd flung him mute as fish close netted there.\nHis bloodless hands entalon that iron rail\nHe gloats in beastlike trance. His settling eyes\nFrom staring face to face rove on—and quail.\nJustice for carrion pants ; and these the flies.\nVoice after voice in smooth impartial drone\nErects horrific in his darkening brain\nA timber framework, where agape, alone\nBright life will kiss goodbye the cheek of Cain.\nSudden like wolf he cries ; and sweats to see\nWhen howls man's soul, it howls inaudibly."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "56", "page_fin": "68", "image_debut": 58, "image_fin": 70, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "The Soul of an Artist", "titre_sommaire": "The Soul of an Artist", "signature_source": "J. D. Beresford", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2160, "texte": "THE SOUL OF AN ARTIST.\n\nI.\nEllis Bertram felt definitely that afternoon that he had, in a sense, Arrived.\nThis \" arrival\" of his had come slowly, almost imperceptibly. He had\nnot, as he had once hoped he might, \" burst upon the world \" as a new figure\nin letters. He could look back upon many hours both of impatience and despair.\nHe had had at first to work under difficulties ; to write novels and stories in\nthe intervals of the necessary employment that had provided him with the means\nof life. Later, also, he had not dared to do quite his best work. He had had\nto keep his eye on the requirements of editors and publishers. But now. . .\nHe found retrospect pleasant on this particular afternoon. There had\nbeen no special climax to exhilarate him, but the more important reviews of\nhis last book had, as it were, suddenly lifted ; treating him for the first time as\na novelist of recognised standing ; his publishers had sent him a friendly and very\nencouraging report of his sales, and mentioned that they were, also, selling now\nmany of his earlier books ; he had had well-paid commissions for short stories ;\nand he had received a very good offer for the serialisation of his next novel, al-\nready completed in manuscript, in an American magazine. Also, he had at last\ngot settled into his new and altogether delightful house, a house that had an\neffect of dignity and leisure ; a house to which he would be proud to invite his\nmany friends and acquaintances in the world of letters. And all these successes\ntaken together and added to the fact that it was a glorious afternoon, had roused\nhim during his solitary walk, to a warm and comforting sense of achievement,\nto the feeling that he had after all his struggles definitely and happily arrived.\nAnd he was only thirty-nine. He had still many years of robust and active\nenjoyment before him, years in which he would certainly do better work than\nhe had ever done before.\nHe turned into Herondale Park with the slight suggestion of a swagger in\nhis walk. The free use of that Park was still another cause to be added in ac-\ncounting for his sense of complacency. Lord Herondale was his new landlord"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2688, "texte": "and had been very gracious and charming on the one occasion on which Ellis\nBertram had met him. \" And, of course, you will have the free run of the Park, \"\nLord Herondale had said. \" I beg you to use it whenever you feel inclined to. \"\nThe dignity of letters, Bertram reflected, carried one anywhere. He and his\nwife would probably be invited to dine at the Manor when Lord Herondale re-\nturned in the autumn.\nBy way of asserting his splendid prerogative, he turned into the path through\nthe spinney that led into the private gardens of the Manor. He liked to feel\nthat he was singled out, distinguished from the common crowd, a man of fame\nand culture, on an equal, by virtue of his calling, with the old English aristo-\ncracy ...\nHe was startled out of his gorgeous reverie by the sound of passionate and\nunrestrained sobbing, and looking up saw a few yards ahead of him, the body\nof a youth stretched out on the ground with an effect of complete abandonment.\nHe was lying on his face under a great elm, his head buried in his arms, and\nhe was crying with a disregard of any possible audience that seemed to Ber-\ntram almost indecent.\nFor a moment he was inclined to turn quietly back and leave this disturber\nof dreams alone with his grief. But Bertram was a kind, and conscientious\nman, and he knew that if he went without making the least effort to console\nthis unhappy fellow-creature of his, he would presently suffer the stings of self\nreproach. Moreover, he would have to tell Nina when he got home, —he told\nher everything, — and she would be certain to ask him how he could have re-\nmained indifferent to the evidence of such misery. Dear Nina was always so\nanxious to help everyone.\nNevertheless it was with a distinct feeling of intruding upon another's pri-\nvate affairs that he took a halting step or two in the direction of the prone figure.\nHe had deliberately turned his head away, and he was startled by the abrupt\ncessation of the sobs, and the sudden hail of a voice.\n\" Hallo ! what are you doing here ? This path is private, you know, \"\nthe voice said.\nBertram turned and looked at the speaker. He was sitting up, now, though\nstill with an effect of clumsy abandonment, — a slender youth of seventeen or\neighteen, with dark hair and a striking though rather ugly face. His features\nwere certainly not good. His eyes looked small under the bulk of a heavy\nforehead, over which straggled untidy wisps of dark hair. His nose had no\nparticular shape, his mouth was pinched and at this moment rather peevish.\nIndeed his best feature was his firm, cleft chin. Yet there was something do-\nminating and powerful about his expression, an air of intrepidity and moral\ncourage."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2635, "texte": "\" I — I have had permission to come here from Lord Herondale, \" Ber-\ntram explained politely. \" I'm sorry if — if I disturbed you. \"\n\" Oh ! I suppose you're Ellis Bertram, aren't you ? \" the boy replied care-\nlessly. \" The chap who has taken ' The Dower' ? I read one of your books,\nthe other day. I hope you won't expect me to say that I liked it ? \"\nBertram stiffened. \" I don't excect you to say anything at all about it, \"\nhe said formally. \" I'm naturally sorry that it doesn't please you ; but, of\ncourse ...\" He shrugged his shoulders.\nThe boy pursed his little mouth and regarded Bertram with a singularly\ndirect stare. \" Silly thing for me to say, I admit, \"he remarked ; \" but I've\ngot a rotten habit of saying the first thing that comes into my mind. \" He\ngrinned as he added without the least sign of shame, ' Hinc illae lachrymae ' ,\nyou know. \"\nBertram found his temporarily alienated interest returning with greater\nforce. \" I can't pretend that I didn't see you crying, \" he admitted. \" I\nthought, perhaps, I might . . . that is, if I could help you in any way . . . ? \"\nThe boy's expression magically and beautifully changed. He sat up,\npushed back the hair from his forehead, and his whole face was suddenly alight\nwith interest.\n\" I wonder if you could, \"he said. \" You're a writer, well-known and all\nthat, and you must have a lot of influence. \"\n\"Do you mean that you want to be a writer, too ? \" asked Bertram. \"If\nyou do, I . . . \"\n\" Oh! come and sit down, here\" the boy interrupted impatiently.\n\" I'll tell you all about it. \" He pointed to the grass beside him as he spoke\nwith a gesture that was almost a command.\nBertram obeyed without hesitation. His first feeling of repulsion had\nnow given way to one of attraction and interest. Moreover, an alluring fantasy\nhad sprung into his mind. He had seen himself as the patron of youthful ta-\nlent ; as the discoverer of genius. It would, he thought, be in some sort the\ncrown of his career to figure as the literary guardian of some new poet. He\ndefinitely hoped, though he did not pause to enquire why, that his protege\nwould prove to be a poet. He had never, himself, attempted to write verse.\n\" It's all that beast Herondale's fault, \" the boy began at once. \" I know\npeople would say that I owe him a lot, and so I do. I'm ready to admit all\nthat. But just the same he is a beast to me, in some ways. By the way, though,\nI don't suppose you know who I am ?\nBertram had to admit his perfect ignorance on that matter. \" But I've\nonly been here a week or two, \" he added, by way of apology.\n\" I'm a by-blow, \" the boy said without any appearance of shame in the"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2877, "texte": "confession. \" A sort of nephew of Herondale's. My mother was Lady Con-\nstance Fletcher, you know, Herondale's sister. She married old Fletcher and\nthen eloped with my father who was a blackguard by all accounts, though I\nexpect they say that just because he was unconventional. And then, poor\nchap, \" the boy's tone was one of precocious cynicism, as he continued, \" he\nhad the ghastly misfortune of being a foreigner, and mixed at that. Eastern\nEurope, Magyar, Slovak, Ruthene, Slav — that sort of thing. Enough to damn\nanyone in the eyes of our precious English aristocracy. And a musician !\nPretty hopeless from Herondale's point of view wasn't it, — descended from\nIrish kings with just the right dash of good Engish stock to make him all that's\nsolid and respectable ? Oh ! Lord ! well that's that. And I was born and\nmy mother was dead, before old Fletcher had time to get his divorce through.\n\" Then old Fletcher adopted me. Did the right thing. Frightfully gener-\nous, and overlooking, and willing to forgive me for having got myself born\nin such dastardly bastardly circumstances. Ronald Fletcher, they call me.\nTrying to make out, I suppose, that old Fletcher was my father. Com-\nplimentary to him, rather, because he wasn't ever likely to have had children\nof his own. However, he withered away when I was eleven, and then Heron-\ndale took on the job of educating me. Marlborough, first; but I got expelled\na year ago, as 'incorrigible.'\" He shrugged his shoulders over the word,\nas if offering it to Bertram to translate as best he could. \" And, now, I'm\nworking here with a tutor, cramming for my entrance exam for Balliol. And\nwhatever do you suppose Herondale proposes to do with me ? No, of course,\nyou'd never guess. He wants me to go into the Civil Service ; Indian or Home,\naccording as to how I turn out. He thinks it will have a soothing influence on\nme ; teach me how to conduct myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.\nHe's so afraid of the blackguard strain in me, the Eastern European taint. Puts\nmy getting pushed from Marlborough down to that; and imagines that he'll\nget rid of it by a course of pap and platitude. Holy Sinners ! what a fool he can\nbe in some ways ! \"\n\" And you want to be a writer ? \" Bertram putin at the first pause. He\nwas impressed both by the boy's egotism and his conversational \" style \". He\ncertainly had a power of vivid expression. Even in that brief account of his\nlife, Bertram had found, with a strange sense of discomfort, an aptitude for\ndirect and forcible statement that he, himself, had always lacked.\n\" Want to be ? I am, \" Ronald Fletcher replied. \" I don't say that\nwhat I've done up to now is any real good, but I know that it's much better\nthan most of the stuff that's being published — bar verse, of course. \"\n\" Then it isn't verse you've written? \" Bertram enquired, conscious of his\ndisappointment."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2644, "texte": "Ronadl Fletcher leaned back against the trunk of the elm, and clasped\nhis hands behind his head. \" No, \"he said reflectively after a brief interval.\n\" I shall probably write verse, later ; but so far I haven't had the patience.\nThe stuff conies so quickly, you see, and I have to get it down at once. The\nexigencies of the poetical form involve so much discipline. I shall come to\nthat, in time ; at present I prefer the freedoms of prose. \"\n\" But good prose, surely ...\" Bertram began.\nRonald waved that aside. \"Oh ! I know ; I know , \" he said. \" But\nit happens that my thoughts fall more naturally into prose. \"\n\" Would you let me see your — your essay is it ? — or whatever you've\nwritten ? \" Bertram asked.\n\" I would have, like a shot if I'd got it, \" Ronald said. \" I don't know\nhow to describe it exactly. It was a kind of fantasy, half allegory and half\nromance. Rather good in parts, but it's just as well I destroyed it. \"\n\" You destroyed it ? \" gasped Bertram, who had treasured his every line.\n\" That was what the row was about and why I was blubbing just now,\"\nRonald explained. \" Herondale came down last night and after lunch to-day,\nwe had a first-class row. Holy Sinners ! What a row it was ! He wouldn't\ngive way an inch when I said I wanted to chuck everything and write. He\nhad read my thing over night and said it ' showed promise' or some rot of that\nkind. It was then I tore it up and cursed him and came out here. I was onfy\nblubbing because I'd lost my temper. I work it off that way. I'm like that. \"\n\" You can re-write it, I suppose, \" Bertram put in.\n\" I could but I shan't, \" Ronald said. \" I've got a better idea, I want to\nget down. The other was only the sort of thing one begins with Just as\nwell that it's out of the way. \"\n\" I wish I'd seen it all the same, \" Bertram murmured.\n\" Yes, it's a pity, especially if you're going to help me, \" Ronald agreed.\n\" But I'll get this other thing going pretty soon and then I'll read it to you.\nI expect you'll be a fairly decent judge even though you are on a different\nline yourself. \"\nBertram blushed faintly, remembering his companion's first greeting.\n\"Ah ! yes, by the way, \" he said, \" you don't — er — care for my books, I\ninfer. \"\n\" They're all right in a way, \" Ronald said. \" Frightfully carefully written\nand constructed — good craftsmanship and so on ; but there's no idea, no in-\nvention, no real guts in the one I read, — it was your last ' The Hill of Pro-\nmise .' Just a comment, hardly that, on a certain side of life ; all about tame,\nconventional people with no red blood in them. \"\nBertram shivered. All his dream had fallen from him. He saw himself"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2632, "texte": "stripped ; left without a rag of complacency to cover him. What the boy had\nsaid was true. He had always known it was true, and had never dared to face\nthe fact. He had no passion, no creative force, no real temperament. He\nwas a patient and able craftsman, that was all.\n\" You're very frank, \" was all he said, but he said it humbly.\nRonald looked at him with a sudden touch of contrition. \"It was rotten\nof me to say that, \"he admitted. \" Just after you'd promised to help me,\ntoo. I shall have to cure myself of this beastly habit of saying whatever I\nthink. \"\n\" No, no, \" Bertram said. \" Not with me, anyway. That's one of your\ngifts. It will get you into all sorts of trouble, but it's — it's a part of your\ngenius. \"\nRonald instantly forgot his apology. \" How can you tell I've got genius, \"\nhe said ; \" when you've never seen a word that I've written ? \"\n\" Won't you, at least, give me credit for some intuition ? \" Bertram\nasked. \" Even if you can't find the evidence of it in my novels ?\nRonald did not seem to hear that pathetic speech. He was staring out in\nfront of him, and apparently regardless of Bertram's presence. \" I suppose\nafter all, \" he said \" that pretty nearly anyone except Herondale and his sort\nwould know at once that I am a genius. That was what they really meant\nat Marlborough, when they said I was incorrigible. \"\nHe jumped to his feet with an air of relief as he continued, \"I'm glad\nI met you. It has helped me to clear my ideas a bit ; and if Ido quarrel finally\nwith Herondale I could come to you until I got launched. \"\n\" Certainly you might if you would care to, \" Bertram agreed meekly.\n\" But wouldn't it be better for you in every way if I were able to persuade\nLord Herondale that it is his duty to let you express yourself in your own\nway ? \"\nRonald pursed his mouth and regarded Bertram thoughtfully. \"My dear\nman, you'd have no earthly, \" he said.\nJust for a moment, however, some faint reflection of his dream had returned\nto Bertram. \"Ah ! there, you're wrong, \"he said, speaking for the first time\nwith an effect of superior \" You see, whatever your own opinion of\nmy books may be, I have achieved a certain standing in letters ; and you will\nfind that Lord Herondale will at least give attention and consideration to any-\nthing I have to say on my own subject. But first of all, you must let me see\nsome of your work ; until then I shall have no locus standi ...\"\nHe would have gone on, but Ronald cut him short. \"Oh ! all right, \"\nhe said, and turned away as he spoke and began to walk back towards the Ma-\nnor. In a moment, he had changed from the brilliant young genius to a sulky"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2451, "texte": "schoolboy. Bertram had offended him by demonstrating that in this particu\nlar thing he was wiser than Ronald, himself.\nBertram sighed as he watched the gauche and rather ungainly figure moon-\ning up the path. Yet even before he reached the gate into the Manor grounds,\nanother change was manifested in him. He unexpectedly [lifted his head and\nbegan to run. He had forgotten the merited reproof, no doubt, and was con-\ntemplating his own brilliant future. The sound of a faint shout of triumph\ncame back to Bertram along the avenue.\nIt was another Ellis Bertram that made his way home across the Park, a\nhumbled and chastened author who had seen the truth about his work all too\nclearly and painfully revealed. Yet before he reached home, he was in the\nair again. For illumination came to him suddenly, blindingly. He saw\nwhere he had failed. Those characters of his that had no \" red blood in them \"\nwere echoes of himse'f. They had been too gentle, too considerate in their\ndealings with their fellowmen. Now, he had recognised for the first time in\nhis life the ruthless egotism of genius. He could never imitate that in his life,\nbut, by Heaven, he could portray it in a novel. The book, indeed, was already\nbeginning to unfold itself in his mind vivid and enthralling. It would be his\nmasterpiece. It would be a book that not even Ronald Fletcher himself, could\ndespise.\n2.\nEllis Bertram had undoubtedly many of the gifts and abilities of the liter-\nateur, and chief among them was the power to live in the world of his own im-\nagination. The effects of the moment's illumination that had come to him\nin the course of his first meeting with Ronald Fletcher, were only transient.\nIndeed, he could not have lived long with that stark image of his own\ncapacities.\nHis interview with Lord Herondale, some ten days after his agreement\nwith Ronald, served to reinstate Bertram in his own esteem. Lord Herondale\nwas not only courteous and flattering, he was, also, willing to pay his visitor\nthe final compliment of allowing himself to be convinced. Ronald came in,\ngauche and sulky, at the end of the interview and his uncle broke the good\nnews to him.\n\" Mr. Bertram whose authority I find myself unable to oppose, \" Lord He-\nrondale said, \" has persuaded me, Ronald, that you have a most unusual gift\nfor writing. \"\n\" Pretty obvious, \" Ronald muttered with a shrug of his shoulders.\n\"My dear boy, \" his uncle reproved him. \" You may, perhaps, remember"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2878, "texte": "that many of our most famous poets were slow in winning recognition ; and\nwhatever your gifts, you may count yourself uncommonly lucky in winning\nthe approval of so eminent and influential an author as Mr. Ellis Bertram at\nthe outset of your career. \"\nBertram took that thought home with him and cherished it. Other peo-\nple besides Lord Herondale, he reflected, also regarded him as 'eminent and\ninfluential. ' He must have very unusual talent to have earned that descrip-\ntion. Nina confirmed him in that opinion. Also, she outdid him in the judg-\nment that Ronald was a self-centred and arrogant youth whose criticisms\nwere warped and undependable . . .\nAnd it was in this mood of self-confidence that Bertram presently intro-\nduced Ronald Fletcher to publishers, editors and the public ; a mood that was\nupheld and encouraged by the result. Indeed, his Introduction to Ronald's\nfirst book received more attention in the reviews than the book itself. Ber-\ntram was the sponsor, he was the known figure, and he undoubtedly won fresh\nprestige by this evidence of his acumen and insight. He was more written\nabout and more courted as a consequence. And when his next novel came out\nin book form after its serialisation in the English and American magazines,\nit beat all his previous records for circulation. Truly, it seemed that his dream\non that momentous afternoon in Herondale Park, had been only a shadow of\nthe glorious reality.\nOf Ronald, himself, Bertram saw very little in those days. Lord Heron-\ndale had apparently thrown up the sponge, made his nephew an allowance and\ngiven him carte blanche to hang himself in his own way. Ronald had accepted\nthe gift of liberty as his natural right and for a time had gone to live in Paris,\nthough he had expressed his intention of \" doing \" Eastern Europe, later.\nBertram, thus freed from any responsibility other than the occasional ad-\nvertisement of Ronald's — and incidentally his own — name by articles in\nthe more literary weeklies, settled down after the applause had somewhat sub-\nsided, to write his masterpiece. He had ample leisure for that, now. He was\nfree from the financial worries that had clouded his earlier career and was no\nlonger harassed by the necessity for haste. That this book would be a master-\npiece, neither Bertram nor his devoted, admiring wife had the least doubt.\nNever before had he been so brilliant and convincing in his characterisation,\nnor so happy in his descriptive passages. Almost for the first time in his life,\nhe felt genuinely inspired, full of creative force, brimming with ideas.\nOnly one aspect of the book a little alarmed him. His chief character\nwas an all too vivid and startling portrait of Ronald Fletcher. And he could\nnot change it, because it was the salient achievement of the story. He had\npictured Ronald's career at school, his early struggles to get a hearing, and"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2669, "texte": "then with what had certainly seemed to him a flash of genius had given him\na bragging and unmoral love-affair with a beautiful woman ten years older than\nhimself. That had appealed both to Bertram and his wife, as being conclus-\nively and indubitably \" right It had the authentic ring of truth. And that\naffair and all the incident of the book arose naturally and inevitably from the\ncharacter of the chief figure. If that character were altered, the whole book\nwould ring false and unreal.\nIt was not, however, until four years after Bertram's first sight of Ronald\nFletcher that the book was finished. In the interim, he had written and pub-\nlished another successful novel in his familiar manner, a novel that had not,\nfor some reason, quite maintained his reputation. One reviewer had hinted\nthat the author was \" written out \". Bertram and Nina had smiled at that\nreview, knowing what a surprise they had in store for critics and public.\nBut in that interval, Ronald Fletcher, young as he was, had already made\nhis mark. His originality, his unorthodoxy, his fertility which had begun by\nshocking English readers, had now begun to impress them. He was abused\nand read. The writers of Bertram's school were intensely jealous of the intru-\nsions of this iconoclast, but they could not quench him by adverse criticism,\nhowever academic. He had impressed his personality on the public. There\nwere endless stories about him. At twenty-two, Ronald Fletcher was more\nthan a man of extraordinary promise ; he was a figure in literature ; and the\nunprejudiced spoke of him as the rival of Chatterton and Keats. Everyone\nhad long ago forgotten the fact that he had been discovered by Bertram. Flet-\ncher, it was understood, must have been \" discovered \" by the first discriminat-\ning reader who saw his work.\n3.\nRonald was reconciled, now, to his uncle, Lord Herondale, and was actually\nstaying at the Manor when Bertram received the copy of his magnum opus back\nfrom the typist. And as Bertram read through the book in its new aspect,\nthe thought came to him that he would like Ronald himself to read it, before\nit went out to the world. Even now, that old criticism of his rankled a little,\noccasionally ; and he felt that he could not wait until publication before he\nfinally justified himself in the sight of the man whose opinion had so horribly\ncondemned him four years earlier. Nina heartily agreed in this plan ; but she\nwas a little spiteful. She wanted Ronald to see how he looked in the eyes of\nall decent people. She thought that Bertram's book \" ought to do Master\nFletcher, a lot of good. \"\nRonald sighed when the request was made to him, but granted it rather"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "65", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2260, "texte": "as though it were a duty which he could not shirk. Bertram was a little piqued,\nbut consoled himself with the thought of the effect he was going to make.\nHe gave the manuscript to Ronald before lunch, and mentally allowed him\na couple of days in which to read it. He was surprised when just as he and\nNina were sitting down to dinner they saw Ronald coming up the drive to the\nDower with the manuscript in his hands.\n\" He can't possibly have read it in the time, \" Nina ejaculated. \" I sup-\npose we shall have to ask him to dinner. \"\nAs the maid went to open the door, Nina told her to show Mr. Fletcher\ninto the dining-room.\nHe came in a moment later, dropped the manuscript on the dinner table,\nand sat down, without any greeting to either Bertram or Nina, in an arm chair\naway from the table.\n\" You'll join us at dinner ? \" Nina said, on a note of reproof, but Ronald\nshook his head.\nBertram found himself trembling with nervousness.\n\" You've never read the book so soon ? \" he said.\nRonald glowered at him. \"Of course, I've read it,\"he replied.\n\" And — and — what's your ...\" Bertram began, but Nina interrupted\nhim by saying : \" Isn't it a masterpiece, Mr. Fletcher ? Even you must admit\nthat . \"\nRonald took no notice of her, but kept his eyes steadily fixed on Bertram.\n\" What are you going to do with it ? \" he asked.\n\"Oh ! well, — publish it, \" Bertram said with a nervous laugh. \" You\ndidn't think I was — er — going to — to bury it, did you ? \"\nRonald got up and began to pace the room. \" I'll grant you it's good, \"\nhe said. \" The best thing you've ever done or ever will do. \"\nBertram flushed slightly. He intensely appreciated the compliment,\nwhile resenting the rider.\n\" But you can't publish it, \" Ronald said.\nNina sniffed her contempt.\nBertram smiled with a touch of condescension. \"My dear old chap, \"\nhe protested.\nRonald turned on him. All the anger had gone out of his face, and had\ngiven way to a look of dominance and settled resolution.\n\" Where did you get that story from ?\" he asked. \" The story of me and\n'Lady Adelaide ' ? \"\n\" I got it out of my imagination, \" Bertram said with a faint complacency.\n\" It seemed to me so exactly the sort of thing you would do. \"\n\"You think that I'd sacrifice her — the woman you imagined — to my\n5"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "66", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2755, "texte": "egotism ? \" Ronald replied. \" You believe that if I did have a love-affair like\nthe one'you've drawn, that I should always think first of myself and my own\ncredit, comfort, reputation and the rest of it ? \"\nBertram pursed his mouth. \" Honestly, I do, \" he said.\nRonald came forward and leaned his hands on the table. He was star-\ning straight into Bertram's eyes, as he said, \" Oh ! how lamentably you fail,\nEllis Bertram ! How small your inagination is. You can't avoid, even in\nyour best book, the mechanical, the conventional, the expected. You've drawn\nme well, just as far as you've been able to observe me, you've even, — withthe\none touch of genius you've ever shown, — imagined the kind of woman I might\nfall in love with. But then, \" he lifted his hands with a gesture of despair,\n\" how you fail! All the rest of the story is merely a muddled rechauffe of the\nstuff you've read, about men of my sort, all the commonplace, dramatic stuff\nthat ...\"\nBut Nina could stand it no longer. \" Nonsense, my dear boy, \" she inter-\nrupted him sharply. \" You're just talking boastful, arrogant nonsense.\nWhat does your opinion amount to after all ? \"\nRonald did not condescend to look at her as he replied, \"It amounts to\nthis, \" he said still with his eyes on Bertram, \" that as it happens, I have the\nfacts to confute you. You've drawn, or tried to draw, me in your book, now\nyou shall know the truth. I have ... I mean there is ... \" For the first time\nin the Bertrams' experience, Ronald was faltering in his speech.\n\"You mean that there has been, is, some woman in your life ? \" Bertram\nprompted him.\nHe nodded. \" Is, \" he said gently. \"Oh ! yes, there is, there always\nmust be. And I haven't sacrificed her. I couldn't, though she's willing to be\nsacrificed for me.\n\" No, no, I'd sooner give up writing than that, \" he continued, offering\nwhat was so evidently to him the ultimate renunciation. He paused for a mo-\nment before he added with a sudden renewal of his earlier fury. \" And good\nGod, your dirty little book, Ellis Bertram, would expose everything. It is\nnear enough, in a way, to confirm the little scandals that I haven't been able\naltogether to avoid. Publish that book, and everything will come out. It\nwon't hurt me. She'll come to me then, and the notoriety will only advertise\nme. I shall have everything that I can desire. But, oh I know so infernally\nwell, that it would kill her. Her husband's a devout Roman Catholic. There\ncan never be any question of divorce. And she'd wither. She's not the right\nkind of woman to make that sacrifice, Bertram ; and she doesn't know it, her-\nself. She's always been up in the big world, and she can't realise what life with\nme would be like, in these circumstances. But I can ! Oh ! God, why do I"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "67", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2571, "texte": "know these things, so truly ? If only I could believe that I might be wrong for\nonce! \"\nHe seemed to have forgotten the Bertrams. He had thrown himself back\ninto the arm chair, he was leaning forward with his face in his hands, absorbed\nin his own misery.\nNina opened her mouth, glanced at her husband, and then decided for si-\nlence. She wanted desperately to disbelieve Ronald, and she could not. She\nhad never known him to speak anything but the truth. Did not his whole re-\nputation rest on the fact that his love for the truth, as he saw it, outweighed\nevery other consideration ?\nBertram had pushed back his chair and was staring up at the ceiling.\n\" Ronald, \" he said after what seemed a very long interval.\n\" Well, \" Ronald muttered still with his head in his hands.\n\" If I altered that book ? \" Bertram began.\n\" You'd have to do it out of all recognition, \" Ronald said, looking up.\n\" But supposing, I write the truth, \" Bertram suggested, \" showed how\nyou sacrificed yourself and your career, everything, to — to your love ? \"\n\" Everyone would recognise the facts and disbelieve your deduction, \" Ro-\nnald said.\nBertram plunged his hands into his pockets and sighed deeply. \" 111\nadmit that I can't publish it, as it is, \" he confessed, glancing at Nina.\n\" No, dear, perhaps you can't, \" she consoled him ; \" but I'm quite certain\nthat you could make just as wonderful a book of it, if you got away from the\nreal facts altogether. I'm sure you could invent something just as interesting\nand lifelike. \"\nBertram and Ronald were looking at each other, now. They knew. And\nin that moment they recognised each other as fellow-craftsmen, for Ronald saw\nthen what hitherto his prejudice had led him to overlook, namely that at heart\nBertram was an artist with the passionate love for truth in his soul, only his\ncircumstances and the weakness of his power of imagination so often blinded him.\n\" I suppose it's the only way, \" Bertram said softly.\nRonald got up, then, and leaned over him putting his arm across his should-\ners. \"By Heaven, old man, I'm sorry, \"he whispered. \" I know what an\nawful thing I'm asking you to do. But we understand one another don't we ?\nYou're one of my sort. \"\nThat was Bertram Ellis's apotheosis, his final achievement in the world\nof letters, though none knew it but himself. For he never published another\nbook. He tried, if only to please Nina, to alter his great novel. (In spite of\nRonald's censure, Bertram still found the seeds of greatness in that novel).\nBut he did it mechanically, and so badly that even the adoring Nina was"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "68", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1415, "texte": "dissatisfied and told him that he wanted a long rest. And somehow that rest\ncontinned. His financial circnmstances demanded no further output, and he\ntold Nina that the desire to write had temporarily gone from him. If any\nconsolation were needed, she found it in his stress on the word \" temporarily \",\nand her conviction that his reputation was already permanently established.\nIt was really wonderful how his old books kept on selling in the cheap edi-\ntions . . .\nIt was nearly five years after the interview in the Ellis's dining-room that\nIyord X— died of pneumonia, and when, after an interval that some critics\njudged to be too short by a whole fifteen months, his widow married the fa-\nmous Ronald Fletcher, Bertram sent him the original manuscript of his \" great\nnovel \" for a wedding-present. \" I could have published it once, \" he wrote\nin the accompanying letter, \" but I value your opinion more than any\npublic applause. You hailed me once as one of your own sort, and I am\ncontent with that. \"\nRonald showed the letter and the manuscript to his wife, \" Ellis is a good\nchap, \" was his comment; \" and he had some of the qualities of the artist,\nbut no imagination. \"\nBut Bertram never heard that comment; and he was content with his\napotheosis. Though there are still occasions when he is inclined to believe Nina's\nconfident assertion that one day he will write a really great book.\n\nJ. D. Beresford."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "69", "page_fin": "69", "image_debut": 71, "image_fin": 71, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "The Second from the end is a peach.", "titre_sommaire": "The Second from the end is a peach.", "signature_source": "William Grapper", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 54, "texte": "William Grapper.\n”The Second from the end is a peach„."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "69", "page_fin": "69", "image_debut": 71, "image_fin": 71, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "The Chess Game", "titre_sommaire": "The Chess Game", "signature_source": "William Grapper", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 56, "fin_caractere_exclue": 88, "texte": "William Grapper.\nThe Chess Game."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c039", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c039", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "70", "page_fin": "71", "image_debut": 72, "image_fin": 73, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "Hospital Nights", "titre_sommaire": "Hospital Nights", "signature_source": "Lola Ridge", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "70", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 826, "texte": "HOSPITAL NIGHTS.\n\nI.\nIvie still, you girl, with arms like thin white moonbeams,\nOr twist your pillow from that patch of sky—\nMauve-rose awning over herded lights,\nWhere spangled women\nGo forth to love and eat.\nWhy do you listen— you with the life in you lying\nHeavily-cold as a dead child—\nTo life throbbing hot and lusty enough to shake the peace of stars\nWith their white roots in God ?\nII.\nSometime .. . when the nurse has padded off softly,\nturning the light out. . .\nIf your soul should smile ... as it crowds you into a corner . . .\nDo not let it beguile\nYou to a duel of looks . . .\nDraw over your body more than a sheet,\nLeaving no slit at the head or the feet.\nIt must be from a covered place\nThat you look your soul in the face.\nIII.\nNurse, with hair like clotted honey,\nWhat is it that is always creeping and moving"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "71", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 928, "texte": "Back of the lights in your eyes ?\nEyes that are glossily brown\nAs the back of a queen bee\nThat soars with her mate into the blue .\nTo clinch and grapple and sway . . .\nIvight lancing light under a flashing sky .\nTill she circles alone\nOver a plunge . . . and a gray trailing . . .\nNurse, with heavily swaying thighs,\nDo the men you tend flinch and quiver\nAs you hover close in the darkness ?\nIV.\nThe Salvation Army lass\nLay very still all day.\nHer body seemed to depend from her eyes\nEyes eager-blue as marbles\nThat have rolled in many gutters,\nYet stayed miraculously clean.\nNow her hands monotonously\nScoop up the shallow moonlight,\nPale as weak lemonade,\nThat spills through her fingers\nOver the white sheet.\nThe moon is of little account here,\nWith that strong light in the corridor.\nNow over the Battery—\nAll the bay to herself\nAnd Sunday boats coming in—\nThe moonll be bright as Jesus,\nWalking upon the water.\n\nLola Ridge."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c040", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c040", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "72", "page_fin": "75", "image_debut": 74, "image_fin": 77, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "Fairy Tale", "titre_sommaire": "Fairy Tale", "signature_source": "Donald Corley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2132, "texte": "FAIRY TALE.\n\nwhen everyone was young, and no sorrow had come into the world,\nand the fairies did not hide in flowers and under stones, there lived in a castle\nbuilt of shining copper that was always like a lantern in the firwood at night,\na king, who had a daughter, and she could not speak, except in whispers. The\nprincess, whose name was Malourisan, after the West wind of that country,\nand who had black hair like a crow's wing, was never understood, because she\ncould only whisper. And so she went about the castle, smiling to herself, some-\ntimes sad, sometimes merry she whispered to the long silver mirrors\nshe whispered to the roses that clung about the window of the tower in which\nshe lived for she had much to say, many beautiful things to tell but\nnoone ever understood except the roses who nodded in the wind when Malou-\nrisan whispered to them the roses undestood, a little, and so they smelled\ntheir sweetest to please the Princess Malourisan and when she plucked\nthem to tie in her black hair that was like a crow's wing.... they clung to her\nand laid their cheeks, which were always the colour of love, against hers, and\nthey lived as long as they could to be near the Princess Malourisan\nand when they had faded she put them away in a blue jar to remind her\nof yesterday's secrets and some she laid tenderly among the silken gar-\nments that she wore when she was sad in a chest of sweet sandalwood\nthe mirrors, when she whispered to them, smiled at her, a little sadly, as if to\nsay.... \" We know so much.... we have seen so many beautiful things...\nand yet we must always just listen and never speak but we under-\nstand, just the same \". And the mirrors loved her, too The white\npeacock, when she went to him, to whisper the things that she must tell the\nthings she knew of love and dreamed of life these two are one and the\nsame..... the peacock sang to her, for peacocks really sang then before fairies\nhid themselves in flowers and under stones peacocks only stopped singing\nwhen — but that is another story ! But the peacock sang only of his beautiful\neyes his thousand beautiful eyes and he never understood"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2693, "texte": "The king her father had summoned all the magi and all the great meta-\nphysicians in seven realms but none of them could make the Princess\nMalourisan speak above a whisper and of course the king, whose name\nwas Iran, could not hear what she said for he was old, and deaf\nand had forgotten all that he knew of love and had never dreamed of\nlife.... And King Iran had sent abroad in all the world, messengers, to say\nthat whoever could give the Princess speech, above a whisper, should marry\nher, and be given the castle of copper that was like a lantern in the dark fir-\nwood, and the white peacock and all the thousand mirrors of silver that\nwere in the castle but if he should fail, who tried, his eyes were extin-\nguished, like candles for the king made this the penalty, that whoso tried\nto give the Princess speech, and failed, was not worthy longer to look upon\nthe world. And so, as time went on, the dark firwood was filled with blind\nprinces and beggars, and artists and luteplayers who lived in hollow\ntrees\none day the Princeess Malourisan went down to the stream in the\nfirwood to bathe for she loved the cool green water where the feather-\nclouds floated, and sweet voices greeted her.... and beautiful golden dragon-\nflies came to rest upon her black hair when she spread it out upon the flat stones\nwarmed by the sun for the Princess knew that the sun brings perfume to\neverything that it touches\nshe went always to bathe at noon for was not everyone blind\nin the firwood ? some had tried to understand by chattering themselves\nbut this is not the way to understand anyone who has many beautiful things\nto say of love and dreams and they were justly made blind\nAs the Princess stood by the stream, upon a warm, round stone, that was\nflat like a l;ly-pad, and that made her little feet feel as if they were kissed\nand her soft garments fell about her like leaves and as she leaned over\nto look into the stream at herself she was sad \"Will noone ever\nlisten to me ? \" And the dragonflies flew about her head and made an airy\ngolden crown for her And as she whispered to the stream she\nheard a still little crooning voice, whispering back to her \" Now it cannot\nbe the stream \" she said to herself \"the stream is like my silver\nmirrors it loves me, but it cannot answer me. \" But the stream\nhad little feet to run with, and a voice to ask the way and be flippant to\nthe toads and did not have to stay tiresomely in one place, like the sil-\nver mirrors and the stream had been in many places, and knew many\nsecrets So the stream smiled up at the Princess Malourisan and whispered\ngently \"Tell me tell me tell me\nAnd then she knew that the stream could speak, and she leaned over until"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2509, "texte": "the ends of her black hair fell upon the face of the stream, and she whispered...\n\" no one loves me I am sad no one listens to me ! send some-\none to love with me to dream with me..... I have so much to tell\nbut only to someone who loves me \" And the stream stopped only long\nenough to hear these things, and to kiss the ends of the Princess Malourisan's\nhair and then went running and tumbling down through the forest\nsinging \" I'm going I'm going I kn0w..... I know I\nknow where to go \"\nAnd then the princess was happy, and went back to the castle of copper\nthat was like a lantern in the firwood, whispering to herself little happy things\nand dancing through the firwood as lightly as rain upon the leaves\nand all the blind beggars and princes and luteplayers and artists in their hollow\ntrees awoke, and wished that they could see for they knew that some-\nthing very beautiful had happened\nand the Princess climbed up into her tower and blew a kiss from\nher fingers to the stately silver mirrors and they blew kisses back to her\nand she went to the window and took three roses and scattered their\npetals upon the f100r.... and opened the chest of sandalwood in which she\nkept her silken garments that she wore when she was sad and shook out\nthe faded roses from them and dressed herself in them and danced among\nthe scattered rose-.leaves upon the floor for she knew that the stream\nwould hurry with her secret and take it far away, and tell it to the right\none but one roseleaf she kept\nThrough the forest and the fields along the roads and past the willows\nand under the bridges gathering the letters that the plum trees threw\ndown, and the pollen for the market the stream ran, singing and whis-\npering and smiling until it came to the city\nand there, every afternoon the stream played in a marble\nbasin of a fountain and tossed sunbeams up and caught them and\ncalled out to any who passed that way.... but none stopped to listen, for they\nsought nothing but one came, and he was lonely, and he knew why\nand thought there was no remedy\nand as ever, when he passed that way, he stopped to listen to the\nstory of the water Today it sang \"Follow me.... follow me\nfollow me far away there is a firwood and a round stone\nand a castle beyond the light of day some one is waiting and will-\ning and wishing and dreaming and dancing come quickly come\nquickly come softly come away \"\nAnd that one set off to the margin of the town where the stream\ncame in. .... and there he heard again \" Follow me follow me...."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1046, "texte": "follow me \" And on he ran .... past the willows and the sleeping\nfields and the thoughtful roads and the listening plumtrees and the bridges\nthat no one knew until he came to the firwood and through the\nlirwood he ran until he came to a flat round stone that was still warm from the\nsun though dusk walked the wood and there he saw two eyes\nlike candle-panes and he heard a whispering voice like a little silver bell\nupon a censer in a still church a voice that was sad and merry\nand merry and sad and tender and merry and sad again\nAnd the stream whispered softly out of slumber \" Here he is here\nshe is here he is I found him I told him I brought\nhim I love you I\" but the stream had run far and was\nasleep\nfor the princess had grown tired of waiting in the tower and\nhad come down to the stream to whisper and to wait for she knew that\nthe stream was wise and truthful and trustworthy and under-\nstood And as she whispered he whom the stream had brought\nlistened and he knew but you know, yourself. ... if you can dream\nof life\n\nDonald Corley."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c041", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c041", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "76", "page_fin": "79", "image_debut": 78, "image_fin": 81, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "Maple-Sugar Song", "titre_sommaire": "Maple-Sugar Song", "signature_source": "Lew Sarett", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1693, "texte": "MAPLE-SUGAR SONG.\n\nWhen the first warm days and frosty nights of the spring-thaws usher in the season\nof maple-sugaring, the Otter-tail Indians pitch camp in their favorite sugar-bush. Be-\nfore the real work of sugar-making is begun, however, the Indians go through a ceremony.\nThey gather a few buckets of the first rim of the sap and boil the first kettle of sap, down\nto sugar. At night a feast is spread in honor of Way-nah-bo-zhoo, a mythological\nguardian spirit of the Chippewas. At the feast one place is left vacant for Way-nah-bo-zhoo\nwho is expected to attend the ceremony in spirit, to eat the first sugar which has been\nprepared solely for him, and to bless the Indians in the sugar-season.\n\" Maple-Sugar Song \" is an interpretation — in no sense a translation or transcrip-\ntion, for no specific words are uttered — of the spirit and the emotional content of the\nchants sung in this ceremony.\nI.\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! Ho-yo-ho-ho ! . . . yo-ho ! . . .\nWay-nah-bo-zhoo, big spirit of our brother,\nCome thou and bless us, for the maple flows,\nAnd the Moon-of Sugar-Making is upon us.\nThe nights are white with frost; the days are yellow\nWith sunshine, and now the sap of the maple-tree,\nHumming the sugar-song, goes up the stem\nWith dancing feet. The gabbling geese come tumbling\nOut of the wind and into the wet mush-kaig\nIn clattering families ; among the reeds\nThe fat old women-geese go chattering\nOf winter-lands; and gathered on the shore,\nShouting with hearts glad to be home again,\nThe old men strut in council, and flutter and snort.\nAh-chee-dah-mo, the spluttering tail-up squirrel,\nPokes his blue whiskers from his hole in the oak,\nAnd scurries up and down the swaying branches,—"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1607, "texte": "He runs in six directions, all over the earth,\nHurrying, looking everywhere for somebody,\nSomething he cannot find, — nor does he know\nWhy the green wet days should be so bitterly sweet.\nHo ! The yellow birch throbs, for she knows the pain of life,\nOf swelling limbs and bursting buds ; she stands\nWith naked arms stretched out to the warm gray rains,\nWith hungry arms that tremble for her lover,\nFor See-gwun, the Maker-of-Little-Children, who comes\nWith soft blue feet that rustle the fallen leaves ! —\nHear thou the maple-water dripping, dripping,\nThe cool sweet-water dripping upon the birchbark ! —\nHo ! the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us !\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! H6-yo-ho-ho ! . . . yo-ho ! . . .\nHear thou our prayers, o Brother, Way-nah-bo-zhoo ! —\nHear, thou who made the flat green earth for us\nTo dance upon, who folds us in his hands\nTenderly as a woman holds a broken bird\nIn winter, thou our Brother who hung the sun\nUpon the sky to give us warmth and life,\nAnd the wet moon to make us cool and clean ;\nHear, thou who made the hills and the timber-beasts\nThat roam among them, who made the sliding rivers\nAnd silver fish that shiver in the pools, —\nThat there might be wild meat for empty bellies ;\nHear, thou who made cold rapids in the canyons,\nWild waterfalls, and springs in the cool green hollows, —\nThat there might be sweet-water for parching tongues ;\nHear, thou who gave us thy mother, All-Mother Earth,\nThat she might feed her children from her bosom—-\nAh-yee ! Way-nah-bo-zhoo, come thou on this night\nWith blessings as the maple-water flows ;\nMake thou a song to our heavy-breasted mother,"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1389, "texte": "And pray thou that her children may not hunger,—\nFor now is the night for maple-sugar feasting.\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! H6-yo-h6-ho ! . . . yo-ho ! . . .\nFrom the long cold of winter-moons, our eyes\nAre deep, our hands like the bundled veins and talons\nOf buzzard birds. Before the winter-winds\nThe moose have run to other lands for feeding ;\nThe rabbits have vanished as the snow, — a plague\nLeft a strange red sickness in their withered mouths.\nEven old Gahg, the clumsy porcupine,\nNo longer finds his way to our roasting-pots, —\nWe boil his yellow bone-ribs many times —-\nUgh ! Our teeth grow soft without strong meat to eat.\nHo ! Way-nah-bo-zhoo, hear thou our many tears\nDropping among the dead leaves of winter ;\nPray thou, and ask our grandmother, Waking-Earth,\nTo take us in her arms, to make us warm\nWith food, to hold us safe upon her bosom.\nOur mouths go searching for her mighty breasts,\nWhere the maple-milk comes flowing from the trees, —\nAh-yee! Brother, pray thou now the Mother-One\nTo give us freely of her sugar-sap,\nThe good sweet-water of her bursting breasts—\nFor the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us !\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! Ho-yo-ho-ho ! . . . yo-ho !\nHo !\nII.\nAnd if the sap flows thin with water, our hearts\nWill hold no bitterness ; for we shall know\nThat long ago in thy wisdom thou decreed\nThat out mother's milk might never be too thick,\nFearing that we should gather plenty sugar"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1489, "texte": "With little labor and soon grow sick with food\nAnd slow to move our legs, like glutted bear—\nHo ! We are a faithful children of the soil;\nWe toil with eager hearts and patient hands.\nAnd if our birchen baskets crack and leak\nThe gathered sap, our tongues will speak no evil, —\nWe know that thou, our Brother, in thy love\nFor those of the Otter-tail totem, whipped the growing\nBirch tree until the bark was cracked and cut\nWith round black stripes, — that our birchen pails might leak\nThe silver sap, that thus all Indian children,\nLaboring long with many steps, might never\nGrow soft and fat with idling in the bush.\nHo ! We are a faithful children of the soil;\nWe toil with eager hearts and patient backs.\nHi! Way-nah-bo-zhoo ! Hear thou, o mighty one,\nWho folds us in his tender hands as a woman\nHolding a broken bird in the winter-wind,\nCome thou and bless us on this night of feasting;\nPray thou our mother to take us in her arms,\nTo hold us warm upon her great brown bosom,\nTo give us freely of her maple-water,\nThe good sweet-water of her swelling breasts.\nAnd if we labor long, our lips will speak\nNo bitterness, for our arms are strong for hauling,\nEager for many buckets of sweet sap,\nFor syrup dancing its bubbles up and down\nIn the kettles, to the bubble-dancing song.\nHo ! For we are a faithful children of the soil;\nWe toil with trusting hearts and patient fingers, —\nAnd now is the Moon-of-Maple-Sugar-Making !\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! Ho-yo-ho-ho ! . . . yo-ho ! . . .\nHo!\n\nLew Sarett."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c042", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c042", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "80", "page_fin": "83", "image_debut": 82, "image_fin": 85, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "Bambino's Beginning", "titre_sommaire": "Bambino's Beginning", "signature_source": "Haniel Long", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1708, "texte": "BAMBINO'S BEGINNING.\n\nI.\nFabrizia was the love of Agostino. For some months he had felt that life\nto him was contact with the unique chemical of her personality.\n\" Continue to be a chemical for me! \"he exclaimed to her one day. \" Every\nword you say does inexplicable things ; I have consulted the biologists, the phy-\nsico-chemists, the biometrists, the psychologists, even the hydrographers — who\nstudy tides — and the physicists, but they have no light to offer, and agree in\none thing only, envy ! \"\nFabrizia disliked being called a chemical, but she replied, \" Your words\nwarm my blood to a degree beyond that permitted by science as sane, or by\nreligion as holy. \"\n2.\nSaid Agostino, who was a student of eugenics, \" I am sure that a Bambino\nsprung from our mingling in the open beauty of earth and sky would grow up\nmore stalwart, more beguiling, more ornate, than one conceived in a city cham-\nber, a chamber in a honeycomb of similar chambers along the narrow dusty\nstreets of cities/'\n\" So long as God makes me mother of a child, when and where the seed be\nsown matters little, \" returned Fabrizia. \"It is within me, between bone and\nbone, that he will grow stalwart, beguiling, ornate, if so you desire him to be,\nand come to the hour of his birth\n\" We have no statistics on this vital subject, \" said Agostino, \" but I am\nsure that the fairest and noblest of the race had fair and noble places for their\nbeginning. The heavens were plumed with thunder at the moment Hercules\nwas conceived ; and she whose beauty was woven from the crimson fleece of\nclouds, the snowy foam of waves, what lone peninsula was that upon which\nher sire seized her mother ? It is improbable that shoulders which supported"}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "81", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2587, "texte": "6\n\na world, or eyes which ruled it, could owe anything to the oppressive chambers\nof a metropolis. \"\n\" God is everywhere, \" persisted Fabrizia, wondering why He had sent her\nheart a youth so foolish as Agostino. \" Shall lovers with only a straw mattress\nin a bye-street be defrauded of their right to bring forth inventors and martyrs ?\nNay, I dare say many a man and maid have gone naked up into high mountains, .\nand gazed down upon the world, and their offspring was a profiteer or a publi-\ncan. Not what is without, but what is within, sets spark to the new life, whose\nburning shall be seen across centuries. \"\n\" You are not versed in the new romances, \" said Agostino, with a sadness.\n3.\nNo one suspected, as Agostino and his love alighted from the diligence at\na lonely turn in the coast road, that they were bent upon a mighty errand. Fa-\nbrizia still could not understand why Agostino had brought her so far upon so\nsimple a mission. Nature was all very well; but the urban haunts of man were\nnot destitute of poetry. Yet she was always ready for Agostino's embraces,\nand she stifled her vexation. If he preferred the open, what harm was there\nin that ?\nThe sun was blistering, and Fabrizia rejoiced that she had worn her picture\nhat, a Viennese confection too unusual even for city afternoons. Her shepherd\nstaff with the orange ribbon was of great service too, so uneven a surface\ndid the floor of earth present to her exquisite high-heeled slippers. The lovers\nreached the summit of a bluff, and by a precarious path descended to a beach\nwhere white sand went in and out of walls of boulders.\n\" The ruins of forgotten rites, \" observed Fabrizia, pausing with interest\nand yet with apprenhension. \" Shall we be happy among them in this crushing\npresence of sea and sky ? \"\n\" These walls are votive tablets, \" explained Agostino, \" where, in loyalty\nto a fabled goddess of the sea, men and maids have wreathed together their in-\nitials. \" And he pointed to a transfixed heart cut in the granite, with a date two\ncenturies old.\n\" Their flowers have faded, \" sighed the lady, \" and still th e tides go in and\nout of the sunny caves they lay in. Soon we too must be gone, and other lovers\nwill come and plait their garlands here. O, lam filled with a homesickness. \"\nWho, lackning human affection, give themselves over unto despair ; who,\ndeprived of solicitude, see themselves eaten of time and change, to these by pre-\nference was the ministry of Fabrizia. Moving therefore among the votive walls,\nshe gave some kisses; and some, garlands of kelp; and some she caressed, letting"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "82", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2617, "texte": "her fingers follow the course of the chisel, mindful of the sanctity of the occa-\nsions they commemorated, and of the great respect due to such tokens of our\ndesire : that those hieroglyphs henceforth need not consider themselves ne-\nglected, and left unwept to the inhuman cunning of waves.\n\" We shall be gone from here, \" agreed Agostino, \" but centuries of being\ntogether await us. Fabrizia, mark the blue horizon. \"\n\" It is not blue, \" said Fabrizia, \" it is a thin luminous green. \"\n\" No, it is blue, \" insisted Agostino. \" Fabrizia, mark the horizon ; forget\nthe populous towns behind us, where the minds of lovers are haunted by their\nfellow-men, and not by the vastness of the Mother. Give me endless things that\nmelt one into another ; give me elements unstable, so lacking in line and mass\nthat they remove reality. Even to the vertigo of them, I love them. \"\n\" The sea is lovely, \" admitted Fabrizia, \" but cities are more lovely. \"\nShe lifted her arms in the broad sunshine, and her resentment at Agostino faded.\nHere in the open his idiocy did not matter so much. \"The sea calls to me, \" she\ncried, \" the white arms of the surf beckon me.\nAgostino was aware of two gray gulls by the shore, which at a single instant\nwheeled off over the deep. It was an omen.\nThey went down together to the blue ; and the waves approached them,\ncrested and lustrous. But the waves seemed to Fabrizia like promising young\nbusiness men and other naturalists, who one after another filed petitions in\nspiritual bankruptcy. She kept the morbid impression to herself.\n4.\nThe bronzed Agostino lay on the sands, his elbows dug into the warmth\nof them, his chin in his palms, and gazed up and down the surf for Fabrizia.\nAt last she emerged, coming ashore upright in the spray of a gray-green\nroller. Her eyes were half-closed against the sun, and a sea-vine, was tangled\nin her hair. He thought of Correggio, the bright eyes of whose angelic ladies\ntestify to a virginity of spirit rather than of body.\n\" And you, the beautiful, do not appreciate Nature and her works, \" said\nAgostino, reproachfully.\n\" How can my devotion to her fail, when she has borne you, when she has\nborne me ? \" inquired Fabrizia, still ivory where going and coming waters\nglistened about her ankles, and filled the partings of her toes with sand.\nWeary, and needing repose, they found a seaward gazing cave. But alas, as\nthey were spreading velvets and silks on its crystal floor, they were interrupted\nby the apparition of an elderly naturalist. Unaware of the sacred proxim-\nity of two who had come hither at high noon as priests move toward the mass,"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "83", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1813, "texte": "lie knelt on the sand not five yards away from them, and examined crnstacea\nthrough a microscope.\n\"It is the eminent Professor Settimio, \" whispered Agostino. \" He has\ndevoted his life to insects, centipedes, spiders and crustaceans. \"\n\" You amaze me, \" said Fabrizia. \" God forbid that he turn his eye\nupon us. \"\nBut the aged savant struggled to his feet, and without a glance in their\ndirection, ambled on along the beach. Passing as mysteriously as he had\nappeared, the lovers were never to know whether [the remains of shrimp,\nlobster or crab had occupied his gaze, or whether it was not a question of\nmalacostraca at all, but rather of infinitesimal fish-lice, and of barnacles.\n\" It was this Settimio, \" continued Agostino, \" who first made me feel\nhow very zoological, nay how botanical we are ; being veritable gardens from\none point of view, and of the substance of leaves, of fruits and flowers, of plumed\nwings and restless tentacles. \"\n\" Fabrizia dear, I gaze at you ; and then, as in dreams, I sink past tier and\ntier of strange foliage down to my most ecstatic depths, to an inebriate region „\nlife's sub-cellar, as it were, and lie among the vats ! \"\n\" Modernism, \" reflected Fabrizia, wiping a tear from her eye at this ex-\ntraordinary account of love's ecstasy, \" Modernism, that elaborate retreat\nfrom all that is staple and true, is conducted by minds such as this Settimio's. \"\nAt the thought she marvelled. Her Roman depths stirred by the insuf-\nferable lunacy of the romantic Agostino, which had subjected her to so painful\nan encounter, no less than by terror of the stranger's curious life, wherein cen-\ntipedes had been glorified and prawns embraced, she deliberately folded her\nring-finger against the soft stone of the cave-wall, and scratched upon it a\nsacrificial cross.\n\nHaniel Long."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c043", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c043", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "84", "page_fin": "84", "image_debut": 86, "image_fin": 86, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "Einstein and the Poets", "titre_sommaire": "Einstein and the Poets", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.86", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1784, "texte": "EINSTEIN AND THE POETS.\nAnthologies, like the poor, we have always with us. And with practically\nno exceptions, these heterogeneous collections of orthodox and hetero-geniu-\nses, run true to their lifeless form. It has remained for the youngest of Ameri-\ncan anthologists to achieve a radical departure from the collector's norm. \"If\none leaves it to a lot of scattered poets one will have nothing more than a lot\nof scattered verse, \" writes Mr. Untermeyer. \" Mere editorship, no matter how\nselective, is not enough. \" How then does the author of \" The New Adam \"\nexpect to accomplish his ends ? Succinctly, by writing the entire anthology\nhimself. And the binding subject, the leitmotif ? Nothing more or less than the\nEinstein Theory of Relativity ! The following excerpts are what Mr. Unter-\nmeyer believes might result if certain outstanding American minnesingers were\nforced to record their reactions concerning the Weight of Light, Deflection of\nSolar Rays, Non-Euclidean Warps in Space, Anti-Newtonian Substitutes for\nGravitation and Time as a Fourth Dimension. The compiler, it may be well\nto add, has engaged counsel to defend him in all libel suits that may result.\n\nRELATIVITIES.\nby EDW-N ARLIN-TON ROBINS-N.\nWhat wisdom have we that by wisdom all\nSources of knowledge which the years suggest,\nHidden in rubric, stone or palimpsest,\nWill turn and answer us because we call.\nAbout us planets rise and systems fall\nWhere, lost to all but matter, Newtons rest;\nAnd who are we to label worst and best\nWhile all of force is gravitational ?\nHeld by a four-dimensional concern,\nHe gropes among the atoms to beseech\nA swifter sublimation that may reach\nA little further than the funeral urn.\nAnd we, who always said that we could teach,\nHave nothing much to say and more to learn."}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.87", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1155, "texte": "CANZONE\nby EZR- PO-ND.\nEarly Itatian.\nAlVacquisto di gloria e di jama...\nCome, my songs, distorted, spoken-against,\nCome, let us pity those who have one-dimensional minds,\nLet us pity those who move smugly\nin two or even three dimensions,\nBound to a relative mortmain.\nMa si morisse !\nTake thought of the dull, the hopelessly-enmeshed ;\nThe young enslaved by the old,\nThe old embittered by the young.\nGo, with a clashing of many echoes and accents,\nGo to Helicon — on the Hudson.\nPerform your naked rites, your cephalic dances ;\nShout your intolerant cat-calls from the bus-tops,\n(We have kindred in common, Walt Whitman)\nParade your tag-ends and insolences,\nCry them on State Street:\nCh'e be'a ... *\nTake no thought of being presentable.\nLest they say you grow shabby,\nI shall find fresh raiment for you\nout of time and spaciousness ;\nA shirt out of Provence, green slippers from Cathay,\nAssorted mantles, slightly worse for wear, from Montparnasse,\nAnd fillets, somewhat dusty, out of Ithaca.\nWho shall say you have become\nA slave to your technique\nlike Chloris, who would flirt\nEven with her own shadow ?\nWho proclaims this ?\nB a-a-a-a-a-amen.\n* bella."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 864, "texte": "ADVICE TO THE FOURTH DIMENSION\nby MAXW-LL BOD-NHEM\nRegion of shiftless equilibrium,\nThe curtly undulating worlds\nWeave insolently in your heart,\nLike icily forgotten tunes of atoms.\nTime, with a slanting hunger, gropes\nAnd, in a virginal precision, takes your hand.\nCircles, no longer arrogantly round,\nBut like a battered primrose dripping flame,\nAre warps in nature.\nNo line is straight\nBut lifts long, passionless rhythms till it meets\nIts parallel in drab exuberance.\nRegion of shiftless equilibrium,\nBe not confused by tricks of time and space.\nOnly you can twist an acrid meaning out of words\nOr into them.\n\nROUND\nby ALFR-D KR-YMBORG.\nWorlds, you must tell me —\nWhat ?\nWhat is the answer to it all ?\nMatter.\nMatter, answer me —\nWhat ?\nWhat are the secrets of your strength ?\nMolecules.\nMolecules, be honest —\nWhat ?\nWhat may be groping at your roots ?\nAtoms."}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.89", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1074, "texte": "Atoms, I ask you —\nWhat ?\nWhat have you hidden in your hearts ?\nElectrons.\nElectrons, I charge you —\nWhat ?\nWhat are you building in your wombs ?\nWorlds.\nWorlds, you must tell me ... .\n\nTHE SPELL OF THE ELECTRON\nby ROB-RT SERV-CE\nNow this is the spell the philosophers tell\nWhen you're puzzled at all their revisions :\nThe laws that we knew are not alway true,\nWe must change them to suit the conditions.\nThough you roar as you eat only red-blooded meat\nAnd thrill with each virile sensation,\nNo atom or ape, no figure or shape\nBy God ! can escape gravitation.\nFor this is the lesson of Einstein :\nAnswer Death's grin with a scoff.\nGlaring and tearing at all you resent,\nFight though the light is battered and bent —\nFight till the flesh drops off !\nYou may clench your fists at the scientists,\nAt calculus, cubes or quadratics ;\nYou may curse and thrash since the old laws clash\nWith relativist kinematics ;\nYou may goad your sides till the blood-red tides\nRun off and the dry bones clatter —\nAt the end of the grind with a reeling mind\nBy God ! you will find only matter !"}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 826, "texte": "For this is the lesson of Einstein :\nDrink at no coward's trough.\nSneering and jeering will bring no delight;\nYou're here to make everything cheerful and bright.\nAnd for carfare and comfort and sweetness and light,\n■\nFight till the flesh drops off !\n\nTHE SAGGING BOUGH\nby ROB-RT FR-ST\nThere, where it was, we never noticed how,\nFlirting its tail among the smoothed-off rocks\nThe brook would spray the old, worm-eaten bough,\nThat squeaked and scratched like puppies in a box.\nWhether the black, half-rotted branch leaned down,\nOr seemed to lean, for love, or weariness\nOf life too long lived out, or hoped to drown\nIts litter of last year's leaves, we could not guess.\nPerhaps the bough relaxed as though it meant\nTo give itself this one depravity.\nOr, being near the grave itself, it bent\nBecause of nothing more than gravity."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c044", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c044", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "84", "page_fin": "84", "image_debut": 86, "image_fin": 86, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "Relativities", "titre_sommaire": "Relativities", "signature_source": "EDW-N ARLIN-TON ROBINS-N", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.86", "debut_caractere": 1178, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1784, "texte": "RELATIVITIES.\nby EDW-N ARLIN-TON ROBINS-N.\nWhat wisdom have we that by wisdom all\nSources of knowledge which the years suggest,\nHidden in rubric, stone or palimpsest,\nWill turn and answer us because we call.\nAbout us planets rise and systems fall\nWhere, lost to all but matter, Newtons rest;\nAnd who are we to label worst and best\nWhile all of force is gravitational ?\nHeld by a four-dimensional concern,\nHe gropes among the atoms to beseech\nA swifter sublimation that may reach\nA little further than the funeral urn.\nAnd we, who always said that we could teach,\nHave nothing much to say and more to learn."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c045", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c045", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "85", "page_fin": "85", "image_debut": 87, "image_fin": 87, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "Canzone", "titre_sommaire": "Canzone", "signature_source": "EZR- PO-ND", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.87", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1155, "texte": "CANZONE\nby EZR- PO-ND.\nEarly Itatian.\nAlVacquisto di gloria e di jama...\nCome, my songs, distorted, spoken-against,\nCome, let us pity those who have one-dimensional minds,\nLet us pity those who move smugly\nin two or even three dimensions,\nBound to a relative mortmain.\nMa si morisse !\nTake thought of the dull, the hopelessly-enmeshed ;\nThe young enslaved by the old,\nThe old embittered by the young.\nGo, with a clashing of many echoes and accents,\nGo to Helicon — on the Hudson.\nPerform your naked rites, your cephalic dances ;\nShout your intolerant cat-calls from the bus-tops,\n(We have kindred in common, Walt Whitman)\nParade your tag-ends and insolences,\nCry them on State Street:\nCh'e be'a ... *\nTake no thought of being presentable.\nLest they say you grow shabby,\nI shall find fresh raiment for you\nout of time and spaciousness ;\nA shirt out of Provence, green slippers from Cathay,\nAssorted mantles, slightly worse for wear, from Montparnasse,\nAnd fillets, somewhat dusty, out of Ithaca.\nWho shall say you have become\nA slave to your technique\nlike Chloris, who would flirt\nEven with her own shadow ?\nWho proclaims this ?\nB a-a-a-a-a-amen.\n* bella."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c046", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c046", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "86", "page_fin": "86", "image_debut": 88, "image_fin": 88, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.31", "titre_corps": "Advice to the Fourth Dimension", "titre_sommaire": "Advice to the Fourth Dimension", "signature_source": "MAXW-LL BOD-NHEM", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 612, "texte": "ADVICE TO THE FOURTH DIMENSION\nby MAXW-LL BOD-NHEM\nRegion of shiftless equilibrium,\nThe curtly undulating worlds\nWeave insolently in your heart,\nLike icily forgotten tunes of atoms.\nTime, with a slanting hunger, gropes\nAnd, in a virginal precision, takes your hand.\nCircles, no longer arrogantly round,\nBut like a battered primrose dripping flame,\nAre warps in nature.\nNo line is straight\nBut lifts long, passionless rhythms till it meets\nIts parallel in drab exuberance.\nRegion of shiftless equilibrium,\nBe not confused by tricks of time and space.\nOnly you can twist an acrid meaning out of words\nOr into them."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c047", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c047", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "86", "page_fin": "87", "image_debut": 88, "image_fin": 89, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.32", "titre_corps": "Round", "titre_sommaire": "Round", "signature_source": "ALFR-D KR-YMBORG", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 614, "fin_caractere_exclue": 864, "texte": "ROUND\nby ALFR-D KR-YMBORG.\nWorlds, you must tell me —\nWhat ?\nWhat is the answer to it all ?\nMatter.\nMatter, answer me —\nWhat ?\nWhat are the secrets of your strength ?\nMolecules.\nMolecules, be honest —\nWhat ?\nWhat may be groping at your roots ?\nAtoms."}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.89", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 184, "texte": "Atoms, I ask you —\nWhat ?\nWhat have you hidden in your hearts ?\nElectrons.\nElectrons, I charge you —\nWhat ?\nWhat are you building in your wombs ?\nWorlds.\nWorlds, you must tell me ... ."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c048", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c048", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "87", "page_fin": "88", "image_debut": 89, "image_fin": 90, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.33", "titre_corps": "The Spell of the Electron", "titre_sommaire": "The Spell of the Electron", "signature_source": "ROB-RT SERV-CE", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.89", "debut_caractere": 186, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1074, "texte": "THE SPELL OF THE ELECTRON\nby ROB-RT SERV-CE\nNow this is the spell the philosophers tell\nWhen you're puzzled at all their revisions :\nThe laws that we knew are not alway true,\nWe must change them to suit the conditions.\nThough you roar as you eat only red-blooded meat\nAnd thrill with each virile sensation,\nNo atom or ape, no figure or shape\nBy God ! can escape gravitation.\nFor this is the lesson of Einstein :\nAnswer Death's grin with a scoff.\nGlaring and tearing at all you resent,\nFight though the light is battered and bent —\nFight till the flesh drops off !\nYou may clench your fists at the scientists,\nAt calculus, cubes or quadratics ;\nYou may curse and thrash since the old laws clash\nWith relativist kinematics ;\nYou may goad your sides till the blood-red tides\nRun off and the dry bones clatter —\nAt the end of the grind with a reeling mind\nBy God ! you will find only matter !"}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 249, "texte": "For this is the lesson of Einstein :\nDrink at no coward's trough.\nSneering and jeering will bring no delight;\nYou're here to make everything cheerful and bright.\nAnd for carfare and comfort and sweetness and light,\n■\nFight till the flesh drops off !"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c049", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c049", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "88", "page_fin": "88", "image_debut": 90, "image_fin": 90, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.34", "titre_corps": "The Sagging Bough", "titre_sommaire": "The Sagging Bough", "signature_source": "ROB-RT FR-ST", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 251, "fin_caractere_exclue": 826, "texte": "THE SAGGING BOUGH\nby ROB-RT FR-ST\nThere, where it was, we never noticed how,\nFlirting its tail among the smoothed-off rocks\nThe brook would spray the old, worm-eaten bough,\nThat squeaked and scratched like puppies in a box.\nWhether the black, half-rotted branch leaned down,\nOr seemed to lean, for love, or weariness\nOf life too long lived out, or hoped to drown\nIts litter of last year's leaves, we could not guess.\nPerhaps the bough relaxed as though it meant\nTo give itself this one depravity.\nOr, being near the grave itself, it bent\nBecause of nothing more than gravity."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c050", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c050", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "89", "page_fin": "93", "image_debut": 91, "image_fin": 95, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.35", "titre_corps": "America Invades Europe", "titre_sommaire": "America Invades Europe", "signature_source": "Emmy Veronica Sanders", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "89", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.91", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2139, "texte": "AMERICA INVADES EUROPE.\n\nIt is by no means here intended to deride or disparage the splendid work\nthat, in only one decade, has been done and is now being done by Americans of\nthe younger and youngest generation. Nor to deny the profit — for both\ncontinents — that will result from a closer, more regular and organized cul-\ntural contact between the two. And, as far as America is concerned ; it is\ntime that intelligent and cultivated Europeans should become aware of the\nfact — which the great majority of them are not — that \" darkest America\nthe materialistic monster from which they are wont to turn with horror or,\nat best, utter scepticism, is actually being attacked — and attacked from wi-\nthin — persistently, valiantly, successfully. It is time that they should know\nabout the genuine fundamental changes wrought since the years when Knut\nHamsun wrote his bitter sarcasms and commentaries regarding the land \" over\nwhich the sky is black — indeed\nBut there are two facts at which the European observer of things Ameri-\ncan may feel inclined to look with some misgiving. The first is, a\non the part of the extreme left wing of literary America — as represented e.g.\nby the Little Review and Contact — to understand by \" Europe \" simply\n\" France \" — and by Prance mostly or merely a group of young Parisians many\nof whose innovations of literary capering are possibly less signs of new life than\nthe death spasms of a movement in which the last word was practically said\nby Mallarme — right at the start. And in addition to this tendency the be-\nlief that America's artistic and cultural salvation is mainly to be sought in fol-\nlowing this France and fragment of France as closely as possible. The second\nfact is the manifestation of the American Machine — transforming itself, with\nall its attributes and characteristics, into American Mind ; or the mistaking\nof analytical acumen for creative mind.\nThis intellectual leaning of young America toward France or whatever re-\nsembles France elsewhere, is, in a way, natural enough. The arid lucidity,\nthe precision, the knife-like flashing, the dainty skill and eternal badinage of"}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "90", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.92", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2782, "texte": "the French mind must needs prove a strong attraction for the trans-Atlantic\ntype whose own strength (and weakness) lies along city-bred, machine-\nmade, sophisticated, electric lines. The lordly sensual acidity of a Gourmont\n(that combination of savant, satyr, aesthete — not fused by soul into a higher\nunity) ; the daring and brilliance of the precocious gamin — from Rimbaud\nto Tzara ; the purely cerebral temperament; these things are naturally and\nunconditionally accepted as sole counsels of perfection by the ambitious repre-\nsentatives of a race in whom the emotion-abhorring depth-fearing Puritan\nis followed by the equally emotion-abhorring depth-fearing machine man. But\none doubts if this combination — of French art theories and American mecha-\nnics — will be able to produce something that is alive, not only on its intellec-\ntual surfaces, but in the totality of cultural human value.\nAfter brilliant analytic Poe, after a knife-brandishing Whistler ; after ma-\nthematical James with his dainty psychological chess problems ; after Pound\n(Pound the Blaster, not Pound the Artist) — now, armed with magazines, come\nothers among whom it is pointed out that such work as that of Marianne Moore\nin basical for American development !\nAs concerns France :\nEurope can afford France. Can afford to encourage, spoil, indulge —\nat times even worship — that eternally young wizard among the rest of her\nbrood. Among the rest —if you please ! Europe can afford it — because Eu-\nrope is and always has been infinitely more than France ; because Europe is\nthe magnificent sum total of a variety of cultures, of art forms, of life forms,\nof which France is only one.\nEurope can also afford to admit a goodly dose of city sophistication and\nengineering acumen into her cultural life — because this cultural life existed,\nis rooted in, twenty-five hundred years of development before the Machine and\nbejore Metropolitanism were born. And the contribution of a Rimbaud and\nall his descendants is only one wave in an ocean that — to dive haphazardly\n— contains the waves of Greece and Rome, of a seventeenth century Spain,\nFrance, Holland, of Chaucer's age or the Renaissance ; of nineteenth century\nRussia or the Scandinavian North, the Germany of Goethe and Heine, the\nElizabethan age or that of Keats. Wave upon wave — with luminous crest\nupon crest. And under these the depth of a folk life, as yet not torn away\nfrom the spontaneously emotional, the naturally mystic, the intuitively aes-\nthetic.\nSuch an ocean can quietly admit the sailing of many little boats in search\nof new treasure. It can not be hidden by or lose itself under them.\nBut America — made of the Puritan, by the Puritan, for the Puritan, re-\nmade of the Machine, by the Machine, for the Machine — is only passing"}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "91", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.93", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2843, "texte": "through what is practically her first decade of a generation that deliberately,\nconsciously, by means of concerted action and creation strikes out upon\npaths of cultural life. And America can, therefore, not afford to attempt\nthe turning of this new life into one narrow channel. The assumption on the\npart of some one or another small group of literary workers, for whom Paris\nis the center of the globe, to possess the one and only and nothing but the truth\nin aesthetic and intellectual values and appreciations — wrong under all\nskies — is disastrously wrong in a continent that is only just beginning to take\nsome culturally recognizable shape !\nNew intellectual perceptions are more quickly acquired and intellectual\nchanges more quickly made than emotional ones ; the emotional part of the\nhuman organism being the infinitely more conservative part. Acceptance\nand proclamation of \" finds \" in the form of theories or organized move-\nments are, therefore, not necessarily indicative of a genuine change in asethe-\ntic and life reaction — the change that touches the essence, the bottom and\nthe totality of things. Emotion and intellect are, of course, not separate and\nopposed entities ; each being dependent on and determined and energised by\nthe other — and both being, perhaps, only different forms of the same activ-\nity, i.e., if the \" intellect \" in question is of the creative, imaginative type,\nmind rather than intellect in the narrower sense of the word (the thing by means\nof which you add up sums, attend to the practical business of life and make\nneat dissections of bodies, souls and theorems).\nBut much of the intellect of which one is granted flashes among young\nAmerica's latest self-appointed elite affects one sometimes as intellect of the\nlatter type; the panting, tonguelolling, movie-movie, electrically lighted\nbraininess ; true offspring of its parent, the Machine. As such interesting,\ningenious, valuable in its way — but limited. Versatile, not universal. And\nlacking soul stuff, fire ; some of the things that make mature, rich, finished in-\ndividualities — not only brilliant writers and complex poets — in the dreary\nwaste of bread and butter cleverness and information intellect.\nSays Miss Moore :\n\" Complexity is not a crime, but carry it to the point of murkiness and\nnothing is plain. A complexity moreover, that has been committed to darkness,\ninstead of granting itself the pestilence that it is, moves all about as if to be-\nwilder with the dismal fallacy that insistence is the measure of achievement and\nthat all truth must be dark. Principally throat, sophistication is as it always\nhas been — at the antipodes from the initial great truths. \"\nExactly !\nThat is why, granting that Miss Moore's work is honest and interesting>\none does by no means consider American brains of which hers are a spe-"}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "92", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.94", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2805, "texte": "cimen (and they are very good brains !) as the kind that are highly and\nsolely promising of America's creative approach to those \" great initial\ntruths\nIf an ingeniously constructed, intricate little piece of machinery, a dainty\nlittle thing with cogs and wheels and flashes of iron and steel, should suddenly\nbe given a human voice to pour its \" soul \" into song — to trasmute itself\ninto a \" poem —it would stand revealed as a bit of writing by Miss Moore.\nAn interesting phenomenon — having gaped at which one would turn to one or\nanother of the great elemental things in that deep turbulent ocean of Europe's\ntwenty-five centuries — where there is dimness — where there are half tones\n— those half tones so desperately lacking in the American mental as well\nas physical atmosphere—where there are storms and even fogs. Relentless\nglistening scalpels are good for all diseased and dead and dying things, no\ndoubt. But there is fog — fog of a certain kind — that makes things \" come\nalive \" . . .\nIt is to be hoped that Europe's contact with modern America of the last\ndecade will not be limited to contact with extremist tendencies only ; with\nthe most sophisticated and outre modes of self expression. Especially since\nEurope can get all it needs and wants in this direction from France, directly,\nand much better. Besides, in Europe these things represent the extreme tip\nof growths, the roots and trunks and heavier branches of which are in its own\nsoil. In America such tips produce the effect of hanging in the air. There\nis no such hanging in the air with American minds of the type, say, of Randolph\nBourne, Sherwood Anderson, Carl Sandburg, or the writer of a book like \" Our\nAmerica \". From these the modern European world will get a better under-\nstanding of the new America's contact with herself, of her self analyses, self\ncriticism, self transformation, than from all the ultra modern followers of France\ncombined. Yet none of the four mentioned are of the \" clever \" type. They\nhave \" minds \" that, without blague or badinage, without flashy brilliance,\nquietly touch the bottom of things ; not ingeniously bizarre, but truly self\nrevealing.\nTypes of mind like these are not apt to cherish, in good Yankee fashion,\nan ambition to corner the market in modern truths, aesthetic and otherwise.\nNor is art to them, as it seems to be to certain others, a department store\nin New York City where nothing may be kept in stock except the latest, the\nabsolutely up-to-the-minute \" styles \" (discontinued lines sold at considerable\nreductions or relegated to the provinces).\nWhat Europe looks forward to on the part of America is a broadening,\nnot a narrowing ;an inclusiveness, not an exclusiveness; a fertilizing, not a\nsterilizing of the aesthetic field, of art emotion and cultural perception."}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "93", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.95", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 438, "texte": "Perhaps Broom, faithful to the motto that \" there are always others\nwill sweep into the circle of its vision aspects of Europe wider than those of\nParisian boulevards ; and into the vision of Europe aspects of modern America\nwider than those of one or two small coteries. Even if —in doing so —it should\nrun the terrible risk of being branded with that non-plus-ultra of modern stig-\nmas : the adjective \" Georgian\n\nEmmy Veronica Sanders."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c051", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c051", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "94", "page_fin": "94", "image_debut": 96, "image_fin": 96, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.36", "titre_corps": "Broomides", "titre_sommaire": "Broomides", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.96", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2052, "texte": "BROOMIDES.\nInstead of the customary editorial pronouncements, seemingly indispens-\nable appendages to each and every periodical, world without end, Broom offers,\nin this issue at least, a column devoted to those of its contributors who have\nsome announcement of their own to present. Perhaps when Broom is a little\nolder, and begins to take itself with the solemnity approved by age, achieve-\nment and the like, it will find a voice of its own and give gentle vent to that.\nBut for the present, Broom prefers to act as the disc, if you will, for the varied\nimpressions to be expressed by the personalities who pass across it. Broom is\neven tempted to inform the reader, if he does not already know, who each per-\nsonality is, and what his record, but in view of the axiom that you can never\nsay quite the right thing about another human (be he Italian, American, Irish,\nEnglish, Chinese, Indian, Australian, Hebraic, Spanish, French, Dutch, German or\nRussian — the nationalities in the present issue), Broom will have to sidestep\nthis temptation, as well. In any event, Broom is less interested in what a man\nhas done than in what he is attempting.\n\nINTERNATIONAL COMPOSERS GUILD, Inc.\n\nThe composer is the only one of the creators of today who is denied direct\ncontact with the public. When his work is done he is thrust aside, and the\ninterpreter enters, not to try to understand the composition but impertinently\nto judge it. Not finding in it any trace of the conventions to which he is ac-\ncustomed, he banishes it from his programs, denouncing it as incoherent and\nunintelligible.\nIn every other field, the creator comes into some form of direct contact\nwith his public. The poet and novelist enjoy the medium of the printed page ;\nthe painter and sculptor the open doors of a gallery; the dramatist the free scope\nof a stage. The composer must depend upon an intermediary, the interpreter.\nIt is true that in response to public demand, our official organizations oc-\ncasionally place on their programs a new work surrounded by established names."}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.97", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2287, "texte": "But such a work is carefully chosen from the most timid and anaemic of\ncontemporary production, leaving absolutely unheard the composers who\nrepresent the true spirit of our time.\nDying is the privilege of the weary. The present day composers refuse to\ndie. They have realized the necessity of banding together and fighting for the\nright of each individual to secure a fair and free presentation of his work. It is\nout of such a collective will that the International Composers' Guild was born.\nThe aim of the International Composers' Guild is to centralize the works\nof the day, to group them in programs intelligently and organically construct-\ned, and, with the disinterested help of singers and instrumentalists, to present\n• • •\nthese works in such a way as to reveal their fundamental spirit.\nThe International Composers' Guild refuses to admit any limitation, either\nof volition or of action.\nThe International Composers' Guild disapproves of all \" isms \" ; denies\nthe existence of schools ; recognizes only the individual.\n\nEdgar Varèse.\n\nNOTES: TO THE TRANSLATOR.\n\nIn translating my poems, there are a few points to be observed. To ignore\nthem, or any one of them, is entirely to deny me a respectful presentation. My\ndogma, for such it is, applies, in my own mind, to no one besides me, but to\nme it is sacred, and to one who intends to introduce me, it should be inviolable.\n1. — No verse shall consist of only one word of one syllable only. I\ndo not respect theoretical rythm.\n2. — Each verse must terminate decisively, and without unnecessary\ndeflection. None may terminate with an article. None with a conjunction,\nan adverb, or a preposition, unless that part of speech is for a legitimate rea-\nson punctuated. Thus with a pronoun, unless it concludes a phrase. Each\nverse must stand alone.\n3- — Be careful of the use of interjections. I am not enthusiastic,\nand do not wish to appear thus.\n4. — My verse-forms are three only ; the English heroic, or iambic pen-\ntameter, the sonnet, English or Italian, and free verse after my own concep-\ntion. I have settled on these as permanent with me, because they are, so far\nas I am able to find out, easily translatable into the major languages. I de-\ntest the thought of an universal language, but I have, for reasons other than"}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "96", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 996, "texte": "that given, circumscribed myself. I trust that you will endeavor to use my\nforms in their respective places. Should you think it difficult to do so, try to\ncomprehend the extent of my discipline. The measure of your success will be\ncommensurate to mine. You will fail only where I fail.\n5. — As to the free verse, please use my longflowing, commonplace\nlines, unless I, myself, use staccato passages. Every verse is used for certain\neffect, which I intend always to make obvious. True subtlety is not found in\nforms, but behind them. As to number of lines, or their positions, please imi-\ntate. I have purposely made imitation easy. I have designs on posterity,\nbut do not breathe it.\nI shall welcome correspondence, personal as well as literary.\n\nWallace Gould\n\nTHE NEW BROOM.\nDavid O'Neil.\nWhen you are sweeping us\nWith your cosmic broom\nSweeping us out of mouldy ruts\nSweeping us clean and sweet-\nRemember\nWhen we're quivering—\nSensitive— bare—\nWe shall be grateful\nFor just a few shadows. . ."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c052", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c052", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "94", "page_fin": "95", "image_debut": 96, "image_fin": 97, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.37", "titre_corps": "International Composers Guild, Inc.", "titre_sommaire": "International Composers Guild, Inc.", "signature_source": "Edgar Varèse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.96", "debut_caractere": 1150, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2052, "texte": "INTERNATIONAL COMPOSERS GUILD, Inc.\n\nThe composer is the only one of the creators of today who is denied direct\ncontact with the public. When his work is done he is thrust aside, and the\ninterpreter enters, not to try to understand the composition but impertinently\nto judge it. Not finding in it any trace of the conventions to which he is ac-\ncustomed, he banishes it from his programs, denouncing it as incoherent and\nunintelligible.\nIn every other field, the creator comes into some form of direct contact\nwith his public. The poet and novelist enjoy the medium of the printed page ;\nthe painter and sculptor the open doors of a gallery; the dramatist the free scope\nof a stage. The composer must depend upon an intermediary, the interpreter.\nIt is true that in response to public demand, our official organizations oc-\ncasionally place on their programs a new work surrounded by established names."}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.97", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1045, "texte": "But such a work is carefully chosen from the most timid and anaemic of\ncontemporary production, leaving absolutely unheard the composers who\nrepresent the true spirit of our time.\nDying is the privilege of the weary. The present day composers refuse to\ndie. They have realized the necessity of banding together and fighting for the\nright of each individual to secure a fair and free presentation of his work. It is\nout of such a collective will that the International Composers' Guild was born.\nThe aim of the International Composers' Guild is to centralize the works\nof the day, to group them in programs intelligently and organically construct-\ned, and, with the disinterested help of singers and instrumentalists, to present\n• • •\nthese works in such a way as to reveal their fundamental spirit.\nThe International Composers' Guild refuses to admit any limitation, either\nof volition or of action.\nThe International Composers' Guild disapproves of all \" isms \" ; denies\nthe existence of schools ; recognizes only the individual.\n\nEdgar Varèse."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c053", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c053", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "95", "page_fin": "96", "image_debut": 97, "image_fin": 98, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.38", "titre_corps": "Notes: To the Translator", "titre_sommaire": "Notes: To the Translator", "signature_source": "Wallace Gould", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.97", "debut_caractere": 1047, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2287, "texte": "NOTES: TO THE TRANSLATOR.\n\nIn translating my poems, there are a few points to be observed. To ignore\nthem, or any one of them, is entirely to deny me a respectful presentation. My\ndogma, for such it is, applies, in my own mind, to no one besides me, but to\nme it is sacred, and to one who intends to introduce me, it should be inviolable.\n1. — No verse shall consist of only one word of one syllable only. I\ndo not respect theoretical rythm.\n2. — Each verse must terminate decisively, and without unnecessary\ndeflection. None may terminate with an article. None with a conjunction,\nan adverb, or a preposition, unless that part of speech is for a legitimate rea-\nson punctuated. Thus with a pronoun, unless it concludes a phrase. Each\nverse must stand alone.\n3- — Be careful of the use of interjections. I am not enthusiastic,\nand do not wish to appear thus.\n4. — My verse-forms are three only ; the English heroic, or iambic pen-\ntameter, the sonnet, English or Italian, and free verse after my own concep-\ntion. I have settled on these as permanent with me, because they are, so far\nas I am able to find out, easily translatable into the major languages. I de-\ntest the thought of an universal language, but I have, for reasons other than"}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "96", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 761, "texte": "that given, circumscribed myself. I trust that you will endeavor to use my\nforms in their respective places. Should you think it difficult to do so, try to\ncomprehend the extent of my discipline. The measure of your success will be\ncommensurate to mine. You will fail only where I fail.\n5. — As to the free verse, please use my longflowing, commonplace\nlines, unless I, myself, use staccato passages. Every verse is used for certain\neffect, which I intend always to make obvious. True subtlety is not found in\nforms, but behind them. As to number of lines, or their positions, please imi-\ntate. I have purposely made imitation easy. I have designs on posterity,\nbut do not breathe it.\nI shall welcome correspondence, personal as well as literary.\n\nWallace Gould"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c054", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c054", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "96", "page_fin": "96", "image_debut": 98, "image_fin": 98, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.39", "titre_corps": "The New Broom", "titre_sommaire": "The New Broom", "signature_source": "David O'Neil", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "96", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 763, "fin_caractere_exclue": 996, "texte": "THE NEW BROOM.\nDavid O'Neil.\nWhen you are sweeping us\nWith your cosmic broom\nSweeping us out of mouldy ruts\nSweeping us clean and sweet-\nRemember\nWhen we're quivering—\nSensitive— bare—\nWe shall be grateful\nFor just a few shadows. . ."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c055", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c055", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[97]", "page_fin": "[97]", "image_debut": 99, "image_fin": 99, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.40", "titre_corps": "Manifesto I.", "titre_sommaire": "Manifesto I.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[97]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.99", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1276, "texte": "MANIFESTO I.\nBROOM IS SELECTING FROM THE CONTINENTAL LITERATURE OF THE PRESENT\nTIME THE WRITINGS OF EXCEPTIONAL QUALITY MOST ADAPTABLE FOR TRANSLATION\ninto English.\nThese will appear side by side with the contemporaneous effort in\nGreat Britain and America.\nThe painters and sculptors will be represented by the best available\nreproductions of their work.\nThroughout, the unknown, path-breaking artist will have, when his\nMATERIAL MERITS IT, AT LEAST AN EQUAL CHANCE WITH THE ARTIST OF ACKNOW-\nLEDGED REPUTATION.\nIN BRIEF, BROOM IS A SORT OF CLEARING HOUSE WHERE THE ARTISTS OF THE\nPRESENT TIME WILL BE BROUGHT INTO CLOSER CONTACT.\nThe permanence of this project is assured absolutely if supported\nBY THE SUBSCRIPTIONS OF THOSE SYMPATHETIC TO IT.\nBecause of the distance from the source of supply, it is impossible\n*\nTO FILL THE RENEWAL ORDERS OF BOOKSHOPS AND TO CALCULATE THE QUANTITY\nREQUIRED FROM AMERICA.\nYour subscription (five dollars a year) mailed at the earliest possible\nMOMENT, SOLVES THIS PROBLEM FOR EVERYBODY CONCERNED.\nAMERICAN subscriptions should be mailed to the NEW YORK OFFICE,\nTHREE EAST NINTH STREET; EUROPEAN subscriptions to the main\noffice, 18, TRINITA DEI MONTI, ROME (6), ITAEY.\nAnd do not forget to send us the names and addresses of your\nFRIENDS."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-11-01-c057", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01#c057", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-11_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[98]", "page_fin": "[98]", "image_debut": 100, "image_fin": 100, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.2.42", "titre_corps": "\"What of it, if some old hunks...\" (from Moby Dick)", "titre_sommaire": "\"What of it, if some old hunks...\" (from Moby Dick)", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 100, "page_imprimee": "[98]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.100", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 377, "texte": "«What of it, if some oed hunks\nOF A SEA-CAPTAIN ORDERS ME TO GET A\nBROOM AND SWEEP DOWN THE DECKS ?\nWhat does that indignity amount to,\nWEIGHED, I MEAN, IN THE SCALES OF THE\nNew Testament ? Do you think the\nARCHANGEI, GABRIEL THINKS ANYTHING\nTHE LESS OF ME, BECAUSE I PROMPTLY AND\nRESPECTFULLY OBEY THAT OI,D HUNKS IN\nTHAT PARTICULAR INSTANCE ? WHO A TNT\nA SLAVE ? »\nMOBY DICK."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn International Magazine op the Arts Published by Americans in Italy\nEditors, Harold A. Loeb, Alfred Kreymborg - Associate Editor, Giuseppe Prezzolini\nNOVEMBER 1921.\nvol. 1, No. I\nThe Editors of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to them, but all mss. must be\naccompanied by 0 self-addressed stamped envelope.\nMss. from Europe should be sent to the Rome office; mss. from America to the New York office,\nThe Price of Broom is:\nFor America, fifty cents the copy, and five dollars for a year's subscription. For Italy, 10 lire\nthe copy, 100 lire for a year's subscription. For France, 6 francs the copy, 60 francs for a year's\nsubscription. For Great Britain, 2/6 for the copy, One pound and five shillings for a year's subscription.\nThe contents of this issue are protected by copyright, November 1921. Infringement of same will\nbe prosecuted.\nHeadquarters, 18, TrinitA dei Monti, Rome (6), Italy.\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street.\nGeneral Distributor For France, Belgium, and Holland, Ivlbrairie de France, 99 Bou-\nlevard Raspail, Paris.\n\nCover Design (Woodcut) — E. Prampouni. PaBe\nIyAKE — Bayard Boyesen ' 1\nBrooklyn Bridge — Joseph Stella 2\nHunger — James Stephens 3\nMarnia — Waeeace Goued 12\nA Union Of Beggars — Manuee Komroff 17\nDrawing Of Igor Strawinsky — Pabeo Picasso . . 22\nPortrait — Andrf; Derain 23\nStiee IviFE — Juan Gris 24\nPainting — Aebert Geeizes 25\nChinese Poems Of J. Wing — E. Powys Mathers 26\nThe Function Of Criticism ? — Conrad Aiken 33\nDrawing — Bepi Fabiano. . .. 39\nDrawing — Frediano Frediani 40\nLilacs — Amy 41\nSculpture — Jacques Ivlpchitz * 45\nHe Laughed At The Gods — James Oppenheim 46\nSeguidieea — Man Ray . . . 54\nIn The Dock — W. De la Mare 55\nThe Soue Of An Artist — J. D. Beresford 56\nTwo Drawings — Wieijam Gropper 69\nHospital Nights — Lola Ridge 70\nFairy Tale — Donald Corley 72\nMaple-Sugar Song — Lew Sarett . 76\nBambino's Beginning — Haniel Long 80\nEinstein And The Poets — Louis Untermeyer 84\nAmerica Invades Europe — Emmy Veronica Sanders 89\nBroomides : Communications From Edgar Varicse, Wallace Gould, David O'Neil .... 94"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.3", "texte": "LAKE.\nBayard Boyesen.\nThere's too much selfhood in this lake :\nThough, varying, four streams partake\nIn amber rushes till they break\nWhen softening confusions shake\nIdentities into the lake.\nI know the four streams, all their ways;\nI've paddled in their amber sprays\nAnd flung them into bubbled praise\nOf sunlight; but I see too well\nThe lake complacently will tell\nOnly selfhood, nor admit\nHow four streams engendered it."}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.4", "texte": "Joseph Stella.\nBrooklyn Bridge."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.5", "texte": "HUNGER.\nA DUBLIN STORY.\n\nOn some people misery comes unrelentingly, with such a continuous rage\nthat one might say destruction had been sworn against them, and that they\nwere doomed beyond appeal, or hope. That seemed to her to be the case as\nshe sat, when her visitor had departed, looking on life as it had moved about\nher, and she saw that life had closed on her and crushed her, and that there\nwas nothing to be said about it, and no one to be blamed.\nShe was four years married, and she had three children. One of them\nhad fallen when he was quite young, and had hurt his back so badly that the\ndispensary doctor instructed her not to let him walk for a few years.\nShe loved all her children, but this child she loved greatly, for, of the three\nshe had to do the most for him. Indeed she had to do everything for him, and\nshe loved to do it. He was the eldest and he was always with her : so were\nthe others, of course, for a woman in needy circumstances can never get away\nfrom her children ; but the other youngsters were with her as screamings and\ndemands, to be attended to and forgotten, while he was with her as a compan-\nion eye, a consciousness to whom she could talk and who would reply to her,\nand who would not by any means get into mischief. He could not get into\nanything else either.\nHer husband was a housepainter, and when work was brisk he got good\nwages :he could earn thirty-five shillings a week when he was working. But\nhis work was constant only in the summer months : through the bad weather\nthere was no call for him, for no one wanted housepainting done in the winter>\nand so the money which he earned in the five months had to be stretched and\nmade to cover the remaining seven months of the year.\nNor were these five months to be entirely depended upon : here and there\nin a week days would be missed, and with that his Society dues had to be paid,\nfor he would pay those though he starved for it"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.6", "texte": "Wages which have to be stretched so lengthily give but the slenderest sum\ntowards a weekly budget: it was she who had to stretch them, and the doing\nof that occupied all the time she could spare for thinking. She made ends\nmeet where nothing was but ends, and they met just over the death line of\nstarvation. She had not known for three years what it was like not to be hun-\ngry for one day, but life is largely custom, and neither she nor her husband\nnor the children made much complaint about a condition which was normal\nfor them all, and into which the children had been born. They could scarcely\ndie of hunger for they were native to it: they were hunger, and there was no other\nhunger but them : and they only made a noise about food when they saw food.\nIf she could have got work how gladly she would have taken it, how gladly\nshe would have done it: sweated work, any work, so that it brought in if it\nwas no more than two or three coppers in the day. But the children were there,\nthree of them, and all were young and one was a cripple. Her own people, and\nthose of her husband, lived, existed, far away in the country : they could not\ntake the children off her hands : she could not give a neighbour anything to\nlook after them while she went out working : she was held to them as fast as if\nshe were chained to them, and, for to think in such cases is only to be worried,\nthere was no use in thinking about it. She had already all the worry she could\ndeal with, and she wanted no more.\nShe remembered the tale she had laughed at, when she was young, about\na woman who had been circumstanced as she was now : this woman used to\nput her two children into a box, for she had to go out every day to work in or-\nder that she might feed them, and she kept them in the box so that they might\nnot injure themselves during her absence. It was a good idea, but the children\ncame out of the box hunchbacks, and so stunted in their growth that it might\nbe said they never grew thereafter. It would have been better for the chil-\ndren, and easier for them, if they had died ; anyhow, their mother died, and the\npoor little oddities went to the workhouse, and must all their lives have got\nall the jeers which their appearance sanctioned.\nThere was nothing to be done ; even her husband had long ago given up\nthinking of how this could be arranged, and although she still and continually\nthought about it, she knew that nothing could be done.\nHer husband was a jolly man ; he used to make up lists of the gigantic\nfeeds they would have when the ship came home (what ship he did not say,\nnor did he ever say that he expected one), and he or she or the children would\nremind each other of foods which had been left out of his catalogue, for no\nfood of which they knew the name could justly be omitted from their future.\nHe was a robust man, and could have eaten a lot if he got it; indeed he had\noften tempted his wife to commit an act of madness and have one wild blow-"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.7", "texte": "out, for which, as she pointed out to him, they would have to pay by whole\ndays of whole starvation, instead of the whole days of semi-hunger to which\nthey were accustomed.\nThis was the only subject on which they came near to quarrelling, and\nhe brought it forward with fortnightly regularity.\nSometimes she went cold at the thought that he might on some pay-day\ngo in for a wild orgy of eating, and perhaps spend half-a-crown ; less than that\nsum could not nearly fill him, and the double of it would hardly fill him the\nway be wanted to be filled ; for he wanted to be filled as tightly as a drum,\nand with such a weight and abundance of victual that he could hardly be lifted\nby a crane.\nBut he was an honourable man, and she knew he would not do this un-\nless she and the children were with him and could share and go mad with him.\nHe was very fond of them, and if she could have fed him on her own flesh she\nwould have sacrificed a slice or two, for she was very fond of him.\nThe mild weather had come, and he got a cut in his hand, which festered\nand seemed stubbornly incurable : the reason was that the poor, gaunt man was\nnot fed well enough to send clean blood down to doctor his cut hand ; but in\nthe end he did get over it. But for three weeks be had been unable to work,\nfor who will give employment to a man whose hand looks like a poultice or a\nsmall football ?\nThe loss of these three weeks almost finished her. The distinguishing mark\nof her family had been thinness, it was now bonyness. To what a food-getting\nfervour she was compelled ! She put the world of rubbish that was about her\nthrough a sieve, and found nourishment for her family where a rat would have\nfound disappointment. She could not beg, but she did send her two children\ninto the street, and sometimes one of these got a copper from a passing stran-\nger ; then that youngster gave out a loyal squeal for his c ompanion, like the\ncall of a famished crow who warns his brothers that he has discovered booty;\nand they trotted home with their penny. The sun shone on the day they got\na penny : on the days when they got nothing the sun might split the bricks,\nbut it did riot shine.\nHer man returned to his work, and if she could hold on they would be able\nto regain the poverty of a few months previously, but which now beamed to\nher as distant, unattainable affluence. She could hold on, and she did; so that\nthey tided feebly across those evil days, and came at last to the longed-for\nscarcity which yet was not absolute starvation, and whereby they could live\nin the condition of health to which they were accustomed, and which they re-\ncognised and spoke of as good-health.\nThey could not absolutely come to this for at least a year; provision had"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.8", "texte": "still to be made for the lean months to come, the winter months, and more than\nthree weeks' wages which should have been skimmed in this precaution had\nbeen unprofitable, had not existed. The difference had to be made up by a\ndouble skimming of the present wage, which must also pay the present necessi-\nties and recoup the baker and grocer for the few weeks' credit these shop peo-\nple had given her.\nIn all, their lot for a long time was not to be envied, except by a beast\nin captivity, and by him only because he lusts for freedom and the chance of\nit as we lust for security and the destruction of chance.\nThe winter came—the winter will come tho' the lark protest and the worm\ncries out its woe ; and she entered on that period with misgiving, with resolution,\nand a facing of everything that might come. What bravery she had ! What\na noble, unwearying courage, when in such a little time and as such small la-\nbour she might have died ! But such an idea never came to her head. She\nlooked on the world, and she found that the world was composed of a man and\nthree children; while they lasted she could last, and when they were done it\nwould be time enough to think of personal matters and her relation to things.\nBefore the summer had quite ended, before autumn had tinted a leaf, the\nwar broke out, and with its coming there came insecurity : not to her, not to\nthem : they had no standard to measure security by; it came to the people\nwho desire things done, who pay to have doors varnished and window-frames\npainted. These people drew silently but resolutely from expense ; while he\nand she and the children sunk deeper into their spending as one wallows into\na bog. The prices of things began to increase with a cumulative rapidity, and\nthe quality of things began to deteriorate with equal speed. Bread and the\neater of it came to a grey complexion. Meat got the cut direct instead of the\ndirect cut. The vegetables emigrated with the birds. The potato got a rise\nin the world and recognised no more its oldest friends. There seemed to be\nnothing left but the rain, and the rain came loyally.\nThey, those others, could retrench and draw in a little their horns, but\nfrom what could she go back ? What could she avoid ? What could she eli-\nminate, who had come to the bare bone and shank of life ? The necessity for\nthe loaf comes daily, recurs pitilessly from digestion to digestion, and with\nthe inexorable promptitude of the moon the rent collector wanes and waxes.\nThey managed : she and he managed : work still was, although it was\nspaced and intervalled like a neglected storm-blown hedge. Here was a week\nand there another one, and from it they gleaned their spare constricted ex-\nistence.\nThey did not complain : those who are down do not complain. Nor did\nthey know they were down; or, knowing it, they did not admit their downness;"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.9", "texte": "for to face a fact is to face with naked hands a lion, and to admit is to give in,\nto be washed away and to be lost and drowned; anonymous, unhelpable, alive\nno more, but debris, or a straw which the wind takes and sails or tears or drifts\nor rots to powder and forgetfulness. A bone in a world of bones ! And they\ngnawed these bones until it seemed that nothing moved in the world or was\nalive except their teeth.\nThe winter came, and his work stopped as it always did in that season ;\nhe got jobs cleaning windows, he got jobs at the docks hoisting things which\nnot Hercules nor the devil himself could lift, but which he could lift, or which\nhis teeth and the teeth of his children detached from the ground as from founda-\ntions and rivettings ; he got a job as a coalman, and as a night-watchman sit-\nting in the angle of a black street before a bucket of stinking coal which had\nbeen a fire until the rain put it out; to-day he had a job, but tomorrow and for\na week he had none.\nWith what had been saved, skimmed, strained from the summer wages,\nand with what came from the jobs, and with the pennies the children unearthed\nfrom strangers as though they dug in those loath souls for coin, they lived\nthrough the winter, and did not feel they had passed through any experience\nworth recording, or that their endurance might have been rewarded with\nmedals and a pension. They were living, as we all manage amazing to live,\nand, if others had an easier time that was their chance ; but this was their\nlife, and there were those who were even worse off than they were ; for they\npaid the rent, and when that was done what a deed had been accomplished,\nhow notable an enemy circumvented !\nThe Spring came, but it brought no leaves to their tree; the Summer came\nbut it did not come to them, nor warn them of harvest and a sickle in the yield\nThere was no building done that summer ; the price of material had gone up\nand the price of wages. The contractors did not care for that prospect, and\nthe client thought of his income-tax and decided to wait. And her husband\nhad no work ! He had almost given up even looking for work. He would go\nout of the house and come into the house, and he and she would look at each\nother in a dumb questioning. Sometimes she would say — not that she had\nanything to say, but to ease his heart with a comradely word — \" Any chance\nto-day, do you think ? \" and he would reply : \" Chance ! \" and sit down and\nbrood upon that lapsing word. They were not angry, they had not the blood\nto be angry with; for wrath you must be well fed or you must be drunk.\nThe youngest child died of a disease which, whatever it was at the top,\nwas hunger at the bottom, and she grew terrified. She heard that there was\nwork to be had in plenty in the Munition Factories in Scotland, and by some\nmeans she gathered together the fare and sent her husband across the sea."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.10", "texte": "\" Write, if yon can, \" said she, \" the minnte you get a place. \"\n\"Yes,\" he replied.\n\" And send us what you can spare, \" she said. Send something this week\nif you can. \"\n\" Yes, \" he said ; and he went away.\nThen she went into the streets to beg. She left the boy behind in his\nchair, and brought the other little one with her. She was frightened, for one\ncan be arrested for begging, and she was afraid not to beg, for one can die of\nhunger. She got a penny here and a penny there, and bought bread ; some-\ntimes even she got a twist of tea: she could manage until the end of the week,\nuntil her man sent the money : she had thoughts of singing at the corners of\nstreets, as she had so often seen done by toneless, ashenfaced women, who creak\nrusty music at the passer, and fix him with their eyes ; but she was ashamed,\nand no song that she could remember seemed suitable, and she only could re-\nmember bits of songs ; and she knew her voice would not work for her, but\nwould creak and mourn like a rusty hinge.\nHer earnings were small, for she could not get in touch with people ; they\nrecognised her at a distance as a beggar, and she could only whisper to the back\nof a head or a cold shoulder. Sometimes when she went towards a person that\nperson instantly crossed the road and walked for a while hastily. Sometimes\npeople fixed upon her a cold, prohibitive eye, and she drew back from them\nhumbled, her heart panting and her eyes hot at the idea that they took her\nfor a beggar. At times someone, without glancing at her, stuck a hand in a\npocket and gave her a penny without halting in their stride. One day she\ngot twopence, one day she got sixpence, one day she got nothing. But she\ncould hold out to the end of the week.\nThe end of the week came, but it brought no letter. \" It will come tomor-\nrow, \" she said ; \" he is in a strange country ; he must have missed the post,\nGod help him ! \" But on the following day there was no letter, and on the day\nafter, and the day that succeeded to it there was no letter.\n\"He... ! \" she said. But she could not speculate on him. She knew\nhim too well, and this was not him ; he could no more leave them in the lurch\nthan he could jump across Ireland in one jump.\n\" He has not got work \", she said ; and she saw him strayed and stranded,\nwithout a hand, without a voice, bewildered and lost among strangers ; going\nup streets and down streets, and twisting himself into a maze, a dizziness of\nloneliness and poverty and despair, or, she said, \" The submarines had blown\nup the ship that was coming with the money. \"\nThe week went by, another came, and still she did not hear from him. She\nwas not able to pay the rent. She looked at the children, and then she looked"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.11", "texte": "away from them distantly to her strayed husband, and then she looked inwardly\non herself and there was nothing to see. She was down. No littlest hope could\nfind a chink to peer through, and while she sat staring at nothing, in an immo-\nbile maze of attention her mind — she had no longer a heart, it had died of star-\nvation — her mind would give a leap and be still, and would leap again as though\nan unknown, wordless action were seeking to be free, seeking to do some work,\nseeking to disprove stagnation and powerlessness and death, and a little burn-\ning centre of violence hung in her head like a star.\nShe followed people with her eyes, sometimes a little way her feet, saying\nto herself :\n\" The pockets of that man are full of money; he would rattle if he fell. \"\nOr, \" That man had his breakfast this morning, he is full of food to the\nchin ; he is round and tight and solid, and he weighs a ton.\nShe said : \" If I had all the money of all the people in this street I would\nhave a lot of money. \"\nShe said: \"If I owned all the houses in this street I would have a lot of\nmoney. \"\nThe rent collector told her imperatively that she must leave at the end of\nthe week. The children called to her for bread clamourously, unceasingly,\nlike little dogs that yap and whine and cannot be made to stop.\nRelief kitchens had been started in various parts of the City, but she only\nheard of them by chance, and she went to one. She told a lady in attendance\nher miserable tale, and was given the address of a gentleman who might assist\nher. He could give her a ticket which would enable her to get food, and he\nmight be able to set her in the way of earning what would pay the rent. The lady\nthought her husband had deserted her, and said so without condemnation, as\none who states a thing which had been known to happen, and the poor woman\nagreed without agreeing, for she did not believe it. But she did not argue\nabout the matter, for now that she accepted food, she accepted anything that\ncame with it, whether it was opinions or advice ; she was an acceptor, and she\ndid not claim to possess even an opinion.\nShe set out for the house of the gentleman who could give her the ticket\nwhich would get her food to bring home to the children. He lived at some dis-\ntance, and when she got to his house the servant told her he had gone to his\noffice ;at his office she was informed that he had gone out. She called three\ntimes at the office, and on the third time she was told that he had come in,\nbut had gone home. She trudged to his house again, and would have been\nweary, but that her mind was far away from her trudging feet, and when the\nmind is away the body matters nothing. Her mind was back in the rooms\nlooking at the children, listening to them, consoling them, telling them that"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.12", "texte": "in a little while she would be back and she would bring them something. They\nhad not eaten anything for—how long was it ? Was it a year ! An eternity !\nHad they ever eaten ! And one of them was sick! She must get back : she\nhad been away too long : but she must go forward before she could go back :\nshe must get the ticket which was food and hope and a new beginning, or at\nleast respite ; then she would be able to look about her; the children would\ngo to sleep, and she could plan and contrive and pull together those separated\nand dwindling ends.\nShe came to the gentleman's house. He was in, and she told him her\nstory and how her case was desperate. He also believed that her husband had\ndeserted her, and he promised to write by that night's post to find out the truth\nabout the man, and to see that he was punished for his desertion. He had no\ntickets with him ; he had used them all, for the hungry people in Dublin were\nnumerous, work was slack everywhere, and those who had never before ap-\nplied for assistance were now forced to do so by dire and dreadful necessity.\nHe gave her some money, and promised to call at her rooms on the follow-\ning day to investigate her case.\nShe went homewards urgently, and near home she bought bread and tea.\nWhen she got in the crippled boy turned his dull, dumb eyes on her, and she\nlaughed at him excitedly, exultantly, for she had food, lots of it, two loaves\nof it; but the other child did not turn to her, and would never turn to her again,\nfor he was dead, and he was dead of hunger.\nShe could not afford to go mad, for she still had a boy, and he depended\non her with an utter helpless dependence. She fed him and fed herself, run-\nning from his chair to the other in its cot with the dumb agony of an animal\nwho must do two things at once and cannot think which thing to do. She\ncould not think ; she could hardly feel; she was dulled and distressed and wild,\nand she was weakened by misery and tormented by duties, and life and the\nworld seemed a place of businesses and futilities and unending unregulated\ndemands on her. A neighbour, hearing that curious persistent trotting over\nher head, came up to the room to remonstrate, and remained to shed for her\nthe tears which she could not weep herself. She, too, was in straits, and had\nnothing more to give them than those tears and the banal reiterations which are\ncomfort because they are kindness.\nInto this place the gentleman called on the following day to investigate,\nand was introduced to a room swept almost as clean of furniture as a dog ken-\nnel is ; to the staring, wise-eyed child who lived in a chair, and to the quiet\nmorsel of death that lay in a cot by the wall. He was horrified, but he was\nused to sights of misery, and knew that when things have ceased to move they\nmust be set moving again, and that all he could do was to remove some of the"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.13", "texte": "impediments which he found in the path of life so that it might flow on before it\nhad time to become stagnant and rotten. He took from the dry-eyed, tongue-\ntied woman's shoulders all the immediate worry of death and arranged\nabout the death certificate and registration and burial. He paid the rent,\nand left something to go on with as well, and he promised to get her work either\nin his house or at his office, but he would get her work to do somehow.\nHe came daily, and each day, in reply to her timid question as to news\nabout her husband, he had nothing to say except that enquiries were being\nmade. On the fifth day he had news, and he would have preferred any duty,\nhowever painful, to the duty of telling her his news. But he told it sitting on\nthe one chair, with his hand over his eyes and nothing of his face visible ex-\ncept the mouth which shaped the sentences and spoke them. The munition\npeople in Scotland had reported that a man of the name he was enquiring for\nhad applied for work, and had been taken on a fortnight after his application.\nThe morning after he began work he was found dead in a laneway. He had\nno lodgings in the city, and at the postmortem examination it was found that\nhe had died of hunger and exposure. She listened to that tale, looking from\nthe gentleman who told it to her little son who listened to it. She moistened\nher lips with her tongue, but she could not speak, she could only stammer and\nsmile. The gentleman also was looking at the boy.\n\"We must set this young man up, \" said he, heavily. \" I will send a doc-\ntor to look him over to-day. \"\nAnd he went away all hot and cold, beating his hands together as he walked,\nand feeling upon his shoulders all the weariness and misery of the world.\n\nJames Stephens."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.14", "texte": "MARNIA.\n\nI remember well the house in which Marnia lived\na large, dark house, with a cupola, and with lightning rods, and looming\nabove the other houses of our neighborhood ;\nand I remember as well the dark back garden\na garden gloomy with the shade of many plum trees, and overgrown\nwith lilies of the valley, and with rank grass.\nI remember both.\nI remember Marnia.\nI remember her mother.\nI remember her lover.\nTo the children of the neighborhood, the garden, inclosed by a high, dark-\npainted picket fence with a gate that was almost always locked, was forbidden ;\nand to me it was forbidding,\nas were the mother, Marnia, and the lover, all three, the mother,\nstatuesque, inscrutable, uncommunicative, forbidding because she seemed to\nglower through the pickets ;\nMarnia, fragile, pallid, impassable, forbidding because she never looked\nat me ;\nand the lover, handsome, well dressed, bland, forbidding because he seemed\nto assume an air of owning the garden.\nBut I remember all.\nFrom the house there never came the sounds\nof rattling pans, of slamming doors, or of voices calling loudly from room\nto room.\nFrom the house there never issued the odors\nof onions, of boiled dinners, or of frying fish or meat that scorched in the\nskillet."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.15", "texte": "From the back verandah there often came the sound of restrained laughter,\nwhenever Marnia, and other girls, sat there together ;\nand often, at twilight, there came from the parlor, which was lighted dimly,\nif lighted at all, the sound of the piano, played softly, always softly, and on the\nlower keys, by Marnia, who at times sang, always lowly, and often subtly, as\nif to another.\nBut the place was almost always odorless and noiseless.\nThe windows of panneled glass were impressively clear and clean and the\ninner blinds, panneled, were often closed at the bottom.\nI remember well the things that were said about Marnia's lover, the Irish\nyouth, whose mother had made a fortune by selling booze in a dive, downtown.\nIt was remarked that he was a sport, a drunkard, an irresponsible lout,\na Catholic,\nand that he was known to have an affair with a woman other than\nMarnia, a certain married woman, the wife of a lawyer.\nI remember much that was said about Marnia and her lover\nMarnia, whose blood was old and accepted, Marnia the Yankee, and Ter-\nrence the Irishman, the upstart, offspring of a biddy who sold booze.\nIt was said that Terrence, drunk, escorted Marnia to a ball, one given in\nhonor of the Governor,\nand that he tottered through the dance\nbut that Marnia danced proudly,\nand that she, departing with her fuddled lover, proudly helped him to\ndescend the stairs,\non the last of which he reeled, senseless, to fall to the floor of the lobby,\nand to sprawl there.\nIt was said that Marnia quietly called for a carriage,\nand that she rode away proudly, imperviously, with Terrence slouching\nbeside her.\nThere was a time that Marnia was ill for months, mysteriously ill, during\nwhich time the lover came not once to the house\nand then it was said that Terrence had abandoned her.\nCertain things were said in whispers,\naccompanied with leers, nods, shrugs.\nI remember that during that time,\nthe mother often sat alone in the garden.\nIt was said, by the neighbors, that she was sullen.\nIt was said that no doubt she approved of the way that Marnia carried on\nwith Terrence."}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.16", "texte": "One afternoon, however, with Marnia convalescent, Terrence appeared\nagain at the house.\nNext morning, Marnia was seen for a moment at a window.\nAfter that she was often seen with Terrence.\nAt times she lay in the hammock, on the dark verandah, with Terrence\nsitting beside her.\nAt other times she sat in a large upholstered chair, in the dark garden,\nwith Terrence sitting at her feet.\nAt first they talked not much, and never save in murmurs, but later they\ntalked more, much more, and louder.\nAt length they strolled together about the garden, Terrence supporting\nher tenderly, and each speaking in dulcet undertones to the other.\nMarnia recovered.\nIt was July.\nThere were no roses\nnone grew in the dark garden\nno roses save a few outside the picket fence, a few blush roses, in another\ngarden, a garden exposed to the sunlight.\nOne afternoon, while the lovers lingered in the garden, the dark garden....\nthe lovers standing face to face under the branches of a plum treee....\nthe breezes, bouyant, enraptured, teasing the branches, the pregnant\nbranches, one and all\nMarnia reached impulsively through the picket fence,\nand plucked a warm rose from a bush in the sunny garden.\nShe laughed.\nShe pinned the rose on Terrence.\nAcross her face, upturned to his, there passed an aureate flash,\none which stole through the foliage of the plum tree\nunder which they, the lovers, stood together.\nI cannot but remember her countenance.\nI cannot but remember the countenance of Terrence.\nThere has never been upturned to me a countenance such as that of\nMarnia,\nas it was at that moment,\nand I have never since beheld a countenence such as that of Terrence,\nas it was at the time.\nIt was latter August.\nThe winds had begun to shudder, to whine."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.17", "texte": "The lovers, who had said their say, perhaps, but who spent their after-\nnoons in the garden, as usual, read to each other, or played at chess.\nOne afternoon, Terrence did not appear.\nMarnia sat alone in the garden.\nShe waited.\nShe read.\nThe winds, shuddering, whining, moved restlessly through the pickets.\nThey jostled the branches of the plum trees.\nThey jostled the branches of the rose bushes, too, on which the scrawny\npericarps, crimson, like the rouged faces of old and desperate courtesans, nodded,\nas if in resignation.\nMarnia waited.\nShe glanced up, frequently, toward the street, and once, as if startled,\nshe glanced behind her.\nShe waited, reading, while the afternoon waned.\nSuddenly there appeared a hack, an empty hack, which stopped at the\nfront door.\nThe driver hurriedly rang the doorbell, and hurriedly spoke with the mother.\nMarnia dropped her book.\nShe rushed across the lawn.\nShe listened.\nShe disappeared in the house.\nIn a moment she reappeared, dressed for the street.\nShe entered the hack.\nShe was driven rapidly away.\nThat was the day that Terrence died.\nIt was said that he was killed.\nIt was said that Terrence was killed in a fist fight,\nin which he defended the name of Marnia.\nSome one hit him over the heart, and within an hour he died.\nIt was said that Marnia reached him\nin time to hear him whisper her name, and to receive his kisses.\nIt was said that she sat alone, and long, beside the dead man,\nand that she kissed his distracted mother.\nIt was said that Marnia, with her mother, went to the church, at the fu-\nneral of Terrence, and to the grave, at his burial.\nI cannot remember Marnia after the day that Terrence was killed.\nI saw her no more in the garden."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.18", "texte": "I often heard moans that came from a certain chamber window, and once,\nin the night, I heard loud sobs, and a shriek or two.\nDuring the autumn I saw her mother, silent, and apparently indifferent,\nor even oblivious, in the garden.\nBut I remember no more about either,\nfor in latter autumn the doors of the house were closed,'the double win-\ndows were fastened to the casements,\nand the neighbors talked of the approach of winter.\n\nWallace Gould."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.19", "texte": "2\n\nA UNION OF BEGGARS.\n\n\" The meeting is called to order, \" shouted the president, rapping on\nthe table with an old fork.\n\" Silence please, \" called someone, as the audience lowered the tone of\nconversation.\n\" You will please give your undivided attention, \" continued the presi-\ndent, \"as this meeting is extremely important. Things have come to such a\nstate that our very existence is threatened. The situation is unparalleled in the\nhistory of the union. As the hour is late I would suggest that we dispense with\nthe reading of the minutes and get straight to work. The floor is open for\ndiscussion. \"\nThe meeting took place in the back room of a squalid flat. Yellow gas\nlights reflected the green painted walls upon the faces of two dozen beggars\ncrowded into the narrow space. The air was filled with the smell of smoke and\nrags. The meeting was called to order.\n\" I would like to impress upon the minds of the members the importance\nof this meeting, \" said the man with the tattoed forehead. \" In former years,\nas you all know, we had the run of the city practically to ourselves ; but now we\nare threatened with a different state of things. Since the high cost of living\nmany people have come into the streets to follow our profession and altho we,\nat one time, thought of taking them into the union, we see now that it is\ngood we did not.\n\" However, these men could not earn a living at their former profes-\nsions and we should tolerate them, to a certain extent. We should even\ninstruct them a little so that in time they will learn that co-operation is more\nprofitable than competition. No matter how untrained and inartistic, we\nbore with them as a necessary evil. But now things are different, it seems as\ntho everyone has taken to begging. It's impossible to walk through a street\nwithout meeting three or four. They are so many that it becomes impos-\nsible for skilled workers to earn a living. If we are not to be deprived"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.20", "texte": "of our professional rights, something must be done to check this state of\naffairs. \"\nThen the blind man stood up, removed his blue glasses, and said :\n\" Our friend is right, something must be done. I have been turning the\nproblem over in my mind and to me there appear but three solutions. Either\nwe must unionize the entire crowd, that is, take them into our union\nand form new branches ; or we must protest to the city authorities against\nthe scabbing on our union and require a severe examination for license to\npractice the profession, or, we must declare ' open shop ' and go out and\ncompete with them; relying, of course, on our experience and past training\nto out-do them. To my mind, these are the only three ways open to us,\nand all have their objections.\n\" First, if we take the whole crowd into the union we run great risk of\ndegrading the profession. Professors are begging ! In fact it has come to\nsuch a state that everyone thinks he can be a beggar as though it were an\nunskilled trade and not an old, well founded profession. And as though the\nprofession were without an art. Will we take such men as these into our\nranks — men without experience or training — just from the streets ?\n\"No ! We must think of some other plan. If we protest to the city au-\nthorities against scabbing we injure ourselves, at the start, by appealing to\npublic sympathy; and secondly, it is doubtful whether the authorities would\ndo anything in this matter, for they surely realize that in these changing times\nthey themselves may soon be required to seek a new profession. Then my\nthird plan, namely to declare ' open shop ' is also not very good, for it would\nindeed be difficult. It's hard to compete against a teacher or a former pol-\niceman, for no matter how unskilled they are there is something about them\nthat attracts. What is to be done ? \"\n\" Does anyone else want the floor ? \" called the chairman, and as no-\nbody responded he continued :\n\" Perhaps our colleague Jim will tell us what he thinks of the problems\nbefore us. I call upon him as we know him to be a tactful and artistic\nworker. Perhaps he will explain to us his new method of coping with the\nsituation.\nJim was a man in shreds, the greater part of his clothing consisting of\ncords and colored rags. He stood up very slowly, looked about and began :\n\" Friends ! Nothing can be solved in our line of work without a good deal\nof thought. That is why it is silly to think of taking untrained persons into our\nunion. We all agree that it is becoming harder and harder to work in the\nstreets each day. So I said to myself, ' I must think of some plan. ' And\nI did ! First, I asked myself, ' Who has money now ? ' And the answer"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.21", "texte": "came ' Those who have made it now. ' ' And who have made it now ?' The\nrich people with the estates ? No ! The Middle Class, of course, the little\nbrokers, and stock gamblers ; the exchange merchants and other profiteers.\nTherefore I decided to work the offices ; the little rooms in the big buildings.\n\" I took my time the first few days and made observations. Never hurry !\nI would enter an office slowly and quietly and go straight to the clerk and say\nsoftly in a tone of ' have pity ' : ' The foxes have holes, and the birds of the\nair have nests; but the son of man hath not where to lay his head ? '\n\" The proprietors of these offices were not to be found. And the clerks\nwere so ignorant that they did not understand that I compared them to foxes\nand birds. Besides this they held a powerful weapon and that was : ' I am\nsorry, but the boss is not in. ' I had to meet this reply, so I dug up a story\nand since then have had little difficulty.\n\" It works something like this ; I walk into an office, take off my hat;\n— always slowfy, and stand near the door. If I get a fee, well and good ;\nif not, I wait. A little two-by-four clerk sits at a large desk, and as soon as\nI enter, pretends to be extremely busy. After a while he glances up and\nsays, ' I am sorry, but the boss is out. ' I do not move and remain as though\nI did not understand., Again he will look up and say, ' The boss is not in. '\nAnd once more, ' What do you want, the boss is not in. '\n\" Then I say, 'Yes, I see the boss is not in, and as you can give me noth-\ning, please allow me to give you something. Let me tell you a little joke ? '\n\" ' I have no time, don't bother me, the boss is not in, ' he replies.\nBut just a little one, I am sure you will not be sorry ' I insist and start\nthe story :\n\" Once upon a time, there lived a Hebrew whose name was Moe. Like\nmost men he had two brains in his head, a big and a little brain. His big brain\nwas very, very fine for he used it often. It was the brain he made his money\nwith. But the little brain was very weak for with this brain he gave charity.\nI do not say that Moe was a miser, but I do know that his little brain had so\nlittle exercise that it became limp and began to rot. This became so serious\nthat it had to be taken from his head by a surgical operation. And as, ac-\ncording to the Hebrew religion, no part of the human body may be thrown away,\nthe little brain was placed in a cigar box and buried in the cemetery. A small\ntomb-stone no bigger than a cash book marked the spot with the inscription:\n' Moe's Little Brain \\\n\" On the day of atonement, according to the Hebrew faith, the Lord walks\namong the dead with his large ledger checking the names. He knocks on a"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.22", "texte": "stone or grave, and those that are buried answer, present or here. But when\nthe Lord knocked on the little stone there came no answer. And again\nhe knocked and there came no answer. He compared the inscription with his\nbook and called, Moe's Little Brain, are you there ? And with these words\nhe struck the earth such a blow with his staff that it almost split in two,\nas he placed his ear close to the grave.\n\" And then came a little thin voice from below : ' Please mister, the boss\nis not in. '\n\" This story averages exactly fifty cents. It is a high class entertainment\nthat I propose to give and naturall.y the fees must be according to the work\nand skill of the practitioner. When the offices are exhausted I will find some\nother plan ; but I will not go back to the streets with the common scum of the\nearth. If a man wants to be a bricklayer he must first know that bricks are\nmade of clay. If he wants to be a lawyer he must know that documents are\nmade of words. And if he wants to succeed as a beggar he must realize that\nthe foundation of the profession is psychology. \"\nThe audience listened attentively to the advice of Jim and after a brief\nsilence there were many calls for the floor.\n\" I would just like to ask a question, \" said the man with one arm. \"In\nformer years a great deal of our income was derived from the church steps and\na good deal more in the name of religion, but now that the free thought move-\nment is attracting such wide interest, and that anti-religious literature is\nsold on almost every corner, is not another source of our incomes threatened ?\nMy question is this : Is there any way of deriving profit from the masses who\nhave forsaken the church ? Would it be proper to ask for fees in the name of\nVoltaire ?\n\" Our comrade Jim \" said the man who could dislocate his left hip and\nthereby make that leg three inches shorter, \" has just touched upon the very\nsubject. I should consider the story he is using now as a mild and inoffensive,\nsatire. In work of this kind, style is important. In the cloak of art much can\nbe done. However, his first quotation regarding the foxes and the birds is a\nmethod of which I would not approve as it appears to me to offend our re-\nligious clients. It is irony ; and when that is used against religion the message\nbecomes agnostic and therefore offensive to certain people. However, when\na little satire is used it tends to create an impression of non-religion which\nis not antagonistic nor offensive. In working the non-religious masses we\nshould be extremely careful not to offend the others for they are our oldest\nand still our best clients. \"\n\" The hour is growing late, \" said the president, \" and I feel that we are\nmore or less digressing from the main issue. Also, because of the complexity"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.23", "texte": "of the questions before us which cannot be decided tonight, I would suggest\nthat this meeting be adjourned till next Sunday night, when we will hear\nthe report of the ways and means committee. A full attendance is request-\ned and please be early so we may start on time. As I hear no objection\nI call this meeting ajourned. \"\n\nManuel Komroff."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.24", "texte": "Pablo Picasso.\nCourtesy of Galerie Rosenberg - Paris.\nDrawing of Igor Strawinsky."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.25", "texte": "André: Derain.\nCourtesy of Galerie Simon - Paris.\nPortrait."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.26", "texte": "JUAN Gris.\nCourtesy of Galerie Simon - Paris.\nStill Life."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.27", "texte": "Albert Gleizes.\nPainting."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.28", "texte": "CHINESE POEMS OF J. WING.\n\nI.\nI did not ask another miracle for my day\nThan you undressing beside me,\nWhite under the sunlight;\nBut, look, also, the scarlet moss\nHas turned the water to wine\nIn our pool.\nYellow moon goes up\nWith the smell of night water among rushes.\nEvenings that withered like flowers,\nWe have brought to Barbara\nHours of winter-grey, but also\nThe green of the evergreen, varnished in warm rain.\n\n2.\nThe heavy blue waters of the night\nHave flooded through the sun's scarlet rocks,\nFilling the valley.\nThe flowers are grey as in water,\nThe scarves of mist quiver like sea-weeds ;\nI expect bubbles in the wake of a bird\nWhich swims across the window."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.29", "texte": "Barbara walks with a tawny candle\nOn the pavement of the sea.\n\n3.\nThe square small garden of my paper\nHas turned blue in the night-fall,\nBut my pen works late among the flowers.\nI have written that Li Po, being drunk,\nSought to gather the stars and moon\nTo scent the bed-chamber of his mistress ;\nAnd so was drowned.\nAnd I caught cold yesterday,\nCutting wisteria,\nStanding in the dew by the North wall,\nFor Barbara.\n\n4.\nThe flower-crowned captain of my boat\nLooks down into green and black water.\nSee, faint gold carp and purple fan-fish\nWhich float above two eyes,\nBlack crescents holding child-stars of silver.\nOver all swims\nThat lithe white uncaught fish,\nThe March moon.\n\n5.\nIn the unmoving water\nThat brims this old quarry of grey stones"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.30", "texte": "I have watched an olive-brown perch\nParading his black bars,\nFlirting and floating an open orange fan.\nEach stick of it was thorned and cruel\nLike the bright-coloured fans of emperors\nAnd young girls.\n\n6.\nThe breakers far to the left at night,\nForeign cannons splintering long ago\nBamboo junks of the two-sword men.\nLines of black slaves\nRunning up the beach,\nTo fall exhausted forward.\nThey carry bar-silver against their breasts ;\nIt drags them down in this Spanish sea all night\n\n7.\nYour childishness is a gold hill,\nThere is a sheer fall from it\nInto the cloudy monotonous sea.\nYou dance high in a small blue vesture,\nWith white arms catching at the sky\nAnd feet hardly touching the gold earth.\nYou dance swift and sweet and warm\nTo the edge and back again."}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.31", "texte": "8.\nThree years ago\nI could spin various tops\nBetter even than the masters of song ;\nAnd for this I think you loved me.\nEven if I spin Tu Fu to-day,\nThe gold green banded,\nAnd catch him on his cord\nAnd dance him on the wine-cup's edge,\nThat crystal bridge,\nYou are away learning from silly lips\nThe Love-me-at-evening Song.\nThe wine-cup and the cord remain.\n\n9.\nI have painted abominable devils\nFor your great delight,\nYellow apes with alligators' heads\nAnd scarlet spots ; blue mouths.\nBut now that you demand\nA picture of ourselves playing together,\nWhat shall I put down ?\nA band of cherry-coloured fire\nAcross black paper ?\n\nIO.\nA purple flag-flower, I looked down\nInto the water of your soul,\nA silver trickle in the hills."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.32", "texte": "You wooed down to you and caught\nOne of my leaves.\nI am a splintered mash\nOf green and water and mauve\nEaten by the black teeth of the rocks\n\nII.\nMy mind was an ivory box\nBefore you came ;\nCarved with sayings,\nHolding a scentless pellet\nOf green burning-gum.\nBut now\nHalf the earth is filled\nWith the sweet eternal smell of pain,\nAnd the box is empty.\n\nI2.\nWhen you sat in your dark silk chair,\nRipe with fat fruits of yellow and red silk,\nActive with blue lithe animals,\nPressing your scented rose-ended\nPeach-coloured feet against my face,\nI was humiliated, as you desired.\nBut when your male friend\nTalked to me about Eastern learning\nI was more humiliated."}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.33", "texte": "I3.\nA thousand nasturtiums\nBlowing the fire-coloured music of their trumpets,\nPutting forward green shields,\nWalk up the path beside me.\nUnder their brass hangers\nThey move long legs of green\nWith my slow feet.\nIn the yellow rooms of hot hearts\nThey shook their golden hands\nWhen I came back to them.\n\nI4.\nMy mauve dancer, columbine,\nHoisted her pale green flare\nAnd spread her trefoil carpets\nOf crushed emerald.\nShe leapt in the wind\nOn the powdered purple of her feet\nBelow an airy tyrian skirt\nSilken yellow\nto white nakedness.\n\nI5.\nYou swagger from your dry tree,\nSetting apricot vans against the wind,\nHibiscus."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.34", "texte": "Your heart is blood,\nYour white quill comes up out of blood,\nAs if you fed on the murder\nOf crimson roses.\n«\nThe tips of your glad flames\nRise from a fibre of powdered starlight\nAnd you are merry.\n\nTranslated by\nE. Powys Mathers."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.35", "texte": "3\n\nTHE FUNCTION OF CRITICISM ?\n\nThe influence of Benedetto Croce on contemporary literary criticism both\nin Europe and in America has been enormous. His \" disciples \" are nu-\nmerous and intelligent, for the most part, and the ideas in his Aesthetic, insofar\nas they are applicable in simple fashion to the writing of criticism, whether\nliterary or journalistic, have been rapidly disseminated and rapidly absorbed.\nThat such ideas form a relatively slight part of his book is true, and this may\nbe considered fortunate or unfortunate, according to the point of view, — the\nFreudian will perhaps consider it a piece of luck. But that doctrine of Croce's\n(to which our attention has lately been called again and again) that a work\nof art should be compared not with something else but with its own ideal self,\nis familiar enough in a hundred gradations. I have paraphrased it, of course —\nthe reader may reshape it to suit himself. But however expressed it is re-\ngarded as a blow at the so-called \" canons \" of taste (which admittedly do not\nabsolutely exist) and at that sort of criticism which pronounces, in accordance\nwith any such canons, pseudo-impartial judgments : or measures the ex-\ncellence of a work of art only in the terms of tradition. The new criticism, —so\nwe are told — should be solely interpretative. Its business will be to un-\nderstand, to appreciate.\nThere is naturally a great deal to recommend this doctrine. How charm-\ning and how valuable a criticism may be which follows it anyone knows\nwho has read \" The Symbolist Movement \" of Arthur Symons. And reason-\nable enough the doctrine seems when we consider, as we must, the non-\nexistence, or at any rate, the extreme vagueness, the almost mythological\ncharacter, of aesthetic law. Attempts to define beauty have invariably failed.\nPlato, Aristotle, Shelley, Goethe, Lessing, Keats, Arnold, Croce, Santayana,\nmay have given us some notion of what they felt it to be, but the thing itself\nremains unrealized. The best definition of it is as inadequate as a definition\nof a bird which describes it as a thing made with feathers. For beauty is not\na thing, but an emotion, and an emotion cannot be photographed. In the\n*"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.36", "texte": "presence of this or that phenomenon we experience the emotion we call\nbeauty ; and while it is of interest to keep records of the phenomena which\nprecipitate this emotion, the clue to the effect of these phenomena will be\nfound only in ourselves, for it is a commonplace that what is to one man an\nobject of beauty is to another an object of ugliness. It is precisely out of\nthis apparently hopeless relativity that certain modern critics have generated\ntheir thesis of aesthetic solipsism. \" Since there can be no standards \" (they\nsay) \" let us make a virtue of multiplicity. us avoid saying that we like\nor dislike, since that is merely to make record of idiosyncrasy, let us avoid the\nterms ' good ' and ' bad ', and all categories. Let our criticism be nothing\nbut exegesis, since values cannot be said to exist, and since one man's opinion\nis as good as another's. \" But how many critics who see the charm of this at-\ntitude foresee also all its implications ? What will result from it in\nthe world of art ? When we have ceased to blame or praise in accordance with\nany standards save those which the particular work of art carries implicit\nwithin itself, may we look for the prompt arrival of a Golden Age, in\nwhich all kinds of art will flourish side by side for the world to choose\nfrom ?\nWithout, for the moment, taking refuge — and possibly a dangerous\nrefuge — in behaviorist or Freudian psychology, one may none the less be\npermitted to be somewhat doubtful. This doubt may take two shapes. In\nthe first place our critics of the new order assure us that what they most desire\nto eliminate from aesthetics is dogmatism, which, whether of praise or censure,\nis vicious. But just how does our new critic escape this ? Is he so naive as\nto suppose that he escapes it merely by removing from his vocabulary the\nwords 'like' and 'dislike', 'good' and 'bad', 'beautiful' and 'ugly', 'great'\nand ' minor' ? He does, of course, no such thing. Suppose he limits\nhimself to \" criticism \" of only those works of art with which he finds himself\nmost in sympathy, limiting himself, again, in such cases, to saying that the\nartist \" has endeavoured to do such-and-such, and has been successful, or bril-\nliantly successful, or only partially successful \" ; and avoiding any attempt\nat classification, any comparison with other sorts or excellences of art. Will\nhe any the less be categorizing ? What on earth is he doing if not saying in\nso many words \"This is the sort of thing I consider important?\" And in\nignoring other sorts and excellences of art he is treating them to just the kind of\ndogmatism he pretends to despise, with the sole difference that is is not out-\nspoken, and is therefore not honest. For the Quarterly to have ignored Keats\nwould have been essentially to have reviewed him just as dogmatically as he\nwas reviewed : it would have been tantamount to saying \" We do not consider\nthis poet to be of any importance. \" Iyikes and dislikes are inevitable, and"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.37", "texte": "it is no use trying to pretend that they are not, or deceiving one another\nby leaving them merely implicit.\nSo much for our first doubt. Our \" interpretative \" critic is, therefore,\nseen to be just as dogmatic as any other, but prefers to veil his dogmatism,\nto leave it for his reader as a none too imponderable overtone. Our second\ndoubt takes us further afield. It concerns the function of criticism, and this\ndoubt is more important; for if we know what the function of criticism is, or can\nguess at it, we may then be able to decide better what its nature should be,\nand whether it should be candidly or uncandidly dogmatic. What, then, is\nthe function of criticism ? By far the commonest answer at present would be,\nno doubt, that criticism should act as mediator between artist and audience :\nthat it should explain. And that this purpose in criticism always has been,\nis, and perhaps always will be among the most important of its characteristics\ncan hardly be doubted. We might even go further and say that it is the most\nideal of its characteristics. It would be an ideal world, certainly, in which\nthe poet's new book should be greeted by a thousand reviews in none of which\nwould be a single slip of blame or praise, but only a studious effort to make\ntransparent the poet's meaning. It would in fact have to be an ideal world — a\nworld in which every poet wrote poetry worth reading ; for with the literary\njournals filled with analyses and interpretations, week after week, and no indi-\ncations anywhere of choice, one would perhaps otherwise waste a great deal\nof time in search of what one liked, and one would be certain to miss many\na treasure. Yes, it would have to be an ideal world, or a world in which\nliterature was a thing of the past. If literature were no longer a living\nthing, if all the evidence, so to speak, were \"in \", then criticism might\nbecome an exact science. Animosities and jealousies would no longer be\nengaged, it would cease to be important from the point of view of poet x-\nthat such-and-such a dogma should be true or not true, and the geologists\nof the soul or mind could without fear of passionate interruption proceed\nto delve through the stratified deposits of the literary generations. But\nour world is not an ideal world, and the \" evidence \" is only beginning ;\nno one knows what the weight of it or the direction of it will be. Literature\nchanges constantly, it may develop in a manner totally unforeseen, and who\nknows if the new book by z. or y. is the turning point or not ? z. or Y.\ndo not know, certainly, though, of course, they hope so ; and it is exactly in\nthis situation that we should begin to see that criticism, under the conditions\nwe now live in, has a function which we have overlooked, a function not perhaps\nnoble, though perhaps, equally, not ignoble, but a function quite natural and\nnecessary. This function is not easy to describe, for it is complex. Perhaps,\nin its light, we might justly say that criticism is the artist's weapon, both of"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.38", "texte": "offense and defence, the weapon whereby he destroys or lames artistic ten-\ndencies inimical to his own ; whereby on occasion he is himself destroyed.\nIn a world in which there were no absolute aesthetic values, such a weapon\nwould be of paramount importance. Where there is no law, strength will\nprevail. Under such conditions every artistic cult would have its cohort of\nBalearic slingers, and to the victors would belong the spoils, in the shape of\npublic acclaim. The natural order of things, as we are accustomed to see\nit, or think we see it, would be reversed : the sole standard of excellence\nwould be success, that poetry would be best which was most brilliantly and\npersuasively brought to our attention, those theories of art would seem to\nus best which were most ingeniously argued, and for which our sensibili-\nties, our mental tone, had been, by the artist's advanced guard, most cun-\nningly and richly prepared. A moral chaos, truly, in which we see our-\nselves doomed to be the slaves of those slingers whose pebbles hit us hardest\nand most accurately, whose ideas, in other words, are most skilfully chosen.\nAre we glad we do not live in such a world ? If so, we are glad prematurely,\nfor it is not demonstrable that our world is much different. The new aes-\nthetic teaches us that standards must be abolished in art — classes, grades,\ncategories, also — and that the only question we have a right to ask before\na poem or statue is ' What is the artist saying, and with what skill does he say\nit ? ' But why stop even there — why not push this aesthetic solipsism to its\nextreme, and admit that we have no right to question even the artist's ' skill' ?\nHow do we know what his conception of ' skill' may be ? ' Skill in expres-\nsion ' — for some that will mean complete expression, for some incomplete,\nfor some it will mean the explicit, for some the implicit. No, we like the\npoem or statue, or we do not like it, and that is all we have any \" right \"\nto say. There is no body of aesthetic \" law \" on which we can call for\nsubstantiation.\nIf we live, therefore, in a world in which all aesthetic values are vague\nand debatable, we observe sharply how important is criticism in a way we had\nnot foreseen. For if these values are debatable, then criticism is the debate, —\nit is the extraordinary, the indispensable process by which, whether we are\nquerulous, abusive, analytical, mystic, candidly or uncandidly dogmatic, we\nstrive to discover aesthetic law, not consciously always, but more often un-\nconsciously, for it is a search which the individual carries forward not with\nthe disinterestedness of the scientist so much as with the passion of the zealot,\nintent on demonstrating that his own tastes and hence his principles, are and\nshould be the norm. We see here what we see so often on other planes, the es-\nsentially competitive order of things, the cruel struggle for survival. Criti-\ncism is the battle-ground of the arts. One theory goes out against another,"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.39", "texte": "and the better theory, the better method wins. ' Better ' ? By ' better ' we\nmean the one which meets with most approval for the moment, whether the\nmoment be a decade, a century, or the whole expense of what Henry Adams\nwould call a historical \" phase Eventually it may itself go down, in part\nor wholly, before another theory, another method, for in the meantime the\nminds and customs of men will have changed. Criticism seen in such a way\npresents itself not as something separate from art, but as an integral part of\nit, almost indeed as the summing up of its members, its consciousness, throw-\ning over it a sharp and searching light which (in accordance with the par-\nticular phase of thought) will dissolve some portions only to cast other por-\ntions into relief. To remove or alter criticism, under these circumstances, will\nbe in all probability to alter art itself and perhaps profoundly . . .\nAnd at this point we reach naturally a fresh view of the contemporary\nquarrel between the \" interpretative \" and \" judicial \" critics. The inter-\npretative critic, as we have seen, decries dogmatism, or positiveness, but\nhides his head in the sand of it none the less. He is as rigidly selective (and\nwhat is that but dogmatic ?) as his more candid brother, but believes in\nbeing more indirect, more deprecatory. Well, which method in criticism is\nmore stimulating to art, which will tend to provoke and release the greater\nnumber of artistic energies ? A question to which the answer is by no means\na foregone conclusion, but it seems to me that the answer whould rather be\nin favor of the dogmatist, whose opinions are vividly outspoken, than of the\ninterpreter, whose opinions are patiently concealed. For since we are talking\nof energies, why should we not take towards art, for the moment the kinetic\nview ? And if we take the kinetic view, it should be clear enough, I think,\nthat the sharper the clash between one theory and another, and the greater\nthe inequalities in level, the greater will be the forces generated, the more\nvaried and powerful will be the successive changes in art. The rivalries\nof factions, the shock of opposed opinions, the relentless warfare between\nidea and idea — these things generate heat and excitement, which are forms\nof energy, and stimulate the individual artist to greater and greater efforts.\nSavage analysis, blind panegyric, even personal abuse, may be justified from\nthis standpoint, for while they are often preposterous in the concrete, and some-\ntimes lethal to the individual artist, they contribute vitally to the sum-\ntotal of productive interest in the art in general. Vigorous action and reac-\ntion, powerful artistic movements, are only generated out of powerful forces.\nCriticism helps to give these forces consciousness and direction. But, on\nthe other hand, if we reduce criticism to a uniformity of bland and dispas-\nsionate interpretation, we have reduced in effect this sum total of productive\ninterest well towards a dead level incapable of supplying further energy, or"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.40", "texte": "at the very least we tend so to reduce it. We shall be doing all we can to\nconceal from the individual artist the essentially competitive nature of the\narts, and thus cause him to relax his efforts. And how inconsistent would\nbe such a course with our belief in the relativity of all aesthetic values !\nFor if we reduce all aesthetic activity to solipsism — in other words to indivi-\ndualism — surely we ought not to be afraid of pursuing that course as critics\nwhich seems best calculated to compel the individual artist to exert him-\nself, to develop himself by competition, to grow by struggle. The more fe-\nral the warfare between one art-method and another, the finer will be the\ncompetitive works produced, the intenser will be the energies flung into them.\nAnd every method will have its turn, in accordance with the prevailing sym-\npathies of the moment.\nIs this view extremely speculative ?. . . Perhaps. But it appears to be\nsound enough, as long as our attitude toward art is wholly aesthteic. If, on\nthe other hand, in the absence of anything like uniform aestehtic values,\nwe take refuge, as I suggested earlier, in a purely psychological view of art,\ntaking thought primarily always of its social function, we find ourselves at\nonce contemplating a change in criticism profound and perhaps deadly.\nFor with the advent of a clear psychological understanding of what is so-\ncially useful in art, and of what is socially undesirable in it, we shall have\nreplaced the now vanishing tyranny of religious ethics with a new and uti-\nlitarian ethics ; a replacement only too likely to occur in a world always be-\ncoming more ' democratic '. . . But that is a question which does not for\nthe moment concern us. As long as criticism is based chiefly on ' taste\nlet us hope that it will be opinionated and individual, — armed cap-a-pie with\ntheory, logic, power of analysis, tactile delicacy, knowledge of psychological\ncauses, — but none the less intrepidly individual, springing out of the individual's\nconfidence in the sacred rightness of his own view. Every artist, every cri-\ntic, for himself, and oblivion take the hindmost! This, it seems to me, is\nthe way to great art.\n\nConrad Aiken."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.41", "texte": "Bepi Fabiano.\nDrawing."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.42", "texte": "Frediano Frediani.\nDrawing."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.43", "texte": "LILACS.\n\nIvilacs,\nFalse blue,\nWhite,\nPurple,\nColour of lilac,\nYour great puffs of flowers\nAre everywhere in this my New England.\nAmong your heart-shaped leaves\nOrange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing\nTheir little weak soft songs ;\nIn the crooks of your branches\nThe bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs\nPeer restlessly through the light and shadow\nOf all Springs.\nLilacs in dooryards\nHolding quiet conversations with an early moon ;\nLilacs watching a deserted house\nSettling sideways into the grass of an old road ;\nLilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom\nAbove a cellar dug into a hill.\nYou are everywhere.\nYou were everywhere.\nYou tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,\nAnd ran along the road beside the boy going to school.\nYou stood by pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.44", "texte": "You persuaded the housewife that her dishpan was of silver\nAnd her husband an image of pure gold.\nYou flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms\nThrough the wide doors of Custom Houses—\nYou, and sandal-wood, and tea,\nCharging the noses of quill-driving clerks\nWhen a ship was in from China.\nYou called to them : \" Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,\nMay is a month for flitting/'\nUntil they writhed 011 their high stools\nAnd wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.\nParadoxical New England clerks,\nWriting inventories in ledgers, reading the \" Song of Solomon \".at night,\nSo many verses before bed-time,\nBecause it was the Bible.\nThe dead fed you\nAmid the slant stones of graveyards.\nPale ghosts who planted you\nCame in the night time\nAnd let their thin hair blow through yonr clustered stems.\nYou are of the green sea,\nAnd of the stone hills which reach a long distance.\nYou are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell\nkites and marbles,\nYou are of great parks where everyone walks and nobody is at home.\nYou cover the blind sides of greenhouses\nAnd lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass\nTo your friends, the grapes, inside.\nIvilacs,\nFalse blue,\nWhite,\nPurple,\nColour of lilac,"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.45", "texte": "You have forgotten your Eastern origin,\nThe veiled women with eyes like panthers,\nThe swollen, aggressive turbans of jewelled Pashas.\nNow you are a very decent flower,\nA reticent flower,\nA curiously clear-cut, candid flower,\nStanding beside clean doorways,\nFriendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles,\nMaking poetry out of a bit of moonlight\nAnd a hundred or two sharp blossoms.\nMaine knows you,\nHas for years and years ;\nNew Hampshire knows you,\nAnd Massachusetts\nAnd Vermont.\nCape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island ;\nConnecticut takes you from a river to the sea.\nYou are brighter than apples,\nSweeter than tulips,\nYou are the great flood of our souls\nBursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts,\nYou are the smell of all Summers,\nThe love of wives and children,\nThe recollection of the gardens of little children,\nYou are State Houses and Charters\nAnd the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows.\nMay is lilac here in New England,\nMay is a thrush singing \" Sun up ! \" on a tip-top ash-tree,\nMay is white clouds behind pine-trees\nPuffed out and marching upon a blue sky.\nMay is a green as no other,\nMay is much sun through small leaves,\nMay is soft earth,"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.46", "texte": "And apple-blossoms,\nAnd windows open to a South Wind.\nMay is a full light wind of lilac\nFrom Canada to Naragansett Bay.\nLilacs,\nFalse blue,\nWhite,\nPurple,\nColour of lilac.\nHeart-leaves of lilac all over New England,\nRoots of lilac under all the soil of New England,\nIvilac in me because I am New England,\nBecause my roots are in it,\nBecause my leaves are of it,\nBecause my flowers are for it,\nBecause it is my country\nAnd I speak to it of itself\nAnd sing of it with my own voice\nSince certainly it is mine.\n\nAmy Lowell."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.47", "texte": "Jacques Lipchitz.\nSculpture."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.48", "texte": "HE LAUGHED AT THE GODS.\n\nDuring the course of some psychological investigations I was making, I\nfound it necessary to visit an insane asylum near New York. The building was\nno more than an ill-smelling barracks, very desolate : but the young interne,\nwho guided me through the place, finally took me to a series of private rooms,\nwhich were homelike and pleasant and had windows facing the fields and the\nhills. He told me by the way that I must above all things see Dr. Farraday.\nDr. Farraday, he explained, knew a great deal about the human soul: so much\nso that the young doctors often consulted him about puzzling and unusual\ncases.\n\" He is the most interesting man here, \" he told me.\n\" And what is he suffering from ? \" I asked.\nHe smiled. \" You'll have to get his own diagnosis, \"he said. \" Betweeen\nyou and me, I think he has a high regard for our free board and lodging. He\nhas the sort of insanity of the hobo, of the I-Won't-Works. But he came to it\ntoo late in life to make freight cars and hay-lofts at all attractive. He was\ntoo settled down to wander the world, and too — well, insane to work. \"\n\" Well ! \" I laughed, \" I daresay there are many like him — only they are\nquartered on relatives, or wives, or friends. . . In ancient days that form of\ninsanity was highly honorable. It is, isn't it, the insanity of the artist ?\nHis answer was to knock at a door, and a deep and rather pleasing voice\ncried, \" Come in. \" So we went in.\nThe light flooded brightly through the tall wide window, so that at first\nI only saw a dark bulk coming toward us. But I noticed the walls hung with\nmany strange and brilliant drawings, all of a symbolical nature, mythic animals\nand gods, stars and moons, and landscapes that never were. When I was through\nblinking, and had my man on the darker side of me, I saw him quite plainly.\nHe was rather bulky and large, swarthy, and something about his face resembling\nthe face of a turtle.\nHis manner was very courteous, but a little absent. The young interne"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.49", "texte": "excused himself, with a private wink at me, as much as to say : \"I won't inter-\nfere \" ; and so we were left alone.\nI offered him a cigar, which pleased him, and we sat in comfortable arm-\nchairs by the window, and were soon plunged in scientific discussion .. . But\nI saw he was restless. I noticed, too, now, that his clothes were ill-fitting, worn-\nout, patched and rather dirty ; that his nails and fingers were sooted up with\ncrayon and stained with ink ; that his cheeks and chin needed a shave and his\nhair was rather longer than we wear it.\nHis restlessness increased. He rubbed his chin, gazed about abstractedly,\nswung his leg back and forth in a too obvious rhythm. And at last he spoke\nin a voice which did not seem his at all — a voice which appeared to me to belong\nto some other person. The voice he had used was quiet and cool, although sympa-\nthetic. This new voice was personal, hot, and almost bitter.\n\" What is the use of all this talk ?\" he cried out. \"It gets us nowhere.\nIntellect ! science ! theor}*! brain-spinning ! Young man, that is our modern\ndevil. Kill him .. . strangle him out of your soul. He is the Devil of the ice,\nof the cold polar regions. Better a hundred times the old Devil of the burning\nhell, for in fire there is also God ! \"\nFor a moment I thought I was coming to psychic fisticuffs with him ; but\nI reflected, and at once swallowed my pride.\n\" I see, \" I said, looking him in the eyes, \" knew this modern Devil\nvery well ; perhaps intimately. \"\nHe glanced at me.\n\"You sit there, \"he cried, \" a bit of ice yourself. I feel no warmth from\nyou ; I am not a human being to you, but just another case. I\nlook for Christ and find a Devil. But you scientists will never save the world\nwithout love — yea, and hate, too. Fire cleanses and resurrects, but the ice\nfreezes and slays. You would embalm me too in your waste places ; and there\nis no healing in it. Feel this asylum — chilly and cold and full of living death —\nand the blasted crowd waiting for a great lover to cast out their demons, He is\nlate in coming ; he is late in coming. \"\nThe something that was strange in his voice, his manner and in his words\ntroubled me deeply.\n\" You are quite right, \" I said simply. \" Forgive me for my attitude. \"\nHe looked at me attentively and spoke more softly.\n\" There is some hope for you, then, \"he murmured. \" Look, \" and\nhe reached and brought a sheet of drawing paper from the little table\nbeside him.\nHe had drawn a picture in crayon, and done it very well. There was a power-\nful man, with arms crossed on his chest, standing like a Napoleon on an ice-"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.50", "texte": "sheathed rock, and out of the sky a lightning in the form of a great serpent had\nleaped down and was about to fasten his fangs into the man's eyes.\n\" Wonderful! \" I cried. \" And it means ? \"\n\"You tell me what it means, \" he commanded.\nIt flashed intuitively across my mind that it meant: 'He who sees too\nmuch must be struck blind. ' I told him and he was highly pleased :he regarded\nme affectionately.\n\" This is the first human contact I have had in a long time, \"he said. \" Ex-\ncept, of course, some of the lunatics . . . \"\n\" But how, \" I asked, \" can a man see too much, and why is such a man like\nNapoleon ? \"\n\" Ah, \" he said, \" when Christ was shown the kingdoms of the world from a\nhigh mountain, he chose then between Caesar and the Galilean. Seeing, man —\nto see, to know — knowledge, they say, is power .. . But when one is blind\nthen one sees truly .. . sees inwardly. ' They have eyes, but they see not '.. . \"\nI felt his meaning, though, to use the word in his sense, I did not see it.\n\" And what is the serpent ? \" I asked.\n\" The gods. \"\n\" Then you believe in the gods ? \"\n\" I have always believed in them, \" he said in his strange voice again, \" but\nI laughed at them. The great Dr. Farraday laughed at the gods. Believed ?\nOf course. The fool says in his heart, There is no God. And the intellectual\nsays in his heart, There are gods, and I laugh at them. \"\nWe sat in silence, smoking, and now and then I felt him trying to pierce\nme with a look. At last he said :\n\"You are troubled, my friend. \"\n\" Yes, lam troubled, \" I admitted. \"We are all troubled in these days. \"\n\" The days of the great ice, \" he murmured. \" The second Glacial Period. \"\nHe paused, then spoke abruptly. \" I have a strange feeling for you, very unusual.\nlam going to tell you something. You may forget it as soon as you have heard\nit. You may say to yourself : 'It is the phantasy of an insane man. ' Or you may\nfind it material for analysis and so enrich your science. Or perhaps if lam not\nwholly demented, you may take it into your being and find it a gift of the gods . . .\nIt is a story — one of the few that have meaning for me. And it is about a\nman I knew — oh, knew very well. Most intimately .. . Perhaps it is the story\nof our age. Who knows ? \"\nI looked at him. Our eyes met.\n\" Tell me, \" I said.\nAnd he told me . . .\n\" His name was Trudo. That name after all is as good as another .. ."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.51", "texte": "4\n\nI must tell you a little about his childhood . . . not much ... it is not very im-\nportant. Trudo was a sensitive child ; he couldn't compete with the boys :\nhe was a coward and a stay-at-home. He felt everything so intensely that\nhe suffered incessantly. He could not fight, he could not play ball. And his\nfather, whom he worshipped, died. And his mother was practical and embit-\ntered by her .struggles and her poverty. Trudo felt he was a worm. Yes, he\nwas vermin. Until he made a discovery ... If you couldn't beat others with\nyour fists or your skill or your leadership, you could beat them with your mind.\nAnd that was the beginning of the end for Trudo . . .\n\"He resolutely killed all his feelings. It can be done, you know. You\nbecome like the snail. His body is soft and fragile : but he draws it into his\nshell when there is danger of attack. This is what Trudo did. And for the rest,\nhe studied. He became a physician and a man of research. He developed his\nintellect in a truly marvellous way. And he rose, and was well on the path\ntoward greatness.\n\" I won't bore you with the details. They are the same for everyone who\nsucceeds. Think of your own successes. Merely imagine Trudo at the top of\nhis profession, living in a very fine house near Central Park on a chaste side street.\nRespectability, luxury, the waiting room with old masters on the wall, the tiled\nand shining laboratory, the cushioned library, and so on, and so on .. . It\nis not important, is it ?\n\" I pause a moment to speak of his wife. She was a very fine woman,\ndoubtless. Of one of the old New York families. If I mentioned the name,\nyou'd know all about it, I'm sure. And she was religious, in a way, though her\ngod was rather a crude one, a sort of hybrid, not of the sphinx variety exactly,\nbut a good respectable American god. lam not cynical about it either. That\ngod has given us much of America .. . Let me describe him in a word, a line :\nHe was a puritan who believed in hard work, righteousness and business. And\nhe believed in kindness and purity. You see my wife, don't you ? She wanted\nme to be honest and upright, respectable and wealthy, and at the same time\nlowly and obedient, — down on my knees to her deity .. . She found me then\nan anomaly : I was honest, I was wealthy, I was upright ; but I was proud and\nvain and consumed in myself. I had no love in my heart. You know there\nwas John Brown to prove that a puritan can love like a blast of fire. But\nalso, as you know, a puritan can be a peak of ice.\n\" Now I must tell you a great joke. My patients thought me a second Jesus.\nActually. And why ? Because I was remarkably intuitive. I could pierce\ndirect into their souls, and so I knew just what to say and to do to make them\nfeel I was in full sympathy with them. Is there anything more devilish than\nthat ? I ask you. Think. To use the art of love to serve merely one's ambi-"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.52", "texte": "tion and one's egotism. To wear the mask of Christ in order to be a great\ndoctor. Good old American bluff, isn't it ? \"\nHe paused, and took a puff on his cigar. It was as if he had forgotten my\npresence. Indeed he did not seem to realize that he had dropped speaking of\n' Trudo ' and was speaking directly of himself, in the first person.\nThen he went on, his voice growing warm and poignant.\n\"My wife warned me, often. She said I had slain my soul, and was headed\nfor a great crash. She pointed out how many of our great business-men make\nforced marches on success and are killed or driven insane or into a sanitarium\nbefore they are fifty. I agreed with her. But what could Ido ? The greatest\ntragedy of my life was the fact that it was a comedy. I knew all the facts, but\nI didn't care a snap of my fingers. I could not feel the tragedy. I was perfectly\nhappy on the ice — that is, if you can call it happy. Perhaps, to put it more\nhonestly, I was neither glad nor sad, but busy, alert and keen.\n\" Then the symptoms came. I will not enter into the details. Palpitation\nof the heart, for instance — a very bad symptom, as you know. You see,\nI had no heart : so it was just there that the gods began to make mischief.\nAh, yes, I knew then that the gods I had laughed at were preparing a little\ndoomsday for me. Man does not live by intellect alone. If thou hast two\nloaves of bread, sell one, and buy hyacinths for thy soul. Lord ! I said those\nvery words to myself at the time. But of what avail ?\n\" Obviously there was nothing I could do — except one thing. I could\nput away Mammon — I could give up my practice, my fine house, my scientific\nresearches. But what modern successful man can do it ? It was exactly\nlike the rich young man who went to Jesus. And Jesus asked him if he could\ngive up his wealth: leave all, and follow. And the young man could not. That\nwas I.\n\" No. My pride and revolt increase, if anything. And I even became cold\ntoward my wife. And this killed her. I looked on her dead face, and not even\nthen could I break through the ice, and drop one poor tear of pity or self-pity.\n\"You see, I was utterly lost. And now with my wife dead, and no children,\nand no true friends, you might have thought that it would be easy to let go of\nthe power of the world. But not so. Not so. The decks were cleared for ac-\ntion, that was all. I was going to do a great bit of scientific writing. . .\n\" Then the lightning struck me. Oh, it was so simple, so simple. I was\nwalking one night on a side-street on the lower west side. And a prostitute\naccosted me. I had a sudden burning curiosity. I was curious about the\npsychology of prostitution. I would go with this woman, and study her. I\nhad no desire. I was a puritan. I did not want to touch her. Ugh! as a\nphysician I knew too much about the diseases of vice , . ."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.53", "texte": "\" She took me then to her dingy hall bedroom in a cheap lodging house.\nI sat on the cot; she sat on a soap-box. And in the gaslight I saw her : a very\nthin woman, a little tall, and perhaps tubercular. Shining eyes and glowing\ncheeks. And she was very poor. \"\nHe groaned, and stopped. Then he whispered :\n\" Now the story begins ~ . I began questioning her, when suddenly\nshe burst out on me :\n\" ' But you are not a human being. You are terrible. I feel as if the Devil\nhimself were in this room. '\n\" I was startled. I asked her :\n\" ' Who are you ? Where do you come from ? '\n\"' I am a Russian, ' she said, ' and a Jewess. My name is Iyosha. '\n\" ' But are not you in league with the Devil also ? '\n\" ' No, ' she cried defiantly, rising before me and clenching her fists.\n'I am driven by need and loneliness : but you are only vain and learned. You\nare a lost soul. '\n\" ' Yes, ' I admitted in my honest way, 'I am lost. What's to be done\nabout it ? '\n\" ' You know you are lost, ' she cried, ' and yet ask me that ? Oh, this is\nterrible. This is the eternal damnation they talk about. .. '\n\" ' That doesn't help me, ' I said. 112 Talk has never helped me. I can\ntalk myself. '\nShe stared at me, and leaned toward me.\n\" ' You are right. Only an infinite love could help you. '\n\" That was the way we talked. And suddenly I forgot that I was the ques-\ntioner and had a great desire to tell her about myself. I told everything, just\nas I have told you. It was amazing enough :an ignorant sick woman of the\ngutter, one whose body was common merchandise, and who had no life of her\nown, and I, the learned scientist, the respectable and wealthy doctor.\n\" Three times I went to see her. And at the third the lightning passed\nthrough me. She was weeping when I entered and would not rise from the\nbed. Her face was buried in her hands.\n\" ' Why are you crying, Losha ? ' I asked.\n\"' I weep, ' she said, ' because you are to be pitied more than I am. We\nare both prostitutes. But the Devil in me is a god, and you have no god. '\n\" I stood, silent, but quite calm. Then she rose slowly and flung her arms\nabout my neck. I had not expected it. She whispered passionately :\n\"' I love you. I love you. I love you. '\n\" ' Why do you love ? ' I asked.\n\" ' Because I am your lost soul. '"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.54", "texte": "\" And I saw the truth. I saw that what lay buried in me was not only\ndivine love, but also the great beast, and that this woman was both. And first\nI felt a burning steal through my body, a hot and primal fire, the smoky breath\nof hell itself, and for the first time I could remember I had the horrible cannibal\nlust to tear a human body limb from limb. But while I was convulsed with\nthis, something strangely other came up and mingled with the lust. It was as\nif I saw the Christ. It was holy and ecstatic and divine ... Yes, yes, yes, it\nwas love . . .\n\"You can imagine an earthquake that raises some monstrous buried for-\nmation to the surface and buries what if finds there. That happened to me .. .\nIt was like a conversion. But in my conversion both Christ and the beast came\nup and tore asunder the great Dr. Farraday — the fine intellect, the high-\nminded ego . . .\n\" In short, I went suddenly mad, and gave a great shriek, tearing off my\nclothes and foaming at the mouth. I called ' the goddess ' and prostrated\nmyself before her. Then I shrieked aloud for the torture and agony and had\nsomething very like a fit of epilepsy.\n\" She was terrified. She finally put me to bed, and soothed me. She\nnursed me tenderly. I would lie quescient for hours ,in a fever. Then the spell\nwas 011 me. I saw great beasts, kings and gods. I was ground by terrible passion\nand ecstasy. It was a death. .. . \"\nHe paused ; then smiled sadly . . .\n\"You can imagine the sequel. I could not return to my house. It was all\nended. All my interest in my work, my position, my power and place in the\nworld, had vanished. Everything, but the emotions that swept me, was quite\nunreal. And so I ruined myself.\n\" I married Iyosha. It seemed a simple matter. And we opened a little\nstationery shop and kept it together. . . Anf then I began to draw : I became\nan artist. I was alive from head to foot, and yet quite tormented — tormented\nby these terrible passions and ecstasies, these perverted and glorious impulses\nwhich for years had festered in my darkness, and which, when they came upon\nme, came more like monsters than divinities . . .\n\" What can I say of Iyosha ? She was the one woman whom I never knew.\nMy intuition failed me. I never understood. Was she ugly or beautiful ? stupid\nor wise ? base or. noble ? I cannot tell. I only could know her simple and\nundivided love, which never forsook me. It was those fires in which I became\nas ashes.\n\"As ashes, ashes .. . One cold morning she coughed a great big racking\nspasm .. . Then she whispered to me :\n\" ' Trudo, I love you. '"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.55", "texte": "\" And she died .. . I closed the shop ... I did not need the shop. I needed\nonly my own soul, which began to dawn in me like the sun in spring .. . And\nbeing quite insane, I came here\nWe were silent. He fussed about among his papers, and murmured :\n\" I suppose it isn't much of a story. \"\nI smiled at him, but said nothing. Then he showed me a portrait he had made\nof Losha.\nShe was dark and thin, even gaunt, and a look almost of madness in the eyes ...\nThe tears rolled down the Doctor's cheeks . . .\nA little later I said goodby to him. We stood, facing each other and he held\nmy hand.\n\" I am insane, \" he said, \"do not forget that. And out there — \" he\nwaved his other hand in the direction of New York, \" live the sane ones. Losha\nis dead, and Dr. Farraday is dead. You know the ancients, \"he smiled quaintly,\n\" thought the insane were close to the gods. But that's a fable, isn't it ? \"\nI closed the door on him very softly, troubled in spirit.\n\nJambs Oppenheim."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.56", "texte": "Man Ray.\nCourtesy of Daniel Gallery - New York.\nSeguidilla."}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.57", "texte": "IN THE DOCK.\nW. de la Mare.\nPallid, mis-shapen he stands. The world's grimed thumb,\nNow hooked securely in his matted hair,\nHas haled him struggling from his poisonous slum\nAnd flung him mute as fish close netted there.\nHis bloodless hands entalon that iron rail\nHe gloats in beastlike trance. His settling eyes\nFrom staring face to face rove on—and quail.\nJustice for carrion pants ; and these the flies.\nVoice after voice in smooth impartial drone\nErects horrific in his darkening brain\nA timber framework, where agape, alone\nBright life will kiss goodbye the cheek of Cain.\nSudden like wolf he cries ; and sweats to see\nWhen howls man's soul, it howls inaudibly."}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.58", "texte": "THE SOUL OF AN ARTIST.\n\nI.\nEllis Bertram felt definitely that afternoon that he had, in a sense, Arrived.\nThis \" arrival\" of his had come slowly, almost imperceptibly. He had\nnot, as he had once hoped he might, \" burst upon the world \" as a new figure\nin letters. He could look back upon many hours both of impatience and despair.\nHe had had at first to work under difficulties ; to write novels and stories in\nthe intervals of the necessary employment that had provided him with the means\nof life. Later, also, he had not dared to do quite his best work. He had had\nto keep his eye on the requirements of editors and publishers. But now. . .\nHe found retrospect pleasant on this particular afternoon. There had\nbeen no special climax to exhilarate him, but the more important reviews of\nhis last book had, as it were, suddenly lifted ; treating him for the first time as\na novelist of recognised standing ; his publishers had sent him a friendly and very\nencouraging report of his sales, and mentioned that they were, also, selling now\nmany of his earlier books ; he had had well-paid commissions for short stories ;\nand he had received a very good offer for the serialisation of his next novel, al-\nready completed in manuscript, in an American magazine. Also, he had at last\ngot settled into his new and altogether delightful house, a house that had an\neffect of dignity and leisure ; a house to which he would be proud to invite his\nmany friends and acquaintances in the world of letters. And all these successes\ntaken together and added to the fact that it was a glorious afternoon, had roused\nhim during his solitary walk, to a warm and comforting sense of achievement,\nto the feeling that he had after all his struggles definitely and happily arrived.\nAnd he was only thirty-nine. He had still many years of robust and active\nenjoyment before him, years in which he would certainly do better work than\nhe had ever done before.\nHe turned into Herondale Park with the slight suggestion of a swagger in\nhis walk. The free use of that Park was still another cause to be added in ac-\ncounting for his sense of complacency. Lord Herondale was his new landlord"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.59", "texte": "and had been very gracious and charming on the one occasion on which Ellis\nBertram had met him. \" And, of course, you will have the free run of the Park, \"\nLord Herondale had said. \" I beg you to use it whenever you feel inclined to. \"\nThe dignity of letters, Bertram reflected, carried one anywhere. He and his\nwife would probably be invited to dine at the Manor when Lord Herondale re-\nturned in the autumn.\nBy way of asserting his splendid prerogative, he turned into the path through\nthe spinney that led into the private gardens of the Manor. He liked to feel\nthat he was singled out, distinguished from the common crowd, a man of fame\nand culture, on an equal, by virtue of his calling, with the old English aristo-\ncracy ...\nHe was startled out of his gorgeous reverie by the sound of passionate and\nunrestrained sobbing, and looking up saw a few yards ahead of him, the body\nof a youth stretched out on the ground with an effect of complete abandonment.\nHe was lying on his face under a great elm, his head buried in his arms, and\nhe was crying with a disregard of any possible audience that seemed to Ber-\ntram almost indecent.\nFor a moment he was inclined to turn quietly back and leave this disturber\nof dreams alone with his grief. But Bertram was a kind, and conscientious\nman, and he knew that if he went without making the least effort to console\nthis unhappy fellow-creature of his, he would presently suffer the stings of self\nreproach. Moreover, he would have to tell Nina when he got home, —he told\nher everything, — and she would be certain to ask him how he could have re-\nmained indifferent to the evidence of such misery. Dear Nina was always so\nanxious to help everyone.\nNevertheless it was with a distinct feeling of intruding upon another's pri-\nvate affairs that he took a halting step or two in the direction of the prone figure.\nHe had deliberately turned his head away, and he was startled by the abrupt\ncessation of the sobs, and the sudden hail of a voice.\n\" Hallo ! what are you doing here ? This path is private, you know, \"\nthe voice said.\nBertram turned and looked at the speaker. He was sitting up, now, though\nstill with an effect of clumsy abandonment, — a slender youth of seventeen or\neighteen, with dark hair and a striking though rather ugly face. His features\nwere certainly not good. His eyes looked small under the bulk of a heavy\nforehead, over which straggled untidy wisps of dark hair. His nose had no\nparticular shape, his mouth was pinched and at this moment rather peevish.\nIndeed his best feature was his firm, cleft chin. Yet there was something do-\nminating and powerful about his expression, an air of intrepidity and moral\ncourage."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.60", "texte": "\" I — I have had permission to come here from Lord Herondale, \" Ber-\ntram explained politely. \" I'm sorry if — if I disturbed you. \"\n\" Oh ! I suppose you're Ellis Bertram, aren't you ? \" the boy replied care-\nlessly. \" The chap who has taken ' The Dower' ? I read one of your books,\nthe other day. I hope you won't expect me to say that I liked it ? \"\nBertram stiffened. \" I don't excect you to say anything at all about it, \"\nhe said formally. \" I'm naturally sorry that it doesn't please you ; but, of\ncourse ...\" He shrugged his shoulders.\nThe boy pursed his little mouth and regarded Bertram with a singularly\ndirect stare. \" Silly thing for me to say, I admit, \"he remarked ; \" but I've\ngot a rotten habit of saying the first thing that comes into my mind. \" He\ngrinned as he added without the least sign of shame, ' Hinc illae lachrymae ' ,\nyou know. \"\nBertram found his temporarily alienated interest returning with greater\nforce. \" I can't pretend that I didn't see you crying, \" he admitted. \" I\nthought, perhaps, I might . . . that is, if I could help you in any way . . . ? \"\nThe boy's expression magically and beautifully changed. He sat up,\npushed back the hair from his forehead, and his whole face was suddenly alight\nwith interest.\n\" I wonder if you could, \"he said. \" You're a writer, well-known and all\nthat, and you must have a lot of influence. \"\n\"Do you mean that you want to be a writer, too ? \" asked Bertram. \"If\nyou do, I . . . \"\n\" Oh! come and sit down, here\" the boy interrupted impatiently.\n\" I'll tell you all about it. \" He pointed to the grass beside him as he spoke\nwith a gesture that was almost a command.\nBertram obeyed without hesitation. His first feeling of repulsion had\nnow given way to one of attraction and interest. Moreover, an alluring fantasy\nhad sprung into his mind. He had seen himself as the patron of youthful ta-\nlent ; as the discoverer of genius. It would, he thought, be in some sort the\ncrown of his career to figure as the literary guardian of some new poet. He\ndefinitely hoped, though he did not pause to enquire why, that his protege\nwould prove to be a poet. He had never, himself, attempted to write verse.\n\" It's all that beast Herondale's fault, \" the boy began at once. \" I know\npeople would say that I owe him a lot, and so I do. I'm ready to admit all\nthat. But just the same he is a beast to me, in some ways. By the way, though,\nI don't suppose you know who I am ?\nBertram had to admit his perfect ignorance on that matter. \" But I've\nonly been here a week or two, \" he added, by way of apology.\n\" I'm a by-blow, \" the boy said without any appearance of shame in the"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.61", "texte": "confession. \" A sort of nephew of Herondale's. My mother was Lady Con-\nstance Fletcher, you know, Herondale's sister. She married old Fletcher and\nthen eloped with my father who was a blackguard by all accounts, though I\nexpect they say that just because he was unconventional. And then, poor\nchap, \" the boy's tone was one of precocious cynicism, as he continued, \" he\nhad the ghastly misfortune of being a foreigner, and mixed at that. Eastern\nEurope, Magyar, Slovak, Ruthene, Slav — that sort of thing. Enough to damn\nanyone in the eyes of our precious English aristocracy. And a musician !\nPretty hopeless from Herondale's point of view wasn't it, — descended from\nIrish kings with just the right dash of good Engish stock to make him all that's\nsolid and respectable ? Oh ! Lord ! well that's that. And I was born and\nmy mother was dead, before old Fletcher had time to get his divorce through.\n\" Then old Fletcher adopted me. Did the right thing. Frightfully gener-\nous, and overlooking, and willing to forgive me for having got myself born\nin such dastardly bastardly circumstances. Ronald Fletcher, they call me.\nTrying to make out, I suppose, that old Fletcher was my father. Com-\nplimentary to him, rather, because he wasn't ever likely to have had children\nof his own. However, he withered away when I was eleven, and then Heron-\ndale took on the job of educating me. Marlborough, first; but I got expelled\na year ago, as 'incorrigible.'\" He shrugged his shoulders over the word,\nas if offering it to Bertram to translate as best he could. \" And, now, I'm\nworking here with a tutor, cramming for my entrance exam for Balliol. And\nwhatever do you suppose Herondale proposes to do with me ? No, of course,\nyou'd never guess. He wants me to go into the Civil Service ; Indian or Home,\naccording as to how I turn out. He thinks it will have a soothing influence on\nme ; teach me how to conduct myself lowly and reverently to all my betters.\nHe's so afraid of the blackguard strain in me, the Eastern European taint. Puts\nmy getting pushed from Marlborough down to that; and imagines that he'll\nget rid of it by a course of pap and platitude. Holy Sinners ! what a fool he can\nbe in some ways ! \"\n\" And you want to be a writer ? \" Bertram putin at the first pause. He\nwas impressed both by the boy's egotism and his conversational \" style \". He\ncertainly had a power of vivid expression. Even in that brief account of his\nlife, Bertram had found, with a strange sense of discomfort, an aptitude for\ndirect and forcible statement that he, himself, had always lacked.\n\" Want to be ? I am, \" Ronald Fletcher replied. \" I don't say that\nwhat I've done up to now is any real good, but I know that it's much better\nthan most of the stuff that's being published — bar verse, of course. \"\n\" Then it isn't verse you've written? \" Bertram enquired, conscious of his\ndisappointment."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.62", "texte": "Ronadl Fletcher leaned back against the trunk of the elm, and clasped\nhis hands behind his head. \" No, \"he said reflectively after a brief interval.\n\" I shall probably write verse, later ; but so far I haven't had the patience.\nThe stuff conies so quickly, you see, and I have to get it down at once. The\nexigencies of the poetical form involve so much discipline. I shall come to\nthat, in time ; at present I prefer the freedoms of prose. \"\n\" But good prose, surely ...\" Bertram began.\nRonald waved that aside. \"Oh ! I know ; I know , \" he said. \" But\nit happens that my thoughts fall more naturally into prose. \"\n\" Would you let me see your — your essay is it ? — or whatever you've\nwritten ? \" Bertram asked.\n\" I would have, like a shot if I'd got it, \" Ronald said. \" I don't know\nhow to describe it exactly. It was a kind of fantasy, half allegory and half\nromance. Rather good in parts, but it's just as well I destroyed it. \"\n\" You destroyed it ? \" gasped Bertram, who had treasured his every line.\n\" That was what the row was about and why I was blubbing just now,\"\nRonald explained. \" Herondale came down last night and after lunch to-day,\nwe had a first-class row. Holy Sinners ! What a row it was ! He wouldn't\ngive way an inch when I said I wanted to chuck everything and write. He\nhad read my thing over night and said it ' showed promise' or some rot of that\nkind. It was then I tore it up and cursed him and came out here. I was onfy\nblubbing because I'd lost my temper. I work it off that way. I'm like that. \"\n\" You can re-write it, I suppose, \" Bertram put in.\n\" I could but I shan't, \" Ronald said. \" I've got a better idea, I want to\nget down. The other was only the sort of thing one begins with Just as\nwell that it's out of the way. \"\n\" I wish I'd seen it all the same, \" Bertram murmured.\n\" Yes, it's a pity, especially if you're going to help me, \" Ronald agreed.\n\" But I'll get this other thing going pretty soon and then I'll read it to you.\nI expect you'll be a fairly decent judge even though you are on a different\nline yourself. \"\nBertram blushed faintly, remembering his companion's first greeting.\n\"Ah ! yes, by the way, \" he said, \" you don't — er — care for my books, I\ninfer. \"\n\" They're all right in a way, \" Ronald said. \" Frightfully carefully written\nand constructed — good craftsmanship and so on ; but there's no idea, no in-\nvention, no real guts in the one I read, — it was your last ' The Hill of Pro-\nmise .' Just a comment, hardly that, on a certain side of life ; all about tame,\nconventional people with no red blood in them. \"\nBertram shivered. All his dream had fallen from him. He saw himself"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.63", "texte": "stripped ; left without a rag of complacency to cover him. What the boy had\nsaid was true. He had always known it was true, and had never dared to face\nthe fact. He had no passion, no creative force, no real temperament. He\nwas a patient and able craftsman, that was all.\n\" You're very frank, \" was all he said, but he said it humbly.\nRonald looked at him with a sudden touch of contrition. \"It was rotten\nof me to say that, \"he admitted. \" Just after you'd promised to help me,\ntoo. I shall have to cure myself of this beastly habit of saying whatever I\nthink. \"\n\" No, no, \" Bertram said. \" Not with me, anyway. That's one of your\ngifts. It will get you into all sorts of trouble, but it's — it's a part of your\ngenius. \"\nRonald instantly forgot his apology. \" How can you tell I've got genius, \"\nhe said ; \" when you've never seen a word that I've written ? \"\n\" Won't you, at least, give me credit for some intuition ? \" Bertram\nasked. \" Even if you can't find the evidence of it in my novels ?\nRonald did not seem to hear that pathetic speech. He was staring out in\nfront of him, and apparently regardless of Bertram's presence. \" I suppose\nafter all, \" he said \" that pretty nearly anyone except Herondale and his sort\nwould know at once that I am a genius. That was what they really meant\nat Marlborough, when they said I was incorrigible. \"\nHe jumped to his feet with an air of relief as he continued, \"I'm glad\nI met you. It has helped me to clear my ideas a bit ; and if Ido quarrel finally\nwith Herondale I could come to you until I got launched. \"\n\" Certainly you might if you would care to, \" Bertram agreed meekly.\n\" But wouldn't it be better for you in every way if I were able to persuade\nLord Herondale that it is his duty to let you express yourself in your own\nway ? \"\nRonald pursed his mouth and regarded Bertram thoughtfully. \"My dear\nman, you'd have no earthly, \" he said.\nJust for a moment, however, some faint reflection of his dream had returned\nto Bertram. \"Ah ! there, you're wrong, \"he said, speaking for the first time\nwith an effect of superior \" You see, whatever your own opinion of\nmy books may be, I have achieved a certain standing in letters ; and you will\nfind that Lord Herondale will at least give attention and consideration to any-\nthing I have to say on my own subject. But first of all, you must let me see\nsome of your work ; until then I shall have no locus standi ...\"\nHe would have gone on, but Ronald cut him short. \"Oh ! all right, \"\nhe said, and turned away as he spoke and began to walk back towards the Ma-\nnor. In a moment, he had changed from the brilliant young genius to a sulky"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.64", "texte": "schoolboy. Bertram had offended him by demonstrating that in this particu\nlar thing he was wiser than Ronald, himself.\nBertram sighed as he watched the gauche and rather ungainly figure moon-\ning up the path. Yet even before he reached the gate into the Manor grounds,\nanother change was manifested in him. He unexpectedly [lifted his head and\nbegan to run. He had forgotten the merited reproof, no doubt, and was con-\ntemplating his own brilliant future. The sound of a faint shout of triumph\ncame back to Bertram along the avenue.\nIt was another Ellis Bertram that made his way home across the Park, a\nhumbled and chastened author who had seen the truth about his work all too\nclearly and painfully revealed. Yet before he reached home, he was in the\nair again. For illumination came to him suddenly, blindingly. He saw\nwhere he had failed. Those characters of his that had no \" red blood in them \"\nwere echoes of himse'f. They had been too gentle, too considerate in their\ndealings with their fellowmen. Now, he had recognised for the first time in\nhis life the ruthless egotism of genius. He could never imitate that in his life,\nbut, by Heaven, he could portray it in a novel. The book, indeed, was already\nbeginning to unfold itself in his mind vivid and enthralling. It would be his\nmasterpiece. It would be a book that not even Ronald Fletcher himself, could\ndespise.\n2.\nEllis Bertram had undoubtedly many of the gifts and abilities of the liter-\nateur, and chief among them was the power to live in the world of his own im-\nagination. The effects of the moment's illumination that had come to him\nin the course of his first meeting with Ronald Fletcher, were only transient.\nIndeed, he could not have lived long with that stark image of his own\ncapacities.\nHis interview with Lord Herondale, some ten days after his agreement\nwith Ronald, served to reinstate Bertram in his own esteem. Lord Herondale\nwas not only courteous and flattering, he was, also, willing to pay his visitor\nthe final compliment of allowing himself to be convinced. Ronald came in,\ngauche and sulky, at the end of the interview and his uncle broke the good\nnews to him.\n\" Mr. Bertram whose authority I find myself unable to oppose, \" Lord He-\nrondale said, \" has persuaded me, Ronald, that you have a most unusual gift\nfor writing. \"\n\" Pretty obvious, \" Ronald muttered with a shrug of his shoulders.\n\"My dear boy, \" his uncle reproved him. \" You may, perhaps, remember"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.65", "texte": "that many of our most famous poets were slow in winning recognition ; and\nwhatever your gifts, you may count yourself uncommonly lucky in winning\nthe approval of so eminent and influential an author as Mr. Ellis Bertram at\nthe outset of your career. \"\nBertram took that thought home with him and cherished it. Other peo-\nple besides Lord Herondale, he reflected, also regarded him as 'eminent and\ninfluential. ' He must have very unusual talent to have earned that descrip-\ntion. Nina confirmed him in that opinion. Also, she outdid him in the judg-\nment that Ronald was a self-centred and arrogant youth whose criticisms\nwere warped and undependable . . .\nAnd it was in this mood of self-confidence that Bertram presently intro-\nduced Ronald Fletcher to publishers, editors and the public ; a mood that was\nupheld and encouraged by the result. Indeed, his Introduction to Ronald's\nfirst book received more attention in the reviews than the book itself. Ber-\ntram was the sponsor, he was the known figure, and he undoubtedly won fresh\nprestige by this evidence of his acumen and insight. He was more written\nabout and more courted as a consequence. And when his next novel came out\nin book form after its serialisation in the English and American magazines,\nit beat all his previous records for circulation. Truly, it seemed that his dream\non that momentous afternoon in Herondale Park, had been only a shadow of\nthe glorious reality.\nOf Ronald, himself, Bertram saw very little in those days. Lord Heron-\ndale had apparently thrown up the sponge, made his nephew an allowance and\ngiven him carte blanche to hang himself in his own way. Ronald had accepted\nthe gift of liberty as his natural right and for a time had gone to live in Paris,\nthough he had expressed his intention of \" doing \" Eastern Europe, later.\nBertram, thus freed from any responsibility other than the occasional ad-\nvertisement of Ronald's — and incidentally his own — name by articles in\nthe more literary weeklies, settled down after the applause had somewhat sub-\nsided, to write his masterpiece. He had ample leisure for that, now. He was\nfree from the financial worries that had clouded his earlier career and was no\nlonger harassed by the necessity for haste. That this book would be a master-\npiece, neither Bertram nor his devoted, admiring wife had the least doubt.\nNever before had he been so brilliant and convincing in his characterisation,\nnor so happy in his descriptive passages. Almost for the first time in his life,\nhe felt genuinely inspired, full of creative force, brimming with ideas.\nOnly one aspect of the book a little alarmed him. His chief character\nwas an all too vivid and startling portrait of Ronald Fletcher. And he could\nnot change it, because it was the salient achievement of the story. He had\npictured Ronald's career at school, his early struggles to get a hearing, and"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.66", "texte": "then with what had certainly seemed to him a flash of genius had given him\na bragging and unmoral love-affair with a beautiful woman ten years older than\nhimself. That had appealed both to Bertram and his wife, as being conclus-\nively and indubitably \" right It had the authentic ring of truth. And that\naffair and all the incident of the book arose naturally and inevitably from the\ncharacter of the chief figure. If that character were altered, the whole book\nwould ring false and unreal.\nIt was not, however, until four years after Bertram's first sight of Ronald\nFletcher that the book was finished. In the interim, he had written and pub-\nlished another successful novel in his familiar manner, a novel that had not,\nfor some reason, quite maintained his reputation. One reviewer had hinted\nthat the author was \" written out \". Bertram and Nina had smiled at that\nreview, knowing what a surprise they had in store for critics and public.\nBut in that interval, Ronald Fletcher, young as he was, had already made\nhis mark. His originality, his unorthodoxy, his fertility which had begun by\nshocking English readers, had now begun to impress them. He was abused\nand read. The writers of Bertram's school were intensely jealous of the intru-\nsions of this iconoclast, but they could not quench him by adverse criticism,\nhowever academic. He had impressed his personality on the public. There\nwere endless stories about him. At twenty-two, Ronald Fletcher was more\nthan a man of extraordinary promise ; he was a figure in literature ; and the\nunprejudiced spoke of him as the rival of Chatterton and Keats. Everyone\nhad long ago forgotten the fact that he had been discovered by Bertram. Flet-\ncher, it was understood, must have been \" discovered \" by the first discriminat-\ning reader who saw his work.\n3.\nRonald was reconciled, now, to his uncle, Lord Herondale, and was actually\nstaying at the Manor when Bertram received the copy of his magnum opus back\nfrom the typist. And as Bertram read through the book in its new aspect,\nthe thought came to him that he would like Ronald himself to read it, before\nit went out to the world. Even now, that old criticism of his rankled a little,\noccasionally ; and he felt that he could not wait until publication before he\nfinally justified himself in the sight of the man whose opinion had so horribly\ncondemned him four years earlier. Nina heartily agreed in this plan ; but she\nwas a little spiteful. She wanted Ronald to see how he looked in the eyes of\nall decent people. She thought that Bertram's book \" ought to do Master\nFletcher, a lot of good. \"\nRonald sighed when the request was made to him, but granted it rather"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "65", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.67", "texte": "as though it were a duty which he could not shirk. Bertram was a little piqued,\nbut consoled himself with the thought of the effect he was going to make.\nHe gave the manuscript to Ronald before lunch, and mentally allowed him\na couple of days in which to read it. He was surprised when just as he and\nNina were sitting down to dinner they saw Ronald coming up the drive to the\nDower with the manuscript in his hands.\n\" He can't possibly have read it in the time, \" Nina ejaculated. \" I sup-\npose we shall have to ask him to dinner. \"\nAs the maid went to open the door, Nina told her to show Mr. Fletcher\ninto the dining-room.\nHe came in a moment later, dropped the manuscript on the dinner table,\nand sat down, without any greeting to either Bertram or Nina, in an arm chair\naway from the table.\n\" You'll join us at dinner ? \" Nina said, on a note of reproof, but Ronald\nshook his head.\nBertram found himself trembling with nervousness.\n\" You've never read the book so soon ? \" he said.\nRonald glowered at him. \"Of course, I've read it,\"he replied.\n\" And — and — what's your ...\" Bertram began, but Nina interrupted\nhim by saying : \" Isn't it a masterpiece, Mr. Fletcher ? Even you must admit\nthat . \"\nRonald took no notice of her, but kept his eyes steadily fixed on Bertram.\n\" What are you going to do with it ? \" he asked.\n\"Oh ! well, — publish it, \" Bertram said with a nervous laugh. \" You\ndidn't think I was — er — going to — to bury it, did you ? \"\nRonald got up and began to pace the room. \" I'll grant you it's good, \"\nhe said. \" The best thing you've ever done or ever will do. \"\nBertram flushed slightly. He intensely appreciated the compliment,\nwhile resenting the rider.\n\" But you can't publish it, \" Ronald said.\nNina sniffed her contempt.\nBertram smiled with a touch of condescension. \"My dear old chap, \"\nhe protested.\nRonald turned on him. All the anger had gone out of his face, and had\ngiven way to a look of dominance and settled resolution.\n\" Where did you get that story from ?\" he asked. \" The story of me and\n'Lady Adelaide ' ? \"\n\" I got it out of my imagination, \" Bertram said with a faint complacency.\n\" It seemed to me so exactly the sort of thing you would do. \"\n\"You think that I'd sacrifice her — the woman you imagined — to my\n5"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "66", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.68", "texte": "egotism ? \" Ronald replied. \" You believe that if I did have a love-affair like\nthe one'you've drawn, that I should always think first of myself and my own\ncredit, comfort, reputation and the rest of it ? \"\nBertram pursed his mouth. \" Honestly, I do, \" he said.\nRonald came forward and leaned his hands on the table. He was star-\ning straight into Bertram's eyes, as he said, \" Oh ! how lamentably you fail,\nEllis Bertram ! How small your inagination is. You can't avoid, even in\nyour best book, the mechanical, the conventional, the expected. You've drawn\nme well, just as far as you've been able to observe me, you've even, — withthe\none touch of genius you've ever shown, — imagined the kind of woman I might\nfall in love with. But then, \" he lifted his hands with a gesture of despair,\n\" how you fail! All the rest of the story is merely a muddled rechauffe of the\nstuff you've read, about men of my sort, all the commonplace, dramatic stuff\nthat ...\"\nBut Nina could stand it no longer. \" Nonsense, my dear boy, \" she inter-\nrupted him sharply. \" You're just talking boastful, arrogant nonsense.\nWhat does your opinion amount to after all ? \"\nRonald did not condescend to look at her as he replied, \"It amounts to\nthis, \" he said still with his eyes on Bertram, \" that as it happens, I have the\nfacts to confute you. You've drawn, or tried to draw, me in your book, now\nyou shall know the truth. I have ... I mean there is ... \" For the first time\nin the Bertrams' experience, Ronald was faltering in his speech.\n\"You mean that there has been, is, some woman in your life ? \" Bertram\nprompted him.\nHe nodded. \" Is, \" he said gently. \"Oh ! yes, there is, there always\nmust be. And I haven't sacrificed her. I couldn't, though she's willing to be\nsacrificed for me.\n\" No, no, I'd sooner give up writing than that, \" he continued, offering\nwhat was so evidently to him the ultimate renunciation. He paused for a mo-\nment before he added with a sudden renewal of his earlier fury. \" And good\nGod, your dirty little book, Ellis Bertram, would expose everything. It is\nnear enough, in a way, to confirm the little scandals that I haven't been able\naltogether to avoid. Publish that book, and everything will come out. It\nwon't hurt me. She'll come to me then, and the notoriety will only advertise\nme. I shall have everything that I can desire. But, oh I know so infernally\nwell, that it would kill her. Her husband's a devout Roman Catholic. There\ncan never be any question of divorce. And she'd wither. She's not the right\nkind of woman to make that sacrifice, Bertram ; and she doesn't know it, her-\nself. She's always been up in the big world, and she can't realise what life with\nme would be like, in these circumstances. But I can ! Oh ! God, why do I"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "67", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.69", "texte": "know these things, so truly ? If only I could believe that I might be wrong for\nonce! \"\nHe seemed to have forgotten the Bertrams. He had thrown himself back\ninto the arm chair, he was leaning forward with his face in his hands, absorbed\nin his own misery.\nNina opened her mouth, glanced at her husband, and then decided for si-\nlence. She wanted desperately to disbelieve Ronald, and she could not. She\nhad never known him to speak anything but the truth. Did not his whole re-\nputation rest on the fact that his love for the truth, as he saw it, outweighed\nevery other consideration ?\nBertram had pushed back his chair and was staring up at the ceiling.\n\" Ronald, \" he said after what seemed a very long interval.\n\" Well, \" Ronald muttered still with his head in his hands.\n\" If I altered that book ? \" Bertram began.\n\" You'd have to do it out of all recognition, \" Ronald said, looking up.\n\" But supposing, I write the truth, \" Bertram suggested, \" showed how\nyou sacrificed yourself and your career, everything, to — to your love ? \"\n\" Everyone would recognise the facts and disbelieve your deduction, \" Ro-\nnald said.\nBertram plunged his hands into his pockets and sighed deeply. \" 111\nadmit that I can't publish it, as it is, \" he confessed, glancing at Nina.\n\" No, dear, perhaps you can't, \" she consoled him ; \" but I'm quite certain\nthat you could make just as wonderful a book of it, if you got away from the\nreal facts altogether. I'm sure you could invent something just as interesting\nand lifelike. \"\nBertram and Ronald were looking at each other, now. They knew. And\nin that moment they recognised each other as fellow-craftsmen, for Ronald saw\nthen what hitherto his prejudice had led him to overlook, namely that at heart\nBertram was an artist with the passionate love for truth in his soul, only his\ncircumstances and the weakness of his power of imagination so often blinded him.\n\" I suppose it's the only way, \" Bertram said softly.\nRonald got up, then, and leaned over him putting his arm across his should-\ners. \"By Heaven, old man, I'm sorry, \"he whispered. \" I know what an\nawful thing I'm asking you to do. But we understand one another don't we ?\nYou're one of my sort. \"\nThat was Bertram Ellis's apotheosis, his final achievement in the world\nof letters, though none knew it but himself. For he never published another\nbook. He tried, if only to please Nina, to alter his great novel. (In spite of\nRonald's censure, Bertram still found the seeds of greatness in that novel).\nBut he did it mechanically, and so badly that even the adoring Nina was"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "68", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.70", "texte": "dissatisfied and told him that he wanted a long rest. And somehow that rest\ncontinned. His financial circnmstances demanded no further output, and he\ntold Nina that the desire to write had temporarily gone from him. If any\nconsolation were needed, she found it in his stress on the word \" temporarily \",\nand her conviction that his reputation was already permanently established.\nIt was really wonderful how his old books kept on selling in the cheap edi-\ntions . . .\nIt was nearly five years after the interview in the Ellis's dining-room that\nIyord X— died of pneumonia, and when, after an interval that some critics\njudged to be too short by a whole fifteen months, his widow married the fa-\nmous Ronald Fletcher, Bertram sent him the original manuscript of his \" great\nnovel \" for a wedding-present. \" I could have published it once, \" he wrote\nin the accompanying letter, \" but I value your opinion more than any\npublic applause. You hailed me once as one of your own sort, and I am\ncontent with that. \"\nRonald showed the letter and the manuscript to his wife, \" Ellis is a good\nchap, \" was his comment; \" and he had some of the qualities of the artist,\nbut no imagination. \"\nBut Bertram never heard that comment; and he was content with his\napotheosis. Though there are still occasions when he is inclined to believe Nina's\nconfident assertion that one day he will write a really great book.\n\nJ. D. Beresford."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.71", "texte": "William Grapper.\n”The Second from the end is a peach„.\n\nWilliam Grapper.\nThe Chess Game."}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "70", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.72", "texte": "HOSPITAL NIGHTS.\n\nI.\nIvie still, you girl, with arms like thin white moonbeams,\nOr twist your pillow from that patch of sky—\nMauve-rose awning over herded lights,\nWhere spangled women\nGo forth to love and eat.\nWhy do you listen— you with the life in you lying\nHeavily-cold as a dead child—\nTo life throbbing hot and lusty enough to shake the peace of stars\nWith their white roots in God ?\nII.\nSometime .. . when the nurse has padded off softly,\nturning the light out. . .\nIf your soul should smile ... as it crowds you into a corner . . .\nDo not let it beguile\nYou to a duel of looks . . .\nDraw over your body more than a sheet,\nLeaving no slit at the head or the feet.\nIt must be from a covered place\nThat you look your soul in the face.\nIII.\nNurse, with hair like clotted honey,\nWhat is it that is always creeping and moving"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "71", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.73", "texte": "Back of the lights in your eyes ?\nEyes that are glossily brown\nAs the back of a queen bee\nThat soars with her mate into the blue .\nTo clinch and grapple and sway . . .\nIvight lancing light under a flashing sky .\nTill she circles alone\nOver a plunge . . . and a gray trailing . . .\nNurse, with heavily swaying thighs,\nDo the men you tend flinch and quiver\nAs you hover close in the darkness ?\nIV.\nThe Salvation Army lass\nLay very still all day.\nHer body seemed to depend from her eyes\nEyes eager-blue as marbles\nThat have rolled in many gutters,\nYet stayed miraculously clean.\nNow her hands monotonously\nScoop up the shallow moonlight,\nPale as weak lemonade,\nThat spills through her fingers\nOver the white sheet.\nThe moon is of little account here,\nWith that strong light in the corridor.\nNow over the Battery—\nAll the bay to herself\nAnd Sunday boats coming in—\nThe moonll be bright as Jesus,\nWalking upon the water.\n\nLola Ridge."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.74", "texte": "FAIRY TALE.\n\nwhen everyone was young, and no sorrow had come into the world,\nand the fairies did not hide in flowers and under stones, there lived in a castle\nbuilt of shining copper that was always like a lantern in the firwood at night,\na king, who had a daughter, and she could not speak, except in whispers. The\nprincess, whose name was Malourisan, after the West wind of that country,\nand who had black hair like a crow's wing, was never understood, because she\ncould only whisper. And so she went about the castle, smiling to herself, some-\ntimes sad, sometimes merry she whispered to the long silver mirrors\nshe whispered to the roses that clung about the window of the tower in which\nshe lived for she had much to say, many beautiful things to tell but\nnoone ever understood except the roses who nodded in the wind when Malou-\nrisan whispered to them the roses undestood, a little, and so they smelled\ntheir sweetest to please the Princess Malourisan and when she plucked\nthem to tie in her black hair that was like a crow's wing.... they clung to her\nand laid their cheeks, which were always the colour of love, against hers, and\nthey lived as long as they could to be near the Princess Malourisan\nand when they had faded she put them away in a blue jar to remind her\nof yesterday's secrets and some she laid tenderly among the silken gar-\nments that she wore when she was sad in a chest of sweet sandalwood\nthe mirrors, when she whispered to them, smiled at her, a little sadly, as if to\nsay.... \" We know so much.... we have seen so many beautiful things...\nand yet we must always just listen and never speak but we under-\nstand, just the same \". And the mirrors loved her, too The white\npeacock, when she went to him, to whisper the things that she must tell the\nthings she knew of love and dreamed of life these two are one and the\nsame..... the peacock sang to her, for peacocks really sang then before fairies\nhid themselves in flowers and under stones peacocks only stopped singing\nwhen — but that is another story ! But the peacock sang only of his beautiful\neyes his thousand beautiful eyes and he never understood"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.75", "texte": "The king her father had summoned all the magi and all the great meta-\nphysicians in seven realms but none of them could make the Princess\nMalourisan speak above a whisper and of course the king, whose name\nwas Iran, could not hear what she said for he was old, and deaf\nand had forgotten all that he knew of love and had never dreamed of\nlife.... And King Iran had sent abroad in all the world, messengers, to say\nthat whoever could give the Princess speech, above a whisper, should marry\nher, and be given the castle of copper that was like a lantern in the dark fir-\nwood, and the white peacock and all the thousand mirrors of silver that\nwere in the castle but if he should fail, who tried, his eyes were extin-\nguished, like candles for the king made this the penalty, that whoso tried\nto give the Princess speech, and failed, was not worthy longer to look upon\nthe world. And so, as time went on, the dark firwood was filled with blind\nprinces and beggars, and artists and luteplayers who lived in hollow\ntrees\none day the Princeess Malourisan went down to the stream in the\nfirwood to bathe for she loved the cool green water where the feather-\nclouds floated, and sweet voices greeted her.... and beautiful golden dragon-\nflies came to rest upon her black hair when she spread it out upon the flat stones\nwarmed by the sun for the Princess knew that the sun brings perfume to\neverything that it touches\nshe went always to bathe at noon for was not everyone blind\nin the firwood ? some had tried to understand by chattering themselves\nbut this is not the way to understand anyone who has many beautiful things\nto say of love and dreams and they were justly made blind\nAs the Princess stood by the stream, upon a warm, round stone, that was\nflat like a l;ly-pad, and that made her little feet feel as if they were kissed\nand her soft garments fell about her like leaves and as she leaned over\nto look into the stream at herself she was sad \"Will noone ever\nlisten to me ? \" And the dragonflies flew about her head and made an airy\ngolden crown for her And as she whispered to the stream she\nheard a still little crooning voice, whispering back to her \" Now it cannot\nbe the stream \" she said to herself \"the stream is like my silver\nmirrors it loves me, but it cannot answer me. \" But the stream\nhad little feet to run with, and a voice to ask the way and be flippant to\nthe toads and did not have to stay tiresomely in one place, like the sil-\nver mirrors and the stream had been in many places, and knew many\nsecrets So the stream smiled up at the Princess Malourisan and whispered\ngently \"Tell me tell me tell me\nAnd then she knew that the stream could speak, and she leaned over until"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.76", "texte": "the ends of her black hair fell upon the face of the stream, and she whispered...\n\" no one loves me I am sad no one listens to me ! send some-\none to love with me to dream with me..... I have so much to tell\nbut only to someone who loves me \" And the stream stopped only long\nenough to hear these things, and to kiss the ends of the Princess Malourisan's\nhair and then went running and tumbling down through the forest\nsinging \" I'm going I'm going I kn0w..... I know I\nknow where to go \"\nAnd then the princess was happy, and went back to the castle of copper\nthat was like a lantern in the firwood, whispering to herself little happy things\nand dancing through the firwood as lightly as rain upon the leaves\nand all the blind beggars and princes and luteplayers and artists in their hollow\ntrees awoke, and wished that they could see for they knew that some-\nthing very beautiful had happened\nand the Princess climbed up into her tower and blew a kiss from\nher fingers to the stately silver mirrors and they blew kisses back to her\nand she went to the window and took three roses and scattered their\npetals upon the f100r.... and opened the chest of sandalwood in which she\nkept her silken garments that she wore when she was sad and shook out\nthe faded roses from them and dressed herself in them and danced among\nthe scattered rose-.leaves upon the floor for she knew that the stream\nwould hurry with her secret and take it far away, and tell it to the right\none but one roseleaf she kept\nThrough the forest and the fields along the roads and past the willows\nand under the bridges gathering the letters that the plum trees threw\ndown, and the pollen for the market the stream ran, singing and whis-\npering and smiling until it came to the city\nand there, every afternoon the stream played in a marble\nbasin of a fountain and tossed sunbeams up and caught them and\ncalled out to any who passed that way.... but none stopped to listen, for they\nsought nothing but one came, and he was lonely, and he knew why\nand thought there was no remedy\nand as ever, when he passed that way, he stopped to listen to the\nstory of the water Today it sang \"Follow me.... follow me\nfollow me far away there is a firwood and a round stone\nand a castle beyond the light of day some one is waiting and will-\ning and wishing and dreaming and dancing come quickly come\nquickly come softly come away \"\nAnd that one set off to the margin of the town where the stream\ncame in. .... and there he heard again \" Follow me follow me...."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.77", "texte": "follow me \" And on he ran .... past the willows and the sleeping\nfields and the thoughtful roads and the listening plumtrees and the bridges\nthat no one knew until he came to the firwood and through the\nlirwood he ran until he came to a flat round stone that was still warm from the\nsun though dusk walked the wood and there he saw two eyes\nlike candle-panes and he heard a whispering voice like a little silver bell\nupon a censer in a still church a voice that was sad and merry\nand merry and sad and tender and merry and sad again\nAnd the stream whispered softly out of slumber \" Here he is here\nshe is here he is I found him I told him I brought\nhim I love you I\" but the stream had run far and was\nasleep\nfor the princess had grown tired of waiting in the tower and\nhad come down to the stream to whisper and to wait for she knew that\nthe stream was wise and truthful and trustworthy and under-\nstood And as she whispered he whom the stream had brought\nlistened and he knew but you know, yourself. ... if you can dream\nof life\n\nDonald Corley."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.78", "texte": "MAPLE-SUGAR SONG.\n\nWhen the first warm days and frosty nights of the spring-thaws usher in the season\nof maple-sugaring, the Otter-tail Indians pitch camp in their favorite sugar-bush. Be-\nfore the real work of sugar-making is begun, however, the Indians go through a ceremony.\nThey gather a few buckets of the first rim of the sap and boil the first kettle of sap, down\nto sugar. At night a feast is spread in honor of Way-nah-bo-zhoo, a mythological\nguardian spirit of the Chippewas. At the feast one place is left vacant for Way-nah-bo-zhoo\nwho is expected to attend the ceremony in spirit, to eat the first sugar which has been\nprepared solely for him, and to bless the Indians in the sugar-season.\n\" Maple-Sugar Song \" is an interpretation — in no sense a translation or transcrip-\ntion, for no specific words are uttered — of the spirit and the emotional content of the\nchants sung in this ceremony.\nI.\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! Ho-yo-ho-ho ! . . . yo-ho ! . . .\nWay-nah-bo-zhoo, big spirit of our brother,\nCome thou and bless us, for the maple flows,\nAnd the Moon-of Sugar-Making is upon us.\nThe nights are white with frost; the days are yellow\nWith sunshine, and now the sap of the maple-tree,\nHumming the sugar-song, goes up the stem\nWith dancing feet. The gabbling geese come tumbling\nOut of the wind and into the wet mush-kaig\nIn clattering families ; among the reeds\nThe fat old women-geese go chattering\nOf winter-lands; and gathered on the shore,\nShouting with hearts glad to be home again,\nThe old men strut in council, and flutter and snort.\nAh-chee-dah-mo, the spluttering tail-up squirrel,\nPokes his blue whiskers from his hole in the oak,\nAnd scurries up and down the swaying branches,—"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.79", "texte": "He runs in six directions, all over the earth,\nHurrying, looking everywhere for somebody,\nSomething he cannot find, — nor does he know\nWhy the green wet days should be so bitterly sweet.\nHo ! The yellow birch throbs, for she knows the pain of life,\nOf swelling limbs and bursting buds ; she stands\nWith naked arms stretched out to the warm gray rains,\nWith hungry arms that tremble for her lover,\nFor See-gwun, the Maker-of-Little-Children, who comes\nWith soft blue feet that rustle the fallen leaves ! —\nHear thou the maple-water dripping, dripping,\nThe cool sweet-water dripping upon the birchbark ! —\nHo ! the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us !\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! H6-yo-ho-ho ! . . . yo-ho ! . . .\nHear thou our prayers, o Brother, Way-nah-bo-zhoo ! —\nHear, thou who made the flat green earth for us\nTo dance upon, who folds us in his hands\nTenderly as a woman holds a broken bird\nIn winter, thou our Brother who hung the sun\nUpon the sky to give us warmth and life,\nAnd the wet moon to make us cool and clean ;\nHear, thou who made the hills and the timber-beasts\nThat roam among them, who made the sliding rivers\nAnd silver fish that shiver in the pools, —\nThat there might be wild meat for empty bellies ;\nHear, thou who made cold rapids in the canyons,\nWild waterfalls, and springs in the cool green hollows, —\nThat there might be sweet-water for parching tongues ;\nHear, thou who gave us thy mother, All-Mother Earth,\nThat she might feed her children from her bosom—-\nAh-yee ! Way-nah-bo-zhoo, come thou on this night\nWith blessings as the maple-water flows ;\nMake thou a song to our heavy-breasted mother,"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.80", "texte": "And pray thou that her children may not hunger,—\nFor now is the night for maple-sugar feasting.\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! H6-yo-h6-ho ! . . . yo-ho ! . . .\nFrom the long cold of winter-moons, our eyes\nAre deep, our hands like the bundled veins and talons\nOf buzzard birds. Before the winter-winds\nThe moose have run to other lands for feeding ;\nThe rabbits have vanished as the snow, — a plague\nLeft a strange red sickness in their withered mouths.\nEven old Gahg, the clumsy porcupine,\nNo longer finds his way to our roasting-pots, —\nWe boil his yellow bone-ribs many times —-\nUgh ! Our teeth grow soft without strong meat to eat.\nHo ! Way-nah-bo-zhoo, hear thou our many tears\nDropping among the dead leaves of winter ;\nPray thou, and ask our grandmother, Waking-Earth,\nTo take us in her arms, to make us warm\nWith food, to hold us safe upon her bosom.\nOur mouths go searching for her mighty breasts,\nWhere the maple-milk comes flowing from the trees, —\nAh-yee! Brother, pray thou now the Mother-One\nTo give us freely of her sugar-sap,\nThe good sweet-water of her bursting breasts—\nFor the Moon-of-Sugar-Making is upon us !\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! Ho-yo-ho-ho ! . . . yo-ho !\nHo !\nII.\nAnd if the sap flows thin with water, our hearts\nWill hold no bitterness ; for we shall know\nThat long ago in thy wisdom thou decreed\nThat out mother's milk might never be too thick,\nFearing that we should gather plenty sugar"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.81", "texte": "With little labor and soon grow sick with food\nAnd slow to move our legs, like glutted bear—\nHo ! We are a faithful children of the soil;\nWe toil with eager hearts and patient hands.\nAnd if our birchen baskets crack and leak\nThe gathered sap, our tongues will speak no evil, —\nWe know that thou, our Brother, in thy love\nFor those of the Otter-tail totem, whipped the growing\nBirch tree until the bark was cracked and cut\nWith round black stripes, — that our birchen pails might leak\nThe silver sap, that thus all Indian children,\nLaboring long with many steps, might never\nGrow soft and fat with idling in the bush.\nHo ! We are a faithful children of the soil;\nWe toil with eager hearts and patient backs.\nHi! Way-nah-bo-zhoo ! Hear thou, o mighty one,\nWho folds us in his tender hands as a woman\nHolding a broken bird in the winter-wind,\nCome thou and bless us on this night of feasting;\nPray thou our mother to take us in her arms,\nTo hold us warm upon her great brown bosom,\nTo give us freely of her maple-water,\nThe good sweet-water of her swelling breasts.\nAnd if we labor long, our lips will speak\nNo bitterness, for our arms are strong for hauling,\nEager for many buckets of sweet sap,\nFor syrup dancing its bubbles up and down\nIn the kettles, to the bubble-dancing song.\nHo ! For we are a faithful children of the soil;\nWe toil with trusting hearts and patient fingers, —\nAnd now is the Moon-of-Maple-Sugar-Making !\nHo-yo-ho-ho ! Ho-yo-ho-ho ! . . . yo-ho ! . . .\nHo!\n\nLew Sarett."}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.82", "texte": "BAMBINO'S BEGINNING.\n\nI.\nFabrizia was the love of Agostino. For some months he had felt that life\nto him was contact with the unique chemical of her personality.\n\" Continue to be a chemical for me! \"he exclaimed to her one day. \" Every\nword you say does inexplicable things ; I have consulted the biologists, the phy-\nsico-chemists, the biometrists, the psychologists, even the hydrographers — who\nstudy tides — and the physicists, but they have no light to offer, and agree in\none thing only, envy ! \"\nFabrizia disliked being called a chemical, but she replied, \" Your words\nwarm my blood to a degree beyond that permitted by science as sane, or by\nreligion as holy. \"\n2.\nSaid Agostino, who was a student of eugenics, \" I am sure that a Bambino\nsprung from our mingling in the open beauty of earth and sky would grow up\nmore stalwart, more beguiling, more ornate, than one conceived in a city cham-\nber, a chamber in a honeycomb of similar chambers along the narrow dusty\nstreets of cities/'\n\" So long as God makes me mother of a child, when and where the seed be\nsown matters little, \" returned Fabrizia. \"It is within me, between bone and\nbone, that he will grow stalwart, beguiling, ornate, if so you desire him to be,\nand come to the hour of his birth\n\" We have no statistics on this vital subject, \" said Agostino, \" but I am\nsure that the fairest and noblest of the race had fair and noble places for their\nbeginning. The heavens were plumed with thunder at the moment Hercules\nwas conceived ; and she whose beauty was woven from the crimson fleece of\nclouds, the snowy foam of waves, what lone peninsula was that upon which\nher sire seized her mother ? It is improbable that shoulders which supported"}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "81", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.83", "texte": "6\n\na world, or eyes which ruled it, could owe anything to the oppressive chambers\nof a metropolis. \"\n\" God is everywhere, \" persisted Fabrizia, wondering why He had sent her\nheart a youth so foolish as Agostino. \" Shall lovers with only a straw mattress\nin a bye-street be defrauded of their right to bring forth inventors and martyrs ?\nNay, I dare say many a man and maid have gone naked up into high mountains, .\nand gazed down upon the world, and their offspring was a profiteer or a publi-\ncan. Not what is without, but what is within, sets spark to the new life, whose\nburning shall be seen across centuries. \"\n\" You are not versed in the new romances, \" said Agostino, with a sadness.\n3.\nNo one suspected, as Agostino and his love alighted from the diligence at\na lonely turn in the coast road, that they were bent upon a mighty errand. Fa-\nbrizia still could not understand why Agostino had brought her so far upon so\nsimple a mission. Nature was all very well; but the urban haunts of man were\nnot destitute of poetry. Yet she was always ready for Agostino's embraces,\nand she stifled her vexation. If he preferred the open, what harm was there\nin that ?\nThe sun was blistering, and Fabrizia rejoiced that she had worn her picture\nhat, a Viennese confection too unusual even for city afternoons. Her shepherd\nstaff with the orange ribbon was of great service too, so uneven a surface\ndid the floor of earth present to her exquisite high-heeled slippers. The lovers\nreached the summit of a bluff, and by a precarious path descended to a beach\nwhere white sand went in and out of walls of boulders.\n\" The ruins of forgotten rites, \" observed Fabrizia, pausing with interest\nand yet with apprenhension. \" Shall we be happy among them in this crushing\npresence of sea and sky ? \"\n\" These walls are votive tablets, \" explained Agostino, \" where, in loyalty\nto a fabled goddess of the sea, men and maids have wreathed together their in-\nitials. \" And he pointed to a transfixed heart cut in the granite, with a date two\ncenturies old.\n\" Their flowers have faded, \" sighed the lady, \" and still th e tides go in and\nout of the sunny caves they lay in. Soon we too must be gone, and other lovers\nwill come and plait their garlands here. O, lam filled with a homesickness. \"\nWho, lackning human affection, give themselves over unto despair ; who,\ndeprived of solicitude, see themselves eaten of time and change, to these by pre-\nference was the ministry of Fabrizia. Moving therefore among the votive walls,\nshe gave some kisses; and some, garlands of kelp; and some she caressed, letting"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "82", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.84", "texte": "her fingers follow the course of the chisel, mindful of the sanctity of the occa-\nsions they commemorated, and of the great respect due to such tokens of our\ndesire : that those hieroglyphs henceforth need not consider themselves ne-\nglected, and left unwept to the inhuman cunning of waves.\n\" We shall be gone from here, \" agreed Agostino, \" but centuries of being\ntogether await us. Fabrizia, mark the blue horizon. \"\n\" It is not blue, \" said Fabrizia, \" it is a thin luminous green. \"\n\" No, it is blue, \" insisted Agostino. \" Fabrizia, mark the horizon ; forget\nthe populous towns behind us, where the minds of lovers are haunted by their\nfellow-men, and not by the vastness of the Mother. Give me endless things that\nmelt one into another ; give me elements unstable, so lacking in line and mass\nthat they remove reality. Even to the vertigo of them, I love them. \"\n\" The sea is lovely, \" admitted Fabrizia, \" but cities are more lovely. \"\nShe lifted her arms in the broad sunshine, and her resentment at Agostino faded.\nHere in the open his idiocy did not matter so much. \"The sea calls to me, \" she\ncried, \" the white arms of the surf beckon me.\nAgostino was aware of two gray gulls by the shore, which at a single instant\nwheeled off over the deep. It was an omen.\nThey went down together to the blue ; and the waves approached them,\ncrested and lustrous. But the waves seemed to Fabrizia like promising young\nbusiness men and other naturalists, who one after another filed petitions in\nspiritual bankruptcy. She kept the morbid impression to herself.\n4.\nThe bronzed Agostino lay on the sands, his elbows dug into the warmth\nof them, his chin in his palms, and gazed up and down the surf for Fabrizia.\nAt last she emerged, coming ashore upright in the spray of a gray-green\nroller. Her eyes were half-closed against the sun, and a sea-vine, was tangled\nin her hair. He thought of Correggio, the bright eyes of whose angelic ladies\ntestify to a virginity of spirit rather than of body.\n\" And you, the beautiful, do not appreciate Nature and her works, \" said\nAgostino, reproachfully.\n\" How can my devotion to her fail, when she has borne you, when she has\nborne me ? \" inquired Fabrizia, still ivory where going and coming waters\nglistened about her ankles, and filled the partings of her toes with sand.\nWeary, and needing repose, they found a seaward gazing cave. But alas, as\nthey were spreading velvets and silks on its crystal floor, they were interrupted\nby the apparition of an elderly naturalist. Unaware of the sacred proxim-\nity of two who had come hither at high noon as priests move toward the mass,"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "83", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.85", "texte": "lie knelt on the sand not five yards away from them, and examined crnstacea\nthrough a microscope.\n\"It is the eminent Professor Settimio, \" whispered Agostino. \" He has\ndevoted his life to insects, centipedes, spiders and crustaceans. \"\n\" You amaze me, \" said Fabrizia. \" God forbid that he turn his eye\nupon us. \"\nBut the aged savant struggled to his feet, and without a glance in their\ndirection, ambled on along the beach. Passing as mysteriously as he had\nappeared, the lovers were never to know whether [the remains of shrimp,\nlobster or crab had occupied his gaze, or whether it was not a question of\nmalacostraca at all, but rather of infinitesimal fish-lice, and of barnacles.\n\" It was this Settimio, \" continued Agostino, \" who first made me feel\nhow very zoological, nay how botanical we are ; being veritable gardens from\none point of view, and of the substance of leaves, of fruits and flowers, of plumed\nwings and restless tentacles. \"\n\" Fabrizia dear, I gaze at you ; and then, as in dreams, I sink past tier and\ntier of strange foliage down to my most ecstatic depths, to an inebriate region „\nlife's sub-cellar, as it were, and lie among the vats ! \"\n\" Modernism, \" reflected Fabrizia, wiping a tear from her eye at this ex-\ntraordinary account of love's ecstasy, \" Modernism, that elaborate retreat\nfrom all that is staple and true, is conducted by minds such as this Settimio's. \"\nAt the thought she marvelled. Her Roman depths stirred by the insuf-\nferable lunacy of the romantic Agostino, which had subjected her to so painful\nan encounter, no less than by terror of the stranger's curious life, wherein cen-\ntipedes had been glorified and prawns embraced, she deliberately folded her\nring-finger against the soft stone of the cave-wall, and scratched upon it a\nsacrificial cross.\n\nHaniel Long."}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.86", "texte": "EINSTEIN AND THE POETS.\nAnthologies, like the poor, we have always with us. And with practically\nno exceptions, these heterogeneous collections of orthodox and hetero-geniu-\nses, run true to their lifeless form. It has remained for the youngest of Ameri-\ncan anthologists to achieve a radical departure from the collector's norm. \"If\none leaves it to a lot of scattered poets one will have nothing more than a lot\nof scattered verse, \" writes Mr. Untermeyer. \" Mere editorship, no matter how\nselective, is not enough. \" How then does the author of \" The New Adam \"\nexpect to accomplish his ends ? Succinctly, by writing the entire anthology\nhimself. And the binding subject, the leitmotif ? Nothing more or less than the\nEinstein Theory of Relativity ! The following excerpts are what Mr. Unter-\nmeyer believes might result if certain outstanding American minnesingers were\nforced to record their reactions concerning the Weight of Light, Deflection of\nSolar Rays, Non-Euclidean Warps in Space, Anti-Newtonian Substitutes for\nGravitation and Time as a Fourth Dimension. The compiler, it may be well\nto add, has engaged counsel to defend him in all libel suits that may result.\n\nRELATIVITIES.\nby EDW-N ARLIN-TON ROBINS-N.\nWhat wisdom have we that by wisdom all\nSources of knowledge which the years suggest,\nHidden in rubric, stone or palimpsest,\nWill turn and answer us because we call.\nAbout us planets rise and systems fall\nWhere, lost to all but matter, Newtons rest;\nAnd who are we to label worst and best\nWhile all of force is gravitational ?\nHeld by a four-dimensional concern,\nHe gropes among the atoms to beseech\nA swifter sublimation that may reach\nA little further than the funeral urn.\nAnd we, who always said that we could teach,\nHave nothing much to say and more to learn."}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.87", "texte": "CANZONE\nby EZR- PO-ND.\nEarly Itatian.\nAlVacquisto di gloria e di jama...\nCome, my songs, distorted, spoken-against,\nCome, let us pity those who have one-dimensional minds,\nLet us pity those who move smugly\nin two or even three dimensions,\nBound to a relative mortmain.\nMa si morisse !\nTake thought of the dull, the hopelessly-enmeshed ;\nThe young enslaved by the old,\nThe old embittered by the young.\nGo, with a clashing of many echoes and accents,\nGo to Helicon — on the Hudson.\nPerform your naked rites, your cephalic dances ;\nShout your intolerant cat-calls from the bus-tops,\n(We have kindred in common, Walt Whitman)\nParade your tag-ends and insolences,\nCry them on State Street:\nCh'e be'a ... *\nTake no thought of being presentable.\nLest they say you grow shabby,\nI shall find fresh raiment for you\nout of time and spaciousness ;\nA shirt out of Provence, green slippers from Cathay,\nAssorted mantles, slightly worse for wear, from Montparnasse,\nAnd fillets, somewhat dusty, out of Ithaca.\nWho shall say you have become\nA slave to your technique\nlike Chloris, who would flirt\nEven with her own shadow ?\nWho proclaims this ?\nB a-a-a-a-a-amen.\n* bella."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.88", "texte": "ADVICE TO THE FOURTH DIMENSION\nby MAXW-LL BOD-NHEM\nRegion of shiftless equilibrium,\nThe curtly undulating worlds\nWeave insolently in your heart,\nLike icily forgotten tunes of atoms.\nTime, with a slanting hunger, gropes\nAnd, in a virginal precision, takes your hand.\nCircles, no longer arrogantly round,\nBut like a battered primrose dripping flame,\nAre warps in nature.\nNo line is straight\nBut lifts long, passionless rhythms till it meets\nIts parallel in drab exuberance.\nRegion of shiftless equilibrium,\nBe not confused by tricks of time and space.\nOnly you can twist an acrid meaning out of words\nOr into them.\n\nROUND\nby ALFR-D KR-YMBORG.\nWorlds, you must tell me —\nWhat ?\nWhat is the answer to it all ?\nMatter.\nMatter, answer me —\nWhat ?\nWhat are the secrets of your strength ?\nMolecules.\nMolecules, be honest —\nWhat ?\nWhat may be groping at your roots ?\nAtoms."}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.89", "texte": "Atoms, I ask you —\nWhat ?\nWhat have you hidden in your hearts ?\nElectrons.\nElectrons, I charge you —\nWhat ?\nWhat are you building in your wombs ?\nWorlds.\nWorlds, you must tell me ... .\n\nTHE SPELL OF THE ELECTRON\nby ROB-RT SERV-CE\nNow this is the spell the philosophers tell\nWhen you're puzzled at all their revisions :\nThe laws that we knew are not alway true,\nWe must change them to suit the conditions.\nThough you roar as you eat only red-blooded meat\nAnd thrill with each virile sensation,\nNo atom or ape, no figure or shape\nBy God ! can escape gravitation.\nFor this is the lesson of Einstein :\nAnswer Death's grin with a scoff.\nGlaring and tearing at all you resent,\nFight though the light is battered and bent —\nFight till the flesh drops off !\nYou may clench your fists at the scientists,\nAt calculus, cubes or quadratics ;\nYou may curse and thrash since the old laws clash\nWith relativist kinematics ;\nYou may goad your sides till the blood-red tides\nRun off and the dry bones clatter —\nAt the end of the grind with a reeling mind\nBy God ! you will find only matter !"}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.90", "texte": "For this is the lesson of Einstein :\nDrink at no coward's trough.\nSneering and jeering will bring no delight;\nYou're here to make everything cheerful and bright.\nAnd for carfare and comfort and sweetness and light,\n■\nFight till the flesh drops off !\n\nTHE SAGGING BOUGH\nby ROB-RT FR-ST\nThere, where it was, we never noticed how,\nFlirting its tail among the smoothed-off rocks\nThe brook would spray the old, worm-eaten bough,\nThat squeaked and scratched like puppies in a box.\nWhether the black, half-rotted branch leaned down,\nOr seemed to lean, for love, or weariness\nOf life too long lived out, or hoped to drown\nIts litter of last year's leaves, we could not guess.\nPerhaps the bough relaxed as though it meant\nTo give itself this one depravity.\nOr, being near the grave itself, it bent\nBecause of nothing more than gravity."}, {"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "89", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.91", "texte": "AMERICA INVADES EUROPE.\n\nIt is by no means here intended to deride or disparage the splendid work\nthat, in only one decade, has been done and is now being done by Americans of\nthe younger and youngest generation. Nor to deny the profit — for both\ncontinents — that will result from a closer, more regular and organized cul-\ntural contact between the two. And, as far as America is concerned ; it is\ntime that intelligent and cultivated Europeans should become aware of the\nfact — which the great majority of them are not — that \" darkest America\nthe materialistic monster from which they are wont to turn with horror or,\nat best, utter scepticism, is actually being attacked — and attacked from wi-\nthin — persistently, valiantly, successfully. It is time that they should know\nabout the genuine fundamental changes wrought since the years when Knut\nHamsun wrote his bitter sarcasms and commentaries regarding the land \" over\nwhich the sky is black — indeed\nBut there are two facts at which the European observer of things Ameri-\ncan may feel inclined to look with some misgiving. The first is, a\non the part of the extreme left wing of literary America — as represented e.g.\nby the Little Review and Contact — to understand by \" Europe \" simply\n\" France \" — and by Prance mostly or merely a group of young Parisians many\nof whose innovations of literary capering are possibly less signs of new life than\nthe death spasms of a movement in which the last word was practically said\nby Mallarme — right at the start. And in addition to this tendency the be-\nlief that America's artistic and cultural salvation is mainly to be sought in fol-\nlowing this France and fragment of France as closely as possible. The second\nfact is the manifestation of the American Machine — transforming itself, with\nall its attributes and characteristics, into American Mind ; or the mistaking\nof analytical acumen for creative mind.\nThis intellectual leaning of young America toward France or whatever re-\nsembles France elsewhere, is, in a way, natural enough. The arid lucidity,\nthe precision, the knife-like flashing, the dainty skill and eternal badinage of"}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "90", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.92", "texte": "the French mind must needs prove a strong attraction for the trans-Atlantic\ntype whose own strength (and weakness) lies along city-bred, machine-\nmade, sophisticated, electric lines. The lordly sensual acidity of a Gourmont\n(that combination of savant, satyr, aesthete — not fused by soul into a higher\nunity) ; the daring and brilliance of the precocious gamin — from Rimbaud\nto Tzara ; the purely cerebral temperament; these things are naturally and\nunconditionally accepted as sole counsels of perfection by the ambitious repre-\nsentatives of a race in whom the emotion-abhorring depth-fearing Puritan\nis followed by the equally emotion-abhorring depth-fearing machine man. But\none doubts if this combination — of French art theories and American mecha-\nnics — will be able to produce something that is alive, not only on its intellec-\ntual surfaces, but in the totality of cultural human value.\nAfter brilliant analytic Poe, after a knife-brandishing Whistler ; after ma-\nthematical James with his dainty psychological chess problems ; after Pound\n(Pound the Blaster, not Pound the Artist) — now, armed with magazines, come\nothers among whom it is pointed out that such work as that of Marianne Moore\nin basical for American development !\nAs concerns France :\nEurope can afford France. Can afford to encourage, spoil, indulge —\nat times even worship — that eternally young wizard among the rest of her\nbrood. Among the rest —if you please ! Europe can afford it — because Eu-\nrope is and always has been infinitely more than France ; because Europe is\nthe magnificent sum total of a variety of cultures, of art forms, of life forms,\nof which France is only one.\nEurope can also afford to admit a goodly dose of city sophistication and\nengineering acumen into her cultural life — because this cultural life existed,\nis rooted in, twenty-five hundred years of development before the Machine and\nbejore Metropolitanism were born. And the contribution of a Rimbaud and\nall his descendants is only one wave in an ocean that — to dive haphazardly\n— contains the waves of Greece and Rome, of a seventeenth century Spain,\nFrance, Holland, of Chaucer's age or the Renaissance ; of nineteenth century\nRussia or the Scandinavian North, the Germany of Goethe and Heine, the\nElizabethan age or that of Keats. Wave upon wave — with luminous crest\nupon crest. And under these the depth of a folk life, as yet not torn away\nfrom the spontaneously emotional, the naturally mystic, the intuitively aes-\nthetic.\nSuch an ocean can quietly admit the sailing of many little boats in search\nof new treasure. It can not be hidden by or lose itself under them.\nBut America — made of the Puritan, by the Puritan, for the Puritan, re-\nmade of the Machine, by the Machine, for the Machine — is only passing"}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "91", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.93", "texte": "through what is practically her first decade of a generation that deliberately,\nconsciously, by means of concerted action and creation strikes out upon\npaths of cultural life. And America can, therefore, not afford to attempt\nthe turning of this new life into one narrow channel. The assumption on the\npart of some one or another small group of literary workers, for whom Paris\nis the center of the globe, to possess the one and only and nothing but the truth\nin aesthetic and intellectual values and appreciations — wrong under all\nskies — is disastrously wrong in a continent that is only just beginning to take\nsome culturally recognizable shape !\nNew intellectual perceptions are more quickly acquired and intellectual\nchanges more quickly made than emotional ones ; the emotional part of the\nhuman organism being the infinitely more conservative part. Acceptance\nand proclamation of \" finds \" in the form of theories or organized move-\nments are, therefore, not necessarily indicative of a genuine change in asethe-\ntic and life reaction — the change that touches the essence, the bottom and\nthe totality of things. Emotion and intellect are, of course, not separate and\nopposed entities ; each being dependent on and determined and energised by\nthe other — and both being, perhaps, only different forms of the same activ-\nity, i.e., if the \" intellect \" in question is of the creative, imaginative type,\nmind rather than intellect in the narrower sense of the word (the thing by means\nof which you add up sums, attend to the practical business of life and make\nneat dissections of bodies, souls and theorems).\nBut much of the intellect of which one is granted flashes among young\nAmerica's latest self-appointed elite affects one sometimes as intellect of the\nlatter type; the panting, tonguelolling, movie-movie, electrically lighted\nbraininess ; true offspring of its parent, the Machine. As such interesting,\ningenious, valuable in its way — but limited. Versatile, not universal. And\nlacking soul stuff, fire ; some of the things that make mature, rich, finished in-\ndividualities — not only brilliant writers and complex poets — in the dreary\nwaste of bread and butter cleverness and information intellect.\nSays Miss Moore :\n\" Complexity is not a crime, but carry it to the point of murkiness and\nnothing is plain. A complexity moreover, that has been committed to darkness,\ninstead of granting itself the pestilence that it is, moves all about as if to be-\nwilder with the dismal fallacy that insistence is the measure of achievement and\nthat all truth must be dark. Principally throat, sophistication is as it always\nhas been — at the antipodes from the initial great truths. \"\nExactly !\nThat is why, granting that Miss Moore's work is honest and interesting>\none does by no means consider American brains of which hers are a spe-"}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "92", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.94", "texte": "cimen (and they are very good brains !) as the kind that are highly and\nsolely promising of America's creative approach to those \" great initial\ntruths\nIf an ingeniously constructed, intricate little piece of machinery, a dainty\nlittle thing with cogs and wheels and flashes of iron and steel, should suddenly\nbe given a human voice to pour its \" soul \" into song — to trasmute itself\ninto a \" poem —it would stand revealed as a bit of writing by Miss Moore.\nAn interesting phenomenon — having gaped at which one would turn to one or\nanother of the great elemental things in that deep turbulent ocean of Europe's\ntwenty-five centuries — where there is dimness — where there are half tones\n— those half tones so desperately lacking in the American mental as well\nas physical atmosphere—where there are storms and even fogs. Relentless\nglistening scalpels are good for all diseased and dead and dying things, no\ndoubt. But there is fog — fog of a certain kind — that makes things \" come\nalive \" . . .\nIt is to be hoped that Europe's contact with modern America of the last\ndecade will not be limited to contact with extremist tendencies only ; with\nthe most sophisticated and outre modes of self expression. Especially since\nEurope can get all it needs and wants in this direction from France, directly,\nand much better. Besides, in Europe these things represent the extreme tip\nof growths, the roots and trunks and heavier branches of which are in its own\nsoil. In America such tips produce the effect of hanging in the air. There\nis no such hanging in the air with American minds of the type, say, of Randolph\nBourne, Sherwood Anderson, Carl Sandburg, or the writer of a book like \" Our\nAmerica \". From these the modern European world will get a better under-\nstanding of the new America's contact with herself, of her self analyses, self\ncriticism, self transformation, than from all the ultra modern followers of France\ncombined. Yet none of the four mentioned are of the \" clever \" type. They\nhave \" minds \" that, without blague or badinage, without flashy brilliance,\nquietly touch the bottom of things ; not ingeniously bizarre, but truly self\nrevealing.\nTypes of mind like these are not apt to cherish, in good Yankee fashion,\nan ambition to corner the market in modern truths, aesthetic and otherwise.\nNor is art to them, as it seems to be to certain others, a department store\nin New York City where nothing may be kept in stock except the latest, the\nabsolutely up-to-the-minute \" styles \" (discontinued lines sold at considerable\nreductions or relegated to the provinces).\nWhat Europe looks forward to on the part of America is a broadening,\nnot a narrowing ;an inclusiveness, not an exclusiveness; a fertilizing, not a\nsterilizing of the aesthetic field, of art emotion and cultural perception."}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "93", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.95", "texte": "Perhaps Broom, faithful to the motto that \" there are always others\nwill sweep into the circle of its vision aspects of Europe wider than those of\nParisian boulevards ; and into the vision of Europe aspects of modern America\nwider than those of one or two small coteries. Even if —in doing so —it should\nrun the terrible risk of being branded with that non-plus-ultra of modern stig-\nmas : the adjective \" Georgian\n\nEmmy Veronica Sanders."}, {"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.96", "texte": "BROOMIDES.\nInstead of the customary editorial pronouncements, seemingly indispens-\nable appendages to each and every periodical, world without end, Broom offers,\nin this issue at least, a column devoted to those of its contributors who have\nsome announcement of their own to present. Perhaps when Broom is a little\nolder, and begins to take itself with the solemnity approved by age, achieve-\nment and the like, it will find a voice of its own and give gentle vent to that.\nBut for the present, Broom prefers to act as the disc, if you will, for the varied\nimpressions to be expressed by the personalities who pass across it. Broom is\neven tempted to inform the reader, if he does not already know, who each per-\nsonality is, and what his record, but in view of the axiom that you can never\nsay quite the right thing about another human (be he Italian, American, Irish,\nEnglish, Chinese, Indian, Australian, Hebraic, Spanish, French, Dutch, German or\nRussian — the nationalities in the present issue), Broom will have to sidestep\nthis temptation, as well. In any event, Broom is less interested in what a man\nhas done than in what he is attempting.\n\nINTERNATIONAL COMPOSERS GUILD, Inc.\n\nThe composer is the only one of the creators of today who is denied direct\ncontact with the public. When his work is done he is thrust aside, and the\ninterpreter enters, not to try to understand the composition but impertinently\nto judge it. Not finding in it any trace of the conventions to which he is ac-\ncustomed, he banishes it from his programs, denouncing it as incoherent and\nunintelligible.\nIn every other field, the creator comes into some form of direct contact\nwith his public. The poet and novelist enjoy the medium of the printed page ;\nthe painter and sculptor the open doors of a gallery; the dramatist the free scope\nof a stage. The composer must depend upon an intermediary, the interpreter.\nIt is true that in response to public demand, our official organizations oc-\ncasionally place on their programs a new work surrounded by established names."}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.97", "texte": "But such a work is carefully chosen from the most timid and anaemic of\ncontemporary production, leaving absolutely unheard the composers who\nrepresent the true spirit of our time.\nDying is the privilege of the weary. The present day composers refuse to\ndie. They have realized the necessity of banding together and fighting for the\nright of each individual to secure a fair and free presentation of his work. It is\nout of such a collective will that the International Composers' Guild was born.\nThe aim of the International Composers' Guild is to centralize the works\nof the day, to group them in programs intelligently and organically construct-\ned, and, with the disinterested help of singers and instrumentalists, to present\n• • •\nthese works in such a way as to reveal their fundamental spirit.\nThe International Composers' Guild refuses to admit any limitation, either\nof volition or of action.\nThe International Composers' Guild disapproves of all \" isms \" ; denies\nthe existence of schools ; recognizes only the individual.\n\nEdgar Varèse.\n\nNOTES: TO THE TRANSLATOR.\n\nIn translating my poems, there are a few points to be observed. To ignore\nthem, or any one of them, is entirely to deny me a respectful presentation. My\ndogma, for such it is, applies, in my own mind, to no one besides me, but to\nme it is sacred, and to one who intends to introduce me, it should be inviolable.\n1. — No verse shall consist of only one word of one syllable only. I\ndo not respect theoretical rythm.\n2. — Each verse must terminate decisively, and without unnecessary\ndeflection. None may terminate with an article. None with a conjunction,\nan adverb, or a preposition, unless that part of speech is for a legitimate rea-\nson punctuated. Thus with a pronoun, unless it concludes a phrase. Each\nverse must stand alone.\n3- — Be careful of the use of interjections. I am not enthusiastic,\nand do not wish to appear thus.\n4. — My verse-forms are three only ; the English heroic, or iambic pen-\ntameter, the sonnet, English or Italian, and free verse after my own concep-\ntion. I have settled on these as permanent with me, because they are, so far\nas I am able to find out, easily translatable into the major languages. I de-\ntest the thought of an universal language, but I have, for reasons other than"}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "96", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.98", "texte": "that given, circumscribed myself. I trust that you will endeavor to use my\nforms in their respective places. Should you think it difficult to do so, try to\ncomprehend the extent of my discipline. The measure of your success will be\ncommensurate to mine. You will fail only where I fail.\n5. — As to the free verse, please use my longflowing, commonplace\nlines, unless I, myself, use staccato passages. Every verse is used for certain\neffect, which I intend always to make obvious. True subtlety is not found in\nforms, but behind them. As to number of lines, or their positions, please imi-\ntate. I have purposely made imitation easy. I have designs on posterity,\nbut do not breathe it.\nI shall welcome correspondence, personal as well as literary.\n\nWallace Gould\n\nTHE NEW BROOM.\nDavid O'Neil.\nWhen you are sweeping us\nWith your cosmic broom\nSweeping us out of mouldy ruts\nSweeping us clean and sweet-\nRemember\nWhen we're quivering—\nSensitive— bare—\nWe shall be grateful\nFor just a few shadows. . .\n\nERNESTO FraTONT, Gerente responsabile.\nRoma — «Iy'Universelle » Impriraerie Polyglotte."}, {"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[97]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.99", "texte": "MANIFESTO I.\nBROOM IS SELECTING FROM THE CONTINENTAL LITERATURE OF THE PRESENT\nTIME THE WRITINGS OF EXCEPTIONAL QUALITY MOST ADAPTABLE FOR TRANSLATION\ninto English.\nThese will appear side by side with the contemporaneous effort in\nGreat Britain and America.\nThe painters and sculptors will be represented by the best available\nreproductions of their work.\nThroughout, the unknown, path-breaking artist will have, when his\nMATERIAL MERITS IT, AT LEAST AN EQUAL CHANCE WITH THE ARTIST OF ACKNOW-\nLEDGED REPUTATION.\nIN BRIEF, BROOM IS A SORT OF CLEARING HOUSE WHERE THE ARTISTS OF THE\nPRESENT TIME WILL BE BROUGHT INTO CLOSER CONTACT.\nThe permanence of this project is assured absolutely if supported\nBY THE SUBSCRIPTIONS OF THOSE SYMPATHETIC TO IT.\nBecause of the distance from the source of supply, it is impossible\n*\nTO FILL THE RENEWAL ORDERS OF BOOKSHOPS AND TO CALCULATE THE QUANTITY\nREQUIRED FROM AMERICA.\nYour subscription (five dollars a year) mailed at the earliest possible\nMOMENT, SOLVES THIS PROBLEM FOR EVERYBODY CONCERNED.\nAMERICAN subscriptions should be mailed to the NEW YORK OFFICE,\nTHREE EAST NINTH STREET; EUROPEAN subscriptions to the main\noffice, 18, TRINITA DEI MONTI, ROME (6), ITAEY.\nAnd do not forget to send us the names and addresses of your\nFRIENDS."}, {"page_pdf": 100, "page_imprimee": "[98]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192111-01.1.100", "texte": "«What of it, if some oed hunks\nOF A SEA-CAPTAIN ORDERS ME TO GET A\nBROOM AND SWEEP DOWN THE DECKS ?\nWhat does that indignity amount to,\nWEIGHED, I MEAN, IN THE SCALES OF THE\nNew Testament ? Do you think the\nARCHANGEI, GABRIEL THINKS ANYTHING\nTHE LESS OF ME, BECAUSE I PROMPTLY AND\nRESPECTFULLY OBEY THAT OI,D HUNKS IN\nTHAT PARTICULAR INSTANCE ? WHO A TNT\nA SLAVE ? »\nMOBY DICK."}]}