{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_sha256": "9b003fceb3db9a73316ba0f951854fcf005a6e3206e641a1ed18c394e4f7d67f", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1921/12_01/bmtnaap_1921-12_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1921/12_01/bmtnaap_1921-12_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[96]", "page_fin": "[96]", "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.2", "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": "[96]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1070, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2280, "texte": "Page\nCover Design\n (Woodcut) — E. Prampolini. —\nPortrait of a\n Girl — Conrad Aiken 97\nThe Swans — Joseph\n Stella 9$\nThe Helpless Ones — Frederick\n Booth 99\nDesigns for an Imaginary Ballet —\n Henry Bellamann 116\nThe Old Part of\n Viareggio — Lorenzo Viani 118\nOn Painting\n — Joseph Stella XI9\nTwo Paintings — Joseph\n Stella 120\nProteus — Paul Claudel\n (Translated by John Strong Newberry) 125\nInterior — Henri Matisse x37\nParagraphs\n concerning the Princess Vehana — Haniel Long\nTwo Paintings — Rockwell Kent • • \\\nTwo Poems — W. De La mare . I4^\nThe Contract — Sherwood Anderson . x49\nNotre Amerique — Leon Bazalgette\n (Translated by H. A. L. j x54\nTwo Poems —\n Aldo Palazzeschi (Translated by A. K.) 159\nNude — Luciano Folgore (Translated by A. K.) 160\nStill Eife — Henri Matisse'. 161\nHazi. Wife of Sender Surtjjck — Konrad\n Bercovici . * . . . 162\nThe Bird With the\n Coppery, .Keen Claws — Wallace Stevens 173\nTwo Poems — Jean Starr Untermeyer x74\nOne Moment Only — Harold Munro T75\nPelleas Night — Donald CorlEy 176\nSunday\n Morning — Adolph Dehn . •. 18 4\nCharcoal\n Drawing — Wanda Gag 185\nAnne Bard —\n Wallace Gould 186\nBroomides :\n Communications From Vachel Lindsay, Lew Sarett, Thomas Pym Co'pe\n . . 190"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "97", "page_fin": "97", "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Portrait of a Girl", "titre_sommaire": "Portrait of a Girl", "signature_source": "Conrad Aiken", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "97", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1172, "texte": "PORTRAIT OF A GIRL.\nConrad Aiken.\nThis is the shape of the leaf, and this\n of the flower,\nAnd this the pale bole of\n the tree\nWhich watches its bough in a pool\n of unwavering water\nIn a land we never\n shall see.\nThe thrush on the bough is\n silent, the dew falls softly,\nIn the\n evening is hardly a sound. . .\nAnd the\n three beautiful pilgrims who come here together\nTouch lightly the dust of the ground,\nTouch it with feet that trouble the dust\n but as wings do,\nCome shyly together, are\n still,\nLike dancers, who wait, in a\n pause of the music, for music\nThe\n exquisite silence to fill. . .\nThis is the\n thought of the first, and this of the second,\nAnd this the grave thought of the third\n :\n'finger we thus for a moment, palely\n expectant,\nAnd silence will end, and\n the bird\n'Sing the pure phrase, sweet\n phrase, clear phrase in the twilight\nTo\n fill the blue bell of the world ;\nAnd we,\n who on music so leaflike have drifted together,\nL,eaflike apart shall be whirled\n'Into what but the beauty of silence,\n silence forever? . . .\n. . . This is the\n shape of the tree,\nAnd the flower and the\n leaf, and the three pale beautiful pilgrims;\nThis is what you are to me.\ni"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "98", "page_fin": "98", "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "The Swans", "titre_sommaire": "The Swans", "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": "98", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 25, "texte": "Joseph Stella.\nThe Swans."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "99", "page_fin": "115", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 21, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "The Helpless Ones", "titre_sommaire": "The Helpless Ones", "signature_source": "Frederick Booth", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "99", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2161, "texte": "THE HELPLESS ONES.\n\nEddie Gordon sprawled face upward on the\n living room couch, asleep. His\nhead was at\n the foot of the couch, hanging partly over the edge, and his\n shod feet\nlay nearly buried where the\n pillows and his overcoat were jumbled together.\nOne arm hung over the side of the couch,\n and his hand, crumpled against the floor,\nlying limp in the shadow, resembled a castoff gray glove. He\n lay so still with\nhis clothes all tumbled\n and his head turned and hanging back against one shoulder,\none might have thought him dead. But he\n only slept.\nAt six o'clock a lively step\n sounded in the hall. A key snapped in the lock.\nThe door opened and Sally Gordon came\n in.\nShe turned her head deliberately\n toward the couch as she closed the door.\nA\n sigh, rather tremulous but brief, whispered in the gloom. She\n went quickly to\nthe table in the middle of\n the room, felt about for a match, and lighted the gas\nchandelier. Without looking again toward\n the couch she removed her overcoat\nand\n hat, went into the bathroom, turned high the gas and washed her\n face and\nhands, vigorously brushing the\n inkstains from her finger-tips. She turned from\nthe bathroom into the bedroom, turned up\n the light there, and brushed her hair\nwith\n soft, slow strokes, bhe touched her face rather indifferently\n with a powder\npuff, and stood then\n stroking her eyebrows with the tips of her fingers, looking\nlong into the mirror. She gazed at her\n reflection and her face wore a look of\npleasure. Once with her palm she smoothed back the hair from\n her forehead\nwith a slow caressing stroke,\n as one would stroke back the hair from the forehead\nof a child. She regarded herself,\n steadily, with the unaffected and unconcealed\ntenderness with which she would have\n regarded a child.\nAt last, reluctantly,\n she turned down the light and walked back into the\nliving room.\nShe\n stood by the couch and stared down at her husband. Her eyes\n had\nthe peculiar intent look of a\n mother who watches her sleeping baby. Her eyes\nroamed the whole length of his body,\n looking at his untidy clothing, his uncombed\nhair, at his muddy boots that had muddied\n his overcoat and the pillows."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "100", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3052, "texte": "At last she slipped one arm under his\n shoulders and with a great effort pulled\nhim up on the couch so that his head had a better resting\n place. She reached for\na pillow and tucked\n it under his head. She picked up his limp hanging arm and\nlaid it across his body, pulled his gaping\n coat together and buttoned the bottom\nbutton. She made quick sure movements, the movements of one\n who performs\nan accustomed human task.\nHaving made him easier, less ungraceful in\n his inertness, she sat down on\nthe edge of\n the couch and gazed intently into his face. Her eyes dwelt in\n turn\non every one of his features and\n to every one she gave some sort of touch, his\ntousled hair a pat, his forehead a slow\n stroke, his closed eyes a touch of her\nfinger-tips, and still in her face was that peculiar intent\n and anxious look, the\nlook of a mother who\n dotes on her fragile treasure.\nEddie\n Gordon slept, hardly breathing, not moving. His sleep was\n profound,\nsodden, the sleep of a hard\n and habitual drinker who gets drunk every night and\nsleeps until morning, drunk every morning\n and sleeps until night. His face had\na\n greenish yellow colour about the forehead and eyes, was flushed\n at the cheeks\nand swollen at the mouth.\nSally knewT what ailed him. It was a daily\n event in her life, and she found\nherself\n reacting to it this time exactly as she had many times before,\n as she did\nevery time she saw her husband\n lying so still and helpless, his heart barely\nbeating, his breath barely stirring.\n Always when she saw him thus, so profoundly\nhelpless, so utterly and mystically babelike, the feelings of\n a mother for awhile\npossessed her\n completely. It possessed her as one is possessed by a mood.\n It\npossessed her against her will, this\n common emotion that had not yet found\nexpression in her life. She dreaded this slow welling up of\n morbid desire to fondle\nand nurse that\n helpless still baby, her husband. But it was not to be\n resisted,\nwhile it ran its course. In\n that desire, during its beginning and even during the\nmoments of her surrender to it, was\n something that filled her with self-horror.\nShe felt herself tricked and made worse than silly. She felt\n herself infected with\nmoral decay. Always\n she had fought against it, as she had this time, with lit-\ntle devices, delays, as one in sleep\n fights the approach of a bad dream which comes\non regardless. And always she surrendered,\n for awhile. Always, for awhile,\nsomething\n in her was glad to have this man even thus dependent, thus her\n own.\nSo she sat, prinking her husband's\n hair, straightening his disordered cloth-\ning, lost in this strange little orgy of\n motherliness. •\nBut after awhile a look of\n distaste ruffled a little her face. Little dimples puck-\nered the middle of her forehead. The wide\n pupils of her eyes narrowed a lit-\ntle. She turned her face a little away,\n still looking, cocked her head a little\nsideways, bit her lip and drew her hands back, hesitating. The\n man's mouth\nwas sagging open, and\n impulsively, with a studious earnest air, like a child mo-"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "101", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2411, "texte": "delling clay, she took his face in both\n her hands and firmly pressed his mouth\nshut, and for a moment held it so. But when she took her hands\n away his mouth\nagain sagged open. He\n slept.\nShe frowned and again put out\n her hands, but drew them back. She re-\ncoiled a little and turning her head\n swept his body from head to foot with one\nswift glance. She took his limp hand in hers, held it up to\n the light and looked\nat it narrowly. His\n hand was unclean all over and the nails were black\nShe flung it down hurriedly, and without\n getting up she turned her back to\nhim, and\n bending over, her elbow on her knee, her mouth resting against\n her\nfist, stared at the floor a long\n while. The silence was absolute.\nMinutes\n passed. She arose and walked aimlessly about for awhile,\n tucking\nat her hair, rearranging the\n furniture. Once she glanced at her watch. She\ncame and leaned back against the table,\n looking at her husband. Her hands\narranged\n and rearranged a bunch of violets pinned between the buttoned\n lapels\nof her jacket.\nAfter awhile she called sharply, \" Eddie !\n Eddie ! \" Silence.\nShe bit her lip and\n shook her head slowly a long time, gripping the edge\nof the table and holding her body rigid.\n She lifted up her head and gazed at\nthe\n ceiling.\n\" Oh, God ! \" she whispered,\n as though she believed God might be in the\nroom above. Her body sagged while she gazed at the ceiling.\n She sobbed with-\nout making a sound. Tears glinted in her\n eyes but did not roll down her cheeks.\nThe\n man lay regardless.\nAt last the woman\n smiled, a wry smile ; looked at her watch ; and turned\ntoward her coat and hat.\nA step sounded in the hall, heavy and\n rather slow, coming toward her door\nIt\n stopped at her door, there was a wait, a firm rap. She opened\n the door at\nonce.\n\"\n You, Allen ? \" she exclaimed in an undertone.\nA tall man was looking in at her. He was\n rather angular and awkward.\nHis eyes were\n deepset and gray, and his large, rather bony face had a sober\nlook.\n\" May I come\n in ? \" he said.\nShe led the way into the\n room. He followed slowly, closing the door behind\nhim. She looked at him with a question in\n her face.\n\" I could not stay away any\n longer, \" he said.\n\" I never told you not\n to come, \" she replied.\nHe had not\n appeared to notice the man on the couch. Now, as if he had\nknown all the time, he turned slowly and\n looked down at Eddie. After some\nmoments\n he again faced her."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "102", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2804, "texte": "\" The same as ever, \" he said-\nShe shrugged her shoulders and a poor\n smile flickered on her lips. He\nlooked at\n her steadily but not offensively, and she could not take her\n eyes from\nhis face. The steady full\n breathing of this man could be heard in the room.\nHe put out his great hand and stroked back\n the hair from her forehead, as she\nherself\n had done when she stood before the mirror in the bedroom. Her\n head\nwas thrust a little back by the\n weight of his hand, but she continued to look\nup into his eyes. Her hands trembled on\n the edge of the table.\n\" You've had\n enough, \" he said at last. \" You're going away with me\nthis evening. You are going now. \"\nThe pupils of her eyes widened. Her face\n grew pale and her lips se\nbrilliant by\n contrast. She put both of her hands against his shoulders.\n The\nquick gesture seemed to warn him\n not to come any nearer, yet the touch of her\nhands against his coat was almost like a\n caress.\nA sort of eagerness animated\n the face of the man, tempered by hesitancy\nand grave concern. The look of his face plainly said, \" I want\n you, but I wouldn't\nhurt you. \"\nHe held his head in an awkward fashion and\n moved his lips, searching for\nwords. They\n gazed at each other without speaking.\nThe\n man on the couch flung his head fretfully about, opened his eyes\n and\nblinked up at the light, turned his\n body a little more and raised himself on his\nelbow. His swollen lips made a grotesque\n attempt to draw themselves down,\nand\n failed ; but the stare of his eyes was fixed, unwinking and\n terrible. He saw\nhow her bare arm, the\n sleeve slipped back, gleamed like a bar of silver against\nthe tall man's shoulder. He stared and\n then his face became dull. Quietly\nhe laid\n himself down again.\nThe tall man said at\n last, \" Pack your suitcase and come away. I'm not\nasking you to .. . You know. You\n understand me, don't you, Sally ? I love\nyou. But that's not it, not entirely. I wouldn't try to break\n up your home,\nnot if you had a home. I see\n you wearing yourself out here. This is breaking\nyou, this business. You've said so\n yourself. Now it's time to cut it out, any-\nway for awhile. I saw that look in your\n eyes when I came in. L,eave him a\nnote.\n I'll take you anywhere you say. You can go to my mother's. Or\n you\ncan go to a hotel. But you've got\n to have a rest, for awhile anyway. I saw\nthat look in your eyes when I came in. Now you've got to give\n this business a let-\nup. Don't worry about him. Leave him a\n note and some money. Anyway\nI have always\n managed to look him up every day or so, I'll see to it that he\n gets\nalong. You know that Eddie and I\n understand each other, Sally, I mean when\nhe's sober. And I don't have to tell you, do I Sally, that lam\n honest about\nit with both of you, no\n matter how much I want you ? You and Eddie and I,"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "103", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2605, "texte": "we've always been friends and we always\n will be, no matter what happens. I'l\nsee\n him and 111 talk to him straight ont. It will be for the best\n all the way\nround, for him too. He'll see\n the thing straight. He's not so unreasonable,\nnot when he's sober. I know he will\n consent. I know it can be settled in the\nright way. Pack a suitcase and come away with me to-night.\n \"\nHis heavy manner, his blunt speech,\n his awkwardness, revealed the heavi-\nness of his desire and his anxious\n earnestness.\nThe woman had slowly drawn\n away from him. Now she leaned back against\nthe table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hand\n smoothing down\nthe lapel of her jacket.\n She held her head sideways and cast at the floor a\ntroubled and pensive look, its pathos\n heightened by the whiteness of her face and\nsupple neck.\nShe thinned her lips and a\n frown puckered her forehead.\n\" No, \" she\n said slowly, in a small voice. \" No, I couldn't do that. You\nknow I couldn't, Allen. No. No. \"\nThe tall man looked at her with an\n expression of benign indecision and\npuzzlement. He turned his head toward the sprawled shape on\n the couch.\nHe bit his lip. A deep flush\n mounted to his forehead and made the arteries in\nhis temples swell. He stroked his chin,\n meditating.\n\" Sally, \" he said at last.\n The constraint in his voice made the woman\nlook quickly up. \" I'll tell you, Sally, I haven't talked to\n you about this thing\nthe way I feel like\n talking. Now I'm going to talk the way I feel like talking.\nMaybe it's brutal of me to do it, but I\n can't help that. I have to say what I think.\nI'm that way and you know me well enough\n not to mind too much. \"\nBut he paused and\n studied her face, hesitating, half afraid. Then he said,\n\"You loved me before you met Eddie, didn't\n you Sally ? \"\n\" Yes. \"\n\" I knew it. \" His voice trembled a\n little, and he stopped for a moment\nbecause he did not want to show how pleased he was at her\n confession while\nhe was still under the\n disadvantage of her resistance.\nHis slow\n voice went on, \" Yes, I used to feel almost sure of it. Even\n though\nit was presumptuous of me, I did\n think so. You were always straightforward.\nYou were never ashamed of your feelings. But I couldn't ask\n you to marry\nme, not then. You remember\n how things were with me — my kid sisters and\nall to be looked after. I had to wait.\n \"\n\" I understood, \" said Sally in a low\n voice. \" I knew you cared, and why\nyou —\n didn't say anything. \"\n\" But you married\n Eddie just the same ! And it wasn't because you didn't\ncare for me. I know why you married him.\n I'm going to tell you why you\nmarried him.\n \""}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "104", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2935, "texte": "* \" Don't. You needn't tell me. I know.\n I didn't know then. I just felt\nsomething\n that was too strong for me. I didn't know why I had to give into\n it.\nI just had to. Now I know what it\n was. I know why I had to give into it. ''\nShe paused, pressed the back of one hand against her mouth.\n She bent\nher head. Her hand trembled\n against her mouth and her shoulders trembled\na little too. She took her hand away from\n her mouth and began to tug at one\nof the\n buttons of her coat. Her lips were white. She pressed her upper\n lip\nagainst her teeth to keep it from\n quivering.\n\" I could have waited for\n you. I knew you would ask me some day. But\nthere was one thing I couldn't wait for. I was twenty-four,\n and natural. My\nwhole feeling for life\n and people was full of a woman's desires. I didn't know\nit then but I know it now. I was strong,\n I could have waited if I had known\nit\n then. I know now that my whole feeling for Eddie was that I\n wanted to\nmother him. I had to mother\n somebody. But I didn't know it was that, not\nthen. I didn't understand it at all. I\n used to be afraid and ashamed because\nI\n still loved you and here all the time Eddie and I were coming\n closer and closer\ntogether. I didn't\n understand myself at all. Yes, I still loved you, but. . .\nI couldn't have children then, it takes\n money to have children. Those days\nyou\n were having your own struggles and I could barely make my\n living. I couldn't\neven allow myself to\n think of having children. \"\nShe stopped,\n turned her head and looked at the sleeper on the couch. She\nknitted her brows and compressed her\n lips. The tall man moved his lips as\nif\n to speak; but she went on,\n\" One night he\n came to see me. That was when he was on the The Sun,\nand he had made such a hit, you remember\n ? He was drunk that night. He\ncame to the\n house drunk. I used to wonder how he could get drunk — how\nhe could — such a sweet boy. Now I know\n why. He got himself drunk so\nhe could run\n away from responsibilities — so he would be helpless — so he\ncould be a child, just as he is now. He\n was beautiful that night — drunk.\nHe was\n beautiful partly because he was drunk. Can you understand that\n ?\nSome men are that way. He was that\n way, then. His cheeks were flushed,\nhis\n eyes sparkled, and his yellow hair stood up all over his head,\n glittering in\nthe lamplight. He sat on\n the couch and drew up his knees so that his feet\nwere on the couch too. He sat there and\n talked to me. He lisped when he\ntalked.\n His head was unsteady on his shoulders, like a baby's. He talked\n to\nme about his mother. You know she\n died when he was five. He had to grow\nup\n unfinished. He had become a man but he was still a child. He\n told me how\nbeautiful his mother was and\n how he would have been different if she had lived.\nI was like her, he said. He sat there and\n talked to me just about as he would\nhave\n talked to his mother, I suppose, if she had been there in my\n place. The"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "105", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2708, "texte": "room was warm and after awhile he\n couldn't talk at all. But he was beautiful,\nas a child is beautiful. His yellow head\n fell over against me. I put my arms\naround him and pulled his head down and held him close to me.\n I didn't\nknow what I was doing. Maybe I\n didn't want to know.\n\" After that I\n couldn't resist him. I didn't try. I wouldn't let myself\nthink about you. Eddie needed me. The\n whole thing with me was pity\nA woman must\n pity something ! I told myself that Eddie needed me. I loved\nhim for his weaknesses.\"\nThe tall man slowly nodded his head. \" I\n knew that was why you married\nhim,\" he\n said. \" I can see how a woman would do that.\"\nThe woman went on, \" After we were\n married I used to go out and hunt for\nhim\n when he didn't come home. I still do sometimes. I hunt for him\n in the\nback rooms of saloons, at the bar,\n down at the Press Club. Igo along the streets\nwhere I know he is likely to be. I lead\n him home by the hand. Yes, and he\nleans\n on me, and he babbles to me like a baby as we go along the\n streets, he\nsays the same things over and\n over again the way a baby does. He comes\nwith me through the streets like a child that was lost and is\n glad to be found\nagain. And when I get\n him home I wash his face and feed him. I put my\narm around him and make him eat. I\n undress him and put him to bed. And\nhe is\n glad of it. He is glad to be like a baby ; then he can live that\n part of his\nlife that was never finished.\n And I used to be glad too.\"\n\" You used to\n be glad ? \" the tall man said. \" That is hard to believe.\"\n\" Yes, I think I must have been glad of\n his helplessness. Do you under-\nstand ? His helplessness gave me an\n excuse to mother him. I had to mother\nsomebody ! The worst thing is, no good at all has come of our\n being married —\nno good to either of us.\n No, it has hurt us both.\"\nShe turned her\n head, holding it a little sideways as she had when she sat\non the couch by her husband, and looked\n at him again. There was something\nchildlike in the expression of her face and in her pose. Her\n whole body expressed\ningenuous\n bewilderment and trouble. She put her finger to her lips.\nThe tall man, his hands at his side,\n studied her face. He said nothing.\nHe\n waited for her to go on.\nShe made a\n little gesture with her hand as if she were brushing\n something\naway.\n\" See, now he has got to where he no longer wants even to be\n helped. Now\nhe doesn't even want to be\n cared for.\"\nHer voice was tired and\n plaintive, the voice of a tired child.\n\"Tobe a coddled baby doesn't satisfy him any more. He wants to\n be a\nsleeping baby. Sleep! Sleep ! Only\n let him sleep ! He gets drunk at\nnight\n and sleeps till morning. He gets drunk in the morning and sleeps\n till"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "106", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2558, "texte": "night. That is what drinking is with\n him. That is what drinking is for. That\nis the way he escapes — he has always drunk to escape — he is\n backing\nout of life entirely. Do you\n see ? Now he doesn't* want me to take care of him\nany more, for that reminds him that he is\n alive and in the world. I know.\nHe is\n trying to find again the deep sleep that a baby has before it is\n born.\"\nThe tall man would have spoken\n but she went on,\n\" Can't you see how it\n is with me now ? There is no longer any satisfac-\ntion, not even the kind of satisfaction\n I got from it at first. Maybe I should\nhave known better at first. But we always say that afterward,\n when it is too\nlate.\"\n\"It isn't too late,\" the tall man said.\n \"You know it was a mistake. It's\na simple\n thing to correct that mistake, and you know it's perfectly\n straight.\nAs far as Eddie is concerned\n we will take care of him.\"\n\" But I\n couldn't do it. I just couldn't, somehow. You don't know how\nit is. But I know. The whole thing is\n like a habit, only it's worse than a habit.\nI know. I have tried to break it. But I\n didn't use much will power. Maybe I\ndidn't want»to break it.\n\"You think lam\n strong. Maybe lam strong. But lam like most women.\nMy strength does just about as it pleases\n with me.\"\nShe bowed her head and looked\n hopelessly at the floor.\nThe tall man had\n already taken her by the shoulders. She lifted her head\nquickly. Her face wore a look of surprise\n and fear because of his sudden and\nstrong\n grip on her shoulders.\n\" You may call it\n a habit or whatever you like, you've had enough of it,\"\nhe said. His face had turned pale and his\n mouth was stern. But his eyes\nregarded\n her kindly. She made no attempt to pull away from him. The\n fright-\nened look left her face.\n\" You'll put an end to this business.\n I'll make you. Then you'll be glad.\"\nThey\n looked at each other in silence. The sleeper on the couch\n seemed\nto be holding his breath.\n\" I don't know,\" said the woman at last.\n \" Maybe I would be glad.\nYes, maybe I\n would be glad. But I don't know — I just don't know how\nI could make myself do it.\"\n\" How about me ? \" said the tall man in a\n voice that had changed since\nlast he\n spoke. \" Why do you always leave me out of it ? Maybe if you\n let\nyourself think about me once in a\n while...\"\nHe had turned pale and his\n lips were trembling. He stopped speaking\nbut not because he was ashamed of his emotion. He stopped\n speaking because\nhe was ashamed of what\n his emotion had impelled him to say.\nShe\n was looking at him in surprise and wonder. She put out one hand\n and"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "107", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2483, "texte": "touched his coat with her finger-tips,\n unconsciously, lightly. Her chin quivered.\n\" Allen,\" she said softly, \" Allen, I didn't mean... please...\n \"\n\" Never mind/' he said slowly, in a\n constrained voice. \" You know I didn't\nmean to talk to you that way. I don't want to appeal to your\n sympathy. And\nI don't want to make you do\n anything. You know that. I meant all along\nto appeal to your understanding. You know that. I still mean\n to. And\nas far as understanding goes, you\n understand everything as well as I do. It's\nall a matter of making up your mind. I\n don't want to force you to do anything.\nI\n know how hard it is for you. You take your time about it. Don't\n think\nabout me. Try to think about\n what is the best thing to do. And just take\nyour time about it.\"\nShe still kept her head lowered and still\n her fingers touched his coat.\nHe knew\n that if he had taken her in his arms then and there the decision\n would\nhave been entirely of his own\n making, and to his own liking. But his pride *\nrebelled at the thought of reaching a\n decision, above all a decision in his own\nfavor, by such a primitive method, by a method so contrary to\n his idea of how\nan issue between a man\n and a woman should be met. He would have her make\nher decision through her own\n understanding and by her own will! His hands\nleft her shoulders and he stepped a\n little away from her. They no longer\ntouched each other*\nShe nodded her head\n a little, looking at the floor.\nHe\n studied her, a little puzzled. \" Then may I come back next week,\n say\nnext Monday evening ? \"\nAgain she nodded her head, without\n looking up.\n\" Will you> try to make up\n your mind between now and then ? Will\nyou\n be ready to tell me what you have decided to do ? \" He spoke\n almost\nas he would have spoken to a\n child.\nFor a moment she still looked\n at the floor. Then she lifted her head. She\nmet his kind gaze timidly.\n\" Yes, Allen, I will,\" she replied in a\n low voice.\nHe drew a deep breath. \"\n Good-night,\" he said, awkwardly holding out\nhis hand.\n\"\n Good-night, Allen.\"\nHe was gone and she\n closed the door quickly behind him.\nShe\n stood by the door while the sound of his footsteps rang in «the\n hall.\nShe looked wistfully about the\n room, sunk again in silence. She puckered\nher brows, thinking.\nShe understood\n Allen. She knew why he had not followed up his advan-\ntage. She respected him for it. But she\n almost hated him for it as well. *\nShe\n walked slowly back into the middle of the room. Again she\n leaned"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "108", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2406, "texte": "back against the table. The uneasy\n breathing of the man on the couch could\nbe heard.\n\" Eddie,\" she called.\nSlowly he turned his face away from the\n wall. He opened his eyes and\nfor a moment\n stared without winking down the length of his body. Then he\ncrooked one arm, raised himself to a\n sitting posture, turned and pulled his\nfeet off the couch. He sat with his body toward her. But he\n looked down\nat her feet. He put his hands\n down on either side of him against the couch;\nas if to brace himself. He moved his dry\n lips two or three times.\n\"So you let\n Allen go away without you/' he said.\n\"You\n were awake ? \"\n\" Most of the time.\" He\n looked up at her. He had slept a long time and he\nwas quite sober. The pupils of his blue\n eyes were like black pin-heads. He\ntried\n to control the uneasy movements of his swollen upper lip.\n\" I heard what you told him,\" he declared\n in a high, assertive voice. \" You're\nright about me. I know it. But it's worse than you think. I'm\n done.\nI'll be glad when I'm dead. Not\n on your account either. On my own ac-\ncount. I'll be glad when I'm dead, I\n tell you. You ought to have gone away\nwith him. What makes you so silfy ? \"\n\"\n Please, Eddie.\"\n\" I mean it. I wish you'd\n go away and leave me. I wish to God you\nwould.\"\nHe stared defiantly at her,\n blinking his eyes.\nShe tried to speak.\n She moved her lips, searching for words. Exaspera-\ntion struggled with the pity in her\n face. She looked at him without trying\nto\n hide her pity. Her forehead was puckered with little dimples.\n She tilted\nher head a little to one side\n and half extended one hand.\n\" Eddie !\"\n she cried, \" Eddie, my poor boy ! If only you'd let me... \"\n\" Ah-k !\" He waved his hand in front of\n his face, brushing away her words.\n\"\n Don't I know what you're about to say ! \" he sneered, twisting\n his face\nand making his light-colored\n eyes glare at her.\n\" Save me — eh ? Want\n to try that again, eh ? What do you want\nto do that for ? You've tried that before. Now you want to try\n it again, eh ?\nI know. I know. What makes\n you so silly ? I'm done. You know I'm done.\nAllen's right. Better chuck the whole\n thing and forget it. You'll be glad\nafterward.\"\nHe wagged his head,\n smirked at her and added, \" And maybe you don't\nknow it but I'll be damned glad of it\n too.\"\n\" You musn't talk that way,\n Eddie. You mustn't.\"\n\" Yes I will,\" he\n declared, pulling down his puffed upper lip. He looked"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2449, "texte": "around at the floor, at the furniture,\n at her, with an unchanging hard stare. A\nsilence followed. Nothing could be heard but his quick uneasy\n breathing and\nthe uneasy motions of his\n body on the couch. His hands moved all of the time.\nHis yellowish face moved. His eyes rested\n nowhere.\nShe came and sat by him. She\n put her hand on his shoulder. She regarded\nhim with a look of pity, watching his face. Her feeling for\n him trembled on\nher lips. Her eyes\n watched every movement he made, dwelt on every one of\nhis features. Her fingers trembled.\nBut he would not look at her. He looked\n sideways at the floor.\n\" When he comes\n Monday you'll go with him. You'd better/' His voice\nwas high and harsh.\n\"No I won't go ! \" She put her arms around him and began to\n cry.\n\" I just couldn't, somehow. What\n would become of you ? How could I when\nI\n know you would be alone and nobody to take care of you ! Eddie,\n I feel so\nsorry for you. I feel so sorry\n for you. As long as you need me I shall stay.\nI shall stay. I don't know what will\n become of us but I shall stay. I can't\nhelp myself.\"\nHe stiffly put up his\n hands and pulled her arms away from his shoulders.\nShe turned away from him. He, bending\n over, propping his elbows on his\nknees\n and his chin against his fists, stared at the floor. He blinked\n his eyes\nand puckered his forehead as if\n he were trying to think.\nShe stood half\n turned from him, with her head bent, staring at the floor.\nShe was half ashamed, half pensive. The\n silence lasted a long time. In the\nsilence the man made a despairing gesture and ejaculated,\n\" Oh, Jesus, what's the use !\"\nMinutes passed. The woman stood without\n moving. The man's lips\nwrithed, his\n forehead scowled, his eyes stared.\n\"\n There's no use in talking about it, is there Eddie ? \" The woman\n turned\nand looked at him with patient\n weariness. He let his hands fall and dangle\nbetween his knees. He shook his head.\n\" Christ no ! What's the use in talking\n !\"\nShe slowly crossed the room and\n began putting on her hat.\n. \" I'm going\n to dinner ; will you come with me ?\" She looked at him with\na flash of wistfulness in her eyes.\nHe shook his head without saying\n anything. She put on her overcoat\nand\n came over to him, stood by his side and stroked his hair. He\n stared at\nthe floor.\n\" I'll be back in about an hour,\" she\n said at last. \" Good-by, Eddie.\"\n\"\n Good-by.\"\nHe listened to her footsteps\n in the hall until they died away. He sat thrust-"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "110", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2711, "texte": "ing his head forward. The fixed stare of\n his light colored eyes defied the lines\nof his mouth which changed all of the time.\nAt last he stood erect in a crumpled sort\n of way and walked into the middle\nof the\n room. His wrinkled trousers clung to his calves and bagged at\n the knees.\nHis coat had come unbottoned\n and he held it together with one hand like a\nwoman wearing a shawl. He frowned,\n sticking out his upper lip ; and his fore-\nhead was broken by many little wrinkles.\n His forehead was greenish-yellow\nin the\n gaslight. He shivered and a whisper rang through the room :\n\" Jesus it's cold !\"\nHe let go of his coat, felt in his\n pockets and brought out a sack of tobacco\nand some papers, rolled a cigarette, lighted it and began to\n smoke greedily,\ninhaling the smoke. He\n looked at the table, at the chairs, at the floor. And\nall the time he made grimaces, scowled\n and shivered. His movements were\nuncertain and halting, but he stared intently this way and\n that. He was trying\nto reflect. But he\n was dizzy and cold. His blood felt yellow.\nOnce he looked at the door where they had gone out. He\n listened a long\ntime while the cigarette\n smoked in his fingers.\nAt last he turned\n away from the door, back toward the middle of the room.\nHe happened to see her handkerchief,\n lying at the foot of the table. He threw\naway the cigarette and picked up the handkerchief ; and stared\n at it. He\nshivered more than ever and\n pulled his coat together at the bottom, but forgot\nto button it.\nWith\n a gesture of finality he threw the handkerchief from him, on the\n table.\nWith the manner of an idle or a\n sick man he walked to the window, drew aside\nthe curtain and looked down at the\n glittering street. His mind became clearer\nand his thoughts began to arrange themselves in more orderly\n fashion.\nAfter a long time he turned\n away from the window.\n\" Yes/' he drawled\n in a fretful voice, \" Yes, it would serve me right. Christ\nyes, she'd be doing the right thing.\"\nHis forehead became smooth. His face\n ceased to pout and wrinkle.\nIt became\n calm. The pupils of his staring eyes became a little larger.\n He\nlifted his head a little. His face\n had almost an eager look. One would have\nsaid that he had reached some sort of a decision.\nHe found some paper and envelopes in the\n table drawer and took a pencil\nfrom his\n pocket. Craning over the table, his intent face pallid in the\n gaslight,\nhis hair gleaming like\n disordered gilt plush, he began to write in a shaky large\nscrawl.\nHe wrote\n one sheet almost full; signed it; folded it crookedly; put it\n in\nan envelope and scrawled a single\n line across the face of the envelope.\nOn\n another sheet he wrote six or seven short lines, underlining\n each one ;"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2456, "texte": "signed it boldly at the bottom and put\n it in another envelope, which he\naddressed.\nHe stood the two\n envelopes against some books and looked at them as\nhe put the pencil back in his pocket. On\n the first envelope was written : For\nMy\n Wife. On the other : For the Police.\nHe\n rolled and smoked another cigarette, slowly, looking at one spot\n on\nthe carpet.\nAt last he tossed the remnant of the cigarette on the floor,\n as if something\nin him craved disorder.\n He walked slowly into the bedroom, thrusting his head\nforward and his elbows out.\nIn the bedroom he turned up the light and\n without hesitation opened a\nlittle drawer\n in the old-fashioned bureau, taking out a revolver. He held\n it\nin both hands and cocked it. He\n stared into the mirror, and with something\nof the manner of a man who prepares to take a new kind of\n medicine he lifted\nthe revolver and\n pointed it at his temple.\nThen something\n in his whole mechanism seemed to stop and something\nelse seemed to start. His body sagged and\n quivered at the same time. His\neyes\n bulged. His mouth opened in such a way that his teeth glittered.\n A\nloud groan rang through the room.\n Quickly he laid the revolver down and\nwalked back into the living room. He took unsteady steps and\n held his hands\nagainst his forehead.\n\" Oh, Jesus !\" he cried.\nHe stood still a long time, pondering. It\n seemed to him that the silence\nof the\n room was lost in another silence.\nHis eye\n fell on a quart whiskey bottle standing on a corner of the\n table.\nThe unusual character of his\n awakening had made him, thus far, forget all\nabout it.\nIt was\n nearly a third full of liquor. A little gleam came into his\n eye,\nthe faintest color into his\n cheeks. He looked at the bottle with a sort of eager-\nness and went hopefully toward it.\nHe was thinking of the revolver on the\n bureau and it seemed to him that\nsome of\n the whiskey would make that business easier.\nHe picked up the glass and the bottle and\n poured out a large drink, shud-\ndered 'and swallowed it, making a face.\n He had eaten nothing all day and at\nonce\n the whiskey was racing in his blood. Color flashed into his\n cheeks. He\nfelt his blood becoming red\n again.\nHe took another drink and\n waited for the effect. After a little while\nhe took still another. There was only a\n little left in the bottle.\nNow his eyes\n were brighter and they had a misty look. The pupils were\ni arger. He blinked his eyes and looked\n about. His face looked almost cheerful."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2654, "texte": "He appeared to be reflecting. Indeed his\n thoughts raced rapidly but they began\nto\n tumble over each other. He hardly understood his thoughts. Vague\n emotions\nstirred him.\nA sort of courage was mounting in his\n body, warming him like a new-\nkindled fire. But he felt mournful\n too.\nHe waited. He was about to have\n great thoughts. He was about to dis-\ncover some magnificent solution of\n everything.\nHe stood still a long\n time, pondering. A little smile began to tremble\non his mouth.\nHe\n poured out the last of the whiskey and shook the bottle to get\n the last\ndrop. But now his head was\n rolling a little and his eyes were vague.\nHe lifted the glass. Just then his uncertain glance fell on\n his wife's hand-\nkerchief. He looked long at the\n handkerchief, blinking. His head wabbled\na little. He was trying to seize some idea that eluded him.\n Thoughts rose up\nin his mind but they\n fell over one another. His face wore a crippled look.\nA long while he stood in thought, staring\n feebly at the handkerchief.\nBut at last a\n faint, self-satisfied smile appeared on his trembling mouth.\nVisibly swaying he turned around, his\n gaze wandering a little ; steadied\nhimself a little bit; and began to look uncertainly in the\n direction of the door.\nThe smile\n flickered over his face like a blue flame. His mouth moved.\n His\nlips picked at words.\nBut he remembered the whiskey. He lifted\n the tumbler and emptied\nit, spilling some\n on his chin ; half-turned and with a single motion flung the\n glass\nringing on the table.\nHe turned toward the door again, peering\n uncertainly, as a man peers\nin the dusk.\n His head wagged. His voice blurred the silence :\n\" Di ' think I was 'sleep ?\"\nPleased, he laughed, rolling his head.\n But he stopped laughing to look\ntoward\n the door, listening. His mouth got ready to talk.\n\" Di' — di' y' think I was 'sleep ? Di'\n y' think I was 'sleep ?\" he called.\nNo\n reply. Silence beyond the door. He smiled a satisfied smile. He\n laughed\nat the silence beyond the\n door; wagged his head; turned away; made two or\nthree sidelong steps and brought up\n against the table. He flattened one hand\nout on the tabletop and leaned against that hand. He stood\n there. His\nbody swayed back and forth to\n a certain rythm, like a weed in a creek. A smile\nflickered back and forth across his face\n like shadow on a shaking leaf. Sunk\nin\n drunken re very he blinked his drunken eyes, smirked and\n blinked. Now\nand again, when he leaned\n harder than usual, the legs of the table creaked under\nhis weight. The hiss of the hot gas lamp\n mingled with the noise of his breathing.\nThe little handkerchief lay on the table, just under his nose.\n He had"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2765, "texte": "to see it if he looked. And when at\n last, tired of leaning against the table, he\nroused himself a little from his revery,\n he did see it at once. Pulling himself\nup\n as straight as he could he confronted the handkerchief with all\n his unsteady\ndignity, and with a\n righteous smirk, as one confronts an offender. He took\nthe handkerchief in both his hands and\n turned it over and over. He stared at\nit\n as a baby stares at a new plaything. He moved his mouth all the\n time,\nbreathing noisily. He blinked\n hard and often, looking and pondering. He\nseemed to be trying to recall something the handkerchief\n almost reminded\nhim of, something he had\n forgotten.\nAt last he made the sort of\n motion a baby makes when it throws down a\nplaything, and threw the handkerchief on the floor. He looked\n pleased with\nhimself and smirked down at\n the handkerchief. Satisfied, he pondered no longer.\nHe turned with studied care, aimed\n himself at the bedroom door, made crooked\nlong steps and went unsteadily in.\nHe\n looked at the revolver a long time. Sometimes he scowled.\n Some-\ntimes he smiled. After awhile he picked\n up the revolver in both hands ; turned\nand swayed back into the living room. He stood in the middle\n of the roomj\nhis body bending to and fro,\n and peered at the revolver with idiotic eyes. He\nstuck out his lips ; blinked his eyes\n with great deliberation ; pondered over\nthe thing he held in his hands.\nNow he\n began to look at the door again, listening and watching more\n and\nmore attentively. At last he fixed\n his gaze wholly upon the door. The pupils\nof his eyes were distended. Bending in the middle, his legs\n trembling, his body\nswayed this way and\n that. His lips no longer smiled, but writhed.\n\" ' Think I was \"sleep?\" he called. \" Di'\n y' think — steal m' wife\nwhen I was\n 'sleep ?\"\nHis voice shrilled in the room.\n He began to hurl at the door inept ana-\nthemas against the treachery of wives\n and the cowardice of men. He made un-\ncouth accusations. He delivered himself\n of bizarre philosophies ; sometimes\nmumbling, sometimes shrilling his words. He twisted his\n shoulders, stepping\nabout in a small\n space. His voice quavered, rising and falling. His head\ntossed as if he rode in a boat.\nBut the silence at last reduced him to\n silence.\nThe labor of thought again\n showed in his face. Something was eluding\nhim. Yes, he had forgotten something he was going to do. He\n tried hard\nin his own way, opening and\n shutting his mouth, blinking, and searching the\nfloor with his aimless eyes. Sometimes\n mutterings fell out of his mouth.\nHe\n smiled again. Something stirred him. Now he remembered what\nhe had forgotten. He lifted the hand that\n held the revolver and aimed his\nwavering\n gaze down toward it. He raised his eyebrows and blinked. He\n2"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2552, "texte": "turned the gtin over this way and that,\n staring and blinking as if he had never\nseen one before in all his life. His face was pulled out of\n shape with the labor\nof cogitation. He\n began to smirk. He looked toward the door again, opening\nand shutting his mouth ; and at last he\n delivered himself :\n\" Di' y' think I was\n go' shoo' m'self ? Di' y' think I was go' shoo' m'self ?\"\nHis head sank on his breast and his eyes\n half closed. But he heaved his\nhead up\n again and opened his eyes.\n\"Ah, sure,\n sure,\" .he called, \"Steal m' wife an' I shoo' m'self. Sure •\nsure !\"\nHe\n laughed. But the laugh crumpled up in the silence.\nHis eyes were witless. It looked as\n though his pale head had talked\nwithout\n his knowing it. He wagged his head and announced solemnly,\n\" I'll shoo' you.\" He wraited a moment,\n trying to keep his gaze on the door i\nand\n repeated more loudly,\n\" I'll shoo' you.\n I'll shoo' you.\"\nHe smiled down at the\n revolver and patted the barrel with an aimless mo-\ntion.\n\" We know\n where fin' 'im, don't we ?\" he said to the revolver.\nHis eyes brightened and he became a\n little steadier. Smirking at the door\nhe\n called loudly, \"We know where fin' 'im. We know where fin'\n 'im.\"\nHe turned and like a man walking\n in the dark he made his way to the couch.\nHere he laid the revolver down. With much labor and fumbling\n he gathered\nup his overcoat. With much\n labor he began to put it on. Halfway through\nthe job he paused, turned and sent a\n wavering look toward the door.\n\" Di' y'\n think I do' know where fin' 'im ? \" he jibed.\nHe got his overcoat on and put on his\n hat. He stood a long time with a\nsolemn\n expression on his face. He blinked studiously. He had become\n stead-\nier. A fixed purpose seemed to have got\n him under its control. With great\ncare he\n buttoned the overcoat and settled his hat as straight on his\n head as lie\ncould. Now his eyes were no\n longer blurred and wavering. They glowed as\nwith fever and a flame was mounting in\n his cheeks. But his mouth was a woful\nthing, a wound that opened and shut, writhing.\nHe picked up the revolver and looked at\n it, smirking. With the smirk\non his face\n he turned toward the door and began to shove the revolver\n down\ninto the inside pocket of his\n overcoat.\n\"We know, \" he said, wagging\n at the door. \"We know where... \"\nThe\n trigger of the revolver must have caught in some part of his\n clothing.\nThe crash of the discharge\n tore the wavering smirk from his face. Piteously\nintent, he stared for a second at the\n door. Then he lay quickly down, as if he\naccepted everything.."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 288, "texte": "He lay first on his face, and muzzled\n his face snugly between his hands.\nPresently he turned over quietly on his back. One hand knocked\n once or twice\nagainst the floor.\nThe look fixed on his countenance was the\n look of one who has at last dis-\ncovered something real.\n\nFrederick Booth."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "116", "page_fin": "118", "image_debut": 22, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Decorations for an Imaginary Ballet", "titre_sommaire": "Decorations for an Imaginary Ballet", "signature_source": "Henry Bellamann", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 538, "texte": "OECORATIONS FOR AN IMAGINARY BALLET.\nI.\nOut of great tombs,\nout of the burnt red stone,\nout of hot darkness . . .\nStiff cloth of amber\nover the waving beaten gold\nto mark the aching gesture\nof unforgotten love\nand ancient sharp denials.\nHide the acrid brown flanks\nwith clay-white cloth\nand clasped copper;\nhide the dry teeth\nand thin husks of lips\nwith shreds\nof\n emerald powdered veils\nout of old\n tombs.\nLet music urge\nin heated waves,\nlet it pour topaz fire\nof\n sounding\nin the gray silence.\nLet fierce desire stalk-\nout of old tombs."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 579, "texte": "II.\nSound the flat gold\nof Chinese scales ;\nlet sound the red gold\nof old gongs\nand the light gold\nof oboes.\nvSpread metal-blue\nupon the stair,\npale rose and darker rose,\nand\n stream cruel lights\nupon them.\nNow let Bativa dance —\nBativa, painted white,\nwith purple over her eyes —\nlet her dance the yearning\nof rattling palmettos\nfor the sea mist,\nof black water\nfor the moon —\nlet her dance the\n passion flow\nof dark loam\ninto apple blossoms,\nand the fall of apple blossoms\ninto brown grasses.\nSound !\nIII.\n\nTwist crystal in your long hair —\nbend that your long hair may\n stream"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 438, "texte": "windward-\nTie\n crystal around your thin wrists\nand\n let cold glitter of fringe\nslip on\n your apple smooth thighs\nand fall like\n spent drops\nfrom the quick waves\nof your lifting knees.\nSet a half circle of hedge here —\na box hedge fresh from late sun,\nsmelling bitter spice from the sun.\n. . . dance to the moon,\nyour breasts tossing. —\ndance the throbbing assent\nof white fountains\nopen armed to the moon —\nDance assent!\n\nHenry Bellamann."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "118", "page_fin": "118", "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "The old part of Viareggio", "titre_sommaire": "The old part of Viareggio", "signature_source": "Lorenzo Viani", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 440, "fin_caractere_exclue": 481, "texte": "Lorenzo Viani.\nThe old part of Viareggio."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "119", "page_fin": "123", "image_debut": 25, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "On Painting", "titre_sommaire": "On Painting", "signature_source": "Joseph Stella", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2319, "texte": "ON PAINTING.\n\nIn preference to appending a critical\n article on the life and work of Joseph Stella, re-\nproductions of whose paintings are\n presented in this issue, and whose Brooklyn Bridge\nappeared in our first issue, we have\n decided to print the following speech, verbatim, de-\nlivered by him at a recent gathering of\n artists in New York. We have not done outrage\nto the original in a single particular by\n Englishing or Americanizing the language bil-\nlowed forth on that joyous occasion. And\n we feel furthermore that Mr. Stella's speech\napproximates the personality of the man\n more faithfully than any description by an outsider,\nno matter how able or intimate the\n interpreter...\nPainting is joy.\nHear the story.\nOne day Jupiter had a tremendous headache : Minerva was in\n earnest to\nspring forth from his brain.\n He looked around — all the Gods, silent around\n\" Can any of you do something to help me\n ? \"\n\" Darling \" — rushed Venus.\n\" Oh, no. Very sorry — why to-day is\n Sunday and I have proclaimed\nalready the\n blue law.\"\nThen Apollo, the beautiful\n Apollo, realizing his chance, with his ukelele,\nadvanced.\n\" I hear\n you calling me... \"\n\" Shut-up \" —\n thundered Jupiter — \" You make me more sick with\nyour moaning. Go back to the Greenwich\n Village/'\nIn the meantime that little\n son of gun of Cupid was monkeying with some\ncolors given to him by Vulcan, who was\n using them to avoid the rust of his arms.\nAll of a sudden, screaming with joy, the little rascal\n splashed some red, blue and\ngreen on the\n glossy plasticity of Venus. Jupiter bursted in a laughter\n which\nmade tremble sky and earth. The\n headache disappeared. Minerva had to\nbehave that day and Painting was born.\nI am more than sure that each one of us has had some\n experience somewhat\nrelated to the one of\n Cupid and that has happened of course in the rosy child-\nhood when sky and earth welcomed us with\n smile. Now the whole trouble\nof painting\n and of art in general lies in this : The artist wants to\n preserve intact\nhis personal emotions and\n his personal ideas and for the full expression of them\nhe wants to have the same freedom of\n movement that he enjoyed when he was\nleft\n alone as a child. There were lucky epochs, the golden epochs:\n Art sprang\nthen with the vehemence\n unexpected like a natural form — and the artist ele-"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2740, "texte": "vating temples, chiselling stones,\n lavishing colors with the same prodigality\nof Flora enjoyed to the full extent the dionysian joy of\n creating.\nBut then a little worm, born\n of envious sterility, began to crawl: it became\ngigantic and pestiferous : The graces,\n horrified, flew from his evil eye and he got\nhold of Art left alone and destitute of\n means. He chained her, closed her in\na\n dungeon called \" Academy/' debarred the sun from her view (since\n then the\nnorth light for the studios) and\n for amusement during her slavery, as toys, gave\nher colored ribbons and tinkling medals.\n Besides he builded a kind of a martial\ncourthouse. A crowd of parasites got employed and self\n appointed judges\nenthroned themselves at\n the entrace of many bridges of sighs through which\nthe artist had to go to give a daily\n account of his doings.\nYou could call\n this worm with various names : chaperon, censor, or better,\naesthete, critic, teacher — I don't know\n why but when I look at the face of\nan\n aesthete, critic, teacher, I provoke the same feeling of immense\n sadness as\nwhen I see wax-tears sliding\n gentle upon a coffin. I was eight years old and\nmy hatred for the school was assuming\n alarming proportions. By the way I\nhave\n always considered the school as the punishment for our original\n sin — in a\nglorious day of May the window\n was open and I was looking at the blossoms\nof a cherry tree in full bloom. A bird came. I thought he was\n saying \" Come\nand have fun outside.\" As\n pushed by the imperative force of fate I rushed\nstraight to the teacher.\n\" I have to go out.\"\n\"Why?\"\n\" He is.\n calling me.\"\n\" Who ? \"\n\" The bird.\"\nHe\n struck me, but I got hold of one of his spongy fingers. I chewed\n half\nof it and runned away. That's\n exactly what has happened with modern art.\nThe dungeon still- exists and some day we hope that it will be\n declared national\nmonument. Cowards are\n still satisfied with ribbons and medals, but the living\nones are all outside and the judges have\n the sad appearance of kings in exile.\nThe\n motto of the modern artist is freedom — real freedom. We\n cannot\nhave enuf of it because in art\n license doesn't exist. The modern painter knowing\nthat his language deals with form and\n colour proclaims above all the purity of\nhis own language and repudiates the assistance of all those\n red-cross societies\nwith which camouflage\n themselves : literature, philosophy, politics, religion,\nethics. Although many prejudices still\n cling to him — and generations have\nto\n pass before he will reach the absolute freedom, he has lost that\n idiotic religious\nfeeling which urges\n fanatics to nominate a leader, a pope. He recognizes perso-\nnalities and not their derivations, the\n schools. But while he recognizes merit"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2587, "texte": "and he has respect for it, no matter\n what period and what race it belongs to (it\nis to modern art the credit of having\n enriched the knowledge of beauty to be\nfound m the most glorious forgotten periods) he is far from\n feticism because\nhis chief interest lies\n in the venture through the untrodden path knowing that\nhe belongs to his own time, he does not\n only accept it but he loves it — and\ntherefore he can tgo back to any past to borrow material. He\n does not feel\nobliged to follow any\n tradition ; only tradition lies in him. The only guide to\nfollow is his own temperament and that's\n the reason why abstractions and re-\npresentations in the strict sense of the\n word don't mean anything-. Rules don't\nexist. If they did exist everybody would be artist. Therefore\n he can't recog-\nnize as modern artists those who having\n left an old slavery are chained by a\nnew\n one. In other words chinasism, indianism, persianism, negro\n sculpture\nwith Cezannism and Renoirism\n — which most prevail nowadays — cannot\nbut disgust him. If Cubism has declared the independence of\n Painting, by\nsuppressing representation\n and in order to purify the vision is gone back, with\nabstractions, to geometry, the source of\n the graphic Arts, he feels that every\ndeclaration of Indepedence carries somewhat a declaration of a\n new slavery.\nAnd according to his credo\n he will always prefer the emotions as expressed by\na child to the lucubrations of those\n warbling theorists who throw harlequin\nmantles on insipid soapy academic nudes or to those\n anatamocial forms in wax\nchopped a sang\n froid by necrophiles. When we think that our epoch, like\n every\nother epoch, is nothing else but\n a point in the immensity of time, we have to laugh\nto those standards that people considered\n eternal. The masterpiece — a phrase\nof\n the infinite speech running through the centuries can't be the\n final word it\nis supposed to be. You\n cannot consider a phrase no matter how perfect it is,\ncomplete and final when the whole\n sentence is not finished.\nInnumeiable are\n the roads leading to heaven and innumerable are the trea-\nsures in the illimitable ocean of Art to\n be unsealed to light by the master hand.\n, Master is the rolling mountainous wave which darts in\n challenge to the Gods,-\nagainst the blue\n of the heaven, the suspected fantastic floor wrested from the\nabyss, and fame is the shell which\n preserves the thunder of the vehemence of\nthis wave in dashing against the dead dunes of oblivion the\n monuments of the\ncontinuous wrecks of\n idiocy in grotesque opposition to its full sweep.\n\nJoseph Stella."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "120", "page_fin": "120", "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "The Joseph Stella", "titre_sommaire": "The Joseph Stella", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 31, "texte": "The Nightingale.\nJoseph Stella."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "121", "page_fin": "121", "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Joseph Stella", "titre_sommaire": "Joseph Stella", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 24, "texte": "Serenade.\nJoseph Stella."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "124", "page_fin": "136", "image_debut": 30, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Proteus", "titre_sommaire": "Proteus", "signature_source": "Paul Claudel ; John Strong Newberry", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1137, "texte": "PROTEUS.\n\nA Satiric drama in two acts.\nFollowing \" Orestes, \" Aeschylus had\n placed a satiric drama of which the ti-\ntle alone remains : Proteus. While\n dreaming of these syllables I found that I had\nwritten the following play. P. C.\nThe incidental music for the play was\n composed by M. Darius Mjxhaud.\nPERSONS OF THE PLAY.\nProteus. The Satyr-major.\nMeneeaus. Satyrs.\nHEEEN. SEAIvS.\nThe Nymph\n Wieeowithe.\nACT I.\nThe isle of Naxos which, for the\n convenience of the action, is supposed to be\nsituated between Crete and Egypt. One\n sees it in the exact centre of the stage, like\na great wedding-cake with white frosting,\n or like the cover of a rococo soup-tureen.\nIt is a rather pretentious collection of picturesque crags,\n abruptly terminated at the\nsummit by a\n kind of curl, or scroll. The coast is represented by burlap,\n edged with\na white crinkled ruff, for\n foam, and the sea by a great expanse of linoleum.\nThe back of the stage is hidden by drapes\n of grey muslin.\nThe Nymph Wiixo withe.\nSatyrs goat-feet, sorry brigade, hearken\n to me !\nDo you hear me, little brothers\n ?\nThe Satyrs, faintly, off stage.\nMeeee !\nWielo\n withe."}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1886, "texte": "What a mournful voice ! But I promise\n you, soon will your sorrows end,\nAnd the\n narrow cage of this work of art that Proteus calls his isle,\n this diet\nabsurd, and the tyranny of the\n Old Man of the Sea !\nThis evening we\n shall have gone, my companions !\nThe\n Satyrs. — (.Polyphonic chorus).\nMeeee !\n Meeee ! Meeee !\nWllXO\"withe.\nMee ! Mee ! Yes, bleat away ! Woolly\n beasts with Fate at odds, demi-\nbeasts and demi-gods your freedom now is\n near.\nYou will see me dance for you\n again upon the rolling tun, a torch in either\nhand !\nAs sure as\n my name is Willowithe, and the mountain goat who conceived\nme\nNamed me thus\n because I could take the wrist of a man and bind him fast\nlike a viper,\nLike\n those long strings the vine-grower carries tied to his\n apron-cord,\nAnd only the old man\n Proteus has known how to take me one day and cap-\nture my heart with his foolish pearls\n (but I will repay that turn)\nFor I have\n examined well his phylacteries prophetic, which he does n#t\nunderstand himself, archives of the\n future, and I have seen things that he does\nnot know.\nOur\n deliverance approaches !\nFor behold the\n divine Menelaus son of Atreus, Jupiter's son-in-law,\nApproaches upon a ship as unbalanced as\n its master\nAnd with every wave the proud\n horse with shaggy fetlocks who without\nsail or rudder drags the careering ship\nThrusts his nose in the spray and lifts it incontinently\n towards heaven like\na cocotte that\n drinks.\nHe arrives. He disembarks.\nThe Satyrs. (.Polyphonic chorus\n interrupted).\nMee ! Mee !\n{One arrow, then another flies across the\n stage. Panic\nstricken flight of\n Satyrs).\nMenelvAus, off scene.\nNow I have both my feet on earth and I\n defy the gods !\nWllXO\"withe.\nHe is safe, and, of course, his first act\n is to blaspheme.\n[Enter Menelaus, the bow\n at his back, holding in his\nright hand a\n sword and in his left hand the hand of a veiled\nwoman, Helen)."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "126", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1905, "texte": "Menbi^aus.\nGods !\n is it then not enough that you have unloosed against me all the\n ele-\nments at once ?\nTo cap the climax, you wish to make sport of me !\nThis morning behold the ship, in the\n teeth of the wind, without mast or rudder\nsets itself in motion like some one that is sure of where he\n goes.\nAnd here is the land. So far, so\n good ! But the first thing I see on a crag,\nfixing wide eyes upon me,\nIs a wild thing with the horns of a ram\n protruding from its head, that, in\ngazing, stuck out its tongue !\nI aim at\n the monster, I fire, it flees !\nAnd\n fleeing in little bounds it reveals two thighs and a rump\n covered with\nshaggy hair like that of a\n goat !\nWhat grudge does it bear me, this\n two-horned being ?\nThen pursuing me is\n not enough, I must needs be insulted also !\nFor things that I don't understand are to\n me like a personal affront.\nA man with\n the rump of a goat, I blush to think of it !\nVery well, I defy you all, there on high\n , all the host in Uranos,\n* And you\n yourself, my father-in-law ! What were you doing while Paris\nstole your daughter away from me ?\nThen was the time to brandish your bolts\n and try your thunder claps !\nBut it is\n well. Without your aid I went to retake her where she was ;\nAnd I will bring back to Sparta with me\n she whom I have wedded and who\nis my\n property.\nWhether you wish it or not,\n despite the wind and the tempest, and all these\nthings that I do not understand !\nThe sword at least is a thing that I\n undestand and the handsome Alexander,\nthere, he has felt it, that charming Paris !\nCome, Helen, hold my hand firmly, I will\n not let you go.\nAnd I cannot say I get\n much pleasure from you.\nBut yet, such as\n you are, it is you, and I hold you ana all shall recognize\nyou and I will bring you back again to\n Sparta.\n[Enter Wiixowithe) .\nWho goes there ?\n[He aims an arrow at her).\nWII^OWITHE.\nHail, great hero !\nMENEIyAUS.\nWho are\n you ?"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "127", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1254, "texte": "WIEEOWITHE.\nHail,\n son of Atreus, Jupiter's son-in-law !\nMeneeaus.\nHow do you know me ?\nWiixowithe.\nWho\n does not know Menelaus and the vengeance exacted from Priam ?\nAll of the sea, blue-on-blue, is filled\n to the brim with your fame !\nPut down\n that bow !\nMeneeaus.\nAre you one of the band of wild things\n also ?\nWiixowithe.\nI am just a poor nymph named Willowithe by my mother\nBecause of my rustic manners and simple\n speech.\nMenelaus.\nHa ! Now we have a Nymph !\nAnd those are horns that I see beneath\n your hair ?\nWiixowithe.\nHardly that. Quite little hornlets of\n palest shell, a simple ornament.\nAnd you\n will not make me believe that a man like you\nNever has met a nymph in his life !\nHero, put down that bow which makes me\n tremble !\nMeneeatjs, lowering his bow and\n with his hand on his sword.\nAll this is\n far from clear.\nBut lam afraid of\n nothing. The man is not born who will take from me\nthis that I hold by the hand.\nWiixowithe.\nWho is\n it ?\nMeneeaus.\nHark ! She will tell it to you herself.\nHeeen.\nI am Helen.\n(.She relapses into silence).\nWIIXOWITHE.\nWhat ?\n Is it the famous Helen you hold by the hand ?\nMeneeaus, with pride.\nShe herself.\nWieeo\n withe.\nHail to you, Helen.\nMeneeaus.\nShe will\n not answer you, For since these happenings."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "128", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1170, "texte": "She is so puffed up with pride that one\n can get nothing from her\nSave for \" I am\n Helen ! \"\nWieeowithe.\nHail, daughter of Jupiter !\nMENEEAIXS.\nWhat\n means this air of doubt and astonishment ?\nWieeo withe, drawing him aside.\nGood\n sir, the fact is we have here another Helen.\nMENEEAIXS.\nAnother\n Helen ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nIt is just ten years since she came, on the day you saw her no\n more in your\nhouse.\nMeneeaus.\nI have heard already this\n fairy-tale of another Helen who lives between\nCrete and Egypt.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nWould you like to see her\n ?\nMeneeaus.\nI\n care not one way or the other.\nWTOWITHE.\nLet me see this one\n here.\nMENEIvAUS.\nWhat is the use ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAre you afraid ?\nMeneeaus, raising Helen's veil.\nThis is\n how afraid I am !\n(Wieeowithe regards\n Helen and says nothing).\nWell ? Naturally\n I suppose it is the same face ?\nW lEEO\n WITHE.\nYes.\nMeneeaus.\nI expected this ! It is\n one more trick to vex me.\nBut I'm an old\n dog whose scent is not easily put at fault.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nWho\n then, if not she, would have described you to me so exactly I\n knew\nyou instantly ?\nThis bright color, this low brow, these\n little defiant eyes and this air of an\nangry bull ?"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1278, "texte": "3\n\nAnd this white hair that already the day\n of your marriage was mingled with\nyour\n hyacinthine curls.\nCome, raise your\n casque.\nMeneeaus, uncovering his\n face.\nIt is true.\nWiEEO\"withe.\nDo\n wish for other details ? Who else would recognize you thus.\nMeneeaus.\nI know\n the true Helen is she whom I hold by the hand.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYou\n know it ?\nMeneeaus, declaiming.\nI know it, I see it, and I am convinced\n of it.\nWieeowithe, similarly.\nBut one is only convinced when one is not\n sure.\nMeneeaus.\nIt is Helen.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nWhat proofs of it have you ?\nMeneeaus.\nWhat\n proofs ? I wish for no others than Troy in ashes and two\n hundred\nthousand men with slitted\n throats !\nAnd those ten years of crazy\n patience, one following the other, made up of\ndays each of which I have counted !\nAnd my niece Iphigenia brought to harm,\n and the waiting supreme in the\ngut of the\n Wooden Horse.\nAnd you say this is not\n Helen !\nW lEEO WITHE.\nThe bait of the wrathful gods who planned\n the ruin of Priam has been ex-\ntremely good.\nMeneeaus.\nDo not excite me, be\n silent ! And tell me, what isle is this ?\nWieeo withe.\nNaxos.\nMeneeaus.\nNaxos ?\n It's shown on the map as being much farther north.\nWieeo withe.\nFor\n the moment, it is here.\nMeneeaus.\nVery good. And who is the ruler of Naxos\n now ?"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1314, "texte": "WIEEOWITHE.\nThe\n old man Proteus, king of the seals and of all the amphibious\nmonsters.\nMeneeaus.\nCan he give me a great\n piece of oak of twenty cubits to make a mast, and\nanother, as well, of ten cubits to make a\n spar, sixty feet of hawser, a hundred\nsquare feet of good linen sails, forty pairs of oars, a keg of\n oakum, three kettles\nof tar, and a little\n paint ?\nWl WD WITHE.\nAll this he can give you, but he is\n avaricious.\nMeneeaus.\nI have nothing at all to pay him with.\nWiixowithe.\nYou\n can make him give all this without paying him a penny.\nMekeeaus.\nHow ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nBy\n art and guile in which I, Willowithe, will instruct you.\nMeneeaus.\nBut you\n yourself, what are you doing here ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nBacchus our master\n forgot me, left behind,\nWhen he came\n hither to seek for Ariadne.\n(.Dropping\n her eyes) The old man Proteus seduced me.\nMeneeaus.\nIs he so handsome ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nHe's\n fish as far as the waist.\nMeneeaus.\nThen everything goes by halves in this\n land ! If there were canaries here\nI'll\n wager that they would be half sardines !\nWIEEOWITHE.\nBut a man-fish, all the\n same, it is rare !\nMeneeaus.\nIs that all that pleased you in him ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nHe had\n promised to give me pearls.\nMeneeaus.\nAnd I, I possess no pearls to promise\n you, Mademoiselle, and I will not give\nyou anything at all."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1327, "texte": "WIIJyO WITHE •\nYou will take me away in your boat ?\nMENEEAUS.\nThat, yes, that can be\n managed.\nW IlylyO WITHE .\nSwear !\nMeneeaus.\nI swear it! By Zeus, by\n the earth, by the heaven, by the Styx, by Chaos,\nby all the gods, by whatever oath you\n wish !\nW WITHE.\nI\n and these unfortunate animals.\nMENEEAUS.\nWhat animals ?\nWieeo withe.\nMy\n companions here, these Satyrs.\nMENEEAUS.\nNo, they'd make the whole\n ship smell.\nWnXOWITHE.\nYou need a crew.\nMENEIvAUS.\nIt is true. But this herd\n of goats, pray who has penned them here ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAll that falls in the\n sea belongs to Proteus.\nMeneeaus.\nIndeed! His warehouses then must be\n well-filled.\nWieeowithe.\nAll this is ranged and classed in\n splendid order through the profound store-\nrooms that are beneath this isle.\nThe oars, the lost anchors,\nThe masts, according to height, and I do\n not know how many bales of cor-\ndage and sails, with all the marks of\n the Mediterranean Sea.\nCracked kettles,\n old knives, accordeons, lanterns, astrolabes, marline-spikes,\nand figures for the prow.\nAll things are good in his sight, he\n dabbles in everything.\nMeneeaus.\nGood, very good, all this will help\n me.\nWieeowithe.\nAnd now, profiting by the toil of our master Bacchus who\n incessantly has\nto run from one end of\n the world to the other,\nHe has begun to\n form a collection of Satyrs."}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1676, "texte": "MENEEAUS.\nIdea\n worthy of a seal.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYou say this because you have never seen\n them leap, and dart through the\nsmoke,\n like projectiles, twenty feet in the air, above a great bon-fire\n of dry wood.\n'Twas with this in mind that\n Proteus to animate these crags\nApplied\n himself to collecting these demi-gods.\nMeneeaus.\nI came near to smashing\n one just now.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAh, exterminate them all with your darts\n !\nAh, this would be better than\n shoring them up in this place, wretchedly hob-\nbling about this mean little heap of\n boulders.\nWhere the Old Man of the Sea\n maintains us with viands absurd.\nMeneeaus.\nWhat does he give you ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nCondensed milk and mineral water,\nOr\n cachalot cheese when from time to time it is possible to procure\n it.\nAnd the rain-water that we\n collect.\nWe must use it, in faith, to\n water six plants of tobacco which are his pride\nand which pay no customs-duty.\nAh, we would all be dead were it not for\n that perfumed amphora of Cretan wine\nOf\n which one shard remains\nAnd we pass it\n about to each other to sniff from time to time.\nMeneeaus.\n. Sad\n regimen !\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAnd not so much as one mud-hole, smelling\n strong of the forest, where they\nmight\n wallow from time to time, as Satyrs need to do, after the manner\n of boars\nand other beasts !\nIs it any wonder then that their hair is\n drooping and discolored, like a phi-\nlosopher's beard.\nAll is dry and clean in this horrible place incessantly\n washed, brushed and\nre-brushed by the sea\n and the wind.\nEven the sand-pinks, wild\n garlic and wild thyme\nCannot take root on\n its slopes.\nMeneeaus.\nAh well, I swear by Zeus to take you away\n with me.\nTell me what I must do."}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "133", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1226, "texte": "WllylyO WITHE .\nAre you strong ?\nMeneeaus, flexing his\n hands and his arms.\nThese are terrible\n pincers.\nWhen I hold him therewith he\n will know what athletes they make in Sparta.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nIs it\n true that you stifled Paris in your arms ?\nMeneeaus.\nHe found them less fresh\n than those of my wife, ho, ho !\nThere is\n nothing to boast of in that.\nI-Ie was fat\n and had no vertebrae to speak of, like a string bean.\nWIEEOWITHE .\nIn\n that case girdle him from behind.\nMeneeaus, making the gesture.\nLike this\n ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nGirdle him from behind, and hold him firmly, and beware of the\n blows of\nhis tail, old shark that he is\n !\nMeneeaus.\nHave no fear, my girl.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nWhatever he does don't let him go.\nMeneeaus.\nThe good\n old man will give me no trouble at all.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAnd even if, all at\n once, you hold a roaring lion between your arms . . .\nMeneeaus.\nA lion\n ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nHave you never heard tell of the tricks of the Old Man of the\n Sea ? And\nthat he becomes at will a lion\n ?\nFire ?\nWater\n ?\nA dragon ?\nAnd a fruit tree ?\nMeneeaus.\nWhy a fruit tree ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nI don't know, but that\n is the way it is. Do not let yourself be amazed.\nIt's the order invariably. He has no\n imagination. Remember it well."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1500, "texte": "{She counts on her fingers).\nA lion, first, then a dragon, then fire,\n then water and then a fruit tree. When\nyou see the fruit tree it's over, and you'll have the good man\n at your mercy.\nMekexaus.\nA fruit tree, very good ! Wliat things\n one learns when one goes sea-voyaging!\nWiixowithe.\nRemember to take his\n spectacles away. It is from these that he draws\nhis supernatural power.\nMenelaus.\nHis\n spectacles, very good.\nWiixowithe.\nDo not let the old seal escape you. He's\n a slippery god, and all aslime\nwith\n oil.\nMenei,atjs.\nHave no fear. I have already seen one seal that knew how to\n talk.\nIt was a Chersonese boatman who\n brought it out to our ship.\nIt sang in\n the Scythian tongue and called with vehement cries to its\n dear\nfather and all its family.\nWIIXOWITHE.\nWhen\n he has finished making the fruit-tree, and you have taken his\n spec-\ntacles,\nYou can\n demand from him everything that you wish.\nMENEI.AUS.\nA mast, sails, tar ?\nWIIXO WITHE.\nYou\n can demand from him news of everything that happens on earth\n or\nsea. He knows everything, he has a\n bulletin.\nMENEI/AUS.\nA bulletin ?\nWILLO\n WITHE.\nDid you not know that to all\n the gods of the earth and of the sea, according\nto their grade, Jupiter grants a\n bulletin.\nFrom time to time he sends\n them\nA narrow strip of transparent\n parchment.\nMenewts.\nWell!\nWIIXOWITHE.\nIt suffices to unroll it\n before a lantern and one sees simultaneously\nThe past, the present, the future.\nI understand nothing of this. You can\n trust in Proteus, though."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1261, "texte": "Meneeaus.\nThen I\n should not be sorry to know what has become of my brother and\n what\nmy sister-in-law, Clotilde, is\n doing now in Argos.\nWieeo withe .\nClytemnestra, do you mean ?\nMENEIvAUS.\nClytemnestra. These hot climates confuse one's memory.\nCertain rumours reached me from that\n direction.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYou can ask him everything.\nMENEI/AUS.\nWell,\n where can I find the old man ?\nWllylyO\n WITHE.\nEach day at noon he comes this\n way to scatter food for his flock.\nLet me\n talk with him a little and when I raise my hand\nApproach without letting him hear and\n then zou, presto ! girdle him from\nbehind\n !\n— What is it that disturbs you ?\nMenei.au s.\nWillowithe !\nI should be glad, O, I\n should be very glad if I could trust you a trifle more.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nIs\n not my interest in this identical with yours ?\nMENEIvAUS.\nIt is\n those little horns on your head that trouble me.\nWlUvO WITHE.\nDo\n you think that I cannot give you good advice ?\nMeneeaus.\nWhat\n good advice can come from a head that's horned ?\nWieeowithe.\nDo you\n know only this, why your boat proceeded at random and you\n were\nimpotent to direct its course.\nMenelaus.\nWhy?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nRegard the prow.\nMeneeatjs.\nWell?\nWl IX O\n WITHE.\nDo you not see that the poor\n great eye is quite obliterated ?"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "136", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 583, "texte": "MENEEAUS.\nIt is\n true, by Zeus !\nWlEEOwithe.\nHow then did you hope that your boat\n could direct itself without its eye ?\nMeneeaus.\nYou are right. I had not\n thought of that.\nBy the ass ! By the dog\n ! You're a girl with good sense and I trust you.\nWIIXO WITHE •\nHide\n yourself there behind these rocks and when I raise my hand . .\n .\nMeneeaus.\nI\n understand ! Come, Helen !\n(He goes out\n at the back, leading Heeen).\nWieeo withe,\n calling after him.\nSpeak to him of our\n Helen, also.\n(She goes out to the\n right).\n\nPaul Claudel.\n(Translated from the French by John Strong\n Newberry)."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "137", "page_fin": "137", "image_debut": 43, "image_fin": 43, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Interior", "titre_sommaire": "Interior", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 64, "texte": "Henri Matisse. Interior.\nCourtesy Bernheim-June Gallery — Paris."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "138", "page_fin": "145", "image_debut": 44, "image_fin": 51, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Paragraphs Concerning the Princess Vehana", "titre_sommaire": "Paragraphs Concerning the Princess Vehana", "signature_source": "Haniel Long", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1992, "texte": "PARAGRAPHS CONCERNING THE PRINCESS VEHANA.\n\nThe princess Vehana had fallen over a\n cliff, and the story of her life had\nsuffered many abrasions. A swift runner, coming at dusk\n through a pass in\nthe mountains, brought\n the news to Enana. That incomparable artist, prepar-\ning dyes in his house of polished wood\n at the foot of the hill Fangono, promised\nto attend the king's daughter and repair her so far as he\n could.\nThere was no special interest\n in his voice. To such a one, used to liv-\ning among s}onbols, the body of a\n princess was merely one record out of many,\none library, one obelisk, in a land where\n all were libraries and obelisks.\nThe occasion being unusual, the king\n summoned likewise I,ali, the rival\nof\n Enana, an orgiast, magician and scribe who dwelt on the island\n of Vini.\nLali ca me with alacrity, for\n the surface of a princess is a splendid manuscript,\nand the favor of a princess may lead to\n undreamt of places. Besides, Vehana\nhad\n fallen over a cliff; such an event hinted at something riotous\n and unsteady\nin the young woman, which\n might prove useful to him.\nThe king went west through the mountain\n passes on his annual pilgrimage\nto the\n shrine of his fathers, and meeting Enana on the road he paused\n to com-\nmend the young man.\nEnana, though the youngest of the great\n workers in flesh, followed the\naristocratic tradition ; and the king had been gratified at\n the beauty of his liv-\ning monuments. He had always close at\n hand in the royal train the Boy in\nPale\n Blue, one of the artist's earliest triumphs, no less moving for\n being of ne-\ncessity incomplete.\nFanna, her nurse, was seated before the\n blue doors of the lodge of Ve-\nhana. The sun was high above the\n white-columned palms, and in the cool\nshade, under the hedge of ruby and green dracaenas, grew the\n pale flowers of\nthe royal totem.\nNo other dwelling was visible ; yet Enana\n knew that be stood in the heart\nof the\n town. In lands where the body, and not the street, is the book\n which"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2490, "texte": "one reads, people live out of sight of\n their neighbors, in clustered palms and\nfoliage, or under wooded knolls. For they understand that they\n are unique\nexhibits, and they desire to\n be appreciated singly and not in crowds.\nThe wayfarer may thus study without distraction the beauty\n that art and\nlife have made of men, even\n when life has been evil and art careless; and so\nmay be impressed by the variety of man\n and destiny, rather than confused by\na\n congregated and unreadable sameness.\nEnana, gazing at the royal flowers, sacred to the moon, said\n to the nurse,\n\" Beauty has no totem. \"\nThe old woman, who was wise, smiled in\n agreement and rose to kiss the\nhand of\n the young maestro.\nLali was on the ground first, with his\n unguents and his fat stomach and the\ncincture of red and blue blossoms round his forehead. Neither\n of the great\nchroniclers rejoiced at\n seeing the other. They represented and were at the head\nof two schools of thought which had\n nothing in common.\nIn this conflict the\n aged nurse was on the side of Enana, for she distrusted\nthe clever, the bizarre and the novel.\n But the princess found Enana cold, and\nwas pleased at the obsequious manner and enthusiastic\n interjections of L,ali.\nThe princess was\n invisible, and held speech with them through the plaited\nfibres and leaves of her bed-chamber. She\n meditated much upon mortality,\nand now\n and then permitted Enana to hold her hand through the arbor'd\n wall.\nBut he said little. Lali on the\n contrary spoke copiously of death, and always\nin an unfavourable sense.\nL,ali was a meat eater, and he disgusted\n the nurse and Enana. The old\nwoman said\n that the crunching of bones made her ill; and when L,ali was\n engaged\nwith food, Enana found it\n convenient to wander off into the city of leaves.\nThere he read many a thrilling\n life-chapter on bare shoulders or backs glimpsed\nthrough the green thickets. Thus passed\n two days.\nL,ali devoured huge quantities\n of meat so that his power should be at the\nfull when the princess appeared. Enana, though a philosopher,\n could not help\nfingering his knife when\n he saw the complacent orgiast licking his chops. And\nhis ire was roused by an odious bit of\n pink and yellow mosaic on Lali's shoulder.\nEnana itched to carve that away.\nOn the third day the princess appeared,\n and Lali prostrated himself be-\nfore her. Enana, who had not understood\n that he was about to see the most su-\nblime instance of art in the entire\n land, was taken by surprise, and merely"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "140", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2677, "texte": "bowed. The princess concluded that in\n the solemn looking youth she had to\ndo\n with a prig. L,ali exclaimed at the areva-reva on the cloak of\n the princess ;\nbut Enana had now no eye\n for designs, least of all those not wrought upon living\nstuff, and gazed only at her face.\nThe nurse took the pareu and caha from\n her, and the exquisite brown\nscroll which\n was the body of the princess stood upright in the clear air,\n where\nonly butterflies were moving.\n For three hours the princess stood, impassive.\nHer two observers were speechless, except\n for a despairing cry from Enana,\n\" What\n genius ha£ decorated you, ! \"\nThe damage\n was not irremediable. wise in his own conceit, announced\nthat he was ready to begin his share of\n the work. But Enana was greatly\ntroubled\n by certain open spaces in the disposition of the chronicle, very\n differ-\nent indeed from the undecorated areas on\n the belly of When was\nyoung and\n symmetrical, those abdominal patterns might have had a\n certain\ncharm; but years of swelling\n had stretched and separated them and made them\ncomic. The free spaces in the history of\n the princess, on the contrary, were\nlike\n chance omissions in a narrative, and lent the imagination\n wings.\nFor what purpose were they left\n ? he pondered. It was effective as a\ntrick ; but artists such as had colored her were above tricks.\n Enana, with a\nsudden start, felt that\n they might be reserved for a writing invisible and im-\nportant.\nThe record, in part cuneiform and in\n part symbolic, began with two lov-\ners on blossoms, summer heaped beneath\n them. Of this episode, as flower\nand\n fruit, came a girl child.\nThen followed\n one of the silences which disturbed Enana.\nThe next stanza, if so each division might be called, was\n inscribed with the\nsigns and talismans of\n wonder, and there dealt with childhood. Kindly animals,\nand such flowers as the lemon hibiscus\n and the tasselated purple rose-apple,\nand\n little boys and girls, were woven through a design of cloud and\n hill and\nhomes wattled from pandanus and\n palm leaf thatch. Story-tellers were mys-\nteriously present; stars were\n visible.\nAnother silence followed.\nVehana was very young ; but a third\n stanza upon her body was filled\nwith that\n unparalleled poetry which had existed long before she was born,\n in\nCxamalca and Titicaca, in Cambodia\n and Boro Bodo, and wherever her hiero-\nglyphics had been used. This stanza told\n of lovers near and far, who found the\nprincess the best reason for existing. Youths not of her own\n totem had besought\nher. Dazzling and\n free, with the holiness of her beauty to protect her she had\ngone her way unmolested, passing in\n safety at times beyond the pale of the"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "141", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2345, "texte": "ancestral moon. For the rest, the third\n stanza discoursed of dancing and\nswimming\n and racing through leaves, of the touch of all elements and the\n con-\ntact of all substance.\nThe nurse, in a hesitant and apologetic\n manner, supplied what was needed\nto bring\n the narrative up to date. The burden of her speech was that\n fidelity\ncan be interpreted in so many\n ways that it is wisest not to speak of it at all. As\nan instance she referred to a princess\n obliged to watch two young men fight to\nthe death under moonlit palms, a young princess torn from a\n couch of bright\nleaves and flung over a\n cliff by one insane with desire. Some miracle had saved\nher. She avoided the rocks in her descent\n bounding down from bush to bush,\nbut her\n delicate skin suffered, and many of its recorded episodes were\n lost.\nDuring the perusal of the inscriptions,\n Enana asked that guitars be played\nupon.\n Lali roughly ordered tom-toms, saying that only vigorous beauty\n oiled\nhis imagination. A bitter\n quarrel ensued, and the princess commanded that\nthe guitars and the tom-toms sound\n alternately. After this incident Lali went\nabout with a poisoned spear, frowned often and ominously, and\n practised hid-\ning in abattises of hibiscus.\nThat night Enana roused the nurse and\n requested to study the princess\nsecretly\n in moonlight. The \"princess was persuaded. Enana noted that\n the\nchange of light made a difference\n in many of the colors and lines, adding here\nor there strange news or sad secrets. He\n pondered. He remembered something\nan old\n man had once whispered in his ear, and at last he said, \" I must\n return\nto my mountain for more wisdom\n . \"\nThe princess was flattered. Until now\n a cause of madness and death to some,\nof\n superstition and somnambulism to others, it was a new experience\n to her to\nbe to anyone a cause of\n speculation.\nNevertheless, of the two\n artists she preferred the society of I,ali. He was\nforever chattering and amusing her ;\n whereas Enana's eyes followed her with\nreproaches, and he was as silent as a stone.\nMeanwhile, Lali began the repair of the\n deltoid frescoes. As Vehana lay\nbeneath\n the'palms on her robe of wood-fibre, feeling his stylus piercing\n her skin\nwith little pricks, and\n listening to his words, she felt her beauty slipping from\nher, or becoming a veil thin indeed\n between her and primeval slime."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "142", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2471, "texte": "The beat of the tom-toms gave her a\n headache. So, a discomfort grew\non the\n princess as she listened to the lore of Lali. It was the lore of\n jungles,\nof venomous insects and\n reptiles, of jagged rocks and reefs in the channels be-\ntween jungles. It connected lusts which\n had been half sport to her, with lusts\nwhich were not play at all, but in Lali's view the serious\n business of life.\nLali described revels\n in the barbaric isles he had visited during his appren-\nticeship. Lali chattered and chattered.\n Vehana was filled with a sickness.\nEnana returned, and the nurse brought\n him custard apples and great oran-\nges in a bowl of beachwood. In his hands\n the artist carried seven circles of glass,\nvac #\neach with its own color ; and\n holding these to his eyes, he gazed through each\nin succession at the body of Vehana.\nSmothered exclamations escaped his\n lips.\nLali saw that the science of the\n younger man far exceeded his own, and\nhe\n was gnawed by jealousy. Besides, such preoccupation with the\n invisible\nmaddened him.\nHe mocked Enana. \" Your science is thin,\n like the upper air, \" he said.\n\"You lack\n a terrestrial foundation. You eat no meat. You are an impostor.\n \"\n\"You are plebeian and romantic, \"\n said Enana austerely.\n\" I spit in your\n face, \" retorted Lali. Not content with being disagreeable,\nhe seized his envenomed spear.\nBut Enana without abating his priest-like\n manner, approached Lali, and\ndrawing his\n knife with the pomp of a Druid, gestured twice, and the hated\n mo-\nsaics on his rival's shoulder where\n ruined permanently. It was not a mortal\nhurt ; but Lali would be less the man. He was taken away.\nA came at length — a day filled with the\n sweetness of the leaf-flower\nof the\n pandanus — when Enana revealed to the princess and her nurse the\n mean-\ning of the inscriptions which his\n science had disclosed. He began with some\nmetaphysics :\n\" Persons of great beauty\n rarely love ; you, with all your lovers, have never\nloved. And it is doubtful whether your\n lovers have.been lovers. The young\nmen-themselves have not been certain that they really\n possessed you, so bewil-\ndering is beauty. Perhaps, gazing\n through all the colors of the spectrum at the\nsame time, we might say that what you\n could share with your young men, you\ndid\n share. For you are a child of simple things, sunlight and\n dancing waters,\nyellow beaches and palm\n shade. Nevertheless, it is written upon you every-\nwhere that to be beautiful is to be\n lonefy. \""}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "143", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2255, "texte": "\" The records of many lives are\n inscribed, then, upon my body ? \" inquired\nthe princess. \" This I had not known before. \"\n\"The record of many lives. \"\n\" What do the inscriptions say ? \" The\n princess was suddenly intent and\ncurious.\n\" They say that the beauty\n of women passes. That by pain and suffering\nit passes into the eyes of young men, and\n so into music, and so into many things\nwhich young men hear and see, and many things which young men\n do as well,\neven into the they cause,\n gilding those deaths with a dark lustre ; that\nby pain and suffering it passes into the\n lives of children, and so into the life of\ntribes and nations; that by pain and suffering it passes into\n the flowers and grass\nwhich spring from\n graves, and so into the landscape of the world ; and into the\nlandscape of memory, and so into fable\n and distance, and the heart of life.\nSuch\n is the burden of the living palimpsest of your body ; such is\n the speech of\nyour silent places. And\n thus you become a living witness to the strength of\nbeauty, that draws all things to it and\n sends all things from it, that suffers all\nthings, and is apart, like a mountain, and lonely, like, a\n moon. \"\nThe princess was greatly moved. \"\n I fear that I can never be happy, \"\nshe\n said, \" away from your rare eyes which see and appreciate me,\n and your\nrare ears which hear. The\n observer is the love of the beauty. He is the mirror\nwithout which Beauty may not see herself.\n \"\nIt was thus the fate of Vehana, if riot\n to love, at least to be interpreted.\nAnd\n since the mind which interprets one is the mind that mates,\n supplements\nand fulfills, it may be\n said that in the end she was made articulate and came\nto love.\nHer\n beauty, tiring of disordered minds and disordered lives,\n consorted best\nwith the austerity of\n intelligence. Vehemence is interesting; but the gestures\none never forgets are those of peace.\n There was something of eternity in the\nrepose of Vehana upon the bosom of Enana.\nLove has its archaeology and its prophecy\n ; beauty finds no better commerce\nthan\n with reason. The embraces of Vehana and Enana in the house with\n the\nblue doors, were genial, and they\n united the past and the future. They came\nof death, but they resulted in children.\n\nHaniel Long."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "145", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 72, "fin_caractere_exclue": 73, "texte": "4"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "144", "page_fin": "144", "image_debut": 50, "image_fin": 50, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "The Young Sailor", "titre_sommaire": "The Young Sailor", "signature_source": "Rockwell Kent", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "144", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 84, "texte": "Rockwell, Kent. The Young Sailor.\nYoung Sailor.\nCourtesy\n Daniel Gallery — New York."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "145", "page_fin": "145", "image_debut": 51, "image_fin": 51, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Newfoundland Dirge", "titre_sommaire": "Newfoundland Dirge", "signature_source": "Rockwell Kent", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "145", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 70, "texte": "Rockwell Kent. Newfoundland Dirge.\nCourtesy Daniel Gallery — New York."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "146", "page_fin": "146", "image_debut": 52, "image_fin": 52, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Comfort", "titre_sommaire": "Comfort", "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": 52, "page_imprimee": "146", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 499, "texte": "I.\nCOMFORT.\nAs I sat by the fire,\nPuss said to me :\n\" There burns the fire, man.\nAnd here\n bide we.\n\" Four Walls around us\nAgainst the cold air ;\nAnd the latchet drawn close\nTo the draughty Stair.\n\" A Roof o'er our heads —\nStar-proof, moon immune ;\nAnd a wind in the chimney\nTo wail us a tune.\n\" What felicity ? \" miaoued he,\n\" Where\n none may intrude ;\nJust Man and Beast —\n set\nIn this Solitude !\n\" You in your sheep's-wool coat,\nButtons of bone,\nAnd me in my fur-about\nOn the warm\n hearthstone. \""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "147", "page_fin": "147", "image_debut": 53, "image_fin": 53, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Not that Way", "titre_sommaire": "Not that Way", "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": 53, "page_imprimee": "147", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 745, "texte": "II.\nNOT THAT WAY.\nW. de la Mare.\nNo, no. Guard thee ! Go not that way,\nNot that way.\nS'ee, how the louring clouds glide on,\nSkirting West to South ; and see,\nThe\n green light under that sycamore tree\nNot\n that way !\nThere the leaden trumpets\n blow\nSolemn and slow.\nThere the everlasting walls\nFrom above the waterfalls\nSilver and cold ;\nNot that way !\nNot toward death, who,\n stranger, fairer,\nThan any siren turns\n his head —\nThan any siren, arched with\n rainbows,\nWhere knell the waves of her\n ocean bed.\nAlas, that beauty hangs her\n flowers\nFor lure of his demoniac\n powers :\nAlas, that from these eyes\n should dart\nThat piercing summons to thy\n heart ;\nlhat mine in frenzy of longing\n beats,\nTrusting for those gross\n deceits !\nNot that way."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "148", "page_fin": "153", "image_debut": 54, "image_fin": 59, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "The Contract", "titre_sommaire": "The Contract", "signature_source": "Sherwood Anderson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "148", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2281, "texte": "THE CONTRACT.\n\nOne evening lie kissed her and she got\n abruptly up from the bench in the\ngarden\n back of her father's house and went to stand by a tree. How soft\n and still\nand lovely the night seemed to\n him! He felt absurdly set up, a little perhaps, he\nthought smiling indulgently at himself,\n as a warrior might feel after securing\na\n position of advantage for a coming great battle. For the moment\n he had\nforgotten her and continued to sit\n alone on the bench smiling at himself. Had\nthe stillness of the garden been broken by the blast of a\n trumpet and himself\nproclaimed some kind\n of a conquering male hero he would not have been too\nsurprised. The notion of being a\n conqueror clung to him and although he laughed\nat himself he went on playing with the\n idea. There was Napoleon following\nhis\n star of destiny and Alexander sighing for more worlds to conquer\n ! Had\nhe not suddenly kissed her without\n asking permission ? Had he not stormed\nthe fortress ? It was the way things were done among the\n bolder males. He\nlaughed softly.\nIn a way she had been expecting the kiss\n although she had been telling\nherself she\n did not want it. Still she was prepared for it as he was not.\n It\nwas the third time they had been\n together.\nFor her the first time she\n had seen him had been the most stirring of all. He\nhad come into town unheralded and then\n word had gone around that he was\na figure\n of consequence in the intellectual world. He was invited to\n speak be-\nfore an organization called the Thursday\n Club and she went with her father,\nthe\n editor of the town's one newspaper.\nHis\n figure had swept like a flame across the field of her fancy that\n first\nevening. In what a daring way he\n had talked ! His subject was the effect\nof Christianity on civilization and he spoke of Jesus, the man\n of Nazareth, in a\nway that disturbed and\n irritated the Thursday Club. With what fire and\neloquence he talked. There was the sacred\n young man, a carpenter in an obscure\nvillage. He had thought his own thoughts, ignored the\n teachings of older men.\nWhen he was not\n at work at his trade he went alone to walk in the hills. His\nown intense nature and the long hours and\n days of silent contemplation of life\nhad\n made him a profound mystic. Had anyone thought, had anyone\n dared"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "149", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2943, "texte": "think of the man Jesus as just an\n ordinary human being who had in the face of\nthe commonplace standards of life had the\n courage to use his life as an adven-\nturous experiment for the benefit of\n society !\nThe speaker before the Thursday\n Club, organized by her father and several\nother men for the purpose of studying literature, had quite\n startled his audience.\nAfter the meeting\n several of the members protested, saying the club had been\norganized for another purpose and that it\n was too bad to start a religious discus-\nsion.\nThey had,\n she felt, missed the whole point of his talk. It was not a\n religious\ndiscussion. As she sat\n beside her father and looked about at the other club\nmembers and their wives and at the few\n ummarried men scattered among them,\na\n great gladness that such a man had come to live in her town\n swept over her.\nAs he continued talking\n of the man of Galilee and how he walked up and down\nthrough many towns in a far away country\n casting out devils by the power\nof his\n bold and lovely presence, she was so overcome with emotion that\n tears\ncame to her eyes. The speaker\n was himself a man of thirty and Jesus, the Christ\nof whom he talked so eloquently, had been\n a man of thirty when he set out on\nhis\n mission to civilization. After the meeting and as the speaker\n walked home\nwith herself and her father\n she remained silent while the two men talked. Even\nthen he was a little too conscious of\n her. She had wanted to worship from afar.\nShe had wanted to repeat aloud the words of the officers of\n the Pharisees, sent\nto seize Jesus in the\n temple, the men who had returned from their mission\nempty-handed. \" Never man spake like this\n man, \" they had said filled with\nwonder.\nAs the three people walked\n under the trees he continued to speak on the\nsubject that had been the foundation of\n his talk before the club. \" They evi-\ndently misunderstood, \" he said\n laughing, \" I did not intend my talk to be\nconcerned with religion. I was thinking only of the barbaric\n background of\nthe life of Jesus Christ\n and its dramatic possibilities. You understand what I\nmean, the soft smiling land of Galilee,\n the lake with the white cities on the shore,\nruled over by the cruel Herod Antipas,\n the fishermen leaving their nets to fol-\nlow the man who taught the strange new\n doctrine of peace; forgiveness and love.\nAnd then the strange crowds in the streets of the towns and in\n the city of Jeru-\nsalem, the paralytic at Bethesda, the\n pool by the Sheep-gate, the prostitute who\nwiped his feet with her hair as he sat at the feast, the scene\n in the garden on the\nnight before the\n crucifixion, the crucifixion itself — why should all this not\n be\ntaken as profound and beautiful\n literature ? That is how lam sure, it has had\nits greatest effect upon mankind.\nAs he had talked to her father during the\n walk homeward on that first\nevening, the\n speaker had occasionally turned to her and once he had made\n a"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "150", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2771, "texte": "feeble apology for the seriousness of\n the talk. \" Does all this bore you ? \"\nhe\n asked and a chill ran over her body. She made a gesture with her\n hand and\nlooked away, and as soon as they\n had arrived at her father's house she excused\nherself and went up stairs.\nThe two men continued talking for a long\n time and she undressed and lay\nin\n bed'with her door open so she could hear the voices. What an\n evening that\nhad been for her ! Her\n father, usually a rather prosaic man, was excited and\ntalked well and she thought the newcomer\n the most wonderful being that had\never\n come into her consciousness. His strong boyish voice ran up the\n stairs and\nthrough the halls of the house\n and she sat up in bed and listened, her whole\nbeing strangely alive. The voice had\n carried her out of herself and into the land\nof Galilee he had described so vividly,\n and she stood in a vast crowd of people\nlistening to another stranger of thirty who had suddenly come\n out of another\nplace and was talking. A\n phrase remembered from her bible reading\nran through her mind and she repeated it aloud. She became,\n not herself but\na strange woman in a\n strange land. \" Blessed be the womb that bare Thee\nand the breasts that Thou hast sucked \",\n she imagined herself shouting,\nquite\n carried away.\nShe saw him for the second time two\n weeks after that first meeting and it\nwas\n strange and also sad to think that dnring that second meeting he\n came off\nhis pedestal with a thump.\nHe wrote her a note and asked her to go\n with him to a concert and she\nwas stirred\n at the thought of sitting close beside him all evening and\n hearing\nmusic. Before the evening came\n she went about her father's house, attending\nto the household affairs, with her mind\n floating away, out of her body into a\nland of spiritual adventure. When her father spoke to her at\n table she was\nconfused and her cheeks\n grew red. \" What's the matter with you?\" he\nasked laughing. \" You've begun acting\n like a school girl. What's happened\nto\n you?\"\nAfter all she was not very young\n and the new man was not the first who\nhad\n been attracted to her. Already two men of the town had asked her\n to\nmarry them-but she had never before\n got into such a strange exalted state. \" Be-\ntween him and myself it will be\n different. We will go along a new road into a\nstrange beautiful place, \" she whispered\n to herself. She had no plan. It was\nenough, she thought, that the new man had come to town, that\n she could occa-\nsionally sit in silence beside him, that\n she could hear his voice, that she could\ncome into the presence of his mind at work making beautiful\n images.\n\"It is quite true. There is a\n religion of the beautiful \", she thought. Her\nmother, who had died when she was\n fifteen, had been a devout church member"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "151", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2586, "texte": "and as a young girl she hud also given\n herself, for a time, to religious enthusiasm.\nI/ater she had given up church going and\n had thought of herself as an intellectual\nwoman.\nNow she laughed at herself.\n \"lama child beside him, \" she thought,\nremembering how glowingly he had talked before the Thursday\n Club. Con-\ntentment settled down upon her. \"In\n every life there should be a deeply\nspiritual love, \" she told herself. \"I am like that woman in\n the bible who on a\nscorching day came\n down alone, out of a village, to the well in the dusty plain\nand found lying there on a stone bench\n the sacred man, he who knew the true\nway\n of life.\"\nAt the concert he did several things to\n disturb her.\nIn the first place he was\n not at all absorbed or carried away by the music\nand all evening he kept looking at her\n with hungry eyes. A,s they walked home-\nward he did not talk, giving himself\n with abandon to ideas, but was silent\nand\n self-conscious.\nAnd then he kissed her\n and her exalted mood went quickly away and\nsomething shrewd and determined took entire possession of\n her.\nIt was ten o' clock when they got\n to the house and her father was at the\nnewspaper office. The moon shone and they went into the garden\n and sat\ntogether on a bench. After he had\n kissed her she went to stand by the tree\nbecause it was necessary for her to make a new adjustment. She\n had been al-\nlowing herself to be a child and her\n child's hands had been building a temple.\nNow all the bricks and stone of the temple had fallen down and\n there was a\ngreat dust and racket.\nTo relieve the tenseness of the situation\n she led him out of the garden into\nthe\n street. After all she had not finished with him. There was\n something\nvShe wanted. They walked\n down a silent street under trees and a group of\nyoung men went past them singing some\n foolish love song.\nPresently they came to\n the end of the street and into a field, and it was\nthen she understood the depth of his\n stupidity. Some elders grew in a little\ngully beside the field and he wanted her to go in among them.\n When she drew\nback, a little startled, he\n was angry. Ihe kiss you let me take back there was\na lie then ? \" he asked sharply. \"It\n didn't mean anything ? You are like all\nthe other women who give kisses having no meaning ? \"\nIt was during the third time they were\n together that everything between\nthem was\n settled. A war had broken out between the forces sleeping in\n each\nof them, but after that third\n meeting peace came. One Saturday afternoon\nthey went together to spend a day in the country. She wore a\n heavy sweater"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "152", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2809, "texte": "and stout boots and on his shoulder he\n carried a small bag filled with the lunch-\neon she had prepared. She was in a\n smiling confident mood and he was\ndisturbed and unhappy. When he looked at her he felt like one\n condemned\nto beat with bare hands\n against a cold stone wall. The wall was as hard as\nadamant but was surfaced with some warm\n soft growth.\nFor a time after they set\n out things went well and then the final struggle\nbetween them began. Several times during\n the afternoon, as they walked in a\nlittle\n strip of woodland among dry leaves and under the fragrant trees\n just in\nthe fullness of the new spring\n life, she seemed about to yield to the hunger gnaw-\ning at him but, as evening came on and\n when they had eaten the luncheon and\nsat\n on the grassy bank of a small stream, she became very\n business-like and de-\ntermined. \"We must get back toward town\n before darkness conies, \" she\nsaid,\n leading the way across a field and into a dusty road.\nThe battle came to a crisis quickly. When\n they had got almost to town\nher energetic\n mood left her and they got out of the road and into an\n orchard.\nHe built a little fire of\n twigs beside a rail fence and they leaned against the fence\nand watched it burn in silence. The thin\n column of smoke went up through\nthe\n branches of the trees. \" It's like incense, \" she said, creeping\n close to\nhim. Their bodies pressed\n against each other. As the moon was full, darkness\ndid not come and the day passed\n imperceptibly into night.\nTwo boys from a\n nearby farmhouse, who had been driving cows homeward\nalong a lane, saw them standing thus,\n their arms about each other. They crawled\nover a fence and crept along in the shadows to wait and\n watch.\nOvercome by a sudden fear she\n pushed herself out of his arms and moved\nslowly away along the fence. He followed, pressing her close.\n A wavering\nuncertainty had taken\n possession of her and the battle seemed lost. She wanted\nto escape and at the same time did not\n want to escape. She was tired.\nWith an\n effort she turned and walked in a very determined way across\n the\norchard and he stood by the fence\n and let her go. One of the farm boys called\nto the other. \" Nothing's going to\n happen. She's going away \", he called.\nThe boys climbed a fence and ran off along a lane toward a\n distant barn and\nagain silence settled\n over the orchard. She returned to him, her eyes shining\nand her hands trembling.\n\" You see what you have brought me to,\n what has happened? \" she asked\nsharply.\n For a moment she felt mean, beaten, and then quickly she\n became\nquite sure of herself. The\n whole fact of organized life stood back of her\ntrembling figure.\nHe did not understand. \" There will be a scandal, \" she said.\n \" I don't\nblame you. I blame myself. Why\n did I let myself make a show of myself\nwith you ?"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1914, "texte": "She tried to explain. \"Of course those\n boys know me, \" she said, turning\nher\n face away. \" They have seen us, in this place, holding each\n other in that\nway and kissing. It's light\n enough to see everything. It's horrible. You\nare a man but I'm a woman. There'll be a\n scandal and my name will be dragged\nin\n the mud. \"\nHe watched her, perplexed and\n puzzled. The fact that they had been seen\nat the love making had rather amused him and he hg,d been on\n the point of\nbreaking into laughter. Now\n he felt ashamed and penitent.\nShe went\n and put her face down on the top rail of the fence and her\nbody shook with sobs. He stood awkwardly\n watching.\nA thought came to him. \"\n Well, \"he said hesitatingly, \"we could marry,\nwe could get married. \"\nHe looked away over her head and out into\n an open country washed\nwith moonlight. A\n wind came up and clouds raced across the sky making fu-\ngitive shadows that played madly over\n the face of the fields. Some shadowy,\nlovely thing seemed fleeing out of him and out of her. He felt\n like a beast\nwho in playing about at\n night in a forest has suddenly put his foot into a trap.\nA madness to run away from her, to flit\n half crazify away over the fields like one\nof the cloud shadows and then to disappear forever into an\n unknown, nry-\nsterious distance, had possession of\n him, but his feet had become heavy. He\nwas held fast, bound down to the earth, not by desire now but\n by a strange\nhesitating sympathy with the\n thing that bound her to earth.\nWhen she\n looked up he took her into his arms and held her tightly\n while\nhe continued looking over her\n head and into the distance. Her body that had\nbeen quivering with excitement became\n quiet. \"We had better be married\nat once,\n \" he said. \" There are things I have never understood before.\n Let's\ngo back to town and be married\n at once, tonight. That will solve all our\ndifficulties, you see. \"\n\nSherwood Anderson."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "154", "page_fin": "158", "image_debut": 60, "image_fin": 64, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Notre Amerique", "titre_sommaire": "Notre Amerique", "signature_source": "Leon Bazalgette", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2396, "texte": "NOTRE AMERIQUE\n\n(*).\nAs if desirous of clearing themselves of\n all responsibility, they tell us \" This\nAmerica, you know, is not ours, we do not acknowledge it. \"\n And we have\nthanked these Americans, so\n very anxious that we should not be deceived, for\ntheir charitable advice. But we were not\n deceived, good people. This Ame-\nrica which is not yours, we love\n precisely for that; we acknowledge her and\nbelieve in her, especially because she is not the America\n which her charitable\nfriends are so\n assiduous in introducing to us ; because she is not the\n America\nof the man in the street.\nYes, M. Tout-le-monde, we know well it is\n the America of Waldo Frank,\nuniquely his,\n that is to say, \" A promise and a dream. \" It is the\n affirmation,\nthe discovery of a man;\n that is why it is so beautiful and so moving. It is the\nsame as when Whitman formerly spoke in\n the name of \" These States \" inter-\npreting America to himself, to himself\n alone. Every one jeered at him, for\nthey\n couldn't see it at all, and lacked the vision necessary for its\n imagining.\nThe same old story. That\n which one is alone or nearly alone in seeing because\nhe has better eyes or a greater heart,\n inevitably excites the jeers of M. Tout-\nle-Monde. Still the fails to prevent the\n only America which will count in the\nfuture history of the race, from being made of the sequences\n of these Americas\nof lonely men—of\n Whitman and of Waldo Frank and of a few others. The\nencyclopedias and the text books will\n busy themselves with the rest.\nIf a few\n of us knew, or at any rate felt something of this, how many\n more\nmust exist to whom this book will\n be a revelation, a relief and a joyful surprise.\nSo many Frenchmen of the so-called\n intelligent sort, who only know the superfi-\ncial appearance, the easily perceived\n and in consequence the spurious phases\nof\n the American scene, have the impression of a melting pot where\n everyone\nis cast in the same mold of a\n huge workshop in which the flowering of life and\nof art could never dream of unfolding in\n any other pattern but the accepted\none.\n We have to confess that the ignorance of this type of Frenchman\n is to\na certain extent excusable. Too\n many people have been intellectually interest-\n(*) Tlic impression of a Frenchman 011\n reading Our America, by Waldo Frank, pub-\nlished by Boni and Liveright, New York,\n and by the Nouvelle Revue Frangaise. Paris."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3097, "texte": "Ed in fostering this ignorance and in\n providing it with a solid and comfortable\nfoundation. Academies, universities, organizations with\n official trademarks\nnurture it\n diligently. Everyone is aware of the pinnacles of stupidity\n that\ncan be attained by the talent and\n zeal of university representatives who osten-\nsibly claim to interpret the soul of a\n people and of an epoch. Thus we receive\neach year the visits of frock-coated gentlemen officially\n invited to preach at\nthe Sorbonne on some\n chapter or other of the American gospel. A frock coat\nof a learned and orthodox cut always\n produces an effect. Not more than one\nor\n two listeners, present by chance at an official lecture, and\n with souls uncon-\ntaminated by the virus Sorbonnique, were\n surprised to hear one of your frock-\ncoated dignitaries, in this case an\n erudite clergyman, who seemed to have crossed\nthe Atlantic for the malicious pleasure\n of convulsing an entire audience of\nneuter gender, recite verses of the greatest American poet in\n a clownish fashion.\nA simple exchange of\n politeness, it is true. For did not one of our most solemn\nfrock-coats cross the Atlantic in the\n opposite direction at about the same time,\nin order to slay our greatest novelist before an American\n audience ? Not that\nthe poet or the\n novelist have suffered from these attacks.\nThe clairvoyant attitude of these Messieurs a Redingote is a\n flimsy excuse\nfor the so-called\n intelligent Frenchmen. It is not his only excuse, however.\nWe all know that society which, under the\n lofty patronage of generals, diplo-\nmats, and politicians, is constituted\n for the sublime purpose of developing the\nintellectual ties between \" The Two Sister Republics \", and\n with what ge-\nnius they work. How could you except the\n Frenchman, desirous of understand-\ning the true America, to find a way of\n correcting his ideas, derived from the\nmoving pictures, illustrated papers, and society periodicals ;\n by means of ban-\nquets, toasts, compliments, and other\n political, financial manifestations ? He\nis condemned in advance to the blackest ignorance.\nIt is for this Frenchman especially, of\n an open and sincere mmd, that a\nbook such\n as \" Our America \" proves of inestimable value; even less as a\n doc-\nument than as a revelation. After the\n drivelers, the doctors, the pedantic\nschool teachers, the preachers of dusty doctrines, here at\n last is a man who\n. speaks with different\n words — a man of today's youth using the language of\ntoday — not addressing himself to an\n audience of neuter sex, but his brothers\nand sisters who have \" somewhere surely lived a life of joy\n with you \" — with\nhis first utterance\n awakening in us that communal feeling by means of which\nwords become transfigured and carry with\n them nuances and new aromas.\nAlso he is\n dear to us from the start as one among the crowd who speaks to\n us\nin our own language. He is dear to\n us because the aspirations which he voices\nharmonize wonderfully with ours. This hidden America which\n desires to live,\nto live another way,\n which sings upon discovering her young soul after years"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3022, "texte": "of deadly \" pionnerie of dismal\n withering toil, seems to will us into song as\nwell, to sing within us already.\nHe is dear to us because again we are\n made conscious of the spiritual unity\nof\n the world over the immense stupidity of national boundary lines.\n There\nis in this book something great\n in the making, creating itself before us — of\npure life in search of forms by means of\n which it may unfold — of profound\ndesire\n which smells, questions, lisps, gropes, a moving desire, avid,\n inflated,\nwith no other certitude than\n that of its own strength. We like it for the fer-\nvour with which it is filled so that the\n pages are heavy with the sap of a new\nbelief — for that generosity which cannot contain itself,\n which bursts forth\nlike molten iron thru\n the clefts in the paragraphs.\nWe find\n ourselves beside a singular companion for whom there exists\n other\ncreatures than the sulky, aloof\n intellectual, triturating his precious person be-\nfore a note-book of white paper, within\n the walls of a lodging — creatures other\nthan the troupe of worldly supernumeraries imposing on the\n universe their\nfoolish gestures and their\n formulas, the paucity of their hearts and of their\nimaginations. A companion for whom exists\n not humanity, an abstraction,\nbut men,\n radiant or pitiable as the case may be, but to whom we can hold\n out\na hand. Thus we feel ourselves\n welcome, altogether at home. A place is set\naside for us at this hearth. Here is one\n who waits for us, who believes in us,\nwho\n leaves open to us in his world design, all the space necessary\n for our future\ngrowth ; more space than\n we even asked for ourselves, because he shows him-\nself more generous toward his fellows\n than we were generous in our self regard.\nA Waldo Frank can allow himself many short-comings as he will\n be redeemed\nin advance by his fraternal\n generosity, by his whole-hearted good will.\nAs we journey through this America with\n him we find ourselves aligned\nwith\n revolt. Revolt, so we understand it ; not expressing itself in\n clamorous,\ncontending cries of stump\n orators, in disorderly gestures and in the resolutions\nof public meetings but in passionate and\n unwavering affirmation of the dignity\nand\n needs of man — in the unqualified rejection of the whole network\n of powers\nincapable of satisfying these\n needs and whose weight crushes this dignity.\nWe are the associates of individuals who\n offer us not their goods or their pos-\nsessions but the daily bread of their\n souls — people who know another hunger\nthan that of the belly — comrades of art.\nThere is another word, which his pen\n often traces, a word which must have\nastonished the so-called intelligent Frenchman, but which has\n for some of us,\na sound particularly\n full. It is the word religion. A Word which so many\nof us today have cast aside like an old\n garment because it is known only when\nworn out, deformed and soiled by use. But we have never\n abandoned it, we\n- have saved it\n carefully in its original freshness and never valued it more\n than"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2965, "texte": "now. Never has it so nearly been the\n synonym for redemption. On many re-\ncent solemn occasions such as the\n festival organized by Albert Doyer in which\nthe public, communing directly with art;\n took an intimate part in the mystery\nrevealed by the great compositions of Bach, Beethoven, Cesar\n Franck, in po-\npular melodies such as the Boat Song of\n the Volga, or in the ardent composi-\ntions of Doyer himself, this word forced\n itself upon us. At these festivals the\npeople of Paris en masse came to seek and experience the\n religious emotion of\ntoday.\nThis religion cannot be far removed from\n that which Waldo Frank invokes.\nFor us,\n as for him, it must be that of the \" Three Greatnesses \" which\n include\nall the others : Love,\n Democracy and Religion. Like him, without doubt,\nwe not only glimpse the splendour to\n which the rites of this religion of art and\nhumanity may attain in the people's\n houses of tomorrow, or out of doors, as\nin the great public performances at Moscow, but we can forsee\n the day when\n\" Everything will be fuel\n for religion's sake. \"\nThis book which so\n clearly indicates to us in what ignorance we were of\nthe real America cannot help but make us\n think of the similar ignorance that\nmust\n prevail in America about the real France. How many calumnies\n and\nlies must have slipped in under\n cover of the rapprochement of the two \" Sis-\nter Republics united by their common\n ordeal. \" The two people have made\nan\n exchange. And naturally, given the circumstances and deadly\n influences\nthen dominant in the world,\n they exchanged the worst they had. A little\nof that lust for gain which is one of the\n basic qualities of movie America has\nbeen\n passed on to us, along with an avid taste for the vilest\n detective stories.\nAnd we have given to\n you in return our old secret illness, war madness ; to\nsuch an extent that again we see among\n you by favor of these exchanges, the\nbeauty of tar and feather, as in the good old days of\n abolitionism. The fact\nof having\n contributed, even in this small way, to this revival is without\n doubt\na cause for pride to certain\n Frenchmen of a well-known type. In the land of\nOur Lord Napoleon, the big stick always\n finds devout admirers.\nIt is for this\n reason that we have so great a need for a French Waldo Frank,\nto write \" Our France \" and dedicate it\n to you, so that he may dissipate the\nignorance and destroy the ridiculous opinions spread far and\n wide by all the\nhypocritical goodfellows\n in the official propaganda bureaus. Our France —\nnot the one whose picture is evoked on\n the distant shore of the Atlantic by the\nvanishing memory of Sarah Bernhardt, or still further back, of\n Lafayette fol-\nlowed the inevitable Rochambeau, or by\n the recent figure of one of our\nMarechaux, member of the French Academy. A France almost\n unknown\nand silent; hater of low\n comedy ; and who feels herself all the more drawn\nto this invisible America in whose name\n Waldo Frank speaks. She too seeks"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1634, "texte": "in the darkness, to free herself from\n the heaps of filth and rubbish ; from the\nwreckage of fallen beams and planks and plaster which prevent\n her from arising.\nNations, men, creators,\n artists, must have their envoys to maintain con-\ntact and enlighten, testify, and\n collaborate in the great tasks which are com-\nmon to us. Here is one of the\n plenipotentiaries. We must have others. We\nhave too many important messages to communicate which cannot\n pass through\nhands less faithful and\n sincere.\nOur joy is great at the\n coming of this ambassador, even for those who\nsuspected the existence of another\n America than that of the frock-coated gent-\nlemen. To-day they are sure that this\n America exists ; they watch her pass,\ntouch her and follow her with their eyes and their hearts.\n They will never\nagain forget the features\n of her young countenance.\nBy virtue of\n the fact that all beautiful things are common property, we\nare tempted not only to joyfully accept \"\n Our America \" but to consider her\nhenceforth ours also. We wish to annex her to the beautiful\n kingdom which\nis made by the discoveries\n of all the Waldo Franks, — the only kingdom of\nwhich we claim to be sons. For we are\n insatiable conquerors of new spiritual\nprovinces. This one delights us as few have done by its\n freshness and its pro-\nmise. We are happy as children — as men\n in whom childhood has not died —\nat the\n thought of the expeditions which we will undertake, to this\n virgin land,\nrich as in the first morning\n of the world, to this land, which offers herself to the\nhunger of the souls of today once gain\n seeking a new world.\n\nLeon Bazalgette."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "159", "page_fin": "159", "image_debut": 65, "image_fin": 65, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Rio Bo", "titre_sommaire": "Rio Bo", "signature_source": "Aldo Palazzeschi", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 408, "texte": "RIO BO.\nThree tiny houses\nwith roofs that are pointed,\ncustomary\n verdure,\na thread of running water :\n Rio 80,\na vigilant • cypress.\nMicroscopic country, it is true,\ncountry of nothingness, and yet . . .\nabove there is always a star,\na large, magnificent star,\nwhich is almost near . . .\nand with the tip of the cypress\nogles Rio 80.\nA\n star enamoured !\nWho knows\nif such a star ever comes\nto a great city ?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "159", "page_fin": "160", "image_debut": 65, "image_fin": 66, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "Chi Sono?", "titre_sommaire": "Chi Sono?", "signature_source": "Aldo Palazzeschi", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 410, "fin_caractere_exclue": 570, "texte": "CHI SONO ?\n\nWho am I ?\nA poet\n perhaps ?\nNot certain.\nI write but one word, very strange,\nwith the pen of my soul :\nfolly.\nAm I then a\n painter ?\nNot even this."}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 315, "texte": "There is only one color\non the palette of my soul:\nmelancholy.\nA\n composer then ?\nNot at all.\nThere is only one note\non the keyboard of my soul :\nnostalgia.\nWhat am\n I then ?\nI place a lens\nin front of my heart\nto be seen by all people.\nWho am I ?\nThe\n mountebank of my soul.\n\nFrom the Italian of\nAldo\n Palazzeschi."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "160", "page_fin": "160", "image_debut": 66, "image_fin": 66, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Nude", "titre_sommaire": "Nude", "signature_source": "Luciano Folgore", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 317, "fin_caractere_exclue": 730, "texte": "NUDE.\nFrom the Italian of\nLuciano Folgore.\nYou, nude in front of the rose lamp,\nand the ivory, the silver, the\n mother-of-pearl,\nfilled with the\n reflections\nof your flesh so softly\n luminous.\nA shivering in the boudoir\n of silk,\na murmur on the window\n half-open,\na thread of odour comes\nfrom the night of the open acacias,\nand a large butterfly unaware\nthat around you\none doesn't burn his wings,\nbut his\n soul."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "161", "page_fin": "161", "image_debut": 67, "image_fin": 67, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "Still Life", "titre_sommaire": "Still Life", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 68, "texte": "Henri Matisse.\nCourtesy\n Bernheim-Jeune Gallery — Paris.\nStill Life."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "162", "page_fin": "172", "image_debut": 68, "image_fin": 78, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "Hazi, Wife of Sender Surtuck", "titre_sommaire": "Hazi, Wife of Sender Surtuck", "signature_source": "Konrad Bercovici", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2410, "texte": "HAZI, WIFE OF SENDER SURTUCK.\n\nI can still picture to myself Hazi,\n Sender Surtuck's wife, as I saw her more\nthan twenty years ago. Sender, the Tartar trader, had crossed\n the frozen\nDanube on an ox-cart laden\n with barrels of honey and his new wife. It was\nher first trip from the marshlands, from\n the Dobrujdea into Roumania. Her\nhusband\n had taken her along to show her that he was not without friends\n in the\nland of the Ghiaours. We, the\n children of the house, watched her as she descend-\ned gracefully from the cart. A heavy\n veil with eye-holes was hanging over her\nface to hide her features from the sight of other men than her\n husband. But\nafter she had entered\n mothers's room she threw her veil over her head and we\nlooked at her while Sender was making his\n \" salaams \" to the master of the\nhouse. I\n still remember myself thinking that I was happy still to be\n considered\na child, and therefore\n privileged to see the Cadina's face. Her hair was thick,\nblack and luscious. Her eyes were big and\n of a deep brown water. Her mouth\nwas like\n a perfectly spanned arch in repose. She was of a rather smallish\n build\nbut of perfect proportion and\n walked with a kind of rythmic glide I have known\nin only one other woman, besides Hazi,\n Sender Surtuck's wife.\nIt was late in the\n afternoon, and Mother, who had taken a fancy to Hazi,\nmuch to my delight, insisted that Sender\n and his wife remain in our house\nover-night. Sender protested at first saying that he had\n already made arrange-\nments with the \" Chanjii,\" the\n innkeeper, yet even while protesting he helped\nthe man-servant unyoke the big white oxen\n and asked for a vase in which\nto draw\n some honey for the table from one of the barrels standing on\n its\nbottom in the cart. Surely \"\n EfTendi \" Janco's wife would permit him to\ncontribute some sweet gold to the evening meal; and he was\n sure that the\n\" chiujiuks, \" the\n children, would like it. Only he had not meant to intrude.\nHe was still strongly minded to pass the\n night in the \" Chan. \" He had only\nwanted\n to say Salaam Haleikam to his old friend \" Effendi \" Janco.\n Yet\nif the lady of the house wanted to\n show such great favor to his \" Cadina \"\nhow could he refuse ! Of a certainty Hazi, who had never\n before been away\nfrom the marshes of\n Tartar Bazshik, would remember to tell the event to her\nchildren, if Allah should think her\n worthy of his grace, and they in turn shall"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2788, "texte": "tell of the event to their children, for\n it was not every day that Tartars, poor\nmarshland traders were housed in \" Effendi \" Janco's home.\nIt was a long-winded speech delivered\n with accompanying gestures and\nsalaams,\n while the honey as clear as liquid amber was slowly filling the\n glass\npitcher which had been handed to\n the guest from Dobrudjea.\nAfterwards\n Sender went off with Father to the stables. The two had much\nto tell one another for they were old\n friends. Hazi was taken into Mother's\nroom. It seemed ages before we were called to dinner. Hazi\n only lifted the\nlower part of her veil,\n up to Uer nose, as she sat down to eat, and she was\nas much embarassed as she was amused by\n forks and spoons and their use. She\nhad\n never seen such tools before. She clapped her hands noisily when\n she saw\nhow skillfully her husband used a\n fork and spoon. She had never known Sender\nto be such a learned man. Why ! he used these tools almost as\n well as\n\" Effendi. \" They must buy a few\n of them in the store before they return home\nacross the Danube.\nSender thought it well to excuse his wife's exhuberance.\n\" She is young. She has never been\n outside her home. \"\n\" But she is good and\n healthy. She stands me two hundred ducats in gold !\nShe is the daughter of an 'Osmanli' with\n blood of ' Chans ' in her veins.\"\nBut\n Mother kissed Hazi and said she would be very happy to have her\n near her\nevery winter.\n\" Oh, Sender ! \" Hazi exclaimed with\n pleading voice.\n\" Allah forbids to\n promise. Promise is Allah's great -privilege, \" spoke\nSender soberly. Yet that was as good as\n promised and the two women kissed\nagain.\n They both understood guarded speech. After dinner Sender\n permitted,\nnay, asked his wife to\n dance. As a \" bayadere \" she had no equal on earth,\nhe assured us as he squatted down on the\n rug near the fire-place to prepare his\npipe. And then, Hazi danced to her husband's not very\n inspiring song. I\nhave since known only\n one woman, I believe, able to dance as gracefully ; and\nthat woman does not dance. Hazi's limbs\n moved gracefully in harmony with\nthe\n movement of her torso which swayed like a young birch tree when\n the east\nwind is blowing. While she\n danced her open palms and long fingers drew intricate\narabesques in the smoke-thick air. It was\n as if her limbs and torso were singing\nthe song of the body. When the dance was finished Hazi flitted\n with Mother\nfrom the room ; marvelling at\n the novelty of kerosene lamps, delighted by a\nsound from a piano and almost hysterical\n when she saw a sewing machine at\nwork.\nWhen Sender had finally joined his wife\n in the guest room, which was next\nto my\n own den, they talked away the greater part of the night. She was\n telling\nhim about all the things she\n had seen, and he continually impressed upon her"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2845, "texte": "the fact that it was not given to every\n Tartar to have such a friend as the \" Ef-\nfendi \" Janco, who owned such marvels;\n and that it was to him that she chief-\nly owed the great honor shown her.\n\" And Sender, you must buy me tools to\n eat with. They will all marvel\nat home !\n \"\n\" I shall buy you tools to eat with\n and should I sell my honey I'll buy a\ncandle giving ten times more light than a wax candle, yet it\n is not a candle and\nburns with the aid of\n a certain heavy smelling water called ' kurusin, ' \" Sender\nassured her before falling asleep. Sender\n Surtuck loved his wife Hazi and\nwas even\n ready to buy a ghiaour-made thing to please her.\nI could not sleep. I could have murdered\n the Tartar for the happiness\nthat was\n his. The love that was his. For the beautiful \" bayadere \"\n that\nwas his — lying so close to him,\n talking while he snored heavify. He was a\nhappy man —\nYet, a few months later, on\n an evening of the spring of the same year,\nSender Surtuck killed Hazi with his own hands ; drove his\n short knife into her\nheart as she kneeled\n before him with arms raised above her head to make it\neasier for him. The story of her death\n was told to me by Kezhman Ali, the old\n\"\n Chiaoush \" and \" Calf an \" who was both priest and banker to the\n people of\nTartar Bazhik.\n\" And the Koran says, ' Life without love\n is like love without life. ' It\nis death,\n my son. So you need no longer wonder why Sender Surtuck\n married\nHazi, so young and so\n beautiful, after he had counted in his life more than fifty\ntimes twelve new moons. Sender Surtuck\n was healthy and strong and therefore\nhe\n paid the two hundred ducats Hazi's father demanded for his\n daughter. It\nwas wise of Sender ; for\n love giveth to life new lease and with each new love man\nrenews his youth. Hale men want to live,\n therefore they love and seek new\nlove\n when the old dieth. And it is wise that it happens so and the\n Koran ordains *\nthat is be so. That is\n why we Mussulmans have more white bearded youths\nthan the Ghiaours have. This is why we\n are young to the grave. Consider,\nmy son\n ! After the wedding Sender and Hazi crossed the Danube. And\n on\ncoming home brought from the other\n side silks, and woolen cloth, and eating\ntools as used by Effendis, and a water-burning candle that\n gives great light,\nmaking night into day.\n And I, as the Chiaoush, forbade the use of the water-\nburning candle because of its changing\n the order of life. It is written that day\nshall be day and night shall be night. That the sun gives\n light for the day.\n\" Sender was in his\n hut most of the winter. He had no trading to do. The\nbees were hibernating. There was plenty\n of honey left, and quarters of lambs,\nand\n ' kummis ' aplenty. And as the last married man, Sender was\n entitled to\nall the titbits of freshly\n killed animals ; brains and kidneys and tongues. In-"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2959, "texte": "deed it was a winter of pleasure for\n Sender Surtuck. Plenty of food, a warm\nhut and a young wife, who was also a ' bayadere ', dancing\n before him every\nday at eventide. What\n more could a man want ? So Sender Surtuck was\nhappy. But was she happy ? No, my son,\n not always. Not as much as she\ndesired.\n She was not. For youth craves youth for companionship. Youth\nwants changes. It is why we have four\n seasons. Old age would be satisfied\nwith\n only one long season. When youth walks there is a movement from\n the\nfoot to the ankle, from the ankle\n to the knee, and from the knee to the hip.\nBut see an old man walk ! Oh ! my son ; from the hips move his\n limbs. Youth '\nAnd Sender would not let\n his wife out of sight.\n\" She should have\n been playing with the young maidens of the tribe. There\nwas Fatma and Rozi and Stepna and Jahde\n who danced and made merry and\nlaughed and\n sang while weaving cloth and spinning wool. And their\n laughter\nechoed around Hazi's hut. But\n Sender would not let her be merry among the\ngirls, for, with them were young men. The\n maidens were all unveiled and showed\ntheir faces to the men, and their bare legs as they danced.\n And when the\nmaidens were alone there was\n talk about young men ; praise of youth and strength\nand repeated talk of love. Hazi longed to\n dance before other eyes than Sender's\ntherefore her own eyes took on the haze of eyes of men\n traveling the seas.\nShe looked past\n Sender s head when she danced ; looked through the walls,\nand her ears trained themselves to hear\n the footsteps of the young men going\nto\n the maidens quarters. She had seen them on only rare occasions.\n But\nshe knew when broad-shouldered\n Kennal passed by the hut. She knew when\nOsman sauntered by and when Kergez stole up to Fatma's\n sleeping quarters. So\nshe began to beg of\n Sender to let her go to the maidens to weave cloth for her\nhusband. Her fingers longed to weave\n cloth, she assured him. And the kind\nshe\n could weave no other woman ever wove. For her mother had been\n the best\nweaver. And the cloth made for\n the burnuz and pantaloons of her father and\nbrothers was the finest grained cloth the\n faithful ever wore. And by these en-\ntreaties she obtained Sender's will to\n let her do as she pleased. But before she\nhad gone Sender spoke to her as follows :\nI let you go among the maidens and young\n men. Only remember the\nlaw of Kurguzes,\n my tribe. 'A woman who has dishonored her husband's\nhouse is killed by him and her body is\n thrown to the ' wolves. ' \"\n\" It is the\n same as. with the Osmanlis, \" she answered. \"And it is four\nhundred years since a woman of my tribe\n has so been punished. How long is\nit\n since one of yours was so punished ? \" Sender did not answer and\n Hazi's\npride in her tribe rose. And so\n Hazi went forth to weave cloth. There was\nno evil thought in her mind. There came no evil thoughts to\n the minds of the\nyoung men as they\n watched her dance ; for truly, they were Kurguzes, each one"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2911, "texte": "of them. Even though she was the best\n Bayadere they had ever seen, the men\nfeasted their eyes on her beautiful movements, considering\n Sender a happy\nman to have her, but were\n grateful to him for letting her be amongst them and\nwere not envious of him.\n\" And amongst the young men was one\n Nazim, the son of Mechmet Ali.\nNazim's\n mother had counted twenty times twelve moons since she had\n given\nhim birth. A shy quiet boy was\n Nazim. Tall and heavy and clumsy he was.\nHis hair was dull and his eyes had no glint in them. He never\n sang when the\nother young men sang and\n when he spoke his words were like a scant horde in\nretreat before an enemy.\n\" The Kurguzes are all smooth tongued,\n being traders. Their words are\nlike\n marching hordes in triumph, one close to the other and swinging\n in long\nlines. And tellers of tales they\n are and singers and dancers. And the maidens\nand youth all mocked Nazim. And there was\n not one of the girls, the poorest\nof\n them, not even the one-eyed Ape, that would have thought of\n marrying Nazim.\nNot for a hundred ducats\n would her father have sold her to him for a wife.\nThey thought him a fool, dull, and stupid\n ; with no will, no mind, no fire. They\nmocked and insulted him. Yet he never rose in anger and just\n smiled sheep-\nishly. Though he was as strong as an ox,\n when at work, he offered no more\nresistance than a lamb when tussled by the young men in play.\n And one day,\nwhen they had mocked Nazim\n overmuch, Hazi spoke to the youths :\n\"\n Why do you mock him ? Because he is not loud-mouthed ? Because\n he\nis strong and would not use his\n strength to hurt you ? It seems to me that\nif I were to have to choose today amongst you men, I should\n choose no other\nman than Nazim. And lam\n an Osmanli. The men of my tribe are strong and\nbrave in battle, but gentle with their\n friends and kin. \"\n\" Nazim heard what she\n said and when he made sure that she did not say\nit in mockery, he looked at her.\n Something stirred in him and the fire leaped to\nhis eyes and stayed there. A few days\n later there was much singing in the\nweaving hut. The white cloth for the old Hagii was finished.\n And after Hazi\nhad danced the youths\n began to sing. And there was one voice that rose higher\nthan the other voices. Higher and rounder\n and warmer. And that voice was\nNazim's.\n So Fatma looked at the youth and saw for the first time what a\n beau-\ntiful mouth he had. And from there she\n looked at Hazi and saw that Nazim\nsang to\n her. And every one wondered why Nazifti had never sung\n before.\n\" Still a few days later there\n was a dance in which the young men danced\nwith the maidens. Fatma danced with Nazim and felt the warm\n glow of his\nbody and the hot flush of his\n cheek as his feet moved smoothly and swiftly. She\nspoke to him as they danced and his words\n flowed slowly but steadily in answer.\nAnd\n there was wisdom, tempered by beauty of speech. After the dance\n there"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2916, "texte": "was wrestling. Nazim's strength showed\n itself. He only used half of it to\nbest\n the strongest youths.\nSo they began to\n ask one another : ' What has happened to Nazim ? '\nFor lo !in less than a moon his dull hair\n was as shiny as any one's. His eyes had\na\n glint, his cheeks color, his mouth freshness and his voice was\n so beautiful and\nstrong ! He was still\n shy. But it was the shyness of strength ; the shyness of\na man afraid to use his strength lest it\n kill. And with the steady flow of words\nalso came a steady gait in his lower limbs. And his arms no\n longer hung limply\nat his sides when he\n spoke to people. And the maidens vied with each other\nto please him, but he had eyes only for\n Hazi. He took her home evenings\nto Sendei\n s hut and even came to call for her and went with her to the\n youths'\nquarters. Sender doubted\n nothing. Why should he ? For would it not be\nbeneath him to suspect a woman of the\n Osmanlis ? And was it not known that\nNazim was only half-witted ? The news of the change in the bov\n had not yet\nreached the older people.\n\"And as Nazim walked near Hazi his mind\n unfolded as a flower unfolds\nm warm ram\n after a dry spell. Truly, it was as if she were a second mother,\n the\none giving birth to his soul. The\n first one had given the shell of the boy from her\nflesh : and now, that other one was\n filling the shell with all that was beautiful\nwithin her. Or better still, it was like\n a master potter taking over an ill\nshaped\n vase of soft clay and fashioning it over. And Hazi took great\npleasure in what she was doing. For Allah\n had given her a clear mind and a\ngood\n heart. She did not know what was slowly coming into her blood,\n what\nwas echoing in it. She did not\n know that she herself was growing more beauti-\nful and wiser as she gave wisdom and\n beauty. For wisdom is like a water sprin g-\nthe more you draw from it, the clearer\n it runs.\nTheir eyes opened to Nazim's\n awakening, the maidens vied with each\nother to please him. And Fatma, who had mocked the boy more\n frequently\nthan any other of the\n girls, was now the one deploying all her means to captivate\nhim. And all the other youths were now as\n nothing compared to Nazim. For,\nwas he\n not stronger, and more beautiful and wiser than all of them ?\n And did\nnot his voice rise like the waves\n when the tide comes in ?\n\" Nazim loved\n Hazi. But, with a different love than Fatma succeeded in\nawakening. For he was a Kurguz and could\n not even think of helping a wo-\nman to dishonor her husband's house. And\n so one day when he was walking\nwith Hazi\n he told her, ' I love Fatma. Yesternight I took the moon as\n witness\nthat lam to marry her. She\n loves me, Fatma, she loves me. '\n*'\n Listening to his words Hazi's feet grew heavy. Her chest began\n to heave\nand her head to swim., Her arms\n ached and her limbs pained and her mouth\nsuddenly became like a chimney through which flames were\n rising to the heavens."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2852, "texte": "She gave a loud cry and fainted. She\n herself had not known before what she\nfelt for the boy. It was only when he had told her that he was\n to marry another\nwoman that she realized\n the love that was in her heart. Yet it did not come clear\nto her. It did not happen in the guise of\n sin. She only felt like one who has\nprepared the best food, served it at the table, and was\n forbidden to eat it — yet\nhad to watch\n the others eat what she had prepared.\n\"\n For three days and three nights she was unconscious. And her\n husband\nsitting at her bedside could\n not string together the words she said while in high\nfever. The Hojea was called. He gave her\n drinks of boiled herbs and roots. But\nthey helped not. Then, early on the fourth day Nazim entered\n the hut. Send-\ner allowed him to go to her bed-side\n even while her face was uncovered. For\nhe\n thought nothing of Nazim. It was as if Nazim was not a man at\n all. He\nwas so childish. It was the first\n time Nazim had seen Hazi's face. Pale and\nfeverish as it was it was more beautiful than Fatma's. And by\n that time he also\nunderstood why Senders'\n wife had swooned. But Nazim was a Kurguz. She\nwas another man's wife.\n' Hazi, ' the boy spoke as he sat down\n near the bed, ' I Nazim, have come\nto see\n you. ' Hazi opened her eyes and looked at him. Then\n understanding\ncame to her and she\n smiled as she said :\n'It is weM you did.\n I waited for you. I should have died if you had not\ncome. But now, I shall be well again. And\n when you marry Fatma I shall\ndance my\n best, if it so please you. '\n\" It was\n only then that Sender heard about Nazim's promise to Fatma\n and\nhe wondered that so beautifuj a\n girl should want to marry so stupid a boy. Yet\nvery soon he too like the others learned\n about Nazim's wonderful unfolding. And\nevery one spoke about the miracle. And it was as clear as day\n that the prophet\nhad kissed the boy's\n brow in his sleep.\n\" Hazi ceased to weave\n cloth and kept to her hut. When pain and longing\novercame her she prayed and fasted and\n begged Allah to take her to himself.\nWhen\n Sender was not in the hut she cried and sobbed and called out\n Nazim's\nname aloud, ' Nazim, my Nazim.\n '\n\" After a while news came to Hazi\n that the wedding between Fatma and\nNazim\n was set for the second moon after the snow should have been\n melted\nand drunk by the soil. At times\n she rushed out to the door of the hut to meet\nNazim and tell him that it could not be.\n But the teaching of her mother, of\nher\n faith, forbade her feet to go farther. She was Sender's wife.\n She then\nfelt remorse, and because of\n that she overwhelmed Sender with greater love\nand gave him more frequent caresses ; to\n drown her passion for the one she\nloved\n in the flesh of the one for whom she had no love. Yet every time\n she did\nso she rose in the morning with a\n feeling of having committed a greater sin"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2641, "texte": "than adultery. For she sinned both ways.\n Sinned in her mind and in her\nflesh. The\n caresses she gave her husband were meant for Nazim.\n\" The snow began to melt, the days\n lengthened. The howls of the wolves\nbecame more distant every night. The ice on the river melted\n and the birds\nbegan to flit in the naked\n trees for worms and grub between the folds of the\nbark.\n\" Neither\n was Nazim happy. His wisdom had brought too much sadness\nin his life. He knew why Hazi was never\n seen anywhere and he longed to see\nher.\n And he too prayed and cried. But he was a Kurguz. Another\n man's\nwife is another man's wife, and\n a promise is a promise. ' For it is better not to\nsave a man from death than to break a\n promise to a faithful one,' says the Koran.\n\" Then, one evening, when Sender had\n again gone away to sell his honey,\nHazi\n waited for Nazim to come out from the maidens' quarter. She only\n want-\ned to see him. But when she saw him she\n could no longer hold out against\nher love\n and throwing her arms around his neck she cried :\n' Nazim, come, let us run away to the\n land of the Ghiaours where we could\nbe\n happy.'\nf' Nazim drew his head from\n the noose of her coiled arms and spoke gently\nbut firmly even while his great body\n shook with fear lest his passion be stronger\nthan his faith.\n'It could not be, Hazi. You are another man's wife.'\n\" But she would not hear of it. Fidelity,\n faith, teaching, training, had\nbeen\n melted by love as snow is melted by the sun. She had him come to\n her\nhut, and there, in the dark she\n threw her arms again around the boy's neck\nand kissed him ; burned his cheeks with her hot lips. '\n Nazim,' she cried,\n' you must be mine.'\n But Nazim was a Kurguz.\n' You are another\n man's wife, ' he said, as he pinned her arms to her sides :\n' Allah has given me wisdom to use it for\n his praise and not to dishonor my\nkin.\n And if Allah has willed that I suffer because of that, it is\n Allah's will\nand not mine that I must\n follow.'\n' Allah ! Allah ! ' Hazi\n answered. ' Nazim ! Nazim ! Have I brought luster\nto your hair that another woman should\n play with it ? Have I brought fire\ninto\n your eyes that another woman should feast on them ? Have I tuned\n the\nchords of your voice for another\n woman to hear it ? Have I brought warmth\nto your limbs that another woman should feel the touch of them\n ? And what-\never there is in you other women now\n love, it is I that have given you and I\ncall it mine. And wisdom has come to me that Allah himself\n thinks it sinful\nto give caresses to\n other than the one you love. And I love you, Nazim. L,et\ngo of my arms that I may touch you.'\n' I have promised Fatma.'"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2861, "texte": "' Never, never will you be Fatma's. It\n is me you love, not Fatma. It is\nsinful\n to marry her. I shall not live to see you marry her. And you\n shall not\nmarry her after my death. '\n\" Till late in the night the two sat\n together and talked, but when Nazim\nleft\n the hut his faith had been stronger than her love and his own\n passion.\nHe went to his hut with her\n last words ringing in his ears, ' Nazim you shall\nnever wed Fatma while lam alive. And you\n will not wed her after my death.\nFor my\n love for you is stronger than my faith and my life and the oath\n I swore\nto my husband and the teaching of\n my mother. '\n\"The snow melted rapidly.\n The women were now ready with Fatma's\nwedding dresses. The maidens were merrier than ever. Their\n quarters were\ngay from sunrise to late in\n the night. The bees began to stir in the combs,\nand the mares dropped colts, the eaves\n lambs, and frogs were heard to croak\nin\n the pools.\n\" Two more weeks to the\n wedding of Fatma to Nazim. One more week\nto the wedding of Fatma to Nazim. Two more days. The Hojea has\n been\nbrought from Cerna Voda. The\n horses are being trained for the races and stunts.\nThe women watch Fatma day and night. They\n teach her what the prophet\nhas ordained a\n bride must know. She must sit for hours and untie compli-\ncated knots and disentangle thread\n without breaking it. She is taught patience\nand submission ; the two great virtues of\n a wife, next to fidelity. She is taught\nto smile and laugh when in pain. She is taught to listen to\n speech without\nanswering. For it is no\n little thing to be a wife !To be both useful and sweet.\nTo be like milk ; to nourish even when\n curdled by time and warmth.\n\"The day of\n the wedding Hazi sought out Nazim and spoke to him again :\n' Nazim,' she said, ' I cannot bear the\n thought of giving you away to another\nwoman. I can not bear the thought of another woman's bare arm\n around\nyour neck, of another woman's\n lips on the lips to which I have given life. Those\nthoughts are like dull knives cutting my\n flesh underneath the skin. Nazim,\nthere\n is still time. The anger of Sender, the hatred of the whole\n tribe, the shame\nof Fatma, even the\n blasphemy of the Hojea and death are nothing to me.\nCome, let us run away. And if the men\n overtake us we shall both die, if Allah\nso wills. But I can not bear the thought of your being another\n woman's hus-\nband, and I can no longer be Sender's\n wife. So it is with you that rests my\nlife or my death. Speak !'\n\"For a long\n while he looked at her (she had thrown her veil over-head)\nsaw that her cheeks were sunken and pale\n ; that her eyes were red from much .\ncrying and little sleep ; that her arms had lost their\n roundness, and her fingers\nno longer kept\n together, but twitched and coiled one over the other as\n twitches\nand curls flesh over open\n fire. And his own heart battled against his mind ;"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2611, "texte": "against the wisdom she had given him and\n which she now asked him to betray.\nThen\n tears came to his eyes as he said :\n'It\n can not be, Hazi. It can not be. lam to wed Fatma tonight.'\n' You will not!' she cried, beating his\n chest with her two fists. He let\nher do\n as she pleased. He would have let her drive knives through his\n heart\nif she so wanted. All of a\n sudden she ceased. She became quiet and cold,\nlooked at him for a while, then she\n begged :\n' Kiss me. Oh Nazim ! Kiss me on\n my mouth once only. The first and\nthe\n last time. Kiss me, Nazim.'\n\"He ran away\n without turning his head. A woman is a woman. Faith\nand teaching are nothing to a woman when\n she loves. • Love is her faith. But\nNazim\n was a Kurguz, a man.\n\" The night o£ the\n wedding. The earth was dry and warm. There was\na large circle of small fires around\n which sat the maidens and the youths. Within\nthe circle, in the center sat the white\n bearded Hojea, in new white vestments,\nand around him the people of the tribe. The men on one side\n and the women\non the other. To the right\n of the holy man sat Nazim and to the left Fatma,\ndressed in silks and atlass. A white veil\n pinned to her hair was ready to be\nthrown\n over her face. After the evening prayers, I, as the Chiaoush,\n read the\nmarriage contract. Six horses\n and four hundred ducats in gold Nazim's father\nhad asked to be written in as price to\n Patma's father for a wife to his son.\n\"\n After I was through reading the Hojea stood up and said so that\n every-\nbody should hear :\n' Is there anybody here who should not be here ? Whose heart\n is full of anger,\nwhose mind harbors evil\n thoughts ? Speak. • Thrice shall I ask the same thing\nbefore pronouncing Nazim and Fatma man\n and wife. Before taking the moon\nas\n witness. The moon and the stars, the children of the prophets.\n Is there\nanybody here who should not be\n here ? '\n'I,' shouted Hazi, ' For I have\n dishonored my husband's house and I am\nready to pay for the sin with my life.'\n\" Even the fire ceased cracking when the Hojea sat down and\n covered his\neyes with his hands. The\n others did likewise. Hazi rose from her place and\nwalked slowly to her hut followed by\n Sender Surtuck. We held our breath\nuntil\n we heard a loud scream from there. May Allah be merciful to her\n soul.\nAnd then we turned around. Nazim\n was dead. Had died without a scream\nby\n Fatma's hasty hand.\n\" Hazi was still\n alive. So before dying Hazi told the truth to her husband\nand to the Hojea ; that she wanted to die\n that her death be a bar to Nazim's\nwedding.\n\" So if you ever meet\n Sender Surtuck, for he is wandering aimlessly from"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1220, "texte": "place to place, talk kindly to him, my\n son. Don't look upon him as a murderer.\nFor though Hazi had never sinned in the flesh, her sin was\n still a very great\none. May Allah be kind\n to her soul, and forgive her since her love wa s more\nto her than her life which was his,\n Allah's, the only one, and Mahomet's, who\nis his only prophet.\n\"And ever since\n that night young lambs are dying, horses grow lame,\nand mothers' breasts are dry. And there\n is much crying in our tribe. There\nis no\n song in our youths. For each one of them is losing his youth.\n And\nthey are slow at trading. Their\n speech is too slow. For every man that buys\nmust pay for the speech of the man who\n sells. And if a trader be dumb his\nhorse\n is lame. But if a trader be smooth of tongue the lame horse is\n clean\nof limb and the blind horse\n sees. And there must be joy in selling if it is to\nbring profit. But selling what is yours\n to buy food with gives no joy, and\ntherefore the speech is 510w... It is like showing the speed\n of a horse with reins\nchecked short.\n Consider, my son. If you ever meet Sender Surtuck...\"\nAnd Kezhman Ali, the \" Chiaoush \" and \"\n Chalfan,\" the priest and banker\nof Tartar\n Bazhik, wept bitterly.\n\nKonrad Bercovici."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "173", "page_fin": "173", "image_debut": 79, "image_fin": 79, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "The Bird with the Coppery, Keen Claws", "titre_sommaire": "The Bird with the Coppery, Keen Claws", "signature_source": "Wallace Stevens", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 774, "texte": "THE BIRD WITH THE COPPERY, KEEN CLAWS.\nWallace Stevens.\nAbove the forest of the parakeets,\nA parakeet of parakeets prevails,\nA pip of life amid a mort of tails.\n(The rudiments of tropics are around,\nAloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind).\nHis lids are white because his eyes are\n blind.\nHe is not paradise of\n parakeets,\nOf his gold ether, golden\n alguazil,\nExcept because he broods\n there and is still.\nPanache upon panache,\n his tails deploy\nUpward and outward, in\n green-vented forms,\nHis tip a drop of\n water full of storms.\nBut though the\n turbulent tinges undulate\nAs his pure\n intellect applies its laws,\nHe moves not\n on his coppery, keen claws.\nHe munches a\n dry shell while he exerts\nHis will, yet\n never ceases, perfect cock,\nTo flare, in\n the sun-pallor of his rock."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "174", "page_fin": "174", "image_debut": 80, "image_fin": 80, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "Mist", "titre_sommaire": "Mist", "signature_source": "Jean Starr Untermeyer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 558, "texte": "I.\nMIST.\nThere is a mist over this lake.\nIt shrouds the colors and the sounds as\n well;\nIt is wrapped over the hills\n like a strong veil\nAnd it blurs the\n patterns that the pine trees make,\nlace-wo veil over the sky.\nOld Sun, you\n can not pierce it;\nAs I look at you, you\n seem no more than\nA brightly — cloudy\n glass sphere.\nLittle birds, your chirring\n is dull . . .\nA cow-bell, clanking in the\n woods,\nHas the muffled music of minor\n thirds.\nOh mist, you have lessened\n everything —\nEven my longing is choked\n within my breast;\nI can find no song for\n it."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "174", "page_fin": "175", "image_debut": 80, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "Anti-Erotic", "titre_sommaire": "Anti-Erotic", "signature_source": "Jean Starr Untermeyer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 560, "fin_caractere_exclue": 916, "texte": "II.\nANTI-EROTIC.\n\nHold me so and press my head\nClose to your shoulder with a gentle hand\n ;\nAnd do not wonder that this mild\n caress\nDearer to me than all your\n passion is.\nFor passion one can have from\n many men.\nWhen a woman flames to the new\n life of Spring,\nMen read the ardor and\n the dreaming in her eyes\nAs tributes to\n themselves — and burn to her."}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 211, "texte": "But to be cherished as a child is\n cherished,\nTo be held as something\n incredibly dear\nThis is like the delicate\n hopes of childhood,\nLike waking from\n December into the sweet air of May.\n\nJean Starr Untermeyer."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "175", "page_fin": "175", "image_debut": 81, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "One Moment Only", "titre_sommaire": "One Moment Only", "signature_source": "Harold Munro", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 213, "fin_caractere_exclue": 910, "texte": "ONE MOMENT ONLY.\nHarold Munro.\nWhat river do we walk beside,\nSo red and strong and throbbing like a\n heart ? —\n0 Brain, now you and I\nAre dreaming of the river of all\n Blood.\nDive from this bank, and I will\n follow ;\nAnd we will swim against the\n current up.\nPlunge! Ah, do not awaken:\nLoud the blood flows. Strike upward to\n the source.\nHold me ! — You must not tire\n ;\nFor you and I will talk of this\n years after ;\nWe shall remember it for\n ever.\n1 am so happy now.\nYou're failing, failing. We shall\n drown.\nWhere are you ? I have lost you\n in the dark.\nOh, the thick blood is\n roaring through my body.\nInto what world\n have I awakened now ?\nBrain, could you\n not have dreamed a little longer ?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "176", "page_fin": "183", "image_debut": 82, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "Pelleas Night", "titre_sommaire": "Pelleas Night", "signature_source": "Donald Corley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2169, "texte": "PELLEAS NIGHT.\n\nShe left me sitting there in the warm\n candle-light watching the little flames\nsedately poise themselves on the blackened sticks of wood. . .\n one moment they\nare. . . then they are\n not.. .Who severs the thin thread of blue that attaches them\nto their ephemeral life ? Where do they\n go ? Who are they that live again,\ngloriously, for a moment ? Nicoletta had clicked up the stairs\n to the balcony\nto change her dress, for\n we were going to the opera . . . which was to be Pelleas . .\n .\nWallace had looked up sadly from his\n contemplation of Marco Polo when I had\ngone home to — fifth Street, late in the afternoon — Wallace\n deyours books\nof travels when he is\n unhappy just like some people knit, or smoke, or find things\nto tack on the wall — with : \" Sandyman,\n Nunkie has donated his box for\nthis\n evening . . . \"\n\" What's the matter ?\n can't you go ?\n\" Got to take Aunt Nelly\n to a lecture . . . promised to two weeks ago . . .\nit's her only evening in town . . . and\n she ...\"\n\" But surely your Aunt Nelly\n would rather go to the opera than to the stupid-\nest lecture ever delivered — (just why\n is a lecture always 'delivered?' most of\nthem don't seem to have come from anywhere) — wouldn't she ?\n \"\n\" You don't know my Aunt Nelly, \"\n said Wallace, dolefully. \" She has a\npassion for lectures. . . this one particular is. ..Oh !\n he11...\"\n\" Have you asked her ?\n Sometimes, you know, ' opera 'is a mighty potent\nword-suggestion to the female of the\n species. \"\n\" But the opera is Pelleas ! \"\n Wallace glowered . . . \" do you see me going\nto Pelleas . . . with my aunt ? \"\n\"No, Wallace, I can quite see how you\n feel about it... if it were Rigoletto,\nnow, or Faust. . . something more in the line of the polite,\n old-fashioned theme\nof betrayal, you\n might expect your Aunt Nelly to forego \" The Pre-Conclusion\nof the Infinite \"... or is it worse than\n that ? and be in a flutter over poor Mar-\nguerite ... so trusting ... so croolly\n ...\" Marco Polo passed my head at a rapid\ngait and landed in the other room somewhere. . . causing the\n sleepy Aephosto-\npholous to blink an eye in mild\n surprise, accustomed as he is to his master's\nvagaries."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2831, "texte": "\" Will you stop ? \" asked Wallace, in\n accents injured ... \" Why rub\nit in ? \" \"\n There are some operas that I will not go to hear with anyone\n but... \"\n\" . . . but with a woman for\n whom you have a \" but I desisted, for Wallace\nwill not stand much of the sandpapering\n of affectionate malice. . . besides I did\nnot wish to goad him to the point of with-holding the tickets\n from me, which\nwould have been\n insupportable ... so in crocodile tones I inquired : \" I\n don't\nreally see what you can do,\n Wallace ... it's a darned shame. . . what had you\nintended to do with the tickets ? \"\n\" I was going to give them to you, \" said\n Wallace,, morosely. \" But it seems\nto me\n that I have heard you pronounce that no man of soul would\n witness Pelleas,\nnor Tristan, nor Manon .\n . . unless he were in love, and could ...\" mocked\nWallace, becoming maliceful in his turn.\n \" But of course, if you're completely\nresigned to your celibate mysogony . . . naturally you\n wouldn't care to go to\nPelleas . . . I'll\n call up Jerry. \"\n\" No you won't,\" I\n protested ...\" you know very well that Jerry isn't a man\nto squander a box to Pelleas on. \"\nWallace smiled maliciously. \" Thought I'd\n catch you, Sandyman, \" he\nsaid, quietly.\n And that was all that he said.\nAnd I, in\n feverish haste, began to dress. By good fortune Jerry had not\ncommandeered the triumvirate raiment of\n impeccability that evening . . . and\nan\n inquiring glance at Wallace satisfied me that he would meet his\n Aunt Nelly\nin grey serge . . .\nFor I had an engagement to dine with\n Nicolette, at her own fireside. . .\nand\n to go to Pelleas with Nicolette, for whom I always reserved, in\n my mind's\neye, all the choicest of\n concerts and the most delectable of ballets and...in\nshort, the perfection of life . . . and\n here was one of its perfections, fallen from\nthe sky and Wallace's Nunkie ...\nWallace had not spoken again ... he was\n wandering around, his eye turned\nsedulously away from me. . . but if a flute could speak . . .\n and Wallace's could,\nthe dolorous \" Ach,\n der Qualen \" of Paderewski and the fragment of \"Die\nLorelei \" that he was playing :' muted\n wood wind, ' he had not missed anything\nthat was in the air.\nHe was long and\n lean, was Wallace . . . and very like a mediaeval monk\nin feature ... he leaned against a door\n post and gave the impression of an abstrac-\ntion . . . suddenly he dropped the flute\n and darted out of the door as if he had\nheard the telephone . . . 'perhaps Aunt Nelly has peritonitis,\n ' was my first\nthought. . . and then, 4\n perhaps it's later than I thought, and Wallace has dashed\noff for dinner . . . the tickets ! No,\n upon reflection, you don't have to have tick-\nets for a box . . . you simply stroll\n past the door-man and up the stairs, and\ntersely ask to have No. 33, or No. 58 opened for you ... as\n the case might be,\n6"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3059, "texte": "and Wallace's Nunkie's box number I knew\n . . . why had he gone so abruptly?\nI was\n still pondering as I draped the coat of evening over a chair to\n give it the\nonce over, when Wallace came\n in in a leisurely fashion, looking rather sheepish.\nWhen you have lived with Wallace as many\n years as I have you don't ask him\nquestions . . . indeed that is the secret of any two men\n living together in amity\nand without\n friction . . . they make no demands on each other . . . exhibit\n no\ncuriosity . . . intuitively knowing\n a great deal about each other, and not making\nany comment about it.\nWallace resumed \" die Iyorelei, \" keeping\n a and amused eye on me,\nand as I buckled\n on the armour of civilization and addressed the necktie Wal-\nlace rifted into the shepherd motif of\n Tristan . . . Confond his malice, I thought,\nand what's he watching me like a hawk for\n ... is he afraid I'll take his gold-\nheaded stick when he isn't looking ?\n Base thought ! Your friend gives you a\nbox to Pelleas, and you suspect him of suspicion ! I went to\n find something\nin the other room* still\n pondering Wallace's demeanour . . . while I was in there\nthe flute ended its poignant wail and\n struck the gay, feverish, happy, joyous,\nsecond motif of the shepherd ...\" the ship comes' . . . What\n did he mean by\nit all ? Now he was\n whistling, the mercurial imp, and making a great clatter\nwith stick, brush and hat... for Wallace\n carefully rubs his cherished stick with\na\n sofa cushion before going out . . . perfectly ' understanding\n the nice conduct\nof a clouded cane ! ' in\n a satirical fashion all his own, and to be well brushed\nis to Wallace as rigid a rule as Beau\n Brummel's \" clean linen, plenty of it, and\ncountry washing . . . \"\nI came into\n find Wallace, still smiling mysteriously, hat on head, gloves\nin hand . . . evidently waiting to say\n something.\nI hustled into my coat,\n found Jerry's muffler, looked to cigarette case, keys,\nhandkerchief, ...\" know where Jonny's\n concertina hat is? \" I asked. Jonny\nwas\n an English lad who had lived with us one year ... In the flurry\n of getting\nJonny and his three trunks,\n four bags . . . including Mr. Gladstone, and the other\none which Wallace had humorously dubbed\n Dizzy . . . after Disraeli, because a\nbag\n is a Prime Minister, and thirdly because it was alligator and\n had turned\ngreen from having a pot of dye\n spilled on it in the night through Aephostopho-\nlous' temperamental habit of stalking on\n the tops of the highest furniture when\nthe wind blew and frightened him ... it did look dizzy, that\n bag . . . and the\nhat box, which was the\n symbol of Jonny's arrival to man's estate when he had\nleft London to come to the New World and\n learn the inwardness of the manu-\nfacture of pig iron, which his Father\n had vast interests in . . . well, in getting\nJ onny off to Egypt, the hat box,\n tragically for him, had been left on the pier . . .\nit had been hard to get all J onny's\n pairs of boots packed that morning, and J onny\nalways slept late and some of the boots\n had to be left behind after all, though"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2916, "texte": "we did catch the steamer by a gang\n plank's breadth, and the last word we had\nfrom Jonny across the widening void was ' Hatbox . . . hat' —\n until the whistle\ndrowned the rest . . .\n and so Jonny had gone out of our lives, leaving his hat\nbox, equipped with ' topper ' and\n concertina, the which had vastly increased\nour three several impressivinesses subsequently, on many\n occasions. The ' top-\nper ' was an excellent one, but the\n concertina was uncertain. It had a bad habit\nof shutting up when you didn't want it\n to, and of staying open as you feverishfy\npressed the springs against your chest . . . however, it was a\n hat, and Wallace\nknew where it was and\n found it and handed it to me . . . still with that satirical\nsmile of his .. . \" Got the time ? \" I\n asked, dressing being fait accompli . .\nWallace's expression changed. \"My watch is being mended, \"he\n said.\n\" Why, you had it this morning !\n \"\n\" Yes, but it got heart trouble, and\n ...\"\nI was slapping all my pockets to\n see if anything was forgotten. In the in-\nside coat pocket I found something crisp\n and surprisingly like money. I drew\nit\n out in amazement ... I hadn't any but some silver . . . who had\n worn the coat\nlast ? Jerry? He sometimes\n leaves money around. I looked at Wallace inquir-\ningly. He was very sheepish. \" I thought\n there might be violets, and a hansom\nor\n two, \"he said, awkwardly... and you didn't have any money this\n morning,\nSandyman. \" And the door\n closed on Wallace, the delightful and pemetrating\nfriend, who had dashed out to hang his\n watch on a small brass hook under the\nsign of the Medici, in order to slip money into my coat !\nViolets indeed, and a hansom or two ! Why\n not ?\nWallace, had he lived in the\n fourteenth century, where he belonged, would\nhave been an abbot, or a prince of the\n church, and would have bestowed, with a\nfree hand, fiefs, upon his friends of the ale-house, and\n manors and forests. He\nwould have been a\n friend of Frangois Villon's, a little earlier, and that able\nand charming cut-throat would have had\n velvet and unlimited credit, and Wal-\nlace, after dining in a low tavern with\n Frangois, would have proceeded to the pic-\nturesque anointing of a bishop with the\n same unction, wearing a garnet ring upon\nhis thumb !\nWhat strange souls dwell in\n our twentieth century bodies ! Wallace's\nwas as full of anachronisms as anyone's ; startling New\n England inhibitions were\nalways leaping\n out of him, despite his true catholicity. A stranger could\n not\nwith impunity ask him to drink a\n glass of wine at the Old Grape Vine, though\nany waif or woman of the streets could\n command# his ready sympathy and his\npurse\n . . . but strike deep through the veneer of the New Englander,\n and you\ncould find Wallace's reckless,\n Quixotic, loving-kindness, his mediaeval malice,\nand a deep store of understanding.\nThere are ' old souls ' and new souls . .\n . and one's friend-ships are somehow"}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.86", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2235, "texte": "based on the length of cosmic time that\n one has spent in these centuries that we\nknow, and those other dim ones that are as yet unread by us.\n We are most\nof us throwbacks, to another\n age, or another bundle of race traditions, and if\nit is true that you may know a man by his\n friends, you may also know him by\nhis\n silences and his aversions . . .\nNicolette was carrying on a spasmodic conversation with me,\n over the bal-\ncony railing of the Cuckoo Clock (as she\n called her little studio) which was cur-\ntained like the gallery of a Carmelite\n nunnery church . . .\n\" Pirka ... I shall\n wear the blue necklace ? \"\n\" Do,\n Nicolette, and the lavender stole, too ...\"\n\"Itis a big box, Pirka ? where we shall\n sit ? \"\n\" Almost as big as the Cuckoo\n Clock, Nicoletta, and considerably larger\nthan a hansom cab. \"\n\"Is that hansom\n coming here ? \"\n\" It is at the gate, I\n heard it just now. \"\n\" Is it a blue one,\n with little mirrors in it? \"\n\" All\n complete, mirrors, cushion, doors, bell on horse, trap door,\n quarter-\ndeck, lanterns, Nicoletta mia. \"\nA small sigh from the gallery.\n\" Then I can wear my highest heels\n ...\"\n\" One always wears heels to the\n opera. \"\n\" Why do you always say ' one '\n ? \"\n\" Personal particular pronoun,\n meaning you, or me, as the case might be,\nnever anyone else. \"\n\" That Lily was\n here today . \"\n\" Had she heard from her\n lover ? \"\nNicoletta laughed. \" That boy,\n \" she rippled, \"he send her — what\ndo you\n think ? — a hat ! \"\n\" Even a Lily has to\n have a hat, though her toil . . . ! \"\n\"\n But this was such hat ! She wore it, so ... \" (N. looked out\n through the\ncurtains of the gallery, with\n a large powder puff) \" and blue roses on a green\nhat, with pink, pink, like a baby in the\n sun, under her chin — she wanted . . .\nLily wanted — me to write to him a letter for her ... I gave\n her some slip-\npers that I wear to Webster Hall dance\n .. . and she went away, so pleas ' !\nHow\n do I look ? \" (descending the stair slowly, making the most of\n her gloves).\n\" As ravishing as is saf£\n for one of your years and sex. \"\n\" What's\n sex ? \"\n{The third glove button yielded\n to persuasion.)\n\"No one knows, exactly.\n It is what makes trouble for everybody. \"\n\" I don't believe you when you smile like that."}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.87", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2707, "texte": "(Fourth button achieved.)\n\" Smiling was invented to conceal one's\n thoughts. \"\n\" But I know yours.\"\n (Triumphant fifth button; descent of one step.)\n\" You're thinking how nice you look in\n all that shirt-front, and your fore-\nlock like a poet wears. \"'\n\" I was thinking ... of you. \"\n\" Well, if you were, why didn't you look\n at me when I came down the stairs ?\nNot\n everybody can come down stairs with...\" (she sought the word,\n and found\nit) \"... decoration. \" (First\n button, other hand).\n\" I didn't look at\n you because I was thinking of you. \"\nN.\n went over to her long mirror that hung between the shoulders of\n the wall,\nso to speak, the mirror that\n had come from the Italian junkshop, precariously,\nby hand. My hand. Have you ever carried\n an open mirror, two by five feet\nthrough\n the open streets, for any distance ?\nTry\n it, sometime, when you wish to cure yourself of\n self-consciousness or\nwhen you have a\n wish to be conspicuous. You lean it against a wall, to rest,\nand a passing cat finds an enemy within.\n This diverts you for a little ; you do\nnot apprehend the dog that privateers along in search of\n distraction for his ennui.\nHe finds two\n cats, and another dog.\nIn the general\n scrimmage you escape, if you are lucky, with the mirror,\nafter a crowd has collected. You seek the\n back streets. ' There are no back\nstreets\n in New York, ' as Jonny remarked, after his initial Sunday in\n our quarter,\nwhen he had essayed to\n church on Fourteenth Street, clothed as an English-\nman ... as an Englishman going to\n church, and seeking sanctuary from the\ncomments of the gaminerie, the self-appointed censors of what\n we wear, and what\nwe do not dare to wear.\n That mirror was like Jonny's ' Topper\nN.\n looked critically at herself, the unembarassed, speculative,\n half-fearful,\nor self-satisfied . . .\n depending upon the 'success of her day. . . scrutiny of the\nwoman who is going out, who sees herself\n as she thinks other women will see\nher .\n . . and as she likes to have men see her, . . . and as she likes\n to look\nthese three counter-currents like\n three judges behind a bench, as Susanna's el-\nders ... the mind of woman, being, like\n Gaul, divided in three parts. . . I do not\npretend to know which province rules, and I am only quoting\n Jerry, who is an\nauthority on . . . Gaul,\n always the home of La Question de la Femme . . . accord-\ning to him.\nNicolette stood the ordeal with a half-frown, tried out to see\n if it were in\nworking order, and\n effective . . . one never knows when one will need such a\nfrown. ..\nA light,\n frivolous snap. Fifth glove button in place, and I drew from\n Jonny's\nconcertina hat like a\n conjuror, having left them there, the violets. . . . not\n humid"}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2787, "texte": "hot-house violets . . . these were wild\n ones, with scarcely any fragrance, but . . .\nThere is a hole in a wall where they may\n be found, in April. . .\n\" Why, where did\n they come from ? \"\n\" They were there .\n \"\n\" Then we're all ready . . . leave\n the candles, I like to have them burn\nout\n by themselves — maybe the ghosts would like them here . . . and\n some-\ntimes one candle will wait up for me . .\n . no matter how late.\n\" Are there ghosts\n in the Cuckoo Clock ? \"\n. \"Of course, \"\n said Nicoletta, simply.\nWe were in the\n blue hansom, and rattling merrily over the cobbles, with the\nwarm April mist etherializing the streets\n ...\n\" There is a woman, \" continued N\n ... \"she comes and looks over my shoulder\nwhen lam painting. She loves paint .. . and there is a man\n with thin legs who\ncomes and sits at your\n piano that you lended me ... he never plays, except when\nI am asleep .. . just sits there and\n dreams . . . and the little girl. . . she asks\nme questions. \"\n\"Do you answer them ? \"\n\" It doesn't\n matter, \" said Nicoletta.\nThe curtain was\n held aside by the box-woman, as we stole into the perfumed\nobscurity of the Metropolitan, late, but\n late enough to fall headlong into the\nDebussy-magic that filled unaccustomed and longing voids in\n our souls . . .\nit was the blue sea . . .\n and the strange, unearthly recitative of Queen Gene-\nvieve . . . reading the letter from\n Pelleas, to old blind Arkel. . . like a chant, it\nis, a tragic monotone, the utterance of\n an unknown sybil.\nNicolette sank into a\n chair, and the music and the unfolding passion and the\nunreal beauty, which is always the more\n real, given. . . Ah, yes, given, not\nsought . . . and the mist that gradually stole into the vast\n cavern filled with mu-\nsic that was like delicate tendrils of\n perfumed smoke that entangle one's senses,\nthat lure one's mind to unthinking revery, that obliterate\n form and mass and\nline and blend them all\n with the colour of the emotions ... for all the doors\nwere opened, in deference to the Spring\n night . . . indeed, should not all doors\nbe opened to the coming of the carnival, whose gay waves of\n life may sweep out\nall the stale, shut-in\n thoughts and dullnesses of winter ? . . . and the mist, like\na silent friend who spends an evening\n without uttering a word, muted the muted\nviolins and hung a grey, shifting veil over the proscenium,\n and obscured the\nchatter . . . by\n metaphysical means ... of the meaningless, and stole into\n each\nheart and stilled all utterance.\n I have seen a hushed audience depart from a\nnotable performance of Parsifal... I have\n witnessed the silent processional of\nthe\n Misericordia in the narrow street of an Italian town at dusk...\n this was some-\nthing more subtle, and more complete ...\n a banquet of thousands lulled to beau-"}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.89", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2854, "texte": "tiful intoxication through the delicate\n compounded drugs of the two most\nperceptive of the senses . . . the opera drifted on, as smoke\n drifts, the mist was\nalways there, when\n the lights were up . . . there was no talk, a vague and\n mystical\nmurmur (like many leaves\n stirred by a breeze) filled the entr'acts ... so potent\nwas the spell that by sheer mob appeal\n there was no dissenting voice ... to the\nuniversal exquisite drunkenness. . . . N. only looked at me,\n with the world of her\ndreams aflame in\n her eyes ... it was her first opera . . I think it was my first\n too.\n' L,a verite ... la verite '\n breathed into the vast fog like the whisper of\nhallucination. Melisande was dead .. .\n her head upon the pillow was like an\nantique tragic mask ... no one moved for a long time, then the\n pale ghosts of\nrapt people, swaying,\n weeping, with scarcely any consciousness of where they\nlived or how to get there, eddied into\n the street... usually so shrill with the clam-\nour of the hour . . . but stilled also .\n . .\nNicoletta clung listlessly to my arm,\n and silent tears ran down her face, un-\nheeded. . . . the tears of a child to\n whom every imaginable beauty has been given\n... for once ....\nI found our cabby, who had been faithful to his promise to\n come back, and\nwe drove for untold hours\n ... I do not know where . . .\nAnd after I\n had taken her home . . . where, indeed, not one candle, but\n two,\nhad lived, with pale unearthly\n flame, to greet us, I wandered afoot a thrall of\nthe mist ... I may have gone across a\n ferry ... I remember sitting in Hudson\nPark, the melancholy sunken garden of the poor, with its\n pathetic pool that\nnever has any water in\n it, except on holidays . . . even as the fountains of Ver-\nsailles . . . but a place exquisite\n beyond mere questions of meagerness of grass\nand of water, in the close clinging mist\n through which crept the ceaseless\nlift\n and wane of the ferry-whistles on the river . . .\nI found Wallace at his matins, consisting\n of his coffee and a rolled cigarette,\nand\n the earliest papers. Without a word he pushed the coffee-pot,\n filled with\na nectar that he knew how to\n brew, across the table, where a second cup awaited\nmy coming. And Wallace read his paper,\n occupying three chairs very elaborate-\nly, without comment.\nWallace was like that in the early\n morning.\nJerry was different. Upon his\n rising, two hours later full of cheerfulness,\nfull of talk and malice, though he made\n no direct attack ; they both realized that\nI was under a spell, I think, and forebore to ask me about the\n opera.\nThe spell lasted all through\n the moist, unreal day, and at the heel of afternoon\nI sought Nicolette, who sat pensive\n before a fair white sheet of paper, untouched\non her drawing board. And she came and\n kissed me, and whispered : \"It was\nso\n lovely... it hurts, Pirka. \"\n\nDonald Corley."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "184", "page_fin": "184", "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "Sunday Morning", "titre_sommaire": "Sunday Morning", "signature_source": "Adolph Dehn", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 29, "texte": "A dolph Dehn.\nSunday Morning."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "185", "page_fin": "185", "image_debut": 91, "image_fin": 91, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.31", "titre_corps": "Charcoal Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Charcoal Drawing", "signature_source": "Wanda Gag", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.91", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 28, "texte": "Charcoal Drawing.\nWanda Gag."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "186", "page_fin": "189", "image_debut": 92, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.32", "titre_corps": "Anne Bard", "titre_sommaire": "Anne Bard", "signature_source": "Wallace Gould", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.92", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1313, "texte": "ANNE BARD.\n\nI wish that in these days there were\n more ladies.\nI wish that there were women\n like Anne Bard.\nI admired Anne.\nI saw her bnt once.\nI was then but a boy.\nOne day, while\n rolling my hoop about the streets,\nIran\n before the Bard mansion —\nan old\n rectangular mansion, glossy-white, with green blinds, and with a\n setting\nof spacious lawns, two\n flanking lawns, separating which, there was a drive-\nway bordered with poplars —\nand, as Iran before the mansion, I saw\n the great front door owing open, and a\nbeautiful woman emerge from the gloomy hallway, in which there\n hung a\ncrystal chandelier.\nI paused.\nI\n stared.\nI felt that the woman was Anne\n Bard.\nI had heard about her.\nI had heard my mother call her a bad\n woman.\nBut Anne was a beauty.\nShe was a graceful woman, a mincing\n woman, a powdered brunette, with deli-\ncate features, diminutively classic,\nand with little hands and tiny feet —\nnervous hands,\nnervous feet.\nAnne wore a black silk\n dress, beaded with jet.\nAround the crown\n of her velvet hat, a black hat, broad-rimmed, there was\ncurled a large black ostrich plume.\nHer feet were slippered in soft black\n kid.\nAt her breast she wore a large\n boquet of violets.\nAs she descended the\n great stone steps, she nervously fitted her black kid gloves\nto her fingers.\nvShe saw me.\nShe smiled."}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.93", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1569, "texte": "She paused.\nShe\n pinched my chin.\nShe entered a hack which\n stood near by.\nI stared at her.\nI was startled by the thud of the closing\n door.\nI drew back.\nBut I stared.\nThrough the window I saw her fitting her gloves to her nervous\n fingers —\nand, watching her as she was\n driven away,\nI saw her touch the violets\n at her breast.\nThat happened in May.\nOne afternoon in early September, as I\n was returning home from school,\nand as I\n hurried, whistling, along the street on which Anne lived —\na quiet street, at either side of which\n there were mansions, imposing, venerable,\neach with its spacious lawns —\na street\n which was bordered with aged elms, disheveled elms, the\n yellowing\nleaves of which dropped\n silently, impassively, dying as aristocrats die —\nas I hurried, whistling, along that\n street,\nI noticed a hack which stood\n by the curbing.\nI noticed that the\n curtains of the hack were closed.\nAs I\n passed by, I could not but notice that the door was ajar, and\n that it\nwas held ajar.\nGlancing into the hack,\nI saw there a fellow about town, a young\n fellow, foppishly dressed, and wear-\ning an ebony cane with a silver head.\nHe held a large boquet of violets.\nHe beckoned.\nI\n approached.\nHanding me the violets, he\n asked me, earnestly, confusedly, to take them to\nAnne Bard —\nto\n wait for a reply.\nHe gave me money.\nIran to the Bard mansion.\nA negro servant, a youth, opened the\n door, took the flowers, and told me to stand\nin the hallway,\nthe gloomy hallway in which there hung the crystal\n chandelier.\nThe negro disappeared.\nI waited.\nI looked\n about me."}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.94", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1957, "texte": "At either side of a massive mirror,\n framed in gilt, and resting on standards, which\nwere great claws, gilded, there stood a\n bronze candelabrum, the supporting\nbase\n of which was the figure of a laughing urchin, with bare buttocks\n extended.\nThe floor of the hallway was\n marble, laid in mosaic.\nBefore the\n entrance to the double parlor, there was a rug of leopard\n hide.\nIn the doorway there hung a\n portiere of beads, figured, gaudy.\nI\n peered into the room beyond.\nI saw there\n a grand piano with rosewood case.\nI saw,\n on the piano, two large rose jars of porcelain, dark blue\n porcelain, the\nrose jars ornate with\n designs in gilt.\nI saw mahogany\n furniture, upholstered with brown brocade.\nI saw, in an alcove, a plaster cast of David, life-size, the\n David of Michelangelo.\nI gazed.\nI waited.\nI\n listened.\nI heard no sound save that\n of a distant cough, a violent cough.\nI\n thought I smelled the odor of medicine.\nI\n waited, listening, looking about, till the negro reappeared, to\n give me a note,\na perfumed note.\nI took the note to the fellow in the\n hack.\nI told my mother what I had\n done.\nMy mother frowned.\nShe forbade me ever again to enter the\n Bard mansion.\nI later heard her telling\n all to a woman of the neighborhood,\nand I\n overheard the gossip which ensued, regarding Anne.\nShe was prodigal.\nHer perfumery was the attar of violets.\nThe fabrics of her apparel were the linens, the cashmeres, the\n silks, of foreign lands.\nHer diaphanous\n jewels were flawless, her cameos ancient.\nShe was indecent.\nHer speech was\n figured with obscene allusions.\nShe was\n inane.\nShe was known to have called\n the virtue of woman a matter of being sagacious.\nShe was dissolute.\nOne Sunday at dawn, the police were called to put an end to\n the noise that came\nfrom her house —\nshe entertaining a debauched crowd —\nto put an end to the laughter, the\n singing, the shattering of glasses falling from\ntrays held high by the men, and kicked at\n by the women."}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.95", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1576, "texte": "Anne was inconstant.\nIt was because of her John Preble, whose\n father was agent for one of the mills,\nwent one night to the belfry of the mill, and there, shot\n himself through the\nheart.\nAnne was desperate.\nDuring her present illness, her last, but before her\n prostration, she had often\ntossed hex\n rings from her fingers, to see the rings hurtle, and to\n laugh.\nI overheard these things.\nI overheard things other than these.\nIt was mentioned, that afternoon, that\n every day a certain unknown lover\nsent\n her violets, or brought them.\nThe\n identity of the man was pondered.\nIt was\n in latter autumn that Anne died.\nI\n remember the day that she was buried.\nIt\n was uncloted. It was cruelly clear —\nthe\n sun absorbed in thoughts of its own splendor.\nAnd it was cold, cruelly cold. The\n winds,\nmighty, saturnine, and\n unscrupulous,\nmade the leaves scurry,\n teased them, wheedled them\nthe dying or\n the dead, the colorful,\nthe dun, or tore\n them from the heedless trees.\nI lingered\n by the church. I listened there,\nnow to\n the modulating moans inside,\nnow to the\n shrieks outside, uttered by winds\nraking\n the ivy on the great facade.\nI lingered\n till the services were over.\nI saw the\n ornate casket. It was borne\nby old\n acquaintances who dared, perchance,\nand\n was followed by a few courageous friends.\nIt was entirely covered in a blanket\nwoven of violets.\nI lingered there\ntill I heard the last thud of the hack\n doors.\nI lingered there till the last\n hack disappeared,\nlost in a swirl of\n leaves, which the winds raised,\nas if in\n mockery of merry death.\n\nWallace Gould."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "190", "page_fin": "192", "image_debut": 96, "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.33", "titre_corps": "Broomides", "titre_sommaire": "Broomides", "signature_source": "Vachel Lindsay ; Lew Sarett ; Thomas Pym Cope", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.96", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2002, "texte": "BROOMIDES.\n\nBroom goes to press a second time, while\n the product of our first effort\nlies\n entombed in the hold of a steamship, bound for America. Other\n periodicals\nare more fortunate ; they\n set out anew each time, fortified by the greetings of\nfriends or inspired by the caustic venom\n of enemies. Not so for Broom. Si-\nlence alone has saluted its Roman\n domicile.\nCurious incidents result out\n of this distance from home and the consequent\ndelay. A letter just received from an\n American contributor asks for the return\nof his manuscript, as it has been accepted for inclusion in a\n book. We have\nreferred his request to the\n Mediterranean. A poet sends in revisions which tend\nto improve his verse a hundredfold. We\n compare them with the original and\ntrust\n his judgment is exaggerated. Another gleefully forwards long\n promised\nphotographs of-his paintings,\n rejoicing that they were finished in time for the\nfirst number. We are trying to make room\n for them in the fourth.\nStill there are\n advantages. The medium of strange tongues curtails discus-\nsions as to the merits of contributions.\n The vista from the office window, which\nincludes St. Peter's Dome, and the banks of the Tiber,\n facilitates a. mood of\nphilosophic\n detachment. A bottle of Frascati aids digestion.\nPerhaps our readers do not realize the\n full extent of our difficulties in pre-\nsenting them with a generous quota of\n translations of representative continental\nreading matter. The day before yesterday a manuscript arrived\n from a famous\nPortuguese novelist.\n Yesterday, we turned it over to our Portuguese trans-\nlator. The manuscript came back\n to-day.\nAfter a paragraph or two of\n questionable, very mild and what looks suspi-\nciously like expurgated, English — the\n translation stops abruptly and our\nesteemed colleague takes up his pen in his own hand. This is\n what transpires :\n\"The following pages\n contain the shameless story of a cocotte killed in a brutal\nand disgusting way by the excesses of her\n trade ! \""}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.97", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2551, "texte": "For more than a year Vachel Lindsay has\n been sending the following let-\nter, or a paraphrase thereof to all\n committees who ask him to come and recite\nfor their town :\nLet me urge you to\n take my eight books out of the library, and get them\nread in some kind of fashion by those\n people who think they want me, lam\npositively through with entertaining people with those few\n pieces of mine which\nthey happen to\n consider parlor entertainment. lam busy writing books, as\nI have been for twenty years. Half these\n books are prose, and my work can-\nnot be understood without some kind of a\n total survey. I have always been\na little\n more interested in my pen and ink drawings than my prose. I have\n al-\nways been a little more interested in my\n prose than my verse, and the prose\nis\n more than half my work. I have always been more interested in my\n verses\nto be read in the closet than\n those to be read aloud ; and only about one tenth\nof it is to be read aloud. I most\n emphatically protest against the assumption\nthat that tenth of my writing which is to\n be read aloud is to be separated from\nthe\n rest, or that I have done anything to separate it. I have done\n everything\nI can to keep the whole of\n my work together, pictures, prose, meditative verse,\nand verse to be read aloud. I have never\n taken any other stand. Those who\nthink\n otherwise know nothing about me. There is ample confirmation of\n what\nI say in all eight of my books to\n any one who cares to spend so much as half\nan hour glancing them all through. There is only one Jazz poem\n in the whole col-\nlection, and that so named in light\n irony. People who have the Jazz notion of\nmy work have acquired it through newspaper notices by\n reporters who have\nnot read one line of\n my books. Two published summaries ; spread for the world\nto read, balancing pictures, prose and\n verse are printed in Current Opinion,\nSeptember 1920.\nI cannot emphasize too strongly that all\n my writings on the Indian are not\ntranslations or transcriptions ; but broad and free\n interpretations of the spirit,\nthe\n atmosphere, the ideational and emotional content — run, as it\n were, through\nthe glass of my own mind\n and heart which have through years of living with\nIndians grown pretty much Indian and\n pagan Indian at that. Certain lam that\nin\n respect to the Indian's contact with the wilderness and his\n pantheistic, ani-\nmistic or naturalistic (call it what you\n will) conception of nature, I am thoroughly\nIndian and always shall be. I grew up\n that way as a youngster in the Lake\n\nVachel Lindsay."}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 837, "texte": "i\nSuperior\n country and am growing more and more set. My entire religious\n and\nspiritual life is based upon it.\n The wilderness means life to me ; the absence .\nof it, death. That's Indian too. Maybe\n most folk can't understand that;\nbut it\n is literally true. And my whole literary life is dedicated to\n the task of\ncapturing that wild — to me\n at least, beautiful — spiritual power ; as it shows\nitself in Indian thought and life, and in\n my own emotions, and in Indian thought\nand feeling as I transmute them.\nThen I tried to paint\nA picture with a pin, and found\nThat each small prick of color ran a\n gush,\nAs breath will clothe and\n curtain off a mirror,\nSwelling bead-like,\n till drops sought a tripping way\nMingling\n the brilliant colors I had painted\nInto\n the grey metalic color of the glass again.\n\nLew Sarett.\nThomas Pym Cope."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1921-12-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1921-12_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[193]", "page_fin": "[193]", "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=bmtnaap192112-01.2.35", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "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": "[193]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.99", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1456, "texte": "HOW WE GET 'EM\nA GENTLEMAN\n —\nJUST ARRIVED IN ROME FROM PALESTINE AND\n EGYPT,\nAND EN ROUTE BACK TO AMERICA\nvia Vienna, the Alps, France and the Atlantic —\nWAS LONESOME.\nHe had been away\n erom home\nFOR MORE THAN A YEAR.\nHadn't seen an American\nDURING THAT PERIOD —\nDIDN'T EXPECT TO MEET ANY —\nAND SURELY NOT FRIENDS —\nFOR ANOTHER MONTH OR\n SO.\nBut simply couldn't wait that long.\nSo HE HIT UPON AN INGENIOUS SCHEME.\nDecided to consult the register\nof the American Express Company.\nTo SEE, IF BY ANY\n QUAINT MIRACLE,\nHE KNEW SOME CHANCE NAME ON THE\n BOOKS.\nOf course, he found ours.\nGave vent to an Indian war-whoop.\nFor we had met him in California —\neight thousand miles away —\nJUST BEFORE HE STARTED FOR PALESTINE\nAND OURSELVES\n FOR ROME.\nHE CALLED ON US.\nIn\n fact, he came tearing in.\nWith a blood-curdling\n yell.\nWanted to know what the deuce we were doing\n here.\nAnd of course we showed him BROOM.\nDid he subscribe ?\nAsk us\n something easier.\nThat's one of the ways we have of\n landing 'em.\nAny old way — and no matter who they\n are,\nWHERE THEY COME FROM, OR WHITHER THEY GO.\nAnd the last we saw of -him —\nSAILING down the Pincio —-\nHE WAS SWINGING HIS\n BROOM LIKE A TOMAHAWK.\nGod speed him on his way\nAND STILL OTHERS OUR WAY ! *\nWe need them —\nAND MAYBE THEY NEED US.\nWhat ?\nAMERICAN subscriptions\n should be mailed to the\nNew York Office, THREE EAST\n NINTH STREET ;\nEUROPEAN subscriptions to the main\n office,.\n18, TRINITA DEI MONTI, ROME (6),\n IHy."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[96]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn International Magazine\n of the Arts Published by Americans in Italy\nEditors.\n Harold A. Loeb, Alfred Kreymborg — Associate Editor, Giuseppe\n Prezzolini.\nDECEMBER, 1921\nVOI,. 11, No. 2.\nThe Editors of Broom will be pleased to consider mss.\n submitted to tliem, but all mss. must be\naccompanied\n by a self-addressed, stamped envelope.\nMss. irom\n Europe should be sent to the Rome office ; mss. from America to the New York\n office.\nThe price of Broom is :\nFor America, fifty cents the copy, and five dollars\n for a year's subscription. For Italy, 10 lire the\ncopy, and 100 lire for a year's subscription. For France, 6 francs the\n copy, and 60 francs for a year s\nsubscription. For\n Great Britain, 3/6 the copy, and one pound and fifteen shillings for a\n year's subscription-\nThe contents of this issue are\n protected by copyright, December 1921. Infringement of same will\nbe prosecuted. ' .\nHeadquarters, 18, Trinita dei Monti, Rome (6),\n Italy.\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street.\nLondon Office, Cecil Palmer, Oakley House, 14-18\n Bloomsbury St. W. C; I\n\nPage\nCover Design\n (Woodcut) — E. Prampolini. —\nPortrait of a\n Girl — Conrad Aiken 97\nThe Swans — Joseph\n Stella 9$\nThe Helpless Ones — Frederick\n Booth 99\nDesigns for an Imaginary Ballet —\n Henry Bellamann 116\nThe Old Part of\n Viareggio — Lorenzo Viani 118\nOn Painting\n — Joseph Stella XI9\nTwo Paintings — Joseph\n Stella 120\nProteus — Paul Claudel\n (Translated by John Strong Newberry) 125\nInterior — Henri Matisse x37\nParagraphs\n concerning the Princess Vehana — Haniel Long\nTwo Paintings — Rockwell Kent • • \\\nTwo Poems — W. De La mare . I4^\nThe Contract — Sherwood Anderson . x49\nNotre Amerique — Leon Bazalgette\n (Translated by H. A. L. j x54\nTwo Poems —\n Aldo Palazzeschi (Translated by A. K.) 159\nNude — Luciano Folgore (Translated by A. K.) 160\nStill Eife — Henri Matisse'. 161\nHazi. Wife of Sender Surtjjck — Konrad\n Bercovici . * . . . 162\nThe Bird With the\n Coppery, .Keen Claws — Wallace Stevens 173\nTwo Poems — Jean Starr Untermeyer x74\nOne Moment Only — Harold Munro T75\nPelleas Night — Donald CorlEy 176\nSunday\n Morning — Adolph Dehn . •. 18 4\nCharcoal\n Drawing — Wanda Gag 185\nAnne Bard —\n Wallace Gould 186\nBroomides :\n Communications From Vachel Lindsay, Lew Sarett, Thomas Pym Co'pe\n . . 190"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "97", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.3", "texte": "PORTRAIT OF A GIRL.\nConrad Aiken.\nThis is the shape of the leaf, and this\n of the flower,\nAnd this the pale bole of\n the tree\nWhich watches its bough in a pool\n of unwavering water\nIn a land we never\n shall see.\nThe thrush on the bough is\n silent, the dew falls softly,\nIn the\n evening is hardly a sound. . .\nAnd the\n three beautiful pilgrims who come here together\nTouch lightly the dust of the ground,\nTouch it with feet that trouble the dust\n but as wings do,\nCome shyly together, are\n still,\nLike dancers, who wait, in a\n pause of the music, for music\nThe\n exquisite silence to fill. . .\nThis is the\n thought of the first, and this of the second,\nAnd this the grave thought of the third\n :\n'finger we thus for a moment, palely\n expectant,\nAnd silence will end, and\n the bird\n'Sing the pure phrase, sweet\n phrase, clear phrase in the twilight\nTo\n fill the blue bell of the world ;\nAnd we,\n who on music so leaflike have drifted together,\nL,eaflike apart shall be whirled\n'Into what but the beauty of silence,\n silence forever? . . .\n. . . This is the\n shape of the tree,\nAnd the flower and the\n leaf, and the three pale beautiful pilgrims;\nThis is what you are to me.\ni"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "98", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.4", "texte": "Joseph Stella.\nThe Swans."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "99", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.5", "texte": "THE HELPLESS ONES.\n\nEddie Gordon sprawled face upward on the\n living room couch, asleep. His\nhead was at\n the foot of the couch, hanging partly over the edge, and his\n shod feet\nlay nearly buried where the\n pillows and his overcoat were jumbled together.\nOne arm hung over the side of the couch,\n and his hand, crumpled against the floor,\nlying limp in the shadow, resembled a castoff gray glove. He\n lay so still with\nhis clothes all tumbled\n and his head turned and hanging back against one shoulder,\none might have thought him dead. But he\n only slept.\nAt six o'clock a lively step\n sounded in the hall. A key snapped in the lock.\nThe door opened and Sally Gordon came\n in.\nShe turned her head deliberately\n toward the couch as she closed the door.\nA\n sigh, rather tremulous but brief, whispered in the gloom. She\n went quickly to\nthe table in the middle of\n the room, felt about for a match, and lighted the gas\nchandelier. Without looking again toward\n the couch she removed her overcoat\nand\n hat, went into the bathroom, turned high the gas and washed her\n face and\nhands, vigorously brushing the\n inkstains from her finger-tips. She turned from\nthe bathroom into the bedroom, turned up\n the light there, and brushed her hair\nwith\n soft, slow strokes, bhe touched her face rather indifferently\n with a powder\npuff, and stood then\n stroking her eyebrows with the tips of her fingers, looking\nlong into the mirror. She gazed at her\n reflection and her face wore a look of\npleasure. Once with her palm she smoothed back the hair from\n her forehead\nwith a slow caressing stroke,\n as one would stroke back the hair from the forehead\nof a child. She regarded herself,\n steadily, with the unaffected and unconcealed\ntenderness with which she would have\n regarded a child.\nAt last, reluctantly,\n she turned down the light and walked back into the\nliving room.\nShe\n stood by the couch and stared down at her husband. Her eyes\n had\nthe peculiar intent look of a\n mother who watches her sleeping baby. Her eyes\nroamed the whole length of his body,\n looking at his untidy clothing, his uncombed\nhair, at his muddy boots that had muddied\n his overcoat and the pillows."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "100", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.6", "texte": "At last she slipped one arm under his\n shoulders and with a great effort pulled\nhim up on the couch so that his head had a better resting\n place. She reached for\na pillow and tucked\n it under his head. She picked up his limp hanging arm and\nlaid it across his body, pulled his gaping\n coat together and buttoned the bottom\nbutton. She made quick sure movements, the movements of one\n who performs\nan accustomed human task.\nHaving made him easier, less ungraceful in\n his inertness, she sat down on\nthe edge of\n the couch and gazed intently into his face. Her eyes dwelt in\n turn\non every one of his features and\n to every one she gave some sort of touch, his\ntousled hair a pat, his forehead a slow\n stroke, his closed eyes a touch of her\nfinger-tips, and still in her face was that peculiar intent\n and anxious look, the\nlook of a mother who\n dotes on her fragile treasure.\nEddie\n Gordon slept, hardly breathing, not moving. His sleep was\n profound,\nsodden, the sleep of a hard\n and habitual drinker who gets drunk every night and\nsleeps until morning, drunk every morning\n and sleeps until night. His face had\na\n greenish yellow colour about the forehead and eyes, was flushed\n at the cheeks\nand swollen at the mouth.\nSally knewT what ailed him. It was a daily\n event in her life, and she found\nherself\n reacting to it this time exactly as she had many times before,\n as she did\nevery time she saw her husband\n lying so still and helpless, his heart barely\nbeating, his breath barely stirring.\n Always when she saw him thus, so profoundly\nhelpless, so utterly and mystically babelike, the feelings of\n a mother for awhile\npossessed her\n completely. It possessed her as one is possessed by a mood.\n It\npossessed her against her will, this\n common emotion that had not yet found\nexpression in her life. She dreaded this slow welling up of\n morbid desire to fondle\nand nurse that\n helpless still baby, her husband. But it was not to be\n resisted,\nwhile it ran its course. In\n that desire, during its beginning and even during the\nmoments of her surrender to it, was\n something that filled her with self-horror.\nShe felt herself tricked and made worse than silly. She felt\n herself infected with\nmoral decay. Always\n she had fought against it, as she had this time, with lit-\ntle devices, delays, as one in sleep\n fights the approach of a bad dream which comes\non regardless. And always she surrendered,\n for awhile. Always, for awhile,\nsomething\n in her was glad to have this man even thus dependent, thus her\n own.\nSo she sat, prinking her husband's\n hair, straightening his disordered cloth-\ning, lost in this strange little orgy of\n motherliness. •\nBut after awhile a look of\n distaste ruffled a little her face. Little dimples puck-\nered the middle of her forehead. The wide\n pupils of her eyes narrowed a lit-\ntle. She turned her face a little away,\n still looking, cocked her head a little\nsideways, bit her lip and drew her hands back, hesitating. The\n man's mouth\nwas sagging open, and\n impulsively, with a studious earnest air, like a child mo-"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "101", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.7", "texte": "delling clay, she took his face in both\n her hands and firmly pressed his mouth\nshut, and for a moment held it so. But when she took her hands\n away his mouth\nagain sagged open. He\n slept.\nShe frowned and again put out\n her hands, but drew them back. She re-\ncoiled a little and turning her head\n swept his body from head to foot with one\nswift glance. She took his limp hand in hers, held it up to\n the light and looked\nat it narrowly. His\n hand was unclean all over and the nails were black\nShe flung it down hurriedly, and without\n getting up she turned her back to\nhim, and\n bending over, her elbow on her knee, her mouth resting against\n her\nfist, stared at the floor a long\n while. The silence was absolute.\nMinutes\n passed. She arose and walked aimlessly about for awhile,\n tucking\nat her hair, rearranging the\n furniture. Once she glanced at her watch. She\ncame and leaned back against the table,\n looking at her husband. Her hands\narranged\n and rearranged a bunch of violets pinned between the buttoned\n lapels\nof her jacket.\nAfter awhile she called sharply, \" Eddie !\n Eddie ! \" Silence.\nShe bit her lip and\n shook her head slowly a long time, gripping the edge\nof the table and holding her body rigid.\n She lifted up her head and gazed at\nthe\n ceiling.\n\" Oh, God ! \" she whispered,\n as though she believed God might be in the\nroom above. Her body sagged while she gazed at the ceiling.\n She sobbed with-\nout making a sound. Tears glinted in her\n eyes but did not roll down her cheeks.\nThe\n man lay regardless.\nAt last the woman\n smiled, a wry smile ; looked at her watch ; and turned\ntoward her coat and hat.\nA step sounded in the hall, heavy and\n rather slow, coming toward her door\nIt\n stopped at her door, there was a wait, a firm rap. She opened\n the door at\nonce.\n\"\n You, Allen ? \" she exclaimed in an undertone.\nA tall man was looking in at her. He was\n rather angular and awkward.\nHis eyes were\n deepset and gray, and his large, rather bony face had a sober\nlook.\n\" May I come\n in ? \" he said.\nShe led the way into the\n room. He followed slowly, closing the door behind\nhim. She looked at him with a question in\n her face.\n\" I could not stay away any\n longer, \" he said.\n\" I never told you not\n to come, \" she replied.\nHe had not\n appeared to notice the man on the couch. Now, as if he had\nknown all the time, he turned slowly and\n looked down at Eddie. After some\nmoments\n he again faced her."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "102", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.8", "texte": "\" The same as ever, \" he said-\nShe shrugged her shoulders and a poor\n smile flickered on her lips. He\nlooked at\n her steadily but not offensively, and she could not take her\n eyes from\nhis face. The steady full\n breathing of this man could be heard in the room.\nHe put out his great hand and stroked back\n the hair from her forehead, as she\nherself\n had done when she stood before the mirror in the bedroom. Her\n head\nwas thrust a little back by the\n weight of his hand, but she continued to look\nup into his eyes. Her hands trembled on\n the edge of the table.\n\" You've had\n enough, \" he said at last. \" You're going away with me\nthis evening. You are going now. \"\nThe pupils of her eyes widened. Her face\n grew pale and her lips se\nbrilliant by\n contrast. She put both of her hands against his shoulders.\n The\nquick gesture seemed to warn him\n not to come any nearer, yet the touch of her\nhands against his coat was almost like a\n caress.\nA sort of eagerness animated\n the face of the man, tempered by hesitancy\nand grave concern. The look of his face plainly said, \" I want\n you, but I wouldn't\nhurt you. \"\nHe held his head in an awkward fashion and\n moved his lips, searching for\nwords. They\n gazed at each other without speaking.\nThe\n man on the couch flung his head fretfully about, opened his eyes\n and\nblinked up at the light, turned his\n body a little more and raised himself on his\nelbow. His swollen lips made a grotesque\n attempt to draw themselves down,\nand\n failed ; but the stare of his eyes was fixed, unwinking and\n terrible. He saw\nhow her bare arm, the\n sleeve slipped back, gleamed like a bar of silver against\nthe tall man's shoulder. He stared and\n then his face became dull. Quietly\nhe laid\n himself down again.\nThe tall man said at\n last, \" Pack your suitcase and come away. I'm not\nasking you to .. . You know. You\n understand me, don't you, Sally ? I love\nyou. But that's not it, not entirely. I wouldn't try to break\n up your home,\nnot if you had a home. I see\n you wearing yourself out here. This is breaking\nyou, this business. You've said so\n yourself. Now it's time to cut it out, any-\nway for awhile. I saw that look in your\n eyes when I came in. L,eave him a\nnote.\n I'll take you anywhere you say. You can go to my mother's. Or\n you\ncan go to a hotel. But you've got\n to have a rest, for awhile anyway. I saw\nthat look in your eyes when I came in. Now you've got to give\n this business a let-\nup. Don't worry about him. Leave him a\n note and some money. Anyway\nI have always\n managed to look him up every day or so, I'll see to it that he\n gets\nalong. You know that Eddie and I\n understand each other, Sally, I mean when\nhe's sober. And I don't have to tell you, do I Sally, that lam\n honest about\nit with both of you, no\n matter how much I want you ? You and Eddie and I,"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "103", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.9", "texte": "we've always been friends and we always\n will be, no matter what happens. I'l\nsee\n him and 111 talk to him straight ont. It will be for the best\n all the way\nround, for him too. He'll see\n the thing straight. He's not so unreasonable,\nnot when he's sober. I know he will\n consent. I know it can be settled in the\nright way. Pack a suitcase and come away with me to-night.\n \"\nHis heavy manner, his blunt speech,\n his awkwardness, revealed the heavi-\nness of his desire and his anxious\n earnestness.\nThe woman had slowly drawn\n away from him. Now she leaned back against\nthe table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hand\n smoothing down\nthe lapel of her jacket.\n She held her head sideways and cast at the floor a\ntroubled and pensive look, its pathos\n heightened by the whiteness of her face and\nsupple neck.\nShe thinned her lips and a\n frown puckered her forehead.\n\" No, \" she\n said slowly, in a small voice. \" No, I couldn't do that. You\nknow I couldn't, Allen. No. No. \"\nThe tall man looked at her with an\n expression of benign indecision and\npuzzlement. He turned his head toward the sprawled shape on\n the couch.\nHe bit his lip. A deep flush\n mounted to his forehead and made the arteries in\nhis temples swell. He stroked his chin,\n meditating.\n\" Sally, \" he said at last.\n The constraint in his voice made the woman\nlook quickly up. \" I'll tell you, Sally, I haven't talked to\n you about this thing\nthe way I feel like\n talking. Now I'm going to talk the way I feel like talking.\nMaybe it's brutal of me to do it, but I\n can't help that. I have to say what I think.\nI'm that way and you know me well enough\n not to mind too much. \"\nBut he paused and\n studied her face, hesitating, half afraid. Then he said,\n\"You loved me before you met Eddie, didn't\n you Sally ? \"\n\" Yes. \"\n\" I knew it. \" His voice trembled a\n little, and he stopped for a moment\nbecause he did not want to show how pleased he was at her\n confession while\nhe was still under the\n disadvantage of her resistance.\nHis slow\n voice went on, \" Yes, I used to feel almost sure of it. Even\n though\nit was presumptuous of me, I did\n think so. You were always straightforward.\nYou were never ashamed of your feelings. But I couldn't ask\n you to marry\nme, not then. You remember\n how things were with me — my kid sisters and\nall to be looked after. I had to wait.\n \"\n\" I understood, \" said Sally in a low\n voice. \" I knew you cared, and why\nyou —\n didn't say anything. \"\n\" But you married\n Eddie just the same ! And it wasn't because you didn't\ncare for me. I know why you married him.\n I'm going to tell you why you\nmarried him.\n \""}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "104", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.10", "texte": "* \" Don't. You needn't tell me. I know.\n I didn't know then. I just felt\nsomething\n that was too strong for me. I didn't know why I had to give into\n it.\nI just had to. Now I know what it\n was. I know why I had to give into it. ''\nShe paused, pressed the back of one hand against her mouth.\n She bent\nher head. Her hand trembled\n against her mouth and her shoulders trembled\na little too. She took her hand away from\n her mouth and began to tug at one\nof the\n buttons of her coat. Her lips were white. She pressed her upper\n lip\nagainst her teeth to keep it from\n quivering.\n\" I could have waited for\n you. I knew you would ask me some day. But\nthere was one thing I couldn't wait for. I was twenty-four,\n and natural. My\nwhole feeling for life\n and people was full of a woman's desires. I didn't know\nit then but I know it now. I was strong,\n I could have waited if I had known\nit\n then. I know now that my whole feeling for Eddie was that I\n wanted to\nmother him. I had to mother\n somebody. But I didn't know it was that, not\nthen. I didn't understand it at all. I\n used to be afraid and ashamed because\nI\n still loved you and here all the time Eddie and I were coming\n closer and closer\ntogether. I didn't\n understand myself at all. Yes, I still loved you, but. . .\nI couldn't have children then, it takes\n money to have children. Those days\nyou\n were having your own struggles and I could barely make my\n living. I couldn't\neven allow myself to\n think of having children. \"\nShe stopped,\n turned her head and looked at the sleeper on the couch. She\nknitted her brows and compressed her\n lips. The tall man moved his lips as\nif\n to speak; but she went on,\n\" One night he\n came to see me. That was when he was on the The Sun,\nand he had made such a hit, you remember\n ? He was drunk that night. He\ncame to the\n house drunk. I used to wonder how he could get drunk — how\nhe could — such a sweet boy. Now I know\n why. He got himself drunk so\nhe could run\n away from responsibilities — so he would be helpless — so he\ncould be a child, just as he is now. He\n was beautiful that night — drunk.\nHe was\n beautiful partly because he was drunk. Can you understand that\n ?\nSome men are that way. He was that\n way, then. His cheeks were flushed,\nhis\n eyes sparkled, and his yellow hair stood up all over his head,\n glittering in\nthe lamplight. He sat on\n the couch and drew up his knees so that his feet\nwere on the couch too. He sat there and\n talked to me. He lisped when he\ntalked.\n His head was unsteady on his shoulders, like a baby's. He talked\n to\nme about his mother. You know she\n died when he was five. He had to grow\nup\n unfinished. He had become a man but he was still a child. He\n told me how\nbeautiful his mother was and\n how he would have been different if she had lived.\nI was like her, he said. He sat there and\n talked to me just about as he would\nhave\n talked to his mother, I suppose, if she had been there in my\n place. The"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "105", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.11", "texte": "room was warm and after awhile he\n couldn't talk at all. But he was beautiful,\nas a child is beautiful. His yellow head\n fell over against me. I put my arms\naround him and pulled his head down and held him close to me.\n I didn't\nknow what I was doing. Maybe I\n didn't want to know.\n\" After that I\n couldn't resist him. I didn't try. I wouldn't let myself\nthink about you. Eddie needed me. The\n whole thing with me was pity\nA woman must\n pity something ! I told myself that Eddie needed me. I loved\nhim for his weaknesses.\"\nThe tall man slowly nodded his head. \" I\n knew that was why you married\nhim,\" he\n said. \" I can see how a woman would do that.\"\nThe woman went on, \" After we were\n married I used to go out and hunt for\nhim\n when he didn't come home. I still do sometimes. I hunt for him\n in the\nback rooms of saloons, at the bar,\n down at the Press Club. Igo along the streets\nwhere I know he is likely to be. I lead\n him home by the hand. Yes, and he\nleans\n on me, and he babbles to me like a baby as we go along the\n streets, he\nsays the same things over and\n over again the way a baby does. He comes\nwith me through the streets like a child that was lost and is\n glad to be found\nagain. And when I get\n him home I wash his face and feed him. I put my\narm around him and make him eat. I\n undress him and put him to bed. And\nhe is\n glad of it. He is glad to be like a baby ; then he can live that\n part of his\nlife that was never finished.\n And I used to be glad too.\"\n\" You used to\n be glad ? \" the tall man said. \" That is hard to believe.\"\n\" Yes, I think I must have been glad of\n his helplessness. Do you under-\nstand ? His helplessness gave me an\n excuse to mother him. I had to mother\nsomebody ! The worst thing is, no good at all has come of our\n being married —\nno good to either of us.\n No, it has hurt us both.\"\nShe turned her\n head, holding it a little sideways as she had when she sat\non the couch by her husband, and looked\n at him again. There was something\nchildlike in the expression of her face and in her pose. Her\n whole body expressed\ningenuous\n bewilderment and trouble. She put her finger to her lips.\nThe tall man, his hands at his side,\n studied her face. He said nothing.\nHe\n waited for her to go on.\nShe made a\n little gesture with her hand as if she were brushing\n something\naway.\n\" See, now he has got to where he no longer wants even to be\n helped. Now\nhe doesn't even want to be\n cared for.\"\nHer voice was tired and\n plaintive, the voice of a tired child.\n\"Tobe a coddled baby doesn't satisfy him any more. He wants to\n be a\nsleeping baby. Sleep! Sleep ! Only\n let him sleep ! He gets drunk at\nnight\n and sleeps till morning. He gets drunk in the morning and sleeps\n till"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "106", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.12", "texte": "night. That is what drinking is with\n him. That is what drinking is for. That\nis the way he escapes — he has always drunk to escape — he is\n backing\nout of life entirely. Do you\n see ? Now he doesn't* want me to take care of him\nany more, for that reminds him that he is\n alive and in the world. I know.\nHe is\n trying to find again the deep sleep that a baby has before it is\n born.\"\nThe tall man would have spoken\n but she went on,\n\" Can't you see how it\n is with me now ? There is no longer any satisfac-\ntion, not even the kind of satisfaction\n I got from it at first. Maybe I should\nhave known better at first. But we always say that afterward,\n when it is too\nlate.\"\n\"It isn't too late,\" the tall man said.\n \"You know it was a mistake. It's\na simple\n thing to correct that mistake, and you know it's perfectly\n straight.\nAs far as Eddie is concerned\n we will take care of him.\"\n\" But I\n couldn't do it. I just couldn't, somehow. You don't know how\nit is. But I know. The whole thing is\n like a habit, only it's worse than a habit.\nI know. I have tried to break it. But I\n didn't use much will power. Maybe I\ndidn't want»to break it.\n\"You think lam\n strong. Maybe lam strong. But lam like most women.\nMy strength does just about as it pleases\n with me.\"\nShe bowed her head and looked\n hopelessly at the floor.\nThe tall man had\n already taken her by the shoulders. She lifted her head\nquickly. Her face wore a look of surprise\n and fear because of his sudden and\nstrong\n grip on her shoulders.\n\" You may call it\n a habit or whatever you like, you've had enough of it,\"\nhe said. His face had turned pale and his\n mouth was stern. But his eyes\nregarded\n her kindly. She made no attempt to pull away from him. The\n fright-\nened look left her face.\n\" You'll put an end to this business.\n I'll make you. Then you'll be glad.\"\nThey\n looked at each other in silence. The sleeper on the couch\n seemed\nto be holding his breath.\n\" I don't know,\" said the woman at last.\n \" Maybe I would be glad.\nYes, maybe I\n would be glad. But I don't know — I just don't know how\nI could make myself do it.\"\n\" How about me ? \" said the tall man in a\n voice that had changed since\nlast he\n spoke. \" Why do you always leave me out of it ? Maybe if you\n let\nyourself think about me once in a\n while...\"\nHe had turned pale and his\n lips were trembling. He stopped speaking\nbut not because he was ashamed of his emotion. He stopped\n speaking because\nhe was ashamed of what\n his emotion had impelled him to say.\nShe\n was looking at him in surprise and wonder. She put out one hand\n and"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "107", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.13", "texte": "touched his coat with her finger-tips,\n unconsciously, lightly. Her chin quivered.\n\" Allen,\" she said softly, \" Allen, I didn't mean... please...\n \"\n\" Never mind/' he said slowly, in a\n constrained voice. \" You know I didn't\nmean to talk to you that way. I don't want to appeal to your\n sympathy. And\nI don't want to make you do\n anything. You know that. I meant all along\nto appeal to your understanding. You know that. I still mean\n to. And\nas far as understanding goes, you\n understand everything as well as I do. It's\nall a matter of making up your mind. I\n don't want to force you to do anything.\nI\n know how hard it is for you. You take your time about it. Don't\n think\nabout me. Try to think about\n what is the best thing to do. And just take\nyour time about it.\"\nShe still kept her head lowered and still\n her fingers touched his coat.\nHe knew\n that if he had taken her in his arms then and there the decision\n would\nhave been entirely of his own\n making, and to his own liking. But his pride *\nrebelled at the thought of reaching a\n decision, above all a decision in his own\nfavor, by such a primitive method, by a method so contrary to\n his idea of how\nan issue between a man\n and a woman should be met. He would have her make\nher decision through her own\n understanding and by her own will! His hands\nleft her shoulders and he stepped a\n little away from her. They no longer\ntouched each other*\nShe nodded her head\n a little, looking at the floor.\nHe\n studied her, a little puzzled. \" Then may I come back next week,\n say\nnext Monday evening ? \"\nAgain she nodded her head, without\n looking up.\n\" Will you> try to make up\n your mind between now and then ? Will\nyou\n be ready to tell me what you have decided to do ? \" He spoke\n almost\nas he would have spoken to a\n child.\nFor a moment she still looked\n at the floor. Then she lifted her head. She\nmet his kind gaze timidly.\n\" Yes, Allen, I will,\" she replied in a\n low voice.\nHe drew a deep breath. \"\n Good-night,\" he said, awkwardly holding out\nhis hand.\n\"\n Good-night, Allen.\"\nHe was gone and she\n closed the door quickly behind him.\nShe\n stood by the door while the sound of his footsteps rang in «the\n hall.\nShe looked wistfully about the\n room, sunk again in silence. She puckered\nher brows, thinking.\nShe understood\n Allen. She knew why he had not followed up his advan-\ntage. She respected him for it. But she\n almost hated him for it as well. *\nShe\n walked slowly back into the middle of the room. Again she\n leaned"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "108", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.14", "texte": "back against the table. The uneasy\n breathing of the man on the couch could\nbe heard.\n\" Eddie,\" she called.\nSlowly he turned his face away from the\n wall. He opened his eyes and\nfor a moment\n stared without winking down the length of his body. Then he\ncrooked one arm, raised himself to a\n sitting posture, turned and pulled his\nfeet off the couch. He sat with his body toward her. But he\n looked down\nat her feet. He put his hands\n down on either side of him against the couch;\nas if to brace himself. He moved his dry\n lips two or three times.\n\"So you let\n Allen go away without you/' he said.\n\"You\n were awake ? \"\n\" Most of the time.\" He\n looked up at her. He had slept a long time and he\nwas quite sober. The pupils of his blue\n eyes were like black pin-heads. He\ntried\n to control the uneasy movements of his swollen upper lip.\n\" I heard what you told him,\" he declared\n in a high, assertive voice. \" You're\nright about me. I know it. But it's worse than you think. I'm\n done.\nI'll be glad when I'm dead. Not\n on your account either. On my own ac-\ncount. I'll be glad when I'm dead, I\n tell you. You ought to have gone away\nwith him. What makes you so silfy ? \"\n\"\n Please, Eddie.\"\n\" I mean it. I wish you'd\n go away and leave me. I wish to God you\nwould.\"\nHe stared defiantly at her,\n blinking his eyes.\nShe tried to speak.\n She moved her lips, searching for words. Exaspera-\ntion struggled with the pity in her\n face. She looked at him without trying\nto\n hide her pity. Her forehead was puckered with little dimples.\n She tilted\nher head a little to one side\n and half extended one hand.\n\" Eddie !\"\n she cried, \" Eddie, my poor boy ! If only you'd let me... \"\n\" Ah-k !\" He waved his hand in front of\n his face, brushing away her words.\n\"\n Don't I know what you're about to say ! \" he sneered, twisting\n his face\nand making his light-colored\n eyes glare at her.\n\" Save me — eh ? Want\n to try that again, eh ? What do you want\nto do that for ? You've tried that before. Now you want to try\n it again, eh ?\nI know. I know. What makes\n you so silly ? I'm done. You know I'm done.\nAllen's right. Better chuck the whole\n thing and forget it. You'll be glad\nafterward.\"\nHe wagged his head,\n smirked at her and added, \" And maybe you don't\nknow it but I'll be damned glad of it\n too.\"\n\" You musn't talk that way,\n Eddie. You mustn't.\"\n\" Yes I will,\" he\n declared, pulling down his puffed upper lip. He looked"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.15", "texte": "around at the floor, at the furniture,\n at her, with an unchanging hard stare. A\nsilence followed. Nothing could be heard but his quick uneasy\n breathing and\nthe uneasy motions of his\n body on the couch. His hands moved all of the time.\nHis yellowish face moved. His eyes rested\n nowhere.\nShe came and sat by him. She\n put her hand on his shoulder. She regarded\nhim with a look of pity, watching his face. Her feeling for\n him trembled on\nher lips. Her eyes\n watched every movement he made, dwelt on every one of\nhis features. Her fingers trembled.\nBut he would not look at her. He looked\n sideways at the floor.\n\" When he comes\n Monday you'll go with him. You'd better/' His voice\nwas high and harsh.\n\"No I won't go ! \" She put her arms around him and began to\n cry.\n\" I just couldn't, somehow. What\n would become of you ? How could I when\nI\n know you would be alone and nobody to take care of you ! Eddie,\n I feel so\nsorry for you. I feel so sorry\n for you. As long as you need me I shall stay.\nI shall stay. I don't know what will\n become of us but I shall stay. I can't\nhelp myself.\"\nHe stiffly put up his\n hands and pulled her arms away from his shoulders.\nShe turned away from him. He, bending\n over, propping his elbows on his\nknees\n and his chin against his fists, stared at the floor. He blinked\n his eyes\nand puckered his forehead as if\n he were trying to think.\nShe stood half\n turned from him, with her head bent, staring at the floor.\nShe was half ashamed, half pensive. The\n silence lasted a long time. In the\nsilence the man made a despairing gesture and ejaculated,\n\" Oh, Jesus, what's the use !\"\nMinutes passed. The woman stood without\n moving. The man's lips\nwrithed, his\n forehead scowled, his eyes stared.\n\"\n There's no use in talking about it, is there Eddie ? \" The woman\n turned\nand looked at him with patient\n weariness. He let his hands fall and dangle\nbetween his knees. He shook his head.\n\" Christ no ! What's the use in talking\n !\"\nShe slowly crossed the room and\n began putting on her hat.\n. \" I'm going\n to dinner ; will you come with me ?\" She looked at him with\na flash of wistfulness in her eyes.\nHe shook his head without saying\n anything. She put on her overcoat\nand\n came over to him, stood by his side and stroked his hair. He\n stared at\nthe floor.\n\" I'll be back in about an hour,\" she\n said at last. \" Good-by, Eddie.\"\n\"\n Good-by.\"\nHe listened to her footsteps\n in the hall until they died away. He sat thrust-"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "110", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.16", "texte": "ing his head forward. The fixed stare of\n his light colored eyes defied the lines\nof his mouth which changed all of the time.\nAt last he stood erect in a crumpled sort\n of way and walked into the middle\nof the\n room. His wrinkled trousers clung to his calves and bagged at\n the knees.\nHis coat had come unbottoned\n and he held it together with one hand like a\nwoman wearing a shawl. He frowned,\n sticking out his upper lip ; and his fore-\nhead was broken by many little wrinkles.\n His forehead was greenish-yellow\nin the\n gaslight. He shivered and a whisper rang through the room :\n\" Jesus it's cold !\"\nHe let go of his coat, felt in his\n pockets and brought out a sack of tobacco\nand some papers, rolled a cigarette, lighted it and began to\n smoke greedily,\ninhaling the smoke. He\n looked at the table, at the chairs, at the floor. And\nall the time he made grimaces, scowled\n and shivered. His movements were\nuncertain and halting, but he stared intently this way and\n that. He was trying\nto reflect. But he\n was dizzy and cold. His blood felt yellow.\nOnce he looked at the door where they had gone out. He\n listened a long\ntime while the cigarette\n smoked in his fingers.\nAt last he turned\n away from the door, back toward the middle of the room.\nHe happened to see her handkerchief,\n lying at the foot of the table. He threw\naway the cigarette and picked up the handkerchief ; and stared\n at it. He\nshivered more than ever and\n pulled his coat together at the bottom, but forgot\nto button it.\nWith\n a gesture of finality he threw the handkerchief from him, on the\n table.\nWith the manner of an idle or a\n sick man he walked to the window, drew aside\nthe curtain and looked down at the\n glittering street. His mind became clearer\nand his thoughts began to arrange themselves in more orderly\n fashion.\nAfter a long time he turned\n away from the window.\n\" Yes/' he drawled\n in a fretful voice, \" Yes, it would serve me right. Christ\nyes, she'd be doing the right thing.\"\nHis forehead became smooth. His face\n ceased to pout and wrinkle.\nIt became\n calm. The pupils of his staring eyes became a little larger.\n He\nlifted his head a little. His face\n had almost an eager look. One would have\nsaid that he had reached some sort of a decision.\nHe found some paper and envelopes in the\n table drawer and took a pencil\nfrom his\n pocket. Craning over the table, his intent face pallid in the\n gaslight,\nhis hair gleaming like\n disordered gilt plush, he began to write in a shaky large\nscrawl.\nHe wrote\n one sheet almost full; signed it; folded it crookedly; put it\n in\nan envelope and scrawled a single\n line across the face of the envelope.\nOn\n another sheet he wrote six or seven short lines, underlining\n each one ;"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.17", "texte": "signed it boldly at the bottom and put\n it in another envelope, which he\naddressed.\nHe stood the two\n envelopes against some books and looked at them as\nhe put the pencil back in his pocket. On\n the first envelope was written : For\nMy\n Wife. On the other : For the Police.\nHe\n rolled and smoked another cigarette, slowly, looking at one spot\n on\nthe carpet.\nAt last he tossed the remnant of the cigarette on the floor,\n as if something\nin him craved disorder.\n He walked slowly into the bedroom, thrusting his head\nforward and his elbows out.\nIn the bedroom he turned up the light and\n without hesitation opened a\nlittle drawer\n in the old-fashioned bureau, taking out a revolver. He held\n it\nin both hands and cocked it. He\n stared into the mirror, and with something\nof the manner of a man who prepares to take a new kind of\n medicine he lifted\nthe revolver and\n pointed it at his temple.\nThen something\n in his whole mechanism seemed to stop and something\nelse seemed to start. His body sagged and\n quivered at the same time. His\neyes\n bulged. His mouth opened in such a way that his teeth glittered.\n A\nloud groan rang through the room.\n Quickly he laid the revolver down and\nwalked back into the living room. He took unsteady steps and\n held his hands\nagainst his forehead.\n\" Oh, Jesus !\" he cried.\nHe stood still a long time, pondering. It\n seemed to him that the silence\nof the\n room was lost in another silence.\nHis eye\n fell on a quart whiskey bottle standing on a corner of the\n table.\nThe unusual character of his\n awakening had made him, thus far, forget all\nabout it.\nIt was\n nearly a third full of liquor. A little gleam came into his\n eye,\nthe faintest color into his\n cheeks. He looked at the bottle with a sort of eager-\nness and went hopefully toward it.\nHe was thinking of the revolver on the\n bureau and it seemed to him that\nsome of\n the whiskey would make that business easier.\nHe picked up the glass and the bottle and\n poured out a large drink, shud-\ndered 'and swallowed it, making a face.\n He had eaten nothing all day and at\nonce\n the whiskey was racing in his blood. Color flashed into his\n cheeks. He\nfelt his blood becoming red\n again.\nHe took another drink and\n waited for the effect. After a little while\nhe took still another. There was only a\n little left in the bottle.\nNow his eyes\n were brighter and they had a misty look. The pupils were\ni arger. He blinked his eyes and looked\n about. His face looked almost cheerful."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.18", "texte": "He appeared to be reflecting. Indeed his\n thoughts raced rapidly but they began\nto\n tumble over each other. He hardly understood his thoughts. Vague\n emotions\nstirred him.\nA sort of courage was mounting in his\n body, warming him like a new-\nkindled fire. But he felt mournful\n too.\nHe waited. He was about to have\n great thoughts. He was about to dis-\ncover some magnificent solution of\n everything.\nHe stood still a long\n time, pondering. A little smile began to tremble\non his mouth.\nHe\n poured out the last of the whiskey and shook the bottle to get\n the last\ndrop. But now his head was\n rolling a little and his eyes were vague.\nHe lifted the glass. Just then his uncertain glance fell on\n his wife's hand-\nkerchief. He looked long at the\n handkerchief, blinking. His head wabbled\na little. He was trying to seize some idea that eluded him.\n Thoughts rose up\nin his mind but they\n fell over one another. His face wore a crippled look.\nA long while he stood in thought, staring\n feebly at the handkerchief.\nBut at last a\n faint, self-satisfied smile appeared on his trembling mouth.\nVisibly swaying he turned around, his\n gaze wandering a little ; steadied\nhimself a little bit; and began to look uncertainly in the\n direction of the door.\nThe smile\n flickered over his face like a blue flame. His mouth moved.\n His\nlips picked at words.\nBut he remembered the whiskey. He lifted\n the tumbler and emptied\nit, spilling some\n on his chin ; half-turned and with a single motion flung the\n glass\nringing on the table.\nHe turned toward the door again, peering\n uncertainly, as a man peers\nin the dusk.\n His head wagged. His voice blurred the silence :\n\" Di ' think I was 'sleep ?\"\nPleased, he laughed, rolling his head.\n But he stopped laughing to look\ntoward\n the door, listening. His mouth got ready to talk.\n\" Di' — di' y' think I was 'sleep ? Di'\n y' think I was 'sleep ?\" he called.\nNo\n reply. Silence beyond the door. He smiled a satisfied smile. He\n laughed\nat the silence beyond the\n door; wagged his head; turned away; made two or\nthree sidelong steps and brought up\n against the table. He flattened one hand\nout on the tabletop and leaned against that hand. He stood\n there. His\nbody swayed back and forth to\n a certain rythm, like a weed in a creek. A smile\nflickered back and forth across his face\n like shadow on a shaking leaf. Sunk\nin\n drunken re very he blinked his drunken eyes, smirked and\n blinked. Now\nand again, when he leaned\n harder than usual, the legs of the table creaked under\nhis weight. The hiss of the hot gas lamp\n mingled with the noise of his breathing.\nThe little handkerchief lay on the table, just under his nose.\n He had"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.19", "texte": "to see it if he looked. And when at\n last, tired of leaning against the table, he\nroused himself a little from his revery,\n he did see it at once. Pulling himself\nup\n as straight as he could he confronted the handkerchief with all\n his unsteady\ndignity, and with a\n righteous smirk, as one confronts an offender. He took\nthe handkerchief in both his hands and\n turned it over and over. He stared at\nit\n as a baby stares at a new plaything. He moved his mouth all the\n time,\nbreathing noisily. He blinked\n hard and often, looking and pondering. He\nseemed to be trying to recall something the handkerchief\n almost reminded\nhim of, something he had\n forgotten.\nAt last he made the sort of\n motion a baby makes when it throws down a\nplaything, and threw the handkerchief on the floor. He looked\n pleased with\nhimself and smirked down at\n the handkerchief. Satisfied, he pondered no longer.\nHe turned with studied care, aimed\n himself at the bedroom door, made crooked\nlong steps and went unsteadily in.\nHe\n looked at the revolver a long time. Sometimes he scowled.\n Some-\ntimes he smiled. After awhile he picked\n up the revolver in both hands ; turned\nand swayed back into the living room. He stood in the middle\n of the roomj\nhis body bending to and fro,\n and peered at the revolver with idiotic eyes. He\nstuck out his lips ; blinked his eyes\n with great deliberation ; pondered over\nthe thing he held in his hands.\nNow he\n began to look at the door again, listening and watching more\n and\nmore attentively. At last he fixed\n his gaze wholly upon the door. The pupils\nof his eyes were distended. Bending in the middle, his legs\n trembling, his body\nswayed this way and\n that. His lips no longer smiled, but writhed.\n\" ' Think I was \"sleep?\" he called. \" Di'\n y' think — steal m' wife\nwhen I was\n 'sleep ?\"\nHis voice shrilled in the room.\n He began to hurl at the door inept ana-\nthemas against the treachery of wives\n and the cowardice of men. He made un-\ncouth accusations. He delivered himself\n of bizarre philosophies ; sometimes\nmumbling, sometimes shrilling his words. He twisted his\n shoulders, stepping\nabout in a small\n space. His voice quavered, rising and falling. His head\ntossed as if he rode in a boat.\nBut the silence at last reduced him to\n silence.\nThe labor of thought again\n showed in his face. Something was eluding\nhim. Yes, he had forgotten something he was going to do. He\n tried hard\nin his own way, opening and\n shutting his mouth, blinking, and searching the\nfloor with his aimless eyes. Sometimes\n mutterings fell out of his mouth.\nHe\n smiled again. Something stirred him. Now he remembered what\nhe had forgotten. He lifted the hand that\n held the revolver and aimed his\nwavering\n gaze down toward it. He raised his eyebrows and blinked. He\n2"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.20", "texte": "turned the gtin over this way and that,\n staring and blinking as if he had never\nseen one before in all his life. His face was pulled out of\n shape with the labor\nof cogitation. He\n began to smirk. He looked toward the door again, opening\nand shutting his mouth ; and at last he\n delivered himself :\n\" Di' y' think I was\n go' shoo' m'self ? Di' y' think I was go' shoo' m'self ?\"\nHis head sank on his breast and his eyes\n half closed. But he heaved his\nhead up\n again and opened his eyes.\n\"Ah, sure,\n sure,\" .he called, \"Steal m' wife an' I shoo' m'self. Sure •\nsure !\"\nHe\n laughed. But the laugh crumpled up in the silence.\nHis eyes were witless. It looked as\n though his pale head had talked\nwithout\n his knowing it. He wagged his head and announced solemnly,\n\" I'll shoo' you.\" He wraited a moment,\n trying to keep his gaze on the door i\nand\n repeated more loudly,\n\" I'll shoo' you.\n I'll shoo' you.\"\nHe smiled down at the\n revolver and patted the barrel with an aimless mo-\ntion.\n\" We know\n where fin' 'im, don't we ?\" he said to the revolver.\nHis eyes brightened and he became a\n little steadier. Smirking at the door\nhe\n called loudly, \"We know where fin' 'im. We know where fin'\n 'im.\"\nHe turned and like a man walking\n in the dark he made his way to the couch.\nHere he laid the revolver down. With much labor and fumbling\n he gathered\nup his overcoat. With much\n labor he began to put it on. Halfway through\nthe job he paused, turned and sent a\n wavering look toward the door.\n\" Di' y'\n think I do' know where fin' 'im ? \" he jibed.\nHe got his overcoat on and put on his\n hat. He stood a long time with a\nsolemn\n expression on his face. He blinked studiously. He had become\n stead-\nier. A fixed purpose seemed to have got\n him under its control. With great\ncare he\n buttoned the overcoat and settled his hat as straight on his\n head as lie\ncould. Now his eyes were no\n longer blurred and wavering. They glowed as\nwith fever and a flame was mounting in\n his cheeks. But his mouth was a woful\nthing, a wound that opened and shut, writhing.\nHe picked up the revolver and looked at\n it, smirking. With the smirk\non his face\n he turned toward the door and began to shove the revolver\n down\ninto the inside pocket of his\n overcoat.\n\"We know, \" he said, wagging\n at the door. \"We know where... \"\nThe\n trigger of the revolver must have caught in some part of his\n clothing.\nThe crash of the discharge\n tore the wavering smirk from his face. Piteously\nintent, he stared for a second at the\n door. Then he lay quickly down, as if he\naccepted everything.."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.21", "texte": "He lay first on his face, and muzzled\n his face snugly between his hands.\nPresently he turned over quietly on his back. One hand knocked\n once or twice\nagainst the floor.\nThe look fixed on his countenance was the\n look of one who has at last dis-\ncovered something real.\n\nFrederick Booth."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.22", "texte": "OECORATIONS FOR AN IMAGINARY BALLET.\nI.\nOut of great tombs,\nout of the burnt red stone,\nout of hot darkness . . .\nStiff cloth of amber\nover the waving beaten gold\nto mark the aching gesture\nof unforgotten love\nand ancient sharp denials.\nHide the acrid brown flanks\nwith clay-white cloth\nand clasped copper;\nhide the dry teeth\nand thin husks of lips\nwith shreds\nof\n emerald powdered veils\nout of old\n tombs.\nLet music urge\nin heated waves,\nlet it pour topaz fire\nof\n sounding\nin the gray silence.\nLet fierce desire stalk-\nout of old tombs."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.23", "texte": "II.\nSound the flat gold\nof Chinese scales ;\nlet sound the red gold\nof old gongs\nand the light gold\nof oboes.\nvSpread metal-blue\nupon the stair,\npale rose and darker rose,\nand\n stream cruel lights\nupon them.\nNow let Bativa dance —\nBativa, painted white,\nwith purple over her eyes —\nlet her dance the yearning\nof rattling palmettos\nfor the sea mist,\nof black water\nfor the moon —\nlet her dance the\n passion flow\nof dark loam\ninto apple blossoms,\nand the fall of apple blossoms\ninto brown grasses.\nSound !\nIII.\n\nTwist crystal in your long hair —\nbend that your long hair may\n stream"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.24", "texte": "windward-\nTie\n crystal around your thin wrists\nand\n let cold glitter of fringe\nslip on\n your apple smooth thighs\nand fall like\n spent drops\nfrom the quick waves\nof your lifting knees.\nSet a half circle of hedge here —\na box hedge fresh from late sun,\nsmelling bitter spice from the sun.\n. . . dance to the moon,\nyour breasts tossing. —\ndance the throbbing assent\nof white fountains\nopen armed to the moon —\nDance assent!\n\nHenry Bellamann.\n\nLorenzo Viani.\nThe old part of Viareggio."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.25", "texte": "ON PAINTING.\n\nIn preference to appending a critical\n article on the life and work of Joseph Stella, re-\nproductions of whose paintings are\n presented in this issue, and whose Brooklyn Bridge\nappeared in our first issue, we have\n decided to print the following speech, verbatim, de-\nlivered by him at a recent gathering of\n artists in New York. We have not done outrage\nto the original in a single particular by\n Englishing or Americanizing the language bil-\nlowed forth on that joyous occasion. And\n we feel furthermore that Mr. Stella's speech\napproximates the personality of the man\n more faithfully than any description by an outsider,\nno matter how able or intimate the\n interpreter...\nPainting is joy.\nHear the story.\nOne day Jupiter had a tremendous headache : Minerva was in\n earnest to\nspring forth from his brain.\n He looked around — all the Gods, silent around\n\" Can any of you do something to help me\n ? \"\n\" Darling \" — rushed Venus.\n\" Oh, no. Very sorry — why to-day is\n Sunday and I have proclaimed\nalready the\n blue law.\"\nThen Apollo, the beautiful\n Apollo, realizing his chance, with his ukelele,\nadvanced.\n\" I hear\n you calling me... \"\n\" Shut-up \" —\n thundered Jupiter — \" You make me more sick with\nyour moaning. Go back to the Greenwich\n Village/'\nIn the meantime that little\n son of gun of Cupid was monkeying with some\ncolors given to him by Vulcan, who was\n using them to avoid the rust of his arms.\nAll of a sudden, screaming with joy, the little rascal\n splashed some red, blue and\ngreen on the\n glossy plasticity of Venus. Jupiter bursted in a laughter\n which\nmade tremble sky and earth. The\n headache disappeared. Minerva had to\nbehave that day and Painting was born.\nI am more than sure that each one of us has had some\n experience somewhat\nrelated to the one of\n Cupid and that has happened of course in the rosy child-\nhood when sky and earth welcomed us with\n smile. Now the whole trouble\nof painting\n and of art in general lies in this : The artist wants to\n preserve intact\nhis personal emotions and\n his personal ideas and for the full expression of them\nhe wants to have the same freedom of\n movement that he enjoyed when he was\nleft\n alone as a child. There were lucky epochs, the golden epochs:\n Art sprang\nthen with the vehemence\n unexpected like a natural form — and the artist ele-"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.26", "texte": "The Nightingale.\nJoseph Stella."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.27", "texte": "Serenade.\nJoseph Stella."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.28", "texte": "vating temples, chiselling stones,\n lavishing colors with the same prodigality\nof Flora enjoyed to the full extent the dionysian joy of\n creating.\nBut then a little worm, born\n of envious sterility, began to crawl: it became\ngigantic and pestiferous : The graces,\n horrified, flew from his evil eye and he got\nhold of Art left alone and destitute of\n means. He chained her, closed her in\na\n dungeon called \" Academy/' debarred the sun from her view (since\n then the\nnorth light for the studios) and\n for amusement during her slavery, as toys, gave\nher colored ribbons and tinkling medals.\n Besides he builded a kind of a martial\ncourthouse. A crowd of parasites got employed and self\n appointed judges\nenthroned themselves at\n the entrace of many bridges of sighs through which\nthe artist had to go to give a daily\n account of his doings.\nYou could call\n this worm with various names : chaperon, censor, or better,\naesthete, critic, teacher — I don't know\n why but when I look at the face of\nan\n aesthete, critic, teacher, I provoke the same feeling of immense\n sadness as\nwhen I see wax-tears sliding\n gentle upon a coffin. I was eight years old and\nmy hatred for the school was assuming\n alarming proportions. By the way I\nhave\n always considered the school as the punishment for our original\n sin — in a\nglorious day of May the window\n was open and I was looking at the blossoms\nof a cherry tree in full bloom. A bird came. I thought he was\n saying \" Come\nand have fun outside.\" As\n pushed by the imperative force of fate I rushed\nstraight to the teacher.\n\" I have to go out.\"\n\"Why?\"\n\" He is.\n calling me.\"\n\" Who ? \"\n\" The bird.\"\nHe\n struck me, but I got hold of one of his spongy fingers. I chewed\n half\nof it and runned away. That's\n exactly what has happened with modern art.\nThe dungeon still- exists and some day we hope that it will be\n declared national\nmonument. Cowards are\n still satisfied with ribbons and medals, but the living\nones are all outside and the judges have\n the sad appearance of kings in exile.\nThe\n motto of the modern artist is freedom — real freedom. We\n cannot\nhave enuf of it because in art\n license doesn't exist. The modern painter knowing\nthat his language deals with form and\n colour proclaims above all the purity of\nhis own language and repudiates the assistance of all those\n red-cross societies\nwith which camouflage\n themselves : literature, philosophy, politics, religion,\nethics. Although many prejudices still\n cling to him — and generations have\nto\n pass before he will reach the absolute freedom, he has lost that\n idiotic religious\nfeeling which urges\n fanatics to nominate a leader, a pope. He recognizes perso-\nnalities and not their derivations, the\n schools. But while he recognizes merit"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.29", "texte": "and he has respect for it, no matter\n what period and what race it belongs to (it\nis to modern art the credit of having\n enriched the knowledge of beauty to be\nfound m the most glorious forgotten periods) he is far from\n feticism because\nhis chief interest lies\n in the venture through the untrodden path knowing that\nhe belongs to his own time, he does not\n only accept it but he loves it — and\ntherefore he can tgo back to any past to borrow material. He\n does not feel\nobliged to follow any\n tradition ; only tradition lies in him. The only guide to\nfollow is his own temperament and that's\n the reason why abstractions and re-\npresentations in the strict sense of the\n word don't mean anything-. Rules don't\nexist. If they did exist everybody would be artist. Therefore\n he can't recog-\nnize as modern artists those who having\n left an old slavery are chained by a\nnew\n one. In other words chinasism, indianism, persianism, negro\n sculpture\nwith Cezannism and Renoirism\n — which most prevail nowadays — cannot\nbut disgust him. If Cubism has declared the independence of\n Painting, by\nsuppressing representation\n and in order to purify the vision is gone back, with\nabstractions, to geometry, the source of\n the graphic Arts, he feels that every\ndeclaration of Indepedence carries somewhat a declaration of a\n new slavery.\nAnd according to his credo\n he will always prefer the emotions as expressed by\na child to the lucubrations of those\n warbling theorists who throw harlequin\nmantles on insipid soapy academic nudes or to those\n anatamocial forms in wax\nchopped a sang\n froid by necrophiles. When we think that our epoch, like\n every\nother epoch, is nothing else but\n a point in the immensity of time, we have to laugh\nto those standards that people considered\n eternal. The masterpiece — a phrase\nof\n the infinite speech running through the centuries can't be the\n final word it\nis supposed to be. You\n cannot consider a phrase no matter how perfect it is,\ncomplete and final when the whole\n sentence is not finished.\nInnumeiable are\n the roads leading to heaven and innumerable are the trea-\nsures in the illimitable ocean of Art to\n be unsealed to light by the master hand.\n, Master is the rolling mountainous wave which darts in\n challenge to the Gods,-\nagainst the blue\n of the heaven, the suspected fantastic floor wrested from the\nabyss, and fame is the shell which\n preserves the thunder of the vehemence of\nthis wave in dashing against the dead dunes of oblivion the\n monuments of the\ncontinuous wrecks of\n idiocy in grotesque opposition to its full sweep.\n\nJoseph Stella."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.30", "texte": "PROTEUS.\n\nA Satiric drama in two acts.\nFollowing \" Orestes, \" Aeschylus had\n placed a satiric drama of which the ti-\ntle alone remains : Proteus. While\n dreaming of these syllables I found that I had\nwritten the following play. P. C.\nThe incidental music for the play was\n composed by M. Darius Mjxhaud.\nPERSONS OF THE PLAY.\nProteus. The Satyr-major.\nMeneeaus. Satyrs.\nHEEEN. SEAIvS.\nThe Nymph\n Wieeowithe.\nACT I.\nThe isle of Naxos which, for the\n convenience of the action, is supposed to be\nsituated between Crete and Egypt. One\n sees it in the exact centre of the stage, like\na great wedding-cake with white frosting,\n or like the cover of a rococo soup-tureen.\nIt is a rather pretentious collection of picturesque crags,\n abruptly terminated at the\nsummit by a\n kind of curl, or scroll. The coast is represented by burlap,\n edged with\na white crinkled ruff, for\n foam, and the sea by a great expanse of linoleum.\nThe back of the stage is hidden by drapes\n of grey muslin.\nThe Nymph Wiixo withe.\nSatyrs goat-feet, sorry brigade, hearken\n to me !\nDo you hear me, little brothers\n ?\nThe Satyrs, faintly, off stage.\nMeeee !\nWielo\n withe."}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.31", "texte": "What a mournful voice ! But I promise\n you, soon will your sorrows end,\nAnd the\n narrow cage of this work of art that Proteus calls his isle,\n this diet\nabsurd, and the tyranny of the\n Old Man of the Sea !\nThis evening we\n shall have gone, my companions !\nThe\n Satyrs. — (.Polyphonic chorus).\nMeeee !\n Meeee ! Meeee !\nWllXO\"withe.\nMee ! Mee ! Yes, bleat away ! Woolly\n beasts with Fate at odds, demi-\nbeasts and demi-gods your freedom now is\n near.\nYou will see me dance for you\n again upon the rolling tun, a torch in either\nhand !\nAs sure as\n my name is Willowithe, and the mountain goat who conceived\nme\nNamed me thus\n because I could take the wrist of a man and bind him fast\nlike a viper,\nLike\n those long strings the vine-grower carries tied to his\n apron-cord,\nAnd only the old man\n Proteus has known how to take me one day and cap-\nture my heart with his foolish pearls\n (but I will repay that turn)\nFor I have\n examined well his phylacteries prophetic, which he does n#t\nunderstand himself, archives of the\n future, and I have seen things that he does\nnot know.\nOur\n deliverance approaches !\nFor behold the\n divine Menelaus son of Atreus, Jupiter's son-in-law,\nApproaches upon a ship as unbalanced as\n its master\nAnd with every wave the proud\n horse with shaggy fetlocks who without\nsail or rudder drags the careering ship\nThrusts his nose in the spray and lifts it incontinently\n towards heaven like\na cocotte that\n drinks.\nHe arrives. He disembarks.\nThe Satyrs. (.Polyphonic chorus\n interrupted).\nMee ! Mee !\n{One arrow, then another flies across the\n stage. Panic\nstricken flight of\n Satyrs).\nMenelvAus, off scene.\nNow I have both my feet on earth and I\n defy the gods !\nWllXO\"withe.\nHe is safe, and, of course, his first act\n is to blaspheme.\n[Enter Menelaus, the bow\n at his back, holding in his\nright hand a\n sword and in his left hand the hand of a veiled\nwoman, Helen)."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "126", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.32", "texte": "Menbi^aus.\nGods !\n is it then not enough that you have unloosed against me all the\n ele-\nments at once ?\nTo cap the climax, you wish to make sport of me !\nThis morning behold the ship, in the\n teeth of the wind, without mast or rudder\nsets itself in motion like some one that is sure of where he\n goes.\nAnd here is the land. So far, so\n good ! But the first thing I see on a crag,\nfixing wide eyes upon me,\nIs a wild thing with the horns of a ram\n protruding from its head, that, in\ngazing, stuck out its tongue !\nI aim at\n the monster, I fire, it flees !\nAnd\n fleeing in little bounds it reveals two thighs and a rump\n covered with\nshaggy hair like that of a\n goat !\nWhat grudge does it bear me, this\n two-horned being ?\nThen pursuing me is\n not enough, I must needs be insulted also !\nFor things that I don't understand are to\n me like a personal affront.\nA man with\n the rump of a goat, I blush to think of it !\nVery well, I defy you all, there on high\n , all the host in Uranos,\n* And you\n yourself, my father-in-law ! What were you doing while Paris\nstole your daughter away from me ?\nThen was the time to brandish your bolts\n and try your thunder claps !\nBut it is\n well. Without your aid I went to retake her where she was ;\nAnd I will bring back to Sparta with me\n she whom I have wedded and who\nis my\n property.\nWhether you wish it or not,\n despite the wind and the tempest, and all these\nthings that I do not understand !\nThe sword at least is a thing that I\n undestand and the handsome Alexander,\nthere, he has felt it, that charming Paris !\nCome, Helen, hold my hand firmly, I will\n not let you go.\nAnd I cannot say I get\n much pleasure from you.\nBut yet, such as\n you are, it is you, and I hold you ana all shall recognize\nyou and I will bring you back again to\n Sparta.\n[Enter Wiixowithe) .\nWho goes there ?\n[He aims an arrow at her).\nWII^OWITHE.\nHail, great hero !\nMENEIyAUS.\nWho are\n you ?"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "127", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.33", "texte": "WIEEOWITHE.\nHail,\n son of Atreus, Jupiter's son-in-law !\nMeneeaus.\nHow do you know me ?\nWiixowithe.\nWho\n does not know Menelaus and the vengeance exacted from Priam ?\nAll of the sea, blue-on-blue, is filled\n to the brim with your fame !\nPut down\n that bow !\nMeneeaus.\nAre you one of the band of wild things\n also ?\nWiixowithe.\nI am just a poor nymph named Willowithe by my mother\nBecause of my rustic manners and simple\n speech.\nMenelaus.\nHa ! Now we have a Nymph !\nAnd those are horns that I see beneath\n your hair ?\nWiixowithe.\nHardly that. Quite little hornlets of\n palest shell, a simple ornament.\nAnd you\n will not make me believe that a man like you\nNever has met a nymph in his life !\nHero, put down that bow which makes me\n tremble !\nMeneeatjs, lowering his bow and\n with his hand on his sword.\nAll this is\n far from clear.\nBut lam afraid of\n nothing. The man is not born who will take from me\nthis that I hold by the hand.\nWiixowithe.\nWho is\n it ?\nMeneeaus.\nHark ! She will tell it to you herself.\nHeeen.\nI am Helen.\n(.She relapses into silence).\nWIIXOWITHE.\nWhat ?\n Is it the famous Helen you hold by the hand ?\nMeneeaus, with pride.\nShe herself.\nWieeo\n withe.\nHail to you, Helen.\nMeneeaus.\nShe will\n not answer you, For since these happenings."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "128", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.34", "texte": "She is so puffed up with pride that one\n can get nothing from her\nSave for \" I am\n Helen ! \"\nWieeowithe.\nHail, daughter of Jupiter !\nMENEEAIXS.\nWhat\n means this air of doubt and astonishment ?\nWieeo withe, drawing him aside.\nGood\n sir, the fact is we have here another Helen.\nMENEEAIXS.\nAnother\n Helen ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nIt is just ten years since she came, on the day you saw her no\n more in your\nhouse.\nMeneeaus.\nI have heard already this\n fairy-tale of another Helen who lives between\nCrete and Egypt.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nWould you like to see her\n ?\nMeneeaus.\nI\n care not one way or the other.\nWTOWITHE.\nLet me see this one\n here.\nMENEIvAUS.\nWhat is the use ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAre you afraid ?\nMeneeaus, raising Helen's veil.\nThis is\n how afraid I am !\n(Wieeowithe regards\n Helen and says nothing).\nWell ? Naturally\n I suppose it is the same face ?\nW lEEO\n WITHE.\nYes.\nMeneeaus.\nI expected this ! It is\n one more trick to vex me.\nBut I'm an old\n dog whose scent is not easily put at fault.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nWho\n then, if not she, would have described you to me so exactly I\n knew\nyou instantly ?\nThis bright color, this low brow, these\n little defiant eyes and this air of an\nangry bull ?"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.35", "texte": "3\n\nAnd this white hair that already the day\n of your marriage was mingled with\nyour\n hyacinthine curls.\nCome, raise your\n casque.\nMeneeaus, uncovering his\n face.\nIt is true.\nWiEEO\"withe.\nDo\n wish for other details ? Who else would recognize you thus.\nMeneeaus.\nI know\n the true Helen is she whom I hold by the hand.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYou\n know it ?\nMeneeaus, declaiming.\nI know it, I see it, and I am convinced\n of it.\nWieeowithe, similarly.\nBut one is only convinced when one is not\n sure.\nMeneeaus.\nIt is Helen.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nWhat proofs of it have you ?\nMeneeaus.\nWhat\n proofs ? I wish for no others than Troy in ashes and two\n hundred\nthousand men with slitted\n throats !\nAnd those ten years of crazy\n patience, one following the other, made up of\ndays each of which I have counted !\nAnd my niece Iphigenia brought to harm,\n and the waiting supreme in the\ngut of the\n Wooden Horse.\nAnd you say this is not\n Helen !\nW lEEO WITHE.\nThe bait of the wrathful gods who planned\n the ruin of Priam has been ex-\ntremely good.\nMeneeaus.\nDo not excite me, be\n silent ! And tell me, what isle is this ?\nWieeo withe.\nNaxos.\nMeneeaus.\nNaxos ?\n It's shown on the map as being much farther north.\nWieeo withe.\nFor\n the moment, it is here.\nMeneeaus.\nVery good. And who is the ruler of Naxos\n now ?"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.36", "texte": "WIEEOWITHE.\nThe\n old man Proteus, king of the seals and of all the amphibious\nmonsters.\nMeneeaus.\nCan he give me a great\n piece of oak of twenty cubits to make a mast, and\nanother, as well, of ten cubits to make a\n spar, sixty feet of hawser, a hundred\nsquare feet of good linen sails, forty pairs of oars, a keg of\n oakum, three kettles\nof tar, and a little\n paint ?\nWl WD WITHE.\nAll this he can give you, but he is\n avaricious.\nMeneeaus.\nI have nothing at all to pay him with.\nWiixowithe.\nYou\n can make him give all this without paying him a penny.\nMekeeaus.\nHow ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nBy\n art and guile in which I, Willowithe, will instruct you.\nMeneeaus.\nBut you\n yourself, what are you doing here ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nBacchus our master\n forgot me, left behind,\nWhen he came\n hither to seek for Ariadne.\n(.Dropping\n her eyes) The old man Proteus seduced me.\nMeneeaus.\nIs he so handsome ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nHe's\n fish as far as the waist.\nMeneeaus.\nThen everything goes by halves in this\n land ! If there were canaries here\nI'll\n wager that they would be half sardines !\nWIEEOWITHE.\nBut a man-fish, all the\n same, it is rare !\nMeneeaus.\nIs that all that pleased you in him ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nHe had\n promised to give me pearls.\nMeneeaus.\nAnd I, I possess no pearls to promise\n you, Mademoiselle, and I will not give\nyou anything at all."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.37", "texte": "WIIJyO WITHE •\nYou will take me away in your boat ?\nMENEEAUS.\nThat, yes, that can be\n managed.\nW IlylyO WITHE .\nSwear !\nMeneeaus.\nI swear it! By Zeus, by\n the earth, by the heaven, by the Styx, by Chaos,\nby all the gods, by whatever oath you\n wish !\nW WITHE.\nI\n and these unfortunate animals.\nMENEEAUS.\nWhat animals ?\nWieeo withe.\nMy\n companions here, these Satyrs.\nMENEEAUS.\nNo, they'd make the whole\n ship smell.\nWnXOWITHE.\nYou need a crew.\nMENEIvAUS.\nIt is true. But this herd\n of goats, pray who has penned them here ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAll that falls in the\n sea belongs to Proteus.\nMeneeaus.\nIndeed! His warehouses then must be\n well-filled.\nWieeowithe.\nAll this is ranged and classed in\n splendid order through the profound store-\nrooms that are beneath this isle.\nThe oars, the lost anchors,\nThe masts, according to height, and I do\n not know how many bales of cor-\ndage and sails, with all the marks of\n the Mediterranean Sea.\nCracked kettles,\n old knives, accordeons, lanterns, astrolabes, marline-spikes,\nand figures for the prow.\nAll things are good in his sight, he\n dabbles in everything.\nMeneeaus.\nGood, very good, all this will help\n me.\nWieeowithe.\nAnd now, profiting by the toil of our master Bacchus who\n incessantly has\nto run from one end of\n the world to the other,\nHe has begun to\n form a collection of Satyrs."}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.38", "texte": "MENEEAUS.\nIdea\n worthy of a seal.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYou say this because you have never seen\n them leap, and dart through the\nsmoke,\n like projectiles, twenty feet in the air, above a great bon-fire\n of dry wood.\n'Twas with this in mind that\n Proteus to animate these crags\nApplied\n himself to collecting these demi-gods.\nMeneeaus.\nI came near to smashing\n one just now.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAh, exterminate them all with your darts\n !\nAh, this would be better than\n shoring them up in this place, wretchedly hob-\nbling about this mean little heap of\n boulders.\nWhere the Old Man of the Sea\n maintains us with viands absurd.\nMeneeaus.\nWhat does he give you ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nCondensed milk and mineral water,\nOr\n cachalot cheese when from time to time it is possible to procure\n it.\nAnd the rain-water that we\n collect.\nWe must use it, in faith, to\n water six plants of tobacco which are his pride\nand which pay no customs-duty.\nAh, we would all be dead were it not for\n that perfumed amphora of Cretan wine\nOf\n which one shard remains\nAnd we pass it\n about to each other to sniff from time to time.\nMeneeaus.\n. Sad\n regimen !\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAnd not so much as one mud-hole, smelling\n strong of the forest, where they\nmight\n wallow from time to time, as Satyrs need to do, after the manner\n of boars\nand other beasts !\nIs it any wonder then that their hair is\n drooping and discolored, like a phi-\nlosopher's beard.\nAll is dry and clean in this horrible place incessantly\n washed, brushed and\nre-brushed by the sea\n and the wind.\nEven the sand-pinks, wild\n garlic and wild thyme\nCannot take root on\n its slopes.\nMeneeaus.\nAh well, I swear by Zeus to take you away\n with me.\nTell me what I must do."}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "133", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.39", "texte": "WllylyO WITHE .\nAre you strong ?\nMeneeaus, flexing his\n hands and his arms.\nThese are terrible\n pincers.\nWhen I hold him therewith he\n will know what athletes they make in Sparta.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nIs it\n true that you stifled Paris in your arms ?\nMeneeaus.\nHe found them less fresh\n than those of my wife, ho, ho !\nThere is\n nothing to boast of in that.\nI-Ie was fat\n and had no vertebrae to speak of, like a string bean.\nWIEEOWITHE .\nIn\n that case girdle him from behind.\nMeneeaus, making the gesture.\nLike this\n ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nGirdle him from behind, and hold him firmly, and beware of the\n blows of\nhis tail, old shark that he is\n !\nMeneeaus.\nHave no fear, my girl.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nWhatever he does don't let him go.\nMeneeaus.\nThe good\n old man will give me no trouble at all.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAnd even if, all at\n once, you hold a roaring lion between your arms . . .\nMeneeaus.\nA lion\n ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nHave you never heard tell of the tricks of the Old Man of the\n Sea ? And\nthat he becomes at will a lion\n ?\nFire ?\nWater\n ?\nA dragon ?\nAnd a fruit tree ?\nMeneeaus.\nWhy a fruit tree ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nI don't know, but that\n is the way it is. Do not let yourself be amazed.\nIt's the order invariably. He has no\n imagination. Remember it well."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.40", "texte": "{She counts on her fingers).\nA lion, first, then a dragon, then fire,\n then water and then a fruit tree. When\nyou see the fruit tree it's over, and you'll have the good man\n at your mercy.\nMekexaus.\nA fruit tree, very good ! Wliat things\n one learns when one goes sea-voyaging!\nWiixowithe.\nRemember to take his\n spectacles away. It is from these that he draws\nhis supernatural power.\nMenelaus.\nHis\n spectacles, very good.\nWiixowithe.\nDo not let the old seal escape you. He's\n a slippery god, and all aslime\nwith\n oil.\nMenei,atjs.\nHave no fear. I have already seen one seal that knew how to\n talk.\nIt was a Chersonese boatman who\n brought it out to our ship.\nIt sang in\n the Scythian tongue and called with vehement cries to its\n dear\nfather and all its family.\nWIIXOWITHE.\nWhen\n he has finished making the fruit-tree, and you have taken his\n spec-\ntacles,\nYou can\n demand from him everything that you wish.\nMENEI.AUS.\nA mast, sails, tar ?\nWIIXO WITHE.\nYou\n can demand from him news of everything that happens on earth\n or\nsea. He knows everything, he has a\n bulletin.\nMENEI/AUS.\nA bulletin ?\nWILLO\n WITHE.\nDid you not know that to all\n the gods of the earth and of the sea, according\nto their grade, Jupiter grants a\n bulletin.\nFrom time to time he sends\n them\nA narrow strip of transparent\n parchment.\nMenewts.\nWell!\nWIIXOWITHE.\nIt suffices to unroll it\n before a lantern and one sees simultaneously\nThe past, the present, the future.\nI understand nothing of this. You can\n trust in Proteus, though."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.41", "texte": "Meneeaus.\nThen I\n should not be sorry to know what has become of my brother and\n what\nmy sister-in-law, Clotilde, is\n doing now in Argos.\nWieeo withe .\nClytemnestra, do you mean ?\nMENEIvAUS.\nClytemnestra. These hot climates confuse one's memory.\nCertain rumours reached me from that\n direction.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYou can ask him everything.\nMENEI/AUS.\nWell,\n where can I find the old man ?\nWllylyO\n WITHE.\nEach day at noon he comes this\n way to scatter food for his flock.\nLet me\n talk with him a little and when I raise my hand\nApproach without letting him hear and\n then zou, presto ! girdle him from\nbehind\n !\n— What is it that disturbs you ?\nMenei.au s.\nWillowithe !\nI should be glad, O, I\n should be very glad if I could trust you a trifle more.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nIs\n not my interest in this identical with yours ?\nMENEIvAUS.\nIt is\n those little horns on your head that trouble me.\nWlUvO WITHE.\nDo\n you think that I cannot give you good advice ?\nMeneeaus.\nWhat\n good advice can come from a head that's horned ?\nWieeowithe.\nDo you\n know only this, why your boat proceeded at random and you\n were\nimpotent to direct its course.\nMenelaus.\nWhy?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nRegard the prow.\nMeneeatjs.\nWell?\nWl IX O\n WITHE.\nDo you not see that the poor\n great eye is quite obliterated ?"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "136", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.42", "texte": "MENEEAUS.\nIt is\n true, by Zeus !\nWlEEOwithe.\nHow then did you hope that your boat\n could direct itself without its eye ?\nMeneeaus.\nYou are right. I had not\n thought of that.\nBy the ass ! By the dog\n ! You're a girl with good sense and I trust you.\nWIIXO WITHE •\nHide\n yourself there behind these rocks and when I raise my hand . .\n .\nMeneeaus.\nI\n understand ! Come, Helen !\n(He goes out\n at the back, leading Heeen).\nWieeo withe,\n calling after him.\nSpeak to him of our\n Helen, also.\n(She goes out to the\n right).\n\nPaul Claudel.\n(Translated from the French by John Strong\n Newberry).\n\n[To Be Continued)."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.43", "texte": "Henri Matisse. Interior.\nCourtesy Bernheim-June Gallery — Paris."}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.44", "texte": "PARAGRAPHS CONCERNING THE PRINCESS VEHANA.\n\nThe princess Vehana had fallen over a\n cliff, and the story of her life had\nsuffered many abrasions. A swift runner, coming at dusk\n through a pass in\nthe mountains, brought\n the news to Enana. That incomparable artist, prepar-\ning dyes in his house of polished wood\n at the foot of the hill Fangono, promised\nto attend the king's daughter and repair her so far as he\n could.\nThere was no special interest\n in his voice. To such a one, used to liv-\ning among s}onbols, the body of a\n princess was merely one record out of many,\none library, one obelisk, in a land where\n all were libraries and obelisks.\nThe occasion being unusual, the king\n summoned likewise I,ali, the rival\nof\n Enana, an orgiast, magician and scribe who dwelt on the island\n of Vini.\nLali ca me with alacrity, for\n the surface of a princess is a splendid manuscript,\nand the favor of a princess may lead to\n undreamt of places. Besides, Vehana\nhad\n fallen over a cliff; such an event hinted at something riotous\n and unsteady\nin the young woman, which\n might prove useful to him.\nThe king went west through the mountain\n passes on his annual pilgrimage\nto the\n shrine of his fathers, and meeting Enana on the road he paused\n to com-\nmend the young man.\nEnana, though the youngest of the great\n workers in flesh, followed the\naristocratic tradition ; and the king had been gratified at\n the beauty of his liv-\ning monuments. He had always close at\n hand in the royal train the Boy in\nPale\n Blue, one of the artist's earliest triumphs, no less moving for\n being of ne-\ncessity incomplete.\nFanna, her nurse, was seated before the\n blue doors of the lodge of Ve-\nhana. The sun was high above the\n white-columned palms, and in the cool\nshade, under the hedge of ruby and green dracaenas, grew the\n pale flowers of\nthe royal totem.\nNo other dwelling was visible ; yet Enana\n knew that be stood in the heart\nof the\n town. In lands where the body, and not the street, is the book\n which"}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.45", "texte": "one reads, people live out of sight of\n their neighbors, in clustered palms and\nfoliage, or under wooded knolls. For they understand that they\n are unique\nexhibits, and they desire to\n be appreciated singly and not in crowds.\nThe wayfarer may thus study without distraction the beauty\n that art and\nlife have made of men, even\n when life has been evil and art careless; and so\nmay be impressed by the variety of man\n and destiny, rather than confused by\na\n congregated and unreadable sameness.\nEnana, gazing at the royal flowers, sacred to the moon, said\n to the nurse,\n\" Beauty has no totem. \"\nThe old woman, who was wise, smiled in\n agreement and rose to kiss the\nhand of\n the young maestro.\nLali was on the ground first, with his\n unguents and his fat stomach and the\ncincture of red and blue blossoms round his forehead. Neither\n of the great\nchroniclers rejoiced at\n seeing the other. They represented and were at the head\nof two schools of thought which had\n nothing in common.\nIn this conflict the\n aged nurse was on the side of Enana, for she distrusted\nthe clever, the bizarre and the novel.\n But the princess found Enana cold, and\nwas pleased at the obsequious manner and enthusiastic\n interjections of L,ali.\nThe princess was\n invisible, and held speech with them through the plaited\nfibres and leaves of her bed-chamber. She\n meditated much upon mortality,\nand now\n and then permitted Enana to hold her hand through the arbor'd\n wall.\nBut he said little. Lali on the\n contrary spoke copiously of death, and always\nin an unfavourable sense.\nL,ali was a meat eater, and he disgusted\n the nurse and Enana. The old\nwoman said\n that the crunching of bones made her ill; and when L,ali was\n engaged\nwith food, Enana found it\n convenient to wander off into the city of leaves.\nThere he read many a thrilling\n life-chapter on bare shoulders or backs glimpsed\nthrough the green thickets. Thus passed\n two days.\nL,ali devoured huge quantities\n of meat so that his power should be at the\nfull when the princess appeared. Enana, though a philosopher,\n could not help\nfingering his knife when\n he saw the complacent orgiast licking his chops. And\nhis ire was roused by an odious bit of\n pink and yellow mosaic on Lali's shoulder.\nEnana itched to carve that away.\nOn the third day the princess appeared,\n and Lali prostrated himself be-\nfore her. Enana, who had not understood\n that he was about to see the most su-\nblime instance of art in the entire\n land, was taken by surprise, and merely"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "140", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.46", "texte": "bowed. The princess concluded that in\n the solemn looking youth she had to\ndo\n with a prig. L,ali exclaimed at the areva-reva on the cloak of\n the princess ;\nbut Enana had now no eye\n for designs, least of all those not wrought upon living\nstuff, and gazed only at her face.\nThe nurse took the pareu and caha from\n her, and the exquisite brown\nscroll which\n was the body of the princess stood upright in the clear air,\n where\nonly butterflies were moving.\n For three hours the princess stood, impassive.\nHer two observers were speechless, except\n for a despairing cry from Enana,\n\" What\n genius ha£ decorated you, ! \"\nThe damage\n was not irremediable. wise in his own conceit, announced\nthat he was ready to begin his share of\n the work. But Enana was greatly\ntroubled\n by certain open spaces in the disposition of the chronicle, very\n differ-\nent indeed from the undecorated areas on\n the belly of When was\nyoung and\n symmetrical, those abdominal patterns might have had a\n certain\ncharm; but years of swelling\n had stretched and separated them and made them\ncomic. The free spaces in the history of\n the princess, on the contrary, were\nlike\n chance omissions in a narrative, and lent the imagination\n wings.\nFor what purpose were they left\n ? he pondered. It was effective as a\ntrick ; but artists such as had colored her were above tricks.\n Enana, with a\nsudden start, felt that\n they might be reserved for a writing invisible and im-\nportant.\nThe record, in part cuneiform and in\n part symbolic, began with two lov-\ners on blossoms, summer heaped beneath\n them. Of this episode, as flower\nand\n fruit, came a girl child.\nThen followed\n one of the silences which disturbed Enana.\nThe next stanza, if so each division might be called, was\n inscribed with the\nsigns and talismans of\n wonder, and there dealt with childhood. Kindly animals,\nand such flowers as the lemon hibiscus\n and the tasselated purple rose-apple,\nand\n little boys and girls, were woven through a design of cloud and\n hill and\nhomes wattled from pandanus and\n palm leaf thatch. Story-tellers were mys-\nteriously present; stars were\n visible.\nAnother silence followed.\nVehana was very young ; but a third\n stanza upon her body was filled\nwith that\n unparalleled poetry which had existed long before she was born,\n in\nCxamalca and Titicaca, in Cambodia\n and Boro Bodo, and wherever her hiero-\nglyphics had been used. This stanza told\n of lovers near and far, who found the\nprincess the best reason for existing. Youths not of her own\n totem had besought\nher. Dazzling and\n free, with the holiness of her beauty to protect her she had\ngone her way unmolested, passing in\n safety at times beyond the pale of the"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "141", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.47", "texte": "ancestral moon. For the rest, the third\n stanza discoursed of dancing and\nswimming\n and racing through leaves, of the touch of all elements and the\n con-\ntact of all substance.\nThe nurse, in a hesitant and apologetic\n manner, supplied what was needed\nto bring\n the narrative up to date. The burden of her speech was that\n fidelity\ncan be interpreted in so many\n ways that it is wisest not to speak of it at all. As\nan instance she referred to a princess\n obliged to watch two young men fight to\nthe death under moonlit palms, a young princess torn from a\n couch of bright\nleaves and flung over a\n cliff by one insane with desire. Some miracle had saved\nher. She avoided the rocks in her descent\n bounding down from bush to bush,\nbut her\n delicate skin suffered, and many of its recorded episodes were\n lost.\nDuring the perusal of the inscriptions,\n Enana asked that guitars be played\nupon.\n Lali roughly ordered tom-toms, saying that only vigorous beauty\n oiled\nhis imagination. A bitter\n quarrel ensued, and the princess commanded that\nthe guitars and the tom-toms sound\n alternately. After this incident Lali went\nabout with a poisoned spear, frowned often and ominously, and\n practised hid-\ning in abattises of hibiscus.\nThat night Enana roused the nurse and\n requested to study the princess\nsecretly\n in moonlight. The \"princess was persuaded. Enana noted that\n the\nchange of light made a difference\n in many of the colors and lines, adding here\nor there strange news or sad secrets. He\n pondered. He remembered something\nan old\n man had once whispered in his ear, and at last he said, \" I must\n return\nto my mountain for more wisdom\n . \"\nThe princess was flattered. Until now\n a cause of madness and death to some,\nof\n superstition and somnambulism to others, it was a new experience\n to her to\nbe to anyone a cause of\n speculation.\nNevertheless, of the two\n artists she preferred the society of I,ali. He was\nforever chattering and amusing her ;\n whereas Enana's eyes followed her with\nreproaches, and he was as silent as a stone.\nMeanwhile, Lali began the repair of the\n deltoid frescoes. As Vehana lay\nbeneath\n the'palms on her robe of wood-fibre, feeling his stylus piercing\n her skin\nwith little pricks, and\n listening to his words, she felt her beauty slipping from\nher, or becoming a veil thin indeed\n between her and primeval slime."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "142", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.48", "texte": "The beat of the tom-toms gave her a\n headache. So, a discomfort grew\non the\n princess as she listened to the lore of Lali. It was the lore of\n jungles,\nof venomous insects and\n reptiles, of jagged rocks and reefs in the channels be-\ntween jungles. It connected lusts which\n had been half sport to her, with lusts\nwhich were not play at all, but in Lali's view the serious\n business of life.\nLali described revels\n in the barbaric isles he had visited during his appren-\nticeship. Lali chattered and chattered.\n Vehana was filled with a sickness.\nEnana returned, and the nurse brought\n him custard apples and great oran-\nges in a bowl of beachwood. In his hands\n the artist carried seven circles of glass,\nvac #\neach with its own color ; and\n holding these to his eyes, he gazed through each\nin succession at the body of Vehana.\nSmothered exclamations escaped his\n lips.\nLali saw that the science of the\n younger man far exceeded his own, and\nhe\n was gnawed by jealousy. Besides, such preoccupation with the\n invisible\nmaddened him.\nHe mocked Enana. \" Your science is thin,\n like the upper air, \" he said.\n\"You lack\n a terrestrial foundation. You eat no meat. You are an impostor.\n \"\n\"You are plebeian and romantic, \"\n said Enana austerely.\n\" I spit in your\n face, \" retorted Lali. Not content with being disagreeable,\nhe seized his envenomed spear.\nBut Enana without abating his priest-like\n manner, approached Lali, and\ndrawing his\n knife with the pomp of a Druid, gestured twice, and the hated\n mo-\nsaics on his rival's shoulder where\n ruined permanently. It was not a mortal\nhurt ; but Lali would be less the man. He was taken away.\nA came at length — a day filled with the\n sweetness of the leaf-flower\nof the\n pandanus — when Enana revealed to the princess and her nurse the\n mean-\ning of the inscriptions which his\n science had disclosed. He began with some\nmetaphysics :\n\" Persons of great beauty\n rarely love ; you, with all your lovers, have never\nloved. And it is doubtful whether your\n lovers have.been lovers. The young\nmen-themselves have not been certain that they really\n possessed you, so bewil-\ndering is beauty. Perhaps, gazing\n through all the colors of the spectrum at the\nsame time, we might say that what you\n could share with your young men, you\ndid\n share. For you are a child of simple things, sunlight and\n dancing waters,\nyellow beaches and palm\n shade. Nevertheless, it is written upon you every-\nwhere that to be beautiful is to be\n lonefy. \""}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "143", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.49", "texte": "\" The records of many lives are\n inscribed, then, upon my body ? \" inquired\nthe princess. \" This I had not known before. \"\n\"The record of many lives. \"\n\" What do the inscriptions say ? \" The\n princess was suddenly intent and\ncurious.\n\" They say that the beauty\n of women passes. That by pain and suffering\nit passes into the eyes of young men, and\n so into music, and so into many things\nwhich young men hear and see, and many things which young men\n do as well,\neven into the they cause,\n gilding those deaths with a dark lustre ; that\nby pain and suffering it passes into the\n lives of children, and so into the life of\ntribes and nations; that by pain and suffering it passes into\n the flowers and grass\nwhich spring from\n graves, and so into the landscape of the world ; and into the\nlandscape of memory, and so into fable\n and distance, and the heart of life.\nSuch\n is the burden of the living palimpsest of your body ; such is\n the speech of\nyour silent places. And\n thus you become a living witness to the strength of\nbeauty, that draws all things to it and\n sends all things from it, that suffers all\nthings, and is apart, like a mountain, and lonely, like, a\n moon. \"\nThe princess was greatly moved. \"\n I fear that I can never be happy, \"\nshe\n said, \" away from your rare eyes which see and appreciate me,\n and your\nrare ears which hear. The\n observer is the love of the beauty. He is the mirror\nwithout which Beauty may not see herself.\n \"\nIt was thus the fate of Vehana, if riot\n to love, at least to be interpreted.\nAnd\n since the mind which interprets one is the mind that mates,\n supplements\nand fulfills, it may be\n said that in the end she was made articulate and came\nto love.\nHer\n beauty, tiring of disordered minds and disordered lives,\n consorted best\nwith the austerity of\n intelligence. Vehemence is interesting; but the gestures\none never forgets are those of peace.\n There was something of eternity in the\nrepose of Vehana upon the bosom of Enana.\nLove has its archaeology and its prophecy\n ; beauty finds no better commerce\nthan\n with reason. The embraces of Vehana and Enana in the house with\n the\nblue doors, were genial, and they\n united the past and the future. They came\nof death, but they resulted in children.\n\nHaniel Long."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "144", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.50", "texte": "Rockwell, Kent. The Young Sailor.\nYoung Sailor.\nCourtesy\n Daniel Gallery — New York."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "145", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.51", "texte": "Rockwell Kent. Newfoundland Dirge.\nCourtesy Daniel Gallery — New York.\n\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "146", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.52", "texte": "I.\nCOMFORT.\nAs I sat by the fire,\nPuss said to me :\n\" There burns the fire, man.\nAnd here\n bide we.\n\" Four Walls around us\nAgainst the cold air ;\nAnd the latchet drawn close\nTo the draughty Stair.\n\" A Roof o'er our heads —\nStar-proof, moon immune ;\nAnd a wind in the chimney\nTo wail us a tune.\n\" What felicity ? \" miaoued he,\n\" Where\n none may intrude ;\nJust Man and Beast —\n set\nIn this Solitude !\n\" You in your sheep's-wool coat,\nButtons of bone,\nAnd me in my fur-about\nOn the warm\n hearthstone. \""}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "147", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.53", "texte": "II.\nNOT THAT WAY.\nW. de la Mare.\nNo, no. Guard thee ! Go not that way,\nNot that way.\nS'ee, how the louring clouds glide on,\nSkirting West to South ; and see,\nThe\n green light under that sycamore tree\nNot\n that way !\nThere the leaden trumpets\n blow\nSolemn and slow.\nThere the everlasting walls\nFrom above the waterfalls\nSilver and cold ;\nNot that way !\nNot toward death, who,\n stranger, fairer,\nThan any siren turns\n his head —\nThan any siren, arched with\n rainbows,\nWhere knell the waves of her\n ocean bed.\nAlas, that beauty hangs her\n flowers\nFor lure of his demoniac\n powers :\nAlas, that from these eyes\n should dart\nThat piercing summons to thy\n heart ;\nlhat mine in frenzy of longing\n beats,\nTrusting for those gross\n deceits !\nNot that way."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "148", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.54", "texte": "THE CONTRACT.\n\nOne evening lie kissed her and she got\n abruptly up from the bench in the\ngarden\n back of her father's house and went to stand by a tree. How soft\n and still\nand lovely the night seemed to\n him! He felt absurdly set up, a little perhaps, he\nthought smiling indulgently at himself,\n as a warrior might feel after securing\na\n position of advantage for a coming great battle. For the moment\n he had\nforgotten her and continued to sit\n alone on the bench smiling at himself. Had\nthe stillness of the garden been broken by the blast of a\n trumpet and himself\nproclaimed some kind\n of a conquering male hero he would not have been too\nsurprised. The notion of being a\n conqueror clung to him and although he laughed\nat himself he went on playing with the\n idea. There was Napoleon following\nhis\n star of destiny and Alexander sighing for more worlds to conquer\n ! Had\nhe not suddenly kissed her without\n asking permission ? Had he not stormed\nthe fortress ? It was the way things were done among the\n bolder males. He\nlaughed softly.\nIn a way she had been expecting the kiss\n although she had been telling\nherself she\n did not want it. Still she was prepared for it as he was not.\n It\nwas the third time they had been\n together.\nFor her the first time she\n had seen him had been the most stirring of all. He\nhad come into town unheralded and then\n word had gone around that he was\na figure\n of consequence in the intellectual world. He was invited to\n speak be-\nfore an organization called the Thursday\n Club and she went with her father,\nthe\n editor of the town's one newspaper.\nHis\n figure had swept like a flame across the field of her fancy that\n first\nevening. In what a daring way he\n had talked ! His subject was the effect\nof Christianity on civilization and he spoke of Jesus, the man\n of Nazareth, in a\nway that disturbed and\n irritated the Thursday Club. With what fire and\neloquence he talked. There was the sacred\n young man, a carpenter in an obscure\nvillage. He had thought his own thoughts, ignored the\n teachings of older men.\nWhen he was not\n at work at his trade he went alone to walk in the hills. His\nown intense nature and the long hours and\n days of silent contemplation of life\nhad\n made him a profound mystic. Had anyone thought, had anyone\n dared"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "149", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.55", "texte": "think of the man Jesus as just an\n ordinary human being who had in the face of\nthe commonplace standards of life had the\n courage to use his life as an adven-\nturous experiment for the benefit of\n society !\nThe speaker before the Thursday\n Club, organized by her father and several\nother men for the purpose of studying literature, had quite\n startled his audience.\nAfter the meeting\n several of the members protested, saying the club had been\norganized for another purpose and that it\n was too bad to start a religious discus-\nsion.\nThey had,\n she felt, missed the whole point of his talk. It was not a\n religious\ndiscussion. As she sat\n beside her father and looked about at the other club\nmembers and their wives and at the few\n ummarried men scattered among them,\na\n great gladness that such a man had come to live in her town\n swept over her.\nAs he continued talking\n of the man of Galilee and how he walked up and down\nthrough many towns in a far away country\n casting out devils by the power\nof his\n bold and lovely presence, she was so overcome with emotion that\n tears\ncame to her eyes. The speaker\n was himself a man of thirty and Jesus, the Christ\nof whom he talked so eloquently, had been\n a man of thirty when he set out on\nhis\n mission to civilization. After the meeting and as the speaker\n walked home\nwith herself and her father\n she remained silent while the two men talked. Even\nthen he was a little too conscious of\n her. She had wanted to worship from afar.\nShe had wanted to repeat aloud the words of the officers of\n the Pharisees, sent\nto seize Jesus in the\n temple, the men who had returned from their mission\nempty-handed. \" Never man spake like this\n man, \" they had said filled with\nwonder.\nAs the three people walked\n under the trees he continued to speak on the\nsubject that had been the foundation of\n his talk before the club. \" They evi-\ndently misunderstood, \" he said\n laughing, \" I did not intend my talk to be\nconcerned with religion. I was thinking only of the barbaric\n background of\nthe life of Jesus Christ\n and its dramatic possibilities. You understand what I\nmean, the soft smiling land of Galilee,\n the lake with the white cities on the shore,\nruled over by the cruel Herod Antipas,\n the fishermen leaving their nets to fol-\nlow the man who taught the strange new\n doctrine of peace; forgiveness and love.\nAnd then the strange crowds in the streets of the towns and in\n the city of Jeru-\nsalem, the paralytic at Bethesda, the\n pool by the Sheep-gate, the prostitute who\nwiped his feet with her hair as he sat at the feast, the scene\n in the garden on the\nnight before the\n crucifixion, the crucifixion itself — why should all this not\n be\ntaken as profound and beautiful\n literature ? That is how lam sure, it has had\nits greatest effect upon mankind.\nAs he had talked to her father during the\n walk homeward on that first\nevening, the\n speaker had occasionally turned to her and once he had made\n a"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "150", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.56", "texte": "feeble apology for the seriousness of\n the talk. \" Does all this bore you ? \"\nhe\n asked and a chill ran over her body. She made a gesture with her\n hand and\nlooked away, and as soon as they\n had arrived at her father's house she excused\nherself and went up stairs.\nThe two men continued talking for a long\n time and she undressed and lay\nin\n bed'with her door open so she could hear the voices. What an\n evening that\nhad been for her ! Her\n father, usually a rather prosaic man, was excited and\ntalked well and she thought the newcomer\n the most wonderful being that had\never\n come into her consciousness. His strong boyish voice ran up the\n stairs and\nthrough the halls of the house\n and she sat up in bed and listened, her whole\nbeing strangely alive. The voice had\n carried her out of herself and into the land\nof Galilee he had described so vividly,\n and she stood in a vast crowd of people\nlistening to another stranger of thirty who had suddenly come\n out of another\nplace and was talking. A\n phrase remembered from her bible reading\nran through her mind and she repeated it aloud. She became,\n not herself but\na strange woman in a\n strange land. \" Blessed be the womb that bare Thee\nand the breasts that Thou hast sucked \",\n she imagined herself shouting,\nquite\n carried away.\nShe saw him for the second time two\n weeks after that first meeting and it\nwas\n strange and also sad to think that dnring that second meeting he\n came off\nhis pedestal with a thump.\nHe wrote her a note and asked her to go\n with him to a concert and she\nwas stirred\n at the thought of sitting close beside him all evening and\n hearing\nmusic. Before the evening came\n she went about her father's house, attending\nto the household affairs, with her mind\n floating away, out of her body into a\nland of spiritual adventure. When her father spoke to her at\n table she was\nconfused and her cheeks\n grew red. \" What's the matter with you?\" he\nasked laughing. \" You've begun acting\n like a school girl. What's happened\nto\n you?\"\nAfter all she was not very young\n and the new man was not the first who\nhad\n been attracted to her. Already two men of the town had asked her\n to\nmarry them-but she had never before\n got into such a strange exalted state. \" Be-\ntween him and myself it will be\n different. We will go along a new road into a\nstrange beautiful place, \" she whispered\n to herself. She had no plan. It was\nenough, she thought, that the new man had come to town, that\n she could occa-\nsionally sit in silence beside him, that\n she could hear his voice, that she could\ncome into the presence of his mind at work making beautiful\n images.\n\"It is quite true. There is a\n religion of the beautiful \", she thought. Her\nmother, who had died when she was\n fifteen, had been a devout church member"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "151", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.57", "texte": "and as a young girl she hud also given\n herself, for a time, to religious enthusiasm.\nI/ater she had given up church going and\n had thought of herself as an intellectual\nwoman.\nNow she laughed at herself.\n \"lama child beside him, \" she thought,\nremembering how glowingly he had talked before the Thursday\n Club. Con-\ntentment settled down upon her. \"In\n every life there should be a deeply\nspiritual love, \" she told herself. \"I am like that woman in\n the bible who on a\nscorching day came\n down alone, out of a village, to the well in the dusty plain\nand found lying there on a stone bench\n the sacred man, he who knew the true\nway\n of life.\"\nAt the concert he did several things to\n disturb her.\nIn the first place he was\n not at all absorbed or carried away by the music\nand all evening he kept looking at her\n with hungry eyes. A,s they walked home-\nward he did not talk, giving himself\n with abandon to ideas, but was silent\nand\n self-conscious.\nAnd then he kissed her\n and her exalted mood went quickly away and\nsomething shrewd and determined took entire possession of\n her.\nIt was ten o' clock when they got\n to the house and her father was at the\nnewspaper office. The moon shone and they went into the garden\n and sat\ntogether on a bench. After he had\n kissed her she went to stand by the tree\nbecause it was necessary for her to make a new adjustment. She\n had been al-\nlowing herself to be a child and her\n child's hands had been building a temple.\nNow all the bricks and stone of the temple had fallen down and\n there was a\ngreat dust and racket.\nTo relieve the tenseness of the situation\n she led him out of the garden into\nthe\n street. After all she had not finished with him. There was\n something\nvShe wanted. They walked\n down a silent street under trees and a group of\nyoung men went past them singing some\n foolish love song.\nPresently they came to\n the end of the street and into a field, and it was\nthen she understood the depth of his\n stupidity. Some elders grew in a little\ngully beside the field and he wanted her to go in among them.\n When she drew\nback, a little startled, he\n was angry. Ihe kiss you let me take back there was\na lie then ? \" he asked sharply. \"It\n didn't mean anything ? You are like all\nthe other women who give kisses having no meaning ? \"\nIt was during the third time they were\n together that everything between\nthem was\n settled. A war had broken out between the forces sleeping in\n each\nof them, but after that third\n meeting peace came. One Saturday afternoon\nthey went together to spend a day in the country. She wore a\n heavy sweater"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "152", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.58", "texte": "and stout boots and on his shoulder he\n carried a small bag filled with the lunch-\neon she had prepared. She was in a\n smiling confident mood and he was\ndisturbed and unhappy. When he looked at her he felt like one\n condemned\nto beat with bare hands\n against a cold stone wall. The wall was as hard as\nadamant but was surfaced with some warm\n soft growth.\nFor a time after they set\n out things went well and then the final struggle\nbetween them began. Several times during\n the afternoon, as they walked in a\nlittle\n strip of woodland among dry leaves and under the fragrant trees\n just in\nthe fullness of the new spring\n life, she seemed about to yield to the hunger gnaw-\ning at him but, as evening came on and\n when they had eaten the luncheon and\nsat\n on the grassy bank of a small stream, she became very\n business-like and de-\ntermined. \"We must get back toward town\n before darkness conies, \" she\nsaid,\n leading the way across a field and into a dusty road.\nThe battle came to a crisis quickly. When\n they had got almost to town\nher energetic\n mood left her and they got out of the road and into an\n orchard.\nHe built a little fire of\n twigs beside a rail fence and they leaned against the fence\nand watched it burn in silence. The thin\n column of smoke went up through\nthe\n branches of the trees. \" It's like incense, \" she said, creeping\n close to\nhim. Their bodies pressed\n against each other. As the moon was full, darkness\ndid not come and the day passed\n imperceptibly into night.\nTwo boys from a\n nearby farmhouse, who had been driving cows homeward\nalong a lane, saw them standing thus,\n their arms about each other. They crawled\nover a fence and crept along in the shadows to wait and\n watch.\nOvercome by a sudden fear she\n pushed herself out of his arms and moved\nslowly away along the fence. He followed, pressing her close.\n A wavering\nuncertainty had taken\n possession of her and the battle seemed lost. She wanted\nto escape and at the same time did not\n want to escape. She was tired.\nWith an\n effort she turned and walked in a very determined way across\n the\norchard and he stood by the fence\n and let her go. One of the farm boys called\nto the other. \" Nothing's going to\n happen. She's going away \", he called.\nThe boys climbed a fence and ran off along a lane toward a\n distant barn and\nagain silence settled\n over the orchard. She returned to him, her eyes shining\nand her hands trembling.\n\" You see what you have brought me to,\n what has happened? \" she asked\nsharply.\n For a moment she felt mean, beaten, and then quickly she\n became\nquite sure of herself. The\n whole fact of organized life stood back of her\ntrembling figure.\nHe did not understand. \" There will be a scandal, \" she said.\n \" I don't\nblame you. I blame myself. Why\n did I let myself make a show of myself\nwith you ?"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.59", "texte": "She tried to explain. \"Of course those\n boys know me, \" she said, turning\nher\n face away. \" They have seen us, in this place, holding each\n other in that\nway and kissing. It's light\n enough to see everything. It's horrible. You\nare a man but I'm a woman. There'll be a\n scandal and my name will be dragged\nin\n the mud. \"\nHe watched her, perplexed and\n puzzled. The fact that they had been seen\nat the love making had rather amused him and he hg,d been on\n the point of\nbreaking into laughter. Now\n he felt ashamed and penitent.\nShe went\n and put her face down on the top rail of the fence and her\nbody shook with sobs. He stood awkwardly\n watching.\nA thought came to him. \"\n Well, \"he said hesitatingly, \"we could marry,\nwe could get married. \"\nHe looked away over her head and out into\n an open country washed\nwith moonlight. A\n wind came up and clouds raced across the sky making fu-\ngitive shadows that played madly over\n the face of the fields. Some shadowy,\nlovely thing seemed fleeing out of him and out of her. He felt\n like a beast\nwho in playing about at\n night in a forest has suddenly put his foot into a trap.\nA madness to run away from her, to flit\n half crazify away over the fields like one\nof the cloud shadows and then to disappear forever into an\n unknown, nry-\nsterious distance, had possession of\n him, but his feet had become heavy. He\nwas held fast, bound down to the earth, not by desire now but\n by a strange\nhesitating sympathy with the\n thing that bound her to earth.\nWhen she\n looked up he took her into his arms and held her tightly\n while\nhe continued looking over her\n head and into the distance. Her body that had\nbeen quivering with excitement became\n quiet. \"We had better be married\nat once,\n \" he said. \" There are things I have never understood before.\n Let's\ngo back to town and be married\n at once, tonight. That will solve all our\ndifficulties, you see. \"\n\nSherwood Anderson."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.60", "texte": "NOTRE AMERIQUE\n\n(*).\nAs if desirous of clearing themselves of\n all responsibility, they tell us \" This\nAmerica, you know, is not ours, we do not acknowledge it. \"\n And we have\nthanked these Americans, so\n very anxious that we should not be deceived, for\ntheir charitable advice. But we were not\n deceived, good people. This Ame-\nrica which is not yours, we love\n precisely for that; we acknowledge her and\nbelieve in her, especially because she is not the America\n which her charitable\nfriends are so\n assiduous in introducing to us ; because she is not the\n America\nof the man in the street.\nYes, M. Tout-le-monde, we know well it is\n the America of Waldo Frank,\nuniquely his,\n that is to say, \" A promise and a dream. \" It is the\n affirmation,\nthe discovery of a man;\n that is why it is so beautiful and so moving. It is the\nsame as when Whitman formerly spoke in\n the name of \" These States \" inter-\npreting America to himself, to himself\n alone. Every one jeered at him, for\nthey\n couldn't see it at all, and lacked the vision necessary for its\n imagining.\nThe same old story. That\n which one is alone or nearly alone in seeing because\nhe has better eyes or a greater heart,\n inevitably excites the jeers of M. Tout-\nle-Monde. Still the fails to prevent the\n only America which will count in the\nfuture history of the race, from being made of the sequences\n of these Americas\nof lonely men—of\n Whitman and of Waldo Frank and of a few others. The\nencyclopedias and the text books will\n busy themselves with the rest.\nIf a few\n of us knew, or at any rate felt something of this, how many\n more\nmust exist to whom this book will\n be a revelation, a relief and a joyful surprise.\nSo many Frenchmen of the so-called\n intelligent sort, who only know the superfi-\ncial appearance, the easily perceived\n and in consequence the spurious phases\nof\n the American scene, have the impression of a melting pot where\n everyone\nis cast in the same mold of a\n huge workshop in which the flowering of life and\nof art could never dream of unfolding in\n any other pattern but the accepted\none.\n We have to confess that the ignorance of this type of Frenchman\n is to\na certain extent excusable. Too\n many people have been intellectually interest-\n(*) Tlic impression of a Frenchman 011\n reading Our America, by Waldo Frank, pub-\nlished by Boni and Liveright, New York,\n and by the Nouvelle Revue Frangaise. Paris."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.61", "texte": "Ed in fostering this ignorance and in\n providing it with a solid and comfortable\nfoundation. Academies, universities, organizations with\n official trademarks\nnurture it\n diligently. Everyone is aware of the pinnacles of stupidity\n that\ncan be attained by the talent and\n zeal of university representatives who osten-\nsibly claim to interpret the soul of a\n people and of an epoch. Thus we receive\neach year the visits of frock-coated gentlemen officially\n invited to preach at\nthe Sorbonne on some\n chapter or other of the American gospel. A frock coat\nof a learned and orthodox cut always\n produces an effect. Not more than one\nor\n two listeners, present by chance at an official lecture, and\n with souls uncon-\ntaminated by the virus Sorbonnique, were\n surprised to hear one of your frock-\ncoated dignitaries, in this case an\n erudite clergyman, who seemed to have crossed\nthe Atlantic for the malicious pleasure\n of convulsing an entire audience of\nneuter gender, recite verses of the greatest American poet in\n a clownish fashion.\nA simple exchange of\n politeness, it is true. For did not one of our most solemn\nfrock-coats cross the Atlantic in the\n opposite direction at about the same time,\nin order to slay our greatest novelist before an American\n audience ? Not that\nthe poet or the\n novelist have suffered from these attacks.\nThe clairvoyant attitude of these Messieurs a Redingote is a\n flimsy excuse\nfor the so-called\n intelligent Frenchmen. It is not his only excuse, however.\nWe all know that society which, under the\n lofty patronage of generals, diplo-\nmats, and politicians, is constituted\n for the sublime purpose of developing the\nintellectual ties between \" The Two Sister Republics \", and\n with what ge-\nnius they work. How could you except the\n Frenchman, desirous of understand-\ning the true America, to find a way of\n correcting his ideas, derived from the\nmoving pictures, illustrated papers, and society periodicals ;\n by means of ban-\nquets, toasts, compliments, and other\n political, financial manifestations ? He\nis condemned in advance to the blackest ignorance.\nIt is for this Frenchman especially, of\n an open and sincere mmd, that a\nbook such\n as \" Our America \" proves of inestimable value; even less as a\n doc-\nument than as a revelation. After the\n drivelers, the doctors, the pedantic\nschool teachers, the preachers of dusty doctrines, here at\n last is a man who\n. speaks with different\n words — a man of today's youth using the language of\ntoday — not addressing himself to an\n audience of neuter sex, but his brothers\nand sisters who have \" somewhere surely lived a life of joy\n with you \" — with\nhis first utterance\n awakening in us that communal feeling by means of which\nwords become transfigured and carry with\n them nuances and new aromas.\nAlso he is\n dear to us from the start as one among the crowd who speaks to\n us\nin our own language. He is dear to\n us because the aspirations which he voices\nharmonize wonderfully with ours. This hidden America which\n desires to live,\nto live another way,\n which sings upon discovering her young soul after years"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.62", "texte": "of deadly \" pionnerie of dismal\n withering toil, seems to will us into song as\nwell, to sing within us already.\nHe is dear to us because again we are\n made conscious of the spiritual unity\nof\n the world over the immense stupidity of national boundary lines.\n There\nis in this book something great\n in the making, creating itself before us — of\npure life in search of forms by means of\n which it may unfold — of profound\ndesire\n which smells, questions, lisps, gropes, a moving desire, avid,\n inflated,\nwith no other certitude than\n that of its own strength. We like it for the fer-\nvour with which it is filled so that the\n pages are heavy with the sap of a new\nbelief — for that generosity which cannot contain itself,\n which bursts forth\nlike molten iron thru\n the clefts in the paragraphs.\nWe find\n ourselves beside a singular companion for whom there exists\n other\ncreatures than the sulky, aloof\n intellectual, triturating his precious person be-\nfore a note-book of white paper, within\n the walls of a lodging — creatures other\nthan the troupe of worldly supernumeraries imposing on the\n universe their\nfoolish gestures and their\n formulas, the paucity of their hearts and of their\nimaginations. A companion for whom exists\n not humanity, an abstraction,\nbut men,\n radiant or pitiable as the case may be, but to whom we can hold\n out\na hand. Thus we feel ourselves\n welcome, altogether at home. A place is set\naside for us at this hearth. Here is one\n who waits for us, who believes in us,\nwho\n leaves open to us in his world design, all the space necessary\n for our future\ngrowth ; more space than\n we even asked for ourselves, because he shows him-\nself more generous toward his fellows\n than we were generous in our self regard.\nA Waldo Frank can allow himself many short-comings as he will\n be redeemed\nin advance by his fraternal\n generosity, by his whole-hearted good will.\nAs we journey through this America with\n him we find ourselves aligned\nwith\n revolt. Revolt, so we understand it ; not expressing itself in\n clamorous,\ncontending cries of stump\n orators, in disorderly gestures and in the resolutions\nof public meetings but in passionate and\n unwavering affirmation of the dignity\nand\n needs of man — in the unqualified rejection of the whole network\n of powers\nincapable of satisfying these\n needs and whose weight crushes this dignity.\nWe are the associates of individuals who\n offer us not their goods or their pos-\nsessions but the daily bread of their\n souls — people who know another hunger\nthan that of the belly — comrades of art.\nThere is another word, which his pen\n often traces, a word which must have\nastonished the so-called intelligent Frenchman, but which has\n for some of us,\na sound particularly\n full. It is the word religion. A Word which so many\nof us today have cast aside like an old\n garment because it is known only when\nworn out, deformed and soiled by use. But we have never\n abandoned it, we\n- have saved it\n carefully in its original freshness and never valued it more\n than"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.63", "texte": "now. Never has it so nearly been the\n synonym for redemption. On many re-\ncent solemn occasions such as the\n festival organized by Albert Doyer in which\nthe public, communing directly with art;\n took an intimate part in the mystery\nrevealed by the great compositions of Bach, Beethoven, Cesar\n Franck, in po-\npular melodies such as the Boat Song of\n the Volga, or in the ardent composi-\ntions of Doyer himself, this word forced\n itself upon us. At these festivals the\npeople of Paris en masse came to seek and experience the\n religious emotion of\ntoday.\nThis religion cannot be far removed from\n that which Waldo Frank invokes.\nFor us,\n as for him, it must be that of the \" Three Greatnesses \" which\n include\nall the others : Love,\n Democracy and Religion. Like him, without doubt,\nwe not only glimpse the splendour to\n which the rites of this religion of art and\nhumanity may attain in the people's\n houses of tomorrow, or out of doors, as\nin the great public performances at Moscow, but we can forsee\n the day when\n\" Everything will be fuel\n for religion's sake. \"\nThis book which so\n clearly indicates to us in what ignorance we were of\nthe real America cannot help but make us\n think of the similar ignorance that\nmust\n prevail in America about the real France. How many calumnies\n and\nlies must have slipped in under\n cover of the rapprochement of the two \" Sis-\nter Republics united by their common\n ordeal. \" The two people have made\nan\n exchange. And naturally, given the circumstances and deadly\n influences\nthen dominant in the world,\n they exchanged the worst they had. A little\nof that lust for gain which is one of the\n basic qualities of movie America has\nbeen\n passed on to us, along with an avid taste for the vilest\n detective stories.\nAnd we have given to\n you in return our old secret illness, war madness ; to\nsuch an extent that again we see among\n you by favor of these exchanges, the\nbeauty of tar and feather, as in the good old days of\n abolitionism. The fact\nof having\n contributed, even in this small way, to this revival is without\n doubt\na cause for pride to certain\n Frenchmen of a well-known type. In the land of\nOur Lord Napoleon, the big stick always\n finds devout admirers.\nIt is for this\n reason that we have so great a need for a French Waldo Frank,\nto write \" Our France \" and dedicate it\n to you, so that he may dissipate the\nignorance and destroy the ridiculous opinions spread far and\n wide by all the\nhypocritical goodfellows\n in the official propaganda bureaus. Our France —\nnot the one whose picture is evoked on\n the distant shore of the Atlantic by the\nvanishing memory of Sarah Bernhardt, or still further back, of\n Lafayette fol-\nlowed the inevitable Rochambeau, or by\n the recent figure of one of our\nMarechaux, member of the French Academy. A France almost\n unknown\nand silent; hater of low\n comedy ; and who feels herself all the more drawn\nto this invisible America in whose name\n Waldo Frank speaks. She too seeks"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.64", "texte": "in the darkness, to free herself from\n the heaps of filth and rubbish ; from the\nwreckage of fallen beams and planks and plaster which prevent\n her from arising.\nNations, men, creators,\n artists, must have their envoys to maintain con-\ntact and enlighten, testify, and\n collaborate in the great tasks which are com-\nmon to us. Here is one of the\n plenipotentiaries. We must have others. We\nhave too many important messages to communicate which cannot\n pass through\nhands less faithful and\n sincere.\nOur joy is great at the\n coming of this ambassador, even for those who\nsuspected the existence of another\n America than that of the frock-coated gent-\nlemen. To-day they are sure that this\n America exists ; they watch her pass,\ntouch her and follow her with their eyes and their hearts.\n They will never\nagain forget the features\n of her young countenance.\nBy virtue of\n the fact that all beautiful things are common property, we\nare tempted not only to joyfully accept \"\n Our America \" but to consider her\nhenceforth ours also. We wish to annex her to the beautiful\n kingdom which\nis made by the discoveries\n of all the Waldo Franks, — the only kingdom of\nwhich we claim to be sons. For we are\n insatiable conquerors of new spiritual\nprovinces. This one delights us as few have done by its\n freshness and its pro-\nmise. We are happy as children — as men\n in whom childhood has not died —\nat the\n thought of the expeditions which we will undertake, to this\n virgin land,\nrich as in the first morning\n of the world, to this land, which offers herself to the\nhunger of the souls of today once gain\n seeking a new world.\n\nLeon Bazalgette."}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.65", "texte": "RIO BO.\nThree tiny houses\nwith roofs that are pointed,\ncustomary\n verdure,\na thread of running water :\n Rio 80,\na vigilant • cypress.\nMicroscopic country, it is true,\ncountry of nothingness, and yet . . .\nabove there is always a star,\na large, magnificent star,\nwhich is almost near . . .\nand with the tip of the cypress\nogles Rio 80.\nA\n star enamoured !\nWho knows\nif such a star ever comes\nto a great city ?\n\nCHI SONO ?\n\nWho am I ?\nA poet\n perhaps ?\nNot certain.\nI write but one word, very strange,\nwith the pen of my soul :\nfolly.\nAm I then a\n painter ?\nNot even this."}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.66", "texte": "There is only one color\non the palette of my soul:\nmelancholy.\nA\n composer then ?\nNot at all.\nThere is only one note\non the keyboard of my soul :\nnostalgia.\nWhat am\n I then ?\nI place a lens\nin front of my heart\nto be seen by all people.\nWho am I ?\nThe\n mountebank of my soul.\n\nFrom the Italian of\nAldo\n Palazzeschi.\n\nNUDE.\nFrom the Italian of\nLuciano Folgore.\nYou, nude in front of the rose lamp,\nand the ivory, the silver, the\n mother-of-pearl,\nfilled with the\n reflections\nof your flesh so softly\n luminous.\nA shivering in the boudoir\n of silk,\na murmur on the window\n half-open,\na thread of odour comes\nfrom the night of the open acacias,\nand a large butterfly unaware\nthat around you\none doesn't burn his wings,\nbut his\n soul."}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.67", "texte": "Henri Matisse.\nCourtesy\n Bernheim-Jeune Gallery — Paris.\nStill Life."}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.68", "texte": "HAZI, WIFE OF SENDER SURTUCK.\n\nI can still picture to myself Hazi,\n Sender Surtuck's wife, as I saw her more\nthan twenty years ago. Sender, the Tartar trader, had crossed\n the frozen\nDanube on an ox-cart laden\n with barrels of honey and his new wife. It was\nher first trip from the marshlands, from\n the Dobrujdea into Roumania. Her\nhusband\n had taken her along to show her that he was not without friends\n in the\nland of the Ghiaours. We, the\n children of the house, watched her as she descend-\ned gracefully from the cart. A heavy\n veil with eye-holes was hanging over her\nface to hide her features from the sight of other men than her\n husband. But\nafter she had entered\n mothers's room she threw her veil over her head and we\nlooked at her while Sender was making his\n \" salaams \" to the master of the\nhouse. I\n still remember myself thinking that I was happy still to be\n considered\na child, and therefore\n privileged to see the Cadina's face. Her hair was thick,\nblack and luscious. Her eyes were big and\n of a deep brown water. Her mouth\nwas like\n a perfectly spanned arch in repose. She was of a rather smallish\n build\nbut of perfect proportion and\n walked with a kind of rythmic glide I have known\nin only one other woman, besides Hazi,\n Sender Surtuck's wife.\nIt was late in the\n afternoon, and Mother, who had taken a fancy to Hazi,\nmuch to my delight, insisted that Sender\n and his wife remain in our house\nover-night. Sender protested at first saying that he had\n already made arrange-\nments with the \" Chanjii,\" the\n innkeeper, yet even while protesting he helped\nthe man-servant unyoke the big white oxen\n and asked for a vase in which\nto draw\n some honey for the table from one of the barrels standing on\n its\nbottom in the cart. Surely \"\n EfTendi \" Janco's wife would permit him to\ncontribute some sweet gold to the evening meal; and he was\n sure that the\n\" chiujiuks, \" the\n children, would like it. Only he had not meant to intrude.\nHe was still strongly minded to pass the\n night in the \" Chan. \" He had only\nwanted\n to say Salaam Haleikam to his old friend \" Effendi \" Janco.\n Yet\nif the lady of the house wanted to\n show such great favor to his \" Cadina \"\nhow could he refuse ! Of a certainty Hazi, who had never\n before been away\nfrom the marshes of\n Tartar Bazshik, would remember to tell the event to her\nchildren, if Allah should think her\n worthy of his grace, and they in turn shall"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.69", "texte": "tell of the event to their children, for\n it was not every day that Tartars, poor\nmarshland traders were housed in \" Effendi \" Janco's home.\nIt was a long-winded speech delivered\n with accompanying gestures and\nsalaams,\n while the honey as clear as liquid amber was slowly filling the\n glass\npitcher which had been handed to\n the guest from Dobrudjea.\nAfterwards\n Sender went off with Father to the stables. The two had much\nto tell one another for they were old\n friends. Hazi was taken into Mother's\nroom. It seemed ages before we were called to dinner. Hazi\n only lifted the\nlower part of her veil,\n up to Uer nose, as she sat down to eat, and she was\nas much embarassed as she was amused by\n forks and spoons and their use. She\nhad\n never seen such tools before. She clapped her hands noisily when\n she saw\nhow skillfully her husband used a\n fork and spoon. She had never known Sender\nto be such a learned man. Why ! he used these tools almost as\n well as\n\" Effendi. \" They must buy a few\n of them in the store before they return home\nacross the Danube.\nSender thought it well to excuse his wife's exhuberance.\n\" She is young. She has never been\n outside her home. \"\n\" But she is good and\n healthy. She stands me two hundred ducats in gold !\nShe is the daughter of an 'Osmanli' with\n blood of ' Chans ' in her veins.\"\nBut\n Mother kissed Hazi and said she would be very happy to have her\n near her\nevery winter.\n\" Oh, Sender ! \" Hazi exclaimed with\n pleading voice.\n\" Allah forbids to\n promise. Promise is Allah's great -privilege, \" spoke\nSender soberly. Yet that was as good as\n promised and the two women kissed\nagain.\n They both understood guarded speech. After dinner Sender\n permitted,\nnay, asked his wife to\n dance. As a \" bayadere \" she had no equal on earth,\nhe assured us as he squatted down on the\n rug near the fire-place to prepare his\npipe. And then, Hazi danced to her husband's not very\n inspiring song. I\nhave since known only\n one woman, I believe, able to dance as gracefully ; and\nthat woman does not dance. Hazi's limbs\n moved gracefully in harmony with\nthe\n movement of her torso which swayed like a young birch tree when\n the east\nwind is blowing. While she\n danced her open palms and long fingers drew intricate\narabesques in the smoke-thick air. It was\n as if her limbs and torso were singing\nthe song of the body. When the dance was finished Hazi flitted\n with Mother\nfrom the room ; marvelling at\n the novelty of kerosene lamps, delighted by a\nsound from a piano and almost hysterical\n when she saw a sewing machine at\nwork.\nWhen Sender had finally joined his wife\n in the guest room, which was next\nto my\n own den, they talked away the greater part of the night. She was\n telling\nhim about all the things she\n had seen, and he continually impressed upon her"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.70", "texte": "the fact that it was not given to every\n Tartar to have such a friend as the \" Ef-\nfendi \" Janco, who owned such marvels;\n and that it was to him that she chief-\nly owed the great honor shown her.\n\" And Sender, you must buy me tools to\n eat with. They will all marvel\nat home !\n \"\n\" I shall buy you tools to eat with\n and should I sell my honey I'll buy a\ncandle giving ten times more light than a wax candle, yet it\n is not a candle and\nburns with the aid of\n a certain heavy smelling water called ' kurusin, ' \" Sender\nassured her before falling asleep. Sender\n Surtuck loved his wife Hazi and\nwas even\n ready to buy a ghiaour-made thing to please her.\nI could not sleep. I could have murdered\n the Tartar for the happiness\nthat was\n his. The love that was his. For the beautiful \" bayadere \"\n that\nwas his — lying so close to him,\n talking while he snored heavify. He was a\nhappy man —\nYet, a few months later, on\n an evening of the spring of the same year,\nSender Surtuck killed Hazi with his own hands ; drove his\n short knife into her\nheart as she kneeled\n before him with arms raised above her head to make it\neasier for him. The story of her death\n was told to me by Kezhman Ali, the old\n\"\n Chiaoush \" and \" Calf an \" who was both priest and banker to the\n people of\nTartar Bazhik.\n\" And the Koran says, ' Life without love\n is like love without life. ' It\nis death,\n my son. So you need no longer wonder why Sender Surtuck\n married\nHazi, so young and so\n beautiful, after he had counted in his life more than fifty\ntimes twelve new moons. Sender Surtuck\n was healthy and strong and therefore\nhe\n paid the two hundred ducats Hazi's father demanded for his\n daughter. It\nwas wise of Sender ; for\n love giveth to life new lease and with each new love man\nrenews his youth. Hale men want to live,\n therefore they love and seek new\nlove\n when the old dieth. And it is wise that it happens so and the\n Koran ordains *\nthat is be so. That is\n why we Mussulmans have more white bearded youths\nthan the Ghiaours have. This is why we\n are young to the grave. Consider,\nmy son\n ! After the wedding Sender and Hazi crossed the Danube. And\n on\ncoming home brought from the other\n side silks, and woolen cloth, and eating\ntools as used by Effendis, and a water-burning candle that\n gives great light,\nmaking night into day.\n And I, as the Chiaoush, forbade the use of the water-\nburning candle because of its changing\n the order of life. It is written that day\nshall be day and night shall be night. That the sun gives\n light for the day.\n\" Sender was in his\n hut most of the winter. He had no trading to do. The\nbees were hibernating. There was plenty\n of honey left, and quarters of lambs,\nand\n ' kummis ' aplenty. And as the last married man, Sender was\n entitled to\nall the titbits of freshly\n killed animals ; brains and kidneys and tongues. In-"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.71", "texte": "deed it was a winter of pleasure for\n Sender Surtuck. Plenty of food, a warm\nhut and a young wife, who was also a ' bayadere ', dancing\n before him every\nday at eventide. What\n more could a man want ? So Sender Surtuck was\nhappy. But was she happy ? No, my son,\n not always. Not as much as she\ndesired.\n She was not. For youth craves youth for companionship. Youth\nwants changes. It is why we have four\n seasons. Old age would be satisfied\nwith\n only one long season. When youth walks there is a movement from\n the\nfoot to the ankle, from the ankle\n to the knee, and from the knee to the hip.\nBut see an old man walk ! Oh ! my son ; from the hips move his\n limbs. Youth '\nAnd Sender would not let\n his wife out of sight.\n\" She should have\n been playing with the young maidens of the tribe. There\nwas Fatma and Rozi and Stepna and Jahde\n who danced and made merry and\nlaughed and\n sang while weaving cloth and spinning wool. And their\n laughter\nechoed around Hazi's hut. But\n Sender would not let her be merry among the\ngirls, for, with them were young men. The\n maidens were all unveiled and showed\ntheir faces to the men, and their bare legs as they danced.\n And when the\nmaidens were alone there was\n talk about young men ; praise of youth and strength\nand repeated talk of love. Hazi longed to\n dance before other eyes than Sender's\ntherefore her own eyes took on the haze of eyes of men\n traveling the seas.\nShe looked past\n Sender s head when she danced ; looked through the walls,\nand her ears trained themselves to hear\n the footsteps of the young men going\nto\n the maidens quarters. She had seen them on only rare occasions.\n But\nshe knew when broad-shouldered\n Kennal passed by the hut. She knew when\nOsman sauntered by and when Kergez stole up to Fatma's\n sleeping quarters. So\nshe began to beg of\n Sender to let her go to the maidens to weave cloth for her\nhusband. Her fingers longed to weave\n cloth, she assured him. And the kind\nshe\n could weave no other woman ever wove. For her mother had been\n the best\nweaver. And the cloth made for\n the burnuz and pantaloons of her father and\nbrothers was the finest grained cloth the\n faithful ever wore. And by these en-\ntreaties she obtained Sender's will to\n let her do as she pleased. But before she\nhad gone Sender spoke to her as follows :\nI let you go among the maidens and young\n men. Only remember the\nlaw of Kurguzes,\n my tribe. 'A woman who has dishonored her husband's\nhouse is killed by him and her body is\n thrown to the ' wolves. ' \"\n\" It is the\n same as. with the Osmanlis, \" she answered. \"And it is four\nhundred years since a woman of my tribe\n has so been punished. How long is\nit\n since one of yours was so punished ? \" Sender did not answer and\n Hazi's\npride in her tribe rose. And so\n Hazi went forth to weave cloth. There was\nno evil thought in her mind. There came no evil thoughts to\n the minds of the\nyoung men as they\n watched her dance ; for truly, they were Kurguzes, each one"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "166", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.72", "texte": "of them. Even though she was the best\n Bayadere they had ever seen, the men\nfeasted their eyes on her beautiful movements, considering\n Sender a happy\nman to have her, but were\n grateful to him for letting her be amongst them and\nwere not envious of him.\n\" And amongst the young men was one\n Nazim, the son of Mechmet Ali.\nNazim's\n mother had counted twenty times twelve moons since she had\n given\nhim birth. A shy quiet boy was\n Nazim. Tall and heavy and clumsy he was.\nHis hair was dull and his eyes had no glint in them. He never\n sang when the\nother young men sang and\n when he spoke his words were like a scant horde in\nretreat before an enemy.\n\" The Kurguzes are all smooth tongued,\n being traders. Their words are\nlike\n marching hordes in triumph, one close to the other and swinging\n in long\nlines. And tellers of tales they\n are and singers and dancers. And the maidens\nand youth all mocked Nazim. And there was\n not one of the girls, the poorest\nof\n them, not even the one-eyed Ape, that would have thought of\n marrying Nazim.\nNot for a hundred ducats\n would her father have sold her to him for a wife.\nThey thought him a fool, dull, and stupid\n ; with no will, no mind, no fire. They\nmocked and insulted him. Yet he never rose in anger and just\n smiled sheep-\nishly. Though he was as strong as an ox,\n when at work, he offered no more\nresistance than a lamb when tussled by the young men in play.\n And one day,\nwhen they had mocked Nazim\n overmuch, Hazi spoke to the youths :\n\"\n Why do you mock him ? Because he is not loud-mouthed ? Because\n he\nis strong and would not use his\n strength to hurt you ? It seems to me that\nif I were to have to choose today amongst you men, I should\n choose no other\nman than Nazim. And lam\n an Osmanli. The men of my tribe are strong and\nbrave in battle, but gentle with their\n friends and kin. \"\n\" Nazim heard what she\n said and when he made sure that she did not say\nit in mockery, he looked at her.\n Something stirred in him and the fire leaped to\nhis eyes and stayed there. A few days\n later there was much singing in the\nweaving hut. The white cloth for the old Hagii was finished.\n And after Hazi\nhad danced the youths\n began to sing. And there was one voice that rose higher\nthan the other voices. Higher and rounder\n and warmer. And that voice was\nNazim's.\n So Fatma looked at the youth and saw for the first time what a\n beau-\ntiful mouth he had. And from there she\n looked at Hazi and saw that Nazim\nsang to\n her. And every one wondered why Nazifti had never sung\n before.\n\" Still a few days later there\n was a dance in which the young men danced\nwith the maidens. Fatma danced with Nazim and felt the warm\n glow of his\nbody and the hot flush of his\n cheek as his feet moved smoothly and swiftly. She\nspoke to him as they danced and his words\n flowed slowly but steadily in answer.\nAnd\n there was wisdom, tempered by beauty of speech. After the dance\n there"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.73", "texte": "was wrestling. Nazim's strength showed\n itself. He only used half of it to\nbest\n the strongest youths.\nSo they began to\n ask one another : ' What has happened to Nazim ? '\nFor lo !in less than a moon his dull hair\n was as shiny as any one's. His eyes had\na\n glint, his cheeks color, his mouth freshness and his voice was\n so beautiful and\nstrong ! He was still\n shy. But it was the shyness of strength ; the shyness of\na man afraid to use his strength lest it\n kill. And with the steady flow of words\nalso came a steady gait in his lower limbs. And his arms no\n longer hung limply\nat his sides when he\n spoke to people. And the maidens vied with each other\nto please him, but he had eyes only for\n Hazi. He took her home evenings\nto Sendei\n s hut and even came to call for her and went with her to the\n youths'\nquarters. Sender doubted\n nothing. Why should he ? For would it not be\nbeneath him to suspect a woman of the\n Osmanlis ? And was it not known that\nNazim was only half-witted ? The news of the change in the bov\n had not yet\nreached the older people.\n\"And as Nazim walked near Hazi his mind\n unfolded as a flower unfolds\nm warm ram\n after a dry spell. Truly, it was as if she were a second mother,\n the\none giving birth to his soul. The\n first one had given the shell of the boy from her\nflesh : and now, that other one was\n filling the shell with all that was beautiful\nwithin her. Or better still, it was like\n a master potter taking over an ill\nshaped\n vase of soft clay and fashioning it over. And Hazi took great\npleasure in what she was doing. For Allah\n had given her a clear mind and a\ngood\n heart. She did not know what was slowly coming into her blood,\n what\nwas echoing in it. She did not\n know that she herself was growing more beauti-\nful and wiser as she gave wisdom and\n beauty. For wisdom is like a water sprin g-\nthe more you draw from it, the clearer\n it runs.\nTheir eyes opened to Nazim's\n awakening, the maidens vied with each\nother to please him. And Fatma, who had mocked the boy more\n frequently\nthan any other of the\n girls, was now the one deploying all her means to captivate\nhim. And all the other youths were now as\n nothing compared to Nazim. For,\nwas he\n not stronger, and more beautiful and wiser than all of them ?\n And did\nnot his voice rise like the waves\n when the tide comes in ?\n\" Nazim loved\n Hazi. But, with a different love than Fatma succeeded in\nawakening. For he was a Kurguz and could\n not even think of helping a wo-\nman to dishonor her husband's house. And\n so one day when he was walking\nwith Hazi\n he told her, ' I love Fatma. Yesternight I took the moon as\n witness\nthat lam to marry her. She\n loves me, Fatma, she loves me. '\n*'\n Listening to his words Hazi's feet grew heavy. Her chest began\n to heave\nand her head to swim., Her arms\n ached and her limbs pained and her mouth\nsuddenly became like a chimney through which flames were\n rising to the heavens."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.74", "texte": "She gave a loud cry and fainted. She\n herself had not known before what she\nfelt for the boy. It was only when he had told her that he was\n to marry another\nwoman that she realized\n the love that was in her heart. Yet it did not come clear\nto her. It did not happen in the guise of\n sin. She only felt like one who has\nprepared the best food, served it at the table, and was\n forbidden to eat it — yet\nhad to watch\n the others eat what she had prepared.\n\"\n For three days and three nights she was unconscious. And her\n husband\nsitting at her bedside could\n not string together the words she said while in high\nfever. The Hojea was called. He gave her\n drinks of boiled herbs and roots. But\nthey helped not. Then, early on the fourth day Nazim entered\n the hut. Send-\ner allowed him to go to her bed-side\n even while her face was uncovered. For\nhe\n thought nothing of Nazim. It was as if Nazim was not a man at\n all. He\nwas so childish. It was the first\n time Nazim had seen Hazi's face. Pale and\nfeverish as it was it was more beautiful than Fatma's. And by\n that time he also\nunderstood why Senders'\n wife had swooned. But Nazim was a Kurguz. She\nwas another man's wife.\n' Hazi, ' the boy spoke as he sat down\n near the bed, ' I Nazim, have come\nto see\n you. ' Hazi opened her eyes and looked at him. Then\n understanding\ncame to her and she\n smiled as she said :\n'It is weM you did.\n I waited for you. I should have died if you had not\ncome. But now, I shall be well again. And\n when you marry Fatma I shall\ndance my\n best, if it so please you. '\n\" It was\n only then that Sender heard about Nazim's promise to Fatma\n and\nhe wondered that so beautifuj a\n girl should want to marry so stupid a boy. Yet\nvery soon he too like the others learned\n about Nazim's wonderful unfolding. And\nevery one spoke about the miracle. And it was as clear as day\n that the prophet\nhad kissed the boy's\n brow in his sleep.\n\" Hazi ceased to weave\n cloth and kept to her hut. When pain and longing\novercame her she prayed and fasted and\n begged Allah to take her to himself.\nWhen\n Sender was not in the hut she cried and sobbed and called out\n Nazim's\nname aloud, ' Nazim, my Nazim.\n '\n\" After a while news came to Hazi\n that the wedding between Fatma and\nNazim\n was set for the second moon after the snow should have been\n melted\nand drunk by the soil. At times\n she rushed out to the door of the hut to meet\nNazim and tell him that it could not be.\n But the teaching of her mother, of\nher\n faith, forbade her feet to go farther. She was Sender's wife.\n She then\nfelt remorse, and because of\n that she overwhelmed Sender with greater love\nand gave him more frequent caresses ; to\n drown her passion for the one she\nloved\n in the flesh of the one for whom she had no love. Yet every time\n she did\nso she rose in the morning with a\n feeling of having committed a greater sin"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.75", "texte": "than adultery. For she sinned both ways.\n Sinned in her mind and in her\nflesh. The\n caresses she gave her husband were meant for Nazim.\n\" The snow began to melt, the days\n lengthened. The howls of the wolves\nbecame more distant every night. The ice on the river melted\n and the birds\nbegan to flit in the naked\n trees for worms and grub between the folds of the\nbark.\n\" Neither\n was Nazim happy. His wisdom had brought too much sadness\nin his life. He knew why Hazi was never\n seen anywhere and he longed to see\nher.\n And he too prayed and cried. But he was a Kurguz. Another\n man's\nwife is another man's wife, and\n a promise is a promise. ' For it is better not to\nsave a man from death than to break a\n promise to a faithful one,' says the Koran.\n\" Then, one evening, when Sender had\n again gone away to sell his honey,\nHazi\n waited for Nazim to come out from the maidens' quarter. She only\n want-\ned to see him. But when she saw him she\n could no longer hold out against\nher love\n and throwing her arms around his neck she cried :\n' Nazim, come, let us run away to the\n land of the Ghiaours where we could\nbe\n happy.'\nf' Nazim drew his head from\n the noose of her coiled arms and spoke gently\nbut firmly even while his great body\n shook with fear lest his passion be stronger\nthan his faith.\n'It could not be, Hazi. You are another man's wife.'\n\" But she would not hear of it. Fidelity,\n faith, teaching, training, had\nbeen\n melted by love as snow is melted by the sun. She had him come to\n her\nhut, and there, in the dark she\n threw her arms again around the boy's neck\nand kissed him ; burned his cheeks with her hot lips. '\n Nazim,' she cried,\n' you must be mine.'\n But Nazim was a Kurguz.\n' You are another\n man's wife, ' he said, as he pinned her arms to her sides :\n' Allah has given me wisdom to use it for\n his praise and not to dishonor my\nkin.\n And if Allah has willed that I suffer because of that, it is\n Allah's will\nand not mine that I must\n follow.'\n' Allah ! Allah ! ' Hazi\n answered. ' Nazim ! Nazim ! Have I brought luster\nto your hair that another woman should\n play with it ? Have I brought fire\ninto\n your eyes that another woman should feast on them ? Have I tuned\n the\nchords of your voice for another\n woman to hear it ? Have I brought warmth\nto your limbs that another woman should feel the touch of them\n ? And what-\never there is in you other women now\n love, it is I that have given you and I\ncall it mine. And wisdom has come to me that Allah himself\n thinks it sinful\nto give caresses to\n other than the one you love. And I love you, Nazim. L,et\ngo of my arms that I may touch you.'\n' I have promised Fatma.'"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.76", "texte": "' Never, never will you be Fatma's. It\n is me you love, not Fatma. It is\nsinful\n to marry her. I shall not live to see you marry her. And you\n shall not\nmarry her after my death. '\n\" Till late in the night the two sat\n together and talked, but when Nazim\nleft\n the hut his faith had been stronger than her love and his own\n passion.\nHe went to his hut with her\n last words ringing in his ears, ' Nazim you shall\nnever wed Fatma while lam alive. And you\n will not wed her after my death.\nFor my\n love for you is stronger than my faith and my life and the oath\n I swore\nto my husband and the teaching of\n my mother. '\n\"The snow melted rapidly.\n The women were now ready with Fatma's\nwedding dresses. The maidens were merrier than ever. Their\n quarters were\ngay from sunrise to late in\n the night. The bees began to stir in the combs,\nand the mares dropped colts, the eaves\n lambs, and frogs were heard to croak\nin\n the pools.\n\" Two more weeks to the\n wedding of Fatma to Nazim. One more week\nto the wedding of Fatma to Nazim. Two more days. The Hojea has\n been\nbrought from Cerna Voda. The\n horses are being trained for the races and stunts.\nThe women watch Fatma day and night. They\n teach her what the prophet\nhas ordained a\n bride must know. She must sit for hours and untie compli-\ncated knots and disentangle thread\n without breaking it. She is taught patience\nand submission ; the two great virtues of\n a wife, next to fidelity. She is taught\nto smile and laugh when in pain. She is taught to listen to\n speech without\nanswering. For it is no\n little thing to be a wife !To be both useful and sweet.\nTo be like milk ; to nourish even when\n curdled by time and warmth.\n\"The day of\n the wedding Hazi sought out Nazim and spoke to him again :\n' Nazim,' she said, ' I cannot bear the\n thought of giving you away to another\nwoman. I can not bear the thought of another woman's bare arm\n around\nyour neck, of another woman's\n lips on the lips to which I have given life. Those\nthoughts are like dull knives cutting my\n flesh underneath the skin. Nazim,\nthere\n is still time. The anger of Sender, the hatred of the whole\n tribe, the shame\nof Fatma, even the\n blasphemy of the Hojea and death are nothing to me.\nCome, let us run away. And if the men\n overtake us we shall both die, if Allah\nso wills. But I can not bear the thought of your being another\n woman's hus-\nband, and I can no longer be Sender's\n wife. So it is with you that rests my\nlife or my death. Speak !'\n\"For a long\n while he looked at her (she had thrown her veil over-head)\nsaw that her cheeks were sunken and pale\n ; that her eyes were red from much .\ncrying and little sleep ; that her arms had lost their\n roundness, and her fingers\nno longer kept\n together, but twitched and coiled one over the other as\n twitches\nand curls flesh over open\n fire. And his own heart battled against his mind ;"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.77", "texte": "against the wisdom she had given him and\n which she now asked him to betray.\nThen\n tears came to his eyes as he said :\n'It\n can not be, Hazi. It can not be. lam to wed Fatma tonight.'\n' You will not!' she cried, beating his\n chest with her two fists. He let\nher do\n as she pleased. He would have let her drive knives through his\n heart\nif she so wanted. All of a\n sudden she ceased. She became quiet and cold,\nlooked at him for a while, then she\n begged :\n' Kiss me. Oh Nazim ! Kiss me on\n my mouth once only. The first and\nthe\n last time. Kiss me, Nazim.'\n\"He ran away\n without turning his head. A woman is a woman. Faith\nand teaching are nothing to a woman when\n she loves. • Love is her faith. But\nNazim\n was a Kurguz, a man.\n\" The night o£ the\n wedding. The earth was dry and warm. There was\na large circle of small fires around\n which sat the maidens and the youths. Within\nthe circle, in the center sat the white\n bearded Hojea, in new white vestments,\nand around him the people of the tribe. The men on one side\n and the women\non the other. To the right\n of the holy man sat Nazim and to the left Fatma,\ndressed in silks and atlass. A white veil\n pinned to her hair was ready to be\nthrown\n over her face. After the evening prayers, I, as the Chiaoush,\n read the\nmarriage contract. Six horses\n and four hundred ducats in gold Nazim's father\nhad asked to be written in as price to\n Patma's father for a wife to his son.\n\"\n After I was through reading the Hojea stood up and said so that\n every-\nbody should hear :\n' Is there anybody here who should not be here ? Whose heart\n is full of anger,\nwhose mind harbors evil\n thoughts ? Speak. • Thrice shall I ask the same thing\nbefore pronouncing Nazim and Fatma man\n and wife. Before taking the moon\nas\n witness. The moon and the stars, the children of the prophets.\n Is there\nanybody here who should not be\n here ? '\n'I,' shouted Hazi, ' For I have\n dishonored my husband's house and I am\nready to pay for the sin with my life.'\n\" Even the fire ceased cracking when the Hojea sat down and\n covered his\neyes with his hands. The\n others did likewise. Hazi rose from her place and\nwalked slowly to her hut followed by\n Sender Surtuck. We held our breath\nuntil\n we heard a loud scream from there. May Allah be merciful to her\n soul.\nAnd then we turned around. Nazim\n was dead. Had died without a scream\nby\n Fatma's hasty hand.\n\" Hazi was still\n alive. So before dying Hazi told the truth to her husband\nand to the Hojea ; that she wanted to die\n that her death be a bar to Nazim's\nwedding.\n\" So if you ever meet\n Sender Surtuck, for he is wandering aimlessly from"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.78", "texte": "place to place, talk kindly to him, my\n son. Don't look upon him as a murderer.\nFor though Hazi had never sinned in the flesh, her sin was\n still a very great\none. May Allah be kind\n to her soul, and forgive her since her love wa s more\nto her than her life which was his,\n Allah's, the only one, and Mahomet's, who\nis his only prophet.\n\"And ever since\n that night young lambs are dying, horses grow lame,\nand mothers' breasts are dry. And there\n is much crying in our tribe. There\nis no\n song in our youths. For each one of them is losing his youth.\n And\nthey are slow at trading. Their\n speech is too slow. For every man that buys\nmust pay for the speech of the man who\n sells. And if a trader be dumb his\nhorse\n is lame. But if a trader be smooth of tongue the lame horse is\n clean\nof limb and the blind horse\n sees. And there must be joy in selling if it is to\nbring profit. But selling what is yours\n to buy food with gives no joy, and\ntherefore the speech is 510w... It is like showing the speed\n of a horse with reins\nchecked short.\n Consider, my son. If you ever meet Sender Surtuck...\"\nAnd Kezhman Ali, the \" Chiaoush \" and \"\n Chalfan,\" the priest and banker\nof Tartar\n Bazhik, wept bitterly.\n\nKonrad Bercovici."}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.79", "texte": "THE BIRD WITH THE COPPERY, KEEN CLAWS.\nWallace Stevens.\nAbove the forest of the parakeets,\nA parakeet of parakeets prevails,\nA pip of life amid a mort of tails.\n(The rudiments of tropics are around,\nAloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind).\nHis lids are white because his eyes are\n blind.\nHe is not paradise of\n parakeets,\nOf his gold ether, golden\n alguazil,\nExcept because he broods\n there and is still.\nPanache upon panache,\n his tails deploy\nUpward and outward, in\n green-vented forms,\nHis tip a drop of\n water full of storms.\nBut though the\n turbulent tinges undulate\nAs his pure\n intellect applies its laws,\nHe moves not\n on his coppery, keen claws.\nHe munches a\n dry shell while he exerts\nHis will, yet\n never ceases, perfect cock,\nTo flare, in\n the sun-pallor of his rock."}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.80", "texte": "I.\nMIST.\nThere is a mist over this lake.\nIt shrouds the colors and the sounds as\n well;\nIt is wrapped over the hills\n like a strong veil\nAnd it blurs the\n patterns that the pine trees make,\nlace-wo veil over the sky.\nOld Sun, you\n can not pierce it;\nAs I look at you, you\n seem no more than\nA brightly — cloudy\n glass sphere.\nLittle birds, your chirring\n is dull . . .\nA cow-bell, clanking in the\n woods,\nHas the muffled music of minor\n thirds.\nOh mist, you have lessened\n everything —\nEven my longing is choked\n within my breast;\nI can find no song for\n it.\n\nII.\nANTI-EROTIC.\n\nHold me so and press my head\nClose to your shoulder with a gentle hand\n ;\nAnd do not wonder that this mild\n caress\nDearer to me than all your\n passion is.\nFor passion one can have from\n many men.\nWhen a woman flames to the new\n life of Spring,\nMen read the ardor and\n the dreaming in her eyes\nAs tributes to\n themselves — and burn to her."}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.81", "texte": "But to be cherished as a child is\n cherished,\nTo be held as something\n incredibly dear\nThis is like the delicate\n hopes of childhood,\nLike waking from\n December into the sweet air of May.\n\nJean Starr Untermeyer.\n\nONE MOMENT ONLY.\nHarold Munro.\nWhat river do we walk beside,\nSo red and strong and throbbing like a\n heart ? —\n0 Brain, now you and I\nAre dreaming of the river of all\n Blood.\nDive from this bank, and I will\n follow ;\nAnd we will swim against the\n current up.\nPlunge! Ah, do not awaken:\nLoud the blood flows. Strike upward to\n the source.\nHold me ! — You must not tire\n ;\nFor you and I will talk of this\n years after ;\nWe shall remember it for\n ever.\n1 am so happy now.\nYou're failing, failing. We shall\n drown.\nWhere are you ? I have lost you\n in the dark.\nOh, the thick blood is\n roaring through my body.\nInto what world\n have I awakened now ?\nBrain, could you\n not have dreamed a little longer ?"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.82", "texte": "PELLEAS NIGHT.\n\nShe left me sitting there in the warm\n candle-light watching the little flames\nsedately poise themselves on the blackened sticks of wood. . .\n one moment they\nare. . . then they are\n not.. .Who severs the thin thread of blue that attaches them\nto their ephemeral life ? Where do they\n go ? Who are they that live again,\ngloriously, for a moment ? Nicoletta had clicked up the stairs\n to the balcony\nto change her dress, for\n we were going to the opera . . . which was to be Pelleas . .\n .\nWallace had looked up sadly from his\n contemplation of Marco Polo when I had\ngone home to — fifth Street, late in the afternoon — Wallace\n deyours books\nof travels when he is\n unhappy just like some people knit, or smoke, or find things\nto tack on the wall — with : \" Sandyman,\n Nunkie has donated his box for\nthis\n evening . . . \"\n\" What's the matter ?\n can't you go ?\n\" Got to take Aunt Nelly\n to a lecture . . . promised to two weeks ago . . .\nit's her only evening in town . . . and\n she ...\"\n\" But surely your Aunt Nelly\n would rather go to the opera than to the stupid-\nest lecture ever delivered — (just why\n is a lecture always 'delivered?' most of\nthem don't seem to have come from anywhere) — wouldn't she ?\n \"\n\" You don't know my Aunt Nelly, \"\n said Wallace, dolefully. \" She has a\npassion for lectures. . . this one particular is. ..Oh !\n he11...\"\n\" Have you asked her ?\n Sometimes, you know, ' opera 'is a mighty potent\nword-suggestion to the female of the\n species. \"\n\" But the opera is Pelleas ! \"\n Wallace glowered . . . \" do you see me going\nto Pelleas . . . with my aunt ? \"\n\"No, Wallace, I can quite see how you\n feel about it... if it were Rigoletto,\nnow, or Faust. . . something more in the line of the polite,\n old-fashioned theme\nof betrayal, you\n might expect your Aunt Nelly to forego \" The Pre-Conclusion\nof the Infinite \"... or is it worse than\n that ? and be in a flutter over poor Mar-\nguerite ... so trusting ... so croolly\n ...\" Marco Polo passed my head at a rapid\ngait and landed in the other room somewhere. . . causing the\n sleepy Aephosto-\npholous to blink an eye in mild\n surprise, accustomed as he is to his master's\nvagaries."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.83", "texte": "\" Will you stop ? \" asked Wallace, in\n accents injured ... \" Why rub\nit in ? \" \"\n There are some operas that I will not go to hear with anyone\n but... \"\n\" . . . but with a woman for\n whom you have a \" but I desisted, for Wallace\nwill not stand much of the sandpapering\n of affectionate malice. . . besides I did\nnot wish to goad him to the point of with-holding the tickets\n from me, which\nwould have been\n insupportable ... so in crocodile tones I inquired : \" I\n don't\nreally see what you can do,\n Wallace ... it's a darned shame. . . what had you\nintended to do with the tickets ? \"\n\" I was going to give them to you, \" said\n Wallace,, morosely. \" But it seems\nto me\n that I have heard you pronounce that no man of soul would\n witness Pelleas,\nnor Tristan, nor Manon .\n . . unless he were in love, and could ...\" mocked\nWallace, becoming maliceful in his turn.\n \" But of course, if you're completely\nresigned to your celibate mysogony . . . naturally you\n wouldn't care to go to\nPelleas . . . I'll\n call up Jerry. \"\n\" No you won't,\" I\n protested ...\" you know very well that Jerry isn't a man\nto squander a box to Pelleas on. \"\nWallace smiled maliciously. \" Thought I'd\n catch you, Sandyman, \" he\nsaid, quietly.\n And that was all that he said.\nAnd I, in\n feverish haste, began to dress. By good fortune Jerry had not\ncommandeered the triumvirate raiment of\n impeccability that evening . . . and\nan\n inquiring glance at Wallace satisfied me that he would meet his\n Aunt Nelly\nin grey serge . . .\nFor I had an engagement to dine with\n Nicolette, at her own fireside. . .\nand\n to go to Pelleas with Nicolette, for whom I always reserved, in\n my mind's\neye, all the choicest of\n concerts and the most delectable of ballets and...in\nshort, the perfection of life . . . and\n here was one of its perfections, fallen from\nthe sky and Wallace's Nunkie ...\nWallace had not spoken again ... he was\n wandering around, his eye turned\nsedulously away from me. . . but if a flute could speak . . .\n and Wallace's could,\nthe dolorous \" Ach,\n der Qualen \" of Paderewski and the fragment of \"Die\nLorelei \" that he was playing :' muted\n wood wind, ' he had not missed anything\nthat was in the air.\nHe was long and\n lean, was Wallace . . . and very like a mediaeval monk\nin feature ... he leaned against a door\n post and gave the impression of an abstrac-\ntion . . . suddenly he dropped the flute\n and darted out of the door as if he had\nheard the telephone . . . 'perhaps Aunt Nelly has peritonitis,\n ' was my first\nthought. . . and then, 4\n perhaps it's later than I thought, and Wallace has dashed\noff for dinner . . . the tickets ! No,\n upon reflection, you don't have to have tick-\nets for a box . . . you simply stroll\n past the door-man and up the stairs, and\ntersely ask to have No. 33, or No. 58 opened for you ... as\n the case might be,\n6"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.84", "texte": "and Wallace's Nunkie's box number I knew\n . . . why had he gone so abruptly?\nI was\n still pondering as I draped the coat of evening over a chair to\n give it the\nonce over, when Wallace came\n in in a leisurely fashion, looking rather sheepish.\nWhen you have lived with Wallace as many\n years as I have you don't ask him\nquestions . . . indeed that is the secret of any two men\n living together in amity\nand without\n friction . . . they make no demands on each other . . . exhibit\n no\ncuriosity . . . intuitively knowing\n a great deal about each other, and not making\nany comment about it.\nWallace resumed \" die Iyorelei, \" keeping\n a and amused eye on me,\nand as I buckled\n on the armour of civilization and addressed the necktie Wal-\nlace rifted into the shepherd motif of\n Tristan . . . Confond his malice, I thought,\nand what's he watching me like a hawk for\n ... is he afraid I'll take his gold-\nheaded stick when he isn't looking ?\n Base thought ! Your friend gives you a\nbox to Pelleas, and you suspect him of suspicion ! I went to\n find something\nin the other room* still\n pondering Wallace's demeanour . . . while I was in there\nthe flute ended its poignant wail and\n struck the gay, feverish, happy, joyous,\nsecond motif of the shepherd ...\" the ship comes' . . . What\n did he mean by\nit all ? Now he was\n whistling, the mercurial imp, and making a great clatter\nwith stick, brush and hat... for Wallace\n carefully rubs his cherished stick with\na\n sofa cushion before going out . . . perfectly ' understanding\n the nice conduct\nof a clouded cane ! ' in\n a satirical fashion all his own, and to be well brushed\nis to Wallace as rigid a rule as Beau\n Brummel's \" clean linen, plenty of it, and\ncountry washing . . . \"\nI came into\n find Wallace, still smiling mysteriously, hat on head, gloves\nin hand . . . evidently waiting to say\n something.\nI hustled into my coat,\n found Jerry's muffler, looked to cigarette case, keys,\nhandkerchief, ...\" know where Jonny's\n concertina hat is? \" I asked. Jonny\nwas\n an English lad who had lived with us one year ... In the flurry\n of getting\nJonny and his three trunks,\n four bags . . . including Mr. Gladstone, and the other\none which Wallace had humorously dubbed\n Dizzy . . . after Disraeli, because a\nbag\n is a Prime Minister, and thirdly because it was alligator and\n had turned\ngreen from having a pot of dye\n spilled on it in the night through Aephostopho-\nlous' temperamental habit of stalking on\n the tops of the highest furniture when\nthe wind blew and frightened him ... it did look dizzy, that\n bag . . . and the\nhat box, which was the\n symbol of Jonny's arrival to man's estate when he had\nleft London to come to the New World and\n learn the inwardness of the manu-\nfacture of pig iron, which his Father\n had vast interests in . . . well, in getting\nJ onny off to Egypt, the hat box,\n tragically for him, had been left on the pier . . .\nit had been hard to get all J onny's\n pairs of boots packed that morning, and J onny\nalways slept late and some of the boots\n had to be left behind after all, though"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.85", "texte": "we did catch the steamer by a gang\n plank's breadth, and the last word we had\nfrom Jonny across the widening void was ' Hatbox . . . hat' —\n until the whistle\ndrowned the rest . . .\n and so Jonny had gone out of our lives, leaving his hat\nbox, equipped with ' topper ' and\n concertina, the which had vastly increased\nour three several impressivinesses subsequently, on many\n occasions. The ' top-\nper ' was an excellent one, but the\n concertina was uncertain. It had a bad habit\nof shutting up when you didn't want it\n to, and of staying open as you feverishfy\npressed the springs against your chest . . . however, it was a\n hat, and Wallace\nknew where it was and\n found it and handed it to me . . . still with that satirical\nsmile of his .. . \" Got the time ? \" I\n asked, dressing being fait accompli . .\nWallace's expression changed. \"My watch is being mended, \"he\n said.\n\" Why, you had it this morning !\n \"\n\" Yes, but it got heart trouble, and\n ...\"\nI was slapping all my pockets to\n see if anything was forgotten. In the in-\nside coat pocket I found something crisp\n and surprisingly like money. I drew\nit\n out in amazement ... I hadn't any but some silver . . . who had\n worn the coat\nlast ? Jerry? He sometimes\n leaves money around. I looked at Wallace inquir-\ningly. He was very sheepish. \" I thought\n there might be violets, and a hansom\nor\n two, \"he said, awkwardly... and you didn't have any money this\n morning,\nSandyman. \" And the door\n closed on Wallace, the delightful and pemetrating\nfriend, who had dashed out to hang his\n watch on a small brass hook under the\nsign of the Medici, in order to slip money into my coat !\nViolets indeed, and a hansom or two ! Why\n not ?\nWallace, had he lived in the\n fourteenth century, where he belonged, would\nhave been an abbot, or a prince of the\n church, and would have bestowed, with a\nfree hand, fiefs, upon his friends of the ale-house, and\n manors and forests. He\nwould have been a\n friend of Frangois Villon's, a little earlier, and that able\nand charming cut-throat would have had\n velvet and unlimited credit, and Wal-\nlace, after dining in a low tavern with\n Frangois, would have proceeded to the pic-\nturesque anointing of a bishop with the\n same unction, wearing a garnet ring upon\nhis thumb !\nWhat strange souls dwell in\n our twentieth century bodies ! Wallace's\nwas as full of anachronisms as anyone's ; startling New\n England inhibitions were\nalways leaping\n out of him, despite his true catholicity. A stranger could\n not\nwith impunity ask him to drink a\n glass of wine at the Old Grape Vine, though\nany waif or woman of the streets could\n command# his ready sympathy and his\npurse\n . . . but strike deep through the veneer of the New Englander,\n and you\ncould find Wallace's reckless,\n Quixotic, loving-kindness, his mediaeval malice,\nand a deep store of understanding.\nThere are ' old souls ' and new souls . .\n . and one's friend-ships are somehow"}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.86", "texte": "based on the length of cosmic time that\n one has spent in these centuries that we\nknow, and those other dim ones that are as yet unread by us.\n We are most\nof us throwbacks, to another\n age, or another bundle of race traditions, and if\nit is true that you may know a man by his\n friends, you may also know him by\nhis\n silences and his aversions . . .\nNicolette was carrying on a spasmodic conversation with me,\n over the bal-\ncony railing of the Cuckoo Clock (as she\n called her little studio) which was cur-\ntained like the gallery of a Carmelite\n nunnery church . . .\n\" Pirka ... I shall\n wear the blue necklace ? \"\n\" Do,\n Nicolette, and the lavender stole, too ...\"\n\"Itis a big box, Pirka ? where we shall\n sit ? \"\n\" Almost as big as the Cuckoo\n Clock, Nicoletta, and considerably larger\nthan a hansom cab. \"\n\"Is that hansom\n coming here ? \"\n\" It is at the gate, I\n heard it just now. \"\n\" Is it a blue one,\n with little mirrors in it? \"\n\" All\n complete, mirrors, cushion, doors, bell on horse, trap door,\n quarter-\ndeck, lanterns, Nicoletta mia. \"\nA small sigh from the gallery.\n\" Then I can wear my highest heels\n ...\"\n\" One always wears heels to the\n opera. \"\n\" Why do you always say ' one '\n ? \"\n\" Personal particular pronoun,\n meaning you, or me, as the case might be,\nnever anyone else. \"\n\" That Lily was\n here today . \"\n\" Had she heard from her\n lover ? \"\nNicoletta laughed. \" That boy,\n \" she rippled, \"he send her — what\ndo you\n think ? — a hat ! \"\n\" Even a Lily has to\n have a hat, though her toil . . . ! \"\n\"\n But this was such hat ! She wore it, so ... \" (N. looked out\n through the\ncurtains of the gallery, with\n a large powder puff) \" and blue roses on a green\nhat, with pink, pink, like a baby in the\n sun, under her chin — she wanted . . .\nLily wanted — me to write to him a letter for her ... I gave\n her some slip-\npers that I wear to Webster Hall dance\n .. . and she went away, so pleas ' !\nHow\n do I look ? \" (descending the stair slowly, making the most of\n her gloves).\n\" As ravishing as is saf£\n for one of your years and sex. \"\n\" What's\n sex ? \"\n{The third glove button yielded\n to persuasion.)\n\"No one knows, exactly.\n It is what makes trouble for everybody. \"\n\" I don't believe you when you smile like that."}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.87", "texte": "(Fourth button achieved.)\n\" Smiling was invented to conceal one's\n thoughts. \"\n\" But I know yours.\"\n (Triumphant fifth button; descent of one step.)\n\" You're thinking how nice you look in\n all that shirt-front, and your fore-\nlock like a poet wears. \"'\n\" I was thinking ... of you. \"\n\" Well, if you were, why didn't you look\n at me when I came down the stairs ?\nNot\n everybody can come down stairs with...\" (she sought the word,\n and found\nit) \"... decoration. \" (First\n button, other hand).\n\" I didn't look at\n you because I was thinking of you. \"\nN.\n went over to her long mirror that hung between the shoulders of\n the wall,\nso to speak, the mirror that\n had come from the Italian junkshop, precariously,\nby hand. My hand. Have you ever carried\n an open mirror, two by five feet\nthrough\n the open streets, for any distance ?\nTry\n it, sometime, when you wish to cure yourself of\n self-consciousness or\nwhen you have a\n wish to be conspicuous. You lean it against a wall, to rest,\nand a passing cat finds an enemy within.\n This diverts you for a little ; you do\nnot apprehend the dog that privateers along in search of\n distraction for his ennui.\nHe finds two\n cats, and another dog.\nIn the general\n scrimmage you escape, if you are lucky, with the mirror,\nafter a crowd has collected. You seek the\n back streets. ' There are no back\nstreets\n in New York, ' as Jonny remarked, after his initial Sunday in\n our quarter,\nwhen he had essayed to\n church on Fourteenth Street, clothed as an English-\nman ... as an Englishman going to\n church, and seeking sanctuary from the\ncomments of the gaminerie, the self-appointed censors of what\n we wear, and what\nwe do not dare to wear.\n That mirror was like Jonny's ' Topper\nN.\n looked critically at herself, the unembarassed, speculative,\n half-fearful,\nor self-satisfied . . .\n depending upon the 'success of her day. . . scrutiny of the\nwoman who is going out, who sees herself\n as she thinks other women will see\nher .\n . . and as she likes to have men see her, . . . and as she likes\n to look\nthese three counter-currents like\n three judges behind a bench, as Susanna's el-\nders ... the mind of woman, being, like\n Gaul, divided in three parts. . . I do not\npretend to know which province rules, and I am only quoting\n Jerry, who is an\nauthority on . . . Gaul,\n always the home of La Question de la Femme . . . accord-\ning to him.\nNicolette stood the ordeal with a half-frown, tried out to see\n if it were in\nworking order, and\n effective . . . one never knows when one will need such a\nfrown. ..\nA light,\n frivolous snap. Fifth glove button in place, and I drew from\n Jonny's\nconcertina hat like a\n conjuror, having left them there, the violets. . . . not\n humid"}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.88", "texte": "hot-house violets . . . these were wild\n ones, with scarcely any fragrance, but . . .\nThere is a hole in a wall where they may\n be found, in April. . .\n\" Why, where did\n they come from ? \"\n\" They were there .\n \"\n\" Then we're all ready . . . leave\n the candles, I like to have them burn\nout\n by themselves — maybe the ghosts would like them here . . . and\n some-\ntimes one candle will wait up for me . .\n . no matter how late.\n\" Are there ghosts\n in the Cuckoo Clock ? \"\n. \"Of course, \"\n said Nicoletta, simply.\nWe were in the\n blue hansom, and rattling merrily over the cobbles, with the\nwarm April mist etherializing the streets\n ...\n\" There is a woman, \" continued N\n ... \"she comes and looks over my shoulder\nwhen lam painting. She loves paint .. . and there is a man\n with thin legs who\ncomes and sits at your\n piano that you lended me ... he never plays, except when\nI am asleep .. . just sits there and\n dreams . . . and the little girl. . . she asks\nme questions. \"\n\"Do you answer them ? \"\n\" It doesn't\n matter, \" said Nicoletta.\nThe curtain was\n held aside by the box-woman, as we stole into the perfumed\nobscurity of the Metropolitan, late, but\n late enough to fall headlong into the\nDebussy-magic that filled unaccustomed and longing voids in\n our souls . . .\nit was the blue sea . . .\n and the strange, unearthly recitative of Queen Gene-\nvieve . . . reading the letter from\n Pelleas, to old blind Arkel. . . like a chant, it\nis, a tragic monotone, the utterance of\n an unknown sybil.\nNicolette sank into a\n chair, and the music and the unfolding passion and the\nunreal beauty, which is always the more\n real, given. . . Ah, yes, given, not\nsought . . . and the mist that gradually stole into the vast\n cavern filled with mu-\nsic that was like delicate tendrils of\n perfumed smoke that entangle one's senses,\nthat lure one's mind to unthinking revery, that obliterate\n form and mass and\nline and blend them all\n with the colour of the emotions ... for all the doors\nwere opened, in deference to the Spring\n night . . . indeed, should not all doors\nbe opened to the coming of the carnival, whose gay waves of\n life may sweep out\nall the stale, shut-in\n thoughts and dullnesses of winter ? . . . and the mist, like\na silent friend who spends an evening\n without uttering a word, muted the muted\nviolins and hung a grey, shifting veil over the proscenium,\n and obscured the\nchatter . . . by\n metaphysical means ... of the meaningless, and stole into\n each\nheart and stilled all utterance.\n I have seen a hushed audience depart from a\nnotable performance of Parsifal... I have\n witnessed the silent processional of\nthe\n Misericordia in the narrow street of an Italian town at dusk...\n this was some-\nthing more subtle, and more complete ...\n a banquet of thousands lulled to beau-"}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.89", "texte": "tiful intoxication through the delicate\n compounded drugs of the two most\nperceptive of the senses . . . the opera drifted on, as smoke\n drifts, the mist was\nalways there, when\n the lights were up . . . there was no talk, a vague and\n mystical\nmurmur (like many leaves\n stirred by a breeze) filled the entr'acts ... so potent\nwas the spell that by sheer mob appeal\n there was no dissenting voice ... to the\nuniversal exquisite drunkenness. . . . N. only looked at me,\n with the world of her\ndreams aflame in\n her eyes ... it was her first opera . . I think it was my first\n too.\n' L,a verite ... la verite '\n breathed into the vast fog like the whisper of\nhallucination. Melisande was dead .. .\n her head upon the pillow was like an\nantique tragic mask ... no one moved for a long time, then the\n pale ghosts of\nrapt people, swaying,\n weeping, with scarcely any consciousness of where they\nlived or how to get there, eddied into\n the street... usually so shrill with the clam-\nour of the hour . . . but stilled also .\n . .\nNicoletta clung listlessly to my arm,\n and silent tears ran down her face, un-\nheeded. . . . the tears of a child to\n whom every imaginable beauty has been given\n... for once ....\nI found our cabby, who had been faithful to his promise to\n come back, and\nwe drove for untold hours\n ... I do not know where . . .\nAnd after I\n had taken her home . . . where, indeed, not one candle, but\n two,\nhad lived, with pale unearthly\n flame, to greet us, I wandered afoot a thrall of\nthe mist ... I may have gone across a\n ferry ... I remember sitting in Hudson\nPark, the melancholy sunken garden of the poor, with its\n pathetic pool that\nnever has any water in\n it, except on holidays . . . even as the fountains of Ver-\nsailles . . . but a place exquisite\n beyond mere questions of meagerness of grass\nand of water, in the close clinging mist\n through which crept the ceaseless\nlift\n and wane of the ferry-whistles on the river . . .\nI found Wallace at his matins, consisting\n of his coffee and a rolled cigarette,\nand\n the earliest papers. Without a word he pushed the coffee-pot,\n filled with\na nectar that he knew how to\n brew, across the table, where a second cup awaited\nmy coming. And Wallace read his paper,\n occupying three chairs very elaborate-\nly, without comment.\nWallace was like that in the early\n morning.\nJerry was different. Upon his\n rising, two hours later full of cheerfulness,\nfull of talk and malice, though he made\n no direct attack ; they both realized that\nI was under a spell, I think, and forebore to ask me about the\n opera.\nThe spell lasted all through\n the moist, unreal day, and at the heel of afternoon\nI sought Nicolette, who sat pensive\n before a fair white sheet of paper, untouched\non her drawing board. And she came and\n kissed me, and whispered : \"It was\nso\n lovely... it hurts, Pirka. \"\n\nDonald Corley."}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "184", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.90", "texte": "A dolph Dehn.\nSunday Morning."}, {"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "185", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.91", "texte": "Charcoal Drawing.\nWanda Gag."}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "186", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.92", "texte": "ANNE BARD.\n\nI wish that in these days there were\n more ladies.\nI wish that there were women\n like Anne Bard.\nI admired Anne.\nI saw her bnt once.\nI was then but a boy.\nOne day, while\n rolling my hoop about the streets,\nIran\n before the Bard mansion —\nan old\n rectangular mansion, glossy-white, with green blinds, and with a\n setting\nof spacious lawns, two\n flanking lawns, separating which, there was a drive-\nway bordered with poplars —\nand, as Iran before the mansion, I saw\n the great front door owing open, and a\nbeautiful woman emerge from the gloomy hallway, in which there\n hung a\ncrystal chandelier.\nI paused.\nI\n stared.\nI felt that the woman was Anne\n Bard.\nI had heard about her.\nI had heard my mother call her a bad\n woman.\nBut Anne was a beauty.\nShe was a graceful woman, a mincing\n woman, a powdered brunette, with deli-\ncate features, diminutively classic,\nand with little hands and tiny feet —\nnervous hands,\nnervous feet.\nAnne wore a black silk\n dress, beaded with jet.\nAround the crown\n of her velvet hat, a black hat, broad-rimmed, there was\ncurled a large black ostrich plume.\nHer feet were slippered in soft black\n kid.\nAt her breast she wore a large\n boquet of violets.\nAs she descended the\n great stone steps, she nervously fitted her black kid gloves\nto her fingers.\nvShe saw me.\nShe smiled."}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "187", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.93", "texte": "She paused.\nShe\n pinched my chin.\nShe entered a hack which\n stood near by.\nI stared at her.\nI was startled by the thud of the closing\n door.\nI drew back.\nBut I stared.\nThrough the window I saw her fitting her gloves to her nervous\n fingers —\nand, watching her as she was\n driven away,\nI saw her touch the violets\n at her breast.\nThat happened in May.\nOne afternoon in early September, as I\n was returning home from school,\nand as I\n hurried, whistling, along the street on which Anne lived —\na quiet street, at either side of which\n there were mansions, imposing, venerable,\neach with its spacious lawns —\na street\n which was bordered with aged elms, disheveled elms, the\n yellowing\nleaves of which dropped\n silently, impassively, dying as aristocrats die —\nas I hurried, whistling, along that\n street,\nI noticed a hack which stood\n by the curbing.\nI noticed that the\n curtains of the hack were closed.\nAs I\n passed by, I could not but notice that the door was ajar, and\n that it\nwas held ajar.\nGlancing into the hack,\nI saw there a fellow about town, a young\n fellow, foppishly dressed, and wear-\ning an ebony cane with a silver head.\nHe held a large boquet of violets.\nHe beckoned.\nI\n approached.\nHanding me the violets, he\n asked me, earnestly, confusedly, to take them to\nAnne Bard —\nto\n wait for a reply.\nHe gave me money.\nIran to the Bard mansion.\nA negro servant, a youth, opened the\n door, took the flowers, and told me to stand\nin the hallway,\nthe gloomy hallway in which there hung the crystal\n chandelier.\nThe negro disappeared.\nI waited.\nI looked\n about me."}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "188", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.94", "texte": "At either side of a massive mirror,\n framed in gilt, and resting on standards, which\nwere great claws, gilded, there stood a\n bronze candelabrum, the supporting\nbase\n of which was the figure of a laughing urchin, with bare buttocks\n extended.\nThe floor of the hallway was\n marble, laid in mosaic.\nBefore the\n entrance to the double parlor, there was a rug of leopard\n hide.\nIn the doorway there hung a\n portiere of beads, figured, gaudy.\nI\n peered into the room beyond.\nI saw there\n a grand piano with rosewood case.\nI saw,\n on the piano, two large rose jars of porcelain, dark blue\n porcelain, the\nrose jars ornate with\n designs in gilt.\nI saw mahogany\n furniture, upholstered with brown brocade.\nI saw, in an alcove, a plaster cast of David, life-size, the\n David of Michelangelo.\nI gazed.\nI waited.\nI\n listened.\nI heard no sound save that\n of a distant cough, a violent cough.\nI\n thought I smelled the odor of medicine.\nI\n waited, listening, looking about, till the negro reappeared, to\n give me a note,\na perfumed note.\nI took the note to the fellow in the\n hack.\nI told my mother what I had\n done.\nMy mother frowned.\nShe forbade me ever again to enter the\n Bard mansion.\nI later heard her telling\n all to a woman of the neighborhood,\nand I\n overheard the gossip which ensued, regarding Anne.\nShe was prodigal.\nHer perfumery was the attar of violets.\nThe fabrics of her apparel were the linens, the cashmeres, the\n silks, of foreign lands.\nHer diaphanous\n jewels were flawless, her cameos ancient.\nShe was indecent.\nHer speech was\n figured with obscene allusions.\nShe was\n inane.\nShe was known to have called\n the virtue of woman a matter of being sagacious.\nShe was dissolute.\nOne Sunday at dawn, the police were called to put an end to\n the noise that came\nfrom her house —\nshe entertaining a debauched crowd —\nto put an end to the laughter, the\n singing, the shattering of glasses falling from\ntrays held high by the men, and kicked at\n by the women."}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "189", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.95", "texte": "Anne was inconstant.\nIt was because of her John Preble, whose\n father was agent for one of the mills,\nwent one night to the belfry of the mill, and there, shot\n himself through the\nheart.\nAnne was desperate.\nDuring her present illness, her last, but before her\n prostration, she had often\ntossed hex\n rings from her fingers, to see the rings hurtle, and to\n laugh.\nI overheard these things.\nI overheard things other than these.\nIt was mentioned, that afternoon, that\n every day a certain unknown lover\nsent\n her violets, or brought them.\nThe\n identity of the man was pondered.\nIt was\n in latter autumn that Anne died.\nI\n remember the day that she was buried.\nIt\n was uncloted. It was cruelly clear —\nthe\n sun absorbed in thoughts of its own splendor.\nAnd it was cold, cruelly cold. The\n winds,\nmighty, saturnine, and\n unscrupulous,\nmade the leaves scurry,\n teased them, wheedled them\nthe dying or\n the dead, the colorful,\nthe dun, or tore\n them from the heedless trees.\nI lingered\n by the church. I listened there,\nnow to\n the modulating moans inside,\nnow to the\n shrieks outside, uttered by winds\nraking\n the ivy on the great facade.\nI lingered\n till the services were over.\nI saw the\n ornate casket. It was borne\nby old\n acquaintances who dared, perchance,\nand\n was followed by a few courageous friends.\nIt was entirely covered in a blanket\nwoven of violets.\nI lingered there\ntill I heard the last thud of the hack\n doors.\nI lingered there till the last\n hack disappeared,\nlost in a swirl of\n leaves, which the winds raised,\nas if in\n mockery of merry death.\n\nWallace Gould."}, {"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "190", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.96", "texte": "BROOMIDES.\n\nBroom goes to press a second time, while\n the product of our first effort\nlies\n entombed in the hold of a steamship, bound for America. Other\n periodicals\nare more fortunate ; they\n set out anew each time, fortified by the greetings of\nfriends or inspired by the caustic venom\n of enemies. Not so for Broom. Si-\nlence alone has saluted its Roman\n domicile.\nCurious incidents result out\n of this distance from home and the consequent\ndelay. A letter just received from an\n American contributor asks for the return\nof his manuscript, as it has been accepted for inclusion in a\n book. We have\nreferred his request to the\n Mediterranean. A poet sends in revisions which tend\nto improve his verse a hundredfold. We\n compare them with the original and\ntrust\n his judgment is exaggerated. Another gleefully forwards long\n promised\nphotographs of-his paintings,\n rejoicing that they were finished in time for the\nfirst number. We are trying to make room\n for them in the fourth.\nStill there are\n advantages. The medium of strange tongues curtails discus-\nsions as to the merits of contributions.\n The vista from the office window, which\nincludes St. Peter's Dome, and the banks of the Tiber,\n facilitates a. mood of\nphilosophic\n detachment. A bottle of Frascati aids digestion.\nPerhaps our readers do not realize the\n full extent of our difficulties in pre-\nsenting them with a generous quota of\n translations of representative continental\nreading matter. The day before yesterday a manuscript arrived\n from a famous\nPortuguese novelist.\n Yesterday, we turned it over to our Portuguese trans-\nlator. The manuscript came back\n to-day.\nAfter a paragraph or two of\n questionable, very mild and what looks suspi-\nciously like expurgated, English — the\n translation stops abruptly and our\nesteemed colleague takes up his pen in his own hand. This is\n what transpires :\n\"The following pages\n contain the shameless story of a cocotte killed in a brutal\nand disgusting way by the excesses of her\n trade ! \""}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "191", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.97", "texte": "For more than a year Vachel Lindsay has\n been sending the following let-\nter, or a paraphrase thereof to all\n committees who ask him to come and recite\nfor their town :\nLet me urge you to\n take my eight books out of the library, and get them\nread in some kind of fashion by those\n people who think they want me, lam\npositively through with entertaining people with those few\n pieces of mine which\nthey happen to\n consider parlor entertainment. lam busy writing books, as\nI have been for twenty years. Half these\n books are prose, and my work can-\nnot be understood without some kind of a\n total survey. I have always been\na little\n more interested in my pen and ink drawings than my prose. I have\n al-\nways been a little more interested in my\n prose than my verse, and the prose\nis\n more than half my work. I have always been more interested in my\n verses\nto be read in the closet than\n those to be read aloud ; and only about one tenth\nof it is to be read aloud. I most\n emphatically protest against the assumption\nthat that tenth of my writing which is to\n be read aloud is to be separated from\nthe\n rest, or that I have done anything to separate it. I have done\n everything\nI can to keep the whole of\n my work together, pictures, prose, meditative verse,\nand verse to be read aloud. I have never\n taken any other stand. Those who\nthink\n otherwise know nothing about me. There is ample confirmation of\n what\nI say in all eight of my books to\n any one who cares to spend so much as half\nan hour glancing them all through. There is only one Jazz poem\n in the whole col-\nlection, and that so named in light\n irony. People who have the Jazz notion of\nmy work have acquired it through newspaper notices by\n reporters who have\nnot read one line of\n my books. Two published summaries ; spread for the world\nto read, balancing pictures, prose and\n verse are printed in Current Opinion,\nSeptember 1920.\nI cannot emphasize too strongly that all\n my writings on the Indian are not\ntranslations or transcriptions ; but broad and free\n interpretations of the spirit,\nthe\n atmosphere, the ideational and emotional content — run, as it\n were, through\nthe glass of my own mind\n and heart which have through years of living with\nIndians grown pretty much Indian and\n pagan Indian at that. Certain lam that\nin\n respect to the Indian's contact with the wilderness and his\n pantheistic, ani-\nmistic or naturalistic (call it what you\n will) conception of nature, I am thoroughly\nIndian and always shall be. I grew up\n that way as a youngster in the Lake\n\nVachel Lindsay."}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "192", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.98", "texte": "i\nSuperior\n country and am growing more and more set. My entire religious\n and\nspiritual life is based upon it.\n The wilderness means life to me ; the absence .\nof it, death. That's Indian too. Maybe\n most folk can't understand that;\nbut it\n is literally true. And my whole literary life is dedicated to\n the task of\ncapturing that wild — to me\n at least, beautiful — spiritual power ; as it shows\nitself in Indian thought and life, and in\n my own emotions, and in Indian thought\nand feeling as I transmute them.\nThen I tried to paint\nA picture with a pin, and found\nThat each small prick of color ran a\n gush,\nAs breath will clothe and\n curtain off a mirror,\nSwelling bead-like,\n till drops sought a tripping way\nMingling\n the brilliant colors I had painted\nInto\n the grey metalic color of the glass again.\n\nLew Sarett.\nThomas Pym Cope.\n\nERNESTO FraTOni, Gerente responsabile.\nPrinted in Italy by «I/Universelle » Imprimerie\n Polyglotte — Roma."}, {"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[193]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.99", "texte": "HOW WE GET 'EM\nA GENTLEMAN\n —\nJUST ARRIVED IN ROME FROM PALESTINE AND\n EGYPT,\nAND EN ROUTE BACK TO AMERICA\nvia Vienna, the Alps, France and the Atlantic —\nWAS LONESOME.\nHe had been away\n erom home\nFOR MORE THAN A YEAR.\nHadn't seen an American\nDURING THAT PERIOD —\nDIDN'T EXPECT TO MEET ANY —\nAND SURELY NOT FRIENDS —\nFOR ANOTHER MONTH OR\n SO.\nBut simply couldn't wait that long.\nSo HE HIT UPON AN INGENIOUS SCHEME.\nDecided to consult the register\nof the American Express Company.\nTo SEE, IF BY ANY\n QUAINT MIRACLE,\nHE KNEW SOME CHANCE NAME ON THE\n BOOKS.\nOf course, he found ours.\nGave vent to an Indian war-whoop.\nFor we had met him in California —\neight thousand miles away —\nJUST BEFORE HE STARTED FOR PALESTINE\nAND OURSELVES\n FOR ROME.\nHE CALLED ON US.\nIn\n fact, he came tearing in.\nWith a blood-curdling\n yell.\nWanted to know what the deuce we were doing\n here.\nAnd of course we showed him BROOM.\nDid he subscribe ?\nAsk us\n something easier.\nThat's one of the ways we have of\n landing 'em.\nAny old way — and no matter who they\n are,\nWHERE THEY COME FROM, OR WHITHER THEY GO.\nAnd the last we saw of -him —\nSAILING down the Pincio —-\nHE WAS SWINGING HIS\n BROOM LIKE A TOMAHAWK.\nGod speed him on his way\nAND STILL OTHERS OUR WAY ! *\nWe need them —\nAND MAYBE THEY NEED US.\nWhat ?\nAMERICAN subscriptions\n should be mailed to the\nNew York Office, THREE EAST\n NINTH STREET ;\nEUROPEAN subscriptions to the main\n office,.\n18, TRINITA DEI MONTI, ROME (6),\n IHy."}, {"page_pdf": 100, "page_imprimee": "[194]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192112-01.1.100", "texte": "«WHAT OF IT, IP SOME OLD 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\narchangel Gabriel thinks anything\nTHE LESS OF ME, BECAUSE I PROMPTLY AND\nRESPECTFULLY OBEY THAT OLD HUNKS IN\nTHAT PARTICULAR INSTANCE ? WHO AINT\nA SLAVE ? »\nMOBY DICK."}]}