{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_sha256": "97697727763c51e3ef1d3ab21fa849a9332afe2a8f12bf9dd4cabd7160054aa6", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/01_01/bmtnaap_1922-01_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/01_01/bmtnaap_1922-01_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[192]", "page_fin": "[192]", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.2", "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": "[192]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1127, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2290, "texte": "Page\nCover Design (Woodcut) — Fernand Leger\nSnakes, Mongooses, Snake-Charmers and the Like — Marianne Moore 193\nTragic Mask — Gordon Craig 194\nDedicated to the Enemy — Gordon Craig 195\nMask For Sea-Captain — Gordon Craig 200\nProse Poems — John Goued Feetcher 207\nIf You Had three Husbands — Gertrude Stein 211\nTwo Paintings — Raoue Dufy 216\nLady of Sorrows — Shireey L. Seifert. . 218\nStiee Life — Ardengo Soffici . . 225\nChateau De Soupir : 1917 — Maecoem Co wee y 226\nSomething Teees — David Rosenthae . : 228\nThe Jack of Diamonds — Eeie Ehrenbourg (Trans, by H. A. I/.) ........ 229\nTwo Drawings of Chareie Chapein — Fernand Leger 232\nGiovanni Papini — Giuseppe Prezzoeini (Trans, by Dorothy Kreymborg) ... 239\nCaricature of Papini — Soffici and Carra 243\nCeoisonn6 — Grace Hazard Conkexng 249\nTwo Poems — Hieda Conkeing 250\nCandy Cigar, and Stationary — Waedo Frank 252\nTwo Poems — Aefred Kreymborg % 261\nPainting — Juan Gris 264\nProfound Today — Beaise Cendrars (Trans. By H, A. L.) 265\nProteus — Paue Ceaudee (Trans, by John Strong Newberry) 268\nTrinkets — Wieeiam Saphier - 279\nDrawing — Wieeiam Gropper 284\nBroomides 285\nPoem — John Goued Feetci-ier - 288"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "193", "page_fin": "193", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Snakes, Mongooses, Snake-Charmers and the Like", "titre_sommaire": "Snakes, Mongooses, Snake-Charmers and the Like", "signature_source": "Marianne Moore", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1529, "texte": "SNAKES, MONGOOSES,\nSNAKE-CHARMERS AND THE LIKE.\nMarianne Moore.\nI have a friend who would give a price for those long fingers all of one\nlength —\nthose hideous bird's claws, for that rich looking snake and the mon-\ngoose — .\nproducts of the country in which everything is hard work, the country\nof the grass-getter,\nthe torch-bearer, the dog-servant, the message-bearer, the holy-man.\nEngrossed in this distinguished worm nearly as wild and as fierce as\nthe day it was captured,\nhe gazes as if incapable of looking at anything with a view to analysis.\n\" The slight snake rippling quickly through the grass,\nthe leisurely tortoise with its pied back,\nthe chameleon passing from twig to stone, from stone to straw, \"\nlit his imagination at one time; his admiration now converges upon this :\nthick, not heavy, it stands up from its travelling-basket,\nthe essentially Greek, the plastic animal, all of a piece from nose to tail;\none is compelled to look at it as at the shadows of the Alps\nimprisoning in their folds like flies in amber, the rhythms of the\nskating-rink.\nThis animal to which from the earliest times, importance has attached,\nfine as its worshippers have said—, for what was it invented?\nTo show that when intelligence in its pure form\nhas embarked on a train of thought which is unproductive, it will come\nback ?\nWe do not know ; the only positive thing about it is its shape, but why\nprotest ?\nThe passion for setting pecpe right is in itself an afflictive disease.\nDistaste which takes no credit to itself is best."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "194", "page_fin": "194", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Tragic mask", "titre_sommaire": "Tragic mask", "signature_source": "Gordon Craig", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 26, "texte": "Gordon Craig.\nTragic mask."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "195", "page_fin": "206", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 16, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Dedicated to the Enemy", "titre_sommaire": "Dedicated to the Enemy", "signature_source": "Gordon Craig", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1953, "texte": "DEDICATED TO THE ENEMY.\n\nWith a prayer that they will be stronger\nmore malicious and anyhow funnier\nthan they have been in the past.\nI.\nHave I made a mistake. . . ? I mean am I playing the game. . . ?\nTo begin with, is it Hockey — Polo — Cricket — Politics, or is it Theatres ?\nWhich of these Games have we come here to play ?\nI must say that I was of the opinion that the Game was Theatres. And I\nam forced to add that I even took Theatres to be a game as good as the best, and\nto be played according to the best rules of the Tradition.\nThese rules, as we all know or can find out, date far back and are not the\ninvention of any one city.\nThe conditions under which this game is played are sometimes poor — it rains\nor it shines — but if it is not always fair weather it is not always ford — and\nif it is really Theatres that we are playing I think everyone who cares about Sport\nwill agree with me that it's just as easy to play the-game fairly and squarely —\neven if since time immemorial it has been played by some nations, groups — even\ngroups (small groups) in our nation — in anything but a fair and square manner.\nIt is a game — it is a sport — this playing at Theatres. I know you'll\nall admit so much .... The first point X am doubtful about is whether it's\nTheatres that our Stage folk are playing at to-day or something else — and then\nwhether I and they are both playing the game straight.\nIf I am, they are not; if they are, then I am not.\nWho is umpire ? There seems to be but one, and that is the Public.\nYet the Public does not act as umpire at the decent game of cricket. One\nexpert, skilled and watchful, careful and just, decides.\nI suppose then that it is the Critics who act as umpire in our game.\nMr. Lamb, Mr. Hazlitt of old ; Mr. Shaw, Mr. Beerbohm but just lately,\nand now Mr. Walkley, Mr. Pitt Robbins, and presumably Mr. Archer forever.\nNow I never knew anyone less fitted to be an umpire in the Theatre game than\nMr. Archer."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2999, "texte": "A very remarkable man, a scholar, qualified for any post in the Government\nservice, worthy, I am told, even to be ambassador, this extraordinary figure does\nnot really know what is to be known about the Theatre. . . and is therefore ut-\nterly disqualified to give the lead to Dramatic Criticism.\nTo whom then can I put the query \" How's that, umpire ? \" when I see that\nour umpire has no notion of what's what ? And if, even in so humble a place\nas that of umpire we find the wrong man, then, at the crucial moment, when the\nfield cries \" How's that, umpire? \" what harm may not happen to the old game ? ...\na chaotic state may result. . . trickery licensed.\nOf Mr. Archer's, opinions I will not speak. They are as good as another\nman's ... in matters of state, in matters of Carnegie and other trusts I hear they\nare infallible. It is his facts, his dates, lam concerned with. What was, and\nwhen it was, is what Mr. Archer should know. . . and doesn't know.\nWhen he wrote that old libel \"The Fashionable Tragedian\", he proved what\na diplomat he might have become, but he ticketed himself once and forever as\nno critic. . . A critic must be impartial; must not take sides. It's the thing,\nthe game itself, he is to think of ; and to think of that — to discern, to judge,\na critic must know. He may not be able to write plays (I hear Mr. Archer writes\nadmirable plays) ; he may not be able to act, to design, or to direct; but he must\nknow how it's done. . . what its difficulties. . . and what is the histoiy of the craft\nof playmaking, acting, mise-en-scene, decors, lighting, costume, and the history\nof the different developments which have taken place in our Theatrical Art in\nItaly, in France, in Germany, Spain, Russia, and eight or ten other parts of our\nglobe. He must know this of modern developments not merely from hearsay. . .\nhe must have seen and heard and recorded for himself.\nBut he must not dream that the facts recorded of the years 1866 to 1916 is all\nthat he need to know : nor those facts culled from the usual text books, for the\nusual text books are trash. They repeat the same old fibs with the same young\nflourish. The same actors' names are mentioned over and over again. . . the\nsame references made to the same celebrated actresses. . . and meantime some\nof the most interesting performers' names are utterly forgotten. . . and some\nof the greatest. Theatres such as Covent Garden, Drury Lane, the Opera\nHouse, Paris, and the Wagner Theatre in Bayreuth have volumes written on\nthem . ... all very proper this ; but the story of the Theatres of the world does\nnot begin and end in that sort of thing.\nWe hear in Magazines and in Books of Inigo Jones, De Loutherbourgh,\nClarkson Stanfield, Telbin, Planche, Hottenroth, Racinet, Craven ; and that's\nall very right and proper too; but again, the story of the Scenic craft does not\nbegin with Inigo Jones and end with Craven. It does not even end with Bakst,\nCraig, or Appia. It may even begin with them. The umpire must say."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2243, "texte": "And so as lam one in this Game of Theatres and the umpire's presumably\nsomewhere about, I, on behalf of my own particular friends. . . and I count some\nof the most brilliant and all of the most profound players as my friends. . . ask,\nis this the noble old game of Theatres that we are playing — and am I, and are\nthey, playing it fairly and squarely ?\nI would illustrate my point.\nA great master of scenography and a young one are both friends of mine.\nWe see none of the work of the first in a Theatre of Europe to-day because he\nhas an objection to being pelted by ignorance with the eggs and oranges supplied\nby intrigue. . . Now then, umpire . . . what are you doing that you say nothing\nwhen you see foul play in our sport ?\nThe second brings his work to the Theatre and receives exaggerated praise\nfor what is bad in it, and no understanding at all for what are sure signs of a\npossible development.\nThe work of these two men is ignorantly received ; . . . at the same time\nthe work of four of their imitators is hailed as epoch-making marvels.\n. . . How's that, umpire ? . . .\nAnd how long is that to be, umpire ?\nFor if I am playing at Theatres, and if I and my friends are playing the game#\nI expect the rest of the field to be told it is to respect the rules of the game or\nclear out.\nBut who is to bring the rogues to order ?\nNo one can do this but the Critics.\nAnd so I hope that our English Critics will not think that the old text\nbooks of past ages and hearsay about this age, is enough to qualify even an\nAmbassador to be Dramatic Critic. . . to be umpire in the Game of Theatres.\nII.\nThis was written and in the Publishers' hands before I became aware of\na very queer thing — a very queer thing indeed — as you shall hear.\nTelling you about it demands a little patience from us both — you and\nmyself — for to tell you I must talk a little of myself ... a thing we generally\navoid in our books.\nNow for the queer thing.\nIt appears that I am held to be anti-English !\nThat is the whisper which a certain gang keeps up, and, when caught whis-\npering, comes out with it honestly. . . \" honest, honest lago \". . . \" so are they\nall, all honourable — lagos. \"\nI am \" decrying England \" because I think and say that the state of its"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2520, "texte": "Theatre to-day is preposterous. I who hate to see England displaying the worst\ntheatrical art instead of the best — you who hate that too — I in agreement\nwith you. Are we all anti-English then ?\nAnd here the spot is touched. For I understand from certain unpre-\njudiced quarters. . . from those who ought to know. . . that in some respects I\nrepresent the best in theatrical art.\nThere we have it.\nThe whispering then is \" political'' .•. . Theatrical political — the ancient\ncomic business, nothing but that — a malicious clique's cackle.\nWere I a writer such as Beerbohm, a painter such as Pryde, or a musician,\nthere would be really absolutely no need for me to take the slightest note of what\nthe enemy does or says.\nBut unfortunately this enemy knows that by chatter and lies it can prevent\nme from getting my Theatre, and thus prevent me from doing my work. I'll\nfight that.\nI'd prefer that the Press and others should do the fighting while I get on\nwith my work ; but as no one takes up the cudgels it's left to me to go hell for\n] eat her on my own.\nAny old lie to cheat England out of the best so that the tenth best may have\na chance. . .\nI would like you to understand me that I myself think pretty well of\nmyself as an artist of the theatre — so thinks every artist -of himself if he be\nworth his salt, so don't apologize for me.\nThe old artists knew their worth — the new ones do so too. The artists\nin the Theatre of England are not many, because something nowadays enslaves\nthe mind to such an extent that it has no place nor time to grow in them.\nSomething cramps and withers it. . . and backbiting is rampant.\nThe mind of the great dramatist is radiant and free. — great actors must\nhave like minds : the eye of the great dramatist sees and does not shirk seeing\ntruth — the great actors must see the same. Yet how can the mind, the eye;\nor the mind's eye see anything when the man is willing to accept personal com-\nfort in exchange for freedom of mind ?\nAll that we have here (in London especially), all comforts and luxuries like\ncosy houses — rooms — glorious food — perfect transport in tubes, in buses,\nin motors — perfect organization so far as externals are concerned — bric-a-\nbrac galore to indulge our \" collecting \" instincts — our pre-war fads and fan-\ncies catered to with the utmost care — our tobacconists too good for words —\nthe shops overflowing with creature-comforts of every kind. . . how can all this\nbut act as a narcotic on us at an hour when what we want to do is dependent on"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2466, "texte": "great sacrifices — (not a newspaper phrase, but a reality) — and when what\nwe must do and would willingly do if we were free is strangled by self-\nindulgence. . .\nWe hear on all sides the catch-phrases about having nothing ... no servants,\n110 money, no this, no that; whereas in England we have everything. L,et us go to\nwhere those people dwell who really have nothing, and learn how preferable it is\nwhen great things have to be achieved. By \" nothing \" I mean of course — and\nunderstand me clearly — nothing for themselves but bare necessities . . . and\neverything for their work . . their great ideas . . their cause .. . their labours.\nFor while a man does not need all these coddling personal comforts. . •\nservants three or even two, silver, fine linen, and the hundred and one unneces-\nsary creature comforts, he does need (we all need) the necessities, the luxuries of\nhis labour ; . . . machines, tools, materials, and the means to labour like giants .\ngiant means.\nAnd then, after all those necessities for which millions should be set aside by\nthe State, or given by those who have it if a State is too p00r... and if we deserved\nwell after our labours, I for one would not decry the little luxuries we might then\nhave won a right to desire and surplus wages to pay for. But nowadays everyone\nhas all these things before his work has begun, and all for being a patient\nass — patient ass is, I think, William Blake's phrase for us.\nIt's of artists and craftsmen I speak, and chiefly of those artists and craftsmen\nin our trade — the Theatrical one.\nA fine trade too — a good job — a great old game — but one which should\nbe played fairly and squarely.\nIII.\nTo play a game would seem to us all awfully easy :... a game of draughts, —\nhockey, — football, — cricket, — any happy sport.\nBut, there are rules.\nOne of these is so simple that every sportsman observes it. It is the first\nnatural and ancient rule of \" Don't cheat. \" For if you cheat you are not play-\ning the game.\nAnd this explains how it is that so few people are really playing the game.\nThe rule is to win the game fairly or to lose it; and it is between these two\ntasks, that of playing fair or losing, that many of us come to stop playing games\naltogether.\nThe difficulties are nothing. — One sole thing stops the game ; . . . when\nthose against whom one plays take out a licence to cheat. A large minority\nof those playing the Theatrical game are actually allowed to hold such a licence."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2231, "texte": "That licence is called \" commercialism Commercialism in the Arts is the li-\ncence sold by rogues to rogues, and which cheats the nation.\n%\nThe English People are fond of Sport, games of Sport, because nothing gives\nthem the grand feeling so much as to play fair and to see fair play.\nTo play the game well — to keep the rules — not to cheat, trip or sneak,\nis to play fair.\nThe Theatre is my game, and I shall play it fair.\nThat's why I will lend no ear to those people who from a natural, if exag-\ngerated, anxiety lest I lose the game, come to me with agitated doubts and\nfears as to my powers, and more or less beg me to put tin-tacks on the course —\ndope the other fellows — and bribe the umpire's wife.\nI had better tell you without any more ado that I do not intend to do as\nthey kindly suggest.\nIt appears that every \" Napoleon \" does this, every great statesman, ever}7\ngreat financier ; in short, ever}7 great public figure.\nIt appears so, for a few of my friends say so.\nI believe they exaggerate.\nI believe they are a little over-anxious, and I think, as I said, I will play fair\nright through.\nus look at the friendly arguments.\nist. You need money to realize your ideas.\n2nd. You need the whole Press of Europe.\n3rd. You need to advertise on a stupendous scale.\n\" Cadam soap \", says one to me, \"is the success of the age ; — it's a\ngood soap — but it took great sums of money to advertise it — and advertise-\nment is all. \"\n\" How should I obtain this petty cash ? \" say I, \" tell me. \"\nAnd then I hear strange things as they unveil their innermost thoughts. . .\nI hear what it is that would entitle me to the licence to cheat.\nFrom what they say it would appear that to begin with I must positively\nbribe the umpire's wife — not forgetting his sister, daughter, and nieces —\nThis bribery takes a hundred different fantastic shapes.\nThe Millionaire is to be bamboozled. Commence hy lying to his best friend —\nshe will manage to trip him up, it appears — for the sake of the art.\nHang around and lend a hand as he comes down the dark lane some foggy\nevening. . . and rob him. . . Hold him up, in short.\n\" Napoleon did it \" — they all do it \" — besides, millionaires, mean and\nselfish, deserve it.\nExtraordinary argument."}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2262, "texte": "In other words they propose that I should hit below the belt — when the\numpire is dallying with the eye of his best girl and can't see for love —\nGlorious proposition —\n\" Is this done everywhere ? \"I ask.\n\" Oh yes, everywhere. \"\n\" And which land does it best, would you say ? \"\n\" Oh. they all do it well — but the style is sometimes finer in one land than\nin another. \"\n\" Is there a fine way of hitting below the belt ? \"\n\"Yes — yes — lots of fine ways ; some of the fine ways are a bit common,\nbut most are exceptionally fine. You can use blackmail1 — or perjury is pretty\ngood — and you can employ these two in countless ways. \"\n\" Perhaps the finest, most gallant way is to employ all the liars you know\nand feed them with little titbits ; — you pay them, of course, some in one\nkind of coin, others in another. \"\n\" Yes, yes, it's very expensive... that's why you need the money — the Press\nand Advertisement.\n\" Above all you must remember always to bear in mind that there is a higher\nand. a lower nature in everyone and never fail to appeal to their lowest nature. \"\n\" All this is so useful, \" one murmurs back, — \" tell me more: tell me how\nI should do this with the Theatre. \"\n\"The Theatre ! \" cries my well-wisher — \" why, the Theatre offers you un-\ntold opportunities of this kind.\n\" Take the Ballet, for example. . . What a field ! \"\n\" Yes, \" I reply, forgetting what this meant for a moment; \"itis a field\nI love much. \"\n\" Love, — I wasn't talking of that. Prostitution is what I mean. There\nnever was such a genuinely decent field for prostitution as that offered by the\nBallet — if you know how to handle it. . . and make it respectable — \"\nAnd then the Curtain rose.\nThe spectacle revealed was certainly the most decent, the most respect-\nable bit of cheating I have ever seen or heard of. But to the eye all was more\nthan Victorian — to the ear it was positively Cromwellian.\nNothing at all risque like Maud Allen.\nNothing genuinely erotic like \" Aphrodite. \"\nThere on the stage was the umpire's wife — his sister — his daughters —\n1 Lest you should think I am jesting, my reader, I would remind you that we none\nof us make jokes about such subjects. It's the gaudy truth I have the pleasure of tell-\ning you. People really do talk to me like this."}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2046, "texte": "his nieces — his best girls : all of them there. . . a cabal of propriety. . . and every\nJack girl of them a respectable cheat.\nThe Ballet performance was entitled\n\" Swindling Man.\"\n\" Colossal programme.\"\nI enjoyed the evening hugely and came out.\nBut not before I had looked round the house and listened to the audience\nchatting, and had seen and heard. . . wonders.\nt\nSo then, — that's the little game, is it ? . . .\nThe Art of the Theatre.\nThen I will play the game fair to the end, and mind all you boys do the same.\nFor this other thing is not worth the halfpenny dip which illumines a rotten age —\nif what I am told be true.\n*\n* *\nAnd indeed it is a rotten age the minute you agree that it's so.\nYet now when I admit no such thing — behold, this rotten age with its\nswindle falls back and takes its place — at the servants' table. The masters are\nsitting elsewhere — Heaven knows ; — and we, the artists, sit in the Gallery\nwith the Gods. . .\n• Who said — who says — 'tis a rotten affair, this life, this age ; did I ? —\nno, I objected solely to the custom of cheating at cards and art. I find the rest\nof it superb.\nBecause a greatly gifted singer cannot say one decent word for the whole\nshow, what matter is that? — if a great actress greatly endowed chooses to\nwaste her spare moments picking holes in the universe and her fellow men, what\nmatters that ? — If a great statesman be incapable in every other respect but\nstatesmanship that is nothing for those of us who intend playing the game.\nBecause the great are so weak, is that any reason for us to shake our heads\nand get a fixed and silly idea therein ?\nIf the great must be small, let them — there is heaps of room at the servants'\ntable — let them be great there.\nBecause these great servants like the Cinema for its popularity — like vul-\ngarity — regret none of their own — raise a noise and the dust, what matter that\nto us who chance prefer to be seated at the other table ?If we eat less at the\nupper table than these great ones, what of that either ? — \" Come down here, \""}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2200, "texte": "they yell all through dinner ; \" come down 'ere and join the great and you'll\n'ave all you want. \" But we've a kind of fancy that we have all we want seat-\ned with the Gods in the gallery — we feel anyhow that we have paid for our seats.\nThe chief thing we want wre have — that is singleness of purpose and the\npower of not altering one's mind. . . and the power to sacrifice some or all of\nour little personal ego for a productive egoism which believes that the thing is\ngreater than the man. . . the work of art greater than the performer.\n*\n* *\nDid you ever change your mind ?. . . about something you believed in ?...\nWell, then, you know what it's like. . . and what the loss.\nTo change the mind is the greatest sorrow. I have often changed it. . .\nbut not about the Theatre. Not on your life ! as they say in America.\nIn 1900 I asked for money to start a School for the Theatre in London.\n<(Doa production, \" they replied, \" and then you will be able to get all you\nwant.\"\nI did one. \" Dido and Aeneas, \" 1900, Hampstead Conservatoire, N. W.\nLondon.\nI asked for support for a School.\n\" Do one more production, \" they replied, \" and you will be able to get all\nyou want.\"\nI did one more. \" The Masque of Love, \" 1901, Coronet Theatre, Notting\nHill, S. W. London.\nI asked for support for a School.\n\" Do just one more production to show people what you want and you will\nbe able to get everything you want. \"\nI did one more. \" Acis and Galatea, \" 1902, Queen's Theatre, W. C. London.\nI asked for support for a School.\n\" No, no, \" they replied, \" You must do one more production to show what you\ncan do, and you will find everyone willing to support your school afterwards.\"\nI did one more — two more — three more.\n\" Sword and Song, \" \" The Vikings, \" and \" Much Ado about Nothing, \"\n1903, Shaftesbury Theatre, W. London ; Imperial Theatre, W. London.\nI then asked again for support for a School.\nYou understand that I hold the same opinion to-day I then held, which\nis that without a school or workshops in which I, the workman, can make and\nperfect a machine (and by that I mean a small but well-organized army of work-\nmen) all the productions must be tenth rate instead of first-rate. To make a"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2358, "texte": "production first-rate endless experiment is necessary : endless because out of\nthirty experiments possibly only two may prove of any value.\nIn 1904 I produced other plays, or part plays, in Germany and elsewhere,\n.. . and later on I asked once again for a school. (Of course I asked England,\nEngland being my land and celebrated for fair play in all games).\nI was told I ought to produce \" one more play, and then, \". . . etc., etc.\nSo I found the best equipped theatre in Europe and did one more play,\n\" Hamlet, \" 1911, Moscow Art Theatre, Russia, N.\nNot that I believed for one moment that this was the way to do a good piece\nof work ; — in fact I was sure that if I played the game in the Moscow Art Theatre\nI should not produce the thing as I wanted.\nNever mind ; I would do it — and see if the others were pleased.\nIt seems they were. — I was not. — It has already run, I am told, over\nfour hundred nights.\nI then asked for my School. \" No, you must produce one more play, \" etc.,\netc., they said.\nAnd there I struck 1 . . . And I pointed to the eight plays I had produced\nin 1900, 1901, 1902, 1903, 1904, and 1911, and reminded them of their promises.\nAnd no sooner had I struck than my School came.\nIt came in 1913 ; it went in 1914. . . for the war swept it away, and my sup-\nporter did not see the value of keeping the engine fires \" banked. \" So the fires\nwent out.\nIt is a rare business, as you know, to relight the fires once they are allowed\nto go out.\nAnd now I have begun to ask once more for my School. . . for my workshops.\nThe reply is curious and original: it is, \"If you will produce one play we\nare quite sure that afterwards, \" etc., etc.\nThat much repeated phrase, that very promising nothing, has proved\nworthless : and yet some friends dear to me have uttered it and still utter it.\nI take long to decide that others are wrong and that I am right. I would\nfar rather be wrong with the others than right and alone. Yet I fear I am right\nin this case.\nIf anything has proved right it is that what I asked for in 1900 and asked\nfor in 1913, and still for ask in 1922, is right. . . and my friends wrong.\nNow the reason why good friends join in this general cry of \" Produce one\nmore play, \" etc., etc., is because they see that all games are to-day being played\n1 And there I still strike. I produce no more plays till I have my School."}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1633, "texte": "by the aid of a bit of cheating. .. a bit or a good deal. The have joined in the\nswindle — it has agreed with them — and they are surprised it don't agree\nwith me.\nIf they are correct, one must, as I said above, cheat the millionaire out of\nhis millions, setting spies on to him at the psychological physiological mo-\nment when he is unsuspecting to lure out of his pocket his blank cheque.\nI disagree with this.\nOne must (it would seem) cheat the actors by promises, fulsome praise*\nand every other dope used upon the obstinate and the ignorant. One must\npurchase the Press !. . . Purchase ? Hoity toity, I purchase what is already\none of my truest friends ! One must, in short, cheat from first to last.\nI don't think I will.\nI didn't think I would. . . and I take this opportunity of showing how much\nworth lies in that guarantee that support will come \" if you will produce just\none more play,\nFudge, ladies ! — fudge, gentlemen !\nAnd I am most distinctly on strike again. . . a strike of one against two hun-\ndred thousand.\nI would never urge another to strike with me because, again, that is not\nplaying the game.\nThat is not understanding the game.\nThat is merely underestimating one's own powers.\nThat is conspiracy.\nThe Dramatic Art in England is excellent — only it's not dramatic — and\nthere is no art to it.\nThis has come about because one of the principal rules of the game has been\nbroken.\nThis rule is \" never say the third-best is good at the expense of the first-best\nand at the expense of the public. \"\nThe advertisement puts it like this :\n\" Ask for Promethian Grates. \"\n\" Don't be put off with any just as good. \""}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 1654, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1667, "texte": "Gordon Craig."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "200", "page_fin": "200", "image_debut": 10, "image_fin": 10, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.5.1", "titre_corps": "Mask for a Sea Captain", "titre_sommaire": "Mask for a Sea Captain", "signature_source": "Gordon Craig", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 37, "texte": "Gordon Craig.\nMask for a sea captain."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c007a", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c007a", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "", "page_fin": "", "image_debut": "", "image_fin": "", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.34", "titre_corps": "Prose Poems", "titre_sommaire": "Prose Poems", "signature_source": "John Gould Fletcher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1807, "texte": "THE DEATH OF ENGLAND.\nSlowly, athwart the terrible fierce sunlight that marks a blasted summer,\nthe body of England, rigid and stiffened in death, is borne to its last long rest.\nHorse-chestnuts lift ten thousand waxen candles before it; thrushes intone\ntheir office in plaintive cadences ; the faint grey-purple incense of lilac is wafted\ninto the air ; bees cease their murmurings ; and the swallow, the blithe cross-\nbearer of the sky, is silent. .\nFrom a million starving faces, pale and stunned with excess of suffering,\na lonely silent plaint of irremediable misery climbs softly, like the great wail-\ning notes of an endless De Profundis, into the ashen-blue vault of the sky.\nSlowly athwart the terrible days that crawl forward to where the sun is\noffered up on the altar of midsummer, the body of England, broken with weari-\nness, is borne to the slow wailings of the chant which the winds weave about it,\nand the dropping of wax-white petals from innumerable hawthorn trees.\nEternal rest grant her, O Lord, and the peace of the night that passes all\nunderstanding.\n\nIN THE GALLERY OF SKULLS.\nShelf above shelf, there stretches out before me whatever way I go, a long\nstraight gallery lined with yellow skulls. Millions of insignificant, vacant, hol-\nlow-eyed and grinning-toothed brain-cases of men, containing under the domes\nof their foreheads, only vacuity and silence. Varying but little in size or in\nshape, from the Hottentot or the cave-man to the modern captain of industry,\nfrom the artist who organized his surging dreams on stone or in canvas, to the\nwise scientist pondering life in patience, or the idiot negro boy with empty\neyes and slobbering lips, who suffered for a few years the horror of living dark-\nness before vanishing back into eternity. Delicate skulls of infants, tooth-"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2487, "texte": "less skulls of old men, shadowy fragile skulls of those dead before birth ; their\nflesh is long since grass, ferns, ashes, dust, their thoughts are in me or in mil-\nlions of my kind. They have all gone under, consigning to the silence their\ndreams unspoken Assuming that it is equally useless to love or to hate; yet\nthe solid material of their bodies perishes and vanishes with the past, their\nchildish vain dream of eternity renews itself in me and in you every day, shap-\ning the deathless adornment of that song in which we may all partake for a\nmoment. A miracle — of bodiless electric being — that surrounded and en-\nwalled as we are with staring death before and behind us, we smile, we leap,\nwe dance, we fight, we exist, we drop tears of bitterness on failure, and grasp\nstill desperately for the sharp bodiless laurel of success. What more miracle\nthan this need we seek, O men, O brothers, to prove that we become one with\nthe gods which we, in our horror of truth and of death, incessantly destroy\nand create ?\nSome da}r this world too will become an empty, vacant skull; and the sun,\nexulting in life, rushing oft to warm other planets, will look deeply into the\nhollow sockets that once were seas ; will count the scars that once were mighty\ncities, will trace the furrows that once were roadways, canals, and rivers, and\nthen will pass on silently down its own vast gallery of death to an unknown end.\n\nTHE SECRET OF MARS.\nSome people say that the planet Mars is uninhabited. But this is not true,\nfor I have been there and seen it.\nMany centuries ago, the Martians fought their last great war ; many cen-\nturies ago they organized a life scientifically perfect.\nBut for all that, they were not content; and their planet, like their hearts,\nbegan growing colder every year.\nThen one day they suddenly decided to build a great tower to a forgotten\nGod ; and because they were weary of their machines, they decided that no\nstone of it should be cut by anything else but hammer and chisel and human\nhands.\nCenturies they must have laboured, for the building as it stands is immense\nin desolation. It is surrounded with a forest of columns for ten miles; at the\nintersection of enormous aisles, poised above the glory of huge leaping arches,\nstands the lantern-tower unfinished, ten thousand feet high.\nUpon the pavement below it lies the body of the last workman, his trowel\nuplifted, and his hand ready to place a stone. His form is still perfect, for it\nis frozen in death."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2416, "texte": "On the tower rests the treasure of the perpetual snow; you would not\nsay that Mars is uninhabited, could you hear the groans that the settling\nstone makes at sunrise or when the evening drifts swiftly across the barren\nplanet.\n\nTHE NEW WORLD.\nMany centuries before the old world came to an end, it had been realised\nby the intelligent that the old planet was in a bad way ; and that it was with\nher, to use an expression current in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries,\n\" merely a question of time. \" Suicides became immediately fashionable;\nand of all the forms of suicide, the \" suicide a deux \" was most popular. Many\nlovers, wishing to marry, but realising the futility of propagating their spe-\ncies, invested their savings in aeroplanes powerful enough to overcome the\nforce of gravity and to launch them into the oblivion of space, from which they\nnever returned.\nAmong these there were two equally noted for their wealth and their beauty.\nTheir private affairs had been discussed in many papers ; their pictures hung\nin many homes ; their respective talents were the unfailing theme of millions of\nenterprising newsagents. Fame and fortune might have been theirs for the\nasking ; yet they chose, with a perversity worthy of a better cause, to launch\nthemselves forth into space for their honeymoon.\nAfter the aeroplane had carried them at an enormous speed far beyond\nthe confines of this planet, despite the automatic supply of oxygen they were\nbreathing, this couple suddenly fainted. When they recovered themselves\na few moments later, they were lying together amid the wreckage of their ma-\nchine on a plain covered with green moss, in the midst of a gigantic virgin forest.\nOn account of the rapidity of their transit, their clothes had been completely\ntorn from their bodies. Otherwise they were uninjured, except for a shock\nto the brain which made them incapable of remembering whence they came,\nor of speaking the least word. They were awakened as out of a deep sleep,\nupon a new planet of which they had not the least knowledge.\nThe woman wakened the first and seeing the man asleep, went towards\na near-by tree and began pulling leaves from it and fastening them together\nin the shape of garments for her body. The man, startled by the unexpected\nmovement of a serpent in the branches, wakened too and went towards\nthe woman> babbling with startled lips incomprehensible phrases in a new\nspeech."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1212, "texte": "THE WAY OF DUST.\nJohn Gould Fletcher.\nI)ust, grejr colourless dust, soft, fluffy, velvety, dust that sweeps over end-\nless deserts, sweeps into the crevices of buildings, dust that emerges from\nbeaten carpets, dust that rises from this paper, blurs my weary vision at last.\nMan is the maker of dust; dust stirs beneath his feet; dust rises from the\nlabour of his hands; dust increases in every fire he has made ; dust takes all\nhis works ; the ink upon this page is only dust.\nIn the ash-heap is salvation, and in the dust of the grave is all attainment.\nFar beyond the last of the planets, beyond Orion and the Milky Way, lie\nshapeless clouds of dust, relics of innumerable worlds on which others have also\nlived and suffered. In the heart of the divine darkness this dust of the uni-\nverse stirs and dances, and rekindles in itself, through perpetual movement,\nthe germ of universal life and the light of common day.\nEmbracing this dust, I embrace all things ; summoning forth this dust,\nI summon also God ; desiring only this dust, I desire forever immortality.\nI am but an infinitesimal particle of casual dust, and it matters nothing\nto my destiny if I live here amongst men or beyond the most distant star."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "207", "page_fin": "207", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 17, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "The Death of England", "titre_sommaire": "The Death of England", "signature_source": "John Gould Fletcher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1074, "texte": "THE DEATH OF ENGLAND.\nSlowly, athwart the terrible fierce sunlight that marks a blasted summer,\nthe body of England, rigid and stiffened in death, is borne to its last long rest.\nHorse-chestnuts lift ten thousand waxen candles before it; thrushes intone\ntheir office in plaintive cadences ; the faint grey-purple incense of lilac is wafted\ninto the air ; bees cease their murmurings ; and the swallow, the blithe cross-\nbearer of the sky, is silent. .\nFrom a million starving faces, pale and stunned with excess of suffering,\na lonely silent plaint of irremediable misery climbs softly, like the great wail-\ning notes of an endless De Profundis, into the ashen-blue vault of the sky.\nSlowly athwart the terrible days that crawl forward to where the sun is\noffered up on the altar of midsummer, the body of England, broken with weari-\nness, is borne to the slow wailings of the chant which the winds weave about it,\nand the dropping of wax-white petals from innumerable hawthorn trees.\nEternal rest grant her, O Lord, and the peace of the night that passes all\nunderstanding."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "207", "page_fin": "208", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "In the Gallery of Skulls", "titre_sommaire": "In the Gallery of Skulls", "signature_source": "John Gould Fletcher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 1076, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1807, "texte": "IN THE GALLERY OF SKULLS.\nShelf above shelf, there stretches out before me whatever way I go, a long\nstraight gallery lined with yellow skulls. Millions of insignificant, vacant, hol-\nlow-eyed and grinning-toothed brain-cases of men, containing under the domes\nof their foreheads, only vacuity and silence. Varying but little in size or in\nshape, from the Hottentot or the cave-man to the modern captain of industry,\nfrom the artist who organized his surging dreams on stone or in canvas, to the\nwise scientist pondering life in patience, or the idiot negro boy with empty\neyes and slobbering lips, who suffered for a few years the horror of living dark-\nness before vanishing back into eternity. Delicate skulls of infants, tooth-"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1416, "texte": "less skulls of old men, shadowy fragile skulls of those dead before birth ; their\nflesh is long since grass, ferns, ashes, dust, their thoughts are in me or in mil-\nlions of my kind. They have all gone under, consigning to the silence their\ndreams unspoken Assuming that it is equally useless to love or to hate; yet\nthe solid material of their bodies perishes and vanishes with the past, their\nchildish vain dream of eternity renews itself in me and in you every day, shap-\ning the deathless adornment of that song in which we may all partake for a\nmoment. A miracle — of bodiless electric being — that surrounded and en-\nwalled as we are with staring death before and behind us, we smile, we leap,\nwe dance, we fight, we exist, we drop tears of bitterness on failure, and grasp\nstill desperately for the sharp bodiless laurel of success. What more miracle\nthan this need we seek, O men, O brothers, to prove that we become one with\nthe gods which we, in our horror of truth and of death, incessantly destroy\nand create ?\nSome da}r this world too will become an empty, vacant skull; and the sun,\nexulting in life, rushing oft to warm other planets, will look deeply into the\nhollow sockets that once were seas ; will count the scars that once were mighty\ncities, will trace the furrows that once were roadways, canals, and rivers, and\nthen will pass on silently down its own vast gallery of death to an unknown end."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "208", "page_fin": "209", "image_debut": 18, "image_fin": 19, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "The Secret Of Mars", "titre_sommaire": "The Secret Of Mars", "signature_source": "John Gould Fletcher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 1418, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2487, "texte": "THE SECRET OF MARS.\nSome people say that the planet Mars is uninhabited. But this is not true,\nfor I have been there and seen it.\nMany centuries ago, the Martians fought their last great war ; many cen-\nturies ago they organized a life scientifically perfect.\nBut for all that, they were not content; and their planet, like their hearts,\nbegan growing colder every year.\nThen one day they suddenly decided to build a great tower to a forgotten\nGod ; and because they were weary of their machines, they decided that no\nstone of it should be cut by anything else but hammer and chisel and human\nhands.\nCenturies they must have laboured, for the building as it stands is immense\nin desolation. It is surrounded with a forest of columns for ten miles; at the\nintersection of enormous aisles, poised above the glory of huge leaping arches,\nstands the lantern-tower unfinished, ten thousand feet high.\nUpon the pavement below it lies the body of the last workman, his trowel\nuplifted, and his hand ready to place a stone. His form is still perfect, for it\nis frozen in death."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 226, "texte": "On the tower rests the treasure of the perpetual snow; you would not\nsay that Mars is uninhabited, could you hear the groans that the settling\nstone makes at sunrise or when the evening drifts swiftly across the barren\nplanet."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "209", "page_fin": "209", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 19, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "The New World", "titre_sommaire": "The New World", "signature_source": "John Gould Fletcher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 228, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2416, "texte": "THE NEW WORLD.\nMany centuries before the old world came to an end, it had been realised\nby the intelligent that the old planet was in a bad way ; and that it was with\nher, to use an expression current in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries,\n\" merely a question of time. \" Suicides became immediately fashionable;\nand of all the forms of suicide, the \" suicide a deux \" was most popular. Many\nlovers, wishing to marry, but realising the futility of propagating their spe-\ncies, invested their savings in aeroplanes powerful enough to overcome the\nforce of gravity and to launch them into the oblivion of space, from which they\nnever returned.\nAmong these there were two equally noted for their wealth and their beauty.\nTheir private affairs had been discussed in many papers ; their pictures hung\nin many homes ; their respective talents were the unfailing theme of millions of\nenterprising newsagents. Fame and fortune might have been theirs for the\nasking ; yet they chose, with a perversity worthy of a better cause, to launch\nthemselves forth into space for their honeymoon.\nAfter the aeroplane had carried them at an enormous speed far beyond\nthe confines of this planet, despite the automatic supply of oxygen they were\nbreathing, this couple suddenly fainted. When they recovered themselves\na few moments later, they were lying together amid the wreckage of their ma-\nchine on a plain covered with green moss, in the midst of a gigantic virgin forest.\nOn account of the rapidity of their transit, their clothes had been completely\ntorn from their bodies. Otherwise they were uninjured, except for a shock\nto the brain which made them incapable of remembering whence they came,\nor of speaking the least word. They were awakened as out of a deep sleep,\nupon a new planet of which they had not the least knowledge.\nThe woman wakened the first and seeing the man asleep, went towards\na near-by tree and began pulling leaves from it and fastening them together\nin the shape of garments for her body. The man, startled by the unexpected\nmovement of a serpent in the branches, wakened too and went towards\nthe woman> babbling with startled lips incomprehensible phrases in a new\nspeech."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "210", "page_fin": "210", "image_debut": 20, "image_fin": 20, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "The Way of Dust", "titre_sommaire": "The Way of Dust", "signature_source": "John Gould Fletcher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1212, "texte": "THE WAY OF DUST.\nJohn Gould Fletcher.\nI)ust, grejr colourless dust, soft, fluffy, velvety, dust that sweeps over end-\nless deserts, sweeps into the crevices of buildings, dust that emerges from\nbeaten carpets, dust that rises from this paper, blurs my weary vision at last.\nMan is the maker of dust; dust stirs beneath his feet; dust rises from the\nlabour of his hands; dust increases in every fire he has made ; dust takes all\nhis works ; the ink upon this page is only dust.\nIn the ash-heap is salvation, and in the dust of the grave is all attainment.\nFar beyond the last of the planets, beyond Orion and the Milky Way, lie\nshapeless clouds of dust, relics of innumerable worlds on which others have also\nlived and suffered. In the heart of the divine darkness this dust of the uni-\nverse stirs and dances, and rekindles in itself, through perpetual movement,\nthe germ of universal life and the light of common day.\nEmbracing this dust, I embrace all things ; summoning forth this dust,\nI summon also God ; desiring only this dust, I desire forever immortality.\nI am but an infinitesimal particle of casual dust, and it matters nothing\nto my destiny if I live here amongst men or beyond the most distant star."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "211", "page_fin": "215", "image_debut": 21, "image_fin": 25, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "If You Had Three Husbands", "titre_sommaire": "If You Had Three Husbands", "signature_source": "Gertrude Stein", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "211", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 963, "texte": "IF YOU HAD THREE HUSBANDS.\n\nIf you had three husbands.\nIf you had three husbands.\nIf you had three husbands, well not exactly that.\nIf you had three husbands would you be willing to take everything and\nbe satisfied to live in Belmost in a large house with a view and plenty of flowers\nand neighbors, neighbors who were cousins and some friends who did not say\nanything.\nThis is what happened.\nShe expressed everything.\nShe is worthy of signing a will.\nAnd mentioning what she wished.\nShe was brought up by her mother. She had meaning and she was care-\nful in reading. She read marvelously. She was pleased. She was aged thir-\nt3'-nine. She was flavored by reason of much memory and recollection.\nThis is everything.\nForeword.\nI cannot believe it.\nI cannot realise it.\nI cannot see it.\nIt is what. happened.\nFirst there was a wonder.\nReally wonder.\nWonder by means of what.\nWonder by means of measures\nMeasuring what.\nHeights.\nHow high.\nA little.\nThis was not all."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "212", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1579, "texte": "There were well if you like there were wonderful spots such as were seen\nby a queen. This came to be a system. Really it was just by a treasure. What\nwas a treasure. Apart from that.\nSurely.\nRather.\nIn their beginning what was a delight. Not signing papers or anything\nor indeed in having a mother and two sisters. Not nearly enough were men-\ntioned by telegraphing. It was a choice.\nI ramble when I mention it-\nDid she leave me any money.\nI remember something.\nI am not clear about what it was\nWhen did I settle that.\nI settled it yersterday.\nEarly Life.\nThey were not miserably young they were older than another. She was\ngliding. It is by nearly weekly leaning that it comes to be exact. It never\nwas in dispute.\nThey were gayly not gaily gorgeous. They were not gorgeous at all. They\nwere obliging. If you think so. If you think so glow. If you believe in light\nboys. They were never another.\nIt came to be seen that any beam of three rooms was not showy. They\nwere proud to sit at mother. Slowly walking makes walking quicker. They\nhave toys and not that in deceiving. They do not deceive them. No one is\nwilling. No one could be cool and mother and divided and necessary and cli-\nmatical and of origin and beneath that mean and be sun. It was strange\nin her cheek. Not strange to them or that.\nA young one.\nNot by mountains.\nNot by oysters.\nNot by hearing.\nNot by round ways.\nNot by circumference again.\nNot by leaving luncheon.\nNot by birth.\nIt doesn't make difference when ten are born. Ten is never a number.\nNeither is six. Neither is four.\nI will not mention it again."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "213", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2017, "texte": "Early days of shading.\nMake a mouse in green.\nMake a single piece of sun and make a violet bloom. Early piece of swim-\nming makes a sun on time and makes it shine and warm to-day and sun and sun\nand not to stay and not to stay or away. Not to stay satin. Out from the\nwhole wide world he chose her. Out from the whole wide world and that is\nwhat is said.\nFamily.\nWhat is famine. It is plenty of another. What is famine. It is eating.\nWhat is famine. It is carving. Why is carving a wonderful thing. Because\nsupper is over. This can happen again. Sums are seen.\nPlease be polite for mother. Lives of them. Call it shall it clothe it.\nBoil it. Why not color it black and never red or green. This is stubborn.\nI don't say so.\nNo OPPOSITION.\nIf you had a little likeness and hoped for more terror. If you had a refusal\nand were slender. If you had cuff-buttons and jackets and really astonishing\nkinds of fever would you stop talking. Would you not consider it necessary\nto talk over affairs.\nIt was a chance that made them never miss tea. They did not miss it\nbecause it was there. They did not mean to be particular. They invited their\nfriends. They were not aching. It was noiseless and beside that they were\nclever. Who was clever. The way they had of seeing mother.\nMother was prepared.\nThey were caressing.\nThey had sound sense.\nThey were questioned.\nThey had likeness. Likeness to what. Likeness to loving. Who had\nlikeness to loving. They had likeness to loving. Why did they have a likeness\nto loving. They had a likeness to loving because it was easily seen that they\nwere immeasurable.\nThey were fixed by that, they were fixed, not licensed, they were seen,\nnot treasured, they were announced, not restless, they were reasoning, not\nprogressing. Ido not wish to imply that there is any remedy for defect.\nI cannot state that any one was disappointed. I cannot state that any\none was ever disappointed by willingly heaping much confusion in particular\nplaces. No confusion is reasonable. Anybody can be nervous."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "214", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1652, "texte": "They were nervous again.\nThis is wishing.\nWhy is wishing related to a ridiculous pretence of changing opposition to\nanalysis. The answer to this is that nearly any one can faint. I don't mean\nto say that they don't like tennis.\nPlease be capable of sounds and shoulders. Please be capable of careful\nwords. Please be capable of meaning to measure further.\nThey married there.\nThey were heroes.\nNobody believed papers.\nEverybody believed colors.\nI cannot exercise obligation.\nI cannot believe cheating.\nI cannot sober mother.\nI cannot shut my heart.\nI cannot cherish vice.\nI cannot deceive all.\nI cannot be odious.\nI cannot see between.\nBetween what and most.\nI cannot answer either.\nDo be left over suddenly.\nThis is not advice.\nNo one knows so well what widening means. It means that yards are\nyards and so many of them are perfect. By that I mean I know.\nThis is not so.\nI am not telling the story I am repeating what I have been reading.\nWhat effects tenderness.\nNot to remember the name.\nSay it.\nThe time comes when it is natural to realise that solid advantages connect\nthemselves with pages of extreme expression. This is never nervously pale.\nIt is finely and authentically swollen by the time there is any rapid shouting.\nIdo like the word shouting. Ido not mean that it gives me any pleasure.\nOn the contrary I see that individual annoyances are increased by it but never-\ntheless lam earnestly persuasive concerning it. Why soothe why soothe each\nother.\nThis is not at all what is being said.\nIt happened very simply that they were married. They were naturally\nmarried and really the place to see it was in the reflection every one had of not"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "215", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1391, "texte": "frightening not the least bit frightening enthusiasm. They were so exact\nand by nearly every one it was encouraged soothed and lamented. Ido not\nsay that they were interested.\nAny years are early years and all years are occasions for recalling that she\npromised me something.\nThis is the way to write an address.\nWhen they were engaged she said we are happy. When they were married\nshe said we are happy. They talked about everything they talked about\nindividual feeling. This is not what was said. They did not talk about disin-\nterested obligation. They did not talk about pleasantness and circumstances.\nI do not mean to say that there was conversation. I do not organise a revision.\nI declare that there was no need of criticism. That there was no criticism.\nThat there was breathing. By that I mean that lights have lanterns and are\nnot huddled together when there is a low ceiling. By that I mean that it was\nseparate. The ceiling was separated from the floor. Everywhere.\nI could say that devotion was more merited than walking together. What\ndo you mean. I mean that we all saw it.\nWhen not by a beginning is there meadows and music, you can't call it\nthat exactly, when not by a beginning, there is no beginning, I used to say there\nwas a beginning, there is no beginning, when there is no beginning in a volume\nand there are parts, who can think.\nThis pencil was bought in Austria."}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "215", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 1412, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1427, "texte": "Gertrude Stein."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "216", "page_fin": "216", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Painting", "titre_sommaire": "Painting", "signature_source": "Raoul Dufy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "216", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 53, "texte": "Raoul, Dufy\nCourtesy Bemheim Jeune - Paris.\nPainting."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "217", "page_fin": "217", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Painting", "titre_sommaire": "Painting", "signature_source": "Raoul Dufy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "217", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 55, "texte": "Raoul, Dufy.\nCourtesy Bernheim Jeune - Paris.\nPainting."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "218", "page_fin": "224", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 34, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Lady of Sorrows", "titre_sommaire": "Lady of Sorrows", "signature_source": "Shirley L. Seifert", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "218", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2470, "texte": "LADY OF SORROWS.\n\nThey laugh at her in Collierton, but with a queer, puzzled, false note in their\nlaughter. And they tell tales and jokes about her ; but there fall lulls and breaks\nin the gossip even among the swarthy Russian, Iyithuanian, German, Italian mi-\nners, as if these man brutes were suddenly moved to cross themselves and pray :\n\" Mar}', keep us from knowing why Simikoff's so crazy after funerals ! \"\nCollierton sprawls over a group of low hills in Southern Illinois. There is\na rawness of atmosphere there, a helter-skelter shooting this way and that of\nstreets, a hap-hazard jumble of shacks and bungalows, a general im-\npression that here are the crude, jagged, unworked elements of life, not the ming-\nled, smoothly flowing stream of life as most folks know it. Here and there\na church spire, usually topped by a cross, lifts itself above the confusion. On\nCenter Street three cream-colored stone buildings endeavor to provide dignity —\nthe federal post office, the Masonic temple, the Miners' Institute. Tootling in-\nterurban cars establish hourly connection with the world outside. The passen-\ngers on these cars smile as they ride through the business section of Collierton.\nThey find it amusing that a Garavelli and a Schwartz, for instance, have formed\na partnership in the grocery business.\nExcept for the shawled women, gossiping and haggling over their market-\ning and the school children trooping back and forth at intervals, you can't\n. see the real people of Collierton until along about four o'clock in the afternoon.\nAt about that time, on three sides of the town, whistles, each of a readily distin-\nguished note, begin to blow ; and shortly afterwards special cars, motor trucks,\nand a dinky train on a belt line railroad dump into the streets the menfolk —\nwhole squads of rough, smudgy creatures in clumping, heavy boots, with car-\nbide lamps in their caps, enormous tin dinner pails under their arms, and rude\njests or brawling complaints forever on their lips. These are the ones who laugh\nat Simikoff and break off in the midst of their laughing.\nSimikoff, being English of native speech, is not counted a foreigner in Col-\nlierton. In happier circumstances, left to follow her natural bent, she would\nhave been one of those priceless, respectable, serene house servants, now well-\nnigh extinct. But she married Michael Simikoff when she was young and fool-\nish and she came to Collierton with him. Now she abides all alone in a one-"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "219", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2836, "texte": "story gray frame cottage, much out of plumb, as if the winds of many years had\nblown it all askew. She flits about the dreary little yard like some stray bird\nunsummoned by migrating kindred.\nSo long as she bides in the little house or flits about the yard, no one notices\nher in particular. It is when her spare drab figure, hooded with its dingy\nshawl, snoops along the street that all beholders catch their breath and ask of\nthemselves, if no one else is handy, \" Who can be dead now ?\" She holds the\nrecord for snatching such news from the winds. Should the whistles of any mine\nblow one blast in the middle of the morning or some such dread unusual time,\nwhich means that a mine has had to close and that, probably a fatality will go\non the books of that pit and that all the locals will take a holiday for the burying,\nSimikoff, without apparent means of communication, can tell in the half hour\nwho has been killed, how, and what the allowance to his family will be, figured\nfrom the day when the victim entered the pits to the day they bring him up to\nthe light which he cannot see.\nNow, the jesters in Collierton would attribute all this to a very bad taste\nfor lurid news which leads Simikoff to haunt the house of death before the un-\ndertaker can hang decent crepe on the door. But Simikoff herself, properly\ninspired, to keener ears would tell a deeper story. One morning she knocked at\nthe back door of her neighbor's house to borrow a cup of vinegar. In this house\nlived the young time-keeper and secretary for the greatest of the mines and his\nsweet young wife, to whom had recently been born their first child, a son. It\nwas the hour for the baby's bath. Simikoff, suddenly all in a flutter, asked\nand was given permission to assist at the ceremony. She seated herself defer-\nentially on the edge of a reed rocker, planted her shabby shoes carefully on the\nlinoleum square before the stove, fixed her washed-out blue eyes adoringly on\nthe squirming babe, and delivered herself of the following scraps of\npausing now and then, adiift among her memories, until started anew by an\nartful question.\n\" You started out right, ain't you, with a boy ? I always like to see a boy\ncome first. My first one were a boy. We called him Harry after my brother,\nhim as were killed in an explosion at sea. I worrited some about that, feeling\nthat it might be bad luck to call a boy after a body that had come to such an\nend. But I always thought so much of my brother afore he were killed — and we\ncalled the first boy Harry, after him.\n\" Then come a girl. Rachel we called her. She were a good girl. Then\ncome Paul. He were my last. Michael were crippled in Novak's wagon mine\nPaul's first birthday. Others we had, in between, four of them; but they ne-\nver lived. Times were harder those days. My Paul's in heaven now fifteen\nyears. \""}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "220", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2649, "texte": "Came the first drifting pause, Simikoff nodding her head up and down, up\nand down.\n\" Yes, \" she said in response to a question, \" I went to the Maruka funeral\nyesterday. I went to two funerals Did you ever know of a worse\nstorm here ? The rain a pouring down and the wind a cutting through a body ?\nBut I went to the funerals, though I says to Fannie Maruka in the morning, I\nsays, 'It's awful weather for funerals ! It minds me of the day my Harry were\nput away ! ' Fannie Maruka being just a day older than my Harry would have\nbeen. Twenty years ago they buried my Harry. Weather just like yesterday,\nthe rain a pouring down and the wind a cutting through a body. And him only\na lad of sixteen, one day fine and strong, the next laying in his coffin !\n\" Yes'm, he were killed in Skrainka Brothers' Mine Number 2. I didn't\nwant him to work in the pits. Seems like I got afeared of the pits after Michael\nwere hurted. Michael were never good for anything from that day. Seemed\nto get foolish like. I'd look at him setting in his arm chair all twisted and\ndoddering and the horrors would get me. I wanted my Harry to get a job in\nSchwartz's store, but he laughed at me.\n\" ' Mom, ' he says, ' I will work in the mines. I'll get twice as much money\nand play days now and then. '\n\" ' Play days, ' I says, ' are all counted off on pay days. And you're too\nyoung to go down underground. '\n\" 'Pop,' he says, 'worked in the pits when he were twelve years old.\nI'm fifteen. '\n\" ' And you see what he got for it, ' I says pointing to Michael in his chair.\n' And all I got for it is so much added to his disability allowance for his working\nthat length of time. Do not go into the pits, Harry. '\n\" But one day he come home, saying he had a job at Skrainka's Mine Num-\nber 2. And a year later I heared the whistles. You know the noise of Num-\nber 2's whistles — kinda hoarse like a steamboat. I says to Michael, I says,\n' The pits have got Harry, too. ' And sure enough they brought him home. And\nMichael says to me, he says, ' The boys will give him a grand funeral. '\n\" And they did. But it were terrible weather, just like yesterday, when I\nsays to Fannie Maruka, I says, ' It's an awful day for funerals. It minds me\n# • #\nof the day they put my Harry away ; though, of course, the Maruka burying were,\nnothing like my Harry's. You couldn't ask the pits to bury an old man in\nsuch grand way as they buried my first boy. \"\nSimikoff's eyes showed no tears. They still stared adoringly at the babe,\nwho was on his stomach now, trying hard to get a good mouth hold on his mo-\nther's apron.\n\" Pert, ain't he ? \" said Simikoff. \"My Rachel were pert like that. She"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "221", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2664, "texte": "come a year after Harry. She finished High School when she were only six-\nteen. It were partly for to keep her at school that Harry went into the pits.\nShe got her a certificate to teach at the school at Caneyville, just outa the\ntown, at seventeen.\n\" She had beaus, Rachel did. They used to fight over walking with her.\nShe had blue eyes and soft yellow hair with curls like. She minded me of\nmyself afore I got married to Michael. Her beaus were young men from the pits\nmostly, of course. But I says to her, I says, ' Have nought to do with the\npits, Rachel. They got your father and they got your brother. They ought to\nbe satisfied, but they never are, the hungry pits ! Have nought to do with\nthe pits. '\nMom, I won't, ' she says, like a good, smart girl. ' I hate'em too. '\n\" So she promised herself to a Danny Killoren, as drove an express truck\nfrom here to St. Louis and back again. In one way I did not want Rachel to\nmarry. She were full young and the money she brought in from her teaching\nhelped. But Danny Killoren were a fine man, he had a good business, and he\nhad rented a flat in St. Louis for Rachel. He would be taking her away. I\nsays to Michael, I says, ' The pits will never get Rachel, now. ' But Michael\nwere getting foolisher and foolisher in the head, so he only sat and grinned at\nme. Mebbe he didn't rightly know what I said to him, but he gave me a chill,\ngrinning so. - .\n\" It were in the fall of the year that Rachel promised herself to Danny\nKilloren. She would keep her school till Christmas and then wed with him.\nThen come a big strike in the pits, with the men grumbling and growling all\nover the town. I says to Rachel one morning, I says, ' Why don't you take\nthe other road to your school ? It's longer, but you would not need to pass\nthrough the Russki settlement. '\n\" ' Mom ! ' she says, like a good, smart girl, ' I will after this. Just today\nI want to stop by and see how Sammy Sorkin is getting along. He broke his\nleg last week. '\n\" And the minute she stepped out of .the door, I felt another terrible chill,\nlike as if I had put my bare feet in the snow. And when I turned around, Mi-\nchael were grinning to himself like he always did. ' Michael, ' I says, ' could\nthe pits get Rachel, do you think ? ' But he only grinned.\nRachel hadn't been gone ten minutes when I heared shooting. I says\nto Michael, I says, ' That's over Russki way. They have got Rachel. What\nfor would they shoot my Rachel ? '\n\" Sure enough, it were Rachel. The men had been chasing strike-break-\ners. Half of the gang had drove a man down one street and the other half\nwere waiting for him to turn the corner, to get him. My Rachel come first-"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "222", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2601, "texte": "She had on a old cap of Harry's and a big coat and they shot her afore they\ncould tell she were a woman.\n\"The miners brought her home. One of them were a beau of Rachel's.\nHe says to me, he says, ' Mother Simikoff, I'd a sooner shot myself than Ra-\nchel. But we'll bury her. You don't need to worry about that. '\n\"Danny Killoren were by. He says then, ' No, I'll bury her. It is my\nright. '\n\" The miner says to me, he says, ' It's for you to say. You're her mo-\nther. Which shall it be ? '\n\" And I says to them, I says, ' The pits killed her. Leave the pits\nbury her. '\n\" And they did. She had a white plush coffin with silver handles and a\nblanket of flowers, though the snow lay thick on the ground. I've seen every\ngirl's burying in town since, but none would compare with my Rachel's. \"\nThe young mother, buttoning petticoat straps over her son's shoulders,\nlooked uneasily at her visitor. She didn't know what she ought to say. She\ndidn't really know in what spirit Simikoff made her revelations. The woman\ndid not seem to ask for pity. She made her offerings as pure conversation —\ndesolate though her tale was and pierced with tragedy as the hills about were\npierced with shafts. A wind rose in the bare trees outside and moaned. The\nyoung mother shivered as she took up a dainty hand-embroidered slip.\n\" Katy Giannini were telling me about his christening robe, \" said Sim-\nikoff suddenly. \" She said you'd got it from a convent miles away from here.\nDid you ? My Paul had a christening robe sent to him from away. From Eng-\nland his come. I were born in England. I come to this country to take ser-\nvice. Then I married Michael. You never saw my Michael. No. It's just\nas well. Sometimes when I'd look at him myself, all doddering and foolish\nlike the pits had left him, I couldn't believe he were the fine, big-muscled lad who\ncarried me away with him to Collierton — where the pits would give him double of\nwhat he could earn above ground. He died the same year as my Paul and a\nblessing it were. If you'd trust the baby to me, you could get out his chris-\ntening robe maybe. \"\nSimikoff's eyes brightened ever so little as the mother reluctantly — and\nashamed of her reluctance — laid the babe in the older woman's lap. When she\nbrought forth the exquisite tiny dress, Simikoff looked hungrily at its sheer,\nsoft material, at the trimmings of delicate Valenciennes, at the almost invis-\nible stitches of the embroidery; but not one coarse, twisted finger did she lay\non its beauty.\n\" Fine, very fine ,\" she said. \"My Paul's had more lace and it were lon-\nger, like they made'em them days. \""}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "223", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2647, "texte": "The mother put the robe away and rather stiatched her baby, who was\nfretting. A moment later she was $hamed for that.\n\" The feel of them ! \" said Simikoff. \" The feel of them ! My Paul never\nlived with me after Rachel went. He were nine year old then. I says to Danny\nKilloren after the burying, ' If you're living in the city all the time now, mayhap\nyou'll be lonely. In that case Paul could bide with you. ' Danny were always\nfond of the boy, him having eyes like Rachel's, though his hair were dark.\n\" He says to me, he says, ' Why, Mother Simikoff, could you do without\nhim ? '\n\" I says to him, I says, ' Ay, I can and will. The pits have got the best of\nMichael and all of Harry and Rachel. They shall not get my Paul, too. Take\nhim away, Danny. '\n\" And he did. The boy went to school and everything in the city. Every\nweek or so in decent weather he'd come back on Danny's wagon — but not too\noften, I asked it. And then I could grin at Michael when he grinned at me,\nbecause my Paul were safe over the river.\n\" One day when he come over with Danny he asked to be let go up to Skrain-\nka's fine house beyond the town with goods, which Danny were hauling. Some-\nhow I did not feel easy, but I couldn't think why he shouldn't see a rich man's\nhouse and I let him. Old Mr. Skrainka were alive then and he took a fancy to\nmy Paul. He'd send him things by Danny and ask why the boy were never\nalong. So Paul would beg to go every time he come to town.\n\" One day — it were springtime — Paul went for the last time to see old\nMr. Skrainka. Somehow I didn't want him to go at all that day, but he went.\nAnd, after he left I had that same kinda chill like I had over Rachel. I remem-\nber I run through the streets after Danny's wagon. He had not got his truck •\nby then. But I couldn't catch him. And I come back all shaking and shiver-\ning and there were Michael grinning. I remember I shook a chair at him and\nscared him. He never grinned more.\n\" I were thinking what a time the two had been gone, when the whistle\nblew. Number Fourteen whistle — like a screech. And I never stopped for\nanything. I started right down the road, running, till I found Danny Kil-\nloren and his wagon. He were just starting back to old Mr. Skrainka's after\nthe boy.\n\" I says to him, I says, 'No need for that. Drive to the mines. The pits\nhave got my Paul anyhow. '\n> \" And they had. Without me knowing it, Paul had teased old Mr. Skrain-\nka to take him into a mine just to see. And the cable broke and the machinery\nfor the hoist all went wrong just as they were almost out of the place ; and old\nMr. Skrainka and my Paul fell all the way to the bottom of the shaft."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "224", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1294, "texte": "\" Michael died the next day, which were a blessing. The doctor said he'd\nhad a shock to his heart. Mayhap I scared him with the chair.\n\" And Danny Killoren says to me after the funerals, he says, ' Mother\nSimikoff, come away. I'll take care of you. '\n\" I says to him, I says, ' There '11 be no need. The pits will care for what's\nleft of me and bury me when I'm through. ' Why shouldn't they ? They've\nrobbed me of everything. They've buried all my own ones. They can bury\nme, too. And they can ! \"\n\" Listen ! Ain't that the St. Ignace bell ! That will be Mrs. Janowitz\ndead. I were over to look at her last evening after the Maruka burying. I\nto her daughter Rosie, I says, ' She's about through. I hope you'll have better\nweather for the funeral. '\n\" I'll be going now. \"\nAs Simikoff rose, the young mother said something about a new position\nher husband was taking in Chicago. They'd move as soon as the baby was old\nenough.\n\" I knew it, \" said Simikoff. \" When I first saw you, I says to Annie Muel-\nler, I says, ' She ain't for Collierton. She has not the mark of the pits. Well,\ngood-bye. \"\nThe wind in the bare treetops was moaning loud as she opened the door.\nDown the gray, raw street she flitted on her way to the J anowitz house, Collier-\nton's Lady of Sorrows.\n\nShirley Iv. Seifert."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "225", "page_fin": "225", "image_debut": 35, "image_fin": 35, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Still Life", "titre_sommaire": "Still Life", "signature_source": "Ardengo Soffici", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "225", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 28, "texte": "Ardengo Soffici.\nStill life."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "226", "page_fin": "227", "image_debut": 36, "image_fin": 37, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Chateau de Soupir: 1917", "titre_sommaire": "Chateau de Soupir: 1917", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "226", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 724, "texte": "CHATEAU DE SOUPIR: 1917\n\nJean tells me that the Senator\nCame here to see his mistresses.\nAs master and proprietor,\nThe servants ushered him, Jean says,\nPast bogus Flemish tapestries,\nVelvets and mahoganies,\nTo where the odalisque was set,\nThe temporary queen — Odette.\nAn eighteenth century chateau,\nRebuilt to suit the modern taste,\nPainted and gilt fortissimo —\nThe Germans, grown satirical,\nConstructed a machine gun nest\nUnderneath the banquet hall.\nThe trenches run diagonally\nAcross the gardens and the lawns ;\nAnd jagged wire from tree to tree ;\nThe lake is desolate of swans —\nIn tortured immobility,\nThe deities of stone and bronze\nAwait a new catastrophe.\nPhantasmagorical at nights,\nYellow and white and amethyst,"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "227", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 707, "texte": "Burn the star shells and Verey lights,\nAnd the great rivers of the mist\nFlood all the landscape, till we feel\nIyike drowned men, ghastly and unreal.\nThen come the younger ghosts — Odette,\nIn skirt ballooning at the hips,\nTosses a hasty kiss and slips\nAway to taunt the Senator,\nWho, strong with marc and anisette,\nPursues her like a matador.\nThe fleeing feminine takes cover\nBehind a Hellenistic Venus,\nCoquettishly hiding from her lover ;\nWhile he, beard waggling in the wind,\nAppears the overdressed Silenus.\nThe mist hangs lower gradually.\nAn enemy machine gun mocks\nThis ante-bellum delicacy,\nAnd wThen the firing is at rest,\nA bronze Priapus grieves, his chest\nA perforated pepper box.\n\nMalcolm Cowley."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "228", "page_fin": "228", "image_debut": 38, "image_fin": 38, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Something Tells", "titre_sommaire": "Something Tells", "signature_source": "David Rosenthal", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "228", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 438, "texte": "SOMETHING TELLS.\nDavid Rosenthal.\nThere is something tells a tree\nTo wave a green sombrero,\nPlumed with swallows,\nAnd ride a pony-hill to the sun.\nThere is something tells a butterfly\nTo leave the nunnery of a cocoon,\nAnd go gipsying in colored dresses\nWhen April stirs a fiddle in a willow tree.\nThere is something tells the feet of goats\nTo rattle every hill-top like a drum,\nAnd kick the silver flagons\nFrom the shoulders of the grass."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "229", "page_fin": "238", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 48, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "The Jack of Diamonds", "titre_sommaire": "The Jack of Diamonds", "signature_source": "Elie Ehrenbourg ; H. A. L.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "229", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2160, "texte": "THE JACK* OF DIAMONDS.\n\nAssuredly, the real culprit in this affair is the fortune-teller, Kvatchka. In\nthe morning she is nobody. Like everyone else she files papers for the committee\nof Moskwato1, records the departures in a florid handwriting and argues with\nComrade Gousine, the one who distributes the rations and who gives a pound of\nsausage to Kvatchka for the October holidays, without doubt of dog-meat.\nI shall denounce all of them to the Soviets, I will say that Gousine has con-\ncealed in his trousers-pocket, three caramels and that he has given a ticket foi\nthe Kamerni Theatre to Maroussia, the Messenger (although it was not her\nturn), so that he could obtain a rendezvous with her in the corridor. I will tell\neverything. In a word, up to four o'clock Kvatchka is an honest citizen. No\none could suspect her of anything, but towards evening, in her room, she begins\nher wayward life. That is to say, inspite of the formal prohibition of the Dom-\nkom2, Kvatchka tells fortunes in exchange for food, and in doing this, she\nscreams, she groans, she quakes. Even an important inspector has gone to her\nhouse bringing a sugar-loaf and Kvatchka has retailed rubbish of this character :\n\" You are drunk with kerosene. Your tripe will take fire ; you will become thin\nand sticky like an American ; you will swell up in passing a decree and then you\nwill meauw and altogether fade away. \"\nHe did not like this; he even threatened to exterminate every superstition\nin the world. But Kvatchka has no fear; has she not disinterested friends\n■r\neverywhere ? (She tells fortunes from five to eight and afterwards offers other\nkinds of consolation). She used to tell the future in coffee grounds, but every-\nbody knows that the coffee of the Soviets is nothing more than burned carrots,\nthe grounds of which are so coarse and clumsy that one cannot count upon any\nrevelations, not even trivial allusions. While the card deck, old, with the Joker\nleft in, will tell everything ; for example, when the rations are to be distributed\nfor the month of February at the Galeskom3 and how ought to\n\n* Valet.\n1 Heating Committee.\n2 Housing Committee.\n3 Iron Committee."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "230", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3044, "texte": "entice that fellow Piline to the Pope, because he is cunning and grumbles, \" Re-\nligion is nothing more than opium and should be masticated without losing time\nin apportioning it. \" It will indicate from whence the Messiah is to come, and\nnot in a vague manner, but with precision; for he is the true Tzar who freezes\nin the forests behind the Ob, and feeds himself on wild black-berries.\nUnfortunately, Douniacha went to Kvatchka last Thursday, Douniacha of\nthe big lips, who is officially invalided from the working front, but still kneads the\ndough in the kitchen of Brinsoff, cleans the pots of the children of Brinsoff and\nirons the skirts of his wife. Work has become heavier. Formerly, she had the\nhelp of the cook Fiokla and the chambermaid, Mathilda. But now Douniacha\nis maid of all work. It is simple enough : in the old days, Brinsoff dabbled\nabout with war supplies, and, honestly and without hurrying himself, increased\nhis stock in the mines and sugar refineries (how nice it was !) and now stil\ndabbles, but prudently, within his committee. Besides he buys the paper money\nof the Romanoffs from the provident petty bourgeoisie, for they no longer con-\ncern themselves with accumulating wealth but devote all their efforts to the\nprocuring of bread.\nYet, as one can see, Brinsoff does not live so badly, for Douniacha puts in\nthe oven not only bread, but \" brioches \" — and what a lot of butter it takes\nto prepare them — real patties stuffed in six different ways and choice cabbages\nof all colours. Also it would not be unjust for Douniacha to complain, after all\nthe patties are cooked and the skirts ironed, if enough wit were not left in her head\nfor serious thinking. And why then is it necessary for this poor head, with its\ngrey and sparse hair for which a half-spoon full of flax oil is necessary, why is\nit obliged to think so much, as if she were not just simple Douniacha, but a\nwoman learned in religious writings ? .\nHer first thought is of her son, Vassia, Vassienka, Vassielok. Oh the dark\nlittle room under the stairs in the house of her old master, Siliverstoff, at Jaki-\nmonka, and the valet Grichka with his chevrons, and better still his chiselled\nteeth ! How could she, such a little girl, resist him ? There were marmalades\nand extraordinary vows. He had even promised to have her portrait taken. As\nshe had no fear, Douniacha had not gone to find the woman Chaboloff, who ar-\nranges such affairs with a nail or so, and she had not sent her son to the orphan\nasylum, but had placed him at Tchelitsi near Serpoukoff and paid two roubles\na month for his keep. Vassia was nine years old when Douniacha took him to\nthe barber, Mr. Ferdinand, her compatriot, certainly not for Vassia to shave the\ncustomers, but to sweep up the hairs, and on Saturday, during the rush hour,\nto lather the cheeks of those waiting until the boss was free to scrape their chins.\nOne does not know who bewitched him : most curious ideas began to trot about\nin his head. He did not lather the customers very long and three months af-"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "231", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3006, "texte": "terwards, in the spring time, made off, without whispering a word to Mr. Ferdi-\nnand or to his mother. Douniacha howled so loudly that she lost her place four\ntimes. She went to the fair at Divitchi and to the pilgrimage of Saint Serge,\nbut she didn't find him. She became calm, but not resigned. Where could he\nbe ? Even if she met him she would no longer recognize him. He has a mark of\nidentification but it is hidden, under his left breast, a red spot like the diamond\non a playing card. Douniacha even asked Triphone, the janitor, \"If you see\nin the bath someone who has under his breast a diamond, seize him, he is mine. \"\nBut why should Triphone bother to search, it was not his flesh and blood, this\nVassia ? Is he alive, this Vassia ? Perhaps when she burns a candle for his\nhealth, she only tortures his soul in heaven ? Father Aphanassi has taught her\nthat there was no need of worrying but that she should pray for his health and\nfor the victory of the Christian army, because at his age, Vassia must be a soldier.\nAnd now perhaps the devil has stolen the innocent one. For look, the son of\nthe grocer Perloff, a saint, a true worker, has he not become an important\nbolshevik ? With their cursed claws they rake in souls.\nNow this is the second thought of Douniacha. It is not any easier. She\nthinks of the awful mess and of all the trials of the church of true believers. Even\nunder the soul they have dug a trench, the plotters ! Douniacha has seen\nat Zatsepa, in front of the market, the picture of the chief tyrant with his pince-\nnez on a string; he smiles in his little beard, and how many Russians has not this\nHerod exterminated ? Is it possible that the bread cards themselves carry the\ninsigna of anti-Christ ? The infernal writing burns one's fingers, and still one has\nto carry it into the shops and on one's bosom near the heart in order that no one\ncan steal this treasure. Father Aphanassi told not only this. The devils even\ndared to touch the relics of Saint Frol, but God did not permit it; He veiled their\neyes with an eclipse, and the monks and good Christians saw the indestructible\nflesh with a golden ear of corn sprouting from its entrails, while the red \" grass-\nhoppers \" 1 saw only an appalling apparition with raging fire inside. Douniacha\nknows all; how Saint Nicholas under the gates of the Kremlin rent the ignoble\nveil, and how the Dove of the Holy Ghost of the convent of Tchoudoff flew into\na filthy barracks and upset with its little wings an idol of stone with moustaches\nbefore which all those inscribed must prostrate themselves when denying the\nSaviour. They wished also to inscribe Douniacha, but she lay down in the coal\nbin under the .servant stairs, and remained there all the night without daring to\nsneeze, but praying inaudibly to the Father. A few days ago, a new misfortune.\nA bolshevik, a miscreant, who was walking under the stairs, casually requisitioned\nthe drawing room of Brinsoff and immediately moved out all the furniture,\n\n1 Bolsheviks."}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2870, "texte": "bringing in with him a half-pound of paper and the dirty mugs of Satan's whole\narmy. He begged Douniacha in a very sweet voice to give him a little hammer,\nand immediately began to nail their faces to the wall, and as he could not stand\nthe sight of the ikon, he told her to take it away, for in front of the pure faces\nof Saint Cosina and of Saint Demian the devil's seed suffocated. What woman\ncould have had vile enough bowels to bring forth such a blonde toad ? He\nlooked at Douniacha with his yellow eyes, until her feet trembled, and tried in\nwhispers to send her to perdition : \" Friend, a little hot water ? \" Douniacha\nknew that he was a messenger from hell, the last tempter. She prepared herself\nfor the supreme torture.\nIt was after all this that she went to question Kvatchka about her future\nAnd with her, she took her ration of a quarter of a pound of powdered sugar.\nKvatchka evidently understood what was wrong at once: that is to say, she\nscreamed at the cat, the actual likeness of the Blonde One even to his yellow\neyes: \" Get out of here, hussy, leave this holy place. Look at his fat paunch ;\nhe has stolen a cup of milk ; he has lapped up a thousand roubles without\nsneezing .\" Afterward, spitting on her fingers, she made a fan of cards and\nwithout looking at them, picked up one and commenced to tap her foot, marking\ntime; and, with the voice of a ventriloquist, breathed into the ear of Douniacha:\n\" Your fate is the Jack of Diamonds ; get ready for the final test. \"\nknows that the Jack of Diamonds is a peaceful card and fore-\ntells happy thoughts. Kvatchka is intelligent and cunning. It is not in vain\nthat she has used her fingers at cards until they are callous. She does not look\nat the surface of the cards, but at their insides. Nothing is concealed from\nher. But she did not wish to give explanations to Douniacha, only scolding her\nwhen she left, because the sugar was yellow and damp. Douniacha wondered\nall the way home how to interpret the difficult card. Diamonds have a light\ncolour, the colour of God, not like spades. Vassia has a diamond over his heart.\nMay the Sainted Virgin guard him ! And the valet looked like this scoundrel\nof a lodger. From whence must she expect her fate ? From her little pigeon,\nor from this man with black claws ?\nPassing by Volkhonka, the eyes of Douniacha noticed a new defilement.\nFrom a wall, a naked man looked down, of violent blue, with red spots, as if\ncrabs had seized him with their pincers in the depths of hell. From his navel,\npeered a third eye, huge and red. Probably a sinner, a head printer. Around\nthe picture there was a crowd. Douniacha drew near. \" What's happened here ? \"\nAn old man with glasses (Douniacha knows him well; he used to own a little\nshop) read gravely : \" Exhibition of the Jack of Diamond \" 1, and kindly added :\n\n1 Exhibition of the Russian Cubist painters."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2813, "texte": "\"He is their patron. \" When Douniacha heard that, she did not fall to the\nground ; she did not even cry out, but she prayed in her soul that her fate would\narrive more quickly, and not make her languish in uncertainty, because she knew\nvery well that what must come will come.\nAnd in truth, the next morning, all began. The Blonde One called, as if\nit were not on purpose, and begged her to take his cards of the Domkom committee\nbecause he hadn't the time ; he had all kinds of appointments. \" Comrade,\nsign for me at the office. \" Douniacha understood what that would mean. \" I\nsir, I mean, comrade? I am not accustomed to this. \" \" What ?\" \"Just\nthat; I have kept my soul pure.\" \"In that case, comrade, you will have to go\nto the lyikbies.\"l \"You can put your spikes under my finger-nails if it is\nyour will, but you cannot force me to kneel down before the devil. I will not do\nit. \" The Blonde One laughed uproariously; he was very gay. He explained\nthat it was not the devil's house ; but a school. Such was the edict of the\nLikbies. \"Science is light; that's all. \" He also had been an illiterate; had\nrun away from his home, had begun to read books and it was by his own wit\nthat he had arrived at all. \" Here is the address of the school, not far away from\nthe ramparts of the cows, in the old tea house of lontarioff. \" (The poor man\nis dead ;he did not live to see such an insult.) He gave her the address, threat-\nening a little : \"If you do not go yourself, a soldier, armed with a gun, will\ntake you there. \"\nDouniacha went in haste to search for Brinsova. \" Madam, my dear lady,\nsave me from my bolshevik. \" She told her everything. Brinsoya herself\nwas scared to death. \" Don't call me madam, but comrade ; what do we know,\neverything is possible ; they can lock us up in a moment; I cannot help you.\nFool, I lost in a strong box a brooch of eighteen carats. What do you want;\nit is not a prison to which they are taking you; but to a school. There is nothing\nto do. Go. L,earn, or don't learn. Stay quietly in your corner and think\nwhat you like.\"\nDouniacha went there. You can't hide yourself from your destiny. She\nfinds some old mossy women, sitting down ; one of whom has a tooth protruding,\nanother a tuft of hair curling from her ear ; some peaceful old men, very musty,\nand above, on a platform, a sordid picture. Beside it, a hussy, with her hair\ncut. Impudent in a soldier jacket. And then a most disgusting thing occurs.\nThe hussy waves her hand as if it were a sceptre and all the old people droned\nthrough their noses : \" B-A-BA. \" One must render homage to the idol. Dou-\nniacha seated, trembling, in her own flesh, is descended into hell. Then the wo-\n\n1 i. e., face of the devil, an abbreviation in the Bolshevik terminology for the Com-\nmission for the liquidation of illiterates."}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3020, "texte": "man questioned her : \" You are a new one ? Repeat: B-A-BA. \" Douniacha\njumped up and shrieked frightfully : \" You can't make me take the oath. I\nwill accept death, but I will not utter obscenities.'\"' Douniacha loved clean-\nliness to extreme. She considered it a mortal sin to leave footmarks in a room.\nVery kind to animals, nevertheless, she wished to drown the cat Mourza when\nhe made a spot in the salon on the Persian carpet. But she could not stand this.\nShe spat right in the middle of the school. \" I deny your kingdom ; I know\nnow who leads you. It is our lodger. You can torture me, but even into his\nrotten moustaches, I will spit three times.\" Crying which, she went out.\nShe did not go back home, for the Blonde One is there who doubtless knows\neverything, and will take the seal and mark her brow, and behold, her soul will\nbe lost to eternity.\nShe had no weapons except her little scapulary and she did not know the\nwords. Then she remembered her old friend, a very wise adviser, Ivan Kous-\nmitch. Though he was far away, she ran there without a stop. Ivan Kousmitch\nwas, in the old days, an embroiderer in gold. He made epaulettes and grew\ntender over his metal stars. \" The wisdom of heaven, the beacon of the magi,\nI will cause by my intelligence to fall on those shoulders worthy of it. \" And\nlater, when the uprisings commenced, when the little stars of gold fell from the\nepaulettes of the generals, he shed a few tears but did not complain. He turned\nto the everlasting stars and concentrated on the Apocalypse. Nobody could\nexpound it better than he ; the uncovered pit, the woman clothed with the sun\nand the horses of different sorts. In the morning he bought from the workers'of\nthe,Guibartovski factories, stolen yeast and sold it again at the market; in the\nevening he expounded the Apocalypse and gave advice. He was much amused\nat Douniacha's story. \" Last Wednesday, I already had a foreboding. It\nis true that it was not a blonde, but a brunette like coal. It was your murderer.\nI know a great deal and I will reveal it to you. You, you are Judith, according\nto the divine words. You will destroy Holofernes, who wallows in debauchery\nand filth. You will save the empire of Russia. You will protect the Holy\nChurch. Prepare yourself for a mission, I see a halo around your hair.\" Dou-\nniacha bent to the ground. \"I am unworthy of that, Ivan Kousemitch. I\ndrank a little milk on the Eve of the Assumption, and other wicked deeds hang\nheavy upon me. \" But no, Ivan Kousemitch knows it is not in vain that he speaks\nthese words ; on Douniacha has fallen the greatest honor, to conquer the enemies\nof the human race ;to suffer for the evil of the world. The lodger, the Blonde\nOne, the Jack of Diamonds, is no other than the devil. It is not with her naked\nhands that she must go against him. Ivan Kousemitch owns different weapons,\nlittle crosses, scapularies, forbidden prayers, potent invocations. The devil is\nnot so strong, he also has weaknesses, but one must know them. The easiest way"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3074, "texte": "is to seize him when he is still very little, when his horns are only beginning to\ncome out, sicknesses possess him, pimples and weaknesses of the flesh./ Also if\none seizes the devil, although fully grown, on the night of \" Pantelemon-le-\nCuerisseur, \" and if one whips him with a blessed branch, he will go under cry-\ning ; without losing time it is then necessary to pickle him in cucumber brine and\nhold him there until the decomposition is complete. But against the Jack of\nthe moustaches, Ivan Kousemitch will give her a weapon, trustworthy and quick\nacting ; a little jar of Holy Water from the Sainte Montagne. Douniacha should\napproach him in the night, creeping towards the sleeper, uncover his nakedness\nand sprinkle him with holy water, murmuring at the same time, \"In the Jor-\ndan, the bath of the world, for Satan and his disciples, mortal death. Amen. •\"\nThe devil will tremble ; his little tail will fall oft'. From his entrails will burst\nforth growlings of a dog, and soon he will dry up, shrivelled like a hedge-hog.\nDouniacha went home, stern but inspired, bearing the little jar. She be-\nlieved in Ivan Kousemitch, only doubting one thing. She felt unworthy, stained\nby her sins ; she will lack the purity necessary to overcome the evil. A sinner,\nbelieving little, she will perish without attaining her object. At Brinsova's\nshe asked absolution, humbly, kissed the hands of her mistress and then put on\na clean shirt to present herself fittingly and prayed to the Virgin with fervor.\nThe Blonde One came home late. In ignorance of the plans of his opponents,\nhe sat in several committees and figured out how many schools they would open\nin 1930, for the miners of the Government of Perme. All men would be conscious\nand efficient, like American machines, as if they were more than a heap of pu-\ntrified bones and miserable flesh. ''They have not the time to live, already\nthey are tainted with age/' Everything is regulated ; here the prison, there the\nspree ; one has not even time to hiccough between the acts. He counted :\n\" Schools, 318; scholars, 16,000. Schools, 94; scholars, 7,000. Plus four supple-\nmentary schools. \" Having finished his figuring, not excepting the Bachkirs\n-and the Mordvas, he drank a glass of tea, made from leaves gathered by the\npost boy; in place of sugar he sucked a little spoon which tasted of white metal\nand herring, and afterwards dragged himself home with a heavy portfolio contain-\ning diagrams, plans and notes weighing at least ten pounds.\nWith her eyes glued to the key-hole, Douniacha hardly breathed. She\nwaited for the Blonde One to go to sleep. Before closing his eyes, it occurred\nto him to read a paper, and when he had finished, he said aloud : \" Ha, ha, in\nArgentina, already a strike. The world conflagration begins. \" He smiled,\ncarefully took off his patched trousers, placed them on a chair and plunged be-\nneath the covers. Soon Douniacha heard a light snoring like a child in his\ncradle. How innocent the devil can seem!\nShe made the sign of the cross, softly opened the door, without creaking,"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "238", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1710, "texte": "drew down the sheet and began to sprinkle and to mumble. The Blonde One\njumped and began to howl terribly, just as Ivan Kousemitch had foreseen. With-\nout being able to open his eyes, he waved his hands and cried. Full of faith\nin her coming victory, Douniacha drew near him, but a final trial awaited her.\nA horrible sword was suspended over her poor heart : his shirt had opened and\nDouniacha saw the diamond birthmark which she had borne, the mark of her\nblood. \" Vasska, son, Jack, valet, Antichrist \" — and with an inhuman cry,\nshe ran down the stairway of cold stones, through the empty court, down the\nstreet, God knows where, fleeing her curse, into the forest, into the snow, into\nthe fire, down to the furnace of hell.\nWhat flames devoured her entrails. And the other, the other with his chev-\nrons, with the portrait and the marmalade. Was he also then a devil ? She\nhad absorbed the seed of the Devil, she had borne him within her, with her Chris-\ntian blood ; she had nourished him for the destruction of mankind ; there is no\nmore hope for her. The charitable Virgin herself averts her tearful eyes, con-\nceals behind the clouds her little wounded hands, for she cannot hold them out\nto the Devil's mistress, to the nurse of Satan.\nFar away, beyond the gates of the town, near the Tartar cemetery, she\nfell down on a pile of snow and began to swallow it, to quench the terrible fire,\nbut the snow burned her mouth and tongues of fire, flaming worms writhed in\nher belly, mounted her throat, twisting her driedup breasts, and always she\nsank deeper and deeper into the snow. Only her feet, in brown shapeless boots,\nstill stuck out, two withered stumps.\n\nFrom the French version of\nEue Ehrenbourg."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "232", "page_fin": "232", "image_debut": 42, "image_fin": 42, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.18.1", "titre_corps": "Charlie Chaplin", "titre_sommaire": "Charlie Chaplin", "signature_source": "Fernand Leger", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "232", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 31, "texte": "Charlie Chaplin.\nFernand Leger."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "233", "page_fin": "233", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.18.2", "titre_corps": "Charlie Chaplin", "titre_sommaire": "Charlie Chaplin", "signature_source": "Fernand Leger", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 32, "texte": "Charlie Chaplin.\nFern and Leger."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "239", "page_fin": "248", "image_debut": 49, "image_fin": 58, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Giovanni Papini", "titre_sommaire": "Giovanni Papini", "signature_source": "Giuseppe Prezzolini ; Dorothy Kreymborg", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "239", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1943, "texte": "GIOVANNI PAPINI.\n\nThe time is always opportune for writing something about Papini; the\nmore you endeavor to define and characterize him, the more he seems to evade\nyou and create a new Papini who forces a revised judgment. But this changeable-\nness is a permanent characteristic of the writer, and it soon occurs to one that\nPapini, at bottom, always remains the same. The contrary is the general belief ;\none speaks of his contradictions and of his alterations. One reproaches him for\nthem. They are superficialities. Many legends are current about his person-\nality.\nIt is a great temptation to wander into poetry and lyricism when under the\nsway of his vital spirit. We must be very careful to give due value to what the\nyouths write about him, though what they write is always exaggerated, as it is\ndifficult for them to remain serene on the subject of Papini. To do so, one must\nhave felt him, have undergone him, as one does an illness. Also, it is necessary\nto guard against that which the old men write about him, for they are either\nbitterly opposed or completely subjugated by him. It is best to speak of him\nin simple words — to address, let us suppose, an American who knows nothing\nwhatever about him.\nThis is what I should say to my American :\nI.\nIn January, 1901, there appeared in Florence, unheralded by any barometer,\na strange literary magazine, printed on hand-made paper, illustrated with ori-\nginal woodcuts, and written entirely by youths unknown up to that time. In\nthe contents each month, an editorial, and critical notes appeared, signed\n\" Gian Falco, \" pregnant with poetry and passion, irony and romanticism,\ncolor and sensitiveness, treating in the most independent spirit philosophic and\nmoral problems of all kinds, far from any preoccupation with actuality, and of-\nten in direct and abrupt conflict with the current ideas then prevalent in\nItaly, such as \" Positivism \" and Christian and Tolstoyian Socialism."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "240", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2413, "texte": "This periodical soon became greatly renowned, perhaps more renowned than\nread, and was called \" Leonardo\nThe founder and editor who gave it importance and character, revealing\nin its pages those strange attitudes and violent passions, this spirit of extrava-\ngance and insolence, was Giovanni Papini since known in Italy as a writer, read\nand admired by the young — the most hated and the most loved.\nII.\nIn appearance, Papini reminds one of a certain kind of pear, ugly to look\nat, yet sweet to eat. At first sight, unpleasant; his lineaments irregular, the\nmouth too large, the jaw too prominent, the teeth protruding. The nose is\ntoo flat and his complexion pasty, like the earth. His walk is that of a comical\nskeleton, distorted and disproportioned, for his body is too long.\nBut look at him closely : you will see that his appearance as a whole acquires\nanother aspect when viewed in relation to his personality, You can only think\nof the sea when you meet his grey-green eyes, of the mountains when you regard\nhis forehead, high and spacious, of the forests agitated by the wind of April,\nwhen his curly hair blows in free disorder. Here is a man different from the rest,\nyou will say, for where another man would appear ugly, you feel that Papini is\nonly strange and exceptional. He is a marked man, and this may mean good\nor evil, but betokens always a personal fatality. The large veins which cross\nhis forehead and descend down to his nose, the extreme myopia which gives him\na look of vagueness and ingenuity, of indefinite direction, as if he were far away\nand occupied with lofty thoughts ; the cheekbones protruding like those of a\nMongolian, a little cruelly, reveal the irregular features of a man possessed by a\nsoul far from the commonplace. Is he demon or angel ?\nIII.\nWhen you hear him speak for the first time, you will probably have the im-\npression that you are conferring with a demon. If he is an angel, he is the angel\nof darkness and of negation, of wounded pride and of corrosion. It is his custom\nto receive you rudely, with very embarassing questions, either half derisive or\ndirectly insolent. If a third person be present, by chance, in the role of audience,\nhe will in all probability let fall from his lips a flow of paradoxes, assailing your\ndearest convictions, or shower you with sarcastic remarks where your defense\nis weakest : at your secret absurdities and predilections."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "241", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2880, "texte": "Once he was introduced to a certain man who had tried in vain to commit\nsuicide a few months previously. As soon as he heard the name, Papini remem-\nbered the story and said : \" Look, the only good thing he might have done in his\nlife, he failed to accomplish \"\nOf this type of anecdote, one could relate dozens. The embarassing ques-\ntion, the insolent observation, the piquant retort, have been for a long time a\nspecialty of Papini.\nA university professor, who had often been snubbed by him, took the oppor-\ntunity one day, at the memorial celebration of Carducci, to approach him.\nSaid he, lachrymosely and with Jesuitical glances : \" Let us make peace, dear\nPapini. \" Quickly the other answered : \"An armistice, an armistice only, Pro-\nfessor. \"\nThe many witticisms, the epithets hurled by him at writers of his and other\ntimes, the scoffing and the irony which have filled his magazines and books,\nare not the corrosive acid of an intelligence consciously setting out to do harm\nto others, but the natural expression of a fresh mind which conceives with great\nrapidity and in lightning flashes, — with that scintillation which is possessed by\nromantics such as Schlegel, an accompanying characteristic of the true genius.\nIf he has been able more often to see the ridiculous side and to point out the\ndefects, rather than the good qualities of the people about him, shall we attribute\nit to the fact that these phases are the more obvious ? Or, is it an inclination of\nhis spirit which has suffered overmuch, which has not been loved enough, which\nhas become sour, desiring above all to appear locked, closed, diffident, deaf, willing\nrather to lose the possibility of finding a beautiful soul, than to let itself be\ndefrauded one having in reality, only its semblance ? It seems to me evident\nthat the latter is the case. His life as narrated by himself is not a happy one.\nAnd perhaps he has not disclosed the very depths of his bitterness.\nPhysically unfortunate, he lacked in his early years that understanding\nof a sensitive nature so essential for producing the unconscious happiness enjoyed\nby children. We dare say, he has had no boyhood —orif he has, he has lived it\nout of that period. Spring found him as a tree that has blossomed too soon\nand consequently suffered from frost. One feels that some cord in him has been\nbroken, that the regret which quivers in his words is due to some early injustice.\nLove and friendship have come to this soul too late, when it was irrevocably\nwounded. The scar remains always, and through a scar, sensitiveness is perhaps\nless able to penetrate than before. That coldness, that scepticism that one notes\nin Papini, grow from there — and from there grows his rudeness too. He\npassed the years of his youth immersed in mad study and black pessimism.\nIt is rarely one recovers from an initial misanthropy such as that felt\nby him."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "242", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2375, "texte": "IV.\nThere are cries of tenderness, and a seeking for love growing from the same\nsentiment, in the first fantastic-romantic period of Papini's work. He is interested\nin philosophical and moral problems, but these assume a purely literary expres-\nsion taking spontaenously the form of legends and myths. These remind one\nof the methods of Baudelaire and Poe, the moral essays of Maeterlinck and the\ntravesties of Laforgue. The classic book of this period is the \" Tragico Ouo-\ntidiano \"; in the last editions, \"II Pilota Cieco \" has been added. In this vein\nalso is a third and inferior work, \" Buffonate which represents the tired rem-\nnants of the inspiration of that type. These writings have a glitter of false\nantique gold, artificial, yet seductive. The device is nearly always original, the\ngesture a happy one, but there is a rudeness in the style, and at the same time a\nlittle of affectation when compared with his later writings, which are much more\nhuman and solid.\nOne notes here two probable reasons for his change (not overlooking the prin-\ncipal one — that of his constant development, his continual unveiling of him-\nself and the perpetual effort of writers to fathom the depths of themselves) :\non the one side, his life in the country and his marriage ; on the other, his careful\nstudy of the classics. Bulciano and the collection of \" Scrittori Nostri \" (Our\nWriters) ; — already this \" Our \" was the beginning of a new phase of Papini's —\ncoming as it did at a time when he had only been speaking of international lite-\nrature, Spanish and German ; Arabian and Chinese. It was for him a renewal\nof a life lived ; to find again, or find for the first time, human experiences, and to\nenlarge his vocabulary of people an authors, which up to that time was poor,\nabstract and often common.\nBlessed be the poverty which compelled him to live in Bulciano, and the\nneed which forced him to become an editor — and we need not look too closely\nat the punctuation of his text.\nV.\nThe conclusion of this movement was a book of confessions, the masterpiece\nof Papini, \" FUomo finito \" (The Finished Man). One need no longer refer to\nHamlet or the Devil, to invent characters, or feign extraordinary adventures\nwhen wishing to recount the torments of a life. One says, finally, — that tor-\nment, that life, the rUomo Finito, is Papini himself — his own story, his life,"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "244", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2680, "texte": "his own intimate thoughts — from childhood to his final confessions. He has\ntried everything — and succeeded in nothing. He has sought always the impos-\nsible, the too great, the too high. As a child he dreamt of compiling the encyclo-\npedia of encyclopedias ; so as man, he dreamt of becoming the revealer of a new\nreligion. But everything has failed him : family affection, the understanding\nof the spirits who surrounded him, help of friends, the ecstasy of real love. Here\nhe is, discontented, disheartened, broken. Another man, of mediocre mentality\nwould be satisfied with his fame, with his success, with his \" position \" — but\nPapini aspired to a greater glory — that of a genius who spiritually over-\nturns the world.\nWhat he wished most to have written, was a \" universal judgment, \"\nand the entire book is a cry of dissatisfaction, a clamour toward the unattainable.\nIt is his masterpiece because it is the most honest and sincere of his works. His\nother books are more often those of the Papini \" who wishes to hide his secret.\nHis secret is his weakness. Papini is not a strong man, and as he knows his\nvulnerability, he isolates himself, entrenches himself behind a breast-plate.\nThere he remains with the audacity of the timid — attacking, scoffing, engaging\nin polemics, denouncing. Not only does he say impertinences ; he writes and\npublishes them. In this manner he has won his fame as an \" enfant terrrible \"\nof literature. If there is a scandal to instigate, he thinks of it at once ;he is\nready to speak of a rope in the house of the hanged ; to talk of anti-semitism at\nthe home of a Jew; and of divorce with a divorcee.\nHe has acquired this reputation a little through his natural temperament\nand a little through his desire of making it so — and of augmenting it. If\nthere be an unmentionable word, he speaks it at once. And in certain of his\nshorter works, we find five or six of the worst substantives ever used by writers,\nfrom Dante to Carducci. There is in him a little of Bernard Shaw, but of a\nShaw less contented with himself and his impertinences ; above all, Papini is\nmore unsatisfied — and therefore changeable. And perhaps dissatisfied because\nof being obliged to be changeable.\nVI\nThis reproach of being changeable is the most common and perhaps the\nmost true of the many reproaches flung at him. Nothing could be more evident.\nWith the exception of a few strong antipathies, such as the one for Croce which\nhas always remained, one might say that every two or three years, Papini chan-\nges his opinions. He has been positivist, idealist, pragmatist; has believed in\nphilosophy and then scoffed at it; has combatted, then embraced and finally"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "245", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2680, "texte": "abandoned futurism; was passionately in favor of the war — then soon tired\nof it; has been anti-Christian and now apparently has become Christian. In\nhis writings, one can find mockeries of all opinions — and reasoning in favor\nof all faiths.\nAll this is quite true — but... And there is a \" but\". An analysis of the\nmutability of Papini's temperament brings important results. First of all,\nit is disinterested ; secondly, it denotes an extreme prosensitiveness to whatever\nthe times demand, and finally, it reveals still another secret aspect of Papini's\nmind. His mutability is that of a lyric spirit ready to enthuse for that which\nis not yet realized, and incapable of undertaking afterwards the more arduous\ntask of dominating the real obstacles. Papini's weakness is here also demons-\ntrated. There is in him an intense desire for truth and faith, of living in contact\nwith that reality which he missed when young ; of feeling himself convinced ;\nand all this is in direct opposition to what he so often appears to be, a cynic,\na mocker, a sceptic. He is sceptical, but suffers from being so ; a cynic, but his\ncynicism hides a sorrow ; he is a mocker, but how he would love to be mocked\nproviding he had a faith.\nHis revolt against the ideals he once loved is not the expression of the mal-\ncontent toward those faiths that have not held him enough, have not totally\ninflamed him. His movements toward ideas, groups, literary fashions, problems\nof the day, are quick at first — and reach their goal in- one jump. It is his\nreadiness to accept a new subject, a new ideal, that reveals the genial aspect\nin him. But the conquests of Papini, if they are quicker than those of others,\nare also less durable. He is as a child who sees far above him a little rose cloud,\nclimbs the mountain quickly to touch it — and finds upon nearing it, that it\nhas become grey. The realized reality does not satisfy him, and he becomes\nbitter, critical, ironical and aggressive. This has been the fate of the ideas\nand movements of which he has hoped the most : idealism, futurism, his war-\nenthusiasm.\nVII.\nAs often happens, Papini is known more for his \" ideas \" — that is, those\nideas he caught here and there and soon abandoned, than for having given to\nthese ideas, life, character, importance, relations, logic (sometimes elementary),\nwhich they had not in themselves . He has been, and this is not the first example,\nmore admired for his unworthy and passing actions than for his better and pro-\nfound ; for his clamorous discordant manifestations rather than for his penetra-\nting and silent ones. On the whole, his fame was chiefly won during the period\nof futurism and \" Lacerba \"."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "246", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3023, "texte": "However, he has derived the greatest benefit from one characteristic of his\nmentality, notable especially in his articles : an extraordinary capacity for grasp-\ning in all problems the three or four chief points of importance and developing\nthem with the greatest simplicity and often, ingenuity, using phrases of such\nan imaginative quality as to completely capture the reader. The power of rhe-\ntoric that some men possess over the masses is also in the hands of this man.\nHis ingenuity has rendered it possible for him to approach the mentality of the\nhumblest and to find readers among the lowest classes.\nAnd in the meanwhile, so few have noted the great progress made by Pa-\npini in his writing. Generally, one asks for the \" Papini \" — without distinc-\ntion or hierarchy ; one also judges him without discerning the deep from the\nsuperficial, or even his progress through and beyond his varied methods. His\ncareer, if one may so express oneself, is a succession of leaps, followed by long-\nperiods of lassitude and stagnation, during which the forces for a new jump seem\nto mature. Arrived at the summit again, he seems, after a little while, to lose\nhis footing and fall back once more. At the very beginning of each of these\nperiods, his productions are the best.\nMeanwhile, he is making constant progress in his instrument: the language.\nThis is mainly notable since his seclusion in Bulciano and his study of the clas-\nsics. He has even temporarily adopted rhythm and rhymes to show how easy\nit was for the Tuscans to compose in a given traditional line. Of course, Ido not\nbelieve that in this lies proof of his genius ; rather, he has measured with them the\nextreme elasticity of his natural talent.\nPapini is primarily an artist — but one of a special character : he is an ar-\ntist of \" ideas His world of colours and forms (the external world) has\npresented itself to him a little late perhaps, and with a few exceptions, the rest\nof his work is that of talent, literary science, and we might say, is more academic\nthan lyrical. His is a moral lyricism, the lyricism of one who is always preoc-\ncupied with logical and ethical problems. Without enclosing them in their\nproper philosophical forms, he presents them, following the method of certain\nforeigners, in their sentimental and aesthetic aspects.\nThis may again recall to us Papini's mutability and dilettantism, but can\neasily be explained. For him, it is not the ideas which sustain his spirit. These\nare only considered lyrical occasions. This also explains his minute erudition,\nwhich has never satisfied the men of learning, but which has served to give to\nmany of his writings an appearance multicolored and interesting ; comparable to\nthe appearance of the drawing-room of a gentleman of good taste, in which are\ngathered together — masks of savages, impressionist paintings; Etruscan vases\nand Greek robes; tables of the sth century and Chinese drawings. No student\n-wishing to construct a history of art or of the human spirit would be content"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "247", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2649, "texte": "with such a miscellany, but, at the same time, the drawing room looks very\nwell, and assuredly, at first sight, has the power to attract and distract one's\nattention.\n>\nVIII\nThe personality of Papini is so rich that it can best be compared to a gor-\ngeous branch in blossom, whose buds one can pick without injury to the ap-\npearance of the whole. We now find no more detractors of Papini; but batta-\nlions of people more dangerous — his admirers. We call them dangerous,\nbut they are only temporarily so, for no critic, favorable or unfavorable, can sti-\nfle the flow of a poet's life. A poet who has natural inspiration and perseverance,\nthough men swear his incapacity, forges ahead, always ahead.\nPapini is the strongest and most original prose writer of our generation, in\naddition to being the representative of all the good and the bad that is ours, —\nthe torments, the changeableness, the uncertainty, the aspirations. His torment\nhas passed into others — awakening their spirits without being able to. give them\nrest. He has been a man tormented who torments, an impregnator of doubts\nand questions which he leaves unanswered. The answers will be sought for\nby the young of his period and by those who follow.\nPapini will remain as a type. In his extravagances and insolences, in his\ngestures whose sincerity we sometimes doubt, in his angers and disagreements,\nand in his more equivocal sympathies — he still radiates about him something\nsympathetic ; which explains why anger has been pacified and wounds have been\nhealed, and why Papini is now considered to be above the melange and more or\nless accepted by the crowd.\nHis name' will be known as the name of a good writer. It will be easy for\nthe future generations to recognize in him one of the purest followers of Carducci,\none of the rungs of that chain which tomorrow shall stretch between the writers\nof the past and the writers of the future. His periods of indignation and his\nrevolutionary proposals will be forgotten by all. His place will be among the\npowerful literary figures ; among those from whom Italian culture has fed its\nbrain. It will happen to him as it has to certain painters, called \" exception \"\npainters, whom to-day we admit in the perfect line of tradition.\nHis geniality, his inspired poetic sense in carrying on an argument, describ-\ning a scene or drawing a character (the latter rarely), will always be charac-\nteristic of him. Above all, he is a writer of movement. In his manner of open-\ning a paragraph and of closing it, after elaborating his thought; in his personal\nparticipation in the dramas of life or of social problems, there is always evident"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "248", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 438, "texte": "that clear energy which one misses in the style of Pascoli and d'Annunzio, and\nwhich is the characteristic of our best Italian tradition. In this lies his power,\nhis distinctive personality.\nAnd in the depths of Papini's soul, there are still unexplored and unsatis-\nfied regions of tenderness — his need of love — to which all have turned a deaf\near — and for which no one of us has done enough.\n\nFrom the Italian of\nGiuseppe Prezzolini."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "243", "page_fin": "243", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.19.1", "titre_corps": "Caricature of Papini", "titre_sommaire": "Caricature of Papini", "signature_source": "C. Carrà ; A. Soffici", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "243", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 44, "texte": "C. Carrà - A. Soffici.\nCaricature of Papini."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "249", "page_fin": "249", "image_debut": 59, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Cloisonne", "titre_sommaire": "Cloisonne", "signature_source": "Grace Hazard Conkling", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "249", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1112, "texte": "CLOISONNE.\nGrace Hazard Conkling.\nOn the sands, on the witidy beaches\nYou ran with me through bareness and salt glitter\nAnd saw far out the flashing of coral barriers\nAnd the wind-heaped ocean all peacocks and swans. . .\nAnd you remember a bay of northern forest\nBrimmed with mist of autumn mornings :\nThe nearest hemlock was the leaning wraith of a brig . . .\nOthers followed ghostlike along a trail of sun . . .\nMasts of veiled ships drawing delicately shoreward\nTo drop anchor in a field of goldenrod. . .\nYou have not forgotten the wind of those mornings ....\nYou have not forgotten the streaming running throbbing foaming wind\nYou have not forgotten the mist blown away like a thistle feather . . ,\nI say you have not forgotten\nWhat you have never known !\nIran alone on the beaches,\nAlone I watched the dark sails of the trees\nFill with wind :\nHow shall I give you these moments ?\nYet I may shape them for your hands . . .\nIf you will take home the bowl I have just finished\nCool with enamel of hyacinth and sea-green jade\nI can the sooner set about making you another\nOut of ebony and honey-colored shells."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "250", "page_fin": "250", "image_debut": 60, "image_fin": 60, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "[I won't tell you the name of this one]", "titre_sommaire": "[I won't tell you the name of this one]", "signature_source": "Hilda Conkling", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "250", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 399, "texte": "I.\n\" I won't tell you the\nname of this one ! \"\nSoftly, softly,\nGently, gently,\nOver the tree-tops to the sky,\nBack again to the hills,\nFootsteps lost, footsteps unseen,\nAlways vanishing . . .\nSoftly, softly,\nGently, gently,\nDon't you make a noise now !\nThis wonder-creature comes\nBut once a year ...\nComes on tiptoe\nbooking under leaves . . .\nSoftly, softly,\nGently, gently . . .\n(Was it the wind ?)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "250", "page_fin": "251", "image_debut": 60, "image_fin": 61, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Pigeons Just Awake", "titre_sommaire": "Pigeons Just Awake", "signature_source": "Hilda Conkling", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "250", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 401, "fin_caractere_exclue": 503, "texte": "II.\nPIGEONS JUST AWAKE.\n\nAs the sun rose,\nEverything was bathed in gold ;\nTrees were still and solemn,"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "251", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 420, "texte": "Pigeons waded the dew.\nTheir feet were the color of new June strawberries.\nI thought what it must be to fly,\nTo whirl up into the light,\nTo know the curved flight of pigeons\nAbove trees and lawns !\nIf I could fly\nI should not have to leave my mother for long,\nNor my dark-eyed sister :\nOnly a flutterng, a lifting\nUp round the elm tree and over,\nA cool curving and sliding down the light\nInto wet grass.\n\nHilda Conkling."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "252", "page_fin": "260", "image_debut": 62, "image_fin": 70, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "Candy Cigar and Stationary", "titre_sommaire": "Candy Cigar and Stationary", "signature_source": "Waldo Frank", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "252", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1724, "texte": "CANDY CIGAR AND STATIONARY\n\nThere was a light shining within the lives of Lotte and Isidor Rabinowich\nI.\nShe stood behind the counter of her store and watched her husband place\non the opposite shelf tin toys . . . engines clowns sailboat pennybank . . . that\nhad just come in. She had arranged the syrup bottles on the counter. She\nsaw him. . . very little man. She knew behind his short sparse beard of black\nand grey his chin which she had never seen and which was round like a child's:\nshe knew under the skullcap a bland forehead . . . lodged there sweetness and\ntrust in her. An ineffectual man whom she had always mothered.\n\" Lotte, where do I put these ? \"\n\" Why, over there. \" — Yes all this : \" . . . with the other games, \" — all\nthis. A child of a man, my Man, who has not gotten along. With a temper\nthat flares. Not often. Shallow flame trying to burn away in a moment\nall the commanding .. . the real .. . that is me. All this, all this yes. But\nfather of my child.\nShe smiled at him: her palms were upward over her hips, they glowed there\nstrong and rough under the frail pity of her pockmarked face. — Such a child.\nFather of him.\nHe turned his eyes. . . he had felt her ... upon her. They glistened under\nher exultation like waters suntouched.\n\" What is it ? he smiled back, holding awkward a huge cardboard box.\n• \" Come here. \" t\nHe leaned over the counter. She kissed his lips. . . too thin. He shivered\na little, smiling.\n\" There now, \" she sobered him. \" Better take in the pennies, Isidor, from\nthe newsstand. You know, some of the boys, when they pass by from school — \"\nShe pondered. . . — They're not all honest, no.\nHe obeyed her. \" The first letter of the sign is off. \"He poured her the\npennies."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "253", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2428, "texte": "\" I saw Schmalzer, \" she nodded.\nHe took his place at her side behind the counter. Boys and girls will be\ncoming from school. . . candy, pencil, soda, icecream sandwich .. . the first\nwarm day with the sun of Spring beating into the crevice of the Block. In\na few minutes now, both of us are going to be busy.\nThey stood silent, thinking : of one height they were : waiting.\nFrom the West came the Sun in shouting strokes, pried open the cold walls\nof the Block. The Block grew warm, it opened its tremulous walls to receive\nthe Sun . . . Now a flood within its walls. Children pouring from school, bubble\nand pelt and foam of children within the Block. They sparkled, they leaped*\nthey clustered. They were a tide under the open walls, flood of the Sun's long\nstrokes within the walls of the Block . . .\n. . . And the small brown shop, all shadow, the little woman and man stand-\ning within the shop, within the swelling walls of the passionate street, within\nthe flood of the Sun . . .\nDoor burst open. Boys and girls with voices like shrill flowers, like gol-\nden pebbles pelting : boys and girls with wishes — little flags — on their heads\nand the wind of the Sun's strokes making them whip and snap.\nLotte and Isidor worked. Counted candies . . . six of them for a penny\n. . . two cent or three cent soda ?. . . here are your jacks . . . we haven't straw-\nberry only vanilla and chocolate . . . what did give me, five cents ? . . . you\nscratched that ruler.\nLotte worked in a smile. — These are children. All they will not grow\ninto men and women. The Lord chooses. Pity the mothers whose sons He\nhas not chosen to grow into strong men. . . Her lips moved faster than fingers.\nLotte worked with her eyes. She found him, big and dark, so strong ! — out-\nstanding so among children.\nHe is my son my Dream is bone of his body.\nHe is my hope my hope runs red in his veins.\nHe is my son and my Dream behold he is real!\n... Far from the Sun, in the thick clot of store, came a radiance on the\nwings of children, and made in her eyes a countering gleam against the laughter\nof children.\n— Children, children and my child. I know that lam chosen in my child.\nHe is big and clumsy, he has no quick laughter like that boy : no ready words.\nHe is slow ... he is deep. There is a glory hidden in his eyes. He cannot blossom\nso soon like you. . . five cents of these ? . . . whose mother has not been chosen.\nLet her be glad now ! . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "254", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1672, "texte": "They loved the Rabinowich store. They paid their pennies and stayed.\nThey romped and quarreled, they cluttered the cramped space before the coun-\nter. They made this shadowed spot of the long street wall burst with bright\ngreenness.\nHerbert among them, standing among and beyond them. — Strange boy,\nwhat would become of 'Herbert with a less wise mother ? There is Cause, it\nwas written that I should be his mother. Often he is naughty ... \" Share\nyour licorice, son.\". . . He changes, he shifts. He is deep.\nO you who work beside me and who are weak,\nWhose weakness I share and shall share always,\nBehold we have brought forth strength !\nOur path is darkness we must walk it;\nOur bed is darkness there must we lie.\nShadow is the world.\nBehold we have brought forth light !\n... The small store big with the song of children. The brown floor spread\nand adance with children's feet. . . The voices of children rose above a silence,\nwondrously. like young trees of young Spring.\nMy flesh is yours whom I could never love,\nBehold it has brought forth Love !\n2.\nThe children are gone.\nThey were in the store, the three, together, alone.\n\" Now, Herbert son. . . why don't you go quick and do your homework?\nThen you 11 have all the rest of the time to play. Come. \"\n\"No homework, Mama. \"\n\"Of course there's homework. You always have homework. Don't you\nwant to — \"\n\"No homework, I tell you. Give me another licorish stick. No home-\nwork. \"\n\" Why — are you sure ? That's funny. No homework? Why no home-\nwork, Herbert ?\n\" Give me a licorish stick, I tell you. No homework — no homework. \"\n\" You' gave all the other away — I saw you. Darling ! Here. Don't\nblack your whole face. \""}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "255", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2141, "texte": "A cloud cuts the Sun. A shadow is a dark shaft striking down upon the\nBlock, the store. It cleaves the heart of as the cloud cleaves the Sun.\nHer heart is opened.\nWhat is this afternoon ? \" say her lips.\nHer man turned to her. \" Friday. \"\nShe smiles at his not-knowing. Yet what does she know who smiles at\nhis not-knowing ?\nShe shuts her lips.\nThere is in this afternoon a sun and a cloud. They have met\nlike man and woman. There is in this afternoon a cleaving and\na searing. There is in this afternoon a Ivife and it comes!\n■The dark shaft cleaves her heart into two lips. They speak.\nI am with my man who is an old man and whom I should ngt\nhave wed. He is the father of my son : always I think of this\nthat I may not think toosore how I have married the man whom\nI should not have wed.\nMy hair is black, lam not so old as my neighbors feel me. No color\ncan break the grey web of my cheeks, I wear black clothes. For\nmy man is old, it is good to wear black beside him. This is no true\nreason, I wear black clothes, feel old because of my man. But\nthere is true reason why he is my man : this is the reason why\nI wear black clothes.\nBlack is the color of rejoicing unto them who are chosen of God.\nI have tasted Cod, all other foods are poison. I have seen the\nIyord, all other fires are black.\nBeneath my black dress, mark-meshed skin ; beneath grey skin is\nmy body of White.\nWithin my flesh was a son, his taste is my flesh. I am a small wo-\nman given, after I was marked forever by disease, to him who\nwould have me. I have been good to him, he has blessed me.\nIt is by his seed that the Lord chose me.\nBlessed be the long low years we have toiled bent.\nBlessed be their desert : for they hold a Jewel.\nIt flames beyond Grey, it is a roar of glory above silence.\nHe plays on the floor in air soiled brown : he shines.\nHe is strange, he is generous and slow. He says nothing. Often\nhis words tell nothing to my mind. He is not good in school.\nHe was left back in school. Through him I am chosen of God.\nGod loves him above all us. Above bright children, gay children.\nThis son of my sad flesh is the son of Spirit. He is many strengths,"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "256", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2308, "texte": "he is many souls. He is old not to know how to take care of\nwiping his nose, how to keep from dirtying his pants. Grace\nand Light he is. . .\nWhat is this afternoon ? what is this Life that comes ?\nThe Shadow of the Lord — the Hand of the Lord\nMakes Shadow of our lives.\nThe door opened. — Customer ?. . . Herbert knows her. His teacher!\n\" This .. . Mr. and Mrs. Rabinowich ? Good day. I am Miss Klaar. I\nam Herbert's teacher. \"\nA tall thin woman, gold hair waving away from a prim hat, bright girl\ncheeks, a resolute chin. . . came into the soiled brown store. She stood stiff and\nhigh, propped faintly against these two little lives who looked at her in passive-\nness, waiting her word. She picked the mother.\n\" May I speak to one of you ? \" she said.\nHerbert pawed her hand, pounded his head against her waist : her white\nhands were easeless to fend him off.\nShe placed his blackness aside. Lotte led her into a back room silent.\nThere was no word — she is Herbert's teacher ! . . . There is in this afternoon\na Life and it comes ! . . . The door closed, She, Herbert's teacher, held the sense\nof the little man and of the boy behind her, living, filling a world of their own,\nnot her world :• what did she know of these worlds whose sons like shoots of an\nalien earth sat under her desk, drank her words ?\nThis mother : — This is hard work.\nLotte brought her a chair, close where she stood. Lotte stood, in a bed-\nroom. Miss Klaar felt a low specked ceiling, an iron bed so clean, scrubbed\nfloor, a window grated pouring grey dim against a glow in the room that had\nno kinship with the harsh red paint of the bureau. It was about her, this world\nshe invaded — she and grey dim through a grated window — upon authority\nthat seemed profane to her. — I feel like a heathen. . . She plunged, not letcing\nthe glow of this meek strong creature in black impinge too deep on what she\nknew was her duty.\n\" Mrs. Rabinowich, I came to speak to you about your son.\n\" Thank you, Miss Klaar. \"\n\" Won't you sit down, too ? \"\nLotte sat on the bed's edge — there was no other chair — with a stern grace\n\" How do you find your son, Mrs. Rabinowich ? \"\n\" Why — I do not — I — what do you mean, Miss Klaar ? \"\n\"Heis a good-hearted boy. We all love him in his Class. But he does\nreprehensible things. I feel I must tell you. \""}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "257", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2233, "texte": "\" He is not good at his lessons ? \"\nWorse than that. He is unruly. He does not obey the simplest order\nHe has been dirty, Mrs. Rabinowich — \"\nThere was silence.\nHe does not seem quite to understand what — what one might expect\na boy of twelve, with a good upbringing — \" she stopped. \" — I know, seeing\nyou — that his upbringing must be good —\nNo, no. . . lam not — very *— Miss Klaar — very intelligent. \"\n\"You know he was left back, last year ... lam fond of Herbert... But I\nfeel, Mrs. Rabinowich ... I should long ago have reported him to the Board\nTell me. . . What have I done wrong ? ' *\n\" Nothing, I am sure, Mrs. Rabinowich. \"\n\" Why report him ? What is there to tell ? Tell me ... \"\n... It is the rule, that when a child does not seem to fit in the regular\ngraded Class, Mrs. Rabinowich. . . that the Authorities should examine him,\nin order to find out where he does fit.\n\" Where does he fit ? . . down ? \"\n\" No, I don't think so . . . Not just a lower grade. \"\nIyOtte feared : \" I do not understand, Miss Klaar. \"\n\" course ! Now all this will be managed by someone who does. I have\nmade an appointment for you, Mrs. Rabinowich. \" She took a card from her\npurse, she was smiling under her prim seriousness : \" — It is over ! Here, you\nmust report here, at five. This afternoon. Dr. Finney. I do not know\nDr. Finney, but he I am sure will help you — will tell us more about — about\nwhat is the matter with Herbert. If anything '*\nShe was up. held the card in trembling fingers.\n\"Do not forget; this afternoon at five. This afternoon. It is a Board\nof Education appointment. He expects Herbert. .. \"\nShe walked through the shut world of the store with her shoulders thrust-\ning. She moved as through a sea toward air — strained for the street. She\nthrew up her eyes, took in once more the air of her own world. — This is hard\nwork ! . . .\nLotte was there with a shawl over her head.\n\" Isidor, I must take Herbert. . . down by 59th Street. The teacher. .. \"\nShe stopped. Isidor's eyes were high, shut away, above clasped small\nhands. He prayed. She waited, watching his shut eyes. His eyes were still,\nbeyond swaying head, mumbling lips.\nHe came forth from the counter : \" We go together. . . I close up. \"\nShe made no reply."}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "258", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2398, "texte": "They walked up the street with the low sun red in their eyes. The boy\nleaped ahead, lounged behind. He was glad. Adventure to be so walking\nthrough the streets with mother and father. Both ! A blue car scraped to a\nstandstill — for them !\nThe car lurched them on. A stress of fateful purpose in the lurch forth\nof the car that for them had scraped to a standstill: in the outlay of fifteen cents :\nin the fact that Schul would be missed.\nThe' City rose in hard high words. Each building was a word, each street\nthey swept by was an accent in the ruthless wording of fate, their fate, as they\nmoved Southward into knowledge. The City was a sentence, harsh, staccato,\nin an alien tongue.\nLotte clasped Herbert's hand.\n\" Come now, darling. Quiet, yes ? \"\nThey rose on stone steps.\nThe hall was a cold silence to which their feet spoke fearfully.\nBright plastered walls gashed long against the blood of Lotte moving\ntoward Dr. Finney. She felt beyond the head of her child — he was a\nblotch — her man, beating with her, moving with her inevitably one, as\nthough the silence of the world were a rein that bound them, drove them\ntogether.\nThey sat in bright varnished chairs in a room of gloom.\nHerbert was a black blotch before Lotte full of the glow of her son. A big\nman stood — bright against Herbert and her little man clasping his hat: a\nstroke from top to nadir against the glow of her son. A round red face, yellow\nhair sparse, gold chain laid on a blanched vest .. . took Herbert away. The\ndoor shut. . .\nThey sat viced in the fixity of waiting. Their being there, still in the room,\nmade them one with the room : they and the room moved onward to a real thing\nshe could not yet see. Time was unreal, waiting was unreal. They moved\nover a sharp horizon.\nLotte sat in this room with her man : and her child beyond under the cold\nclear eyes of a strange Doctor. But she sat waiting no new being, she felt how\nall of the world was about her like her flesh: how it swung ahead into cer-\ntainty. She could not pray. She could not feel the need of prayer. God\nwas about her in the certainty of life. ♦ . like her flesh. God was of her sitting\nthere and moving there toward the words of knowledge she was soon to\nreceive.\nThe words that she approached, the harsh syllables of the City she had\nmoved across, her son and God were one in an immobile ecstacy she, moving\nforward, limned and partook of. . ."}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "259", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2573, "texte": "He stepped into them alone — above wide vest, within wide face, eyes\nlittle and blue, cold and impatient.\nWords came — his words — words from a Doctor who knows — Words\nfor my heart, of my son. Words born of God within cloud of her life. — listen,\nthese words, lay them hot and cold in my open heart which the Sun has opened.\n\" I suppose, \" he looked down at a card, \" Miss Klaar, I suppose, has pre-\npared you for what there can be no doubt 0f... No doubt of, my dear people..\nHe looked at them. — The world is one, these words of a world that is\none . . . His eyes danced blue against the fixity of the room that was theirs.\n\" There is no doubt, my friends, your son is not only backward, very backward,\nwill never be anything else ... You see how he is now. Do you ? His body\nwill grow big .. . He is healthy alright. You feed him — too wisely. — Well,\nhe will always act just about as he acts now. No use concealing that... Be just\nas childish and foolish — stupid — as he is today . . . There are things he can\nlearn. . . Not what he is taught where he is now. We'll have him placed in\nanother Class where he belongs — with others like him. Lots others like him,\nmy good woman .. . where he can learn to use his hands. Some crude simple\njob. Never fear, there'll be work always... crude work of the hands... drawers of\nwater, hewers of wood ? we need'em I guess ... he will be able to do. No more. \"\nHis eyes stopped dancing beyond the two dark figures, they fixed on the\nwoman. . . \" No more, \" his lips pushed out again, to her. The blue eyes gleamed,\nstruck her black calm, came back, tremoring, screaming, within him. His face\npaled. He turned.\nHe flung wide the door, joined their flesh to the two dark figures.\n\" Here !\" He gave the boy. \" Good evening. \"\nHe tried to break the daze he felt in his clear rooms. — Clear rooms,\nmy rooms, clear . . . what's this ? \" Remember ! here's his address . . . the new\nschool. Prepare yourselves- to seeing his body grow big. . . bigger than\nyours .. . America .. . and his mind stay childish. Goodnight. \"\nHis hand sucked out, clasped the hand of L,otte who stood.\nHe held her hand. There were no woids in the world. He felt behind\nthe daze of his clear room a stream of strength moving resistless toward him\nfrom this woman, toward daze in himself.\n3.\nThe Sun was gone behind the Westward city. It cast its radiance upon\nthe sky, and the sky was a fused clearness over their heads as they walked.\nGentle and warm sinking into night was the sky above city. Houses, dying\nin shadow fusing with sky, stood like words spoken."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "260", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 423, "texte": "\" We will walk home, Isidor. \"\n\" Ain't we goin' to take the car ? \"\n\" No, son. There's no hurry. Taking the car costs money. \"\nHerbert leaped ahead, lounged behind their black bent calm, glad of this\nadventure of moving through the city, far from home, with mother and father.\nBoth!\nThey walked slow, they walked still. . . within the glow of the day. A\nconstant measure they were before and behind their son.\n\nWaldo Frank."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "261", "page_fin": "262", "image_debut": 71, "image_fin": 72, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "Perspiration", "titre_sommaire": "Perspiration", "signature_source": "Alfred Kreymborg", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "261", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 673, "texte": "Perspiration.\nThe poor dear\nlooked dreadfully bored\n(unless his monocle lied)\nas he sat there\nwith his hat upon his head\nstriped blue collar round his neck\npearl gray jacket round his torso\nyellow flannels round his legs\nolive spats upon his feet:\nso he sipped his thin liquer\nor puffed spirals from his pipe\nthe while his naked eye\nroamed ever so wistfully\nacross di Como :\nbeautiful, yes,\na sheet of serenity,\nthe surrounding mountains\nvoluptuous indeed,\nyes, but what use is a body\nthat's carved out of stone\nand invitations\nwhose speech is so silent,\nand life such as this\nenough of a dullness\nwith nothing to do\nits whole length and breadth\nexcept to yawn and to yearn"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "262", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 487, "texte": "for London far away\nwhere at least there are streets\nand something going on\nand a soul or two to chat with,\nand the women who accost you\nuse a tongue that's civilized :\nso what's a chap to do\nwhen his energy is low\nwith his spats upon his feet\nyellow flannels round his legs\npearl gray jacket round his torso\nstriped blue collar round his neck\nand his head beneath his hat:\nexcept perhaps tenderly\nto remove the last article\nand caress his troubled brow\nwith a languid\ncambric kerchief ?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "262", "page_fin": "263", "image_debut": 72, "image_fin": 73, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "Dawn", "titre_sommaire": "Dawn", "signature_source": "Alfred Kreymborg", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "262", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 489, "fin_caractere_exclue": 761, "texte": "Dawn.\n\nThe languourous thighs of the morning\nstretch themselves in sleep,\nand one eye just peers\nover the edge of white comforters,,\nvaguely to discover\nthe paramour flown,\nwithout plea of leave-taking\nor hypocritical excuse,\nto the Orient,\nas the fellow's shadow betrays:"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "263", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 185, "texte": "whither,\nwith an irate mien\nand thighs sprouting wings\nshe pursues him :\nfor,\nonce you've had them,\nthey're no longer backward.,\nthe women who forget they were ladies\n\nAlfred Kreymborg."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "264", "page_fin": "264", "image_debut": 74, "image_fin": 74, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "Painting", "titre_sommaire": "Painting", "signature_source": "Juan Gris", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "264", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 52, "texte": "Juan Gris.\nCourtesy Galerie Simon — Paris.\nPainting."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "265", "page_fin": "267", "image_debut": 75, "image_fin": 77, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "Profound Today", "titre_sommaire": "Profound Today", "signature_source": "Blaise Cendrars ; H. A. L.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "265", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2461, "texte": "PROFOUND TODAY.\n\nI no longer know whether I regard the starry heavens with my eyes or\nif I look at a drop of water thru a microscope. Since the beginning of his spe-\ncies the horse moves, pliable and geometric. Already the machines overtake\nhim, go beyond him. The locomotives prance, and the steamboats neigh upon\nthe water. Never has a typewriter made a mistake in etymological orthogra-\nphy, while the savant stammers, chews his words, breaks his teeth on ancient\nconsonants. When I think, all my senses are kindled, and I wish to violate all\nbeings. And when I release my instinct of destruction I find the triangle of\na metaphysical solution. Inexhaustible coal pits ! Cosmogonies live again\nin the trademarks. Extravagant signs over the city, multi-colored, with the\nribbon of the trams climbing the avenue, howling monkeys holding each other\nby the tail and the incendiary orchids of architecture which collapse from above\nand kill them. In the air the virgin cry of the trolleys. medium is as\nwell trained as the stallion of an Indian chief. It obeys the slightest beck.\nPressure of a finger. A jet of steam sets the piston going. Copper wire makes\na frogs leg somersault. Everything is becoming sensitized. Is within reach\nof the eyes. Nearly touches one. Where is Man ? The gesture of the infus-\noria is more tragic than the story of a woman's heart. The life of the plants\nmore stirring than a police drama. The movement of the muscles of the back\nin action is a ballet; this square of goods should be set to music and that jar\nof preserves is a poem of ingenuousness. Everything changes, proportions,\nangles, aspects. Everything recedes, approaches, cumulates, miscarries, laughs,\nbecomes accentuated and exaggerated. Produce, from five parts of the globe,\nis united on the same plate, in the same dress. One feeds on the sweat of gold, •\nat each meal, at each kiss. Everything is artificial. . The eyes, the hand. The\ngreat fur of figures on which I keep the bank. The sexual frenzy of the facto-\nries. The wheel which turns. The wing which flies. The voice which travels\nfar, on a wire. Your ear in a trumpet. Your sense of direction. Your rhythm.\nYou melt the world in the mold of your skull. Your brain is hollow. Unsus-\npected depth in which you cull the mighty flower of explosives. Like a reli-\ngion, a mysterious pill hastens digestion. You lose yourself in the laby-\nrinth of the stores where you give up your entity to become everyone. You"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "266", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3017, "texte": "smoke with Mr. Bock the Havana at twenty-five cents, which is on the poster.\nYou are part of that great anonymous body which is a cafe. Ino longer recog-\nnize myself in the mirror. Alcohol has clouded my features. He marries\nthe department store like the first comer. We are all the hour which strikes.\nYou hurl yourself at the menagerie of the railroad stations to tame the beast\nof your impatience. They depart. They disperse. Fireworks in all direc-\ntions. The capitals of Europe are in the trajectory of their inertia. A ter-\nrific whistle plows up the continent. The countries across the sea lie in the net.\nHere is Egypt on a camel. Go to Engadine for your winter sports. Read\nthe Golf Hotels in the palm trees. Think of 400 windows in sunlight. One\nunfolds the horizons of the timetabled and one dreams himself on Southern lies.\nRomanticism. The flags of the landscape float over the doors while from the\ngarland of the train fall flowers which take root and name, forgotten villages.\nThe removals kneeling in the accordeon of the sky across the telescoped voices.\nThe most blase go the farthest. Immovable. Entire days. Like Socrates.\nWith an activity in its head. The Eiffel Tower comes and goes, from the summit.\nThe sun, a cloud, a trifle suffices to lengthen, to shorten it. The steel bridges\nare all mysterious and sensitive. Watches set themselves. From all sides\nthe transatlantics advance toward their connections. Then the semaphore\nmakes a sign. A blue eye opens. A red one shuts. All is soon but colour,\ninterpenetration. Disc. Rhythm. Dance. Orange and violet eat each other.\nCheckerboard of the port. In each hut is piled up that which you have won\nin inventing the game, Doctor Palamede. Steam shovels open their buckets\nof thunder. Pellmell. The Orient. The Occident. The South. The North.\nEverything struts on the wharfs while the lion of the sky strangles the cows\nof the twilight. There are cargoes of fruits on the earth and on the roofs. Casks\nof fire. Of cinnamon. European women are like submarine flowers before\nthe violent labour of the longshoremen and the dark red apotheosis of the\nmachines. One receives a trolley car on the chest. An automobile on the\nback. A trap door opens under foot. One has a tunnel in his eyes. One rises\nto the fifteenth floor drawn by the hair. All this while smoking a pipe with\nhands at the faucets — hot water — cold water — one dreams of the wife\nof the captain whose knee one will nudge under the table a little later. Gol-\nden teeth, her smiles and her accent are charming. And then one lets himself\nslide to dinner. Tongues are stuffed. We must make many grimaces in order\nto understand each other. Must gesticulate and laugh very loudly. Madame\nwipes her mouth with the corner of her napkin. Zephyr Beef ; Eureka Coffee.\nPimodan or Pamodan. In my rocking chair, lam like a negro fetich, angular,\nunder the heraldic electricity. The orchestra plays Louise. I amuse myself\nby piercing thru and thru with a pin this fat body which floats at the level"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "267", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2636, "texte": "of my eyes. Diver, in the smoke of my cigar, alone, I listen to the dying of\nthe sentimental music which causes my helmet to reverberate. My soles of\nlead hold me up and I advance slow, grotesque, pinched at the joints and bend\nwith difficulty over the swamp-life of woman. Your eye, sea horse, vibrates-,\nmarks a comma and passes by. Between two waters, the sex, bushy, compli-\ncated, unusual. The cuttle fish squirts me with his cloud of ink in which I\ndisappear like an aviator. I hear the motor of the waters, the forging of the\nleaches. A thousand suction pores function, secreting lodine. The skin be-\ncomes gelatinous, transparent, irridescent like the flesh of an anemone. The\ncenters of sensitiveness become polarized. Independence of all the functions.\nThe eye strains to touch ; the back eats ; the finger sees. Clusters of grassy\narms undulate. Sponge of the depths, the brain breathes gently. The thighs\nremember and make the movements of fins. The storm tears out your tonsils.\nA cry passes thru you like the shadow of an iceberg. It congeals and disjoins.\nYour being reassembles with difficulty. Hunger draws together the scattered\nlimbs and groups them around the vacuum which is now the belly. The body\nassumes the uniform of its weight. The spirit, scattered everywhere, concen-\ntrates in the cockade of the consciousness. lam man. You are woman. Good-\nbye. Each regains his room. There are shoes before the door, not to confuse\nthem. Mine are yellow. The boy waits for his tip. I give him the egu of my\ncoat-of-arms. I -have forgotten to sleep. My glottis moves. This attempt\nat suicide is regicide. I am impaled on my sensibility. The dogs of night\ncome to lick the black blood which trickles down my legs. They make light\nfrom it. The silence is such that one hears the spring of the universe coiling\nitself. A sudden click, everything is larger by a notch. It is today. Beautiful\nhorse foaming. Sicknesses rise to the skies like stars on the horizon. And\nhere is Betelgueuse who is mistress of the seventh house. Believe me, all is\nclear, ordered, simple and natural. The mineral breathes, the vegetable eats,\nthe animal feels. Man is crystallized. Prodigious today. Plummet. Yard\narm. Door. Face. Whirlwind. • You live. Eccentric. In the integral solitude.\nIn the anonymous communion. With all that which is root and summit and\nwhich palpitates, unites, enthuses. Phenomena of this congenital halucination\nwhich is life in all its manifestations and the continuous activity of consciousness.\nThe motor turns in spirals. The rhythm speaks. Chemistry. You are. Pro-\nfound today.\n\nFrom the French of\nBlaise Cendrars."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "268", "page_fin": "278", "image_debut": 78, "image_fin": 88, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.28", "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": 78, "page_imprimee": "268", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 8, "texte": "PROTEUS."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "268", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 24, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1533, "texte": "SCENE 11.\nThe Repast of the Seai,s.\nMUSIC.\nThe platform turns revealing another part of the isle. Proteus is discovered,\nquite naked, in a bathtub with convex bottom in which he teeters back and forth.\nThe tap is replaced by a stopper. He is very fat and hairy. A rather meagre-\nwhite beard, pointed ears. Shiny bald head with a few scattered hairs. Over his\neyes automobile goggles. Beside him are six tobacco plants in pots.\nIn front of him is an osier-basket, filled with fish, which he is throwing to his\nseals. Fish and seals may be replaced by the imagination of the spectators, or by\nmusic.\n\\\nProteus.\nCot, cot, cot, cot, cot ! Here, my sheep ! Here, my little chickens !\nCot, cot, cot !\n[The round heads of seals appear here and there in\nthe sea).\nAre we all here ? One, two, three, four, six, eight, eleven, twelve.\nThirteen ! The tale is complete !\nTo which goes the codfish, to which the conger, to which the red surmullet,\nto which the halibut steak ? Cot, cot, cot! To which this lovely shad.\n(Tumult, battle, flocking, foam, leaps of the seals which\nthrow themselves from the summits of the crags into water\nof snow and turquoise. Braying, trumpeting, thumpings\nof tails, and fins. All this is expressed by the music).\nHere, Moustache ! heave yourself up on your tusks ! we are young no\nlonger, my Jumbo. Here take this devil-fish. It won't frighten you !\nAnd you, Otarys, my little one come to seize this splendid dab. To look\nabout a little, walk on your upper fins diminutive like pantaloons."}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "269", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1378, "texte": "(Otarys takes the fish from his fingers).\nWho gets the fry ?\n(With both hands he sowslittle fishes. Flocking of\nseals).\nHere s yours, Rhesus ! Here s yours, Gorgo ! and you, the littlest one,\nwhat is the matter that you should bray there like an ass. Catch, my little\nbarrel!\n(New distribution of fish. Flocking of seals).\nlou, the basket is empty.\nAnd now for serious things, to work! to work !\nWhat is the quotient, Moustache, of five ten hundred thousandths divided\nby 123 ?\nYou do not know ? Work it out, and give me the answer later.\nAnd you, Tambour, you are going to add for me 3.977 and 7.896.\nAnd you, Gorgo, if you please, extract the cube root of 27.\nGo, you have something wherewith to amuse yourselves.\n(He bloivs into a conch).\nWillowithe ! Willowithe !\n(Enter Wiixowithe) .\n(MenblvAUS is seen stealthily approaching, gliding be-\nhind the rocks, still holding Hei,En by the hand. Then\nfastens her with a cord to a rock behind which he hides\nhimself).\nWilderwithe.\nWhat does Monseigneur desire ?\nProteus.\nOh, what politeness today. This the language of the courts !\nGo and get me my basin to wash my hands.\nMy Chinese basin, the rose-colored one, the one with the mao-pings I\nAnd see that the water is very hot.\n(She goes out and returns bringing half a basin which\nshe puts under his chin).\nProteus, blowing and spluttering in the basin.\nBou ! Bou ! Bou !\n(Music)."}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "270", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1300, "texte": "The annoying thing [is this /that I can only have odd dishes. One here,\nanother there, never a service complete.\n(He dries himself).\nWnjvOWITHE.\nA capable housekeeper, now, would be more useful to you than a poor Sa-\ntyr ess.\nShe would re-embroider all this with your monogram.\nProteus, scrutinizing himself in a dented mirror that she hold,s for him.\nYes indeed ! Yes indeed ! Yes indeed !\nWnxowiTHE.\nYou have promised to let me go, some day, if I am good.\nProteus.\nYes indeed. — Remove the brick.\n[She takes out the brick that warms the bath. He\nteeters with evident satisfaction).\nWIEEO WITHE.\nI and the rest of the two-footed animals, my companions.\nProteus, winking.\nAnd what about Menelaus.\nWielowithe.\nWhat Menelaus ?\n(Proteus winks and indicates, with a little movement,\nthe rock behind which MENEEAUS is hidden).\nWIEEOWITHB.\nI don't know what you mean.\nProteus, in guarded tones.\nHe is lying in wait for us behind that rock.\nWiixowithe, throwing herself at his feet.\nYou know everything, master. One cannot hide anything from you.\nProteus.\nTake care not to break my basin! It has ac rack that troubles me greatly.\nWieeo withe.\nYes, I will tell you all.\n(Meneeaus sticks out his head, she motions to him\nto hide himself).\nBut first. . .\n(She draws a comb from her girdle and combs his\nbeard)."}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "271", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1392, "texte": "Let me pass the comb through your whiskers a while, for you are a sight\nto see, with that beard all tangled and full of sand.\nAh, old wrecker of ships.\nSay, is there no device that will keep you safe at home when the sea is filled\nwith madness.\nAnd dances with nodding plumes in the Thracian wind, its lanterns all\nalight.\n(Ah, it is a pleasant change after the stifling breezes from Libyan sands and\none fills one's lungs with air).\nI take it that it must needs be you that the poor devils who go to the bottom\nLast see on the crest of a wave, old bather !\nDancing mid wrecks and corpses as insubmersible as a bottle !\nProteus.\nTrim my hair a trifle.\nWieeo withe.\nBut there's no hair to trim ! Scarce five or six impalpable filaments. It\nis embroidery scissors that I need.\nProteus.\nNo matter ! This sound of snipping about my head procures me pleasant\nillusions.\nSuch, in the month of June the peddlar who falls asleep to the sound of\nswishing scythes in the lushy meadows.\nWieeowithe, waving the shears about his head.\nI love you much, little Proteus of my heart.\nProteus.\nSame here.\nWHjvOwithe, same business.\nYou do not believe me, this causes me much pain.\nProteus.\nI believe you, Willowithe.\nWIELO WITHE.\nAh, you are so good, so simple, so delicate.\nProteus.\nPerfectly true.\nWieeo withe.\nSo quaint, so original! That fish-tale, what an idea !\nProteus.\nIsn't it ?\nWIEEO withe.\nSo rich !"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "272", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1654, "texte": "Proteus.\nYes indeed.\nWiixowithe.\nYou love the fine arts so much ! That collection of yours, there isn't\nanother like it in all the Aegean Sea.\nProteus.\nIt is this, is it not, on which Menelaus counts to repair his little boat ?\nWiixowthe.\nDo you want to keep him here ? He'd put everything in confusion in this\nsmall well-ordered isle.\nEven now he wished to ravage you plantation.\nSince he has taken Troy you wouldn't recognize him. He's a savage, a\ntrue devourer.\nProteus.\nAh, sly boots ! Is it not true it was you that instructed him ?\nNever adventurer is shipwrecked on these shores\nBut that you teach him the way to get round old Proteus.\nIn vain I transform myself to lion, dragon, water, fire and fruit-tree.\nNot one of them by any chance lets go his hold in fright and I have to give\nhim whatever he demands,\nAnd I must confess that I find it most fatiguing.\nNot to mention the loss of respectability for a man getting on in years.\nWildly O WITHE.\nThen let me go in peace.\nProteus.\nBah, you see these malicious shifts have'nt done you a bit of good.\nNone of them yet has been true to the vow he made. Hee ! Hee ! Hee !\nThey do not catch me so, I am far too old a fish.\nWlUvO WITHE.\nAnd do you know who it is that Menelaus brought with him, holding her\nby the hand ?\nProteus.\nWho ?\nW IIyEOWITHE.\nYou know everything, Monseigneur, and I can teach you nothing.\nProteus.\nCome, you know well I am just a wretched god of the sixth rank, and hence\nmy copy of Destiny comes to me last, having passed through many hands.\nNothing but little pictures grotesquely defaced on the ribbon !\nAnd in the most interesting places, look you, are people of whom, there"}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "273", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1535, "texte": "remains no more than a hand, or a boot, or perhaps it's the head that's gone, and\nsuddenly there's a gap that's fathoms long. See your portrait there if you can !\nThen be trustful and take a servant-maid who answers to the name of\nWillowithe and who has horns on her head.\nWillowithe.\nYou are proud of it !\nProteus.\nHe ! He ! I don't deny it. Folks would go far to see one of those Nymphs\nof whom one talks so much !\nWillowithe.\nAnd of your herd of Satyrs as well, is it not so ? Tisn't everyone that has\nsuch a galaxy.\nProteus.\nIt's for their own good that I keep them. I mean to teach them morals\nand sanitation.\nThen, too, it amuses me to watch them hopping from rock to rock. It is\npicturesque. It gives the place a more animated air. What a pity, now that\nI haven't got a fountain !\nAh, I'm quite a character, I am, there's nobody else quite like me.\nWiEEO WITHE.\nThen you shall not know who is here with Menelaus.\nProteus.\nThen he can dispense with my teak-wood and my good Phenician cordage.\nWhat a nincompoop 1 He calls himself a sailor, he wishes to sail the seas\nand he couldn't cross the Eurotas in a wash-tub if it should chance to rain !\nWillowithe, softly.\nHelen.\nProteus.\nHelen is with him ?\n(Willowithe nods her head).\nYou have seen her ?\nWillo withe.\nI have seen her.\nProteus.\nAs beautiful as they say ?\nWILLO WITHE.\nAs beautiful. This savage drags her along by the hand.\nProteus, dreamily.\nTen years have passed since, on the stern of the ship that carried her to-\nwards Troy, I saw her floating veil the hue of gold."}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "274", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1340, "texte": "WIIXOWITHE.\nShe is still the same Helen.\nProteus.\nAnd this great fire from which they haled her forth has not bloused her,\nnor marred her beauty ?\nWIIXO WITHE.\nShe is still the same Helen.\nProteus.\nAh, I should like to see her.\nWiixowithe.\nDo wish to possess her ?\nProteus.\nI say tht I'd like to look at her.\nWhxowithe.\nBut it's in your power, my lord, to make her yours, and to look at her\nduring all the days of your life.\nProteus.\nAh, do not persuade to violent acts. I'm too old. My isle is small,\nBut never an old sea-captain owned a cabin that was more precisely or-\ndered and arranged.\nLet the great gods do what they will since all the earth is theirs.\nI have no wish that this rent-free hovel go hurtling through the air.\nWIELO WITHE.\nHelen is very beautiful!\nProteus.\nAnd did she speak to you ?\nWllvlvO WITHE.\nShe is so puffed, up with pride since these things have happened to her\nThat the only words she will speak are \" I am Helen. \"\nProteus.\nAs tranquil as a statue, and living into the bargain ! Exactly what I should\nlike !\nNone of those scenes to be dreaded with her to which you treat me so of-\nten, my little spitfire !\nWILLO WITHE.\nI have dropped a hint to Menelaus of that idiotic tale\nThat they tell in all the isles from Marseilles to Gallipoli\nThat there are two Helens and that the one of Troy was not the\ntrue one."}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "275", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1177, "texte": "Proteus.\nIt is not an idiotic tale, I invented it myself. I never have found a humbug\nmore amusing.\nIt is worth its weight in sea-salt.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nI said to our Menelaus\nThat this Helen whom he has haled from Troy by the hand\nWas false and that the true one was in our custody.\nProteus.\nBravo ! Excellent ! ' Faith, you become a true daughter of the sea.\nWIIX O WITHE •\nBut it only rests with you to transform this lie to truth.\nProteus.\nHow ?\nWiixo withe.\nIt is in your power to retain the true, the only Helen.\nProteus.\nI do not understand.\nWiixo withe .\nI have not told everything to this brutal lout. I have merely informed him\nthat you can deck yourself, with apples of leather between his arms. But\nhe doesn't know that if you look at him without your spectacles, you can make\nhim believe whatever you choose.\nProteus.\nIt is true.\nWily eo withe .\nLet him take your spectacles. Make him see that I am Helen.\nProteus.\nMake him see that you are Helen ?\nHou ! Hou !\nWIEEOWITHE.\nHe will take me away with him.\nProteus.\nHo ! Ho !\nWIIXOWITHE.\nAnd he will leave you the veritable Helen.\nProteus.\nHe ! He !\nWIEEO WITHE.\nAnd I will take away all the Satyrs, my brothers, with me!"}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "276", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.86", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1600, "texte": "Proteus.\nThe deuce ! You go too fast!\nWuxowithe.\nI,et me only have her likeness.\nYou will see if I'm not more Helen than Helen herself.\n% (\nProteus.\nBut he must have already promised you something, eh ?\nWllylyO WITHE.\nA sailor's promises! Ha ! He swears too easily.\nDo you think a sailor troubles himself to take a useless mouth\nThrough gratitude ? Medea and Ariadne, I know their histories !\nThe water supply is small, and that's the whole thing in a nutshell.\n— And he doesn't like my horns.\nProteus.\nDo you flatter yourself that he will take this troop of Satyrs on board his\nship ?\nWiixowithe.\nYou will make him think them my maids, assembly chaste.\nProteus.\nThe Satyrs your chaste maids, Hou! Hou! And why not my seals, pray tell ?\nWiixo withe.\nSay it is beyond your power.\nProteus.\nNothing's beyond my power ! Not even an imbecile's credulity !\nWHrIyOWITHE .\nBe gracious to me, Emperor-of-the-Sea and King-of-all-the-Liars!\nProteus.\nBut Ido not like in the least to lose my Satyrs. Never again could I form\na like collection.\nAll the gods of the sea are envious of my cabinet!\nThere is only Phorcus, indeed, who has mustered up a few poor sailors, com-\npanions of Ulysses,\nAnd all day long they promenade on his hyperborean sands.\nWith their spy-glasses under their arms and their little oil-skin hats.\nIt's not to be classed with such an assemblage as mine.\nEverywhere they are known, true scions of the air !\nWllJyO withe •\nPah, a pack of old stinking sheep, ancient ataxic goats !\nIf you let them drink this mineral water another thirty days they'll be only\nfit for the Ecole des Beaux-Arts."}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "277", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.87", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1207, "texte": "Proteus.\nTa ! Ta ! Ta !\nWIEEO WITHE.\nBut on the other hand, Helen, what a unique possession. What honor\nfor your old age !\nSuch a prize is surely worth more than a flock of half-mangy merinos.\nProteus.\nYou weary me !\nWil,i,owithe, with enthusiasm.\nHelen, one would say, the true, the only Helen !\nProteus.\nBe still! You weary me !\nWiixowithe.\nThe true, the only Helen ! She for whom gods dispute with men ! She\nwho's talked about everywhere !\nShe for whom two hundred thousand men have recently had their throats\ncut. . .\nProteus.\nTwo hundred thousand men, did you say ?\nWIIvEO withe.\nIt is official figure.\nProteus.\nTwo hundred thousand men !\nYou make my mouth, water. Be still!\nWIEEOWITHE.\nW.hat a pearl for your collection !\nI know that Jupiter wants her. There's a place for her in heaven between\nthe stars of the Dioscurides.\nProteus.\nHe shall not have her !\nW 11,1,0 withe, brandishing the shears.\nNo, he shall not have her. It's Proteus all the same, it's the little sixth-\nclass god will prove himself the most cunning !\nProteus.\nYou make me laugh ! Ah well, it shall be as you wish !\nWnxowiTHE, raising her hand.\nYou have promised.\nMeneeaus comes out. of his hiding-place and ad-\nvances, crawling)."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 655, "texte": "Proteus.\nI ,have promised.\nAll the same it will come hard to lose you, Willowithe.\nWiixo withe.\nIt's hard on me, too, my poor old man.\n{She motions to Meneeaus).\nWe understand each other, in spite of every thing. We were so used to\neach other, in spite of every thing We were so used to each other's little\nways !\n(Meneeaus springs and seizes Proteus behind.\nThe bath is upset. Tumult).\nOn ! Boldly ! That's good*! that, catch him below the elbows. Good !\nHold firmly, hold firmly, I tell you ! Do not let him go the old brigand !\nout for Number One. Do not forget! The lion is starting now.\n(The shadow of a lion outlines itself on the drop at\nthe back)."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 677, "fin_caractere_exclue": 745, "texte": "PAUL, Claudel.\n(Translated from the French by John Strong Newberry)."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "279", "page_fin": "284", "image_debut": 89, "image_fin": 94, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "Trinkets", "titre_sommaire": "Trinkets", "signature_source": "Wiliam Saphier", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "279", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.89", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2330, "texte": "TRINKETS\n\nThe old silversmith always found a question in the face of his apprentice,\na boy of sixteen with a load of curly hair and big, brown eyes. With his big\neyes and wide open ears, like expectant baskets, the boy gathered every step and\nmove of his master. The shop was his threshold to life and the silversmith his\nguide.\nThe silversmith was tall and thin, the shop long and narrow, full of saints and\nshowcases. It was an adventure to pass from one end of the shop to the other.\nSomething always dropped and broke. A coat alwa}rs ripped, a knee was always\nbruised on such occasions. There seemed to be hundreds of shelves, all loaded\nwith ancient clocks, cheap jewelry, resilvered saints and scratched icons. Every-\nthing covered with dust, placed too high or placed too low. The old man sighed\noften and he sighed loudest whenever he happened to look at the heavily loaded\nshelves. About once a week he would survey the sad and dusty merchandise and\ndecide to dispose of it at a gypsy fair.\nThe apprentice had visions of himself as a salesman at one of these fairs,\nselling alarm clocks to gypsies in many-colored dresses and silver coins in their\nhair. He could hear their violins, their dancing and quarreling. He remembered\none with a slit skirt walking like a queen through the market place. Besides,\nhe would show the silversmith's wife that he needed no advice every few minutes.\nHe could go to distant places and take care of goods, dispose of them and bring\nback a clear account. She did not seem to realize that he was almost sixteen\nyears old and that he could cross the streets without being told to look out.\nHe knew he would succeed, and prove to his father that he could do more than\ndream. These dreams were as impossible as the rest, he knew that, and he\npassed from them to reality with ease. His most impossible dreams were not\nas strange as the shop and his relation to the old silversmith.\nImpossible dreams have a way of coming true, and one day, an early autumn\nday, rich as a mother and warm as a mother's bosom, the silversmith hired a\nsalesman and ordered his apprentice to go along. He was to have an important\ntask on this expedition, to keep track of expenses and to take care of the money.\nHe received a leather bag and strap for that purpose. These he tied round his\nwaist under his clothes."}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2888, "texte": "On that morning the trees seemed less tall and the silversmith's wife less\nimportant. He made larger steps, and his heels met the ground firmly. A farm\nwagon drawn by two bony horses took them out of town. It seemed the slowest\nwagon on earth, and the boy who sat on top of the bundles, showcases and some\nlumber looked down on the people and horses like the Emperor of India on his\nelephant passing through his cities.\nThe green leaves of young acacia trees hovered over the entire length of the\nboulevard and distributed the spring sunshine in patches on the ground. Bare-\nfooted girls skipped lightly over the ground. The skipping feet played in ac-\ncord with the shadows of the green acacia leaves moved by a breeze. Distant\nsounds were clear and pleasant, and the sparrows seemed important. The air\nwas kind and full of good wishes. Warm waves of it caressed the boy's cheeks.\nHe pitied the people below him and hoped that some day they too might at-\ntain their ultimate hopes.\nThere were five other men on the wagon, all going to the fair. They were\ntogether three days and three nights, but the boy did not know their faces at the\nend of the journey. Their chatter reached him mixed with the sound of hoofs\nand the squeaks of unoiled farm wagon wheels. His eyes and ears were with\nthe gypsies. Perched on his high seat the noises underneath him were in the\nright place, beyond his notice. Like a bird, he was little concerned with the\nimmediate solid things near him,\nThe road was crowded but soon empty. The road became long, the road\nbecame lonely, the road came to life and died away in the distance somewhere\nnear the Danube. Little houses came close to the road to watch the heavy,\nloaded wagon pass. Little houses peeped from behind hills and sometimes whole\nrows would march across the road. At these places the road would sometimes\nwear a stone mask. As the sun sank behind the Carpathian mountains the road\nled to mysterious woods and fields, enormous fields covered with fresh cut\nstacks of corn. At great intervals small lights shone in the distance, and un-\nfamiliar sounds startled him, his heart beating at great speed. Suddenly a sentry\nappeared with gun and bayonet marching from one end of a field to the other.\nThis vision appeared between stacks of corn and made his eyes dilate with fear.\nHe dared not breathe. He looked for the other men on the wagon, but they\nwere all asleep, including the driver. The horses walked on slowly to the desti-\nnation. The sentry yawned loudly. This tranquility soothed the boy's nerves,\nbut he sat up staring through the darkness until the sentry was far behind and\nthe sound of his healthy boots died away.\nSoon they came to what seemed, at a distance, a lighted hole in the ground\nnear the road. It was a low built shog, made of clay and straw. No door, no\nwindows. Evidently open, day and night. Wine and dried meats were the"}, {"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.91", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2942, "texte": "main merchandise. A few rough benches and tables, two oil lamps, completed\nthe furniture. In one corner two heavy peasants slept with their shirts open,\ntheir bare chests close to the black earth. Their garments and skins were like\nthe earth. The earth seemed to breathe through them, the earth was blossom-\ning forth into animal life on this very spot near these benches. The soil as-\nsumed human shapes and activities, breathing, snoring and twitching. . These\ntwo sons of the soil loved their mother.\nThe shopkeeper was clumsy all over, except his eyes. The horses stopped\nmechanically in front of this tavern, and the sleeping five jumped from the wagon\nalmost before it stopped, wide awake and hungry. Cheese, sausage and wine,\nsome stale bread, were spread over the table. Red peppers were the only vege-\ntables served. No dishes, forks or spoons but sharp knives. The salesman of-\nfered wine to the boy more than once, but he refused. He disliked and distrust-\ned the man. The silversmith had warned him against the salesman.\nAll slept for a few hours with heads on folded arms on the table. The boy\nkept watch. He could not sleep. The wagon outside the door held what\nseemed to him a fortune. It was all instrusted to him. He would have to\naccount for every trinket in the cases, and he meant to return with a clean\naccount.\nEarly in the morning they started again, over a flat, monotonous country.\nExhausted from the night's watch, the boy slept hours at a time on top of the\nbundles. He ate little during that day, and kept his eyes on the horizon, a flat,\nunpromising line. The day passed, leaving a heavy weight on the boy's body.\nLate that evening they stopped in front of a convent and after long negotiation\nthrough a hole in the gate, they were admitted. The air was cooler inside its\nwalls. Stone walls with pale faces and pale faces with stony expressions. The\nwhole place was full of black shawls moving constantly and silently. Walking\nblack shawls, candles, sighs, lanterns, bells, prayers and all kinds of queer sounds\nkept the night alive. The boy slept on the wagon, he would not depart from\nthe showcases. The men slept in the stables. They left early.\nThe next day they reached the small town, on a wide and shallow river. Gyp-\nsies, horses and girls filled the main thoroughfare. Horses by the hundreds,\nby the thousands, by the millions, the boy had never seen so many horses in his\nlife. The most dilapidated, hungry and bony horses imaginable. They all\nseemed unfinished attempts. Thin necks, short necks, hanging necks, holding\nup or down sorrowful looking heads. Big bellies, narrow chests. Limping,\nsneezing creatures, some of them covered with sores and blind. The best look-\ning things present were the whips, carefully braided and tipped. These were to\nturn those half dead, worn-out animals into prancing steeds or into steady\nhardworking draft horses. Most of the owners were barefooted, but their horses"}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.92", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2999, "texte": "had new shoes on. There seemed to be no money anywhere, but a lot of noise.\nEverybody had something to sell, and no one had money to buy. An enormous\nbarrel filled with a light kind of brandy on a wagon pulled by two fine looking\noxen stopped in the middle of the camp, a dozen gypsy musicians lined up on one\nside, and soon all attempts at trading stopped.\nThe boy ate and slept the whole week near the showcases. More than half\nthe merchandise was sold. The bag round the boy's waist was bulging, and he\nbought secretly a long, sharp knife, formed like a dagger. He avoided thinking\nabout the reason for this action. He felt secure with the blade in his pocket-\nThe salesman was too friendly and the boy disliked him more than ever. In\nspite of this the older men managed to induce him to visit another fair. It\nwas on their way home, not far from the home town. Here was a chance to get\nrid of the rest of the trinkets, and the boy, gripping his knife tightly, said yes-\nThe second fair was in full swing when they arrived, and things were moving\nfast. The salesman seemed to know everyone in this place. Here things seemed\nmore orderly, and the people well-to-do. Some of the horses even yawned. The\nwhole day passed pleasantly, but one of the gypsies looked east and predicted a\nstorm. It came before sun set. The sky turned black; a few large drops driven by\na strong wind announced a heavy rain. All packed things away and ran for\nshelter. The boy stuck to the heavy showcases until he got wet. The wind\nand rain turned into a hurricane. It ripped the roofs off the improvised stores.\nThe few watchmen were the last to disappear and they dragged the boy with\nthem to a nearby wineroom. The place was overcrowded with men and women.\nThere were at least three hundred people in a place that would usually hold less\nthan half that number. The smells were of great variety and intensity and every-\none talked all the time. The boy was squeezed against the window, and kept\nhis nose close to a crack in the windowpane. A tiny current of fresh air came\nin thru the crack and the boy sipped every bit of it. Outside on a huge black sheet\nthe storm threw a zigzag of golden fire. All round the building there seemed to\nbe a black sea. The noise in the wineroom dimmed the thunder, except when it\nwas very near.\nAfter a while everyone seemed drunk, and either asleep or quarreling. The\nlights went out and the boy was forced against the wall in an uncomfortable po-\nsition. His head ached and the noises and odors were most unpleasant. He\nheard sighs that seemed like laughter and laughter that seemed like weeping.\nHe heard snoring, subdued quarrels and the heavy movements of clumsy bo-\ndies. Someone lit a match, a knife flashed thru the air and a horrible shriek\nfollowed. The boy covered his eyes and ears with his fingers and waited in this\nposition for a long time, until things calmed again and everyone seemed to be\nasleep. The black sky became grey and the boy was able to distinguish things"}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.93", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3005, "texte": "at some distance. A wagon passed, the horses knee-deep in water, and several\nmen in the wagon looked anxiously about. One looked exactly like the salesman,\nbut it was too dark to distinguish faces.\nSoon the sun touched the tops of the few remaining trees and the roofs of\nthe taller houses. A light breeze rippled the water that covered the whole ground\noccupied by the fair. Iyittle was left standing. The boy waded thru the water\nlooking for his showcases. He found two boards floating near the place. Some-\none had used an ax ; the lock was intact and held the two boards together.\nOther people too discovered that the storm had had considerable aid in wrecking\nthe place. The silversmith's apprentice felt crushed. He looked for the sales-\nman, but no one had seen him since the storm started.\nIt was a cool, clear, heartless morning, and he realized that he had failed in\nthe first real test. It was senseless to continue living when you knew you could\nnot face a serious situation. It was easy to live in the city, to work, to enjoy\nleisure and even to die ; it was too easy ; but to face the hurricane ... He had\nfailed. He had promised to bring back a clean account of all those superannu-\nated trinkets, alarm clocks and brass bracelets. He looked at his long, dagger-\nlike knife, sighed and decided first to return all the money to the old silversmith\nand afterwards . . . He looked at the knife again and carefully returned it to\nits leather sheath. He looked round for a while and started home on foot with\nthe two boards under his arm. He walked all day gesticulating and sighing.\nFrom time to time his hand would feel the bag tied round his waist. His clothes\nwere wet through and his coat was stiff and heavy. His shoes were full of\nwater and he felt the sharp rocks in the road. There were many of them.\nThe day had passed when the boy came within a few miles of the city. He\nknew the road well and he had forgotten all about the fairs, the salesman and\nthe silversmith. He walked like an automatic toy, changing the boards from\nright to left and feeling for his purse without knowing the reason for his actions.\nHe heard only the gypsy musicians, the night sounds in the cornfields and the hor-\nrible shriek in the tavern. He felt those black shawls walking with lanterns\nbehind him from the convent. The lame horses he had seen appeared one by\none, and soon he heard the shriek again.\nIt was late in the evening when the boy came into the town. The road led\nstraight to the silversmith's house. He made slow progress. The boards were\nheavy, his clothing still wet, but he kept his head straight in the air.\nNow he was marching at the head of a long procession. With two boards,\nonce the sides of a jewelry showcase, under his arm, he walked slowly past the\nreviewing stand occupied by one-eyed kings, artists, and heroes, who were at\npresent disguised as lamp-posts and as houses with lights in them. Behind\nhim at some distance followed stacks of corn, the sentry with his long bayonet,"}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "284", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.94", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 530, "texte": "the windowless and doorless tavern, the million three and four-cornered horses,\nthe gypsy band, the storm, the lightning, while the shriek came regularly to the\nrythm of the musicians.\nLeading this weird procession he reached the silversmith's door. The old\nman was still awake. He looked at the bent and trembling boy, who laid the two\nboards and the bag of money on the table. The silversmith shook his head, put\non his hat and coat, picked up the limp body of the feverish boy in his arms and\ncarried him home.\n\nWILIAM SAPHIER."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "284", "page_fin": "284", "image_debut": 94, "image_fin": 94, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.29.1", "titre_corps": "Drawing", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing", "signature_source": "William Gropper", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "284", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.94", "debut_caractere": 532, "fin_caractere_exclue": 557, "texte": "William Gropper.\nDrawing."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "285", "page_fin": "288", "image_debut": 95, "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "Broomides", "titre_sommaire": "Broomides", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "285", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.95", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2080, "texte": "BROOMIDES.\nThis being our third issue, we are beginning to receive comments on our\nfirst.\nOne of the most distinguished of present-day American poets and critics\nwrites us as follows. He expresses so many of our aims so clearly, and with\nso much less modesty than we would have done had we done it, that we cannot\nresist printing some of his comment, in lieu of an editorial:\n\"I want to congratulate - no, congratulate is not the word - you for the first\nnumber of Broom. You have not only produced an interesting, readable and\nup-to-date periodial, free from irritating assumptions of superiority, free from\namateurish suggestions of half-baked culture, but you have done something\neven better — you have proved that the American spirit is broad enough to\nembrace not France only but Europe, not Europe only but the world. During\nthis past year I have increasingly suffered from the manifest signs displayed\nin other quarters that American culture was trying to limit itself, that New\nYork was trying to ape Oxford, for instance, or Paris. I am glad that you\nhave set your faces against this tendency, being convinced that the only way\nAmerica can save herself, and incidentally, save others, is not by becoming\nFrench or English, but by becoming universal; not by limiting itself, but by\nextending its field to take in the whole planet. What Dostoievsky said was\nthe mission of Russia, to make all men brothers, is now the mission of America.\nIndeed, did not Whitman say the same thing ? I am delighted you have decided\nto speak the universal language of art, instead of the jargon of certain coteries\nin Paris and in London, and I echo the sentiments of Miss Sanders' admirable\narticle :\n' What Europe looks forward to on the part of America is a broadening,\nnot a narrowing; an inclusiveness, not an exclusiveness ; a fertilizing, not a\nsterilizing of the aesthetic field, of art emotion, and cultural perception. '\nI assure you that I shall do everything possible to make your great effort\nbetter known. In the spirit of Melville's motto, yours till the decks are dry, etc. \""}, {"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "286", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.96", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1784, "texte": "One of the most distinguished of present-day English poets and critics\nwrites us to the contrary, and he expresses so many of our fears so clearly,\nand with more bravado than we would have done had we done it, that we can-\nnot resist etc. :\n. \" (i) Size : too large. Fits no book-case.\n(2) Cover : overlaps at the side too much; crinkles uglily.\n(3) Cover design : amusing ; not good as permanent.\n(4) Margins of text: excellent.\n(5) Type : quite good.\n(6) Art contents : most interesting.\n(7) General matter : not interesting enough.\n(8) ' Lake ' rotten.\n(9) Editorial matter : between three stools.\n(10) On the whole : No—yes—no—yes—yes ?—no ? \"\nThis opinion from one of the English contributors to the first issue :\n\" A week ago came your really superb Broom. It is superb. I congra-\ntulate you most heartily on it. Thank the Lord, you have no axe to grind. I\nam very proud to have been associated with the first number. It is a sensuous\npleasue to be printed on such paper. I don't remember a Review which keeps\nthe balance so even between the art and the letters. And there isn't a thing\nin Broom that the veriest adult couldn't understand. \"\nBut to prevent us from ffying too high (as high in fact as the daily Zeppelin\nwhich passes over our heads en route to Naples — it is called \" Esperia \" —\n\" Goddes of Hope \"), an esteemed collaborator brought in a concise letter from\nan artist in Paris :\n\" First copy of Broom has arrived. It is terrible. You must shake\nthem (II faut que vous les secouez). \"\nWe have descended — and the \"Esperia\" continues on her way to Naples.\nOne of our well-wishers in Minnehaha, Minnesota, writes that she has not\nas yet received the first copy, ordered and promised long ago. She concludes,\n\" I wait for it with ten horribly bitten finger nails. \""}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "287", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.97", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2315, "texte": "The literary, painter and music folks have finally discovered our dug-out.\nSo we have one of them per day into tea : a newly established custom. Not\nto put anybody first, except alphabetically, here are the ones so far : Griffin\nBarry, Vernon Bartlett, Alfredo Casella, Blaise Cendrars, Douglas Goldring,\nEdgar A. Mowrer, Mile, feihani, Arthur Sachen, Ardengo Soffici, Ottomar Starke\nand the Ruthenian basso-profundo, Oblomov Uk. Among those who are to\nvisit us soon (so rumour or correspondence hath it )are : Conrad Aiken, Malcolm\nCowley, Marsden Hartley, Sinclair lyewis, Wyndham Lewis, John Rodker, Ralph\nRoeder and a Dalmatian wood-carver whose name has escaped us. We shall\nbe opening a social register. To be reprinted in successive issues of Broom.\nThis is one of the ways of getting into Broom.\nWe have one pleasant item, at least, to impart to those of our friends who\nhave been courageous enough to subscribe so far. Each volume of Broom\nwill be composed of four successive issues. Only four ? But consider the thick-\nness — we had almost said, density — of the four : 386 pages, without index.\nWell, those of our subscribers who wish to bind their first four copies as a vo-\nlume had better begin to let us know at once. We will be able to supply them\nwith a binding of Varese paper and three-quarter leather for the purpose — a\nsample of which will appear in the next issue. The price per binding is three\ndollars. A complete index will go with the copertino. The price for the whole\nbook, i.e., the four issues and binding complete, is six dollars.\nIt is our plan to change the cover design of each issue. Inadvertently, this\nscheme was defeated in the case of our second issue. Broom ordered a new\ncover, and an artist accepted the proposal, and submitted a drawing which was\nOkd. Unhappily, he decided to finish his wood-block in Prague, and al-\nthough he mailed it to us in plenty of time for us to use it, the wood-block is\nstill missing.\nWhile we are 011 this pertinent theme, we want to ask artists everywhere\nto submit to us sketches of cover designs which might prove feasible to lead the\nband-wagon of a particular month. The sketches should be in two colors.\nAnd if possible, send us two or more sketches to choose from. Broom has no\nobjection against running the same artist more than once."}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "288", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1306, "texte": "Why was our second issue delayed in reaching America ? Without delv-\ning into economics or politics, curious topics outside our present ken and pur-\npose, let us try to explain. Just as that issue was on the eve of being realeased\nfrom our printers, Italy's King had a birthday, and 75,000 Fascisti (unless the\nreport was exaggerated) decided to come to Rome from all points of the compass\nfor a conference. Unfortunately, a slight fracas (the details of which have\nnot been made clear to us) ensued at the terminal station, resulting in the death\nof two Communists. Karl}7- the next morning, the eternal city was visited by\nlightning : the entire body of labour struck instantaneously, with the ultimatum\nthat not a single soul would return to the daily routine until the last of the Fa-\nscisti had departed. The city was paralyzed for days, and Broom along with\nit. After a return to normalcy, Broom Number Two was finally released,\ntwo weeks late for the long voyage home. We fervently hope that the faith-\nful, meanwhile, have not consigned their brooms into ash bins, and now place\ntheir reliance on carpet-sweepers. Old fashioned implements have a hard time\nof it in this up-to-the-minute age. But as art always lags behind or leaps ahead\nof the moment, too much must not be expected of a mere broom."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "288", "page_fin": "288", "image_debut": 98, "image_fin": 98, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.2.31", "titre_corps": "Last Wishes", "titre_sommaire": "Last Wishes", "signature_source": "John Gould Fletcher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "288", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 1308, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1477, "texte": "LAST WISHES.\nJohn Gould Fletcher.\nBury me not too deep,\nBut dig for me a shallow grave,\nThat I may hear men say : \" The old plum tree by the wall\nHas started blooming. \""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-01-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[289]", "page_fin": "[289]", "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=bmtnaap192201-01.2.32", "titre_corps": "SOME COMMENTS ON INITIAL ISSUE.", "titre_sommaire": "SOME COMMENTS ON INITIAL ISSUE.", "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": "[289]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.99", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1953, "texte": "SOME COMMENTS ON INITIAL ISSUE.\nNEW YORK TIMES: ' There can be no doubt about the potentialities of\nBroom. Ti-ie Editors should be qualified, equally by inclination andability,\nto steer Broom aeong the more or less perilous path, that it proposes to\ntread. Its first number sharpens the appetite for more of the same kind. '\nCARE SANDBURG : ' The Broom is clean as an airplane propellor and\nlooks LIKE a room swept and garnished — WITH A couple of dirty corners.\nWhimsical, strong, a breath. I kick myself because I am not an Abou Ben\nAdhem on its roll call and roster of the blessed. Sweep, Kid, sweep 'em\nclean .'\nVAN WYCK BROOKS IN THE FREEMAN : ' They have maintained an\nALMOST UNIFORMLY HIGH STANDARD IN THE CONTRIBUTIONS. AND A MAGAZINE\nTHAT IS ABLE TO OBTAIN EXCELLENT WORK FROM WRITERS WHOSE WORK IS NOT\nALWAYS EXCELLENT HAS GREATER POWER IN RESERVE THAN ONE THAT DEPENDS\nONLY ON THE DEPENDABLE. IF THERE IS ANYTHING IN IT THAT PARTICULARLY\nPLEASES ME, IT IS THE NOTE OF CATHOLICITY AND INCLUSIVENESS. . . THIS EEAGUE\nOf Nations in Rome has already accomplished something creditable —\nWHICH IS MORE THAN CAN BE SAID FOR THE OTHER LEAGUE AT GENEVA. '\nROBERT FROST : ' You're the sweep, this is the Broom and I could\nWISH THAT I HAD BEEN ONE OF THE SWEEPINGS. IT IS NOTHING ON THE BROOM NOT\nTO HAVE GATHERED ME IN. '\nTHE LITERARY REVIEW : ' The Review is thoroughly international,\nno less than thirteen different countries being represented in ti-ie first\nISSUE. '\nSINCLAIR EEWIS : ' I am very gi,ad to subscribe to Broom, and I en-\nclose check. These are, I suppose, the practical words of praise which\nARE THE MOST COMFORTING TO EDITORS. BROOM SEEMS TO ME, PROM ITS FIRST\nNUMBER, NOT ONLY TO HAVE THE ORIGINALITY FOR WHICH WE HAD HOPED BUT ALSO\nA WORKMANLIKE SOLIDITY WHICH PROMISES THAT IT WILL GO ON, GROW, BE SIGNI-\nFICANT. I return to my first words, I ENCLOSE CHECK, and I hope that\nA GOOD MANY THOUSANDS WILL ECHO THAT PARTICULAR PHRASE. '"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[192]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn International Magazine of the Arts Fubeished by Americans in Itaey\nEditors, Haroed A. Loeb, Aefred Kreymborg — Associate Editor, Giuseppe Prezzoeini\nJANUARY, 1-922\nVOI,. I, No. 3.\nThe Editors of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to them, but all mss. must\nbe accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped \"envelope. The Editors cannot hold themselves\nresponsible for loss of mss. in transit.\nMss. from Europe should be sent to the Rome office; mss. from America to the New York office.\nThe price of Broom is :\nFor America, fifty cents the copy, and five dollars for a year's subscription. For Italy,\n10 lire the copy, and 100 lire for a year's subscription. For France, 6 francs the copy, and 60 fiancs\nfor a year's subscription. For Great Britain, 3/6 the copy, and one pound and fifteen shillings\nfor a year's subscription.\nThe contents of this issue are protected by copyright, January, 1922. Infringement of same\nwill be prosecuted.\nHeadquarters, 18, Trinita dei Monti, Rome (6), Itaey.\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street.\nLondon Office, Cecie Paemer, Oakeey House, 15-18 Bloomsbury St., W. C. I.\n\nPage\nCover Design (Woodcut) — Fernand Leger\nSnakes, Mongooses, Snake-Charmers and the Like — Marianne Moore 193\nTragic Mask — Gordon Craig 194\nDedicated to the Enemy — Gordon Craig 195\nMask For Sea-Captain — Gordon Craig 200\nProse Poems — John Goued Feetcher 207\nIf You Had three Husbands — Gertrude Stein 211\nTwo Paintings — Raoue Dufy 216\nLady of Sorrows — Shireey L. Seifert. . 218\nStiee Life — Ardengo Soffici . . 225\nChateau De Soupir : 1917 — Maecoem Co wee y 226\nSomething Teees — David Rosenthae . : 228\nThe Jack of Diamonds — Eeie Ehrenbourg (Trans, by H. A. I/.) ........ 229\nTwo Drawings of Chareie Chapein — Fernand Leger 232\nGiovanni Papini — Giuseppe Prezzoeini (Trans, by Dorothy Kreymborg) ... 239\nCaricature of Papini — Soffici and Carra 243\nCeoisonn6 — Grace Hazard Conkexng 249\nTwo Poems — Hieda Conkeing 250\nCandy Cigar, and Stationary — Waedo Frank 252\nTwo Poems — Aefred Kreymborg % 261\nPainting — Juan Gris 264\nProfound Today — Beaise Cendrars (Trans. By H, A. L.) 265\nProteus — Paue Ceaudee (Trans, by John Strong Newberry) 268\nTrinkets — Wieeiam Saphier - 279\nDrawing — Wieeiam Gropper 284\nBroomides 285\nPoem — John Goued Feetci-ier - 288"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "193", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.3", "texte": "SNAKES, MONGOOSES,\nSNAKE-CHARMERS AND THE LIKE.\nMarianne Moore.\nI have a friend who would give a price for those long fingers all of one\nlength —\nthose hideous bird's claws, for that rich looking snake and the mon-\ngoose — .\nproducts of the country in which everything is hard work, the country\nof the grass-getter,\nthe torch-bearer, the dog-servant, the message-bearer, the holy-man.\nEngrossed in this distinguished worm nearly as wild and as fierce as\nthe day it was captured,\nhe gazes as if incapable of looking at anything with a view to analysis.\n\" The slight snake rippling quickly through the grass,\nthe leisurely tortoise with its pied back,\nthe chameleon passing from twig to stone, from stone to straw, \"\nlit his imagination at one time; his admiration now converges upon this :\nthick, not heavy, it stands up from its travelling-basket,\nthe essentially Greek, the plastic animal, all of a piece from nose to tail;\none is compelled to look at it as at the shadows of the Alps\nimprisoning in their folds like flies in amber, the rhythms of the\nskating-rink.\nThis animal to which from the earliest times, importance has attached,\nfine as its worshippers have said—, for what was it invented?\nTo show that when intelligence in its pure form\nhas embarked on a train of thought which is unproductive, it will come\nback ?\nWe do not know ; the only positive thing about it is its shape, but why\nprotest ?\nThe passion for setting pecpe right is in itself an afflictive disease.\nDistaste which takes no credit to itself is best."}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "194", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.4", "texte": "Gordon Craig.\nTragic mask."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "195", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.5", "texte": "DEDICATED TO THE ENEMY.\n\nWith a prayer that they will be stronger\nmore malicious and anyhow funnier\nthan they have been in the past.\nI.\nHave I made a mistake. . . ? I mean am I playing the game. . . ?\nTo begin with, is it Hockey — Polo — Cricket — Politics, or is it Theatres ?\nWhich of these Games have we come here to play ?\nI must say that I was of the opinion that the Game was Theatres. And I\nam forced to add that I even took Theatres to be a game as good as the best, and\nto be played according to the best rules of the Tradition.\nThese rules, as we all know or can find out, date far back and are not the\ninvention of any one city.\nThe conditions under which this game is played are sometimes poor — it rains\nor it shines — but if it is not always fair weather it is not always ford — and\nif it is really Theatres that we are playing I think everyone who cares about Sport\nwill agree with me that it's just as easy to play the-game fairly and squarely —\neven if since time immemorial it has been played by some nations, groups — even\ngroups (small groups) in our nation — in anything but a fair and square manner.\nIt is a game — it is a sport — this playing at Theatres. I know you'll\nall admit so much .... The first point X am doubtful about is whether it's\nTheatres that our Stage folk are playing at to-day or something else — and then\nwhether I and they are both playing the game straight.\nIf I am, they are not; if they are, then I am not.\nWho is umpire ? There seems to be but one, and that is the Public.\nYet the Public does not act as umpire at the decent game of cricket. One\nexpert, skilled and watchful, careful and just, decides.\nI suppose then that it is the Critics who act as umpire in our game.\nMr. Lamb, Mr. Hazlitt of old ; Mr. Shaw, Mr. Beerbohm but just lately,\nand now Mr. Walkley, Mr. Pitt Robbins, and presumably Mr. Archer forever.\nNow I never knew anyone less fitted to be an umpire in the Theatre game than\nMr. Archer."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "196", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.6", "texte": "A very remarkable man, a scholar, qualified for any post in the Government\nservice, worthy, I am told, even to be ambassador, this extraordinary figure does\nnot really know what is to be known about the Theatre. . . and is therefore ut-\nterly disqualified to give the lead to Dramatic Criticism.\nTo whom then can I put the query \" How's that, umpire ? \" when I see that\nour umpire has no notion of what's what ? And if, even in so humble a place\nas that of umpire we find the wrong man, then, at the crucial moment, when the\nfield cries \" How's that, umpire? \" what harm may not happen to the old game ? ...\na chaotic state may result. . . trickery licensed.\nOf Mr. Archer's, opinions I will not speak. They are as good as another\nman's ... in matters of state, in matters of Carnegie and other trusts I hear they\nare infallible. It is his facts, his dates, lam concerned with. What was, and\nwhen it was, is what Mr. Archer should know. . . and doesn't know.\nWhen he wrote that old libel \"The Fashionable Tragedian\", he proved what\na diplomat he might have become, but he ticketed himself once and forever as\nno critic. . . A critic must be impartial; must not take sides. It's the thing,\nthe game itself, he is to think of ; and to think of that — to discern, to judge,\na critic must know. He may not be able to write plays (I hear Mr. Archer writes\nadmirable plays) ; he may not be able to act, to design, or to direct; but he must\nknow how it's done. . . what its difficulties. . . and what is the histoiy of the craft\nof playmaking, acting, mise-en-scene, decors, lighting, costume, and the history\nof the different developments which have taken place in our Theatrical Art in\nItaly, in France, in Germany, Spain, Russia, and eight or ten other parts of our\nglobe. He must know this of modern developments not merely from hearsay. . .\nhe must have seen and heard and recorded for himself.\nBut he must not dream that the facts recorded of the years 1866 to 1916 is all\nthat he need to know : nor those facts culled from the usual text books, for the\nusual text books are trash. They repeat the same old fibs with the same young\nflourish. The same actors' names are mentioned over and over again. . . the\nsame references made to the same celebrated actresses. . . and meantime some\nof the most interesting performers' names are utterly forgotten. . . and some\nof the greatest. Theatres such as Covent Garden, Drury Lane, the Opera\nHouse, Paris, and the Wagner Theatre in Bayreuth have volumes written on\nthem . ... all very proper this ; but the story of the Theatres of the world does\nnot begin and end in that sort of thing.\nWe hear in Magazines and in Books of Inigo Jones, De Loutherbourgh,\nClarkson Stanfield, Telbin, Planche, Hottenroth, Racinet, Craven ; and that's\nall very right and proper too; but again, the story of the Scenic craft does not\nbegin with Inigo Jones and end with Craven. It does not even end with Bakst,\nCraig, or Appia. It may even begin with them. The umpire must say."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.7", "texte": "And so as lam one in this Game of Theatres and the umpire's presumably\nsomewhere about, I, on behalf of my own particular friends. . . and I count some\nof the most brilliant and all of the most profound players as my friends. . . ask,\nis this the noble old game of Theatres that we are playing — and am I, and are\nthey, playing it fairly and squarely ?\nI would illustrate my point.\nA great master of scenography and a young one are both friends of mine.\nWe see none of the work of the first in a Theatre of Europe to-day because he\nhas an objection to being pelted by ignorance with the eggs and oranges supplied\nby intrigue. . . Now then, umpire . . . what are you doing that you say nothing\nwhen you see foul play in our sport ?\nThe second brings his work to the Theatre and receives exaggerated praise\nfor what is bad in it, and no understanding at all for what are sure signs of a\npossible development.\nThe work of these two men is ignorantly received ; . . . at the same time\nthe work of four of their imitators is hailed as epoch-making marvels.\n. . . How's that, umpire ? . . .\nAnd how long is that to be, umpire ?\nFor if I am playing at Theatres, and if I and my friends are playing the game#\nI expect the rest of the field to be told it is to respect the rules of the game or\nclear out.\nBut who is to bring the rogues to order ?\nNo one can do this but the Critics.\nAnd so I hope that our English Critics will not think that the old text\nbooks of past ages and hearsay about this age, is enough to qualify even an\nAmbassador to be Dramatic Critic. . . to be umpire in the Game of Theatres.\nII.\nThis was written and in the Publishers' hands before I became aware of\na very queer thing — a very queer thing indeed — as you shall hear.\nTelling you about it demands a little patience from us both — you and\nmyself — for to tell you I must talk a little of myself ... a thing we generally\navoid in our books.\nNow for the queer thing.\nIt appears that I am held to be anti-English !\nThat is the whisper which a certain gang keeps up, and, when caught whis-\npering, comes out with it honestly. . . \" honest, honest lago \". . . \" so are they\nall, all honourable — lagos. \"\nI am \" decrying England \" because I think and say that the state of its"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.8", "texte": "Theatre to-day is preposterous. I who hate to see England displaying the worst\ntheatrical art instead of the best — you who hate that too — I in agreement\nwith you. Are we all anti-English then ?\nAnd here the spot is touched. For I understand from certain unpre-\njudiced quarters. . . from those who ought to know. . . that in some respects I\nrepresent the best in theatrical art.\nThere we have it.\nThe whispering then is \" political'' .•. . Theatrical political — the ancient\ncomic business, nothing but that — a malicious clique's cackle.\nWere I a writer such as Beerbohm, a painter such as Pryde, or a musician,\nthere would be really absolutely no need for me to take the slightest note of what\nthe enemy does or says.\nBut unfortunately this enemy knows that by chatter and lies it can prevent\nme from getting my Theatre, and thus prevent me from doing my work. I'll\nfight that.\nI'd prefer that the Press and others should do the fighting while I get on\nwith my work ; but as no one takes up the cudgels it's left to me to go hell for\n] eat her on my own.\nAny old lie to cheat England out of the best so that the tenth best may have\na chance. . .\nI would like you to understand me that I myself think pretty well of\nmyself as an artist of the theatre — so thinks every artist -of himself if he be\nworth his salt, so don't apologize for me.\nThe old artists knew their worth — the new ones do so too. The artists\nin the Theatre of England are not many, because something nowadays enslaves\nthe mind to such an extent that it has no place nor time to grow in them.\nSomething cramps and withers it. . . and backbiting is rampant.\nThe mind of the great dramatist is radiant and free. — great actors must\nhave like minds : the eye of the great dramatist sees and does not shirk seeing\ntruth — the great actors must see the same. Yet how can the mind, the eye;\nor the mind's eye see anything when the man is willing to accept personal com-\nfort in exchange for freedom of mind ?\nAll that we have here (in London especially), all comforts and luxuries like\ncosy houses — rooms — glorious food — perfect transport in tubes, in buses,\nin motors — perfect organization so far as externals are concerned — bric-a-\nbrac galore to indulge our \" collecting \" instincts — our pre-war fads and fan-\ncies catered to with the utmost care — our tobacconists too good for words —\nthe shops overflowing with creature-comforts of every kind. . . how can all this\nbut act as a narcotic on us at an hour when what we want to do is dependent on"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.9", "texte": "great sacrifices — (not a newspaper phrase, but a reality) — and when what\nwe must do and would willingly do if we were free is strangled by self-\nindulgence. . .\nWe hear on all sides the catch-phrases about having nothing ... no servants,\n110 money, no this, no that; whereas in England we have everything. L,et us go to\nwhere those people dwell who really have nothing, and learn how preferable it is\nwhen great things have to be achieved. By \" nothing \" I mean of course — and\nunderstand me clearly — nothing for themselves but bare necessities . . . and\neverything for their work . . their great ideas . . their cause .. . their labours.\nFor while a man does not need all these coddling personal comforts. . •\nservants three or even two, silver, fine linen, and the hundred and one unneces-\nsary creature comforts, he does need (we all need) the necessities, the luxuries of\nhis labour ; . . . machines, tools, materials, and the means to labour like giants .\ngiant means.\nAnd then, after all those necessities for which millions should be set aside by\nthe State, or given by those who have it if a State is too p00r... and if we deserved\nwell after our labours, I for one would not decry the little luxuries we might then\nhave won a right to desire and surplus wages to pay for. But nowadays everyone\nhas all these things before his work has begun, and all for being a patient\nass — patient ass is, I think, William Blake's phrase for us.\nIt's of artists and craftsmen I speak, and chiefly of those artists and craftsmen\nin our trade — the Theatrical one.\nA fine trade too — a good job — a great old game — but one which should\nbe played fairly and squarely.\nIII.\nTo play a game would seem to us all awfully easy :... a game of draughts, —\nhockey, — football, — cricket, — any happy sport.\nBut, there are rules.\nOne of these is so simple that every sportsman observes it. It is the first\nnatural and ancient rule of \" Don't cheat. \" For if you cheat you are not play-\ning the game.\nAnd this explains how it is that so few people are really playing the game.\nThe rule is to win the game fairly or to lose it; and it is between these two\ntasks, that of playing fair or losing, that many of us come to stop playing games\naltogether.\nThe difficulties are nothing. — One sole thing stops the game ; . . . when\nthose against whom one plays take out a licence to cheat. A large minority\nof those playing the Theatrical game are actually allowed to hold such a licence."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.10", "texte": "Gordon Craig.\nMask for a sea captain."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.11", "texte": "That licence is called \" commercialism Commercialism in the Arts is the li-\ncence sold by rogues to rogues, and which cheats the nation.\n%\nThe English People are fond of Sport, games of Sport, because nothing gives\nthem the grand feeling so much as to play fair and to see fair play.\nTo play the game well — to keep the rules — not to cheat, trip or sneak,\nis to play fair.\nThe Theatre is my game, and I shall play it fair.\nThat's why I will lend no ear to those people who from a natural, if exag-\ngerated, anxiety lest I lose the game, come to me with agitated doubts and\nfears as to my powers, and more or less beg me to put tin-tacks on the course —\ndope the other fellows — and bribe the umpire's wife.\nI had better tell you without any more ado that I do not intend to do as\nthey kindly suggest.\nIt appears that every \" Napoleon \" does this, every great statesman, ever}7\ngreat financier ; in short, ever}7 great public figure.\nIt appears so, for a few of my friends say so.\nI believe they exaggerate.\nI believe they are a little over-anxious, and I think, as I said, I will play fair\nright through.\nus look at the friendly arguments.\nist. You need money to realize your ideas.\n2nd. You need the whole Press of Europe.\n3rd. You need to advertise on a stupendous scale.\n\" Cadam soap \", says one to me, \"is the success of the age ; — it's a\ngood soap — but it took great sums of money to advertise it — and advertise-\nment is all. \"\n\" How should I obtain this petty cash ? \" say I, \" tell me. \"\nAnd then I hear strange things as they unveil their innermost thoughts. . .\nI hear what it is that would entitle me to the licence to cheat.\nFrom what they say it would appear that to begin with I must positively\nbribe the umpire's wife — not forgetting his sister, daughter, and nieces —\nThis bribery takes a hundred different fantastic shapes.\nThe Millionaire is to be bamboozled. Commence hy lying to his best friend —\nshe will manage to trip him up, it appears — for the sake of the art.\nHang around and lend a hand as he comes down the dark lane some foggy\nevening. . . and rob him. . . Hold him up, in short.\n\" Napoleon did it \" — they all do it \" — besides, millionaires, mean and\nselfish, deserve it.\nExtraordinary argument."}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.12", "texte": "In other words they propose that I should hit below the belt — when the\numpire is dallying with the eye of his best girl and can't see for love —\nGlorious proposition —\n\" Is this done everywhere ? \"I ask.\n\" Oh yes, everywhere. \"\n\" And which land does it best, would you say ? \"\n\" Oh. they all do it well — but the style is sometimes finer in one land than\nin another. \"\n\" Is there a fine way of hitting below the belt ? \"\n\"Yes — yes — lots of fine ways ; some of the fine ways are a bit common,\nbut most are exceptionally fine. You can use blackmail1 — or perjury is pretty\ngood — and you can employ these two in countless ways. \"\n\" Perhaps the finest, most gallant way is to employ all the liars you know\nand feed them with little titbits ; — you pay them, of course, some in one\nkind of coin, others in another. \"\n\" Yes, yes, it's very expensive... that's why you need the money — the Press\nand Advertisement.\n\" Above all you must remember always to bear in mind that there is a higher\nand. a lower nature in everyone and never fail to appeal to their lowest nature. \"\n\" All this is so useful, \" one murmurs back, — \" tell me more: tell me how\nI should do this with the Theatre. \"\n\"The Theatre ! \" cries my well-wisher — \" why, the Theatre offers you un-\ntold opportunities of this kind.\n\" Take the Ballet, for example. . . What a field ! \"\n\" Yes, \" I reply, forgetting what this meant for a moment; \"itis a field\nI love much. \"\n\" Love, — I wasn't talking of that. Prostitution is what I mean. There\nnever was such a genuinely decent field for prostitution as that offered by the\nBallet — if you know how to handle it. . . and make it respectable — \"\nAnd then the Curtain rose.\nThe spectacle revealed was certainly the most decent, the most respect-\nable bit of cheating I have ever seen or heard of. But to the eye all was more\nthan Victorian — to the ear it was positively Cromwellian.\nNothing at all risque like Maud Allen.\nNothing genuinely erotic like \" Aphrodite. \"\nThere on the stage was the umpire's wife — his sister — his daughters —\n1 Lest you should think I am jesting, my reader, I would remind you that we none\nof us make jokes about such subjects. It's the gaudy truth I have the pleasure of tell-\ning you. People really do talk to me like this."}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "203", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.13", "texte": "his nieces — his best girls : all of them there. . . a cabal of propriety. . . and every\nJack girl of them a respectable cheat.\nThe Ballet performance was entitled\n\" Swindling Man.\"\n\" Colossal programme.\"\nI enjoyed the evening hugely and came out.\nBut not before I had looked round the house and listened to the audience\nchatting, and had seen and heard. . . wonders.\nt\nSo then, — that's the little game, is it ? . . .\nThe Art of the Theatre.\nThen I will play the game fair to the end, and mind all you boys do the same.\nFor this other thing is not worth the halfpenny dip which illumines a rotten age —\nif what I am told be true.\n*\n* *\nAnd indeed it is a rotten age the minute you agree that it's so.\nYet now when I admit no such thing — behold, this rotten age with its\nswindle falls back and takes its place — at the servants' table. The masters are\nsitting elsewhere — Heaven knows ; — and we, the artists, sit in the Gallery\nwith the Gods. . .\n• Who said — who says — 'tis a rotten affair, this life, this age ; did I ? —\nno, I objected solely to the custom of cheating at cards and art. I find the rest\nof it superb.\nBecause a greatly gifted singer cannot say one decent word for the whole\nshow, what matter is that? — if a great actress greatly endowed chooses to\nwaste her spare moments picking holes in the universe and her fellow men, what\nmatters that ? — If a great statesman be incapable in every other respect but\nstatesmanship that is nothing for those of us who intend playing the game.\nBecause the great are so weak, is that any reason for us to shake our heads\nand get a fixed and silly idea therein ?\nIf the great must be small, let them — there is heaps of room at the servants'\ntable — let them be great there.\nBecause these great servants like the Cinema for its popularity — like vul-\ngarity — regret none of their own — raise a noise and the dust, what matter that\nto us who chance prefer to be seated at the other table ?If we eat less at the\nupper table than these great ones, what of that either ? — \" Come down here, \""}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "204", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.14", "texte": "they yell all through dinner ; \" come down 'ere and join the great and you'll\n'ave all you want. \" But we've a kind of fancy that we have all we want seat-\ned with the Gods in the gallery — we feel anyhow that we have paid for our seats.\nThe chief thing we want wre have — that is singleness of purpose and the\npower of not altering one's mind. . . and the power to sacrifice some or all of\nour little personal ego for a productive egoism which believes that the thing is\ngreater than the man. . . the work of art greater than the performer.\n*\n* *\nDid you ever change your mind ?. . . about something you believed in ?...\nWell, then, you know what it's like. . . and what the loss.\nTo change the mind is the greatest sorrow. I have often changed it. . .\nbut not about the Theatre. Not on your life ! as they say in America.\nIn 1900 I asked for money to start a School for the Theatre in London.\n<(Doa production, \" they replied, \" and then you will be able to get all you\nwant.\"\nI did one. \" Dido and Aeneas, \" 1900, Hampstead Conservatoire, N. W.\nLondon.\nI asked for support for a School.\n\" Do one more production, \" they replied, \" and you will be able to get all\nyou want.\"\nI did one more. \" The Masque of Love, \" 1901, Coronet Theatre, Notting\nHill, S. W. London.\nI asked for support for a School.\n\" Do just one more production to show people what you want and you will\nbe able to get everything you want. \"\nI did one more. \" Acis and Galatea, \" 1902, Queen's Theatre, W. C. London.\nI asked for support for a School.\n\" No, no, \" they replied, \" You must do one more production to show what you\ncan do, and you will find everyone willing to support your school afterwards.\"\nI did one more — two more — three more.\n\" Sword and Song, \" \" The Vikings, \" and \" Much Ado about Nothing, \"\n1903, Shaftesbury Theatre, W. London ; Imperial Theatre, W. London.\nI then asked again for support for a School.\nYou understand that I hold the same opinion to-day I then held, which\nis that without a school or workshops in which I, the workman, can make and\nperfect a machine (and by that I mean a small but well-organized army of work-\nmen) all the productions must be tenth rate instead of first-rate. To make a"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "205", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.15", "texte": "production first-rate endless experiment is necessary : endless because out of\nthirty experiments possibly only two may prove of any value.\nIn 1904 I produced other plays, or part plays, in Germany and elsewhere,\n.. . and later on I asked once again for a school. (Of course I asked England,\nEngland being my land and celebrated for fair play in all games).\nI was told I ought to produce \" one more play, and then, \". . . etc., etc.\nSo I found the best equipped theatre in Europe and did one more play,\n\" Hamlet, \" 1911, Moscow Art Theatre, Russia, N.\nNot that I believed for one moment that this was the way to do a good piece\nof work ; — in fact I was sure that if I played the game in the Moscow Art Theatre\nI should not produce the thing as I wanted.\nNever mind ; I would do it — and see if the others were pleased.\nIt seems they were. — I was not. — It has already run, I am told, over\nfour hundred nights.\nI then asked for my School. \" No, you must produce one more play, \" etc.,\netc., they said.\nAnd there I struck 1 . . . And I pointed to the eight plays I had produced\nin 1900, 1901, 1902, 1903, 1904, and 1911, and reminded them of their promises.\nAnd no sooner had I struck than my School came.\nIt came in 1913 ; it went in 1914. . . for the war swept it away, and my sup-\nporter did not see the value of keeping the engine fires \" banked. \" So the fires\nwent out.\nIt is a rare business, as you know, to relight the fires once they are allowed\nto go out.\nAnd now I have begun to ask once more for my School. . . for my workshops.\nThe reply is curious and original: it is, \"If you will produce one play we\nare quite sure that afterwards, \" etc., etc.\nThat much repeated phrase, that very promising nothing, has proved\nworthless : and yet some friends dear to me have uttered it and still utter it.\nI take long to decide that others are wrong and that I am right. I would\nfar rather be wrong with the others than right and alone. Yet I fear I am right\nin this case.\nIf anything has proved right it is that what I asked for in 1900 and asked\nfor in 1913, and still for ask in 1922, is right. . . and my friends wrong.\nNow the reason why good friends join in this general cry of \" Produce one\nmore play, \" etc., etc., is because they see that all games are to-day being played\n1 And there I still strike. I produce no more plays till I have my School."}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "206", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.16", "texte": "by the aid of a bit of cheating. .. a bit or a good deal. The have joined in the\nswindle — it has agreed with them — and they are surprised it don't agree\nwith me.\nIf they are correct, one must, as I said above, cheat the millionaire out of\nhis millions, setting spies on to him at the psychological physiological mo-\nment when he is unsuspecting to lure out of his pocket his blank cheque.\nI disagree with this.\nOne must (it would seem) cheat the actors by promises, fulsome praise*\nand every other dope used upon the obstinate and the ignorant. One must\npurchase the Press !. . . Purchase ? Hoity toity, I purchase what is already\none of my truest friends ! One must, in short, cheat from first to last.\nI don't think I will.\nI didn't think I would. . . and I take this opportunity of showing how much\nworth lies in that guarantee that support will come \" if you will produce just\none more play,\nFudge, ladies ! — fudge, gentlemen !\nAnd I am most distinctly on strike again. . . a strike of one against two hun-\ndred thousand.\nI would never urge another to strike with me because, again, that is not\nplaying the game.\nThat is not understanding the game.\nThat is merely underestimating one's own powers.\nThat is conspiracy.\nThe Dramatic Art in England is excellent — only it's not dramatic — and\nthere is no art to it.\nThis has come about because one of the principal rules of the game has been\nbroken.\nThis rule is \" never say the third-best is good at the expense of the first-best\nand at the expense of the public. \"\nThe advertisement puts it like this :\n\" Ask for Promethian Grates. \"\n\" Don't be put off with any just as good. \"\n\n(To be continued)\n\nGordon Craig."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "207", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.17", "texte": "THE DEATH OF ENGLAND.\nSlowly, athwart the terrible fierce sunlight that marks a blasted summer,\nthe body of England, rigid and stiffened in death, is borne to its last long rest.\nHorse-chestnuts lift ten thousand waxen candles before it; thrushes intone\ntheir office in plaintive cadences ; the faint grey-purple incense of lilac is wafted\ninto the air ; bees cease their murmurings ; and the swallow, the blithe cross-\nbearer of the sky, is silent. .\nFrom a million starving faces, pale and stunned with excess of suffering,\na lonely silent plaint of irremediable misery climbs softly, like the great wail-\ning notes of an endless De Profundis, into the ashen-blue vault of the sky.\nSlowly athwart the terrible days that crawl forward to where the sun is\noffered up on the altar of midsummer, the body of England, broken with weari-\nness, is borne to the slow wailings of the chant which the winds weave about it,\nand the dropping of wax-white petals from innumerable hawthorn trees.\nEternal rest grant her, O Lord, and the peace of the night that passes all\nunderstanding.\n\nIN THE GALLERY OF SKULLS.\nShelf above shelf, there stretches out before me whatever way I go, a long\nstraight gallery lined with yellow skulls. Millions of insignificant, vacant, hol-\nlow-eyed and grinning-toothed brain-cases of men, containing under the domes\nof their foreheads, only vacuity and silence. Varying but little in size or in\nshape, from the Hottentot or the cave-man to the modern captain of industry,\nfrom the artist who organized his surging dreams on stone or in canvas, to the\nwise scientist pondering life in patience, or the idiot negro boy with empty\neyes and slobbering lips, who suffered for a few years the horror of living dark-\nness before vanishing back into eternity. Delicate skulls of infants, tooth-"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "208", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.18", "texte": "less skulls of old men, shadowy fragile skulls of those dead before birth ; their\nflesh is long since grass, ferns, ashes, dust, their thoughts are in me or in mil-\nlions of my kind. They have all gone under, consigning to the silence their\ndreams unspoken Assuming that it is equally useless to love or to hate; yet\nthe solid material of their bodies perishes and vanishes with the past, their\nchildish vain dream of eternity renews itself in me and in you every day, shap-\ning the deathless adornment of that song in which we may all partake for a\nmoment. A miracle — of bodiless electric being — that surrounded and en-\nwalled as we are with staring death before and behind us, we smile, we leap,\nwe dance, we fight, we exist, we drop tears of bitterness on failure, and grasp\nstill desperately for the sharp bodiless laurel of success. What more miracle\nthan this need we seek, O men, O brothers, to prove that we become one with\nthe gods which we, in our horror of truth and of death, incessantly destroy\nand create ?\nSome da}r this world too will become an empty, vacant skull; and the sun,\nexulting in life, rushing oft to warm other planets, will look deeply into the\nhollow sockets that once were seas ; will count the scars that once were mighty\ncities, will trace the furrows that once were roadways, canals, and rivers, and\nthen will pass on silently down its own vast gallery of death to an unknown end.\n\nTHE SECRET OF MARS.\nSome people say that the planet Mars is uninhabited. But this is not true,\nfor I have been there and seen it.\nMany centuries ago, the Martians fought their last great war ; many cen-\nturies ago they organized a life scientifically perfect.\nBut for all that, they were not content; and their planet, like their hearts,\nbegan growing colder every year.\nThen one day they suddenly decided to build a great tower to a forgotten\nGod ; and because they were weary of their machines, they decided that no\nstone of it should be cut by anything else but hammer and chisel and human\nhands.\nCenturies they must have laboured, for the building as it stands is immense\nin desolation. It is surrounded with a forest of columns for ten miles; at the\nintersection of enormous aisles, poised above the glory of huge leaping arches,\nstands the lantern-tower unfinished, ten thousand feet high.\nUpon the pavement below it lies the body of the last workman, his trowel\nuplifted, and his hand ready to place a stone. His form is still perfect, for it\nis frozen in death."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "209", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.19", "texte": "On the tower rests the treasure of the perpetual snow; you would not\nsay that Mars is uninhabited, could you hear the groans that the settling\nstone makes at sunrise or when the evening drifts swiftly across the barren\nplanet.\n\nTHE NEW WORLD.\nMany centuries before the old world came to an end, it had been realised\nby the intelligent that the old planet was in a bad way ; and that it was with\nher, to use an expression current in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries,\n\" merely a question of time. \" Suicides became immediately fashionable;\nand of all the forms of suicide, the \" suicide a deux \" was most popular. Many\nlovers, wishing to marry, but realising the futility of propagating their spe-\ncies, invested their savings in aeroplanes powerful enough to overcome the\nforce of gravity and to launch them into the oblivion of space, from which they\nnever returned.\nAmong these there were two equally noted for their wealth and their beauty.\nTheir private affairs had been discussed in many papers ; their pictures hung\nin many homes ; their respective talents were the unfailing theme of millions of\nenterprising newsagents. Fame and fortune might have been theirs for the\nasking ; yet they chose, with a perversity worthy of a better cause, to launch\nthemselves forth into space for their honeymoon.\nAfter the aeroplane had carried them at an enormous speed far beyond\nthe confines of this planet, despite the automatic supply of oxygen they were\nbreathing, this couple suddenly fainted. When they recovered themselves\na few moments later, they were lying together amid the wreckage of their ma-\nchine on a plain covered with green moss, in the midst of a gigantic virgin forest.\nOn account of the rapidity of their transit, their clothes had been completely\ntorn from their bodies. Otherwise they were uninjured, except for a shock\nto the brain which made them incapable of remembering whence they came,\nor of speaking the least word. They were awakened as out of a deep sleep,\nupon a new planet of which they had not the least knowledge.\nThe woman wakened the first and seeing the man asleep, went towards\na near-by tree and began pulling leaves from it and fastening them together\nin the shape of garments for her body. The man, startled by the unexpected\nmovement of a serpent in the branches, wakened too and went towards\nthe woman> babbling with startled lips incomprehensible phrases in a new\nspeech."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "210", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.20", "texte": "THE WAY OF DUST.\nJohn Gould Fletcher.\nI)ust, grejr colourless dust, soft, fluffy, velvety, dust that sweeps over end-\nless deserts, sweeps into the crevices of buildings, dust that emerges from\nbeaten carpets, dust that rises from this paper, blurs my weary vision at last.\nMan is the maker of dust; dust stirs beneath his feet; dust rises from the\nlabour of his hands; dust increases in every fire he has made ; dust takes all\nhis works ; the ink upon this page is only dust.\nIn the ash-heap is salvation, and in the dust of the grave is all attainment.\nFar beyond the last of the planets, beyond Orion and the Milky Way, lie\nshapeless clouds of dust, relics of innumerable worlds on which others have also\nlived and suffered. In the heart of the divine darkness this dust of the uni-\nverse stirs and dances, and rekindles in itself, through perpetual movement,\nthe germ of universal life and the light of common day.\nEmbracing this dust, I embrace all things ; summoning forth this dust,\nI summon also God ; desiring only this dust, I desire forever immortality.\nI am but an infinitesimal particle of casual dust, and it matters nothing\nto my destiny if I live here amongst men or beyond the most distant star."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "211", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.21", "texte": "IF YOU HAD THREE HUSBANDS.\n\nIf you had three husbands.\nIf you had three husbands.\nIf you had three husbands, well not exactly that.\nIf you had three husbands would you be willing to take everything and\nbe satisfied to live in Belmost in a large house with a view and plenty of flowers\nand neighbors, neighbors who were cousins and some friends who did not say\nanything.\nThis is what happened.\nShe expressed everything.\nShe is worthy of signing a will.\nAnd mentioning what she wished.\nShe was brought up by her mother. She had meaning and she was care-\nful in reading. She read marvelously. She was pleased. She was aged thir-\nt3'-nine. She was flavored by reason of much memory and recollection.\nThis is everything.\nForeword.\nI cannot believe it.\nI cannot realise it.\nI cannot see it.\nIt is what. happened.\nFirst there was a wonder.\nReally wonder.\nWonder by means of what.\nWonder by means of measures\nMeasuring what.\nHeights.\nHow high.\nA little.\nThis was not all."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "212", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.22", "texte": "There were well if you like there were wonderful spots such as were seen\nby a queen. This came to be a system. Really it was just by a treasure. What\nwas a treasure. Apart from that.\nSurely.\nRather.\nIn their beginning what was a delight. Not signing papers or anything\nor indeed in having a mother and two sisters. Not nearly enough were men-\ntioned by telegraphing. It was a choice.\nI ramble when I mention it-\nDid she leave me any money.\nI remember something.\nI am not clear about what it was\nWhen did I settle that.\nI settled it yersterday.\nEarly Life.\nThey were not miserably young they were older than another. She was\ngliding. It is by nearly weekly leaning that it comes to be exact. It never\nwas in dispute.\nThey were gayly not gaily gorgeous. They were not gorgeous at all. They\nwere obliging. If you think so. If you think so glow. If you believe in light\nboys. They were never another.\nIt came to be seen that any beam of three rooms was not showy. They\nwere proud to sit at mother. Slowly walking makes walking quicker. They\nhave toys and not that in deceiving. They do not deceive them. No one is\nwilling. No one could be cool and mother and divided and necessary and cli-\nmatical and of origin and beneath that mean and be sun. It was strange\nin her cheek. Not strange to them or that.\nA young one.\nNot by mountains.\nNot by oysters.\nNot by hearing.\nNot by round ways.\nNot by circumference again.\nNot by leaving luncheon.\nNot by birth.\nIt doesn't make difference when ten are born. Ten is never a number.\nNeither is six. Neither is four.\nI will not mention it again."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "213", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.23", "texte": "Early days of shading.\nMake a mouse in green.\nMake a single piece of sun and make a violet bloom. Early piece of swim-\nming makes a sun on time and makes it shine and warm to-day and sun and sun\nand not to stay and not to stay or away. Not to stay satin. Out from the\nwhole wide world he chose her. Out from the whole wide world and that is\nwhat is said.\nFamily.\nWhat is famine. It is plenty of another. What is famine. It is eating.\nWhat is famine. It is carving. Why is carving a wonderful thing. Because\nsupper is over. This can happen again. Sums are seen.\nPlease be polite for mother. Lives of them. Call it shall it clothe it.\nBoil it. Why not color it black and never red or green. This is stubborn.\nI don't say so.\nNo OPPOSITION.\nIf you had a little likeness and hoped for more terror. If you had a refusal\nand were slender. If you had cuff-buttons and jackets and really astonishing\nkinds of fever would you stop talking. Would you not consider it necessary\nto talk over affairs.\nIt was a chance that made them never miss tea. They did not miss it\nbecause it was there. They did not mean to be particular. They invited their\nfriends. They were not aching. It was noiseless and beside that they were\nclever. Who was clever. The way they had of seeing mother.\nMother was prepared.\nThey were caressing.\nThey had sound sense.\nThey were questioned.\nThey had likeness. Likeness to what. Likeness to loving. Who had\nlikeness to loving. They had likeness to loving. Why did they have a likeness\nto loving. They had a likeness to loving because it was easily seen that they\nwere immeasurable.\nThey were fixed by that, they were fixed, not licensed, they were seen,\nnot treasured, they were announced, not restless, they were reasoning, not\nprogressing. Ido not wish to imply that there is any remedy for defect.\nI cannot state that any one was disappointed. I cannot state that any\none was ever disappointed by willingly heaping much confusion in particular\nplaces. No confusion is reasonable. Anybody can be nervous."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "214", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.24", "texte": "They were nervous again.\nThis is wishing.\nWhy is wishing related to a ridiculous pretence of changing opposition to\nanalysis. The answer to this is that nearly any one can faint. I don't mean\nto say that they don't like tennis.\nPlease be capable of sounds and shoulders. Please be capable of careful\nwords. Please be capable of meaning to measure further.\nThey married there.\nThey were heroes.\nNobody believed papers.\nEverybody believed colors.\nI cannot exercise obligation.\nI cannot believe cheating.\nI cannot sober mother.\nI cannot shut my heart.\nI cannot cherish vice.\nI cannot deceive all.\nI cannot be odious.\nI cannot see between.\nBetween what and most.\nI cannot answer either.\nDo be left over suddenly.\nThis is not advice.\nNo one knows so well what widening means. It means that yards are\nyards and so many of them are perfect. By that I mean I know.\nThis is not so.\nI am not telling the story I am repeating what I have been reading.\nWhat effects tenderness.\nNot to remember the name.\nSay it.\nThe time comes when it is natural to realise that solid advantages connect\nthemselves with pages of extreme expression. This is never nervously pale.\nIt is finely and authentically swollen by the time there is any rapid shouting.\nIdo like the word shouting. Ido not mean that it gives me any pleasure.\nOn the contrary I see that individual annoyances are increased by it but never-\ntheless lam earnestly persuasive concerning it. Why soothe why soothe each\nother.\nThis is not at all what is being said.\nIt happened very simply that they were married. They were naturally\nmarried and really the place to see it was in the reflection every one had of not"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "215", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.25", "texte": "frightening not the least bit frightening enthusiasm. They were so exact\nand by nearly every one it was encouraged soothed and lamented. Ido not\nsay that they were interested.\nAny years are early years and all years are occasions for recalling that she\npromised me something.\nThis is the way to write an address.\nWhen they were engaged she said we are happy. When they were married\nshe said we are happy. They talked about everything they talked about\nindividual feeling. This is not what was said. They did not talk about disin-\nterested obligation. They did not talk about pleasantness and circumstances.\nI do not mean to say that there was conversation. I do not organise a revision.\nI declare that there was no need of criticism. That there was no criticism.\nThat there was breathing. By that I mean that lights have lanterns and are\nnot huddled together when there is a low ceiling. By that I mean that it was\nseparate. The ceiling was separated from the floor. Everywhere.\nI could say that devotion was more merited than walking together. What\ndo you mean. I mean that we all saw it.\nWhen not by a beginning is there meadows and music, you can't call it\nthat exactly, when not by a beginning, there is no beginning, I used to say there\nwas a beginning, there is no beginning, when there is no beginning in a volume\nand there are parts, who can think.\nThis pencil was bought in Austria.\n\n(To be continued)\n\nGertrude Stein."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "216", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.26", "texte": "Raoul, Dufy\nCourtesy Bemheim Jeune - Paris.\nPainting."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "217", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.27", "texte": "Raoul, Dufy.\nCourtesy Bernheim Jeune - Paris.\nPainting."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "218", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.28", "texte": "LADY OF SORROWS.\n\nThey laugh at her in Collierton, but with a queer, puzzled, false note in their\nlaughter. And they tell tales and jokes about her ; but there fall lulls and breaks\nin the gossip even among the swarthy Russian, Iyithuanian, German, Italian mi-\nners, as if these man brutes were suddenly moved to cross themselves and pray :\n\" Mar}', keep us from knowing why Simikoff's so crazy after funerals ! \"\nCollierton sprawls over a group of low hills in Southern Illinois. There is\na rawness of atmosphere there, a helter-skelter shooting this way and that of\nstreets, a hap-hazard jumble of shacks and bungalows, a general im-\npression that here are the crude, jagged, unworked elements of life, not the ming-\nled, smoothly flowing stream of life as most folks know it. Here and there\na church spire, usually topped by a cross, lifts itself above the confusion. On\nCenter Street three cream-colored stone buildings endeavor to provide dignity —\nthe federal post office, the Masonic temple, the Miners' Institute. Tootling in-\nterurban cars establish hourly connection with the world outside. The passen-\ngers on these cars smile as they ride through the business section of Collierton.\nThey find it amusing that a Garavelli and a Schwartz, for instance, have formed\na partnership in the grocery business.\nExcept for the shawled women, gossiping and haggling over their market-\ning and the school children trooping back and forth at intervals, you can't\n. see the real people of Collierton until along about four o'clock in the afternoon.\nAt about that time, on three sides of the town, whistles, each of a readily distin-\nguished note, begin to blow ; and shortly afterwards special cars, motor trucks,\nand a dinky train on a belt line railroad dump into the streets the menfolk —\nwhole squads of rough, smudgy creatures in clumping, heavy boots, with car-\nbide lamps in their caps, enormous tin dinner pails under their arms, and rude\njests or brawling complaints forever on their lips. These are the ones who laugh\nat Simikoff and break off in the midst of their laughing.\nSimikoff, being English of native speech, is not counted a foreigner in Col-\nlierton. In happier circumstances, left to follow her natural bent, she would\nhave been one of those priceless, respectable, serene house servants, now well-\nnigh extinct. But she married Michael Simikoff when she was young and fool-\nish and she came to Collierton with him. Now she abides all alone in a one-"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "219", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.29", "texte": "story gray frame cottage, much out of plumb, as if the winds of many years had\nblown it all askew. She flits about the dreary little yard like some stray bird\nunsummoned by migrating kindred.\nSo long as she bides in the little house or flits about the yard, no one notices\nher in particular. It is when her spare drab figure, hooded with its dingy\nshawl, snoops along the street that all beholders catch their breath and ask of\nthemselves, if no one else is handy, \" Who can be dead now ?\" She holds the\nrecord for snatching such news from the winds. Should the whistles of any mine\nblow one blast in the middle of the morning or some such dread unusual time,\nwhich means that a mine has had to close and that, probably a fatality will go\non the books of that pit and that all the locals will take a holiday for the burying,\nSimikoff, without apparent means of communication, can tell in the half hour\nwho has been killed, how, and what the allowance to his family will be, figured\nfrom the day when the victim entered the pits to the day they bring him up to\nthe light which he cannot see.\nNow, the jesters in Collierton would attribute all this to a very bad taste\nfor lurid news which leads Simikoff to haunt the house of death before the un-\ndertaker can hang decent crepe on the door. But Simikoff herself, properly\ninspired, to keener ears would tell a deeper story. One morning she knocked at\nthe back door of her neighbor's house to borrow a cup of vinegar. In this house\nlived the young time-keeper and secretary for the greatest of the mines and his\nsweet young wife, to whom had recently been born their first child, a son. It\nwas the hour for the baby's bath. Simikoff, suddenly all in a flutter, asked\nand was given permission to assist at the ceremony. She seated herself defer-\nentially on the edge of a reed rocker, planted her shabby shoes carefully on the\nlinoleum square before the stove, fixed her washed-out blue eyes adoringly on\nthe squirming babe, and delivered herself of the following scraps of\npausing now and then, adiift among her memories, until started anew by an\nartful question.\n\" You started out right, ain't you, with a boy ? I always like to see a boy\ncome first. My first one were a boy. We called him Harry after my brother,\nhim as were killed in an explosion at sea. I worrited some about that, feeling\nthat it might be bad luck to call a boy after a body that had come to such an\nend. But I always thought so much of my brother afore he were killed — and we\ncalled the first boy Harry, after him.\n\" Then come a girl. Rachel we called her. She were a good girl. Then\ncome Paul. He were my last. Michael were crippled in Novak's wagon mine\nPaul's first birthday. Others we had, in between, four of them; but they ne-\nver lived. Times were harder those days. My Paul's in heaven now fifteen\nyears. \""}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "220", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.30", "texte": "Came the first drifting pause, Simikoff nodding her head up and down, up\nand down.\n\" Yes, \" she said in response to a question, \" I went to the Maruka funeral\nyesterday. I went to two funerals Did you ever know of a worse\nstorm here ? The rain a pouring down and the wind a cutting through a body ?\nBut I went to the funerals, though I says to Fannie Maruka in the morning, I\nsays, 'It's awful weather for funerals ! It minds me of the day my Harry were\nput away ! ' Fannie Maruka being just a day older than my Harry would have\nbeen. Twenty years ago they buried my Harry. Weather just like yesterday,\nthe rain a pouring down and the wind a cutting through a body. And him only\na lad of sixteen, one day fine and strong, the next laying in his coffin !\n\" Yes'm, he were killed in Skrainka Brothers' Mine Number 2. I didn't\nwant him to work in the pits. Seems like I got afeared of the pits after Michael\nwere hurted. Michael were never good for anything from that day. Seemed\nto get foolish like. I'd look at him setting in his arm chair all twisted and\ndoddering and the horrors would get me. I wanted my Harry to get a job in\nSchwartz's store, but he laughed at me.\n\" ' Mom, ' he says, ' I will work in the mines. I'll get twice as much money\nand play days now and then. '\n\" ' Play days, ' I says, ' are all counted off on pay days. And you're too\nyoung to go down underground. '\n\" 'Pop,' he says, 'worked in the pits when he were twelve years old.\nI'm fifteen. '\n\" ' And you see what he got for it, ' I says pointing to Michael in his chair.\n' And all I got for it is so much added to his disability allowance for his working\nthat length of time. Do not go into the pits, Harry. '\n\" But one day he come home, saying he had a job at Skrainka's Mine Num-\nber 2. And a year later I heared the whistles. You know the noise of Num-\nber 2's whistles — kinda hoarse like a steamboat. I says to Michael, I says,\n' The pits have got Harry, too. ' And sure enough they brought him home. And\nMichael says to me, he says, ' The boys will give him a grand funeral. '\n\" And they did. But it were terrible weather, just like yesterday, when I\nsays to Fannie Maruka, I says, ' It's an awful day for funerals. It minds me\n# • #\nof the day they put my Harry away ; though, of course, the Maruka burying were,\nnothing like my Harry's. You couldn't ask the pits to bury an old man in\nsuch grand way as they buried my first boy. \"\nSimikoff's eyes showed no tears. They still stared adoringly at the babe,\nwho was on his stomach now, trying hard to get a good mouth hold on his mo-\nther's apron.\n\" Pert, ain't he ? \" said Simikoff. \"My Rachel were pert like that. She"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "221", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.31", "texte": "come a year after Harry. She finished High School when she were only six-\nteen. It were partly for to keep her at school that Harry went into the pits.\nShe got her a certificate to teach at the school at Caneyville, just outa the\ntown, at seventeen.\n\" She had beaus, Rachel did. They used to fight over walking with her.\nShe had blue eyes and soft yellow hair with curls like. She minded me of\nmyself afore I got married to Michael. Her beaus were young men from the pits\nmostly, of course. But I says to her, I says, ' Have nought to do with the\npits, Rachel. They got your father and they got your brother. They ought to\nbe satisfied, but they never are, the hungry pits ! Have nought to do with\nthe pits. '\nMom, I won't, ' she says, like a good, smart girl. ' I hate'em too. '\n\" So she promised herself to a Danny Killoren, as drove an express truck\nfrom here to St. Louis and back again. In one way I did not want Rachel to\nmarry. She were full young and the money she brought in from her teaching\nhelped. But Danny Killoren were a fine man, he had a good business, and he\nhad rented a flat in St. Louis for Rachel. He would be taking her away. I\nsays to Michael, I says, ' The pits will never get Rachel, now. ' But Michael\nwere getting foolisher and foolisher in the head, so he only sat and grinned at\nme. Mebbe he didn't rightly know what I said to him, but he gave me a chill,\ngrinning so. - .\n\" It were in the fall of the year that Rachel promised herself to Danny\nKilloren. She would keep her school till Christmas and then wed with him.\nThen come a big strike in the pits, with the men grumbling and growling all\nover the town. I says to Rachel one morning, I says, ' Why don't you take\nthe other road to your school ? It's longer, but you would not need to pass\nthrough the Russki settlement. '\n\" ' Mom ! ' she says, like a good, smart girl, ' I will after this. Just today\nI want to stop by and see how Sammy Sorkin is getting along. He broke his\nleg last week. '\n\" And the minute she stepped out of .the door, I felt another terrible chill,\nlike as if I had put my bare feet in the snow. And when I turned around, Mi-\nchael were grinning to himself like he always did. ' Michael, ' I says, ' could\nthe pits get Rachel, do you think ? ' But he only grinned.\nRachel hadn't been gone ten minutes when I heared shooting. I says\nto Michael, I says, ' That's over Russki way. They have got Rachel. What\nfor would they shoot my Rachel ? '\n\" Sure enough, it were Rachel. The men had been chasing strike-break-\ners. Half of the gang had drove a man down one street and the other half\nwere waiting for him to turn the corner, to get him. My Rachel come first-"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "222", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.32", "texte": "She had on a old cap of Harry's and a big coat and they shot her afore they\ncould tell she were a woman.\n\"The miners brought her home. One of them were a beau of Rachel's.\nHe says to me, he says, ' Mother Simikoff, I'd a sooner shot myself than Ra-\nchel. But we'll bury her. You don't need to worry about that. '\n\"Danny Killoren were by. He says then, ' No, I'll bury her. It is my\nright. '\n\" The miner says to me, he says, ' It's for you to say. You're her mo-\nther. Which shall it be ? '\n\" And I says to them, I says, ' The pits killed her. Leave the pits\nbury her. '\n\" And they did. She had a white plush coffin with silver handles and a\nblanket of flowers, though the snow lay thick on the ground. I've seen every\ngirl's burying in town since, but none would compare with my Rachel's. \"\nThe young mother, buttoning petticoat straps over her son's shoulders,\nlooked uneasily at her visitor. She didn't know what she ought to say. She\ndidn't really know in what spirit Simikoff made her revelations. The woman\ndid not seem to ask for pity. She made her offerings as pure conversation —\ndesolate though her tale was and pierced with tragedy as the hills about were\npierced with shafts. A wind rose in the bare trees outside and moaned. The\nyoung mother shivered as she took up a dainty hand-embroidered slip.\n\" Katy Giannini were telling me about his christening robe, \" said Sim-\nikoff suddenly. \" She said you'd got it from a convent miles away from here.\nDid you ? My Paul had a christening robe sent to him from away. From Eng-\nland his come. I were born in England. I come to this country to take ser-\nvice. Then I married Michael. You never saw my Michael. No. It's just\nas well. Sometimes when I'd look at him myself, all doddering and foolish\nlike the pits had left him, I couldn't believe he were the fine, big-muscled lad who\ncarried me away with him to Collierton — where the pits would give him double of\nwhat he could earn above ground. He died the same year as my Paul and a\nblessing it were. If you'd trust the baby to me, you could get out his chris-\ntening robe maybe. \"\nSimikoff's eyes brightened ever so little as the mother reluctantly — and\nashamed of her reluctance — laid the babe in the older woman's lap. When she\nbrought forth the exquisite tiny dress, Simikoff looked hungrily at its sheer,\nsoft material, at the trimmings of delicate Valenciennes, at the almost invis-\nible stitches of the embroidery; but not one coarse, twisted finger did she lay\non its beauty.\n\" Fine, very fine ,\" she said. \"My Paul's had more lace and it were lon-\nger, like they made'em them days. \""}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "223", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.33", "texte": "The mother put the robe away and rather stiatched her baby, who was\nfretting. A moment later she was $hamed for that.\n\" The feel of them ! \" said Simikoff. \" The feel of them ! My Paul never\nlived with me after Rachel went. He were nine year old then. I says to Danny\nKilloren after the burying, ' If you're living in the city all the time now, mayhap\nyou'll be lonely. In that case Paul could bide with you. ' Danny were always\nfond of the boy, him having eyes like Rachel's, though his hair were dark.\n\" He says to me, he says, ' Why, Mother Simikoff, could you do without\nhim ? '\n\" I says to him, I says, ' Ay, I can and will. The pits have got the best of\nMichael and all of Harry and Rachel. They shall not get my Paul, too. Take\nhim away, Danny. '\n\" And he did. The boy went to school and everything in the city. Every\nweek or so in decent weather he'd come back on Danny's wagon — but not too\noften, I asked it. And then I could grin at Michael when he grinned at me,\nbecause my Paul were safe over the river.\n\" One day when he come over with Danny he asked to be let go up to Skrain-\nka's fine house beyond the town with goods, which Danny were hauling. Some-\nhow I did not feel easy, but I couldn't think why he shouldn't see a rich man's\nhouse and I let him. Old Mr. Skrainka were alive then and he took a fancy to\nmy Paul. He'd send him things by Danny and ask why the boy were never\nalong. So Paul would beg to go every time he come to town.\n\" One day — it were springtime — Paul went for the last time to see old\nMr. Skrainka. Somehow I didn't want him to go at all that day, but he went.\nAnd, after he left I had that same kinda chill like I had over Rachel. I remem-\nber I run through the streets after Danny's wagon. He had not got his truck •\nby then. But I couldn't catch him. And I come back all shaking and shiver-\ning and there were Michael grinning. I remember I shook a chair at him and\nscared him. He never grinned more.\n\" I were thinking what a time the two had been gone, when the whistle\nblew. Number Fourteen whistle — like a screech. And I never stopped for\nanything. I started right down the road, running, till I found Danny Kil-\nloren and his wagon. He were just starting back to old Mr. Skrainka's after\nthe boy.\n\" I says to him, I says, 'No need for that. Drive to the mines. The pits\nhave got my Paul anyhow. '\n> \" And they had. Without me knowing it, Paul had teased old Mr. Skrain-\nka to take him into a mine just to see. And the cable broke and the machinery\nfor the hoist all went wrong just as they were almost out of the place ; and old\nMr. Skrainka and my Paul fell all the way to the bottom of the shaft."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "224", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.34", "texte": "\" Michael died the next day, which were a blessing. The doctor said he'd\nhad a shock to his heart. Mayhap I scared him with the chair.\n\" And Danny Killoren says to me after the funerals, he says, ' Mother\nSimikoff, come away. I'll take care of you. '\n\" I says to him, I says, ' There '11 be no need. The pits will care for what's\nleft of me and bury me when I'm through. ' Why shouldn't they ? They've\nrobbed me of everything. They've buried all my own ones. They can bury\nme, too. And they can ! \"\n\" Listen ! Ain't that the St. Ignace bell ! That will be Mrs. Janowitz\ndead. I were over to look at her last evening after the Maruka burying. I\nto her daughter Rosie, I says, ' She's about through. I hope you'll have better\nweather for the funeral. '\n\" I'll be going now. \"\nAs Simikoff rose, the young mother said something about a new position\nher husband was taking in Chicago. They'd move as soon as the baby was old\nenough.\n\" I knew it, \" said Simikoff. \" When I first saw you, I says to Annie Muel-\nler, I says, ' She ain't for Collierton. She has not the mark of the pits. Well,\ngood-bye. \"\nThe wind in the bare treetops was moaning loud as she opened the door.\nDown the gray, raw street she flitted on her way to the J anowitz house, Collier-\nton's Lady of Sorrows.\n\nShirley Iv. Seifert."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "225", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.35", "texte": "Ardengo Soffici.\nStill life."}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "226", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.36", "texte": "CHATEAU DE SOUPIR: 1917\n\nJean tells me that the Senator\nCame here to see his mistresses.\nAs master and proprietor,\nThe servants ushered him, Jean says,\nPast bogus Flemish tapestries,\nVelvets and mahoganies,\nTo where the odalisque was set,\nThe temporary queen — Odette.\nAn eighteenth century chateau,\nRebuilt to suit the modern taste,\nPainted and gilt fortissimo —\nThe Germans, grown satirical,\nConstructed a machine gun nest\nUnderneath the banquet hall.\nThe trenches run diagonally\nAcross the gardens and the lawns ;\nAnd jagged wire from tree to tree ;\nThe lake is desolate of swans —\nIn tortured immobility,\nThe deities of stone and bronze\nAwait a new catastrophe.\nPhantasmagorical at nights,\nYellow and white and amethyst,"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "227", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.37", "texte": "Burn the star shells and Verey lights,\nAnd the great rivers of the mist\nFlood all the landscape, till we feel\nIyike drowned men, ghastly and unreal.\nThen come the younger ghosts — Odette,\nIn skirt ballooning at the hips,\nTosses a hasty kiss and slips\nAway to taunt the Senator,\nWho, strong with marc and anisette,\nPursues her like a matador.\nThe fleeing feminine takes cover\nBehind a Hellenistic Venus,\nCoquettishly hiding from her lover ;\nWhile he, beard waggling in the wind,\nAppears the overdressed Silenus.\nThe mist hangs lower gradually.\nAn enemy machine gun mocks\nThis ante-bellum delicacy,\nAnd wThen the firing is at rest,\nA bronze Priapus grieves, his chest\nA perforated pepper box.\n\nMalcolm Cowley."}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "228", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.38", "texte": "SOMETHING TELLS.\nDavid Rosenthal.\nThere is something tells a tree\nTo wave a green sombrero,\nPlumed with swallows,\nAnd ride a pony-hill to the sun.\nThere is something tells a butterfly\nTo leave the nunnery of a cocoon,\nAnd go gipsying in colored dresses\nWhen April stirs a fiddle in a willow tree.\nThere is something tells the feet of goats\nTo rattle every hill-top like a drum,\nAnd kick the silver flagons\nFrom the shoulders of the grass."}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "229", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.39", "texte": "THE JACK* OF DIAMONDS.\n\nAssuredly, the real culprit in this affair is the fortune-teller, Kvatchka. In\nthe morning she is nobody. Like everyone else she files papers for the committee\nof Moskwato1, records the departures in a florid handwriting and argues with\nComrade Gousine, the one who distributes the rations and who gives a pound of\nsausage to Kvatchka for the October holidays, without doubt of dog-meat.\nI shall denounce all of them to the Soviets, I will say that Gousine has con-\ncealed in his trousers-pocket, three caramels and that he has given a ticket foi\nthe Kamerni Theatre to Maroussia, the Messenger (although it was not her\nturn), so that he could obtain a rendezvous with her in the corridor. I will tell\neverything. In a word, up to four o'clock Kvatchka is an honest citizen. No\none could suspect her of anything, but towards evening, in her room, she begins\nher wayward life. That is to say, inspite of the formal prohibition of the Dom-\nkom2, Kvatchka tells fortunes in exchange for food, and in doing this, she\nscreams, she groans, she quakes. Even an important inspector has gone to her\nhouse bringing a sugar-loaf and Kvatchka has retailed rubbish of this character :\n\" You are drunk with kerosene. Your tripe will take fire ; you will become thin\nand sticky like an American ; you will swell up in passing a decree and then you\nwill meauw and altogether fade away. \"\nHe did not like this; he even threatened to exterminate every superstition\nin the world. But Kvatchka has no fear; has she not disinterested friends\n■r\neverywhere ? (She tells fortunes from five to eight and afterwards offers other\nkinds of consolation). She used to tell the future in coffee grounds, but every-\nbody knows that the coffee of the Soviets is nothing more than burned carrots,\nthe grounds of which are so coarse and clumsy that one cannot count upon any\nrevelations, not even trivial allusions. While the card deck, old, with the Joker\nleft in, will tell everything ; for example, when the rations are to be distributed\nfor the month of February at the Galeskom3 and how ought to\n\n* Valet.\n1 Heating Committee.\n2 Housing Committee.\n3 Iron Committee."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "230", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.40", "texte": "entice that fellow Piline to the Pope, because he is cunning and grumbles, \" Re-\nligion is nothing more than opium and should be masticated without losing time\nin apportioning it. \" It will indicate from whence the Messiah is to come, and\nnot in a vague manner, but with precision; for he is the true Tzar who freezes\nin the forests behind the Ob, and feeds himself on wild black-berries.\nUnfortunately, Douniacha went to Kvatchka last Thursday, Douniacha of\nthe big lips, who is officially invalided from the working front, but still kneads the\ndough in the kitchen of Brinsoff, cleans the pots of the children of Brinsoff and\nirons the skirts of his wife. Work has become heavier. Formerly, she had the\nhelp of the cook Fiokla and the chambermaid, Mathilda. But now Douniacha\nis maid of all work. It is simple enough : in the old days, Brinsoff dabbled\nabout with war supplies, and, honestly and without hurrying himself, increased\nhis stock in the mines and sugar refineries (how nice it was !) and now stil\ndabbles, but prudently, within his committee. Besides he buys the paper money\nof the Romanoffs from the provident petty bourgeoisie, for they no longer con-\ncern themselves with accumulating wealth but devote all their efforts to the\nprocuring of bread.\nYet, as one can see, Brinsoff does not live so badly, for Douniacha puts in\nthe oven not only bread, but \" brioches \" — and what a lot of butter it takes\nto prepare them — real patties stuffed in six different ways and choice cabbages\nof all colours. Also it would not be unjust for Douniacha to complain, after all\nthe patties are cooked and the skirts ironed, if enough wit were not left in her head\nfor serious thinking. And why then is it necessary for this poor head, with its\ngrey and sparse hair for which a half-spoon full of flax oil is necessary, why is\nit obliged to think so much, as if she were not just simple Douniacha, but a\nwoman learned in religious writings ? .\nHer first thought is of her son, Vassia, Vassienka, Vassielok. Oh the dark\nlittle room under the stairs in the house of her old master, Siliverstoff, at Jaki-\nmonka, and the valet Grichka with his chevrons, and better still his chiselled\nteeth ! How could she, such a little girl, resist him ? There were marmalades\nand extraordinary vows. He had even promised to have her portrait taken. As\nshe had no fear, Douniacha had not gone to find the woman Chaboloff, who ar-\nranges such affairs with a nail or so, and she had not sent her son to the orphan\nasylum, but had placed him at Tchelitsi near Serpoukoff and paid two roubles\na month for his keep. Vassia was nine years old when Douniacha took him to\nthe barber, Mr. Ferdinand, her compatriot, certainly not for Vassia to shave the\ncustomers, but to sweep up the hairs, and on Saturday, during the rush hour,\nto lather the cheeks of those waiting until the boss was free to scrape their chins.\nOne does not know who bewitched him : most curious ideas began to trot about\nin his head. He did not lather the customers very long and three months af-"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "231", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.41", "texte": "terwards, in the spring time, made off, without whispering a word to Mr. Ferdi-\nnand or to his mother. Douniacha howled so loudly that she lost her place four\ntimes. She went to the fair at Divitchi and to the pilgrimage of Saint Serge,\nbut she didn't find him. She became calm, but not resigned. Where could he\nbe ? Even if she met him she would no longer recognize him. He has a mark of\nidentification but it is hidden, under his left breast, a red spot like the diamond\non a playing card. Douniacha even asked Triphone, the janitor, \"If you see\nin the bath someone who has under his breast a diamond, seize him, he is mine. \"\nBut why should Triphone bother to search, it was not his flesh and blood, this\nVassia ? Is he alive, this Vassia ? Perhaps when she burns a candle for his\nhealth, she only tortures his soul in heaven ? Father Aphanassi has taught her\nthat there was no need of worrying but that she should pray for his health and\nfor the victory of the Christian army, because at his age, Vassia must be a soldier.\nAnd now perhaps the devil has stolen the innocent one. For look, the son of\nthe grocer Perloff, a saint, a true worker, has he not become an important\nbolshevik ? With their cursed claws they rake in souls.\nNow this is the second thought of Douniacha. It is not any easier. She\nthinks of the awful mess and of all the trials of the church of true believers. Even\nunder the soul they have dug a trench, the plotters ! Douniacha has seen\nat Zatsepa, in front of the market, the picture of the chief tyrant with his pince-\nnez on a string; he smiles in his little beard, and how many Russians has not this\nHerod exterminated ? Is it possible that the bread cards themselves carry the\ninsigna of anti-Christ ? The infernal writing burns one's fingers, and still one has\nto carry it into the shops and on one's bosom near the heart in order that no one\ncan steal this treasure. Father Aphanassi told not only this. The devils even\ndared to touch the relics of Saint Frol, but God did not permit it; He veiled their\neyes with an eclipse, and the monks and good Christians saw the indestructible\nflesh with a golden ear of corn sprouting from its entrails, while the red \" grass-\nhoppers \" 1 saw only an appalling apparition with raging fire inside. Douniacha\nknows all; how Saint Nicholas under the gates of the Kremlin rent the ignoble\nveil, and how the Dove of the Holy Ghost of the convent of Tchoudoff flew into\na filthy barracks and upset with its little wings an idol of stone with moustaches\nbefore which all those inscribed must prostrate themselves when denying the\nSaviour. They wished also to inscribe Douniacha, but she lay down in the coal\nbin under the .servant stairs, and remained there all the night without daring to\nsneeze, but praying inaudibly to the Father. A few days ago, a new misfortune.\nA bolshevik, a miscreant, who was walking under the stairs, casually requisitioned\nthe drawing room of Brinsoff and immediately moved out all the furniture,\n\n1 Bolsheviks."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "232", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.42", "texte": "Charlie Chaplin.\nFernand Leger."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "233", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.43", "texte": "Charlie Chaplin.\nFern and Leger."}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "234", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.44", "texte": "bringing in with him a half-pound of paper and the dirty mugs of Satan's whole\narmy. He begged Douniacha in a very sweet voice to give him a little hammer,\nand immediately began to nail their faces to the wall, and as he could not stand\nthe sight of the ikon, he told her to take it away, for in front of the pure faces\nof Saint Cosina and of Saint Demian the devil's seed suffocated. What woman\ncould have had vile enough bowels to bring forth such a blonde toad ? He\nlooked at Douniacha with his yellow eyes, until her feet trembled, and tried in\nwhispers to send her to perdition : \" Friend, a little hot water ? \" Douniacha\nknew that he was a messenger from hell, the last tempter. She prepared herself\nfor the supreme torture.\nIt was after all this that she went to question Kvatchka about her future\nAnd with her, she took her ration of a quarter of a pound of powdered sugar.\nKvatchka evidently understood what was wrong at once: that is to say, she\nscreamed at the cat, the actual likeness of the Blonde One even to his yellow\neyes: \" Get out of here, hussy, leave this holy place. Look at his fat paunch ;\nhe has stolen a cup of milk ; he has lapped up a thousand roubles without\nsneezing .\" Afterward, spitting on her fingers, she made a fan of cards and\nwithout looking at them, picked up one and commenced to tap her foot, marking\ntime; and, with the voice of a ventriloquist, breathed into the ear of Douniacha:\n\" Your fate is the Jack of Diamonds ; get ready for the final test. \"\nknows that the Jack of Diamonds is a peaceful card and fore-\ntells happy thoughts. Kvatchka is intelligent and cunning. It is not in vain\nthat she has used her fingers at cards until they are callous. She does not look\nat the surface of the cards, but at their insides. Nothing is concealed from\nher. But she did not wish to give explanations to Douniacha, only scolding her\nwhen she left, because the sugar was yellow and damp. Douniacha wondered\nall the way home how to interpret the difficult card. Diamonds have a light\ncolour, the colour of God, not like spades. Vassia has a diamond over his heart.\nMay the Sainted Virgin guard him ! And the valet looked like this scoundrel\nof a lodger. From whence must she expect her fate ? From her little pigeon,\nor from this man with black claws ?\nPassing by Volkhonka, the eyes of Douniacha noticed a new defilement.\nFrom a wall, a naked man looked down, of violent blue, with red spots, as if\ncrabs had seized him with their pincers in the depths of hell. From his navel,\npeered a third eye, huge and red. Probably a sinner, a head printer. Around\nthe picture there was a crowd. Douniacha drew near. \" What's happened here ? \"\nAn old man with glasses (Douniacha knows him well; he used to own a little\nshop) read gravely : \" Exhibition of the Jack of Diamond \" 1, and kindly added :\n\n1 Exhibition of the Russian Cubist painters."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "235", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.45", "texte": "\"He is their patron. \" When Douniacha heard that, she did not fall to the\nground ; she did not even cry out, but she prayed in her soul that her fate would\narrive more quickly, and not make her languish in uncertainty, because she knew\nvery well that what must come will come.\nAnd in truth, the next morning, all began. The Blonde One called, as if\nit were not on purpose, and begged her to take his cards of the Domkom committee\nbecause he hadn't the time ; he had all kinds of appointments. \" Comrade,\nsign for me at the office. \" Douniacha understood what that would mean. \" I\nsir, I mean, comrade? I am not accustomed to this. \" \" What ?\" \"Just\nthat; I have kept my soul pure.\" \"In that case, comrade, you will have to go\nto the lyikbies.\"l \"You can put your spikes under my finger-nails if it is\nyour will, but you cannot force me to kneel down before the devil. I will not do\nit. \" The Blonde One laughed uproariously; he was very gay. He explained\nthat it was not the devil's house ; but a school. Such was the edict of the\nLikbies. \"Science is light; that's all. \" He also had been an illiterate; had\nrun away from his home, had begun to read books and it was by his own wit\nthat he had arrived at all. \" Here is the address of the school, not far away from\nthe ramparts of the cows, in the old tea house of lontarioff. \" (The poor man\nis dead ;he did not live to see such an insult.) He gave her the address, threat-\nening a little : \"If you do not go yourself, a soldier, armed with a gun, will\ntake you there. \"\nDouniacha went in haste to search for Brinsova. \" Madam, my dear lady,\nsave me from my bolshevik. \" She told her everything. Brinsoya herself\nwas scared to death. \" Don't call me madam, but comrade ; what do we know,\neverything is possible ; they can lock us up in a moment; I cannot help you.\nFool, I lost in a strong box a brooch of eighteen carats. What do you want;\nit is not a prison to which they are taking you; but to a school. There is nothing\nto do. Go. L,earn, or don't learn. Stay quietly in your corner and think\nwhat you like.\"\nDouniacha went there. You can't hide yourself from your destiny. She\nfinds some old mossy women, sitting down ; one of whom has a tooth protruding,\nanother a tuft of hair curling from her ear ; some peaceful old men, very musty,\nand above, on a platform, a sordid picture. Beside it, a hussy, with her hair\ncut. Impudent in a soldier jacket. And then a most disgusting thing occurs.\nThe hussy waves her hand as if it were a sceptre and all the old people droned\nthrough their noses : \" B-A-BA. \" One must render homage to the idol. Dou-\nniacha seated, trembling, in her own flesh, is descended into hell. Then the wo-\n\n1 i. e., face of the devil, an abbreviation in the Bolshevik terminology for the Com-\nmission for the liquidation of illiterates."}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "236", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.46", "texte": "man questioned her : \" You are a new one ? Repeat: B-A-BA. \" Douniacha\njumped up and shrieked frightfully : \" You can't make me take the oath. I\nwill accept death, but I will not utter obscenities.'\"' Douniacha loved clean-\nliness to extreme. She considered it a mortal sin to leave footmarks in a room.\nVery kind to animals, nevertheless, she wished to drown the cat Mourza when\nhe made a spot in the salon on the Persian carpet. But she could not stand this.\nShe spat right in the middle of the school. \" I deny your kingdom ; I know\nnow who leads you. It is our lodger. You can torture me, but even into his\nrotten moustaches, I will spit three times.\" Crying which, she went out.\nShe did not go back home, for the Blonde One is there who doubtless knows\neverything, and will take the seal and mark her brow, and behold, her soul will\nbe lost to eternity.\nShe had no weapons except her little scapulary and she did not know the\nwords. Then she remembered her old friend, a very wise adviser, Ivan Kous-\nmitch. Though he was far away, she ran there without a stop. Ivan Kousmitch\nwas, in the old days, an embroiderer in gold. He made epaulettes and grew\ntender over his metal stars. \" The wisdom of heaven, the beacon of the magi,\nI will cause by my intelligence to fall on those shoulders worthy of it. \" And\nlater, when the uprisings commenced, when the little stars of gold fell from the\nepaulettes of the generals, he shed a few tears but did not complain. He turned\nto the everlasting stars and concentrated on the Apocalypse. Nobody could\nexpound it better than he ; the uncovered pit, the woman clothed with the sun\nand the horses of different sorts. In the morning he bought from the workers'of\nthe,Guibartovski factories, stolen yeast and sold it again at the market; in the\nevening he expounded the Apocalypse and gave advice. He was much amused\nat Douniacha's story. \" Last Wednesday, I already had a foreboding. It\nis true that it was not a blonde, but a brunette like coal. It was your murderer.\nI know a great deal and I will reveal it to you. You, you are Judith, according\nto the divine words. You will destroy Holofernes, who wallows in debauchery\nand filth. You will save the empire of Russia. You will protect the Holy\nChurch. Prepare yourself for a mission, I see a halo around your hair.\" Dou-\nniacha bent to the ground. \"I am unworthy of that, Ivan Kousemitch. I\ndrank a little milk on the Eve of the Assumption, and other wicked deeds hang\nheavy upon me. \" But no, Ivan Kousemitch knows it is not in vain that he speaks\nthese words ; on Douniacha has fallen the greatest honor, to conquer the enemies\nof the human race ;to suffer for the evil of the world. The lodger, the Blonde\nOne, the Jack of Diamonds, is no other than the devil. It is not with her naked\nhands that she must go against him. Ivan Kousemitch owns different weapons,\nlittle crosses, scapularies, forbidden prayers, potent invocations. The devil is\nnot so strong, he also has weaknesses, but one must know them. The easiest way"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "237", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.47", "texte": "is to seize him when he is still very little, when his horns are only beginning to\ncome out, sicknesses possess him, pimples and weaknesses of the flesh./ Also if\none seizes the devil, although fully grown, on the night of \" Pantelemon-le-\nCuerisseur, \" and if one whips him with a blessed branch, he will go under cry-\ning ; without losing time it is then necessary to pickle him in cucumber brine and\nhold him there until the decomposition is complete. But against the Jack of\nthe moustaches, Ivan Kousemitch will give her a weapon, trustworthy and quick\nacting ; a little jar of Holy Water from the Sainte Montagne. Douniacha should\napproach him in the night, creeping towards the sleeper, uncover his nakedness\nand sprinkle him with holy water, murmuring at the same time, \"In the Jor-\ndan, the bath of the world, for Satan and his disciples, mortal death. Amen. •\"\nThe devil will tremble ; his little tail will fall oft'. From his entrails will burst\nforth growlings of a dog, and soon he will dry up, shrivelled like a hedge-hog.\nDouniacha went home, stern but inspired, bearing the little jar. She be-\nlieved in Ivan Kousemitch, only doubting one thing. She felt unworthy, stained\nby her sins ; she will lack the purity necessary to overcome the evil. A sinner,\nbelieving little, she will perish without attaining her object. At Brinsova's\nshe asked absolution, humbly, kissed the hands of her mistress and then put on\na clean shirt to present herself fittingly and prayed to the Virgin with fervor.\nThe Blonde One came home late. In ignorance of the plans of his opponents,\nhe sat in several committees and figured out how many schools they would open\nin 1930, for the miners of the Government of Perme. All men would be conscious\nand efficient, like American machines, as if they were more than a heap of pu-\ntrified bones and miserable flesh. ''They have not the time to live, already\nthey are tainted with age/' Everything is regulated ; here the prison, there the\nspree ; one has not even time to hiccough between the acts. He counted :\n\" Schools, 318; scholars, 16,000. Schools, 94; scholars, 7,000. Plus four supple-\nmentary schools. \" Having finished his figuring, not excepting the Bachkirs\n-and the Mordvas, he drank a glass of tea, made from leaves gathered by the\npost boy; in place of sugar he sucked a little spoon which tasted of white metal\nand herring, and afterwards dragged himself home with a heavy portfolio contain-\ning diagrams, plans and notes weighing at least ten pounds.\nWith her eyes glued to the key-hole, Douniacha hardly breathed. She\nwaited for the Blonde One to go to sleep. Before closing his eyes, it occurred\nto him to read a paper, and when he had finished, he said aloud : \" Ha, ha, in\nArgentina, already a strike. The world conflagration begins. \" He smiled,\ncarefully took off his patched trousers, placed them on a chair and plunged be-\nneath the covers. Soon Douniacha heard a light snoring like a child in his\ncradle. How innocent the devil can seem!\nShe made the sign of the cross, softly opened the door, without creaking,"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "238", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.48", "texte": "drew down the sheet and began to sprinkle and to mumble. The Blonde One\njumped and began to howl terribly, just as Ivan Kousemitch had foreseen. With-\nout being able to open his eyes, he waved his hands and cried. Full of faith\nin her coming victory, Douniacha drew near him, but a final trial awaited her.\nA horrible sword was suspended over her poor heart : his shirt had opened and\nDouniacha saw the diamond birthmark which she had borne, the mark of her\nblood. \" Vasska, son, Jack, valet, Antichrist \" — and with an inhuman cry,\nshe ran down the stairway of cold stones, through the empty court, down the\nstreet, God knows where, fleeing her curse, into the forest, into the snow, into\nthe fire, down to the furnace of hell.\nWhat flames devoured her entrails. And the other, the other with his chev-\nrons, with the portrait and the marmalade. Was he also then a devil ? She\nhad absorbed the seed of the Devil, she had borne him within her, with her Chris-\ntian blood ; she had nourished him for the destruction of mankind ; there is no\nmore hope for her. The charitable Virgin herself averts her tearful eyes, con-\nceals behind the clouds her little wounded hands, for she cannot hold them out\nto the Devil's mistress, to the nurse of Satan.\nFar away, beyond the gates of the town, near the Tartar cemetery, she\nfell down on a pile of snow and began to swallow it, to quench the terrible fire,\nbut the snow burned her mouth and tongues of fire, flaming worms writhed in\nher belly, mounted her throat, twisting her driedup breasts, and always she\nsank deeper and deeper into the snow. Only her feet, in brown shapeless boots,\nstill stuck out, two withered stumps.\n\nFrom the French version of\nEue Ehrenbourg."}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "239", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.49", "texte": "GIOVANNI PAPINI.\n\nThe time is always opportune for writing something about Papini; the\nmore you endeavor to define and characterize him, the more he seems to evade\nyou and create a new Papini who forces a revised judgment. But this changeable-\nness is a permanent characteristic of the writer, and it soon occurs to one that\nPapini, at bottom, always remains the same. The contrary is the general belief ;\none speaks of his contradictions and of his alterations. One reproaches him for\nthem. They are superficialities. Many legends are current about his person-\nality.\nIt is a great temptation to wander into poetry and lyricism when under the\nsway of his vital spirit. We must be very careful to give due value to what the\nyouths write about him, though what they write is always exaggerated, as it is\ndifficult for them to remain serene on the subject of Papini. To do so, one must\nhave felt him, have undergone him, as one does an illness. Also, it is necessary\nto guard against that which the old men write about him, for they are either\nbitterly opposed or completely subjugated by him. It is best to speak of him\nin simple words — to address, let us suppose, an American who knows nothing\nwhatever about him.\nThis is what I should say to my American :\nI.\nIn January, 1901, there appeared in Florence, unheralded by any barometer,\na strange literary magazine, printed on hand-made paper, illustrated with ori-\nginal woodcuts, and written entirely by youths unknown up to that time. In\nthe contents each month, an editorial, and critical notes appeared, signed\n\" Gian Falco, \" pregnant with poetry and passion, irony and romanticism,\ncolor and sensitiveness, treating in the most independent spirit philosophic and\nmoral problems of all kinds, far from any preoccupation with actuality, and of-\nten in direct and abrupt conflict with the current ideas then prevalent in\nItaly, such as \" Positivism \" and Christian and Tolstoyian Socialism."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "240", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.50", "texte": "This periodical soon became greatly renowned, perhaps more renowned than\nread, and was called \" Leonardo\nThe founder and editor who gave it importance and character, revealing\nin its pages those strange attitudes and violent passions, this spirit of extrava-\ngance and insolence, was Giovanni Papini since known in Italy as a writer, read\nand admired by the young — the most hated and the most loved.\nII.\nIn appearance, Papini reminds one of a certain kind of pear, ugly to look\nat, yet sweet to eat. At first sight, unpleasant; his lineaments irregular, the\nmouth too large, the jaw too prominent, the teeth protruding. The nose is\ntoo flat and his complexion pasty, like the earth. His walk is that of a comical\nskeleton, distorted and disproportioned, for his body is too long.\nBut look at him closely : you will see that his appearance as a whole acquires\nanother aspect when viewed in relation to his personality, You can only think\nof the sea when you meet his grey-green eyes, of the mountains when you regard\nhis forehead, high and spacious, of the forests agitated by the wind of April,\nwhen his curly hair blows in free disorder. Here is a man different from the rest,\nyou will say, for where another man would appear ugly, you feel that Papini is\nonly strange and exceptional. He is a marked man, and this may mean good\nor evil, but betokens always a personal fatality. The large veins which cross\nhis forehead and descend down to his nose, the extreme myopia which gives him\na look of vagueness and ingenuity, of indefinite direction, as if he were far away\nand occupied with lofty thoughts ; the cheekbones protruding like those of a\nMongolian, a little cruelly, reveal the irregular features of a man possessed by a\nsoul far from the commonplace. Is he demon or angel ?\nIII.\nWhen you hear him speak for the first time, you will probably have the im-\npression that you are conferring with a demon. If he is an angel, he is the angel\nof darkness and of negation, of wounded pride and of corrosion. It is his custom\nto receive you rudely, with very embarassing questions, either half derisive or\ndirectly insolent. If a third person be present, by chance, in the role of audience,\nhe will in all probability let fall from his lips a flow of paradoxes, assailing your\ndearest convictions, or shower you with sarcastic remarks where your defense\nis weakest : at your secret absurdities and predilections."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "241", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.51", "texte": "Once he was introduced to a certain man who had tried in vain to commit\nsuicide a few months previously. As soon as he heard the name, Papini remem-\nbered the story and said : \" Look, the only good thing he might have done in his\nlife, he failed to accomplish \"\nOf this type of anecdote, one could relate dozens. The embarassing ques-\ntion, the insolent observation, the piquant retort, have been for a long time a\nspecialty of Papini.\nA university professor, who had often been snubbed by him, took the oppor-\ntunity one day, at the memorial celebration of Carducci, to approach him.\nSaid he, lachrymosely and with Jesuitical glances : \" Let us make peace, dear\nPapini. \" Quickly the other answered : \"An armistice, an armistice only, Pro-\nfessor. \"\nThe many witticisms, the epithets hurled by him at writers of his and other\ntimes, the scoffing and the irony which have filled his magazines and books,\nare not the corrosive acid of an intelligence consciously setting out to do harm\nto others, but the natural expression of a fresh mind which conceives with great\nrapidity and in lightning flashes, — with that scintillation which is possessed by\nromantics such as Schlegel, an accompanying characteristic of the true genius.\nIf he has been able more often to see the ridiculous side and to point out the\ndefects, rather than the good qualities of the people about him, shall we attribute\nit to the fact that these phases are the more obvious ? Or, is it an inclination of\nhis spirit which has suffered overmuch, which has not been loved enough, which\nhas become sour, desiring above all to appear locked, closed, diffident, deaf, willing\nrather to lose the possibility of finding a beautiful soul, than to let itself be\ndefrauded one having in reality, only its semblance ? It seems to me evident\nthat the latter is the case. His life as narrated by himself is not a happy one.\nAnd perhaps he has not disclosed the very depths of his bitterness.\nPhysically unfortunate, he lacked in his early years that understanding\nof a sensitive nature so essential for producing the unconscious happiness enjoyed\nby children. We dare say, he has had no boyhood —orif he has, he has lived it\nout of that period. Spring found him as a tree that has blossomed too soon\nand consequently suffered from frost. One feels that some cord in him has been\nbroken, that the regret which quivers in his words is due to some early injustice.\nLove and friendship have come to this soul too late, when it was irrevocably\nwounded. The scar remains always, and through a scar, sensitiveness is perhaps\nless able to penetrate than before. That coldness, that scepticism that one notes\nin Papini, grow from there — and from there grows his rudeness too. He\npassed the years of his youth immersed in mad study and black pessimism.\nIt is rarely one recovers from an initial misanthropy such as that felt\nby him."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "242", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.52", "texte": "IV.\nThere are cries of tenderness, and a seeking for love growing from the same\nsentiment, in the first fantastic-romantic period of Papini's work. He is interested\nin philosophical and moral problems, but these assume a purely literary expres-\nsion taking spontaenously the form of legends and myths. These remind one\nof the methods of Baudelaire and Poe, the moral essays of Maeterlinck and the\ntravesties of Laforgue. The classic book of this period is the \" Tragico Ouo-\ntidiano \"; in the last editions, \"II Pilota Cieco \" has been added. In this vein\nalso is a third and inferior work, \" Buffonate which represents the tired rem-\nnants of the inspiration of that type. These writings have a glitter of false\nantique gold, artificial, yet seductive. The device is nearly always original, the\ngesture a happy one, but there is a rudeness in the style, and at the same time a\nlittle of affectation when compared with his later writings, which are much more\nhuman and solid.\nOne notes here two probable reasons for his change (not overlooking the prin-\ncipal one — that of his constant development, his continual unveiling of him-\nself and the perpetual effort of writers to fathom the depths of themselves) :\non the one side, his life in the country and his marriage ; on the other, his careful\nstudy of the classics. Bulciano and the collection of \" Scrittori Nostri \" (Our\nWriters) ; — already this \" Our \" was the beginning of a new phase of Papini's —\ncoming as it did at a time when he had only been speaking of international lite-\nrature, Spanish and German ; Arabian and Chinese. It was for him a renewal\nof a life lived ; to find again, or find for the first time, human experiences, and to\nenlarge his vocabulary of people an authors, which up to that time was poor,\nabstract and often common.\nBlessed be the poverty which compelled him to live in Bulciano, and the\nneed which forced him to become an editor — and we need not look too closely\nat the punctuation of his text.\nV.\nThe conclusion of this movement was a book of confessions, the masterpiece\nof Papini, \" FUomo finito \" (The Finished Man). One need no longer refer to\nHamlet or the Devil, to invent characters, or feign extraordinary adventures\nwhen wishing to recount the torments of a life. One says, finally, — that tor-\nment, that life, the rUomo Finito, is Papini himself — his own story, his life,"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "243", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.53", "texte": "C. Carrà - A. Soffici.\nCaricature of Papini."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "244", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.54", "texte": "his own intimate thoughts — from childhood to his final confessions. He has\ntried everything — and succeeded in nothing. He has sought always the impos-\nsible, the too great, the too high. As a child he dreamt of compiling the encyclo-\npedia of encyclopedias ; so as man, he dreamt of becoming the revealer of a new\nreligion. But everything has failed him : family affection, the understanding\nof the spirits who surrounded him, help of friends, the ecstasy of real love. Here\nhe is, discontented, disheartened, broken. Another man, of mediocre mentality\nwould be satisfied with his fame, with his success, with his \" position \" — but\nPapini aspired to a greater glory — that of a genius who spiritually over-\nturns the world.\nWhat he wished most to have written, was a \" universal judgment, \"\nand the entire book is a cry of dissatisfaction, a clamour toward the unattainable.\nIt is his masterpiece because it is the most honest and sincere of his works. His\nother books are more often those of the Papini \" who wishes to hide his secret.\nHis secret is his weakness. Papini is not a strong man, and as he knows his\nvulnerability, he isolates himself, entrenches himself behind a breast-plate.\nThere he remains with the audacity of the timid — attacking, scoffing, engaging\nin polemics, denouncing. Not only does he say impertinences ; he writes and\npublishes them. In this manner he has won his fame as an \" enfant terrrible \"\nof literature. If there is a scandal to instigate, he thinks of it at once ;he is\nready to speak of a rope in the house of the hanged ; to talk of anti-semitism at\nthe home of a Jew; and of divorce with a divorcee.\nHe has acquired this reputation a little through his natural temperament\nand a little through his desire of making it so — and of augmenting it. If\nthere be an unmentionable word, he speaks it at once. And in certain of his\nshorter works, we find five or six of the worst substantives ever used by writers,\nfrom Dante to Carducci. There is in him a little of Bernard Shaw, but of a\nShaw less contented with himself and his impertinences ; above all, Papini is\nmore unsatisfied — and therefore changeable. And perhaps dissatisfied because\nof being obliged to be changeable.\nVI\nThis reproach of being changeable is the most common and perhaps the\nmost true of the many reproaches flung at him. Nothing could be more evident.\nWith the exception of a few strong antipathies, such as the one for Croce which\nhas always remained, one might say that every two or three years, Papini chan-\nges his opinions. He has been positivist, idealist, pragmatist; has believed in\nphilosophy and then scoffed at it; has combatted, then embraced and finally"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "245", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.55", "texte": "abandoned futurism; was passionately in favor of the war — then soon tired\nof it; has been anti-Christian and now apparently has become Christian. In\nhis writings, one can find mockeries of all opinions — and reasoning in favor\nof all faiths.\nAll this is quite true — but... And there is a \" but\". An analysis of the\nmutability of Papini's temperament brings important results. First of all,\nit is disinterested ; secondly, it denotes an extreme prosensitiveness to whatever\nthe times demand, and finally, it reveals still another secret aspect of Papini's\nmind. His mutability is that of a lyric spirit ready to enthuse for that which\nis not yet realized, and incapable of undertaking afterwards the more arduous\ntask of dominating the real obstacles. Papini's weakness is here also demons-\ntrated. There is in him an intense desire for truth and faith, of living in contact\nwith that reality which he missed when young ; of feeling himself convinced ;\nand all this is in direct opposition to what he so often appears to be, a cynic,\na mocker, a sceptic. He is sceptical, but suffers from being so ; a cynic, but his\ncynicism hides a sorrow ; he is a mocker, but how he would love to be mocked\nproviding he had a faith.\nHis revolt against the ideals he once loved is not the expression of the mal-\ncontent toward those faiths that have not held him enough, have not totally\ninflamed him. His movements toward ideas, groups, literary fashions, problems\nof the day, are quick at first — and reach their goal in- one jump. It is his\nreadiness to accept a new subject, a new ideal, that reveals the genial aspect\nin him. But the conquests of Papini, if they are quicker than those of others,\nare also less durable. He is as a child who sees far above him a little rose cloud,\nclimbs the mountain quickly to touch it — and finds upon nearing it, that it\nhas become grey. The realized reality does not satisfy him, and he becomes\nbitter, critical, ironical and aggressive. This has been the fate of the ideas\nand movements of which he has hoped the most : idealism, futurism, his war-\nenthusiasm.\nVII.\nAs often happens, Papini is known more for his \" ideas \" — that is, those\nideas he caught here and there and soon abandoned, than for having given to\nthese ideas, life, character, importance, relations, logic (sometimes elementary),\nwhich they had not in themselves . He has been, and this is not the first example,\nmore admired for his unworthy and passing actions than for his better and pro-\nfound ; for his clamorous discordant manifestations rather than for his penetra-\nting and silent ones. On the whole, his fame was chiefly won during the period\nof futurism and \" Lacerba \"."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "246", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.56", "texte": "However, he has derived the greatest benefit from one characteristic of his\nmentality, notable especially in his articles : an extraordinary capacity for grasp-\ning in all problems the three or four chief points of importance and developing\nthem with the greatest simplicity and often, ingenuity, using phrases of such\nan imaginative quality as to completely capture the reader. The power of rhe-\ntoric that some men possess over the masses is also in the hands of this man.\nHis ingenuity has rendered it possible for him to approach the mentality of the\nhumblest and to find readers among the lowest classes.\nAnd in the meanwhile, so few have noted the great progress made by Pa-\npini in his writing. Generally, one asks for the \" Papini \" — without distinc-\ntion or hierarchy ; one also judges him without discerning the deep from the\nsuperficial, or even his progress through and beyond his varied methods. His\ncareer, if one may so express oneself, is a succession of leaps, followed by long-\nperiods of lassitude and stagnation, during which the forces for a new jump seem\nto mature. Arrived at the summit again, he seems, after a little while, to lose\nhis footing and fall back once more. At the very beginning of each of these\nperiods, his productions are the best.\nMeanwhile, he is making constant progress in his instrument: the language.\nThis is mainly notable since his seclusion in Bulciano and his study of the clas-\nsics. He has even temporarily adopted rhythm and rhymes to show how easy\nit was for the Tuscans to compose in a given traditional line. Of course, Ido not\nbelieve that in this lies proof of his genius ; rather, he has measured with them the\nextreme elasticity of his natural talent.\nPapini is primarily an artist — but one of a special character : he is an ar-\ntist of \" ideas His world of colours and forms (the external world) has\npresented itself to him a little late perhaps, and with a few exceptions, the rest\nof his work is that of talent, literary science, and we might say, is more academic\nthan lyrical. His is a moral lyricism, the lyricism of one who is always preoc-\ncupied with logical and ethical problems. Without enclosing them in their\nproper philosophical forms, he presents them, following the method of certain\nforeigners, in their sentimental and aesthetic aspects.\nThis may again recall to us Papini's mutability and dilettantism, but can\neasily be explained. For him, it is not the ideas which sustain his spirit. These\nare only considered lyrical occasions. This also explains his minute erudition,\nwhich has never satisfied the men of learning, but which has served to give to\nmany of his writings an appearance multicolored and interesting ; comparable to\nthe appearance of the drawing-room of a gentleman of good taste, in which are\ngathered together — masks of savages, impressionist paintings; Etruscan vases\nand Greek robes; tables of the sth century and Chinese drawings. No student\n-wishing to construct a history of art or of the human spirit would be content"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "247", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.57", "texte": "with such a miscellany, but, at the same time, the drawing room looks very\nwell, and assuredly, at first sight, has the power to attract and distract one's\nattention.\n>\nVIII\nThe personality of Papini is so rich that it can best be compared to a gor-\ngeous branch in blossom, whose buds one can pick without injury to the ap-\npearance of the whole. We now find no more detractors of Papini; but batta-\nlions of people more dangerous — his admirers. We call them dangerous,\nbut they are only temporarily so, for no critic, favorable or unfavorable, can sti-\nfle the flow of a poet's life. A poet who has natural inspiration and perseverance,\nthough men swear his incapacity, forges ahead, always ahead.\nPapini is the strongest and most original prose writer of our generation, in\naddition to being the representative of all the good and the bad that is ours, —\nthe torments, the changeableness, the uncertainty, the aspirations. His torment\nhas passed into others — awakening their spirits without being able to. give them\nrest. He has been a man tormented who torments, an impregnator of doubts\nand questions which he leaves unanswered. The answers will be sought for\nby the young of his period and by those who follow.\nPapini will remain as a type. In his extravagances and insolences, in his\ngestures whose sincerity we sometimes doubt, in his angers and disagreements,\nand in his more equivocal sympathies — he still radiates about him something\nsympathetic ; which explains why anger has been pacified and wounds have been\nhealed, and why Papini is now considered to be above the melange and more or\nless accepted by the crowd.\nHis name' will be known as the name of a good writer. It will be easy for\nthe future generations to recognize in him one of the purest followers of Carducci,\none of the rungs of that chain which tomorrow shall stretch between the writers\nof the past and the writers of the future. His periods of indignation and his\nrevolutionary proposals will be forgotten by all. His place will be among the\npowerful literary figures ; among those from whom Italian culture has fed its\nbrain. It will happen to him as it has to certain painters, called \" exception \"\npainters, whom to-day we admit in the perfect line of tradition.\nHis geniality, his inspired poetic sense in carrying on an argument, describ-\ning a scene or drawing a character (the latter rarely), will always be charac-\nteristic of him. Above all, he is a writer of movement. In his manner of open-\ning a paragraph and of closing it, after elaborating his thought; in his personal\nparticipation in the dramas of life or of social problems, there is always evident"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "248", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.58", "texte": "that clear energy which one misses in the style of Pascoli and d'Annunzio, and\nwhich is the characteristic of our best Italian tradition. In this lies his power,\nhis distinctive personality.\nAnd in the depths of Papini's soul, there are still unexplored and unsatis-\nfied regions of tenderness — his need of love — to which all have turned a deaf\near — and for which no one of us has done enough.\n\nFrom the Italian of\nGiuseppe Prezzolini."}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "249", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.59", "texte": "CLOISONNE.\nGrace Hazard Conkling.\nOn the sands, on the witidy beaches\nYou ran with me through bareness and salt glitter\nAnd saw far out the flashing of coral barriers\nAnd the wind-heaped ocean all peacocks and swans. . .\nAnd you remember a bay of northern forest\nBrimmed with mist of autumn mornings :\nThe nearest hemlock was the leaning wraith of a brig . . .\nOthers followed ghostlike along a trail of sun . . .\nMasts of veiled ships drawing delicately shoreward\nTo drop anchor in a field of goldenrod. . .\nYou have not forgotten the wind of those mornings ....\nYou have not forgotten the streaming running throbbing foaming wind\nYou have not forgotten the mist blown away like a thistle feather . . ,\nI say you have not forgotten\nWhat you have never known !\nIran alone on the beaches,\nAlone I watched the dark sails of the trees\nFill with wind :\nHow shall I give you these moments ?\nYet I may shape them for your hands . . .\nIf you will take home the bowl I have just finished\nCool with enamel of hyacinth and sea-green jade\nI can the sooner set about making you another\nOut of ebony and honey-colored shells."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "250", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.60", "texte": "I.\n\" I won't tell you the\nname of this one ! \"\nSoftly, softly,\nGently, gently,\nOver the tree-tops to the sky,\nBack again to the hills,\nFootsteps lost, footsteps unseen,\nAlways vanishing . . .\nSoftly, softly,\nGently, gently,\nDon't you make a noise now !\nThis wonder-creature comes\nBut once a year ...\nComes on tiptoe\nbooking under leaves . . .\nSoftly, softly,\nGently, gently . . .\n(Was it the wind ?)\n\nII.\nPIGEONS JUST AWAKE.\n\nAs the sun rose,\nEverything was bathed in gold ;\nTrees were still and solemn,"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "251", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.61", "texte": "Pigeons waded the dew.\nTheir feet were the color of new June strawberries.\nI thought what it must be to fly,\nTo whirl up into the light,\nTo know the curved flight of pigeons\nAbove trees and lawns !\nIf I could fly\nI should not have to leave my mother for long,\nNor my dark-eyed sister :\nOnly a flutterng, a lifting\nUp round the elm tree and over,\nA cool curving and sliding down the light\nInto wet grass.\n\nHilda Conkling."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "252", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.62", "texte": "CANDY CIGAR AND STATIONARY\n\nThere was a light shining within the lives of Lotte and Isidor Rabinowich\nI.\nShe stood behind the counter of her store and watched her husband place\non the opposite shelf tin toys . . . engines clowns sailboat pennybank . . . that\nhad just come in. She had arranged the syrup bottles on the counter. She\nsaw him. . . very little man. She knew behind his short sparse beard of black\nand grey his chin which she had never seen and which was round like a child's:\nshe knew under the skullcap a bland forehead . . . lodged there sweetness and\ntrust in her. An ineffectual man whom she had always mothered.\n\" Lotte, where do I put these ? \"\n\" Why, over there. \" — Yes all this : \" . . . with the other games, \" — all\nthis. A child of a man, my Man, who has not gotten along. With a temper\nthat flares. Not often. Shallow flame trying to burn away in a moment\nall the commanding .. . the real .. . that is me. All this, all this yes. But\nfather of my child.\nShe smiled at him: her palms were upward over her hips, they glowed there\nstrong and rough under the frail pity of her pockmarked face. — Such a child.\nFather of him.\nHe turned his eyes. . . he had felt her ... upon her. They glistened under\nher exultation like waters suntouched.\n\" What is it ? he smiled back, holding awkward a huge cardboard box.\n• \" Come here. \" t\nHe leaned over the counter. She kissed his lips. . . too thin. He shivered\na little, smiling.\n\" There now, \" she sobered him. \" Better take in the pennies, Isidor, from\nthe newsstand. You know, some of the boys, when they pass by from school — \"\nShe pondered. . . — They're not all honest, no.\nHe obeyed her. \" The first letter of the sign is off. \"He poured her the\npennies."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "253", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.63", "texte": "\" I saw Schmalzer, \" she nodded.\nHe took his place at her side behind the counter. Boys and girls will be\ncoming from school. . . candy, pencil, soda, icecream sandwich .. . the first\nwarm day with the sun of Spring beating into the crevice of the Block. In\na few minutes now, both of us are going to be busy.\nThey stood silent, thinking : of one height they were : waiting.\nFrom the West came the Sun in shouting strokes, pried open the cold walls\nof the Block. The Block grew warm, it opened its tremulous walls to receive\nthe Sun . . . Now a flood within its walls. Children pouring from school, bubble\nand pelt and foam of children within the Block. They sparkled, they leaped*\nthey clustered. They were a tide under the open walls, flood of the Sun's long\nstrokes within the walls of the Block . . .\n. . . And the small brown shop, all shadow, the little woman and man stand-\ning within the shop, within the swelling walls of the passionate street, within\nthe flood of the Sun . . .\nDoor burst open. Boys and girls with voices like shrill flowers, like gol-\nden pebbles pelting : boys and girls with wishes — little flags — on their heads\nand the wind of the Sun's strokes making them whip and snap.\nLotte and Isidor worked. Counted candies . . . six of them for a penny\n. . . two cent or three cent soda ?. . . here are your jacks . . . we haven't straw-\nberry only vanilla and chocolate . . . what did give me, five cents ? . . . you\nscratched that ruler.\nLotte worked in a smile. — These are children. All they will not grow\ninto men and women. The Lord chooses. Pity the mothers whose sons He\nhas not chosen to grow into strong men. . . Her lips moved faster than fingers.\nLotte worked with her eyes. She found him, big and dark, so strong ! — out-\nstanding so among children.\nHe is my son my Dream is bone of his body.\nHe is my hope my hope runs red in his veins.\nHe is my son and my Dream behold he is real!\n... Far from the Sun, in the thick clot of store, came a radiance on the\nwings of children, and made in her eyes a countering gleam against the laughter\nof children.\n— Children, children and my child. I know that lam chosen in my child.\nHe is big and clumsy, he has no quick laughter like that boy : no ready words.\nHe is slow ... he is deep. There is a glory hidden in his eyes. He cannot blossom\nso soon like you. . . five cents of these ? . . . whose mother has not been chosen.\nLet her be glad now ! . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "254", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.64", "texte": "They loved the Rabinowich store. They paid their pennies and stayed.\nThey romped and quarreled, they cluttered the cramped space before the coun-\nter. They made this shadowed spot of the long street wall burst with bright\ngreenness.\nHerbert among them, standing among and beyond them. — Strange boy,\nwhat would become of 'Herbert with a less wise mother ? There is Cause, it\nwas written that I should be his mother. Often he is naughty ... \" Share\nyour licorice, son.\". . . He changes, he shifts. He is deep.\nO you who work beside me and who are weak,\nWhose weakness I share and shall share always,\nBehold we have brought forth strength !\nOur path is darkness we must walk it;\nOur bed is darkness there must we lie.\nShadow is the world.\nBehold we have brought forth light !\n... The small store big with the song of children. The brown floor spread\nand adance with children's feet. . . The voices of children rose above a silence,\nwondrously. like young trees of young Spring.\nMy flesh is yours whom I could never love,\nBehold it has brought forth Love !\n2.\nThe children are gone.\nThey were in the store, the three, together, alone.\n\" Now, Herbert son. . . why don't you go quick and do your homework?\nThen you 11 have all the rest of the time to play. Come. \"\n\"No homework, Mama. \"\n\"Of course there's homework. You always have homework. Don't you\nwant to — \"\n\"No homework, I tell you. Give me another licorish stick. No home-\nwork. \"\n\" Why — are you sure ? That's funny. No homework? Why no home-\nwork, Herbert ?\n\" Give me a licorish stick, I tell you. No homework — no homework. \"\n\" You' gave all the other away — I saw you. Darling ! Here. Don't\nblack your whole face. \""}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "255", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.65", "texte": "A cloud cuts the Sun. A shadow is a dark shaft striking down upon the\nBlock, the store. It cleaves the heart of as the cloud cleaves the Sun.\nHer heart is opened.\nWhat is this afternoon ? \" say her lips.\nHer man turned to her. \" Friday. \"\nShe smiles at his not-knowing. Yet what does she know who smiles at\nhis not-knowing ?\nShe shuts her lips.\nThere is in this afternoon a sun and a cloud. They have met\nlike man and woman. There is in this afternoon a cleaving and\na searing. There is in this afternoon a Ivife and it comes!\n■The dark shaft cleaves her heart into two lips. They speak.\nI am with my man who is an old man and whom I should ngt\nhave wed. He is the father of my son : always I think of this\nthat I may not think toosore how I have married the man whom\nI should not have wed.\nMy hair is black, lam not so old as my neighbors feel me. No color\ncan break the grey web of my cheeks, I wear black clothes. For\nmy man is old, it is good to wear black beside him. This is no true\nreason, I wear black clothes, feel old because of my man. But\nthere is true reason why he is my man : this is the reason why\nI wear black clothes.\nBlack is the color of rejoicing unto them who are chosen of God.\nI have tasted Cod, all other foods are poison. I have seen the\nIyord, all other fires are black.\nBeneath my black dress, mark-meshed skin ; beneath grey skin is\nmy body of White.\nWithin my flesh was a son, his taste is my flesh. I am a small wo-\nman given, after I was marked forever by disease, to him who\nwould have me. I have been good to him, he has blessed me.\nIt is by his seed that the Lord chose me.\nBlessed be the long low years we have toiled bent.\nBlessed be their desert : for they hold a Jewel.\nIt flames beyond Grey, it is a roar of glory above silence.\nHe plays on the floor in air soiled brown : he shines.\nHe is strange, he is generous and slow. He says nothing. Often\nhis words tell nothing to my mind. He is not good in school.\nHe was left back in school. Through him I am chosen of God.\nGod loves him above all us. Above bright children, gay children.\nThis son of my sad flesh is the son of Spirit. He is many strengths,"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "256", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.66", "texte": "he is many souls. He is old not to know how to take care of\nwiping his nose, how to keep from dirtying his pants. Grace\nand Light he is. . .\nWhat is this afternoon ? what is this Life that comes ?\nThe Shadow of the Lord — the Hand of the Lord\nMakes Shadow of our lives.\nThe door opened. — Customer ?. . . Herbert knows her. His teacher!\n\" This .. . Mr. and Mrs. Rabinowich ? Good day. I am Miss Klaar. I\nam Herbert's teacher. \"\nA tall thin woman, gold hair waving away from a prim hat, bright girl\ncheeks, a resolute chin. . . came into the soiled brown store. She stood stiff and\nhigh, propped faintly against these two little lives who looked at her in passive-\nness, waiting her word. She picked the mother.\n\" May I speak to one of you ? \" she said.\nHerbert pawed her hand, pounded his head against her waist : her white\nhands were easeless to fend him off.\nShe placed his blackness aside. Lotte led her into a back room silent.\nThere was no word — she is Herbert's teacher ! . . . There is in this afternoon\na Life and it comes ! . . . The door closed, She, Herbert's teacher, held the sense\nof the little man and of the boy behind her, living, filling a world of their own,\nnot her world :• what did she know of these worlds whose sons like shoots of an\nalien earth sat under her desk, drank her words ?\nThis mother : — This is hard work.\nLotte brought her a chair, close where she stood. Lotte stood, in a bed-\nroom. Miss Klaar felt a low specked ceiling, an iron bed so clean, scrubbed\nfloor, a window grated pouring grey dim against a glow in the room that had\nno kinship with the harsh red paint of the bureau. It was about her, this world\nshe invaded — she and grey dim through a grated window — upon authority\nthat seemed profane to her. — I feel like a heathen. . . She plunged, not letcing\nthe glow of this meek strong creature in black impinge too deep on what she\nknew was her duty.\n\" Mrs. Rabinowich, I came to speak to you about your son.\n\" Thank you, Miss Klaar. \"\n\" Won't you sit down, too ? \"\nLotte sat on the bed's edge — there was no other chair — with a stern grace\n\" How do you find your son, Mrs. Rabinowich ? \"\n\" Why — I do not — I — what do you mean, Miss Klaar ? \"\n\"Heis a good-hearted boy. We all love him in his Class. But he does\nreprehensible things. I feel I must tell you. \""}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "257", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.67", "texte": "\" He is not good at his lessons ? \"\nWorse than that. He is unruly. He does not obey the simplest order\nHe has been dirty, Mrs. Rabinowich — \"\nThere was silence.\nHe does not seem quite to understand what — what one might expect\na boy of twelve, with a good upbringing — \" she stopped. \" — I know, seeing\nyou — that his upbringing must be good —\nNo, no. . . lam not — very *— Miss Klaar — very intelligent. \"\n\"You know he was left back, last year ... lam fond of Herbert... But I\nfeel, Mrs. Rabinowich ... I should long ago have reported him to the Board\nTell me. . . What have I done wrong ? ' *\n\" Nothing, I am sure, Mrs. Rabinowich. \"\n\" Why report him ? What is there to tell ? Tell me ... \"\n... It is the rule, that when a child does not seem to fit in the regular\ngraded Class, Mrs. Rabinowich. . . that the Authorities should examine him,\nin order to find out where he does fit.\n\" Where does he fit ? . . down ? \"\n\" No, I don't think so . . . Not just a lower grade. \"\nIyOtte feared : \" I do not understand, Miss Klaar. \"\n\" course ! Now all this will be managed by someone who does. I have\nmade an appointment for you, Mrs. Rabinowich. \" She took a card from her\npurse, she was smiling under her prim seriousness : \" — It is over ! Here, you\nmust report here, at five. This afternoon. Dr. Finney. I do not know\nDr. Finney, but he I am sure will help you — will tell us more about — about\nwhat is the matter with Herbert. If anything '*\nShe was up. held the card in trembling fingers.\n\"Do not forget; this afternoon at five. This afternoon. It is a Board\nof Education appointment. He expects Herbert. .. \"\nShe walked through the shut world of the store with her shoulders thrust-\ning. She moved as through a sea toward air — strained for the street. She\nthrew up her eyes, took in once more the air of her own world. — This is hard\nwork ! . . .\nLotte was there with a shawl over her head.\n\" Isidor, I must take Herbert. . . down by 59th Street. The teacher. .. \"\nShe stopped. Isidor's eyes were high, shut away, above clasped small\nhands. He prayed. She waited, watching his shut eyes. His eyes were still,\nbeyond swaying head, mumbling lips.\nHe came forth from the counter : \" We go together. . . I close up. \"\nShe made no reply."}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "258", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.68", "texte": "They walked up the street with the low sun red in their eyes. The boy\nleaped ahead, lounged behind. He was glad. Adventure to be so walking\nthrough the streets with mother and father. Both ! A blue car scraped to a\nstandstill — for them !\nThe car lurched them on. A stress of fateful purpose in the lurch forth\nof the car that for them had scraped to a standstill: in the outlay of fifteen cents :\nin the fact that Schul would be missed.\nThe' City rose in hard high words. Each building was a word, each street\nthey swept by was an accent in the ruthless wording of fate, their fate, as they\nmoved Southward into knowledge. The City was a sentence, harsh, staccato,\nin an alien tongue.\nLotte clasped Herbert's hand.\n\" Come now, darling. Quiet, yes ? \"\nThey rose on stone steps.\nThe hall was a cold silence to which their feet spoke fearfully.\nBright plastered walls gashed long against the blood of Lotte moving\ntoward Dr. Finney. She felt beyond the head of her child — he was a\nblotch — her man, beating with her, moving with her inevitably one, as\nthough the silence of the world were a rein that bound them, drove them\ntogether.\nThey sat in bright varnished chairs in a room of gloom.\nHerbert was a black blotch before Lotte full of the glow of her son. A big\nman stood — bright against Herbert and her little man clasping his hat: a\nstroke from top to nadir against the glow of her son. A round red face, yellow\nhair sparse, gold chain laid on a blanched vest .. . took Herbert away. The\ndoor shut. . .\nThey sat viced in the fixity of waiting. Their being there, still in the room,\nmade them one with the room : they and the room moved onward to a real thing\nshe could not yet see. Time was unreal, waiting was unreal. They moved\nover a sharp horizon.\nLotte sat in this room with her man : and her child beyond under the cold\nclear eyes of a strange Doctor. But she sat waiting no new being, she felt how\nall of the world was about her like her flesh: how it swung ahead into cer-\ntainty. She could not pray. She could not feel the need of prayer. God\nwas about her in the certainty of life. ♦ . like her flesh. God was of her sitting\nthere and moving there toward the words of knowledge she was soon to\nreceive.\nThe words that she approached, the harsh syllables of the City she had\nmoved across, her son and God were one in an immobile ecstacy she, moving\nforward, limned and partook of. . ."}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "259", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.69", "texte": "He stepped into them alone — above wide vest, within wide face, eyes\nlittle and blue, cold and impatient.\nWords came — his words — words from a Doctor who knows — Words\nfor my heart, of my son. Words born of God within cloud of her life. — listen,\nthese words, lay them hot and cold in my open heart which the Sun has opened.\n\" I suppose, \" he looked down at a card, \" Miss Klaar, I suppose, has pre-\npared you for what there can be no doubt 0f... No doubt of, my dear people..\nHe looked at them. — The world is one, these words of a world that is\none . . . His eyes danced blue against the fixity of the room that was theirs.\n\" There is no doubt, my friends, your son is not only backward, very backward,\nwill never be anything else ... You see how he is now. Do you ? His body\nwill grow big .. . He is healthy alright. You feed him — too wisely. — Well,\nhe will always act just about as he acts now. No use concealing that... Be just\nas childish and foolish — stupid — as he is today . . . There are things he can\nlearn. . . Not what he is taught where he is now. We'll have him placed in\nanother Class where he belongs — with others like him. Lots others like him,\nmy good woman .. . where he can learn to use his hands. Some crude simple\njob. Never fear, there'll be work always... crude work of the hands... drawers of\nwater, hewers of wood ? we need'em I guess ... he will be able to do. No more. \"\nHis eyes stopped dancing beyond the two dark figures, they fixed on the\nwoman. . . \" No more, \" his lips pushed out again, to her. The blue eyes gleamed,\nstruck her black calm, came back, tremoring, screaming, within him. His face\npaled. He turned.\nHe flung wide the door, joined their flesh to the two dark figures.\n\" Here !\" He gave the boy. \" Good evening. \"\nHe tried to break the daze he felt in his clear rooms. — Clear rooms,\nmy rooms, clear . . . what's this ? \" Remember ! here's his address . . . the new\nschool. Prepare yourselves- to seeing his body grow big. . . bigger than\nyours .. . America .. . and his mind stay childish. Goodnight. \"\nHis hand sucked out, clasped the hand of L,otte who stood.\nHe held her hand. There were no woids in the world. He felt behind\nthe daze of his clear room a stream of strength moving resistless toward him\nfrom this woman, toward daze in himself.\n3.\nThe Sun was gone behind the Westward city. It cast its radiance upon\nthe sky, and the sky was a fused clearness over their heads as they walked.\nGentle and warm sinking into night was the sky above city. Houses, dying\nin shadow fusing with sky, stood like words spoken."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "260", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.70", "texte": "\" We will walk home, Isidor. \"\n\" Ain't we goin' to take the car ? \"\n\" No, son. There's no hurry. Taking the car costs money. \"\nHerbert leaped ahead, lounged behind their black bent calm, glad of this\nadventure of moving through the city, far from home, with mother and father.\nBoth!\nThey walked slow, they walked still. . . within the glow of the day. A\nconstant measure they were before and behind their son.\n\nWaldo Frank."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "261", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.71", "texte": "Perspiration.\nThe poor dear\nlooked dreadfully bored\n(unless his monocle lied)\nas he sat there\nwith his hat upon his head\nstriped blue collar round his neck\npearl gray jacket round his torso\nyellow flannels round his legs\nolive spats upon his feet:\nso he sipped his thin liquer\nor puffed spirals from his pipe\nthe while his naked eye\nroamed ever so wistfully\nacross di Como :\nbeautiful, yes,\na sheet of serenity,\nthe surrounding mountains\nvoluptuous indeed,\nyes, but what use is a body\nthat's carved out of stone\nand invitations\nwhose speech is so silent,\nand life such as this\nenough of a dullness\nwith nothing to do\nits whole length and breadth\nexcept to yawn and to yearn"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "262", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.72", "texte": "for London far away\nwhere at least there are streets\nand something going on\nand a soul or two to chat with,\nand the women who accost you\nuse a tongue that's civilized :\nso what's a chap to do\nwhen his energy is low\nwith his spats upon his feet\nyellow flannels round his legs\npearl gray jacket round his torso\nstriped blue collar round his neck\nand his head beneath his hat:\nexcept perhaps tenderly\nto remove the last article\nand caress his troubled brow\nwith a languid\ncambric kerchief ?\n\nDawn.\n\nThe languourous thighs of the morning\nstretch themselves in sleep,\nand one eye just peers\nover the edge of white comforters,,\nvaguely to discover\nthe paramour flown,\nwithout plea of leave-taking\nor hypocritical excuse,\nto the Orient,\nas the fellow's shadow betrays:"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "263", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.73", "texte": "whither,\nwith an irate mien\nand thighs sprouting wings\nshe pursues him :\nfor,\nonce you've had them,\nthey're no longer backward.,\nthe women who forget they were ladies\n\nAlfred Kreymborg."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "264", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.74", "texte": "Juan Gris.\nCourtesy Galerie Simon — Paris.\nPainting."}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "265", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.75", "texte": "PROFOUND TODAY.\n\nI no longer know whether I regard the starry heavens with my eyes or\nif I look at a drop of water thru a microscope. Since the beginning of his spe-\ncies the horse moves, pliable and geometric. Already the machines overtake\nhim, go beyond him. The locomotives prance, and the steamboats neigh upon\nthe water. Never has a typewriter made a mistake in etymological orthogra-\nphy, while the savant stammers, chews his words, breaks his teeth on ancient\nconsonants. When I think, all my senses are kindled, and I wish to violate all\nbeings. And when I release my instinct of destruction I find the triangle of\na metaphysical solution. Inexhaustible coal pits ! Cosmogonies live again\nin the trademarks. Extravagant signs over the city, multi-colored, with the\nribbon of the trams climbing the avenue, howling monkeys holding each other\nby the tail and the incendiary orchids of architecture which collapse from above\nand kill them. In the air the virgin cry of the trolleys. medium is as\nwell trained as the stallion of an Indian chief. It obeys the slightest beck.\nPressure of a finger. A jet of steam sets the piston going. Copper wire makes\na frogs leg somersault. Everything is becoming sensitized. Is within reach\nof the eyes. Nearly touches one. Where is Man ? The gesture of the infus-\noria is more tragic than the story of a woman's heart. The life of the plants\nmore stirring than a police drama. The movement of the muscles of the back\nin action is a ballet; this square of goods should be set to music and that jar\nof preserves is a poem of ingenuousness. Everything changes, proportions,\nangles, aspects. Everything recedes, approaches, cumulates, miscarries, laughs,\nbecomes accentuated and exaggerated. Produce, from five parts of the globe,\nis united on the same plate, in the same dress. One feeds on the sweat of gold, •\nat each meal, at each kiss. Everything is artificial. . The eyes, the hand. The\ngreat fur of figures on which I keep the bank. The sexual frenzy of the facto-\nries. The wheel which turns. The wing which flies. The voice which travels\nfar, on a wire. Your ear in a trumpet. Your sense of direction. Your rhythm.\nYou melt the world in the mold of your skull. Your brain is hollow. Unsus-\npected depth in which you cull the mighty flower of explosives. Like a reli-\ngion, a mysterious pill hastens digestion. You lose yourself in the laby-\nrinth of the stores where you give up your entity to become everyone. You"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "266", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.76", "texte": "smoke with Mr. Bock the Havana at twenty-five cents, which is on the poster.\nYou are part of that great anonymous body which is a cafe. Ino longer recog-\nnize myself in the mirror. Alcohol has clouded my features. He marries\nthe department store like the first comer. We are all the hour which strikes.\nYou hurl yourself at the menagerie of the railroad stations to tame the beast\nof your impatience. They depart. They disperse. Fireworks in all direc-\ntions. The capitals of Europe are in the trajectory of their inertia. A ter-\nrific whistle plows up the continent. The countries across the sea lie in the net.\nHere is Egypt on a camel. Go to Engadine for your winter sports. Read\nthe Golf Hotels in the palm trees. Think of 400 windows in sunlight. One\nunfolds the horizons of the timetabled and one dreams himself on Southern lies.\nRomanticism. The flags of the landscape float over the doors while from the\ngarland of the train fall flowers which take root and name, forgotten villages.\nThe removals kneeling in the accordeon of the sky across the telescoped voices.\nThe most blase go the farthest. Immovable. Entire days. Like Socrates.\nWith an activity in its head. The Eiffel Tower comes and goes, from the summit.\nThe sun, a cloud, a trifle suffices to lengthen, to shorten it. The steel bridges\nare all mysterious and sensitive. Watches set themselves. From all sides\nthe transatlantics advance toward their connections. Then the semaphore\nmakes a sign. A blue eye opens. A red one shuts. All is soon but colour,\ninterpenetration. Disc. Rhythm. Dance. Orange and violet eat each other.\nCheckerboard of the port. In each hut is piled up that which you have won\nin inventing the game, Doctor Palamede. Steam shovels open their buckets\nof thunder. Pellmell. The Orient. The Occident. The South. The North.\nEverything struts on the wharfs while the lion of the sky strangles the cows\nof the twilight. There are cargoes of fruits on the earth and on the roofs. Casks\nof fire. Of cinnamon. European women are like submarine flowers before\nthe violent labour of the longshoremen and the dark red apotheosis of the\nmachines. One receives a trolley car on the chest. An automobile on the\nback. A trap door opens under foot. One has a tunnel in his eyes. One rises\nto the fifteenth floor drawn by the hair. All this while smoking a pipe with\nhands at the faucets — hot water — cold water — one dreams of the wife\nof the captain whose knee one will nudge under the table a little later. Gol-\nden teeth, her smiles and her accent are charming. And then one lets himself\nslide to dinner. Tongues are stuffed. We must make many grimaces in order\nto understand each other. Must gesticulate and laugh very loudly. Madame\nwipes her mouth with the corner of her napkin. Zephyr Beef ; Eureka Coffee.\nPimodan or Pamodan. In my rocking chair, lam like a negro fetich, angular,\nunder the heraldic electricity. The orchestra plays Louise. I amuse myself\nby piercing thru and thru with a pin this fat body which floats at the level"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "267", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.77", "texte": "of my eyes. Diver, in the smoke of my cigar, alone, I listen to the dying of\nthe sentimental music which causes my helmet to reverberate. My soles of\nlead hold me up and I advance slow, grotesque, pinched at the joints and bend\nwith difficulty over the swamp-life of woman. Your eye, sea horse, vibrates-,\nmarks a comma and passes by. Between two waters, the sex, bushy, compli-\ncated, unusual. The cuttle fish squirts me with his cloud of ink in which I\ndisappear like an aviator. I hear the motor of the waters, the forging of the\nleaches. A thousand suction pores function, secreting lodine. The skin be-\ncomes gelatinous, transparent, irridescent like the flesh of an anemone. The\ncenters of sensitiveness become polarized. Independence of all the functions.\nThe eye strains to touch ; the back eats ; the finger sees. Clusters of grassy\narms undulate. Sponge of the depths, the brain breathes gently. The thighs\nremember and make the movements of fins. The storm tears out your tonsils.\nA cry passes thru you like the shadow of an iceberg. It congeals and disjoins.\nYour being reassembles with difficulty. Hunger draws together the scattered\nlimbs and groups them around the vacuum which is now the belly. The body\nassumes the uniform of its weight. The spirit, scattered everywhere, concen-\ntrates in the cockade of the consciousness. lam man. You are woman. Good-\nbye. Each regains his room. There are shoes before the door, not to confuse\nthem. Mine are yellow. The boy waits for his tip. I give him the egu of my\ncoat-of-arms. I -have forgotten to sleep. My glottis moves. This attempt\nat suicide is regicide. I am impaled on my sensibility. The dogs of night\ncome to lick the black blood which trickles down my legs. They make light\nfrom it. The silence is such that one hears the spring of the universe coiling\nitself. A sudden click, everything is larger by a notch. It is today. Beautiful\nhorse foaming. Sicknesses rise to the skies like stars on the horizon. And\nhere is Betelgueuse who is mistress of the seventh house. Believe me, all is\nclear, ordered, simple and natural. The mineral breathes, the vegetable eats,\nthe animal feels. Man is crystallized. Prodigious today. Plummet. Yard\narm. Door. Face. Whirlwind. • You live. Eccentric. In the integral solitude.\nIn the anonymous communion. With all that which is root and summit and\nwhich palpitates, unites, enthuses. Phenomena of this congenital halucination\nwhich is life in all its manifestations and the continuous activity of consciousness.\nThe motor turns in spirals. The rhythm speaks. Chemistry. You are. Pro-\nfound today.\n\nFrom the French of\nBlaise Cendrars."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "268", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.78", "texte": "PROTEUS.\n\n(<Continued)\n\nSCENE 11.\nThe Repast of the Seai,s.\nMUSIC.\nThe platform turns revealing another part of the isle. Proteus is discovered,\nquite naked, in a bathtub with convex bottom in which he teeters back and forth.\nThe tap is replaced by a stopper. He is very fat and hairy. A rather meagre-\nwhite beard, pointed ears. Shiny bald head with a few scattered hairs. Over his\neyes automobile goggles. Beside him are six tobacco plants in pots.\nIn front of him is an osier-basket, filled with fish, which he is throwing to his\nseals. Fish and seals may be replaced by the imagination of the spectators, or by\nmusic.\n\\\nProteus.\nCot, cot, cot, cot, cot ! Here, my sheep ! Here, my little chickens !\nCot, cot, cot !\n[The round heads of seals appear here and there in\nthe sea).\nAre we all here ? One, two, three, four, six, eight, eleven, twelve.\nThirteen ! The tale is complete !\nTo which goes the codfish, to which the conger, to which the red surmullet,\nto which the halibut steak ? Cot, cot, cot! To which this lovely shad.\n(Tumult, battle, flocking, foam, leaps of the seals which\nthrow themselves from the summits of the crags into water\nof snow and turquoise. Braying, trumpeting, thumpings\nof tails, and fins. All this is expressed by the music).\nHere, Moustache ! heave yourself up on your tusks ! we are young no\nlonger, my Jumbo. Here take this devil-fish. It won't frighten you !\nAnd you, Otarys, my little one come to seize this splendid dab. To look\nabout a little, walk on your upper fins diminutive like pantaloons."}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "269", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.79", "texte": "(Otarys takes the fish from his fingers).\nWho gets the fry ?\n(With both hands he sowslittle fishes. Flocking of\nseals).\nHere s yours, Rhesus ! Here s yours, Gorgo ! and you, the littlest one,\nwhat is the matter that you should bray there like an ass. Catch, my little\nbarrel!\n(New distribution of fish. Flocking of seals).\nlou, the basket is empty.\nAnd now for serious things, to work! to work !\nWhat is the quotient, Moustache, of five ten hundred thousandths divided\nby 123 ?\nYou do not know ? Work it out, and give me the answer later.\nAnd you, Tambour, you are going to add for me 3.977 and 7.896.\nAnd you, Gorgo, if you please, extract the cube root of 27.\nGo, you have something wherewith to amuse yourselves.\n(He bloivs into a conch).\nWillowithe ! Willowithe !\n(Enter Wiixowithe) .\n(MenblvAUS is seen stealthily approaching, gliding be-\nhind the rocks, still holding Hei,En by the hand. Then\nfastens her with a cord to a rock behind which he hides\nhimself).\nWilderwithe.\nWhat does Monseigneur desire ?\nProteus.\nOh, what politeness today. This the language of the courts !\nGo and get me my basin to wash my hands.\nMy Chinese basin, the rose-colored one, the one with the mao-pings I\nAnd see that the water is very hot.\n(She goes out and returns bringing half a basin which\nshe puts under his chin).\nProteus, blowing and spluttering in the basin.\nBou ! Bou ! Bou !\n(Music)."}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "270", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.80", "texte": "The annoying thing [is this /that I can only have odd dishes. One here,\nanother there, never a service complete.\n(He dries himself).\nWnjvOWITHE.\nA capable housekeeper, now, would be more useful to you than a poor Sa-\ntyr ess.\nShe would re-embroider all this with your monogram.\nProteus, scrutinizing himself in a dented mirror that she hold,s for him.\nYes indeed ! Yes indeed ! Yes indeed !\nWnxowiTHE.\nYou have promised to let me go, some day, if I am good.\nProteus.\nYes indeed. — Remove the brick.\n[She takes out the brick that warms the bath. He\nteeters with evident satisfaction).\nWIEEO WITHE.\nI and the rest of the two-footed animals, my companions.\nProteus, winking.\nAnd what about Menelaus.\nWielowithe.\nWhat Menelaus ?\n(Proteus winks and indicates, with a little movement,\nthe rock behind which MENEEAUS is hidden).\nWIEEOWITHB.\nI don't know what you mean.\nProteus, in guarded tones.\nHe is lying in wait for us behind that rock.\nWiixowithe, throwing herself at his feet.\nYou know everything, master. One cannot hide anything from you.\nProteus.\nTake care not to break my basin! It has ac rack that troubles me greatly.\nWieeo withe.\nYes, I will tell you all.\n(Meneeaus sticks out his head, she motions to him\nto hide himself).\nBut first. . .\n(She draws a comb from her girdle and combs his\nbeard)."}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "271", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.81", "texte": "Let me pass the comb through your whiskers a while, for you are a sight\nto see, with that beard all tangled and full of sand.\nAh, old wrecker of ships.\nSay, is there no device that will keep you safe at home when the sea is filled\nwith madness.\nAnd dances with nodding plumes in the Thracian wind, its lanterns all\nalight.\n(Ah, it is a pleasant change after the stifling breezes from Libyan sands and\none fills one's lungs with air).\nI take it that it must needs be you that the poor devils who go to the bottom\nLast see on the crest of a wave, old bather !\nDancing mid wrecks and corpses as insubmersible as a bottle !\nProteus.\nTrim my hair a trifle.\nWieeo withe.\nBut there's no hair to trim ! Scarce five or six impalpable filaments. It\nis embroidery scissors that I need.\nProteus.\nNo matter ! This sound of snipping about my head procures me pleasant\nillusions.\nSuch, in the month of June the peddlar who falls asleep to the sound of\nswishing scythes in the lushy meadows.\nWieeowithe, waving the shears about his head.\nI love you much, little Proteus of my heart.\nProteus.\nSame here.\nWHjvOwithe, same business.\nYou do not believe me, this causes me much pain.\nProteus.\nI believe you, Willowithe.\nWIELO WITHE.\nAh, you are so good, so simple, so delicate.\nProteus.\nPerfectly true.\nWieeo withe.\nSo quaint, so original! That fish-tale, what an idea !\nProteus.\nIsn't it ?\nWIEEO withe.\nSo rich !"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "272", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.82", "texte": "Proteus.\nYes indeed.\nWiixowithe.\nYou love the fine arts so much ! That collection of yours, there isn't\nanother like it in all the Aegean Sea.\nProteus.\nIt is this, is it not, on which Menelaus counts to repair his little boat ?\nWiixowthe.\nDo you want to keep him here ? He'd put everything in confusion in this\nsmall well-ordered isle.\nEven now he wished to ravage you plantation.\nSince he has taken Troy you wouldn't recognize him. He's a savage, a\ntrue devourer.\nProteus.\nAh, sly boots ! Is it not true it was you that instructed him ?\nNever adventurer is shipwrecked on these shores\nBut that you teach him the way to get round old Proteus.\nIn vain I transform myself to lion, dragon, water, fire and fruit-tree.\nNot one of them by any chance lets go his hold in fright and I have to give\nhim whatever he demands,\nAnd I must confess that I find it most fatiguing.\nNot to mention the loss of respectability for a man getting on in years.\nWildly O WITHE.\nThen let me go in peace.\nProteus.\nBah, you see these malicious shifts have'nt done you a bit of good.\nNone of them yet has been true to the vow he made. Hee ! Hee ! Hee !\nThey do not catch me so, I am far too old a fish.\nWlUvO WITHE.\nAnd do you know who it is that Menelaus brought with him, holding her\nby the hand ?\nProteus.\nWho ?\nW IIyEOWITHE.\nYou know everything, Monseigneur, and I can teach you nothing.\nProteus.\nCome, you know well I am just a wretched god of the sixth rank, and hence\nmy copy of Destiny comes to me last, having passed through many hands.\nNothing but little pictures grotesquely defaced on the ribbon !\nAnd in the most interesting places, look you, are people of whom, there"}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "273", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.83", "texte": "remains no more than a hand, or a boot, or perhaps it's the head that's gone, and\nsuddenly there's a gap that's fathoms long. See your portrait there if you can !\nThen be trustful and take a servant-maid who answers to the name of\nWillowithe and who has horns on her head.\nWillowithe.\nYou are proud of it !\nProteus.\nHe ! He ! I don't deny it. Folks would go far to see one of those Nymphs\nof whom one talks so much !\nWillowithe.\nAnd of your herd of Satyrs as well, is it not so ? Tisn't everyone that has\nsuch a galaxy.\nProteus.\nIt's for their own good that I keep them. I mean to teach them morals\nand sanitation.\nThen, too, it amuses me to watch them hopping from rock to rock. It is\npicturesque. It gives the place a more animated air. What a pity, now that\nI haven't got a fountain !\nAh, I'm quite a character, I am, there's nobody else quite like me.\nWiEEO WITHE.\nThen you shall not know who is here with Menelaus.\nProteus.\nThen he can dispense with my teak-wood and my good Phenician cordage.\nWhat a nincompoop 1 He calls himself a sailor, he wishes to sail the seas\nand he couldn't cross the Eurotas in a wash-tub if it should chance to rain !\nWillowithe, softly.\nHelen.\nProteus.\nHelen is with him ?\n(Willowithe nods her head).\nYou have seen her ?\nWillo withe.\nI have seen her.\nProteus.\nAs beautiful as they say ?\nWILLO WITHE.\nAs beautiful. This savage drags her along by the hand.\nProteus, dreamily.\nTen years have passed since, on the stern of the ship that carried her to-\nwards Troy, I saw her floating veil the hue of gold."}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "274", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.84", "texte": "WIIXOWITHE.\nShe is still the same Helen.\nProteus.\nAnd this great fire from which they haled her forth has not bloused her,\nnor marred her beauty ?\nWIIXO WITHE.\nShe is still the same Helen.\nProteus.\nAh, I should like to see her.\nWiixowithe.\nDo wish to possess her ?\nProteus.\nI say tht I'd like to look at her.\nWhxowithe.\nBut it's in your power, my lord, to make her yours, and to look at her\nduring all the days of your life.\nProteus.\nAh, do not persuade to violent acts. I'm too old. My isle is small,\nBut never an old sea-captain owned a cabin that was more precisely or-\ndered and arranged.\nLet the great gods do what they will since all the earth is theirs.\nI have no wish that this rent-free hovel go hurtling through the air.\nWIELO WITHE.\nHelen is very beautiful!\nProteus.\nAnd did she speak to you ?\nWllvlvO WITHE.\nShe is so puffed, up with pride since these things have happened to her\nThat the only words she will speak are \" I am Helen. \"\nProteus.\nAs tranquil as a statue, and living into the bargain ! Exactly what I should\nlike !\nNone of those scenes to be dreaded with her to which you treat me so of-\nten, my little spitfire !\nWILLO WITHE.\nI have dropped a hint to Menelaus of that idiotic tale\nThat they tell in all the isles from Marseilles to Gallipoli\nThat there are two Helens and that the one of Troy was not the\ntrue one."}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "275", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.85", "texte": "Proteus.\nIt is not an idiotic tale, I invented it myself. I never have found a humbug\nmore amusing.\nIt is worth its weight in sea-salt.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nI said to our Menelaus\nThat this Helen whom he has haled from Troy by the hand\nWas false and that the true one was in our custody.\nProteus.\nBravo ! Excellent ! ' Faith, you become a true daughter of the sea.\nWIIX O WITHE •\nBut it only rests with you to transform this lie to truth.\nProteus.\nHow ?\nWiixo withe.\nIt is in your power to retain the true, the only Helen.\nProteus.\nI do not understand.\nWiixo withe .\nI have not told everything to this brutal lout. I have merely informed him\nthat you can deck yourself, with apples of leather between his arms. But\nhe doesn't know that if you look at him without your spectacles, you can make\nhim believe whatever you choose.\nProteus.\nIt is true.\nWily eo withe .\nLet him take your spectacles. Make him see that I am Helen.\nProteus.\nMake him see that you are Helen ?\nHou ! Hou !\nWIEEOWITHE.\nHe will take me away with him.\nProteus.\nHo ! Ho !\nWIIXOWITHE.\nAnd he will leave you the veritable Helen.\nProteus.\nHe ! He !\nWIEEO WITHE.\nAnd I will take away all the Satyrs, my brothers, with me!"}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "276", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.86", "texte": "Proteus.\nThe deuce ! You go too fast!\nWuxowithe.\nI,et me only have her likeness.\nYou will see if I'm not more Helen than Helen herself.\n% (\nProteus.\nBut he must have already promised you something, eh ?\nWllylyO WITHE.\nA sailor's promises! Ha ! He swears too easily.\nDo you think a sailor troubles himself to take a useless mouth\nThrough gratitude ? Medea and Ariadne, I know their histories !\nThe water supply is small, and that's the whole thing in a nutshell.\n— And he doesn't like my horns.\nProteus.\nDo you flatter yourself that he will take this troop of Satyrs on board his\nship ?\nWiixowithe.\nYou will make him think them my maids, assembly chaste.\nProteus.\nThe Satyrs your chaste maids, Hou! Hou! And why not my seals, pray tell ?\nWiixo withe.\nSay it is beyond your power.\nProteus.\nNothing's beyond my power ! Not even an imbecile's credulity !\nWHrIyOWITHE .\nBe gracious to me, Emperor-of-the-Sea and King-of-all-the-Liars!\nProteus.\nBut Ido not like in the least to lose my Satyrs. Never again could I form\na like collection.\nAll the gods of the sea are envious of my cabinet!\nThere is only Phorcus, indeed, who has mustered up a few poor sailors, com-\npanions of Ulysses,\nAnd all day long they promenade on his hyperborean sands.\nWith their spy-glasses under their arms and their little oil-skin hats.\nIt's not to be classed with such an assemblage as mine.\nEverywhere they are known, true scions of the air !\nWllJyO withe •\nPah, a pack of old stinking sheep, ancient ataxic goats !\nIf you let them drink this mineral water another thirty days they'll be only\nfit for the Ecole des Beaux-Arts."}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "277", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.87", "texte": "Proteus.\nTa ! Ta ! Ta !\nWIEEO WITHE.\nBut on the other hand, Helen, what a unique possession. What honor\nfor your old age !\nSuch a prize is surely worth more than a flock of half-mangy merinos.\nProteus.\nYou weary me !\nWil,i,owithe, with enthusiasm.\nHelen, one would say, the true, the only Helen !\nProteus.\nBe still! You weary me !\nWiixowithe.\nThe true, the only Helen ! She for whom gods dispute with men ! She\nwho's talked about everywhere !\nShe for whom two hundred thousand men have recently had their throats\ncut. . .\nProteus.\nTwo hundred thousand men, did you say ?\nWIIvEO withe.\nIt is official figure.\nProteus.\nTwo hundred thousand men !\nYou make my mouth, water. Be still!\nWIEEOWITHE.\nW.hat a pearl for your collection !\nI know that Jupiter wants her. There's a place for her in heaven between\nthe stars of the Dioscurides.\nProteus.\nHe shall not have her !\nW 11,1,0 withe, brandishing the shears.\nNo, he shall not have her. It's Proteus all the same, it's the little sixth-\nclass god will prove himself the most cunning !\nProteus.\nYou make me laugh ! Ah well, it shall be as you wish !\nWnxowiTHE, raising her hand.\nYou have promised.\nMeneeaus comes out. of his hiding-place and ad-\nvances, crawling)."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "278", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.88", "texte": "Proteus.\nI ,have promised.\nAll the same it will come hard to lose you, Willowithe.\nWiixo withe.\nIt's hard on me, too, my poor old man.\n{She motions to Meneeaus).\nWe understand each other, in spite of every thing. We were so used to\neach other, in spite of every thing We were so used to each other's little\nways !\n(Meneeaus springs and seizes Proteus behind.\nThe bath is upset. Tumult).\nOn ! Boldly ! That's good*! that, catch him below the elbows. Good !\nHold firmly, hold firmly, I tell you ! Do not let him go the old brigand !\nout for Number One. Do not forget! The lion is starting now.\n(The shadow of a lion outlines itself on the drop at\nthe back).\n\n(To be concluded).\n\nPAUL, Claudel.\n(Translated from the French by John Strong Newberry)."}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "279", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.89", "texte": "TRINKETS\n\nThe old silversmith always found a question in the face of his apprentice,\na boy of sixteen with a load of curly hair and big, brown eyes. With his big\neyes and wide open ears, like expectant baskets, the boy gathered every step and\nmove of his master. The shop was his threshold to life and the silversmith his\nguide.\nThe silversmith was tall and thin, the shop long and narrow, full of saints and\nshowcases. It was an adventure to pass from one end of the shop to the other.\nSomething always dropped and broke. A coat alwa}rs ripped, a knee was always\nbruised on such occasions. There seemed to be hundreds of shelves, all loaded\nwith ancient clocks, cheap jewelry, resilvered saints and scratched icons. Every-\nthing covered with dust, placed too high or placed too low. The old man sighed\noften and he sighed loudest whenever he happened to look at the heavily loaded\nshelves. About once a week he would survey the sad and dusty merchandise and\ndecide to dispose of it at a gypsy fair.\nThe apprentice had visions of himself as a salesman at one of these fairs,\nselling alarm clocks to gypsies in many-colored dresses and silver coins in their\nhair. He could hear their violins, their dancing and quarreling. He remembered\none with a slit skirt walking like a queen through the market place. Besides,\nhe would show the silversmith's wife that he needed no advice every few minutes.\nHe could go to distant places and take care of goods, dispose of them and bring\nback a clear account. She did not seem to realize that he was almost sixteen\nyears old and that he could cross the streets without being told to look out.\nHe knew he would succeed, and prove to his father that he could do more than\ndream. These dreams were as impossible as the rest, he knew that, and he\npassed from them to reality with ease. His most impossible dreams were not\nas strange as the shop and his relation to the old silversmith.\nImpossible dreams have a way of coming true, and one day, an early autumn\nday, rich as a mother and warm as a mother's bosom, the silversmith hired a\nsalesman and ordered his apprentice to go along. He was to have an important\ntask on this expedition, to keep track of expenses and to take care of the money.\nHe received a leather bag and strap for that purpose. These he tied round his\nwaist under his clothes."}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "280", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.90", "texte": "On that morning the trees seemed less tall and the silversmith's wife less\nimportant. He made larger steps, and his heels met the ground firmly. A farm\nwagon drawn by two bony horses took them out of town. It seemed the slowest\nwagon on earth, and the boy who sat on top of the bundles, showcases and some\nlumber looked down on the people and horses like the Emperor of India on his\nelephant passing through his cities.\nThe green leaves of young acacia trees hovered over the entire length of the\nboulevard and distributed the spring sunshine in patches on the ground. Bare-\nfooted girls skipped lightly over the ground. The skipping feet played in ac-\ncord with the shadows of the green acacia leaves moved by a breeze. Distant\nsounds were clear and pleasant, and the sparrows seemed important. The air\nwas kind and full of good wishes. Warm waves of it caressed the boy's cheeks.\nHe pitied the people below him and hoped that some day they too might at-\ntain their ultimate hopes.\nThere were five other men on the wagon, all going to the fair. They were\ntogether three days and three nights, but the boy did not know their faces at the\nend of the journey. Their chatter reached him mixed with the sound of hoofs\nand the squeaks of unoiled farm wagon wheels. His eyes and ears were with\nthe gypsies. Perched on his high seat the noises underneath him were in the\nright place, beyond his notice. Like a bird, he was little concerned with the\nimmediate solid things near him,\nThe road was crowded but soon empty. The road became long, the road\nbecame lonely, the road came to life and died away in the distance somewhere\nnear the Danube. Little houses came close to the road to watch the heavy,\nloaded wagon pass. Little houses peeped from behind hills and sometimes whole\nrows would march across the road. At these places the road would sometimes\nwear a stone mask. As the sun sank behind the Carpathian mountains the road\nled to mysterious woods and fields, enormous fields covered with fresh cut\nstacks of corn. At great intervals small lights shone in the distance, and un-\nfamiliar sounds startled him, his heart beating at great speed. Suddenly a sentry\nappeared with gun and bayonet marching from one end of a field to the other.\nThis vision appeared between stacks of corn and made his eyes dilate with fear.\nHe dared not breathe. He looked for the other men on the wagon, but they\nwere all asleep, including the driver. The horses walked on slowly to the desti-\nnation. The sentry yawned loudly. This tranquility soothed the boy's nerves,\nbut he sat up staring through the darkness until the sentry was far behind and\nthe sound of his healthy boots died away.\nSoon they came to what seemed, at a distance, a lighted hole in the ground\nnear the road. It was a low built shog, made of clay and straw. No door, no\nwindows. Evidently open, day and night. Wine and dried meats were the"}, {"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "281", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.91", "texte": "main merchandise. A few rough benches and tables, two oil lamps, completed\nthe furniture. In one corner two heavy peasants slept with their shirts open,\ntheir bare chests close to the black earth. Their garments and skins were like\nthe earth. The earth seemed to breathe through them, the earth was blossom-\ning forth into animal life on this very spot near these benches. The soil as-\nsumed human shapes and activities, breathing, snoring and twitching. . These\ntwo sons of the soil loved their mother.\nThe shopkeeper was clumsy all over, except his eyes. The horses stopped\nmechanically in front of this tavern, and the sleeping five jumped from the wagon\nalmost before it stopped, wide awake and hungry. Cheese, sausage and wine,\nsome stale bread, were spread over the table. Red peppers were the only vege-\ntables served. No dishes, forks or spoons but sharp knives. The salesman of-\nfered wine to the boy more than once, but he refused. He disliked and distrust-\ned the man. The silversmith had warned him against the salesman.\nAll slept for a few hours with heads on folded arms on the table. The boy\nkept watch. He could not sleep. The wagon outside the door held what\nseemed to him a fortune. It was all instrusted to him. He would have to\naccount for every trinket in the cases, and he meant to return with a clean\naccount.\nEarly in the morning they started again, over a flat, monotonous country.\nExhausted from the night's watch, the boy slept hours at a time on top of the\nbundles. He ate little during that day, and kept his eyes on the horizon, a flat,\nunpromising line. The day passed, leaving a heavy weight on the boy's body.\nLate that evening they stopped in front of a convent and after long negotiation\nthrough a hole in the gate, they were admitted. The air was cooler inside its\nwalls. Stone walls with pale faces and pale faces with stony expressions. The\nwhole place was full of black shawls moving constantly and silently. Walking\nblack shawls, candles, sighs, lanterns, bells, prayers and all kinds of queer sounds\nkept the night alive. The boy slept on the wagon, he would not depart from\nthe showcases. The men slept in the stables. They left early.\nThe next day they reached the small town, on a wide and shallow river. Gyp-\nsies, horses and girls filled the main thoroughfare. Horses by the hundreds,\nby the thousands, by the millions, the boy had never seen so many horses in his\nlife. The most dilapidated, hungry and bony horses imaginable. They all\nseemed unfinished attempts. Thin necks, short necks, hanging necks, holding\nup or down sorrowful looking heads. Big bellies, narrow chests. Limping,\nsneezing creatures, some of them covered with sores and blind. The best look-\ning things present were the whips, carefully braided and tipped. These were to\nturn those half dead, worn-out animals into prancing steeds or into steady\nhardworking draft horses. Most of the owners were barefooted, but their horses"}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "282", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.92", "texte": "had new shoes on. There seemed to be no money anywhere, but a lot of noise.\nEverybody had something to sell, and no one had money to buy. An enormous\nbarrel filled with a light kind of brandy on a wagon pulled by two fine looking\noxen stopped in the middle of the camp, a dozen gypsy musicians lined up on one\nside, and soon all attempts at trading stopped.\nThe boy ate and slept the whole week near the showcases. More than half\nthe merchandise was sold. The bag round the boy's waist was bulging, and he\nbought secretly a long, sharp knife, formed like a dagger. He avoided thinking\nabout the reason for this action. He felt secure with the blade in his pocket-\nThe salesman was too friendly and the boy disliked him more than ever. In\nspite of this the older men managed to induce him to visit another fair. It\nwas on their way home, not far from the home town. Here was a chance to get\nrid of the rest of the trinkets, and the boy, gripping his knife tightly, said yes-\nThe second fair was in full swing when they arrived, and things were moving\nfast. The salesman seemed to know everyone in this place. Here things seemed\nmore orderly, and the people well-to-do. Some of the horses even yawned. The\nwhole day passed pleasantly, but one of the gypsies looked east and predicted a\nstorm. It came before sun set. The sky turned black; a few large drops driven by\na strong wind announced a heavy rain. All packed things away and ran for\nshelter. The boy stuck to the heavy showcases until he got wet. The wind\nand rain turned into a hurricane. It ripped the roofs off the improvised stores.\nThe few watchmen were the last to disappear and they dragged the boy with\nthem to a nearby wineroom. The place was overcrowded with men and women.\nThere were at least three hundred people in a place that would usually hold less\nthan half that number. The smells were of great variety and intensity and every-\none talked all the time. The boy was squeezed against the window, and kept\nhis nose close to a crack in the windowpane. A tiny current of fresh air came\nin thru the crack and the boy sipped every bit of it. Outside on a huge black sheet\nthe storm threw a zigzag of golden fire. All round the building there seemed to\nbe a black sea. The noise in the wineroom dimmed the thunder, except when it\nwas very near.\nAfter a while everyone seemed drunk, and either asleep or quarreling. The\nlights went out and the boy was forced against the wall in an uncomfortable po-\nsition. His head ached and the noises and odors were most unpleasant. He\nheard sighs that seemed like laughter and laughter that seemed like weeping.\nHe heard snoring, subdued quarrels and the heavy movements of clumsy bo-\ndies. Someone lit a match, a knife flashed thru the air and a horrible shriek\nfollowed. The boy covered his eyes and ears with his fingers and waited in this\nposition for a long time, until things calmed again and everyone seemed to be\nasleep. The black sky became grey and the boy was able to distinguish things"}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "283", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.93", "texte": "at some distance. A wagon passed, the horses knee-deep in water, and several\nmen in the wagon looked anxiously about. One looked exactly like the salesman,\nbut it was too dark to distinguish faces.\nSoon the sun touched the tops of the few remaining trees and the roofs of\nthe taller houses. A light breeze rippled the water that covered the whole ground\noccupied by the fair. Iyittle was left standing. The boy waded thru the water\nlooking for his showcases. He found two boards floating near the place. Some-\none had used an ax ; the lock was intact and held the two boards together.\nOther people too discovered that the storm had had considerable aid in wrecking\nthe place. The silversmith's apprentice felt crushed. He looked for the sales-\nman, but no one had seen him since the storm started.\nIt was a cool, clear, heartless morning, and he realized that he had failed in\nthe first real test. It was senseless to continue living when you knew you could\nnot face a serious situation. It was easy to live in the city, to work, to enjoy\nleisure and even to die ; it was too easy ; but to face the hurricane ... He had\nfailed. He had promised to bring back a clean account of all those superannu-\nated trinkets, alarm clocks and brass bracelets. He looked at his long, dagger-\nlike knife, sighed and decided first to return all the money to the old silversmith\nand afterwards . . . He looked at the knife again and carefully returned it to\nits leather sheath. He looked round for a while and started home on foot with\nthe two boards under his arm. He walked all day gesticulating and sighing.\nFrom time to time his hand would feel the bag tied round his waist. His clothes\nwere wet through and his coat was stiff and heavy. His shoes were full of\nwater and he felt the sharp rocks in the road. There were many of them.\nThe day had passed when the boy came within a few miles of the city. He\nknew the road well and he had forgotten all about the fairs, the salesman and\nthe silversmith. He walked like an automatic toy, changing the boards from\nright to left and feeling for his purse without knowing the reason for his actions.\nHe heard only the gypsy musicians, the night sounds in the cornfields and the hor-\nrible shriek in the tavern. He felt those black shawls walking with lanterns\nbehind him from the convent. The lame horses he had seen appeared one by\none, and soon he heard the shriek again.\nIt was late in the evening when the boy came into the town. The road led\nstraight to the silversmith's house. He made slow progress. The boards were\nheavy, his clothing still wet, but he kept his head straight in the air.\nNow he was marching at the head of a long procession. With two boards,\nonce the sides of a jewelry showcase, under his arm, he walked slowly past the\nreviewing stand occupied by one-eyed kings, artists, and heroes, who were at\npresent disguised as lamp-posts and as houses with lights in them. Behind\nhim at some distance followed stacks of corn, the sentry with his long bayonet,"}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "284", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.94", "texte": "the windowless and doorless tavern, the million three and four-cornered horses,\nthe gypsy band, the storm, the lightning, while the shriek came regularly to the\nrythm of the musicians.\nLeading this weird procession he reached the silversmith's door. The old\nman was still awake. He looked at the bent and trembling boy, who laid the two\nboards and the bag of money on the table. The silversmith shook his head, put\non his hat and coat, picked up the limp body of the feverish boy in his arms and\ncarried him home.\n\nWILIAM SAPHIER.\n\nWilliam Gropper.\nDrawing."}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "285", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.95", "texte": "BROOMIDES.\nThis being our third issue, we are beginning to receive comments on our\nfirst.\nOne of the most distinguished of present-day American poets and critics\nwrites us as follows. He expresses so many of our aims so clearly, and with\nso much less modesty than we would have done had we done it, that we cannot\nresist printing some of his comment, in lieu of an editorial:\n\"I want to congratulate - no, congratulate is not the word - you for the first\nnumber of Broom. You have not only produced an interesting, readable and\nup-to-date periodial, free from irritating assumptions of superiority, free from\namateurish suggestions of half-baked culture, but you have done something\neven better — you have proved that the American spirit is broad enough to\nembrace not France only but Europe, not Europe only but the world. During\nthis past year I have increasingly suffered from the manifest signs displayed\nin other quarters that American culture was trying to limit itself, that New\nYork was trying to ape Oxford, for instance, or Paris. I am glad that you\nhave set your faces against this tendency, being convinced that the only way\nAmerica can save herself, and incidentally, save others, is not by becoming\nFrench or English, but by becoming universal; not by limiting itself, but by\nextending its field to take in the whole planet. What Dostoievsky said was\nthe mission of Russia, to make all men brothers, is now the mission of America.\nIndeed, did not Whitman say the same thing ? I am delighted you have decided\nto speak the universal language of art, instead of the jargon of certain coteries\nin Paris and in London, and I echo the sentiments of Miss Sanders' admirable\narticle :\n' What Europe looks forward to on the part of America is a broadening,\nnot a narrowing; an inclusiveness, not an exclusiveness ; a fertilizing, not a\nsterilizing of the aesthetic field, of art emotion, and cultural perception. '\nI assure you that I shall do everything possible to make your great effort\nbetter known. In the spirit of Melville's motto, yours till the decks are dry, etc. \""}, {"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "286", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.96", "texte": "One of the most distinguished of present-day English poets and critics\nwrites us to the contrary, and he expresses so many of our fears so clearly,\nand with more bravado than we would have done had we done it, that we can-\nnot resist etc. :\n. \" (i) Size : too large. Fits no book-case.\n(2) Cover : overlaps at the side too much; crinkles uglily.\n(3) Cover design : amusing ; not good as permanent.\n(4) Margins of text: excellent.\n(5) Type : quite good.\n(6) Art contents : most interesting.\n(7) General matter : not interesting enough.\n(8) ' Lake ' rotten.\n(9) Editorial matter : between three stools.\n(10) On the whole : No—yes—no—yes—yes ?—no ? \"\nThis opinion from one of the English contributors to the first issue :\n\" A week ago came your really superb Broom. It is superb. I congra-\ntulate you most heartily on it. Thank the Lord, you have no axe to grind. I\nam very proud to have been associated with the first number. It is a sensuous\npleasue to be printed on such paper. I don't remember a Review which keeps\nthe balance so even between the art and the letters. And there isn't a thing\nin Broom that the veriest adult couldn't understand. \"\nBut to prevent us from ffying too high (as high in fact as the daily Zeppelin\nwhich passes over our heads en route to Naples — it is called \" Esperia \" —\n\" Goddes of Hope \"), an esteemed collaborator brought in a concise letter from\nan artist in Paris :\n\" First copy of Broom has arrived. It is terrible. You must shake\nthem (II faut que vous les secouez). \"\nWe have descended — and the \"Esperia\" continues on her way to Naples.\nOne of our well-wishers in Minnehaha, Minnesota, writes that she has not\nas yet received the first copy, ordered and promised long ago. She concludes,\n\" I wait for it with ten horribly bitten finger nails. \""}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "287", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.97", "texte": "The literary, painter and music folks have finally discovered our dug-out.\nSo we have one of them per day into tea : a newly established custom. Not\nto put anybody first, except alphabetically, here are the ones so far : Griffin\nBarry, Vernon Bartlett, Alfredo Casella, Blaise Cendrars, Douglas Goldring,\nEdgar A. Mowrer, Mile, feihani, Arthur Sachen, Ardengo Soffici, Ottomar Starke\nand the Ruthenian basso-profundo, Oblomov Uk. Among those who are to\nvisit us soon (so rumour or correspondence hath it )are : Conrad Aiken, Malcolm\nCowley, Marsden Hartley, Sinclair lyewis, Wyndham Lewis, John Rodker, Ralph\nRoeder and a Dalmatian wood-carver whose name has escaped us. We shall\nbe opening a social register. To be reprinted in successive issues of Broom.\nThis is one of the ways of getting into Broom.\nWe have one pleasant item, at least, to impart to those of our friends who\nhave been courageous enough to subscribe so far. Each volume of Broom\nwill be composed of four successive issues. Only four ? But consider the thick-\nness — we had almost said, density — of the four : 386 pages, without index.\nWell, those of our subscribers who wish to bind their first four copies as a vo-\nlume had better begin to let us know at once. We will be able to supply them\nwith a binding of Varese paper and three-quarter leather for the purpose — a\nsample of which will appear in the next issue. The price per binding is three\ndollars. A complete index will go with the copertino. The price for the whole\nbook, i.e., the four issues and binding complete, is six dollars.\nIt is our plan to change the cover design of each issue. Inadvertently, this\nscheme was defeated in the case of our second issue. Broom ordered a new\ncover, and an artist accepted the proposal, and submitted a drawing which was\nOkd. Unhappily, he decided to finish his wood-block in Prague, and al-\nthough he mailed it to us in plenty of time for us to use it, the wood-block is\nstill missing.\nWhile we are 011 this pertinent theme, we want to ask artists everywhere\nto submit to us sketches of cover designs which might prove feasible to lead the\nband-wagon of a particular month. The sketches should be in two colors.\nAnd if possible, send us two or more sketches to choose from. Broom has no\nobjection against running the same artist more than once."}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "288", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.98", "texte": "Why was our second issue delayed in reaching America ? Without delv-\ning into economics or politics, curious topics outside our present ken and pur-\npose, let us try to explain. Just as that issue was on the eve of being realeased\nfrom our printers, Italy's King had a birthday, and 75,000 Fascisti (unless the\nreport was exaggerated) decided to come to Rome from all points of the compass\nfor a conference. Unfortunately, a slight fracas (the details of which have\nnot been made clear to us) ensued at the terminal station, resulting in the death\nof two Communists. Karl}7- the next morning, the eternal city was visited by\nlightning : the entire body of labour struck instantaneously, with the ultimatum\nthat not a single soul would return to the daily routine until the last of the Fa-\nscisti had departed. The city was paralyzed for days, and Broom along with\nit. After a return to normalcy, Broom Number Two was finally released,\ntwo weeks late for the long voyage home. We fervently hope that the faith-\nful, meanwhile, have not consigned their brooms into ash bins, and now place\ntheir reliance on carpet-sweepers. Old fashioned implements have a hard time\nof it in this up-to-the-minute age. But as art always lags behind or leaps ahead\nof the moment, too much must not be expected of a mere broom.\n\nLAST WISHES.\nJohn Gould Fletcher.\nBury me not too deep,\nBut dig for me a shallow grave,\nThat I may hear men say : \" The old plum tree by the wall\nHas started blooming. \"\n\nERNESTO FRATONI, Gerente responsabile.\nPrinted in Italy by « VUniverselle » Imprimerie Polyglotte — Roma."}, {"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[289]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.99", "texte": "SOME COMMENTS ON INITIAL ISSUE.\nNEW YORK TIMES: ' There can be no doubt about the potentialities of\nBroom. Ti-ie Editors should be qualified, equally by inclination andability,\nto steer Broom aeong the more or less perilous path, that it proposes to\ntread. Its first number sharpens the appetite for more of the same kind. '\nCARE SANDBURG : ' The Broom is clean as an airplane propellor and\nlooks LIKE a room swept and garnished — WITH A couple of dirty corners.\nWhimsical, strong, a breath. I kick myself because I am not an Abou Ben\nAdhem on its roll call and roster of the blessed. Sweep, Kid, sweep 'em\nclean .'\nVAN WYCK BROOKS IN THE FREEMAN : ' They have maintained an\nALMOST UNIFORMLY HIGH STANDARD IN THE CONTRIBUTIONS. AND A MAGAZINE\nTHAT IS ABLE TO OBTAIN EXCELLENT WORK FROM WRITERS WHOSE WORK IS NOT\nALWAYS EXCELLENT HAS GREATER POWER IN RESERVE THAN ONE THAT DEPENDS\nONLY ON THE DEPENDABLE. IF THERE IS ANYTHING IN IT THAT PARTICULARLY\nPLEASES ME, IT IS THE NOTE OF CATHOLICITY AND INCLUSIVENESS. . . THIS EEAGUE\nOf Nations in Rome has already accomplished something creditable —\nWHICH IS MORE THAN CAN BE SAID FOR THE OTHER LEAGUE AT GENEVA. '\nROBERT FROST : ' You're the sweep, this is the Broom and I could\nWISH THAT I HAD BEEN ONE OF THE SWEEPINGS. IT IS NOTHING ON THE BROOM NOT\nTO HAVE GATHERED ME IN. '\nTHE LITERARY REVIEW : ' The Review is thoroughly international,\nno less than thirteen different countries being represented in ti-ie first\nISSUE. '\nSINCLAIR EEWIS : ' I am very gi,ad to subscribe to Broom, and I en-\nclose check. These are, I suppose, the practical words of praise which\nARE THE MOST COMFORTING TO EDITORS. BROOM SEEMS TO ME, PROM ITS FIRST\nNUMBER, NOT ONLY TO HAVE THE ORIGINALITY FOR WHICH WE HAD HOPED BUT ALSO\nA WORKMANLIKE SOLIDITY WHICH PROMISES THAT IT WILL GO ON, GROW, BE SIGNI-\nFICANT. I return to my first words, I ENCLOSE CHECK, and I hope that\nA GOOD MANY THOUSANDS WILL ECHO THAT PARTICULAR PHRASE. '\n\nAMERICAN subscriptions should be mailed to the\nNew York Office, THREE EAST NINTH STREET ;\nEUROPEAN subscriptions to the main office,\n18, TRINITA DEI MONTI, ROME (6), Italy."}, {"page_pdf": 100, "page_imprimee": "[290]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192201-01.1.100", "texte": "« What of it, if 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."}]}