{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_sha256": "3645f5b4b903b9963c2b0d4d82d09947c3fb15339a341701579f20963f4373ad", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/02_01/bmtnaap_1922-02_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/02_01/bmtnaap_1922-02_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[288]", "page_fin": "[288]", "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.2", "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": "[288]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1127, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2006, "texte": "Page\nSuburban Landscape — P. Server 2&9\nCzecko-Slovak Painting — Jan Zrzavy 290\nA Roman Night — Paul Morand (Trans, by H. A. L.) 291\nStill Life — Carlo Carra 300\nNew York, A Farewell — Emmy Veronica Sanders 301\nPrincess Brambila Designed by Jakouloff 3°5\nA Note on the New Russian Poetry — Louis Sozowick 306\n«L'annonce faite a Marie » Costumes — G. Vesnin . 312\nA Note on the New Russian Theatre — Elie Ehrenbourg 3*4\nProteus — Paul Claudel\nHeliographs — Bayard Boyeson 347\nIshijma — Paul Eldridge 34$\nThe Offering of Plebs — Jean de Bossch&re 35°\nYou Have Not Seen that lAm the Poor Man — Jean de Bosschere 352\nInstitutrice Esthete — Jean de Bosschere . . . 353\nFox Trot — Osbert Sitwell 357\nCzecho-Slovack Painting — Joseph Capek 360\nCzecho-Slovack Painting — Joseph Capek 361\nThe Cockerell — Allardyce Cromartie 362\nDedicated to the Enemy — Gordon Craig • 3^3\nComment — H. A."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "289", "page_fin": "289", "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Suburban Landscape", "titre_sommaire": "Suburban Landscape", "signature_source": "P. Selver", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "289", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 631, "texte": "SUBURBAN LANDSCAPE.\nP. Selves.\nPallid with heat, a taut metallic sky\nIs looped above the siding, drably scarred\nWith rails that flank a sooty engine-yard,\nAsh-heaps and sheds and roofing all awry.\nDerelict mouse-grey trucks are mirrored by\nThe sepia of a mute canal, where charred\nGasometers squat sullenly on guard,\nAnd barges drowse and boilers faintly sigh.\nTonight the arc-lamps, poised from slender stems,\nWill bloom like silvery fruits. Signals will gleam\nWith shifting specks of jade and crimson gems.\nThen music : hiss and gasp of throttled steam,\nStaccato gamut of the shunted trains,\nAnd murmurous diapason of the cranes."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "290", "page_fin": "299", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "A Roman Night", "titre_sommaire": "A Roman Night", "signature_source": "Paul Morand ; H. A. L.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "291", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2282, "texte": "A ROMAN NIGHT.\n\nIn the hotel garden, some cats were singing. A dog dispersed them with\nmuch barking ; then came back hanging out his tongue, blue from having eaten\nblackberries or fountain pens. While we attacked our trunks, in chaotic disor-\nder, the mother of Isabelle waited in the hall. She was a little woman,\nexcessively preserved by milk of cucumbers and egotism ; her wrinkles knotted\nbehind her ears, her bosom sowed with a row of false pearls whose nautical\noriginals she held in her hand in a little bag of crocodile skin.\nWhen she saw me she cried out:\n\" I confide my daughter to you. Isabelle does not want to go back to France\nwith me. She permits no constraint. She is like the air. Nothing matters to\nher. You, Monsieur, you are a scholar, a man of sense ; watch over her. Where\nis she ? She is here no longer. Gone God knows where, without a maid. She\nhas carried off some bottles, a quilt, and a spade with which to kill lizards, saying\nthat she hoped for nothing more from me and that my hypocrisy irritated her.\nThis young lady drinks like a sink, and all liquors without distinction. Nothing\nwhich used to amuse us, the four step, Hungarian lace, the horse show, Venetian\npainting, interests her. Every thirty years the world sheds a skin and us\nwith it. At your age, I tell her, I had five children. And she replies : ' That\nmust have given you a pretty belly. ' She is indifferent to clothes ; she refuses\nto go out into society. My scruples and my prejudices enchant her. She en-\ndeavors to amuse herself with everything, but by ridicule. She knows nothing.\nNo taste for art. That which she writes has no sense. Morally one would say\nthat she has gone to pieces ; she is everyone's prey ; she congratulates herself on\neverything that happens or scoffs at it; she calls herself accursed but laughs\nabout it. I shall miss my train. Truly a worm is in the fruit. Tell me what\nis this madness ? \"\n\" It is a generation sacrified, Madame ; the men have become soldiers, the\nwomen, fools. Fate has again aj)portioned us a pretty lot of calamities. \"\nShe stopped the motor which prevented our hearing one another.\n\" Note that up to the age of fifteen there never was a better brought-up\nchild, \" she said, entrusting me with the key of her room which she had omitted"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "292", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2207, "texte": "to give back to the porter. (I myself forgot about this key until the heavy tri-\nangle of copper to which it was attached had made a hole in my pocket large\nenough for it to gain the street.)\nGraphological Study By Professor Ovide.\nStudy No. 34. — Isabeixe.\nHandwriting of a young woman of refined and sufficiently mobile physiog-\nnomy. Strong constitution. Although she lives in luxury, it is doubtful whether\nshe belongs by birth to an aristocratic milieu. Intelligence superficial; but\nquite adequate for pleasing ; ideas personal without always being logical. Dispo-\nsition difficult.\nMore of a coquette than she would care to admit, she keeps to a fixed deport-\nment and is antipathetic to that which is too licentious. More independent\nthan proud ; even to a fault in this regard.\nExpansive and amiable in society. Her sincerity is subservient to caution.\nHeart half dry, tender by fits. Need of authority and influence over persons\nloved. Sensuality, which exists, is not of a delicate character. Cunning on oc-\ncasion.\nI reread this graphological study of Isabelle which I had asked Professor\nOvide, of St. Mans-les-Fosses, to prepare on one of our first days. I used it to\nknow her better, long enough to discover that the diagnosis was false. Expe-\nrience left nothing of it but some half-humurous trifles in the lingo of mind-\nreaders, at which she was the first to laugh.\nIsabelle had an\" impulsive temperament and a reserved character. I only\nhad the leisure to find this out and to make her acquaintance in a general way\nafter we had enjoyed together that pleasure which formerly was used to crown\nor to seal the affections. In truth, the night even of our first meeting, at the\nTeatro Valle, she told me that I looked like a sycamore, and we embraced each\nother in the carriage which brought us to her mother's. The rules of the game\nwere found to be much simplified. Passion lost thereby its graduated interest, but\nth£ sway of sentimental, magnetic and chemical exchanges ruled more freely\nand gained in verity ; and we in lucidity.\nIsabelle confessed to me afterwards that she neglected no occasion to proffer\nthis spontaneous gift of her person ; she acted thus from an excess of modesty,"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "293", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2790, "texte": "not hesitating to sacrifice her virtue ; she rejoiced in it as an aid to her intelli-\ngence and to her sensitiveness. In reality her intelligence was mediocre and I\ndoubt if her sensibility had ever corrupted this heart \" half dry, tehder by fits \"\nthat Professor Ovide had defined for me.\nAt any rate here we found ourselves on the ground floor of a trusting intimacy\nwhich rarely is the privilege of people without prejudices. By a curious regres-\nsion, which doubtless was the result of the manner in which we made each others'\nacquaintance — so true is it that one cannot invert the natural order of things\nwithout danger — I was not slow in experiencing for Isabelle all the customary\nphases of sentiment, but in reverse order. In the beginning, indifference and\nfatigue followed by that tenderness which results from the pleasure of winning\nlove, and ending in curiosity and play.\nWe saw each other very often. Isabelle spent several long months in Rome,\nnot that I was ever able to guess what held her in this unpicturesque and deso-\nlate town.\nWhen I asked her, jokingly, if she expected to end her days there :\n\" Perhaps, \" she said, \" and before long. \"\nHer pension looked out upon the old fortifications in the vicinity of the\nPorta Pia. My life looked out on a court from the second floor of the Palazzo\nFarnese, for I was a pupil of the Ecole de Rome. I kept there a card index, a\nladder to reach the books on the highest shelves in the library, and a muddy\ninkwell. When six o'clock rang, I would take leave of my dear master in the cor-\nner room. He read low African authors seated in an armchair of emerald velvet,\nsurrounded by Angoras and other cats the color of pumice stone, such as one finds\naround the Trajan Column. I have not forgotten his eyeglasses poised on his\nforehead like two great icicles, his white hair rebellious as the character under-\nneath, nor his head like an old peasant Erasmus which stood out in silhouette\nagainst a milky Janiculus. Then I reached the court through several corridors\nravaged by draughts. The concierge, the same who discreetly sold antiqui-\nties in the depths of his den and retailed the feet of the Farnese Hercules, inclined\nto me a smile hung from his silver stripes.\nOn the shore of the Tiber, Isabelle waited for me. We returned on foot to\nthe higher quarters. Her physique amazed in that countiy of women with long\nbusts and short thighs. She had a minute head which she claimed was filled\nwith water, to excuse her follies. She had never been capable of possessing a\nbody. From her shoulders she instantaneously divided into two legs thin and\npointed in the shape of a compass which moved her forward by pricking off the\npavement. She wore on her left ankle a heavy slave bracelet of sculptured\ncopper which made her limp."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "294", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2578, "texte": "Before a third party she quite willingly'kept silent, but in tete-a-tete, let\nherself go saying everything she thought. She but little liked acquaintances,\nparticularly those one meets in hotels and pensions, in which she was wrong —\nfor anything is preferable to a friendship which endures and for the endurance of\nwhich one is obliged to espouse every form of a twofold hazard and become a\nhybrid monster, expensive, and greedy of sacrifices.\nWhen I warned her against asceticism :\n\" The true ascetics are the amateurs of society. My mother, for\nexample. Vices and virtues. For them, the social world takes the place of\neverything. \"\nIsabelle hated her mother, never missing an occasion of making her ridi-\nculous and only praising her when she was absent. At table she seemed to lie\nin wait for a chance to pounce on her.\nShe smiled, puckering her narrow as if to introduce her interlocutor to\na complete idea and to invite a response; she ended her sentences by holding out\nher opened hands, the insides of which were painted a bright rose. Usually she\nwas without wit, except, as with all women, in her letters. The fragments of\nher diary which she showed me seemed destitute of value. But she spit up blood,\nwon money from me at poker by cheating, and had a lively taste for lies which\ncontrasted with an extreme physical bravery. I have seen her, in the course of\nan accident, give first aid, forgetting to dress her own injuries. During thirty-\nsix months of the war she drove a field ambulance at Noyon.\nIn her room Isabelle ordered a drink, pausing over the glass, half empty ;\nher eyes filled with tears, as if the draught had opened some mysterious and sen-\nsitive portal, then without lifting her face from the glass, she went on drinking.\nShe seated herself tailor fashion 011 the carpet, crossing her legs underneath,\nnot without dry arthritic crackings of her bony knees, and smoked without ces-\nsation with the air of a lazy cat. Thus she remained for hours, inactive, cynical\nand genital.\nIn the spring, Isabelle made some acquaintances. She had lived alone\nall winter.\n\" What do you think of Igor ? \"\nI reproached him for his beauty, his venomous eyes, and for the clamour\nof the colored placards in which Igor, the great movie star, stood forth in a dress\nsuit on desolate shores, or as a poor student in an upholstered vestibule, his ir-\nritating profile silhouetted against dormer windows, his sallow skin punctuated\nwith stars, his hands pallid with cream beside those of teamsters telling fortunes\nin dives.\n\" He looks like a maple tree, \" said Isabelle."}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "295", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2477, "texte": "Igor is Greco-Irish. His father is a general in Greece and his mother the wife\nof a general in Ireland. The first time I met him at Isabelle's, she weighed the\ntwo of us.\n\" Ivife is a tissue of contrasts, \" sighed she.\nThis was the phase when Isabelle took to kidney-vetch, surrounded herself\nwith prismatic crystals, breakfasted on ginger bread, acquired a Florentine\ncupboard bed ; received each day a magnolia from an unknown hand, and gave\nstrange orders to the servants ; it was impossible fox her to touch suede without\nfainting. She shut herself off from life by specious reasonings; she received me\nreclining on panther skins and her words became elliptical.\nOne day she took me into her room. Above her bed were pinned an assort-\nment of bills, letters, photographs of foot racers, and' a placard on which I read :\nDo not forget to make love on Saturday with Igor. I felt I should not question\nher. But she looked at me :\n\" Your eyes are dull, \" she said. \" The eyes of Igor are crystal. I don't\nlike resigned heroes. \"\n\"As for me I like women who make their own hats, and who speak of the\ndeceptions of existence. \"\n\"As you like. But beware of falling of the womb. \"\nShe placed her glass on the disc of the phonograph and watched it turn to\nthe sound of \" Naples ! I want to die, 'neath your enchanted sky. \"\n\" You ...\"\n\" Don't talk, \" she interrupted. \" I feel what you are going to say : 'My\nGod ! that a woman who does not love me can be such a hussy. ' Or perhaps\n' Stick to me, you will see, I will bring you luck.\nIgor had a friend, Wanda. Isabelle introduced me to her: she was Polish\nand believed in ghosts. We made several nocturnal excursions to the site of\nOstium. I sat on the bracket seat. Isabelle had Wanda on her right, Igor on\nher left, and held under her hands their similar fingers. Her sincerity discon-\ncerted me. To keep from abuse, I joked :\n\" I would rather be the first in my village than the second in Rome, or the\nthird ...\"\nUnder cover of my gracefulness and insolence I laid bare my lost and found\nsufferings. I would have wished to live near Isabelle and to love her as completely\nas when far away. But in the evening I found myself discovering in her that\nwhich I was obliged in the morning to detest, her imprudences and the prompt-\nitude and low character of her entertainments.\nThrough Wanda, Isabelle learned to know the odor of red hair, the explanation\nof her afternoon melancholy, the best addresses for silk jerseys, unpublished"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "296", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2287, "texte": "Levantine solitaire on a horoscopic base, and to kill bees in order to suck their\nhoney. This was the regime of lemons, of shaddocks, of jujubes and of tri-colored\nbonbons. Isabelle painted lozenges and spirals on her trunks, searched far and\nwide for devices, sent anonymous letters to statesmen, bought mosaic brooches,\nwore chasubles, disturbed her quarter by nocturnal uproars, extolled poverty,\nand discovered she was afflicted by aortic lesion.\nDuring this period I was less unhappy. Isabelle summoned me to a meeting\nin the public gardens. On a bench she told me that she would commit suicide\nwith gas, and that she did not wish to be carried into a drug-store.\nLaughable and pale, she repeated :\n\" I am at a cross-roads ...\"\nTo console her I cited these verses of the good La Fontaine of Ravignan\nstreet :\nChild Hercules found two roads on his route\nOne leading to vice the other to virtue\nContinuing the first he would doubtless have found\nSome bifurcations which would have confused him.\nI met Wanda one morning. It was on the Piazza S. Isidoro. In building\na branch of the Banca Commerciale, they had excavated by chance a temple of\nJupiter. The illustrated papers were taking photographs. It was an occasion\nfor a promenade. It was raining. All mauve and green, Wanda was domiciled\nin an unsinkable waterproof.\nI upbraided her for her spirit of domination, her skillful fencing, her\nsweet and nasty habits, in a word, for the ambuscade into which Isabelle\nhad fallen.\n\" Don't you know, \" said she, \" how I met Isabelle ? My hair is red, but\nit is she who is jealous. She waited until morning in front of Igor's door. It\nwas I who came out. She spoke without knowing me.\n\" I want a word with you, \" she said.\n\" I led her away to my rooms. She remained there .. . We were more\nthan a week without daring to confess to Igor. \"\nUnclosed by a screen of reed cane, the sub-basements of the bank were vis-\nible among which a two-faced Jupiter had just been brought to life, frigid and\ndominating, the first vice-president.\n\" My story doesn't please you ?\n\" It hurts me to see how all you women of today are disorderly and un-\nproductive. \"\n\" Complain all you like .. . But believe me, all these vagrancies of Isabelle\nare only mortifying experiences destined to humiliate her pride."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "297", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2332, "texte": "\" You are but an amiable sophism, \" I answered, and left her.\nWanda called after me :\n\" Do you really find that I look like a holly-oak tree ? \"\nThen Isabelle invented a mulatto. His name was Jock and his trousers\nhung from a nickel-plated belt. He inscribed on hardwood floors with the toe\nand heel of his polished shoes, magic characters which one wished to decipher.\nHis nails like pink drops stopped at the ends of his fingers. Without apparent\neffort, either forward or backward, he could touch the ground with his woolly\nhair. He worshipped fetiches and adored ladies' purses. One saw them toge-\nther at the Palatino and at the Excelsior bar.\nIsabelle was about to sing his praises but I got in the first blow.\n\" Don't tell me that he looks like a wild rose tree. \"\nIn a little while she developed a taste for denatured alcohol, plug tobacco,\nclog dancing, the noisiest ragtime, vermillion tablecloths, gooseberry colored\nsatin knickerbockers, a cloak made of patches placed end to end.\n\" Jock loves me, \" said Isabelle. \"He has asked me for letters and photo-\ngraphs. His skin is crackled to imitate porcelain. He has prehensile feet and\ngoes down trees like a cat, head foremost. He is enormous. . . How does Buff on\nput it in speaking of elephants, a monster of matter ? He also knows how to\nforge signatures and pick locks. W7hen he comes to see me he says : 'I cannot\nleave you without carrying off something of yours. ' \"\nShe added : \" I love him also. We attracted each other at once like ma-\ngnetized bars. His great black hand on my forehead, and headaches pass away;\nmust I lose your esteem for this ? And my mother claims I am unmanage-\nable ! A change of love works on me as a change of air on others. It per-\nforms miracles. \"\n\" What a queer couple ! And never divided by boredom ? \"\n\" Never. But all this is dangerous and complicated. I will explain it to\nyou some day. \"\nWhat was his hour at Isabelle's ? One never ran into him. But we received\nanonymous envelopes which contained monstrous photographs of our friend.\nLooking more closely, we noticed that the head had been cut out and glued\non. I discovered in a pawnbroker's on the Trastevere a bracelet that I had\ngiven her.\nWanda told me.\n\" Yesterday morning, I was in my room ; I was dressing. Some one rang.\nBeing alone, I did not open.\n\" Who is there ? \""}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "298", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2374, "texte": "Behind the door someone muttered :\n\" Let me in ; it's a friend. \"\nI did nothing.\nSome one went down the stairs and that was all.\nMeanwhile Isabelle disappeared, as I have told, at the very moment her mo-\nther was leaving Rome. I waited, knowing that she would not put off giving me\na sign. Nothing happened. Her absence sometimes was agreeable, but more\noften distressing : we cease having a taste for mystery when our friends prove\nthemselves amateurs of enigma. I accumulated fears. After a day without\nher, my room, in the evening would give but a cold reception , I lived on exaspe-\nrations, deploring the blemishes of life, hastening to mingle with the crowds on\nthe streets, reacting to the headlines of the newspapers; I was a scholar, I could\nnot accustom myself to live, as is necessary these days, without documentation,\nwithout preliminary investigations, going to press madly every moment.\nOne evening I found Igor and Wanda on a terrace. They were taking\na drink the colour of colchicum before the petrified furbelows of the church of\nJesus.\nIsabelle had given no indication of life to anyone.\n\" I onlv know from the masseuse, \" said Wanda, that she has rented a\nhouse outside of the walls. Pavillion 12, in a Boche villa which has a name like\na cafe. Just beyond la Porta del Popolo, a hole between two hills, in which lies\na garden damp and crushed by shade ...\"\nIgor interrupted her.\n\" The proprietor springs from a German story with a black knitted bonnet\nand a beard full of bats ? He lives in the central chalet with some watchdogs\nwho intone the death rattle under the doors ? It is the same one. I know the\nplace, we acted a film there. \"\n\" Let's take supper to her, unexpectedly, \" I said. \" Surprise Party. \"\nWe put into the carriage champagne, a basket of fruit and five pounds of ice.\nThe horse had to stop half way up the hill.\nWe were weighed down with provisions, the gate was open. Igor and Wanda\nwere puffing in the dark, imitating every kind of a stable noise, and on their hands\nthe noise of kissing.\nThe howling of dogs shattered the night. We sought our way under the\nsemi-circles of the fig trees. Then the path twisted and stopped before a cur-\ntain of bamboos, rubbing their leaves. It was even more like the jungle, as the\nroar of a lion resounded from the zoological garden of the villa Borghese nearly.\nA white pavilion marked No. 12."}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "299", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 744, "texte": "Wanda knocked, softly at first, then more strongly. We called. A field\nmouse scampered off. We paused, grouped, silent, dazed by the darkness,\nour arms loaded with bottles. The ice burned my fingers.\nIgor suggested entering by going round the garden. We scaled the wall\nhelped by a pine tree whose cones fell with a crash. Not a sound, not a light,\ninside. I struck a match. It revealed a stoop. The door was open. I turned\nthe switch. A central lamp hanging from a chain burned us alive, flooding\nthe salon with white daylight. We smelled the odor of musk ; Igor put the cham-\npagne on the ground and ran forward. In the bedroom, Isabelle lay on the floor,\nnaked, notionless, with black marks around her neck.\n\nFrom the French of\nPaul, Morand."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "290", "page_fin": "290", "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.4.1", "titre_corps": "Czecho-Slovak Painting", "titre_sommaire": "Czecho-Slovak Painting", "signature_source": "Jan Zrzavy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "290", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 35, "texte": "Czecho-Slovak Painting.\nJan Zrzavy."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "300", "page_fin": "304", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "New York, A Farewell", "titre_sommaire": "New York, A Farewell", "signature_source": "Emmy Veronica Sanders", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "301", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1467, "texte": "NEW YORK, A FAREWELL.\n\nThere is a Tintoretto or a Veronese — somewhere. A fresco, I believe.\nIdo not now remember. It does not matter.\nThe only thing that stands out clearly from it in my memory is the bold\nfigure of a woman sitting — her back against the monumental staircase of a\nchurch or temple — one arm hanging down loosely from the knee — the hand\nof the other shading a pair of keen old hawk's eyes gazing at something —\nintently\nShe is a wicked thing — she is a strong old witch — she might be exer-\ncising some black magic. . .\nYou are that Witch — New York ! I've thought of you sitting thus —\noften. Leaning your broad and bony back, your strong hard frame, against\na Continent — you gaze across intently, expectantly — shading your keen\nold hawk's eyes. You gaze across the waters.\nThere's magic in that gaze.\nAnd so they keep coming and coming .\nYou are a fierce old Witch !\nYou are a trickster.\nThe first time I approached you I got tricked.\nOur liner, on a misty night, crept toward Manhattan. (My memory con-\ntained no skyscrapers, those days).\nThey loomed up through the mist. Said I:\nWhat are those strange old ruins ?\nRuins ? ? — They laughed. — It's skyscrapers you see. Broadway —\nthe Battery — dear old New York. Wake up, child ! We have no ruins here.\nNo ruins here — dear old New York ?\nWhat else are you but ruins, Sorceress ?\nWhat else do you draw strength from, what else is it you squeeze between\nyour claws, what else is it you feed on ?"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "302", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2272, "texte": "You — City of the Rootless and the Homeless.\nYou — Figure with your back on the Not-Yet and with your eyes on the\nNo-Longer !\nNo ruins here ?\nThey've called you a terrible city, New York.\nA city without equal for wickedness and cruelty, for chaos, magic, promise ...\nO the things you keep whispering under your fierce hot breath, the things\nyou keep mumbling between those hard old lips — as you sit there with your\nframe supported by a Continent, with your eyes gazing across ! The incanta-\ntions and the magic formulas you whisper, stammer, mutter in a tongue that\nis no tongue . . .\nNo ruins here ?\nEven your language — what else is it made of but ruins of languages ?\nA cross between no-longer and not-yet ?\nI've heard you of an evening — gibbering, gabbling rapidly (always rapidly)\n—- whetting your teeth on the shards and fragments of a hundred languages\n— I've tried to understand your speech, Old Character. But who can under-\nstand a speech that is a hundred speeches of the Past — a thousand of the Pre-\nsent — a million of the Future, all in one ?\n— I've tried to make you out — you Witch. To size you up. To get\nyour measure, (It's you yourself have taught me those expressions). I've sat\nof an evening looking at you. At your strange little ways — at your abomi-\nnable — well — characteristics . . .\nThere are Cities, you know, with beautiful gardens — velvety grassplots\nall bordered with flowers. Tremendous Cities even, careful of appearances,\ngraceful and trim, made fair by artists' hands. Cities of race and lineage —\nAnd You — Who are nobody — everybody — a monstrous thing of\nmixtures — an old mongrel —\nYou sneer at flowers, fairness, artists' hands. You sneer at race and lineage.\nYour hard eyes glitter at the word contemptuously. The flowers bordering your\nmangy grassplots are human beings... And printed papers are your butterflies ...\nPosies of papers sway in the night breeze — black and white butterfly\npapers frisk on your lawns, shine in the grasses. Your spring nights — they\nare redolent — of printer's ink.\nYou chuckle, Witch ?\nYou go on shading those keen eyes with the merciless hand — the claw-\nlike hand — gazing for more to come and more — more human flowers to edge\nyour mangy grassplots ?\nMore ruins to feed on — Old Insatiable ?"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "303", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2065, "texte": "You're doing a brisk business, Hawk-Eyed One ! Keeping that halfway-\nhouse (for transients only . . .). A halfway-house for wanderers from no-longer\nto not-yet . . .\nYou're doing a brisk trade — in ruins.\nRuins of styles and traditions, ruins of aims and desires, ruins of faiths\nand homes — of all the settled structures of the earth.\nYou carry on a trade — in withered roots.\nYou buy the no-longer. You. sell — the not-yet. You are a sly one.\nThere is nothing about you of the maternal, Old Ifady !\nOne does not lest his head on your old bosom — one does not, softly, sink\ninto your lap. One haggles with you — one haggles — for a bit of soul to keep,\nor for a dream to rescue from the bargain — for some old precious curio to hide.\nYou are a fierce old Witch, New York [\nYou City of the Rootless and the Homeless — your strong hard frame\nagainst a Continent — your keen eyes gazing so intently — And your thin\nlips that always mutter :\nNo longer . . .\nAlways\nNot yet. . .\nYou are a trickster.\nThere is another trick you've played on me. Your last one.\nWas it black magic ? Was it a wizard's potion — given while I slept ?\nFor I had sworn to hate you (as others swear). To hate you fiercely —\nmerciless fierce Thing !\nHave I not called you names — gambler in rootless souls, buyer of ruins,\nshrewd innkeeper for all the tribes that wander — ?\nHave I not seen you sitting thus — gibbering and gabbling in a hundred\ntongues — that broad and bony back leaning so carelessly — that hawk's\nbeak ? (a Tintoretto or a Veronese ...?).\nYou rose — one twilight — suddenly —\nYou rose — and passed me — lost in dreams — heeding me not.\nYou of the harsh staccato name, of the crude market gestures — could\nthat be you — New York ?\nYour eyes — there was a wistfulness in them. . .\nYou whispered softly to yourself — you spoke in a new language — my\near caught song. —\nI saw your stone flesh all diaphanous and radiant like molten amethyst\n— and the touch of your hands as I felt them in passing was like the touch\nof one entreating to have her innermost desire understood . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "304", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 421, "texte": "I saw you — smilingly shedding your flesh as a thing of no consequence\n(flesh of a strong old Witch exercising black magic). Smilingly shedding surface\nand reality.\nI saw the flower soul in you as it bloomed in the twilight — naked and chaste\n— for the rapturous gaze of the Lover. . .\nAnd I who swore to hate you,\nTrickster !\nGreat City of the Fleeting Moment — between No Linger and Not Yet. . .\n\nEmmy Veronica Sanders."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "300", "page_fin": "300", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 14, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.5.1", "titre_corps": "Still life.", "titre_sommaire": "Still life.", "signature_source": "Carlo Carrà", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "300", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 24, "texte": "Carlo Carrà.\nStill life."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "305", "page_fin": "311", "image_debut": 19, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "A Note on the New Russian Poetry", "titre_sommaire": "A Note on the New Russian Poetry", "signature_source": "Louis Lozowick", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "306", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1540, "texte": "A NOTE ON THE NEW RUSSSIAN POETRY\n\nHad your international affiliation or personal curiosity led you to the new\nJerusalem of Communist Russia in the busy lecture season of 1918, a certain\nposter would have, doubtless, attracted your attention, for it announced to\nred Muscovy a discourse of the famous Bolshevik poet Vassily Kamensky.\nThe title of the discourse was : The Career of a Son of a Bitch (Karyera Su-\nkinavo Syna), and lest you misunderstood the drift and the purport thereof\na parenthetic subtitle came obligingly to your aid : The Story of the Russian\nIntelligentzia (Istoria Russkoy Intelligentzii).\nThe piquant incident is significant. Communist Russia is recasting old\nstandards in new moulds, and in the process, Intelligentzia comes in for a heavy\ndrubbing. Well deserved, it must be admitted. The Intelligentzia dreamt\nthe Revolution, gloried in it, deified it. From Hertzen to Plechanov, from La-\nvrov to Merezhkovsky the Revolution had been foreseen and foretold with\nprophetic exactness — its whole course can be narrated in extracts from their\nworks. The Revolution came, and behold the Intelligentzia scatter precipit-\nously to all corners of the globe squealing pitifully its disaffection. Well\nmay the poet take it severely and mockingly to task :\nYou trembled apprehensively\nIyike children in some happy expectation\nYou welcomed the ruin and tragedy\nAnd horror of a new deluge\nAnd it came.\nWe hear reverberating thunders\nEternal foundations crash into the abyss.\nWhy then do you not plunge into the storm of events"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "307", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1101, "texte": "Intoxicated by the strangely terrible hurricane ?\nWhy do you still look sadly to the past\nAs to some land of promise ?\nIs it not because the past has now taken place of the future ? Is it not\nbecause :\nThe dream was welcome only from afar\nAnd originality pleased you\nOnly in books of poetic inspiration ?•\n(Vainery Bryussov \"Invective\").\nApparently, for revolutionary ardor has evaporated at the first approach\nof rough reality, and past prejudices still hold the Intelligentzia in the grip.\nAnd who is this ? Long haired\nAnd speaking in a whisper :\n' Traitors !\nRussia is lost!\n* Must be a writer. . .\nBi,ok \" Twelve \").\nAnd sticking out\nFrom amidst the cannon roar\nIs seen the round-shouldered back\nOf a bespectacled, sickly\nIntellectual.\nA shaggy head\nIs muttering\nIndignant\nWords\nAbout the importance\nOf Constantinople\nAnd the Straits.\n(Andrey Byei/v \" Christ Is Risen \").\nThe world is shattered to its foundation but the Intelligentzia still cher-\nishes its old illusions. Perish the Revolution that the old prejudices might\nsurvive. This is how the renegades are regarded by those members of the"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "308", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2492, "texte": "Ingelligentzia who stuck to the guns. But a further distinction must be drawn\nbetween the old and the young.\nBryussov, Byely, Blok, Ivanov, Sologub, men already in the 'fifties and the\n'sixties came to the revolution with a baggage difficult to discard. Extreme mo-\ndernists of some twenty years ago, they grew to maturity at a time when envir-\nonment was so oppressive and life so banal that they might have exclaimed\nwith the poet:\nUn couchant des Cosmogonies !\nAh ! Que la Vie est quotidienne !\n(J. IyAFORGUE \" Complainte sur certains ennuis \").\nDisgusted with the stifling circumambient atmosphere, they retired within\ntheir ego whence they exuded, as it were, a protective covering, a subjective\npoetry that sought respite in Ancient Greece, in the far Orient, in the infinity\nof the Cosmos.\nToo skeptic to accept official religion, they built up an ideologic logomachy\nof \"God-seekers\" (Bogoiskately) and \"God-creators\" (Bogostroitely). Mas-\nters of ancient and modern languages and literatures, thoroughly versed in old\nand contemporary philosophy, esthetic theoreticians of a high order, prose writ-\ners of great power — it was in poetry that they reached their full stature.\nNever before had Russian poetry ascended such heights or sounded such depths ;\nnever before had the Russian language exhibited such subtlety, richness, expres-\nsiveness. They brought Russian poetry to a state of excellence that will com-\npare favourably with the modern poetry of any nation.\nThe revolution shook them from their torpor but was powerless to transform\nthem completely. True, they turned from dream to reality, they forgot their\nindividual selves to blend with the mass, but they were not sufficiently asser-\ntive. It is with their pre-revolutionary achievements that their fame rests.\nBut if these men, entrenched behind their deep rooted habits and convic-\ntions, behave with reticence and speak with reserve, the younger poets\n' fling caution to the wind and bring their intemperate excesses into the market\nplace. Shershenevitch, Mariyengoff, Kamensky, Polyetayev, Yesenin, Guera-\nsimov, Kluyev, Mayakovsky throw a challenge to the whole world, exult in\nterror, blood, dynamite, blaspheme Christ and God, denounce Pushkin and Ra-\nphael, threaten destruction to the old order, call to universal revolution, cele-\nbrate the reign of labor. In a great outburst of revolutionary patriotism they\nglorify the Communist fatherland. The German Expressionist poet has well\nexpressed their attitude :"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "309", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 980, "texte": "Oh Tag der Wonne\nTag der Freiheit heiliges Russland !\nNie hat Europa schoneren Tag, nie unsere Jugend herrlicheres Ziel!\n(Carl Otten \" Fur Martinet\").\n/\nThey sing paeans to the new art and the new life. Art and life are for\nthem indissolubly one.\nPrikaz for the army of art.\nThe brigades of old men always trudge on slowly\nThe same straggling step\nTo the barricades comrades !\nTo the barricades of souls and hearts !\nEnough of jog-trotting\nA leap into the future !\nForward singing and whistling !\n• •••• •••••••••*••••••••»\nEnough of penny worth truth\nSweep clean every old notion from your heart.\nThe streets are our brushes\nThe public squares our palettes\nInto the streets, Futurists,\nDrum players and poets !\n(Vladimir Mayakovsky),\nDekret about fence literature, decoration of streets, balconies\nWITH MUSIC, CARNAVAIyS OF ART.\nCome on fellows —\nPoets, artists, musicians\nRoll up your sleeves\nYesterday the Tolstoys and Kants had taught you\nToday it is your own head that works."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "310", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1673, "texte": "Let us take all vacant fences\nRoofs, facades, sidewalks;\nLet us decorate them to the glory of Freedom\nLike universal cathedrals.\nThen follows an injunction for poets to paste their verse on posters all\nover the city, for painters to decorate it, for musicians to play and sing with and\nfor the nation.\nThere are six working days in the week,\nAnd I boldly propose\nTo stage carnivals and processions\nEvery day of rest,\nIn praise of the spirit of Revolution\nIn the world.\n(Vassixy Kamensky).\nTechnically little change has taken place in Russian poetry during the re-\nvolution. All schools of Europe are represented. The Soviet Government,\nmaster — nominally, at any rate — of the printing industry has shown itself ex-\ntremely indulgent (often too indulgent, one is tempted to say) with the poetic\neffusions of all schools and tendencies. Studios have been opened for recitation,\ntheoretic analysis, and esthetic discussion of poetry, anthologies have been is-\nsued, magazines have been published. When the shortage of paper is too great\n\" oral almanaclis \" do duty for printed ones. Poetic production has increased\nto proportions never before attained in Russia.\nAt one end — on the right — are the Proletarian poets who seek simplicity\nand the Symbolists who seek subtlety ; in the middle are the Imaginists (Ima-\nginisty) who seek rich imagery and the Futurists who seek the hidden contact\nof dissociated ideas ; at the other end — on the left — are the Suprematists who\nseek the \" Zero point of art \" and the Nothingists (Nitchevoki) who seem to\nhave found it. Before the revolution Krutchenych thought this admirable :\nDir boor shtchill\noobyeshtchoor\nskoom\nvy so boo\nrlez"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "311", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2304, "texte": "And now Malyevitch thinks this superb :\nOole Ele I,el Lee One Kon See An\nOnon Koree Ree Koazambe Moena Lezh\nSabno Oratr Tulozh Koaleebee Blestore\nTeebo Orene Alazh\nThese quotations are as cryptic in the Russian original as in the literal\nEnglish transcription. The theory of the extreme poetic Left absolves the poet from\nthe use of comprehensible language. The great Russian poet Tyutchev said :\nA thought once expressed\nBecomes a lie.\nThe poets of the extreme Left are evidently determined to utter no lie for\nthey express no thought. Poetry is to be sung in a language newly created\nby each poet, a language empty of logical content but full of emotional signifi-\ncance. It will not carry intelligibility but communicate emotion to all those\nwhose souls are attuned to receive it, and whose mood and temper are congenial\nwith the poet's own mood and temper. Whether these chosen spirits be ten or\na million is of no consequence.\nIn the background of the rich poetic activity there is an abundance of\nspeculation in the social theory of the new art (Lunatcharsky, Bogdanov, Frit-\nche, Tchukovsky) Russian society — and all other — is passing from the Hell\nof Capitalism through the Purgatory of Proletarian Dictatorship to the Paradise\nof Communism. To each different stage corresponds a different form of art\n(Poetry we know is a whore — ftoesia e una puttana — which is not the least\nof her merits). Present' Russian art is still wavering between capitalist reality\nand Communist visions. It would be therefore premature to draw a valedictory\nof Communist poetry before it found full expression. Daring experiments are\ntried and incompatible poetic elements often collide and burst into explosion.\nA school whose phylogenetic evolution, so to speak, five decades else-\nwhere is now ontogenetically recapitulated in five months. It is before all\nelse a period of preparation, fermentation, incubation. It may be that some\nattempts are halting and some experiments crude ; it may be that poetic circles\nare cluttered. But if the great energy liberated by the tremendous upheaval\nhas not yet crystallized into definite shape, high enthusiasm sustains every ef-\nfort, and, according to the Communists, when revolution is in full swing, he who\nwhines is an imbecile.\nAnd perhaps they are right!\n\nLOZOWICK."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "305", "page_fin": "305", "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.6.1", "titre_corps": "[Decoration and Costumes from Conte de Hoffman]", "titre_sommaire": "[Decoration and Costumes from Conte de Hoffman]", "signature_source": "Jakouloff", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "305", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 107, "texte": "« Princesse Brambila » Conte de Hoffman\nKamernä Theatre; Moscow 1920.\nDecoration and costumes by Jakouloff."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "312", "page_fin": "315", "image_debut": 26, "image_fin": 29, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "A Note on the New Russian Theatre", "titre_sommaire": "A Note on the New Russian Theatre", "signature_source": "Elie Ehrenbourg", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "314", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2588, "texte": "A NOTE ON THE NEW RUSSIAN THEATRE\n\nThe general tendency of the modern Russian theatre, as in all the other arts,\nis to drop the former aristocratic isolation of its appeal for one more generally\nhitman. The whole of existence is now being dramatized. Not that this trend\nleads to a paradise for dilettanti, or to a relaxation of the essential mastery over\nthe subject matter. In the old folk fairs, held under an open sky, and in the old\nnature plays, this principle was more evident than in the theatre of our day. In\nspite of the different character and viewpoints of the various stage workers,\nthey combine in endeavoring to condense the scenic demands. The theatre\nof the last period, the naturalistic, or rather the chaotic impressionistic, gave us\na perfect example of what one might call \" anti-theatricalism \". Therefore the\npresent theatre does not develop from the theatre of yesterday, expressed by the\nMaeterlincks, Andreieffs, etc. but from the previous period, that of the old Span-\nish, the old Shakespearean comedies, and from the Russian\" Hohlenhandlung \".\nThe present tendency is to ignore completely the intermediate period. It\nseeks full tones ; not dramas and comedies, but tragedies and burlesques. It\ndraws material from the better class booths at the folk fairs, and from the cir-\ncus. Finally, the theatre, which to the very last has sought to direct the cinema\nto a profounder psychological perception, must now learn the proper art of move-\nment from its younger brother. But in still greater contradiction to the con-\nventional stage formula stands the theatre of Meyerhold. He strives to draw\nthe actors and the public closer. His motto is : Away with the audience box. The\nfootlights are his worst enemies, and every theatre that persists in their use,\nhe ranks as dead.\nBy presenting the \" Mystere-Bouffes \" of the futuristic writer, Vladimir\nMajakowski, an heroic and satirical picture of our time, Meyerhold changes the\nwhole theatre into a stage not only placing it in the midst of the public, but per-\nsuading the latter to take part in the performance and this notwithstanding the\ngeneral untheatrical nature of the Russian masses. He plans to abolish conven-\ntional memories, to exhibit only the faces and the masquerade and to ignore the\nscript of the play. He demands that the play, from the beginning, must shape\nitself as it moves along. He regards the work of dramatists as mere problems\nwith the power of automatically unfolding as the production proceeds. There is\nno doubt that Hamlet, under Meyer hold's direction, would surprise Shakespeare."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "315", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2729, "texte": "Another stream, from the same source, flowing in the same direction, expres-\nses itself in the Moscow \" Kammerspiel The director, Tiarov, endeavors,\nwithin the confines of the stage, to preserve only the absolute essence of the play.\nHe stands in the same relation to the theatre as the cubists to the art of painting.\nConstruction, the foundation of our time, permeates the Kammerspiel perfor-\nmances. He demonstrates that one can formulate movements as one builds\nhouses or aeroplanes. Acting used to be a chaos of different movements, diffe-\nrent actors moving from different impulses, through different experiences. The\nforce of a unified conception pervades the Kammerspiel. 1 External action is\nrehabilitated. Actors are forced to learn movements from acrobats. The Kam-\nmerspiel turns away from the former scenic decorations subservient to the pain-\nter. A human actor of three dimensions demands a decoration in three dimen-\nsions. Instead of a painter, an architect is required to present the mathematical\nformula of our present day. The accompanying pictures exhibit the Kammer-\nspiel decorative system.\nIn the « Princess Brambilla » by Hoffman the carnival is not a mere sty-\nlistic picture of any particular epoch. It is a representation of the eternal needs\nof mankind, irrespective of his social surroundings. The treatment as a whole\nis sternly organized. Yakulov, the decorator, expresses the atmosphere of\na fairy story, at the same time avoiding conventional banalities. «I/annonce\nfaite a Marie », by Claudel emerges from its narrow Catholic frame and becomes\na mystery of self sacrifice in love. The architect Vesnin adapted the Gothic idea\nfor the material of his conception, substituting fitting cubistic symbols of contem-\nporary art. The stage effects are monumental and dynamic in character. The\nvertical building up of a scene allows great variety for the stage direction.\nThe last play of the Kammerspiel, Romeo and Juliet, was treated like a sketch.\nThe decorations for it were executed by Exter.\nIt is beyond the scope of this article to give a complete survey of the Russian\ntheatre of today ; therefore I will not refer to the very interesting work of\nthe Petrograd men such as Mardganov, Evreinov, Radiov, etc. Despite external\ndifficulties, the formula of the new theatre in Russia is developing with the great-\nest decision and energy. Five years ago, the collapse of theatrical art was\neverywhere pronounced ; now the theatre strides ahead of all other arts in\nRussia. Perhaps the explanation is that the Revolution itself is a social drama\ncausing the creative stream to flow into an organization of movements such as\nthe theatre of today.\nFrom the Russian.\n1 Kamerny Theatre.\n\nEue Ehrenbourg."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "312", "page_fin": "312", "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.7.1", "titre_corps": "[Costumes from L'Annonce faite à Marie]", "titre_sommaire": "[Costumes from L'Annonce faite à Marie]", "signature_source": "Vesnin", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "312", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 48, "texte": "« L'Annonce faite à Marie ».\nCostumes by Vesnin."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "313", "page_fin": "313", "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.7.2", "titre_corps": "L'Annonce faite à Marie — I. acte.", "titre_sommaire": "L'Annonce faite à Marie — I. acte.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "313", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 38, "texte": "«L'Annonce faite à Marie ». — I. acte."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "316", "page_fin": "346", "image_debut": 30, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Proteus", "titre_sommaire": "Proteus", "signature_source": "Paul Claudel ; John Strong Newberry", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "316", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 7, "texte": "PROTEUS"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "316", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 22, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1138, "texte": "A Satiric drama in two acts.\nACT 11.\nSame scene as in the preceding act. When the curtain rises menei,aus is\ndiscovered lying on the beach, asleep, and holding in his hand the hand of Helen,\nveiled and seated. At the left, against the proscenium, leaning upon a rubber tipped\ncane, stands the satyr-major, listening to the orchestra. The orchestra plays.\nBacchanale nocturne.\n(■pianissimo).\nThe Satyr-major, to the orchestra.\nGently, quite softly. Lower ! Lower ! Lower !\nIf it was a question of making noise we should have no need of music.\nOur task is to make the silence audible. Shhh !\n[He beats time. The music, already faint, becomes\nalmost imperceptible).\nThat's better. Sss ! Lower still! What the deuce ! It is not for tink-\ners that you play.\nBut for demi-gods whose bestial ears terminate in a point as fine as a sin-\ngle hair\nAnd you are going to awaken this brave man who has taken Troy, and\nthrown a seal to earth, and who is much fatigued.\nAnd even Helen perhaps. Still lower.\n[The orchestra plays almost in dumb show, the violin\nbows just brushing the strings, cymbals not touching,\nbrasses stopped)."}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "317", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1633, "texte": "Very good. You have understood me ! This is music as I like it.\nThe snoring of drums, the clacking of hands, the hail of the castanets,\nComes to us from the other side of the moon.\nThe torrent of wooden shoes and bare feet that follow Bacchus\nReaches the ear no more than the stir in the depths of the stream of cray-\nfish in their cuirasses\nAnd all these desperate cries\nAre no more to us than the cold archery of Diana\nAnd the trumpet itself when it sounds, is as faint as a whistle of glass.\n[Faint music).\nThe night belongs to the gods.\n(The bass drum is beaten very softly).\nIndeed, it is too fair ! ' Tis too lovely this midst of the year.!'\nIt is because of this that Bacchus has come\nIn order to deliver the fields and deserts and the enormous folds of the\nearth filled to the brim with forests\nWith this triumphal march, and with this irresistible tread, in the midst\nof cries of despair imposing delight and terror.\nWoe to him who, reclined on the moistened leaves at midnight,\nShall see the white god mirrored, like a shining sun of milk.\nWoe to that stag who, amid his restless hinds, rearing an arborescent head,\nwatches the curious army as it crosses the mountain ford, among the roll-\ning stones,\nAnd already the god is there no more but precedes them, and one sees only\na fat man drunk upon his ass !\nOne is no longer at this call entirely a man\nFor the man that he may leap assumes the loins of a goaty\nAnd the goat, to gulp the sharp handful of the vine that one holds out\nto him,\nStands erect, and becomes a girl, her forehead decked with horns !\nSilence !\n(The music gradually ceases).\nHail, Menelaus !\n(Silence)."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "318", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1344, "texte": "He sleeps ! It is not in vain he has gazed in the eyes of the god of the Sea !\nAll is changed for him and I shall appear like the most adorable of the\nNymphs.\nHail to you, liberator!\n(Menelaus opens his eyes without wakening. The Sa-\ntyr-Major makes horrible grimaces at him. Menelaus\ngazes at him stupidly and imitates his grimaces. Then\nwith a bound he rises and leaps to his bow, but gradually\nas if overcome with astonishment he allows it to unbend).\nThe Satyr-Major.\nHail, Menelaus !\nMenelaus.\nWho is speaking to me ?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nI am speaking to you, good sir.\nMENEIyAUS.\nStrange ! Was there not here just now\nAnother of those wretched Satyrs that put out its tongue at me ?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThere is no one here but myself, quite at your service, good sir.\n(Menelaus presses his hand to his forehead).\nWhat is the matter ? You seem disturbed and troubled.\nMenelaus.\nAh, I am weary of all these devilries !\nThe Satyr-Major, simpering.\nAt least it is surely not I that you find alarming ?\nMenelaus.\nYou suit me admirably. I like you very much. You are pretty. Ah,\nit does me good to see an attractive face.\nThe Satyr-Major, with a reverence.\nMonseigneur !\nMenelaus.\nHow becoming a long blonde curl can be to the length of the delicious\nalmond of a youthful face,\nAnd what vivid color, as pure as a fresh begonia flower !\nWho are you ?"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "319", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1302, "texte": "The Satyr-Major.\nThe serving-maid of Lord Proteus.\nMknei^aus.\nYou have a very bad master.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nNaxos (most of the time)\nIs an isle in the midst of the sea that lies between the three Continents.\nAnd its shores receive all the derelicts of the currents and of the\nstorms.\nMENEIyAUS.\nYou are one of these derelicts yourself ?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nI was set adrift on the sea in a little boat\nAnd it was the old man Proteus took pity on my weakness and on my\ninnocence.\nMenelaus.\nHow sweetly phrased that was !\nListen, you are adorable !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThat's all very fine, my Lord !\nBut is'nt that your wife who is with you ?\nMENEIvAUS.\nThat makes no difference. It's all the same to her. \" I am Helen ! \"\nSay the word, and I take you away ! I will give you a place in the\nlinen-room.\nBut tell me first how your master has recovered from the massage that\nI have administered to him.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThanks, he is perfectly well and demands his spectacles.\nMenei^aus.\nAll in good time ! Let him come and seek them.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nHe does not dare to face you again.\nMENEIvAUS.\nI thought I was surely going to let him go,\nThe lion and all the rest didn't bother me at all. But the octopus was\na role that I did not expect.\nWhen I suddenly found myself in the midst of those floating tentacles"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "320", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1512, "texte": "Face to .face with that beak of a parroquet and that cylindrical head, like\nan enormons discoloured cucumber, full of a frightful wisdom,\nAnd those eyes devoid of pupils where floats a light like that of a lamp\nbehind a bowl of water\nI thought to vent my soul with disgust! Fortunately the vision did\nnot last.\nAnd immediately I beheld between my hands the slimy tree that yielded\npots of jam\nDevoured through the midst by a rosy cancer, like the teat of a cow.\nFaugh!\nThe Satyr-Major, clasping his hands.\nYou are a hero !\nMENEEAUS.\nAh well, what is it that he's demanding now, old collector that he is ?\nThe Satyr-Mayor.\nHe demands his spectacles.\nMeneeaus, putting them on his nose.\nOne cannot see anything with them.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nQuite naturally. They were not made to see with.\nMeneeaus.\nThen?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nIt's the sign of his authority.\nThe seals when they see his spectacles are struck with respect and terror\nIt is thus he constrains them to hunt for him and to learn arithmetic.\nMENEIvAUS.\nHere is another invention ! It is like those ribbons he showed me !\nI wished to know a little of what is occurring at Argos for there are nasty\nrumours afloat about my relatives there.\nGood ! The first thing that I see is my sister-in-law, Clotilde, to whom\nan unknown young man paid his respects by pulling from her belly a great\ntwo-edged sword.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nHeavens !\nMeneeaus.\nAh well! She did not suffer at all from this familiarity. One Saw her\narise and go out backwards arranging her coiffure."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "321", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1413, "texte": "The Satyr-Major.\nProdigy !\nMENEEAUS.\nImmediately there presented himself a man, his skull cloven in two, and\nClotilde — Clytemnestra, I mean — who stood beside him, holding an axe in\nher hand.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nGreat gods ! You frighten me !\nMENEIvAUS.\nThe skull reglued itself and my brother Agamemnon came out from his\nbath, quite unscathed and perfectly dry.\nAnd so it went on till all ended confusedly in a frightful jumble where\neverything was confounded, the sacrifice of my niece and the grill that they\nmade of my little cousins.\nIt has set my eyes to aching '\nIf I could even be sure that I knew the people ! But everything trembles\nand undulates like the faces one sees above a fire ! And in the most thrilling\nplaces were great white holes. For these ribbons are not first hand.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThe oracles are always obscure.\nMENEIvAUS.\nIn short, all these massacres that annul themselves form a symbol to my\nmind, and the sense is rather consoling.\nI conclude therefrom that all things are adjusted\nAs my own history proves.\n— Yet had I but a hundred fathoms of these ribbons, what rivalry for\nDelphi!\n— Thereafter I was exhausted and fell asleep.\nHolding firm in one hand the hand of that woman and in the other the\nspectacles.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nGive them to me !\nMeneeaus.\nA moment ! Is my barque repaired ?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nIt is ready and awaits you.\nMeneeaus.\nIs the eye of the ship repainted ?\n3"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "322", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1159, "texte": "The Satyr-Major.\nIt is repainted. It only remains to place the pupil there.\nYon have one sail of linen and one of jute, fifteen oars of the upper tier\nand twenty eight of the lower.\nAnd a good rudder that's almost new, originally designed for the Adminis-\ntration of Egyptian Funeral Pomps.\nMENEIvAUS.\nI'll restore the spectacles to him when I go.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nListen then ! You can ask him for something else.\nMenelaus.\nWhat?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nDo you not know that the famous Helen has lived for ten years in this isle.\nMenelvAUS, taking his bow.\nFly, or I'll kill you.\nThe Satyr-Major, in flight.\nLook behind you !\n{Enter Wiixowithe, veiled).\nW IlylyO WITHE.\nHail, O my husband, I find you again at last!\nMENEivAUS, facing about.\nWhat ?\nWIIXOWITHE.\nHail, O my husband, I find you again at last.\nMenei^aus.\nWho are 3;rou ?\n(WiiyiyOWiTHE throws back her veil. MenelyAUS looks\nat her in silence).\nMENEI.AUS.\nLook, Helen !\nHEi<EN, unveiling indolently.\nWho are you, Madam ?\nWIIyIyOWITHE.\nAnswer her, Menelaus. Tell her who I am. This voice, this face that\nturns itself towards yours, this woman before you who welcomes you, these,\ndo you not recognize them ?"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "323", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1188, "texte": "Meneeaus, in a low voice.\nHelen, it is Helen.\nHelen.\nThere is no other Helen here but I.\nMeneeaus.\nAh, my heart beats strangely! There are two Helens with me, that\nof the past and the other that Paris restored to me.\nIf I did not hold your hand I would say that this other is the true one.\nIt is the voice, the form, the fg.ce.\nOnly younger, purer perhaps.\nLook yourself.\nHeeen.\nI do not need to look.\nMeneeaus.\nLook, I tell you.\nHeeen, slowly turning her eyes towards him.\nThis woman resembles me as I resemble Andromache.\nMeneeaus.\nBe silent! You do not understand. I remember better than you !\nHeeen.\nThere is no Helen here but Helen of Troy,\nWho was carried away from Greece by Alexander, otherwise, Paris.\nAs is known throughout all the world from Gades up to Colchis.\nAnd as testify those great piles of blackened bricks that one beholds\nopposite Tenedos.\nWIEEOWtTHE.\nI know nothing of all this. As for me, I am Helen of Sparta.\nHeeen.\nYou are nothing of the sort.\nWieeowithe.\nAlways faithful, always loving, the same.\nAnd who have no other husband than my own.\nMeneeaus.\nHow is it/Madam, that you are here in this present isle of Naxos >\nWieeo withe.\nI slept.\nMeneeaus.\nYou slept ?"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "324", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1130, "texte": "WIl/IyO WITHE.\nHermes,\nHermes had scourged my face\nWith that bough embrued in the tide of the Lethean stream.\nMENEEAUS.\nYou slept! And I through all that time, casque on head and sword in hand,\nI was beleaguering Troy, yonder where you were.\nWieeowithe.\nNot I.\nMENEIvAUS.\nNot you ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nThis one, but not I !\nMENEIvAUS.\nYou say well, for this one is Helen.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nThen hail to you, Helen.\nMeneeaus.\nDon't you recognize her ?\nWIIXO WITHE.\nHail to you, Helen.\nMeneeaus.\nIt's Helen I hold by the hand ?\nWIEEO WHITE.\nWho else ?\nIs it not my face ? Is it not my form ? Is it not my breast this indignant\nbreath uplifts ?\nWhat have you done while I slept, O image of myself ? And for what\ndreadful use have the gods employed my sleep ?\nIt is for me that Troy flamed heavenward while I slept, it is I who laid it\nflat, as if with scythes, while I was not disturbed by any dream !\nIs my form so puissant then that its image alone suffices for the purpose\nof a god ?\nIs my soul so puissant that it suffices to make two bodies live ?\nHEEEN.\nThese are words I find it hard to bear.\nWieeowithe.\nAnd now, sister Helen, O my image,"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "325", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1281, "texte": "Now that your task is done,\nNow that I am awake, and it is day,\nIt is time for you to yield me my husband and my place.\nHave the goodness to vanish I beg of you.\nMeneeaus.\nBreathe upon her a little to see if she will vanish\nLike the vapor of water that begins to boil.\nWllylyO WITHE .\nBut you, Menelaus, for what do you wait to open your arms to me after\nthese ten years\nAnd that heart which is wholly mine.\nMeneeaus.\nWhat proof have you got that you are really Helen ?\nWieeo withe.\nI have none, except the truth.\nMenelaus.\nI feel I know not what doubt within me.\nHeeen.\nMenelaus, I have already borne many things from you. Through\nyou I have suffered much. All the same do not push me to extre-\nmities.\nAnd it is perfectly true that I am a woman and in your possession: not,\nhowever, so much as you think.\nBut I protest that if you are so unfortunate as to put me to this shame and\nonce let go my hand\nYou shall not lead Helen captive a second time,\nAnd neither in this life nor the next\nWill you find again these fingers so long disjoined from yours\nMeneeaus.\nI am master of all the Helens extant in the world.\nWieeowithe.\nOne alone suffices.\nMeneeaus.\nYou say well ! There is only one Helen for me.\nWileowithe.\nOnly one, the same.\nMeneeaus.\nYou say well, the same to me forever."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "326", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1034, "texte": "WIEEO WITHE.\nOne Helen only, she who was given you long ago.\nMeneeaus.\nI remember.\nWllylyO WITHE .\nThe daughter of I,eda and Jupiter. . .\nMeneeaus.\n. . .The wife of the king of Sparta.\nWIEEO WITHE.\n. . . Jupiter who thunders in the mists. . .\nWhen the clouds like great white mountains accumulated\nLittle by little increase in the pure blue vault of the sky\nAbove that small red temple well known to shepherds of which the pedi-\nment has three columns only.\nMeneeaus.\nYou remember ?\nWieeo withe.\nThere is a meadow shaded by poplars.\nHeeen.\nBut there were no poplars !\nMeneeaus.\nYes, there were ! Be silent!\nWIEEOWITHE.\nThere is a meadow shaded by poplars.\nMeneeatjs.\nThere were poplars, as she speaks it all comes back to me !\nWielo withe.\nThere where the rapid stream. . . Where was I ?\nMeneeaus.\nThere where the rapid stream. . .\nWieeo withe.\nHow clear those waters were !\nMeneeaus.\nHow clear those waters were and what a mournful noise they made among\nthe rolling stones !\nWieeo withe .\nBefore they enter the immense conch of June."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "327", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1243, "texte": "Mbnei,aus.\nBefore through a thousand ditches and sluices they are distributed to all\nthe rich herbage.\nWiixowithb.\nThere are three oaks that were hallowed to my father.\nHelen.\nGood ! Now we have oaks it seems !\nMenei^aus.\nShe is right. I remember. They are oaks.\nWnxo withe.\nThat great tree whose leaf is slowest to unfold.\nMENEIyAUS.\nIn that month of June when you tell me that you loved me, on those heights\nto which we had mounted\nI scarcely think that they had sprouted yet.\nWirj.OWiTHE.\nTheir colour is that of gold.\nMENEIyAUS.\nNot the gold of antiquity, but the young bough that begins\nBefore Jupiter has endowed them with\nThat puissant colour of green wherein his eyes delight.\nWIIXO WITHE.\nTheir colour is that of gold.\nMENEIyAUS.\nNot the colour of time that passes but of time about to begin.\nWllylyO WITHE.\nTheir colour is that of gold.\nMenelaus.\nNot their colour, O well-beloved.\nBut the hue of that great fire I had lighted just below them whose floating\nradiance gilded them with light.\nWIIyIyOWITHE.\nIs it not right that one purify oneself by silence and by fasting. . .\nMeneeaus.\nYes, it is right.\nWllylyO withe.\n. . . Is it not right that one purify oneself as for the Mysteries\nWhen one is about to wed the daughter of a god ?"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "328", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1282, "texte": "Meneeaus.\nWhen one holds in one's arms the child divine whose motionless eyes beneath\ntheir lashes\nRegard yon with indifference\nAnd like Victory you were between my arms and like the harp for\nthe blind.\nAnd like that young block of marble ivory-pale at the threshhold of the\nfatherland which the exile piously grasps with both his hands !\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAbove us rose those long ribbons of walls one above the other and that\ncitadel in the sky with its battlemented towers.\nAnd those long forests of oaks, all flat on the terraces, like the moss that\npushes its way between the stones.\nAnd those cascades, all silent and motionless,\nAnd this place, in advance upreared by the hand of Titans, on the mandate\nof my father.\nTo be his temple with us.\nMeneeaus.\nI remember.\nWIIXO WITHE.\nAnd you were handsome then, Menelaus, the strongest of those of your\nage and far the most skillful at games.\nMeneeaus.\nYou are still the same.\nWieeowithe.\nThe same, it is you that says so, are you convinced of it ?\nMeneeaus.\nHelen : there's no other woman in the world !\nWieeo withe.\nTell me then, have I made you suffer much ?\nMeneeaus.\nNot to the measure of my love !\nWieeo withe.\nWas it hard to be parted from me ?\nMeneeaus.\nMy desire has never left you.\nWieeo withe.\nNor have I. I have not left you."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "329", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 933, "texte": "Meneeaus.\nYou have not left me ?\nWileowithe.\nI slept in your arms.\nMeneeaus.\nTell me one thing only, daughter of Zeus !\nWieeowithe.\nYes, I wish to tell you all.\nMeneeaus.\nHow did I who among the chieftains of Greece was neither the first nor\nthe second\nFind favor in your eyes ?\nWieeowithe.\nHad you nothing through which to deserve it ?\nMeneeaus.\nNothing when I look at you and when I remember myself !\nWieeowithe.\nAnd who, then, would thus have held me in his arms, and would not have\nlet me go,\nThese ten years, which were only a single hour of the night,\nWhile I slept.\nMeneeaus.\nThe night is ended.\nWieeowithe.\nIt is ended and I am awake.\nMeneeaus.\nIt is ended and I see those eyes, full of indifference, once more\nregarding me.\nWIEEOWiTHE.\nFor what do you wait to clasp me in your arms ?\n[He makes as if to go towards her).\nHeeen.\nMenelaus !\nMenelaus.\nHelen !\nHeeen.\nWhat are you doing ? Do you intend to lose me a second time ?"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "330", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1664, "texte": "WIIXO WITHE.\nDo not listen to what she says ! Do not give ear to that shadow wrought\nin\" my image by envious gods which wishes again to deceive you !\nHEI,EN.\nTo deceive you ! Answer her ! Is it in dream that you suffered ?\nDid you take Troy, then, in a dream, and is it in dream that you led me\nfrom the sombre Asiatic gynecium\nThat night when one saw clear though never a lamp was lit ?\nIs it then false, the face that you recognized in the flame of such a light ?\nWiij<owithe.\nAll is a dream that is not those days of yore which have not ever ceased.\nHEIvEN.\nAnd say if it was also a dream, at that hour of noon, the enormous back\nof the sea, midway between Europe and Asia, that rose to take us like the spine\nof a bull\nAnd which, overmastering me by a single blow, with the Ravisher, in a\nsingle day,\nIyeft us on dry land there, beside a smoking beacon that quenched itself\nin the dawn.\nWilderwithe.\nAll is a dream except this face, turned towards you once again, and these\neyes, full of ignorance, turned towards yours like those of the animals.\nHEI.EN.\nAll is a dream except this hand, now clasped once more in yours, and this\nbody once more solid between your arms.\nWiixowithe.\nAh, the streams of the earth in the month of June when the scattered flocks\nremount the difficult grass and the shepherd thrusts aside with his knee this\ntorrent descending towards him, this flood of life, green, pink and all ashine,\nfull of flowers and bees and butterflies !\nAh, the honey I was to your lips, and that head that all at once I dropped\nupon your shoulder!\nHEEEN.\nYou caress, and I have struck.\nW ileo withe .\nI have won your heart.\nHEEEN.\nYou have not pierced it."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "331", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1092, "texte": "WILLO WITHE.\nRemember those nights of my youth when I slept by your side !\nHelen.\nRemember those nights when you were alone, and I in the arms of the\nRavisher.\nWILLO withe.\nI was faithful !\nHelen.\nSleeping fidelity.\nWillowithe.\nFaithful nevertheless !\nHelen.\nJewel of little worth, which was not lost, and which has not been disputed !\nWILLO WITHE.\nAlways the same !\nHelen.\nAnd what of me, am I not always the same ? And someone else besides.\nW illo withe .\nWife of one only !\nHelen.\nAnd I, was I then not your wife in the arms of the Ravisher ?\nWhen from the height of the lofty tower of Troy\nI saw on every side of that well-defended city,\nTo the North, to the South, to the East and to the West,\nYour patience and your desire, each evening round about me,\nRekindle with the hundred thousand fires of your encamping army !\nWILLO WITHE. •\nBe silent, illusion !\nHelen.\nBe silent, imposture !\nMenelaus.\nWhat to do ?\nWill o withe.\nWill you believe if this creation of a cunning god\nConfesses her fraud and declares that I am Helen ?\nHelen.\nCertainly in such a case we both should be convinced !"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "332", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1195, "texte": "WIEEO WITHE.\nThen leave me alone with her.\n(MenEEAUS goes out. Silence).\nNaturally, it is true, I confess it. You are Helen.\nHEEEN.\nThank you.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nConfess that I might be taken for you.\nHeeen.\nAs to that Ido not know. I have not looked at you.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nIvook at me then.\nHEEEN, looking at her.\nMenelaus must be even more mad than I had supposed he was.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nIt is Proteus caused this enchantment.\n(Silence).\nIt is the lord Proteus who caused this astounding enchantment.\n(Silence).\nIt is he who has put illusion in the eyes of Menelaus.\nAre you not curious to know who the lord Proteus is ?\nHeeen.\nNo.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nHe is the curator of this sea, drunk and out of his mind, where her\ngrandfather's limbs were scattered by Medea.\nOf which the depths are torn by sulphurous sighs\nAnd the surface incessantly flogged and churned to foam by the oars of\nfanatic expeditions,\nArgo, Troy,\nAll those adventurers, with jutting nose and meagre brow, glabrous as\nactors, rowing with good courage !\nAnd see, that ring of foam, is it a seal that respires ?\nBy no means, 'tis a cow.\nIt is Jupiter who swims under the form of a beast, his horns crowned\nwith daisies, to amuse a little girl."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "333", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 990, "texte": "HEEEN.\nAm I to then understand\nThat you look upon it as a freak of madness\nThis honorable attempt, shared by the whole of Greece, to win me back\nagain ?\nWieeowithe\nExactly so, and quite worthy of Proteus.\nHEEEN.\nYou will pardon me for not sharing your opinion,\nWieeowithe .\nHow beautiful you are, Helen, and how I adore those lustrous eyes emptied\nof all expression\nThat you turn slowly towards me.\nHeeen.\nYes, it is I that am the beautiful Helen.\nWllylyO WITHE .\nAh, it was not merely the work of Proteus !\nI swear that Menelaus is a dunce not to distinguish between us !\nHelen.\nIt is true.\nW lEEO WITHE.\nA fool, a nincompoop.\nHeeen.\nIt is true.\nWieeowithe.\nA brute, a villain !\nAh, I am sure of it. It isn't only once that he has caressed your spine\nwith the handle of his bow !\nHeeen.\nAll men are the same.\nWieeowithe.\nWhat, Paris a 150...\nHeeen.\nNo. He was an agreable man who knew how to treat a woman.\nWieeowithe.\nBut he is dead, is he not ?\nHeeen.\nIt is not necessary to think of it."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "334", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1418, "texte": "WIEEO WITHE.\nDo not think of it then and thus escape that vertical crease of the forehead,\nwhich is the most difficult wrinkle to efface.\nOne should massage it each evening with the thumb.\nHEEEN.\nWith the thumb and a little purified mutton-fat.\nWllJ-yO WITHE.\nIndeed one can teach you nothing.\nLet me regard you again, not as mere men would do, having no knowledge\nof such matters, but with the eye of a woman.\nGreat gods ! (She sighs)\nAh, gods, how beautiful you are. There is no fault nor blemish in you.\nEven Ariadne, who has given this isle its fame,\nCompared with you was only a fat Cretan.\nHEEEN.\nYou would say a certain freshness ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYes indeed. — But where did you find that dress ?\nHeeen.\nYou do not like it ? — Yet in Troy it was the latest fashion.\nWiEEOWITHE.\nPrecisely.\nAnd Troy has been cut off from the rest of the world — ten years.\nHeeen, with trembling voice.\nWhat can I do ? It's the fault of that horrid Menelaus.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nSuch a curious green... Ah, it's many a day since I beheld it last. My grand-\nmother had a special weakness for it.\nAnd those great, embroidered animals, how strange ! Those Phrygian shoes,\nthat truly Cimmerian clasp...\nHEEEN.\nIt is not my fault!\n[She bursts into tears).\nWIEEO WITHE.\nWhat have I done, my dear ? Do not weep ! Do not ruin those lovely\neyes !\nListen! Do you know what I think ? It is you that will soon be in the\nfashion and I behind the times."}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "335", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1236, "texte": "This spoil that disperses itself in all directions...\nEverything, this winter, will pattern itself on Troy.\nHelen, tearfully.\nAh, ah !\nWILLO WITHE.\nAre you not content ?\nHelen.\nAh, you pierce me to the heart !\nWhen that brute of a Menelaus came I bade him go at once to despoil my\nsisters-in-law.\nThere were fifty of them and I knew their wardrobes.\nWe had five great galleys filled with trunks when we sailed away from Troy.\nAll that has perished in the whirlwind !\nWILLOWITHE.\nAh, that was a cruel blow !\n[She puts an arm around her).\nHelen, feeling of the cloth of her dress.\nMy dear, what is this material of which your dress is made ? I have never\nseen anything like it.\nWILLOWITHE.\nIt is pongee from China made from the silk of the oak.\nHelen.\nAnd it will wash ?\nWILLO WITHE.\nThe ship that brought it to us had been under the sea three weeks. It's\nthe first consignment for Europe.\nHelen.\nHow fortunate you are !\nWillowithe.\nAnd what would you say of that stuff more brilliant than silk and more\nfresh than linen\nWhich is prepared from the nettle ?\nHelen.\nYou have much of it ?\nWillowithe.\nForty bales well marked from the coast of Pharos. Ah, I lack for nothing here !\nNot an equinoctial storm but brings us the latest novelties."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "336", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1339, "texte": "Not a house of Tyre or of Thebes Heeatomplyes\nThat is not well known to us.\nAnd what purple we have !\nAs fresh as blood ! Iyook, it is the latest thing from Tyre. They call it\n\" The Trojan Woman/' And this other is \" The Helen/'\nYou blush ? Confess that you find it flattering.\nHEIvEN.\nAh, how lucky you are to live in so frequented a place !\nWIIXO WITHE.\nYes, that is the merit of this little sea-port.\nHEI.EN.\nI myself am bound for Sparta.\nWiixowithe.\nIt is a most honorable city and the customs there are good.\nHEI,EN.\nSimple, but good.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nOnce there, what orgies of fidelity you can indulge in with your\nMenelaus.\nHEIyEN.\nThe form of the hats is prescribed by civic law under penalty of death.\nWIIJvO withe.\nBut Nature is beautiful there.\nHow solemn is the noon of those long summer days\nWhen amid the intermittent baying of cicadas in the light that makes all\nthings vanish\nOne hears what might be the noise of a god putting an edge on his sword.\nAnd how the Taygetus, in the evening after the storm, roasts, as it streams\nbefore the sun,\nLike the spitted quarter of an ox before an enormous bonfire.\nHEI,EN.\nThe best thing to do at Sparta is to sleep. I detest the country.\nWiixowithe.\nThe women are beautiful there.\nHei^EN.\nThey make bread, tend the cows and dance like beasts.\nWilylyO WITHE .\nThe men are good companions."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "337", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1479, "texte": "Helen.\nThey only permit me to converse with fathers of families, upwards of forty,\nand I am only summoned when the dessert is served.\nThen we crack nuts together and train ourselves to speak laconically.\nWlLLOwithe.\nPoor Helen, ah, how you are going to suffer, you whose experiences have\nbeen so interesting!\nHelen.\nI prefer not to think of that.\nWillo withe.\n\" Where is that famous Helen? \" they'll say. '\nShe is at Sparta now embroidering saltpouches for the shepherds\nIt is she with her women who prepares those local biscuits of such renown\nThat one breaks with a bar of lead discovering inside black mummies of\ndried raisins.\nHelen.\nWith you, too, life must be extremely monotonous.\nWillo withe.\nMy dear, what a curious notion ! everything passes here. It's the centre\nof three worlds.\nWithout speaking of that sky above which constitutes a fourth.\nNot a day that one does not see a god descend. Ah, I know your father\nextremely well!\nNot a hero who does not stop to pay us a visit.\nNothing falls into the sea of which I am not offered the best.\nHelen.\nAh well, you are fortunate !\nWILLO WITHE.\nNo. I'm a woman of the hearth.\nTranquil, modest.\nA simple life and all of a piece that is what I desire.\nAh, this would be a position for you !\nHelen.\nDo not tempt me.\nWILLO WITHE.\nHelen of Naxos after Helen of Troy. Helen-of-the-midst-of-the-seas !\nThey would arm from all the ports of the world to come to look at you.\nAs they go to Delos towards the altar of Apollo and of !\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "338", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1350, "texte": "HEEEN.\nAnd if Menelaus comes to take me ?\nWieeowithe.\nEntrust yourself to me. Entrust yourself to lord Proteus.\nHEEEN.\nWho is Proteus ?\nWieeowithe.\nThe richest of all the demi-gods.\nHe has the contract for all the sea even as far as Tarentum. Speak to\nme of your Priam !\nHeeen.\nAnd as to his person ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYou will make of it what you wish.\nHe's an oddity who in place of the usual two legs prefers a great fish's tail.\nHe's as inoffensive as a legless cripple.\nHEEEN.\nTruly, things are not a little dead at Naxos ?\nWieeowithe.\nDead? The sea is like a great journal where everything that happens is\nrecorded.\nAnd if Naxos bores you here\nThere is nothing to hinder your putting it somewhere else.\nThe rock is light and floats like a sponge cake and like the beaten white of egg\nAnd if you wish to depart, you are free as air.\nCome, your career is not over. There is more than one Troy in the world.\nHeeen.\nThat bracelet on your left arm, of what is it made ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nOf a marvellous and priceless substance known as Celluloid.\nHeeen.\nOne would say ivory but a hundred times more beautiful!\nHow have they given it that rosy hue ? It seems a ribbon of silk and one can\nsee the buckle and the three holes for the tongue, all copied with marvellous art.\nAh, what exquisite taste !\nWieeowithe.\nI make you a present of it.\n[She gives it to her)."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "339", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 996, "texte": "HEIvEN.\nAnd you say that there are still three pieces of that pongee ?\nWIIXO WITHE.\nThree pieces. I plan to take them with me.\nHEI^EN.\nHelen— pardon, my dear, I don't know what to call you... Leave them for me.\nWItI^OWITHE.\nIt will be a great sacrifice.\nHEIvEN.\nAnd how do you fasten your waist ?\nWIIXO WITHE •\nBehind, naturally.\nHEIVEN.\nBehind ! By the Good Goddess ! A waist that fastens behind !\nWIIXO WITHE.\nDo you see these buttons ? One has only to press upon them, and clac !\nHEI<EN.\nHow ingenious ! Let me try myself. Clic I pull. Clac I press. Clic,\nclac, clic, clac !\nWIIXO WITHE.\nSnaps they are called.\nHEI^EN.\nHow lucky you are ! I blush for my Scythian clasps.\nWIIXO WITHE.\nIt was a traveller from Jerusalem, head downwards who brought them to\nus the other day, on his way to the bottom of the sea.\nWe have three boxes of them.\nHEi,EN.\nHelen, my little Helen !\nWllXO\"withe.\nWell, Helen ?\nHEIvEN.\nLet me have these buttons !\nWiixowithe.\nAnd you will stay at Naxos ?\nHEI.EN.\nI consent."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "340", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1045, "texte": "WIIXOWITHE.\nThank you, Helen.\nHEEEN.\nHelen, farewell.\nWIIXO WITHE.\nFarewell.\n(Heeen goes out — Pause — Meneeaus re-enters).\nMeneeaus.\nHelen, where is that other Helen who came to disquiet me ?\nW IlylyO WITHE.\nThere is only one Helen, always faithful to you.\nThe other has melted away like a dream.\n[Music played by the orchestra expressing the sol-\nitude of the sea).\nMENEIvAUS.\nI believe you. For me alone you will be the Helen I have loved. The same,\nalways faithful.\nW IlylyO WITHE .\nThe other has melted away like a dream.\nMENEEAUS.\nBut, great gods ! Don't let anyone else find out!\nWIEEOWITHE.\nDon't let anyone else find out ?\nMENEEAUS.\nWe must see to it that everyone believes you to be that Helen whom the\nRavisher bore away.\nWiixowitke.\nWhy?\nMeneeaus.\nMy honour is concerned.\nWhat glory would be mine ? What would be said by the mothers of all\nthose brave young men who fell on the banks of the Scanmnder ?\n[The ship approaches. It is manned by Satyrs who\npush it with their oars. And for greater convenience it\nis mounted upon rollers)."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "341", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1299, "texte": "Mbnei^aus.\nAnd who are these lovely nymphs with fair white arms guiding our ship?\nWiixowithe.\nThe maids who slept with me.\nIt is from these our mariners shall be drawn.\nThe favorable Auster breathes and with day we shall behold the whitening\nshores of Greece.\n[They lower a plank for embarking).\nMenei^aus.\nMount, Helen.\nWI3XO WITHE •\nBut, tell me, did you not promise that Nymph\nWillo withe and her Satyrs, too, that you would take them away with you ?\nMenei,aus.\nIt is true, I swore to do it, but the boat isn't large enough.\nWiixo withe.\nOaths ought to be kept.\nMenei,aus.\nI swore by Zeus, my father-in-law, you know.\nThat is of no importance. When it's all in the family one does not scan too\nclosely.\nBut there is one last rite I must accomplish.\n(They bring him a pot of paint and with the tip of\nthe brush he paints the pupil in the centre of the ship's\neye).\nStay open, vigilant eye. Day and night, evening and dawn,\nTowards the fires, towards the stars, towards the marks of the sea,\nGuide us, great, patient eye of the laden ship that contains us,\nSubmerged to the shoulders in the sinewy breast of those seas that are\nfurrowed by our prow.\n(Both mount om board. The plank is drawn up)\nChorus of satyrs hoisting the sail.\nHe - hho !\nHe - hhe - he - hhe - he hho !\nHe hho !\nHe hho !\nHe hho!"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "342", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1139, "texte": "Meneeaus.\nWe do not stir.\nThe Satyr-Major, at the tiller.\nWe are grounded on the sand !\nHEEEN.\nMenelaus, give Proteus his spectacles.\nMENEIvAUS.\nNever. What I have taken by force only foice shall make me yield.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nDig a hollow with your oars.\n(They dig around the ship without effect).\nMENEIvAUS.\nHelp me, Jupiter !\n(Clap of thunder. Iris all bedecked with plaques\nof gold and little bells, in a costume that reminds one strong-\nly of that worn by Siamese dancers, falls from heaven at\nthe end of a cord. She attaches the hook from which she\nis suspended to the corresponding hook of the isle, and the\nwhole, whirling precariously, mounts to heaven amid ge-\nneral admiration. The isley in rising, reveals Proteus\nseated on a chair, a prey to profound dejection.\nThe ship is left solitary in the midst of a vast expanse\nof linoleum).\nWIELO WITHE.\nMiracle !\nMeneeaus.\nThanks, Jupiter !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThe sea is free !\nOther Satyrs.\nFree ! Free ! Free ! Free !\nMeneeaus, going to the prow.\nBear to starboard, five points.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nBear to starboard, five points.\nThe Satyrs.\nWe move ! We move ! We're off! We're off !"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "343", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1036, "texte": "Meneeaus.\nThe breeze is not strong enough. All the oars in the sea !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nAll the oars in the sea ! {whistle).\nAttention !\nPull!\nOne, two ! One, two !\nThe Satyrs, singing at the top of their voices.\nMarguerite, she is ill' alas,\nShe must have the doctor come\nMarguerite, she is ill, ill, ill,\nShe must have, have, have, she must have, have, have,\nShe must have the doctor come.\nMENEIvAUS.\n0 Nymphs, what celestial voices ! What delicious melody !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nBack water, my children !\nThe Satyrs, as before.\nThe doctor who visits her\nForbids her any wine.\nDoctor, go to the devil\nIf you forbid me wine.\n1 have drunk it all my life\nAnd drink to the end shall I.\nX,et them lay me if I die\nIn the vault where they keep the wine.\nMy feet against the wall\nAnd my mouth beneath the bung.\nIf by chance some drops should fall\nMy gullet they'll appease,\nAnd if the cask should burst\nI would drink it at my ease.\n(Meneeaus raises his hand).\nThe Satyr-Major.\nPull in the oars !\nWhere are we going, my children.\nA Satyr.\nTo France."}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "344", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1095, "texte": "Another.\nTo Bordeaux.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nTo Burgundy ! When once we have freed ourselves from yonder imbecile.\nHear the wind that snores in the sail. It is Bacchus himself that calls us\nand offers us a sign !\nChorus of Satyrs.\nTo Burgundy ! To Burgundy ! Hurray for the Burgundian wine \\\nThe Satyr-Major.\nCome to plant the vine of Beaune !\nMenei.aus.\nBear to starboard, two points !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nBear to starboard, two points.\nA Satyr.\nI shall not stop before Chalons !\nAnother.\nI have a thirst that would drain the sea !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nMy children, what is the finest wine ?\nThe Chorus.\nIt is that of the coast that lies between Beaune and Dijon,\nThe Satyr-Major.\nMy children, what is the finest soil, the blackest, the richest, the best\nmanured.\nMENEIvAUS.\nThe breeze is dropping.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nWhistle for the breeze.\n(They whistle).\nThe Chorus.\nA soil that is dry and clotted, like curdled milk, and full of little chalky\npebbles,\nWhich retain the warmth like bricks,\nThat the heavy and dormant grape on two sides may be cooked.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nWhat is the finest soil, my children ?"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "345", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1715, "texte": "The Chorus.\nA meagre soil, with protruding bones,\nLike the cows that are good milkers, whereof the bones of the haunch\nprotrude\nMbnbi,aus.\nThe wind slackens.\nChorus of surging about the prow.\nFlouc ! flouc !\nThe isle of Naxos has been upraised to heaven. That's a good thing\nfor seals.\nFlouc ! flouc !\nOne less ! The fewer isles there are the better fare the seals. Hurrah !\nFlouc ! flouc !\nOld Proteus has lost his spectacles, hurrah! We shall have no more cube-\nroots to extract, hurrah !\nFlouc ! flouc !\nThe sea is free ! The sea is free ! It is free and we are in it!\nDo you feel it quake and tremble ? Do you feel this stroke of the loins\nthat sends us hurtling eight feet into the air !\nHurrah ! Hurrah !\nWhat a bound ! What a release !\nIt is free and we are in it! It is infinite and we are in it! There is more\nhere to drink than a cup of wine ! Youp, youp, youp, hurrah ! Youp, youp,\nyoup, hurrah !\n(The ship disappears followed by the seals).\nProteus, alone in the middle of the stage.\nAnd you find this reasonable ?\nWhat madness in all of this ! What derision of serious things 1 What a\nstupid farce !\nHere is Jupiter has need of his Helen to change her to a star.\nAnd it is true that there is a void in heaven that has a bad appearance\nbetween the stars of the Dioscurides.\nDoes he think of my sacred property rights for so much as a single moment ?\nDoes he even take the trouble to apprehend that wanton in the midst\nof my little garden where nevertheless she is plainly visible ?\nNot at all. Iyike an inattentive maid, like a careless swallow who, for a\nfly sweeps away the whole of a spider's web,\nIris being at hand, he mentions Helen's name, and it is my whole estate\nthat she carries up to heaven."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "346", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1112, "texte": "It is in heaven now, my sweet little isle of Naxos, with all of its collections\nand its six tobacco plants.\nGo there to look for it !\nIt is in heaven and waves of azure sky whiten against its reefs.\nAs for me, here I am alone, ruined, deprived of my spectacles.\nIt is well. I depart. I quit the surface. They shall not see me more.\nI plunge, nunc est bibendum!\nI shall make my retreat in the story below, in a more tranquil world,\nI shall live in a splendid palace, all made of bubbles of air, in the midst of corals,\nsponges, and sea-anemones !\nGoodbye, Menelaus, fair breeze, good voyage to you, navigator!\nIt is for this he has taken Troy !\nTo disembark on the Laconian shore this snub-nosed goat, this full cargo\nof horned beasts !\nWhere's the good sense in all this ? I put it to you. Where's the justice ?\nWhere's the good order and the good temperament ?\nAnd to think that this will always be so as long as the world is governed\nby poets ! Ah, it's not nearly ended yet.\nWhat misfortune ! What misfortune !\n(He dives).\nCurtain and Bnd.\n\nPaul, Claudel,\n(Translated from the French by John Strong Newberry)."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "347", "page_fin": "347", "image_debut": 61, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "Heliographs", "titre_sommaire": "Heliographs", "signature_source": "Bayard Boyesen", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "347", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1430, "texte": "HELIOGRAPHS\nBayard Boyesen.\nFor Good and Evil the aspirant to wisdom substitutes Essential and Un-\nessential. This is the first step ; and the second is the realization that nothing\nis unessential.\nHe who looks to the future for anything thereby points to the inadequacy\nof his present; and therefore he would better look to his present in order that\nit may be repaired and fulfilled.\nFew men are wise, for few are capable of becoming what they are.\nHe who has become wise finds himself stripped of all the virtues without\nwishing or being able to do an unvirtuous act.\nThe sage neither seeks nor rejects ; he is content to hold himself so that\nthings may accrue or slough off according to his and their present needs.\nThe chief effort of religions is to force men up to a moral code. The chief\neffort of wisdom is to take them beyond the need of moral codes.\nHumanity constructs a personal God in order that it may praise itself\nwithout being conscious of conceit.\nIt is not the return to life that makes convalescence beautiful, but the\ntouch of death's reality still lingering as we come back.\nLove youth whole-heartedly and thus help it to unfold, or smite it most\ndrastically and thus force it to battle. But do not steal its confidence in order\nto betray it with the teachings of expediency.\nOne of the chief reasons why boyhood is so often beautiful is that it has\nnot yet learned to dissimulate the expression of the eyes."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "348", "page_fin": "349", "image_debut": 62, "image_fin": 63, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Ishijima", "titre_sommaire": "Ishijima", "signature_source": "Paul Eldridge", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "348", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2076, "texte": "ISHIJIMA\n\nIshijitna's poems were sung and recited by all the lovers in the Empire. He\nexpressed in golden words the pain and the joy and the trickery of the great\nPassion. Everybody said, — \" Many must be the poet's love affairs ! \" Men\nsaid it with a pang of jealousy, women with a sudden yearning to be embraced\nby him. But Ishijima was very lonesome and he had never known love. Out\nof his dreams and his desires he fashioned his poems.\nAt last, however, Ishijima met the woman, who seemed to him more beautiful\nthan his dreams, and he married her. And people said, — \" Now he will write\npoems about his beautiful wife. \" Men said it with a sigh of relief ; women\nwith a pang of jealousy.\nIshijima loved his wife and was loved by her, and their love was greater\nand more beautiful than his dreams.\nIshijima could not write any more. His brush traced languidly meaningless\ncharacters upon the gorgeous silk. What was there to write ? He had neither\ndreams nor desires, save the lips of his wife, and the lips of his wife were more\ndelightful than any words in any language. Therefore he did not write.\nAnd people gossiped. — \" Ishijima does not write any more. He does\nnot love his wife. Therefore he does not write. \" Men said it mockingly ;\nwomen with infinite compassion.\nIshijima thought: \" Happiness is the death of poetry And he mourned\nthe loss of his art, and yearned for his former illusions and pains.\nIn his despair, Ishijima pondered and ruminated : \" The death of love is\nthe resurrection of art, \" — and he took the soft throat of his wife between\nhis fingers, and pressed, until her little body, finer than a carven statuette, lay\nstill and pathetic upon the soft couch, covered with glistening silk on which were\nembroidered the greatest poems of Ishijima.\nBut Ishijima could not write. The meaning of words had vanished like\ncolored flames which are extinguished by an evil wind. He sat on his threshold,\nand drew long parallel lines with his dry brush.\nThe people talked. And some said, — \" Because of a mere woman, the\ngreat poet will never write again. \""}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "349", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 614, "texte": "Others : \" His hatred for her robbed him of his reason. \"\nOthers : \" Her cruel ghost has stolen his words. \"\nOthers : \" She was unfaithful, and her lips had become sour to him.There-\nfore he killed her. \"\nOthers : \" Without constant love poets cannot write. \"\nOne thought, but never said aloud : \" Love is the death of poetry. He lov-\ned her too much. Therefore he strangled her. He loves her still more now.\nHow then, shall he think of words ? It is best he draws parallel lines with his\ndry brush, — for who knows what he would say if his brush were wet, and he\nremembered the meaning of words ? \"\n\nPAUl Eldridge"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "350", "page_fin": "356", "image_debut": 64, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "The Offering of Plebs", "titre_sommaire": "The Offering of Plebs", "signature_source": "Jean de Bosschère", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "350", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 947, "texte": "THE OFFERING OF PLEBS\n\nYou have betrayed me, Weak and Cold One\nWhom Plebs bestowed on me.\nHearing my cries in the night\nYou have brought me onion soups,\nArt of frying, red and then soft,\nCabbages and energetic dishes.\nAnd the bread of flowers become stale,\nYet the bread matured in the kneading trough,\n\" What ? the humble arts, the mud of floor,\nThe bread, the poor man's insipid walnut ? \"\nYou have not seen that I am the poor man\nAnd not the dealer who,\nWith buttocks breached with dead flesh,\nHas a mind well arranged in order,\nIn the boxes of a chessboard at rest,\nWith the symmetry of a shop enjoying good custom.\nYou have not seen that I am the poor man,\nAnd you have tried to ret me on the bank of the days\nWith tangible provisions.\nI wished only for bread,\nBut, in him,\nThe companion of mornings,\nEvenings and nights,\nYou did not care to recognize a man,\nBut a woman's husband,\nA function of man.\nI was in the night, Wise and Logical One,"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "351", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1089, "texte": "Discharged companion, delegate of Plebs,\nAnd you walked with me\nAs you loiter in broad day.\nYou have betrayed me without seeing me.\nYou have not known the prayer in the name of bread.\nAnd then, at the end, Mortal .One,\nYou have parted from me,\nYou have allowed me to raise my plaints of bitterness,\nLike vices of prisons and ships.\nYou have taken my pink staff away from me.\nYou have not perceived the man's misery at all.\nI am a poor man,\nAnd you have poured out animal drugs for me.\nYou have anointed me with oils that benefit,\nDogs in the laps of women.\nYou have not known the prayer in the name of bread.\nThe poet, here,\nIs the unknown master.\nHe rebuilds with his hands\nThe ruined houses.\nHe consecrates those which remain,\nThen he defends himself as best he can.\nAnd against him you have a single weapon,\nOne infallible lawT,\nThe smile, my wise and weak, indifferent friend,\nThe innocence which is not satisfaction,\nThe smile which is not altruism,\nNor ferocity, nor cowardice,\nBut the truce,\nThe door ajar,\nGod's part in the grey egg.\nYou have betrayed me,\nlistening to my troubles,"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "353", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 31, "fin_caractere_exclue": 32, "texte": "5"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "354", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1288, "texte": "Of which you made a long synoptic table,\nAnd then you brought to me\nThe lustral and medicinal jacket,\nThe Straps of ordinary commonsense,\nThe Clothes of \" searches for Utopia\nThe Roast beef for heavy buttocks,\nThe bouillabaisse of happiness,\nThe jacket which carries\nThe seal of the camp commander,\nAnd that of pathology.\nNow, your gown was too tight,\nBut still too large and too long.\nWhen you had thrust him in this gown,\nFor the madman's friend finds everywhere\nAccomplices with praises,\nFor the poet's friend possesses a straight jacket\nWhich is invisible and hard.\nThe friend finds assent from the fat,\nFrom the poised, from the good, from the nagels even,\nWhenever they stuffed him in this jacket,\nThey would lose him.\nHe was very tiny under the violent leather,\nAnd no part of neither straps nor cloth, touched him at all.\nPerhaps he was outside,\nOr perhaps inside.\nFor my part, X know that I was resisted.\nSo sometimes a lean flesh\nPasses through the meshes.\nBefore choosing another dear companion,\nHe summoned a minister, in consultation,\nWith a doctor and his syringes,\nAnd with an aesthetic governess\nThese heroes made fumigations,\nAnd then incantations of exorcism.\nThe poet coughs, sneezes, and runs away.\nThe wise man, the scientific comrade, cries :\n\" You see him, he lied,"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "355", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1192, "texte": "He concealed himself in the lustral gown ! \"\nAnd the poet thinks :\nThere were neither gown nor laws. \"\n■\nYou have not known the prayer in the name of bread.\nBut the poet's friend does not laugh.\nThere is a wrinkle on his forehead, erect, in altar smoke,\nWhich is the line between have and due.\nThe straight jacket is concealed in the cupboard.\nHe is the poet's guardian.\n\" This man bites, \" he says \" at his shadow.\nHe runs and leaps not like a man. \"\nHe is the poet's guardian.\nHe will answer for him before the tribe.\nHe measures his thoughts and leaps,\nBut not his onion soup,\nNor the four nails of his reason.\nHe is stupid !\nThe poet does not know if weight has gripped his feet.\nHe carries a cane if it rains.\nHe refuses to warm himself.\nHe commits crime for crime's sake.\nThey know it. They have said so.\nBut he, the friend,\nThe angel of the house,\nThe lion tamer and bear-trainer,\nHe, who has charmed the serpent,\nUnderstands all men.\nHe defends them against\nThis furious dog who bites and is ferocious.\nI am alone, ferocious !\nYou have betrayed me.\nYou have not known the prayer in the name of bread.\nYou have not known that I am the poor man,\nThe baggage of whose wild days' journeys"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "356", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 208, "texte": "Is not a knapsack with the fleas of reason,\nNor a branch of the tree of knowledge.\nBut who draws its last fragrance\nFrom a smile;\nWhose pilgrim's viaticum\nIs a smile\nIn the lasting shadow.\n\nJean de Bosschère."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "352", "page_fin": "352", "image_debut": 66, "image_fin": 66, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.2.11.1", "titre_corps": "You have not seen that I am the poor man", "titre_sommaire": "You have not seen that I am the poor man", "signature_source": "Jean de Bosschère", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "352", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 49, "texte": "Jean DE Yon have not seen that I am the poor man."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "353", "page_fin": "353", "image_debut": 67, "image_fin": 67, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.2.11.2", "titre_corps": "Institutrice esthète", "titre_sommaire": "Institutrice esthète", "signature_source": "Jean de Bosschère", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "353", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 29, "texte": "Jean de Institutrice esthète."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "357", "page_fin": "359", "image_debut": 71, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Fox-Trot: \"When Solomon Met the Queen of Sheba\"", "titre_sommaire": "Fox-Trot: \"When Solomon Met the Queen of Sheba\"", "signature_source": "Osbert Sitwell", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "357", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1016, "texte": "FOX-TROT. — \" WHEN SOLOMON MET THE QUEEN\nOF SHEBA \"\n\nThe Navy at Ezion-Geba,\nGazed across the water amazed.\nWhen Solomon met the Queen of Sheba\nThe lions in the desert were dazed\nWith wonder at her striped pavilion\nThat blazed like a bright parhelion,\nThey roared their admiration\nAt this strange coruscation\nTill the satyrs took their tawny children trampling through the sand,\nTo march with the procession, to march with the band.\nThe flaming phoenix flew with its feathers to fan\nThe Queen at the head of her caravan ;\nBut the phoenix, though famously fabulous,\nWas jealous, envious and emulous\nFor the Queen of Sheba had a retinue\nStrictly in keeping with her revenue —\nvSix thousand camels and camelopards,\nTen thousand and ninety nigger bodyguards,\nThe camelopards, proud-necked and tall,\nWould scarcely notice the Queen at all,\nBut holding their heads as high as cedars\nBooked down upon a hundred dwarf, harnessed zebras,\nWhose stripes were arranged with such success\nThat the Queen could play a game of Chess"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "358", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1394, "texte": "When travelling. The camels kneel,\nOffer their humps for the Queen to feel,\nNodding arched necks and plumes of ostrich feather\nDyed like her bright Abyssinian weather,\nThe ten thousand niggers beat on gourds and golden gongs,\nSlashing the air with their piebald songs.\nThus the Queen met the King in Jerusalem,\nAnd he seemed wiser than Methusalem ;\nWith a great black beard, and a nose like a scythe,\nHe lived in the palace and subsisted on a tithe.\nHe gave the Queen of Sheba a welcome\nProportionate to her income.\nBut this amazing Amazon\nWas loveable, generous and free.\nShe brought a gift to Solomon of cinnamon\nWith an almug and nutmeg tree.\nThese he placed before his palace\nFor the pleased admiration of the populace\nEach sweet-smelling branch bore a budding bell of gold\n(Oh ! the blood of the Israelites ran cold)\nWhen evening-wind blurred the hills with blue\nThe swinging and the singing of the bells sang true.\nThese, by some magic stratagem,\nPlayed the Sheban National Anthem.\nAnd the thrill of each bell was like an Abyssinian bird,\nOr the golden voice of the Queen. For each word\nShe spoke, trembled, sparkled in the air,\nThen spread its wings, and flew from her.\nBut the Queen of Sheba went with Solomon\nTo his country-house at Lebanon,\nWhere she brought him gifts of hot-house grapes,\nOf ivory, of ebony, of elephants and apes,\nOf peacocks and pearls, and a hundred pigmy slaves,"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "359", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1268, "texte": "Born orange-coloured with hair that, waves;\nAnd each of them wore a turban\nPicked out with the plumes of a pelican.\nBut of all her gifts, by far the rarest,\nBrought from the terrible central forest,\nWith a vein of gold in its ivory horn,\nWas a love-lorn, milk-white unicorn.\nBut the King, though sweet as honey,\nHad an eye for the value of money.\nSo he only gave her a heraldic lion\nEmbossed with the arms (and nose) of Zion.\nThough the Queen of Sheba loved Solomon\nShe was not happy at Lebanon.\nIt was not the women of the Edomites,\nThe Zidonians, the Moabites, the Hittites or the Ammonites ;\nShe even listened to his proverbs. She put up with very many wrongs,\nBut in secretly reading his note-book, she found Solomon's Song of Songs,\nShe knew it at once — it was poetry. And she left the palace that day.\nBut Solomon knew not where she went to, or why she had roamed away.\nBut every evening in Jerusalem\nThe almug and the nutmeg trees\nFlaunt the Sheban National Anthem\nIyike a banner on the spice-laden breeze\n(And oh ! each golden bell seems a turtle-dove that cooed\nWithin the moonlit shadow of the Abyssinian wood).\nBut we wonder what she looked like, this fascinating phantasmagoria—\nAtalanta, Gioconda, Semiramis — or the late Queen Victoria ?\n\nosbert sitwell"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "360", "page_fin": "362", "image_debut": 74, "image_fin": 76, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "The Cockerell", "titre_sommaire": "The Cockerell", "signature_source": "Allardyce Cromartie", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "362", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1840, "texte": "THE COCKERED\nAllardyce Cromartie.\n\nFlaming Oriental sultan among fowl, strutting in truculent obliviousness\nof the monogamous restraint of our chaster breeds, there is no more singular de-\nfiance of the Occident than you. Migrator from the tropic east, not all the\nfrozen winters of our northern climes have served to cool the burning ardour\nof your impetuous desire. Contemptuous of the customs of your adopted land,\nyou claim the profligate excesses of a harem, outvying all the sultans in pro-\nmiscuity and glory.\nRuling your clucking mistresses with a vain dignit}7 that is not quite ridi-\nculous until you feel the quickening urge to subdue an unwilling and protesting\nhen : then with foolish laughter-lifting, fluttering sidesteps and plunging rushes\nyou race and ruffle up your feathers until you have conquered her through\nweariness, and as she rises from your taloned caresses, fluffing out her feathers, you\nstrut away indifferent but dignified again, and make pretence of pecking grain.\nAnd now, in all the shining wonder of your burnished breast and plumed\ntail, with crested head raised proudly as a king's upon his throne, you mount\nyour favourite steaming dunghill to peal your challenge forth upon the glitter-\ning air, and listen with eye-cocked intentness for the answers from adjacent\nfarms. . .\nSolomon never sat astride a refuse heap, nor kingfisher perched upon a rot-\nten fish, yet you. . .\nYou are a vulgarian in masquerade of kingliness, degrader of a loveliness\nyou are too dull to cherish, treading hens and dung with equal gusto. You should\ntread daintily, and mount the rooftree for your crowing.\nPerhaps the foul dung smells less offensively for your unconscious patron-\nage ; maybe the sluttish ugliness that environs you is brightened by the sheen\nof your breast and the graceful curving beauty of your tail."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "360", "page_fin": "360", "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.13.1", "titre_corps": "The Man with a Wounded Hand", "titre_sommaire": "The Man with a Wounded Hand", "signature_source": "Josef Capek", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "360", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 65, "texte": "Josef Capek.\nThe Man with a Wounded Hand.\nCzecko—Slovak Painting."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "361", "page_fin": "361", "image_debut": 75, "image_fin": 75, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.13.2", "titre_corps": "The Drinker", "titre_sommaire": "The Drinker", "signature_source": "Josef Capek", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "361", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 49, "texte": "Josef Capek.\nThe Drinker.\nCzecko—Slovak Painting."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "363", "page_fin": "374", "image_debut": 77, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.14", "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": 77, "page_imprimee": "363", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 22, "texte": "DEDICATED TO THE ENEMY"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "363", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2068, "texte": "Drama deals with the passions.\nIn England dramatists and actors seem to be out to please a public — a\ncertain public, not the People — who have a certain terror lest a scrap of real\npassion peep out at them.\nDramatists and actor succeed in pleasing and become mild in doing so.. .\ntame mildness is not serenity.\nIt is very difficult for them to get themselves mild enough — and that they\nsucceed in substituting sentimentality for real sentiment, for passion — for nearly\neverything — shows what awfully clever men they are. It takes them about\nfifteen years apiece to rid themselves of the instinct to think about things like\nShakespeare or Moliere. It is a very great achievement indeed, and the operation\nthey perform on themselves must be as painful as it is dangerous.\nShakespeare, whose plays are all passion, and who was once considered\nby us all to be a dramatist of some account, is nowadays held by this particular\npublic to be either pompous, gross, dull, or vague. His grand Ghosts, Autocratic\nKings, his splendid Aristocrats, and those very weak beings of his called the Heroes,\nare all considered a bore. And Romeo, the hero of all lovers, is only tolerable\nto-day if he can reassure the spectators by his drawl, by his inaccurate pronuncia-\ntion of our English, and by a west-end bearing that his position in Piccadilly is\nall right, and that he is one of us. . . top hole. . .\nIn short, to-day the spectator in the Theatre dominates the work of art,\nmaking it what it is — (a thing we were long ago warned against,) — and the\ndramatist and the actor — all three shiver to say Bo to the Public and daren't.\nJuliet or Ophelia to-day can just avoid our censure if she can cry well, lisping\nand panting the while as one who babbles on of love — flapper-like.\nSo the actor drops the Dramatic — Mr. Stoll opens one more Colosseum —\nruns it magnificently as usual, and makes it possible for the personality of\nMr. Wilkie Bard to charm thousands. There must be always room for such as\nMr. Bard — there always has been room."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "364", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2702, "texte": "But a place in the sun for Shakespeare too. . . would that be asking too\nmuch ? ... or cannot England run to it ?. . .\nNow someone in England who might honour Shakespeare for England's\nsake — not for sentimental reasons, for mighty serious ones — this someone\ndoesn't. Who is the boss, as the workmen call the governor, the chief. . . who\nis he ? Is it our Prime Minister, is it another, is it a third ?—or do all these\nthree plus a few more make up the total ? I don't care who it is, but the\nboss is not playing the game. The dramatists and actors would like to, but\nunless they see the boss doing it they never will.\nNow suppose (as I suppose 'tis true) that the two Houses — the Lords and\nCommons — stand for what is called the boss. I don't imply some bogey who\nstruts and frets, but a fine old figure who spite of his tantrums and errors and all,\ndoes really stand as head of our family — the English Family. If it be the two\nHouses, then it is within the power of the two Houses to unite without one dissenting\nvoice in this little matter of the Theatre.\nThis would be playing the game, and nothing else is.\nTo go into this matter is a proper thing to do in 1922. There is no reason\nwhy this one branch of Public Service should-be allowed to go to ruin, because\nthere is a little uncertainty as to who's who in the world of the English Theatre.\nEveryone is Who. Everyone of our Dramatists, Actors, and Stage-managers ;\neveryone of the profession and of the trade.\nBUT — (and here is where cheating begins as soon as the ball is started\nrolling) every one in his right place, not in some one else's place.\nThere are the Dramatists, Shaw, Pinero, Jones.\nThere are the Stage-managers, Poel, Barker, and Myself.\nThere are the Actors, Martin Harvey, Matheson Lang, Henry Ainley.\nThere are the Designers, Wilkinson, Fraser, Rutherston.\nI select only four branches of the service and name only three men to\neach branch because one can't make interminable lists.\nNow I have not put down any list of actor-managers — for to put things,\nand each man, in his right place one must not include those men who are every-\nthing and nothing.\nFor example, in my opinion (and I hope my old friend will not disagree),\nMartin Harvey is essentially an actor, and one of our very best: and it is a loss\nto England and to the English Theatre that he is unable to confine himself solely\nto the development of his considerable talent instead of stage-managing, produ-\ncing, and designing, three branches of the stage-manager's craft and three bran-\nches which he does indifferently well.\nThe same thing applies to Ainley and to Matheson Lang.\nIn short, to put all in place once more in the English Theatre the first thing"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "365", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2433, "texte": "to be done (I repeat what I have said in my other books and must do so till it\nis accomplished) is to find your stage-managers, for it is the stage-manager who\nis the boss in the theatre. One for each Theatre has to be found, and, when\nfound, empowered.\nAnd there is no better way of honouring an artist than by empowering him\nto do his work.\nAnd in doing this the two Houses would be playing the game again so far\nas our Dramatic Art is concerned.\nTill this is done all the fine reasons which can be found to excuse all action\nis but a begging of the question.\nBut what can we do ? \" Up go the brows, and worry is once more at\nher silly work.\nWhat you can do is this. . . Make it clear to the People that the Stage, Shake-\nspeare, our modern Dramatists, Actors and all, are worthy of the support and\nfriendship of England.\nBut how can we do this ?\nHow do you do it when you wish to make it plain that I,ord Northcliffe and\nhis journals are worthy of England, etc. ? How do you make it plain to the\nPeople that our British Navy is a National Institution worth honouring ? Certain-\nly not by cheapening Lord Nelson — yet you cheapen Shakespeare. — \" When ?\n— How ? \" — I leave it to you to remember when and how ; . . . not so far back,\neither,. v . not long ago.\nYou honour the English Theatre, the British Theatre, by first honouring\nits most trusted Guides. Not its actors,... the Public honours them evervnight.\nNot its tradesmen,. . . they get paid well, and will always prosper, we hope. Not\nits Societies, \" \" Leagues \" and its little beginners down at Bard-on-Avon,\ngood though all these may be IN their place : but look more carefully — more\ncuriously and select your men with greater care. Search for twenty stage-man-\nagers, and if you fail to find them call some of us to help you. Do not allow it to\nbe said once more Search was Made all ovey England foy a Company which could\nbe putin the field which should beay comparison with that of Pyofessoy Reinhardt\nand could not be found \"... don't allow that to be stated by an authority as\nit was stated, for it's not playing the game — it is defrauding the English People —\nit is mightily worthy of mugs.\nWhile this whole Book dedicates itself to the enemy, the Foreword I dedi-\ncate to my friends.\nAnd if my critics are friends to the whole content of The Theatre, then my\ncritics must be among my friends.\nYet even good friends possibly can sometimes misrepresent us. — And"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "366", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2888, "texte": "it is to suggest that there might be a little less misrepresentation going on in\nEngland about members of what is known all over the world as the New Move-\nment in the Theatre. . . that Movement which represents all that is best in the\nTheatre of today. . . that I write this.\nI happen to be one of these members ; and in misrepresenting my aims —\nby stating that my sole thought is for Sceneries, you, my critics not only misre-\npresent me but the whole Theatrical Movement. Doing this you run the chance\nof doing a good deal of harm to the English Theatre and misleading the younger\nmen who are so full of promise and whose work deserves better than that of\nyou. To annoy good fellows who do good work and show loyaity to the best\nideals of work, art and comradeship in work, is not the best way to serve the\nEnglish Theatre, nor is it your conscious wish to act so. — If you ever do so\nyou do so unconsciously I am sure.\nYou fancy — owing to the simple fact that you have not the time to study\nmy work nor learn my reasons for not competing with the commercial theatres\nor the \" artistic theatres, \" — and because you have not the faintest notion\nof how much I have gladly sacrificed in the last fifteen years to set an example\nto my followers — you fancy that you ought not to study my work ought\nnot to learn why I act as I do . . and more than this you fancy that you ought\nnot to study carefully what the great masters of the different crafts have done\nand written in the Past.\nNow I suggest that unless you do this and unless you make yourselves under-\nstand what it is I have done and still continue to do, and what they have done and\nsaid, you will be acting in a manner unworthy of every fine tradition of journalism\nand every English tradition.\nThat it is not entirely your fault is obvious.\nThe life of the dramatic critic of to-day is no easy job. — To have to write\nabout the stuff which the Commercial spirit of any Theatrical Manager puts\nbefore you must be nauseating \\ to have to awctkcu an interest where none yet\nexists must be a little wearisome at times, more especially when it is obvious\nthat a living interest in such things is as natural as eating and drinking. But\nyour power is very great — and your trust a very fine one, and were I not a\npractitioner in the Art and I can imagine no greater happiness than to be solely a\nstudent of past present conditions. . . a rabid student for facts and dates. But I\nfind that English critics do not reveal a knowledge of the facts and dates beyond\nknowing what has occurred in the English branch of the stage crafts.\nIn America it's as difficult and as unpleasing a job to-day as in England,\nbut I really don't think it is too difficult if only some one would begin.\nIn fact I know of only one critic in America who has real discernment and\npluck, but then he has studied and knows more than the rest. He enjoys the old"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "367", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2730, "texte": "rubbish of the Playhouse (I think we all do) just as he appreciates the old master-\npieces — but he doesn't get muddled as to which is which, praising the rubbish\nand carping at the masters. He discerns — and is not that the first duty of\nthe critic ?\nDon't you think it would be delightful to have read Riccoboni's works,\nbesides knowing his name and his worth ; to have heard of a man called Gali\nwho lived in Bibiena and had eight remarkable theatrical sons and grandsons ;\nto have read d'Ancona, dipped into Sabbattini and Serlio, and know our friends\nJacob, Olivier, Dorpfeld, Jullien, Chambers, Giorgi, Bartoli, Scherillo, Rigal,\nBapst, Lecomte, Semper, nd Dumont, as well as our old friends whom we know\nwell enough, Collier, Cibber, and the rest.\nConceive the happiness of the Editors who could count on scholarly critics,\nmen never tired of indulging their taste for learning ; who could count on human\ncritics, — men never too tired to have the ancient and best joy of helping young\nmen on by being a little blind to their faults, while all the time encouraging\nthem with information as to past failures and how success was won or snatched\nfrom such failures. The pride the younger men would have in you, the friend-\nship they would hold for you would be surely something worth all the labour and\nthe sacrifice... for I suppose it would entail some sacrifice.\nIt would also entail having no fear.\nAnd after all there should be nothing so very alarming about an Editor.\nWhat can he do ? If lam a Dramatic Critic he can but give me the sack. If\nI get the sack once I try again: — if twice, I reconsider all things ; — if thrice,\nI publish what I want to say as I want to say it in a journal of my own . . . but\nI do not give into ignorance, although its stomach may measure sixty-two inches\nand be the highest and mightiest tool in the land, the tool of ambitious vulgar-\nities who must paddle their own canoes just because their husbands run their\nown steamboats.\nReading over some of the five or six thousand criticisms on my productions\n— I have made thirteen in all; —of my books — four or five have appeared;\nof my twenty-six exhibitions of designs and of other activities — I come upon\nthe very last criticism of all dated July 4th 1920. It appeared in the \" Observer, \"\nit was not signed. I will not quote, it, but I give the date so that anyone\ncurious to make a note of its contents may do so.\nIt is one of those typically hopeless pieces of criticism. I mean it shows\nthat the writer had not taken the trouble of learning his business . . or had\nlearnt it once and forgotten it.\nIt is the first business of a critic to know what an artist has done — to be\ninformed. Then he runs no danger of misinforming others."}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "368", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2529, "texte": "Now in our Theatre of Europe as it advances, critics must have a chance to\nadvance with us.\nOur English critics may be badly informed . . . and when we realize that\nthis is seldom their own fault it seems a little too bad. It is bad for the\nPublic, who get misinformed, bad for Journalism, wich becomes incorrect. . .\nbad for the Arts, bad for progress.\nTo sum up, it is just a little silly because quite easily put to rights.\nIn Politics, in Commerce, in all the other fields of endeavour I'm sure I know\nnot at all whether to be exact is of value or valueless. It might do a lot of harm\nI (as an outsider) suppose for the true facts of a Political case to be recorded.\nI suppose it might be in some cases even more truthful to lie, . . . let me\nsuppose.\nIn the Arts — in our Theatre Art — it is not so. About this I do not sup-\npose — I know. Yet it seems to me that the critic journalist brings to his\ntask all the doubts and fears as to what is best to tell the Public about our Arts\nas does his brother in the Political field.\nI make a plea that in the matter of the Arts critics be left free — that the\nonly order they receive from their Editors is, \" Be well informed — and exact.\"\nNo harm can be done — much good would come.\nBut something more would have to be done to aid the Dramatic Critic\nthan to give him an order. He needs to be as versatile in his own way as a stage-\nmanager — such a stage-manager as I have drawn in my book published by\nHeinemann. 1\nFor example, since Drama and Theatre are a composite art he should know\nwhat it is that a Dramatist or a Stage-manager is about when he writes a play\nlike \" The Tempest, \" or produces one like \" The Miracle, \" and whether in the\nHistory of the Theatre any such attempts were ever made before — or not.\nHe should be able to visit the Dowdeswell Galleries and speak with real\nunderstanding and illumination of the designs shown there by Bakst, Wilkinson,\nor Rutherston. He should be able to pass from there to the models by C. Lovat\nFraser and understand what is in them. Then on to the South Kensington\nMuseum and let us hear all abut the Bibienas there — and the architectural\ndrawings for Theatres.\nHe should know something more than we hear about the modern inventions\nfor stage machinery, and he should tell us what he has found out. He should\nknow about all the ancient devices for lighting a stage and an auditorium. He\nshould know, in short, what can be actually known, not guessed about — and\nhe should pass it on to us all.\n1 \"On the Art of the Theatre.\""}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "369", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2854, "texte": "What we hear about is how Garrick played this scene and how Mrs. Siddons\nplayed that one : and the modern English theatrical critic of course retells us\nall about this hearsay. But if we should ask him how many permanent thea-\ntres existed in 1600 and where these theatres built, and if he has seen designs\nof them, and whether any are still in existence, if he has visited them, what they\nare like, where we can see them or their plans, what it costs to go there or get\nthese, I fancy he will be able to give us but a poor answer. It would be the\nsame with questions we might put to him about nearly everything relating to\nthe stage of the past and the stage of to-day — excluding England; and even\nof this stage he is sometimes behind the times in his information.\nAs I said, this is not his fault. He is not allowed time to study, nor time\nand money to travel. And so he is apt to write as ignorantly as did the writer in\nthe \" Observer \"on 4th July 1920.\nEveryone nowadays is forming Committees or \" Guilds, \" or \" Leagues, \"\nor \" Societies \" to deal with Theatrical matters.\nI would willingly act in any capacity on a first-class \" Society, \" which would\nhave as its sole aim the betterment of English Dramatic and Theatrical Criticism,\nbased upon a thorough knowledge of all that has been done and all that is being\ndone in Europe and America to improve Theatrical and Dramatic Art.\nI make this suggestion here in my book because I want it known — the\nidea may not be taken *up for a while, but someone reading this even in a year\nfrom now may see how important it is that in a matter useful to all and harm-\nful to none we should have exact information all the time, and it may occur to\nsomeone able to improve the lot of Dramatic Critics that the way to help best is\nto establish a substantial fund ... a Chair, maybe, of Dramatic Criticism . . .\nAnyhow,to give a proper chance to half a dozen men eager to take it, of leading\nthe Dramatic Criticism of Europe.\nIt may be that a genius for Criticism can go ahead without information.\nI believe otherwise. lam sure that we all need more and more reliable books\non the Theatre written by Englishmen — such men should have the leisure to do\nthis — and who but the Dramatic Critics are the men to whom this task belongs\nby right ?\nSome younger men should be released from that regular drudgery of having\nto witness night after night dull \" premieres \" which in the end kills all imagi-\nnation and distorts all perspective. They should be released and given oppor-\ntunities, and, allow me to emphasize it now and here, cash ... the means to travel\nand see what is being done, discover what has been done and come back and tell us.\nI really hope that something will be started at once to bring this about.\nI believe the English Theatre would feel the benefit of the results in less than a\nyear or two.\n6"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "370", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2687, "texte": "\" Why, what should be the fear ? . .\nWhen last I was in London in June of 1920 I stated that there were no\nactors in England who could act Shakespeare.\nThis gave some offence to a number of gentlemen and ladies of the Theatri\ncal Profession — and it gave greater offence to a few whose affection I value,\nwho began to tell me I had no right to make such a statement.\nOf course I have no right to do so. There are twenty or thirty reasons why\nI have no right to. But there is one reason which out-weighs the thirty, even\nwhen we add thirty to them and so make sixty. — Make it ninety-nine . .\nand my reason still outweighs the lot.\nMy reason is this.\nAll the ninety-nine reasons which are advanced are advanced by men and\nwomen who do not and will not sacrifice an immediate success for a truth. Be\nit a successful engagement — or two — or three ; be it a sum of money —\nbe it the approval of their fellows (and what is sweeter than this ?) — be it\npersonal ambition or personal vanity . . . none of these will our good friends\nof the Theatrical Profession sacrifice when it comes to choosing between these\npersonal advantages or standing firm for the truth about the English Theatre.\nNow what is the truth about our Theatre ? It is something like this .. ,\nIst Truth : It possesses the best set of Plays in any language.\n2nd Truth : It rarely exercises these. They are like a marvellous stud of\nblood horses cooped up in their stables, and the very devil to ride when anyone\ndoes venture to exercise them in the paddock.\n3nd Truth : The best of riders, if they continue to ride hacks, court a fall\nwhen they mount thoroughbreds.\nSo that unless Shakespeare's plays are being continually acted by our ac-\ntors — unless they can come to cope with the versatility of his genius . . . the\nheroic size of his thought and the stupendous force of his passion, our actors\ncannot produce a company which we can call representative of England.\n4th Truth : Those of our actors and actresses who best perform the Shakes-\npearean Drama (and they are quite a number *) will admit that if they under-\nstand and love the great Drama as it deserves, nothing they could do for it would\nbe too much — no sacrifice they could make would be too great for the honour of\nShakespeare — their Profession and England. — Well, they sacrifice nothing\nfor it.\nI put it to them that a sacrifice worthy of their calling and their ideals would\n1 As they all know, I have the liveliest appreciation of the qualities of our best\nShakespearean actors: of Ainley, Norman Forbes, Matheson Martin Harvey, Fisher\nWhite, Quartermaine, Carter; of Miss Nielson Terry, Miss Sybil Thorndike, Miss Viola\nTree, and of some others too."}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "371", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2780, "texte": "be to raise the standard of playing and keep it flying ; to take no offence when\nsuch an old friend and an old worker as I am says that the standard is not high\nenough, but, first ridding themselves of their own personal feelings as I have\nrid myself of these, come nobly to me and give me a hand, a heart, and that which\ngoes with it, a purpose and a promise to see things through. After that a council\nas to how best to do it.\nThe truth is that no such spirit existed when I made my statement last\nJune — in 1920.\nsth5th Truth : The English actors and actresses are very polite, very charming,\netc., etc. ~ . \" I come to wake up Caesars, not to praise them. \". . . I am\nnot particular to be \" polite \" to a few at the expense of the whole Nation —\nand the Art of the Theatre. I'll be as rude as is necessary, till it's acknowledged\nthat I am right about this.\n\" The Polite \" are often given to saying the rudest things behind one's\nback. The Rude are sometimes given to speaking better of us in private than\none would imagine. In fact Truth is more often Rude than Polite. It shows\na rude exterior to me and to you if we play hanky-panky with it. It treats you\nand me alike in this.\n\" And so, \" says my friend the Actor to me, \"You think that you — you —\nare the chosen one, the mouth from which Truth about the Theatre alone .\nissues...\" To which I reply : \" When you will enjoy to give up a tenth of what I\nhave enjoyed giving up to serve the cause of truth in respect to the European\nTheatre — and the English Theatre in particular — then everyone will recognize\nyou also have a right to claim that what you say is the truth. \"\nAgain, it is one of the most usual things for us all to express, and express\nvery strongly, our opinion of a Gladstone, a Beaconsfield, or a Lloyd George.\nOne we call the murderer of Gordon; the other the Pantaloon of Politics ; the last,\n— I don't know what we don't call him. Honourable Members do not actually\nfire pistols at one another across the venerable floor of the House, but they go\nit pretty strongly. I like that; — you like that; — it's awfully English,\nyou know.\nNow, no one ever goes for me except in the \" polite \" rather mean manner.\nI seem to have to be on my feet all the time and doing all the cackling. When\nby chance a member of our House does get up it's one of my own side . . . can't\nfight my own side. The Government sits tight and mute — yes, mute and let\nus hope tight. For lam on the opposition benches as yet.\nDon't let us play at Politics. . . the politics of the Theatre are futile.\nMy word about Beaconsfield and Gladstone and the House of Commons was\nmerely shot out to illustrate the truth that yon can differ and be friends ; and to\nsuggest that some talk from both sides does no harm and a mighty lot of good."}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "372", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.86", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2706, "texte": "Personally I know no better talkers than the actors — good humoured\nbeyond words — I'd like to exchange some of my pedantic humours for some\nof their geniality ; then why not — why must all the talk of their side be\nwhispered and be confined to the question of \" shop \"; or, if not that, dressing\nroom or club room talk in which all the best they have to say is lost on those who\nare the opposite bench... all because they will whisper.\nThat isn't good for us and isn't good for them.\nSpeaking of us I may as well mention that in the Profession there really\nis an Opposition Party as well as a Government Party. (I continue the use of\nPolitical terms for a while because it expresses clearly to all how we are placed—\nand what the Theatre all over the world is made up of.) In England, then,\n\" the Theatrical Profession \" is the group which we may call the Government,\nand the Group which, known as the Opposition, is that smattering of independent\nmen and women who are not in \" Power \" and yet are the inspiration of the\nothers.\nAll the artists are in the Opposition all over the Earth.\nYou query that: you point to the great Sarah Bernhardt. . Why, once\nupon a time there never was a bigger figure on the Opposition benches than Sarah\nBernhardt. She selected to go over to the other side, that's all. Now she is a\nmember of the Government. That's very right and proper for people past\nsixty, . . . but it does seem a bit natural for younger folk . . . now doesn't it,\nPhyllis ? ... to be in the Opposition.\nThe momentary lapse into Political figures of speech is not so out of place\njust here, for there's a among a number of men and women in the\nTheatre who could .. . and don't. . . help to push things along, to sit on the\nfence — to attempt to be just — to take no sides.\nThat would be fine if it wasn't a bit futile.\nFor while actually there are no sides as there are in Politics — and thank\nHeaven for this — there is a standard, and it must be up or down ; — half-\nmast high — the golden mean — compromise, announces a death. And, as we\nshould know by now, \" the man who sees two sides to a question sees nothing\nat all.\"\nAnd although we have no \" sides \" in our work, there must be and there are\nmany sides to our difficult problems, the main problem of which is for us \" How\nto bring our English Theatre to a condition which shall finally place it second to\nnone in Europe. \" And I should say the answer is to use every man and every\ntalent and every penny we have to back our best horse.\nI think that to-day our best horse is called Shakespeare.\nSomeone tells me that I have written elsewhere that Shakespeare's Plays\nare not for acting. — Can I have contradicted myself ? Oh, what a sin ! Can"}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "373", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.87", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2839, "texte": "I have said that you can say \" Yes \" and \"No \" and yet reply correctly. If\nI have not said so you know quite well that this is true — tha under some con-\nditions Yes is the only reply to make to a question to which No is the sole\nanswer.\nLet me ask you to be a little more cautions before asserting that I contra-\ndict myself — for here I happen not to. When I spoke of Shakespeare as being\nnot actable, not for the Stage, I spoke, if you will remember, as one who was\nreviewing the whole question of the Theatre of the World — and the Theatre as\na creative Art. Here I speak as one who reviews one section of the whole — the\nmost backward section — that is, the English Theatre. And for the English\nTheatre it will do well — can do no better — to begin at Shakespeare. For\nin Shakespeare is all Burbage, remember ; in Shakespeare is a huge deposit of the\nCommedia dell'Arte. 1\nYou who fail to understand how I can make two such apparently contra-\ndictory statements about the Shakespearean Plays would fail to understand that\na paradox covers the whole truth. If you cannot understand that Shakespeare's\nPlays are unactable and yet are the best stuff on which to rebuild the English\nTheatre of 1921 — then you cannot understand a paradox.\nBother your head no longer about Paradoxes — be less clever till you are\ncleverer — remain in the dark rather than open eyes which cannot stand the glare\nof that torch which even Truth herself holds above her own head. There are\nplenty of hands waiting to take yours and help you along in the dark — if yon\nwon't talk, argue, and attempt to reason when crossing on a narrow plank over\nan abyss 30,000 feet deep — and that is what life amounts to.\nTruth is not one-sided, not three, not any number of sides. It is as round\nas it is square : as fluid as fixed : as strong as it is weak : as hot as cold.\nIt is not enough for us to say that while half the earth is awake the other\nhalf is asleep, for that is not at all true. The world, thank Heaven, is all the time\nhaving as much evening and morning as day and night. There is no moment\nbut in some place men are falling off to sleep and waking up. There is no moment\nbut in some place a bell is heard striking the hour of seven. Therefore for Mr.\nWilliam Archer to assert, as he strolls over to the theatre some evening, that it\nis seven o'clock would be incorrect of Mr. Archer. It is merely seven o'clock to\nhim. It is eight o'clock to Signor Danilo ; but Signor Danilo would never be rash\nenough to swear to the hour, for after all it is 10.30 in the morning to II Profes-\nsore in San Francisco.\n\n1 The Commedia dell'Arte, or Professional Comedy, was the sixteenth, seventeenth,\nand eighteenth, centuries' idea of genuine Theatricals unmixed with the literary, the phil-\nosophical and the metaphysical. It was the genuine expression of the actor."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "374", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1180, "texte": "\" Home at last, \" says Mr. Archer, looking at his watch which points to the\nhour of midnight. But Signor Danilo is at home and it is one o'clock, and the\nProfessor is at home and it is 3.30.\nAgain Books, Boats, Houses, Horses, screws, meals, and a host of other\nthings are not all made and handled alike, and so it is incorrect when the prim\ntell us we can't and we must'nt make or handle them in any but one way.\nBooks are not only printed forwards. In Japan they print 'em backwards.\nThere is not one rule of the road — if in England the horses are kept to the\nleft they will be right only in England, for in Italy the opposite is the rule.\nScrews of a carpenter's bench in Italy turn the other way to screws in an\nEnglish bench.\nAnd just as Mr. Archer and other good men get fixed ideas into their heads\nabout what seems to them to be the certainty of the hour and place, and the un-\nchangeability of other customs, so do the critics of this other world — this\nTheatre world — get just as fixed idea about the Theatre, or they would not be\nso ready to assert that the Theatrical Art is this or that, but cannot possibly\nbe the other.\nFor it can be what it likes.\n\nGordon Craig."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "375", "page_fin": "384", "image_debut": 89, "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Comment", "titre_sommaire": "Comment", "signature_source": "H. A. L.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "375", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.89", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2432, "texte": "COMMENT\n\nThe December issue of our contemporary, Les Ecrits Nouveaux, contains\nan article on the Russian Theatre under the Soviets. A. Andre Julien, the\nauthor, so strikingly supplements and amplifies the Notes of M. Ehrenbourg in\nBroom that we paraphrase at length therefrom.\nThe present Russian Government has a secretary and department of \" Edu-\ncation by means of Theatrical Productions The present incumbent of this\nportfolio is Comrade Kel, whose duties, as he himself states them, chiefly consist\nin \" ideology and organization, \" i.e., an examination and search for artistic\ntrends in the theatres, and a dissemination of the best that is found. Kel ex-\npressed regret that little novelty had as yet emerged, but harboured the hope\nthat new inspiration would spring from the proletariat.\nThe immediate program of this department is to bring into the closest pos-\nsible contact the labouring classes and the theatres, by means, first of all, of the\ncreation of as many theatres as possible. In 1914 Russia possessed 70 good\ntheatres and 140 theatres of small account. The latter have been annihilated.\nSoviet Russia at present exults in 2197 subsidized theatres and 3452 active organ-\nizations in the smaller villages : altogether nearly 6000 stages compared with\n210 under the old regime. Most of the smaller organizations have arisen from\nthe private initiative of groups of communists unaided by official assistance. Of\ncourse the Bolsheviks do not neglect such an opportunity as the theatres provide\nfor addressing the people.\nControl of theatrical activity, since the inception of the Revolution, has\nbeen vested in a commission which enforced a strict censorship forbidding the\nstaging of any production not chosen by themselves. This seriously limited\ninitiative, and therefore the commission was suppressed last June.\nA new inclusive organization has been established instead, made up of Meyer-\nhold, Stanislavski, Sanine, Vacktangof and Kel. In other words the leading\ntheatrical artists of Russia : artists not propagandists.\nMeyerhold, the President, is the most daring, influential and original of those\ntheatrical directors with communist sympathies. He created the first theatre\nof \" The Socialist Federation of the Russian Soviets \" notable for having produced\nthe Aurora of Verhaeren and the Mysteres Bouffes of Maiakovski. The author\nof Mysteres Bouffes, has the same position among the writers, as Meyerhold"}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "376", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2967, "texte": "among the directors. He also fought in the war as a red soldier and assails the\nart of yersterday with the same violence. The Mysteres Bouffes in its futuristic\nvisions of class war and world struggle seeks to satisfy the eye and stimulate\nimagination rather than reason. It is criticised by the intellectuals ; I,unat-\ncharski has judged it severely, and Stanislavski has declared : \" It is a caricature\nthat never unfolds its wings. \" However, the crowd that nightly throngs the\ntheater acclaims it with enthusiasm.\nThus in the new commission, Meyerhold personifies communism, with\nits daring departures and Stanislavski, culture, taste and the old artistic con-\nscience. Even when his radical associates consider his conceptions passe,\nthey continue to hold him in deep veneration. Stanislavski has never faltered\nin his task. He is still the man whom Copeau credited (Cahier du Vieux Colom-\nbier — novembre 1921) with the creation of \" The only school of the modern\ntheatre carried to perfection. \" The same man of whom Gordon Craig writes in\na recent letter to Broom : \" Now the two (Stanislavski and his associate) made\ntheir theatre worlds famous — the first in Europe — How ? Their chief rule is\nthis : 'We will show a production to the public not by any given date but only\nwhen it is ready'\nAlthough this differentiation of ideal exists between Stanislavski and\nthe communists directors \" for whom the art theatre has no value beyond the\npersonality of its director, Stanislavski, since it is only of mediocre interest\nfrom the point of view of social life, because it addresses itself to the intellectuals, \"\nnevertheless he is allowed complete freedom. As Kel states it:\"It is such an\nartist of truly exceptional talent that we should surround with the greatest\nconsideration, for his cooperation is essential to us Stanislavski is more skep-\ntical of his confreres than they are of him. Before the creation of the newT com-\nmittee of which he is a member, he is quoted by M. Julien as having said : \" The\nrevolutionists wait for something new, but art comes ahead of the revolution\nand goes farther. One cannot make propaganda of art. \"\nThere is probably another reason for the division between Stanislavski\nand the new theatre, not mentioned by M. Julien. Stanislavski brought to\nperfection the realistic theatre ; he might be called an inspired Belasco ; 110 one\nhas evei produced dramas of Ibsen and Tschekoff in a comparable manner. Ev-\nery detail had to be true to life ; the actors were taught to lose themselves in\ntheir parts to such an extent that several have been reported to have gone insane.\nNot only in Russia is this emphasis antipathetic to the spirit of the new theatre.\nExpression by means of symbols, more abstract and less naturalistic, is the trend\nof creators in the western world ; and the Mysteres Bouffes might be preferred\nby the younger groups outside of Russia, to the Cherry Orchard, even under the\ndirection of Stanislavski."}, {"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "377", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.91", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2664, "texte": "M. Julien also describes Kachalof's presentations of Byron's Cain and of\nGogol's Revisor : The three new schoools opened under Kachalof's direction and\nthe continuation of the opera. He speaks of Vackatangof, the third member\nof the commission, and his performances of St. Anthony by Maeterlinck, of Sanine,\nformerly of the Imperial Theatre of Moscow, uniquely versed in \" scenes de masse\nTwo secretaries have been appointed to assist the central committee in the\nselection of plays. Maxim Gorki and Beskine are at present in charge of\nthis department of theatrical literature. The latter, an ex-laborer, also concerns\nhimself with the problem of bringing the theatre to the v/orkers and peasants,\nand vice-versa.\nAn interesting by-play of the main program is the regulation that each\nmember of the committee must go in turn into the' provinces and personally\ntake part in the local productions. The idea being, according to Kel, that\n\" The consequences of a stay in a village far from Moscow of personalities such\nas Stanislavski or Meyerhold, can achieve inestimable results in the future of the\ntheatre. \" — We would be pleased if it were also decreed that they visit\nMain Street. —\nM. Julien goes on to describe the projects for bringing the audience into the\nperformance — \"To mix the people in the creation \" — mentioned also by\nM. Ehrenbourg. Much importance is attached to this phase, as exemplified\nby organizations of pageants and street shows. The article concludes with the\nstatement: \" It is very likely that discoveries of greater power and importance\nwill arise from the Russian revolutionary theatre than our old world is apt\nto develop. \"\nThe November issue of our contemporary, L,es Ecrits Nouveaux, contains\nan article on America. M. Bernard Fay, the author, has a point of view and a\nFrench clarity of expression that so efficiently disperse the confused nimbi which\nshield that country from our understanding, that we quote at length therefrom.\nM. Fay divides America into two major divisions : the American world\nof letters with small centres in New York, Boston and Chicago, and the rest of\nAmerica. The former, which in spite of its three heads, is homogeneous, accord-\ning to M. Fay, recognized three outstanding literary events last year\n\" Iva Grande Rue, de Sinclair qui est un beau roman realiste et amer, la\nReine Victoria, de L. Strachey, l'Empereur Jones, drame realiste et douloureux\nd'Eugene O'Neill. \"\n\" All these works are competent and well done, and do honor to the authors\nwho created them and to the public who appreciate them. But, for a stranger,\nthey are empty. They are books for discussion. They give no new direction to"}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "378", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.92", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2848, "texte": "the human soul. They will cause no more commotion than an ambassadorial\ntoast at an international banquet or a controversy on the distribution of a prize.\nThen again, they are very English. Their style, their honesty, their literary\nmachinery are those of Great Britain, and one thinks of Wells, Shaw, Chester-\nton, and Lord Bryce, who at the moment are the favorite authors of this public. \"\nAnd a little further on —\n\" This literary public of the United States with its lectures, its newspapers\nof twenty pages, is the best informed in the entire world, has the best digestion\nof any nation and charming taste. But in its soul it loves to discuss only the\nmost precise subjects and to see its young authors march in ordered steps towards\nthe forms and traditions of literary England. In this direction it believes,\nlies the intellectual progress of the United States.\n\" There is no other literary public in America. But there are millions of\nliving men whom I have known. I did not land at New York ;, I entered on\nfoot living freely with those who came from all the States, North, South, West,\nand the Centre. Since I have known them, I have not been content to see only\nthe world of cultivated America. These young men were to me the symbol of\na mass which is not organized and has no consciousness, but which has taste,\nunbelievable liberty, vehemence of feelings and multiple and passionate desires.\nThe United States is not a myth of the geographical maps. It exists as an\nenormous space, it lives as a huge emotional crowd. \"\nSpeaking of The Kid by Charlie Chaplin :\n\" This film has been the great artistic event of the winter. It is sad and\nfull of reproaches, it criticises that which is most respected in the United States,\nwomen, social order, and the great thieves. Its triumph, in spite of prejudi-\nces, in spite of financial depression, is one of the most curious phenomena of last\nwinter. \"\nM. Fay also expresses a qualified admiration for American popular novels\nwhose authors \" dare not write liteiature\naI do not find these popular American stories entirely bad. They bore\nme, but are less deceiving than the liteiary creations. They inspire hope. They\nare not, like the others, an end. I love the Saturday Evening Post, which is\ncut into sections like a sausage, pages of stories, — epic, lyric, comic, sentimen-\ntal — intermixed with ads where one sees magnificent corsets and miraculous\ntooth powders. The same ladies who appear m the advertisements decorated in\ncorsets, die as queens in the stories, assassinated by ignoble negroes. \"\n\" It makes a strange impression upon the traveller when he perceives that\nAmericans have never regarded their civilization for its intrinsic value. They\naccept it, they praise it, they gloiify it as moral and ideal. They live it with\nenthusiasm but seek neither to analyze nor to judge it."}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "379", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.93", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2981, "texte": "Outside of some strangers and some Israelites, I have known no famous\nauthor who has seen the originality of this civilization. The literati consider\nAmerican culture as a branch of English culture. In the great universities,\nthere are four chairs of English literature to one of American. Those of their\nwriters who do not appear typical are treated with distrust, as dissenters. The\ncommunity of language which has given the Anglo-Saxon such a commercial\nadvantage is on the way toward ruining American art. \"\n\" One accuses the American newspaper of adding to this confusion and of\nbeing stupid. I do not know what one should say of our own in this regard.\nBesides, it seems to me the American newspapers have done more and better than\nthe literati. They have invented and established a new form which pleases the\npeople and corresponds to them. In their enormity, in their variety, these pa-\npers are one of the most sincere products under the sun. They are amusing,\nhardy, tragic, mundane. They indefinitely lenew the spectacle of existence. They\nare stupid, with less pretention than ours, and more informative. They have beau-\ntiful pictures, they pay moie. They circulate more widely. Their scandals\nare greater than ours, their heroines more virtuous. They cannot help but de-\nvelop imagination and taste for life. \" —\n\"The sight of the crowds which throng the museums, concerts, and public\nlibraries has surprised me. The prestige which surrounds the better artists\nhas persuaded me that the United States waits, longs for, and invokes with\npassion, the great man of letters of whom they have need.. They will bear\nin triumph the first writer of genius who will appear. \"\nM. Fay, like most Frenchmen, then admires American architecture, street\nplanning, football stadiums, and concludes —\n\" A stranger always receives the impression that the Americans have not\nyet found their intellectual milieu. They lack either a revealer, or the time,\nor the occasion. They have produced and produce beautiful things which are\nneither entirely beautiful nor entirely their own. Their literature seems to\nfree itself from commercial oppression only to become a kind of religion. Among\nthe conservatives it is a dogmatic esthetic which seeks to moralize, among the\nradicals it is a rapturous mysticism, tainted by a Bergsonism more or less con-\nscious, as in the work of Waldo Frank. Anarchists wish art to supress religion,\ntraditionalists that it recreate religion and be a part of it. The necessary distinc-\ntion between the religious life of the soul, and its pleasures, is either supressed\nor enfeebled. Art oscillates between soclal questions, moral problems, and re-\nvolution. Freudian doctrines have putin their appearance during the last two\nyears, to add to the harm. They verify Freud in verse and utilize him in novels.\nOne is forced to believe that American literature will not be worthy of itself until\nafter it has changed its methods of associating ideas and sentiments."}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "380", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.94", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2838, "texte": "We consider so many of M. Fay's reactions acrid and stimulating that\nwe have quoted at length. But we disagree in this particular: Queen Victoria,\none of the three major literary events specified, has primarily appealed\nto that literary America of charming taste, subservient to English literature.\nBut Main Street has not. Nor is Main Street a vengeance of the East upon the\nWest, as M. Fay states elsewhere. A study of the number of copies sold or\neven of their geographical distribution would rebut M. Fay's contention. Literary\nAmerica read Main Stleet (it reads everything, even Hamsun), but in general\nsniffed —\" his style does not flow, the English has no rhythm, no resonance —\nMain Street somehow got over to the \" mass which is not organized, has no\nconsciousness \" but which is rapidly acquiring one. And it got ovei not as a\nrevenge of the East upon the West but as a revolt against the dead, dried up,\nhypocritical, stagnant remnant of a civilization, currently called Puritanism,\nderived in bygone centuries from that same England to which literary America\nkowtows. Main Street lives on Fifth Avenue, 011 Beacon Hill, just as truly as it\nbisects Moose Jaw.\nRussia and America are sepai ated by many kilometres of land and miles\nof sea. Judging by the two articles from which we have quoted, they are as far\napart spiritually as they are corporeally. And yet one finds them associated\nin the strangest conjunction by disillusioned Europeans of all nationalities, except\nthe Irish. Sometimes it is an artistic renaissance, sometimes a spiritual revival,\nsometimes an economic panacea that is anticipated, but whatever it may be,\nthey are quite sure it will come from Russia or America, or possibly from both.\nA few palpable similarities are evident. Both have great size, untouched\nnatural resources and undeveloped territory. But these are more than balanced,\nby the fact that one is materially the richest and the other the poorest of occiden-\ntal nations. The American people possesses a naive trust in the value of univer-\nsal education ; the Russian government shares this confidence. The United\nStates is mottled with little theatres and debating clubs usually made up of\ninsurgents against the existing artistic or economic order. The Russian Govern-\nment, and the small party it represents, attempt artificially to effect a similar act-\nivity despite the apathy of the populace. In unsuspected recesses of the American\ncontinent free thinking individuals, who desperately contend with the accepted\nphilosophy, germinate spontaneously. In suspected quarters of the Russian po-\npulation, plots are incubated to restore the antecedent status quo. The indivi-\ndualistic liberalism professed by the alternating political paities, who ostensibly\nrule the United States, derives from the theories of j>re-revolutionary French"}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "381", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.95", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2730, "texte": "philosophers, whose decayed teeth had been efficaciously extracted by pre-em-\ninent American dentists. On the other hand, the existent Russian Government\nautocratically enforces the latest radical doctrines, allowing no criticism ex-\ncept from within its own party. In general, the Russian authorities expend as\nmuch energy in disseminating these tenets among their recalcitrant masses as\nthe American authorities exert in suppressing them.\nBut the vague faith of Europe in the two countries probably rests on other\ngrounds. Europe has lost all illusions about herself, is resigned to a cynical\nspirit of acceptance. To her, human nature is unchangeable, greed and envy\nwill continue to exist, and misery and wars to follow. In Russia and the Unit-\ned States credence abides that, given other conditions, the nature of man will\nchange. Therefore Europe, unable to resign herself, replaces by this faith in two\nunfathomed nations, the discarded trust in a progressive evolution that the\nNeo-Darwinists substituted for religion.\nThe December Dial prints an article on American Painting by Mr. Paul\nRosenfeld, tracing its development from Albert Pinkham Ryder to Georgia\nO'Keeffe. Mr. Rosenfeld has given several noteworthy precedents for plain\nspeaking when wielding a critical pen. We shall follow his excellent example.\nThe article under discussion is an offence to American criticism and a cal-\numny on American art. At this moment when the general public, stimulated\nby the publicity given to the mysterious new art, which up till now it had taken\nas a joke, asks for enlightenment and assistance, it is indeed a misfortune that\none of our most advanced journals should combine with a respected critic, to\nrain upon their expectant intelligences, such a melliflous pot-pourri.\n\" Disks of saddest silver burn coldly amid profound and undulent blacks ;\nrims of dreamy light glow palely as the greening skies of after sunset; dullest\ngold of night-cloud edge is subtly and mystically harmonized with sable and\nwith the aureate browns of embossed leather. The fanfares of romance breath\nthrough the tender mysterious tones, the sensitive foaming forms\nGreat stuff ! — Poe might have wished to incorporate it in his vision of\nEldorado but as an aid to understanding modern art, it is about as useful as a\nBaudelaire sonnet to designer of turbines.\nThe French, admittedly pre-eminent in pictorial art, devote several magaz-\nines to art criticism. They are read by a public more familiar with and cognizant\nof aesthetics than the American. Yet they resemble the Scientific American\nand the Mechanical Age infinitely more closely than they do this sample of art\ncriticism. We do not contend that the French should be slavishly imitated,"}, {"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "382", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.96", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2763, "texte": "even though they excel in this instance, but we consider it food for reflection\nthat the most distinguished art milieu prefers to study art scientifically, while\nthe unformed and chaotic Ameiican field is fed with spumescent rhetoric and\nconscious fine writing.\nBut our aversion to the form of this criticism is not our primary quarrel.\nThe article misinforms and is misleading.\n\" The stout woman in grey singing at the piano, opening her mouth in half\nintense and flaccid fashion, brings one the feeling of the monotony and second\nrate quality of existence, the languorous fashion in which nature takes and gives\nthe lives of her creatures, pours it out carelessly, wastes it; floods of energy\npoured forth, nothing very noble, very tragical, or very exciting happening\nwithal\".\nSince when is painting a medium for expounding philosophy ? Before\nwritten language was perfected painting recorded the dreams, the fears and the\naspirations of the race, but the modern artist is supposedly concerned with what\nClive Bell terms \" significant form \", the pattern or arrangement of form and\ncolour which has the power of evoking an \" aesthetic emotion \" in contrast to\nliterary or poetic sentiment.\n\" The mustard browns, the dull rich greens, the fawns and tans and soft\nwarm whites, call to mind the smell of hay, the breath of kine, the taste of warm\nsquirted milk. One hears perforce the grunting of piglets, the lowing of oxen,\nthe swishing of great slow tails. Butter and cheese and all dairy products have\na sort of apotheosis here Shades of Mid-Victorianism ! A good enough descrip-\ntion of an old time chromo or a dining room mural at which the polite guests\nexclaim, \" Why those grapes look jus' good enough to eat/' We doubt that Dove\nhad hoped thus to compete with coloured photography or the cinematograph.\nAt any rate the cow in the reproduction refused to swish for us.\nAnother inference of which we are persuaded, is that Mr. Rosenfeld is city\nbred and unfamiliar with natural functions. No other explanation can account\nfor his predilection for \" grossly animal processes We suggest that next sum-\nmer he beg permission of some friendly farmer to be present when the bull is\nlet in on the cow. It is really more interesting in life than are paintings of the\n\" Organs that differentiate the sex. \"\nNot that we agree with the \" puritan unwillingness to perceive man\nin his relation to the rest of creation\" but that to a painter a phallus\nlike a pistil is expressive only by its form. Perhaps the Egyptians habi-\ntually remarked \" some crocodile \" when they sauntered by the obelisk, but we\ndoubt it.\nAgain it may be that Miss O' Keeffe's paintings \" lead one further and fur-\nther into the truth of a woman's life/' her art may breathe \"a prayer that the"}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "383", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.97", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3086, "texte": "indifferent and envious world may be kept from defiling and wrecking the white\nglowing place \" but if so it has nothing to do with the question of whether her\nart is good or bad or as to what her painting means as painting.\nMr. Rosenfeld writes impressionistic criticism. He purports to transfer\nthe emotion of contemporary pictorial art into a literary form; to invoke by words\nthe beauty of the paintings and thereby to assist others not so well equipped\nartistically as he, to get a reaction. A legitimate and worth while aspiiation.\nBut the first essential is the ability to look at a picture. Not a line in the lengthy\ndiscourse gives an indication that this is the case. While Mi. Rosenfeld was\nin Paris he had every opportunity to familiarise himself with current art theories.\nHe could have read in many different forms : \" A great painter conceives and\nexecutes a homogenous organism, a new body from which one cannot subtract\nor risk the destruction of the smallest particle. But the novelty resides in the\narrangement of the elements and in their distribution. Their conventional\nmeaning matters not at all. A combat of gladiators, a pastoral idyll, or a sim-\nple relationship of angles can satisfy us equally. It is not necessary to humanize\ngeometric forms but to extricate from a work, its specifically plastic import/'\n(Waldemar George — in YAmour de TArt). But Mr. Rosenfeld seem either\nto have escaped contact with all such theorizing or to have dismissed it as\ninapplicable, although it underlies the work of the artists whom he criticizes.\nMr. Rosenfeld seems only to react to the literary content of the paintings, a\ntendency which has been the most destructive in the history of art and has caused\none decadence after another. Modern art has but recently tried to struggle\nfrom under this incubus, and it is the sacred duty of critics to assist this en-\ndeavor. To judge American painters by discarded criteria, and criteria\nwhich their creations ignore, is considerably worse than useless. Mr. Stieglitz,\nwhom he mentions, has devoted a life-time to the struggle, and the fight has only\ncommenced. Most American painting still endeavors to outdo realistic photo-\ngraphy, to be more lifelike than life.\nWe can understand why such criticism is written, Mr. Rosenfeld has sup-\nplied the key. — \" For an act of imagination is the process of perceiving an\nobjective verity, and no one born this side the Atlantic can stand looking\nlong into the face of the truth. Why it is so, why the truth, hard to envisage\nin the old world, should be a sort of head of Medusa in the New, it is not easy\nto say. Perhaps it is for the reason that the verity concerning America itself,\nthe prime truth for the American, is so painful that sluggish life prefers to main-\ntain itself on a low plane by means of a moral blindness rather than struggle\ndesperately and perhaps perish on a higher. Perhaps it is for the reason that\nno individual can see the realities unsustained by the will of the group. One\nknows it oneself whatever one be, the pain of gazing long at the truth concerning"}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "384", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1190, "texte": "oneself; the glare of the fierce light, the constantly recurrent impulse to glance\naway immediately after the vision into some consoling rose-land, to cuddle\noneself with the chocolate and the movies and newspaper patriotism of the eternal\nillusion. It's as if the breast were sore, and could'nt long bear the embrace of\nlife, and relaxing the passionate clasp shrank away/' (Dial, page 619, November)\n— but we cannot understand why it is printed by the paper which editorially\nasks. — \" Is it possible that the common literature of our day is forsaking the\ndirect simplicity which made it if nothing else intelligible, and, with an instinct\nfor these things, is beginning to give us exactly the wrong thing in style and an\ninitiation to bad poems-in prose ? — (Dial, page 624, November).\nIt is with feelings of deep regret that we have been forced to accept the re-\nsignation of Alfred Kreymborg from BROOM. 11l health and the demands of\nhis own work have necessitated this separation, and he leaves us to go North-\nwards accompanied by every wish of BROOM for his future welfare and success.\nMr. Kreymborg's address for the next two months will be Hotel Moderno,\nRapallo, Italy.\n\nH. A. L."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[385]", "page_fin": "[385]", "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=bmtnaap192202-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Broom completes its first volume with the present number...", "titre_sommaire": "Broom completes its first volume with the present number...", "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": "[385]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.99", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1729, "texte": "Broom completes its first volume with the present number and takes\nTHE OPPORTUNITY OF SAYING A FEW WORDS ABOUT ITSELF.\nWe have introduced to the public not only American writers and ar-\nTISTS PREVIOUSLY UNKNOWN, BUT WE HAVE ALSO PUBLISHED TRANSLATIONS OF THE\nWORKS OF INNOVATORS, IMPORTANT TO EUROPEAN LITERATURE, WHO HAVE NOT HITH-\nERTO FOUND A HEARING IN THE UNITED STATES.\nAt the same time, Broom has placed before its readers selections from\nTHE CONTEMPORARY OUTPUT OF WRITERS OF REPUTATION SUCH AS GORDON CRAIG,\n€\nJames Stephens, Walter De La Mare, Paul Claudel, Picasso and Matisse,\nTO MENTION BUT A FEW OF THE EUROPEANS.\nBroom has before it a long program which it hopes to develop.\nIn these four numbers our foreign material has been derived chiefly\nfrom France, England, Italy and Russia, but we still have in Germany,\nSpain, and the countries of northern Europe a vast untouched field of which\nwe propose to avail ourselves.\nIn addition, it is our intention to offer to our readers material from\nTHE RECENT LITERATURE OF THOSE NEWLY CREATED STATES OF CENTRAL EUROPE,\nWHICH ARE ONLY NOW BEGINNING TO GIVE EXPRESSION TO THEIR NATIONAL CONSCIEN-\nCES, HITHERTO SUBMERGED.\nBroom is published in Rome, 3266 miles from New York, 4269 miles from\nChicago and 6227 miles from San Francisco.\nOwing to these distances which separate us from the Great Majority\nOF OUR READERS AND THE CONSEQUENT INEVITABLE DIFFICULTIES OF DISTRIBUTION,\nWE ASK THOSE INTERESTED IN US TO SUPPORT OUR VENTURE BY MORE THAN BOOK-\nSHOP PURCHASES AND\nTO SUBSCRIBE.\nAMERICAN subscriptions (5 dollars a year) should be\nmailed to the\nNew York Office, THREE EAST NINTH STREET ;\nEUROPEAN subscriptions to the main office,\n18, TRINITA DEI MONTI, ROME (6), Italy."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-02-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-02_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[386]", "page_fin": "[386]", "image_debut": 100, "image_fin": 100, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "[The artist, gracefully gesticulating...]", "titre_sommaire": "[The artist, gracefully gesticulating...]", "signature_source": "Maxwell Bodenheim", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 100, "page_imprimee": "[386]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.100", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 233, "texte": "MAXWELL BODENHEIM - THE DIAL.\n«THE ARTIST, GRACEFULLY GES-\nTICULATING ABOUT HIMSELF, ON HIS\nDIVAN, IS HIDEOUS, BUT IF HE DANC-\nED ON A BOULDER AND WAVED A\nLILAC BOUGH IN ONE HAND AND A\n« BROOM » IN THE OTHER, ONE COULD\nRESPECT HIM. »"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[288]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn International Magazine of the Arts Published by Americans in Italy\nEditors, Harold A. Loeb, Alfred Kreymborc. — Associate Editor, Giuseppe Prezzolini\nFEBRUARY, 1922\nVol*- J> No> 4-\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. fromEurope 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 francs\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), Italy.\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street.\nLondon Office, Cecil Palmer, Oakley House, 15-18 Bloomsbury St., W. C. I.\n\nPage\nSuburban Landscape — P. Server 2&9\nCzecko-Slovak Painting — Jan Zrzavy 290\nA Roman Night — Paul Morand (Trans, by H. A. L.) 291\nStill Life — Carlo Carra 300\nNew York, A Farewell — Emmy Veronica Sanders 301\nPrincess Brambila Designed by Jakouloff 3°5\nA Note on the New Russian Poetry — Louis Sozowick 306\n«L'annonce faite a Marie » Costumes — G. Vesnin . 312\nA Note on the New Russian Theatre — Elie Ehrenbourg 3*4\nProteus — Paul Claudel\nHeliographs — Bayard Boyeson 347\nIshijma — Paul Eldridge 34$\nThe Offering of Plebs — Jean de Bossch&re 35°\nYou Have Not Seen that lAm the Poor Man — Jean de Bosschere 352\nInstitutrice Esthete — Jean de Bosschere . . . 353\nFox Trot — Osbert Sitwell 357\nCzecho-Slovack Painting — Joseph Capek 360\nCzecho-Slovack Painting — Joseph Capek 361\nThe Cockerell — Allardyce Cromartie 362\nDedicated to the Enemy — Gordon Craig • 3^3\nComment — H. A."}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "289", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.3", "texte": "SUBURBAN LANDSCAPE.\nP. Selves.\nPallid with heat, a taut metallic sky\nIs looped above the siding, drably scarred\nWith rails that flank a sooty engine-yard,\nAsh-heaps and sheds and roofing all awry.\nDerelict mouse-grey trucks are mirrored by\nThe sepia of a mute canal, where charred\nGasometers squat sullenly on guard,\nAnd barges drowse and boilers faintly sigh.\nTonight the arc-lamps, poised from slender stems,\nWill bloom like silvery fruits. Signals will gleam\nWith shifting specks of jade and crimson gems.\nThen music : hiss and gasp of throttled steam,\nStaccato gamut of the shunted trains,\nAnd murmurous diapason of the cranes."}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "290", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.4", "texte": "Czecho-Slovak Painting.\nJan Zrzavy."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "291", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.5", "texte": "A ROMAN NIGHT.\n\nIn the hotel garden, some cats were singing. A dog dispersed them with\nmuch barking ; then came back hanging out his tongue, blue from having eaten\nblackberries or fountain pens. While we attacked our trunks, in chaotic disor-\nder, the mother of Isabelle waited in the hall. She was a little woman,\nexcessively preserved by milk of cucumbers and egotism ; her wrinkles knotted\nbehind her ears, her bosom sowed with a row of false pearls whose nautical\noriginals she held in her hand in a little bag of crocodile skin.\nWhen she saw me she cried out:\n\" I confide my daughter to you. Isabelle does not want to go back to France\nwith me. She permits no constraint. She is like the air. Nothing matters to\nher. You, Monsieur, you are a scholar, a man of sense ; watch over her. Where\nis she ? She is here no longer. Gone God knows where, without a maid. She\nhas carried off some bottles, a quilt, and a spade with which to kill lizards, saying\nthat she hoped for nothing more from me and that my hypocrisy irritated her.\nThis young lady drinks like a sink, and all liquors without distinction. Nothing\nwhich used to amuse us, the four step, Hungarian lace, the horse show, Venetian\npainting, interests her. Every thirty years the world sheds a skin and us\nwith it. At your age, I tell her, I had five children. And she replies : ' That\nmust have given you a pretty belly. ' She is indifferent to clothes ; she refuses\nto go out into society. My scruples and my prejudices enchant her. She en-\ndeavors to amuse herself with everything, but by ridicule. She knows nothing.\nNo taste for art. That which she writes has no sense. Morally one would say\nthat she has gone to pieces ; she is everyone's prey ; she congratulates herself on\neverything that happens or scoffs at it; she calls herself accursed but laughs\nabout it. I shall miss my train. Truly a worm is in the fruit. Tell me what\nis this madness ? \"\n\" It is a generation sacrified, Madame ; the men have become soldiers, the\nwomen, fools. Fate has again aj)portioned us a pretty lot of calamities. \"\nShe stopped the motor which prevented our hearing one another.\n\" Note that up to the age of fifteen there never was a better brought-up\nchild, \" she said, entrusting me with the key of her room which she had omitted"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "292", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.6", "texte": "to give back to the porter. (I myself forgot about this key until the heavy tri-\nangle of copper to which it was attached had made a hole in my pocket large\nenough for it to gain the street.)\nGraphological Study By Professor Ovide.\nStudy No. 34. — Isabeixe.\nHandwriting of a young woman of refined and sufficiently mobile physiog-\nnomy. Strong constitution. Although she lives in luxury, it is doubtful whether\nshe belongs by birth to an aristocratic milieu. Intelligence superficial; but\nquite adequate for pleasing ; ideas personal without always being logical. Dispo-\nsition difficult.\nMore of a coquette than she would care to admit, she keeps to a fixed deport-\nment and is antipathetic to that which is too licentious. More independent\nthan proud ; even to a fault in this regard.\nExpansive and amiable in society. Her sincerity is subservient to caution.\nHeart half dry, tender by fits. Need of authority and influence over persons\nloved. Sensuality, which exists, is not of a delicate character. Cunning on oc-\ncasion.\nI reread this graphological study of Isabelle which I had asked Professor\nOvide, of St. Mans-les-Fosses, to prepare on one of our first days. I used it to\nknow her better, long enough to discover that the diagnosis was false. Expe-\nrience left nothing of it but some half-humurous trifles in the lingo of mind-\nreaders, at which she was the first to laugh.\nIsabelle had an\" impulsive temperament and a reserved character. I only\nhad the leisure to find this out and to make her acquaintance in a general way\nafter we had enjoyed together that pleasure which formerly was used to crown\nor to seal the affections. In truth, the night even of our first meeting, at the\nTeatro Valle, she told me that I looked like a sycamore, and we embraced each\nother in the carriage which brought us to her mother's. The rules of the game\nwere found to be much simplified. Passion lost thereby its graduated interest, but\nth£ sway of sentimental, magnetic and chemical exchanges ruled more freely\nand gained in verity ; and we in lucidity.\nIsabelle confessed to me afterwards that she neglected no occasion to proffer\nthis spontaneous gift of her person ; she acted thus from an excess of modesty,"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "293", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.7", "texte": "not hesitating to sacrifice her virtue ; she rejoiced in it as an aid to her intelli-\ngence and to her sensitiveness. In reality her intelligence was mediocre and I\ndoubt if her sensibility had ever corrupted this heart \" half dry, tehder by fits \"\nthat Professor Ovide had defined for me.\nAt any rate here we found ourselves on the ground floor of a trusting intimacy\nwhich rarely is the privilege of people without prejudices. By a curious regres-\nsion, which doubtless was the result of the manner in which we made each others'\nacquaintance — so true is it that one cannot invert the natural order of things\nwithout danger — I was not slow in experiencing for Isabelle all the customary\nphases of sentiment, but in reverse order. In the beginning, indifference and\nfatigue followed by that tenderness which results from the pleasure of winning\nlove, and ending in curiosity and play.\nWe saw each other very often. Isabelle spent several long months in Rome,\nnot that I was ever able to guess what held her in this unpicturesque and deso-\nlate town.\nWhen I asked her, jokingly, if she expected to end her days there :\n\" Perhaps, \" she said, \" and before long. \"\nHer pension looked out upon the old fortifications in the vicinity of the\nPorta Pia. My life looked out on a court from the second floor of the Palazzo\nFarnese, for I was a pupil of the Ecole de Rome. I kept there a card index, a\nladder to reach the books on the highest shelves in the library, and a muddy\ninkwell. When six o'clock rang, I would take leave of my dear master in the cor-\nner room. He read low African authors seated in an armchair of emerald velvet,\nsurrounded by Angoras and other cats the color of pumice stone, such as one finds\naround the Trajan Column. I have not forgotten his eyeglasses poised on his\nforehead like two great icicles, his white hair rebellious as the character under-\nneath, nor his head like an old peasant Erasmus which stood out in silhouette\nagainst a milky Janiculus. Then I reached the court through several corridors\nravaged by draughts. The concierge, the same who discreetly sold antiqui-\nties in the depths of his den and retailed the feet of the Farnese Hercules, inclined\nto me a smile hung from his silver stripes.\nOn the shore of the Tiber, Isabelle waited for me. We returned on foot to\nthe higher quarters. Her physique amazed in that countiy of women with long\nbusts and short thighs. She had a minute head which she claimed was filled\nwith water, to excuse her follies. She had never been capable of possessing a\nbody. From her shoulders she instantaneously divided into two legs thin and\npointed in the shape of a compass which moved her forward by pricking off the\npavement. She wore on her left ankle a heavy slave bracelet of sculptured\ncopper which made her limp."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "294", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.8", "texte": "Before a third party she quite willingly'kept silent, but in tete-a-tete, let\nherself go saying everything she thought. She but little liked acquaintances,\nparticularly those one meets in hotels and pensions, in which she was wrong —\nfor anything is preferable to a friendship which endures and for the endurance of\nwhich one is obliged to espouse every form of a twofold hazard and become a\nhybrid monster, expensive, and greedy of sacrifices.\nWhen I warned her against asceticism :\n\" The true ascetics are the amateurs of society. My mother, for\nexample. Vices and virtues. For them, the social world takes the place of\neverything. \"\nIsabelle hated her mother, never missing an occasion of making her ridi-\nculous and only praising her when she was absent. At table she seemed to lie\nin wait for a chance to pounce on her.\nShe smiled, puckering her narrow as if to introduce her interlocutor to\na complete idea and to invite a response; she ended her sentences by holding out\nher opened hands, the insides of which were painted a bright rose. Usually she\nwas without wit, except, as with all women, in her letters. The fragments of\nher diary which she showed me seemed destitute of value. But she spit up blood,\nwon money from me at poker by cheating, and had a lively taste for lies which\ncontrasted with an extreme physical bravery. I have seen her, in the course of\nan accident, give first aid, forgetting to dress her own injuries. During thirty-\nsix months of the war she drove a field ambulance at Noyon.\nIn her room Isabelle ordered a drink, pausing over the glass, half empty ;\nher eyes filled with tears, as if the draught had opened some mysterious and sen-\nsitive portal, then without lifting her face from the glass, she went on drinking.\nShe seated herself tailor fashion 011 the carpet, crossing her legs underneath,\nnot without dry arthritic crackings of her bony knees, and smoked without ces-\nsation with the air of a lazy cat. Thus she remained for hours, inactive, cynical\nand genital.\nIn the spring, Isabelle made some acquaintances. She had lived alone\nall winter.\n\" What do you think of Igor ? \"\nI reproached him for his beauty, his venomous eyes, and for the clamour\nof the colored placards in which Igor, the great movie star, stood forth in a dress\nsuit on desolate shores, or as a poor student in an upholstered vestibule, his ir-\nritating profile silhouetted against dormer windows, his sallow skin punctuated\nwith stars, his hands pallid with cream beside those of teamsters telling fortunes\nin dives.\n\" He looks like a maple tree, \" said Isabelle."}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "295", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.9", "texte": "Igor is Greco-Irish. His father is a general in Greece and his mother the wife\nof a general in Ireland. The first time I met him at Isabelle's, she weighed the\ntwo of us.\n\" Ivife is a tissue of contrasts, \" sighed she.\nThis was the phase when Isabelle took to kidney-vetch, surrounded herself\nwith prismatic crystals, breakfasted on ginger bread, acquired a Florentine\ncupboard bed ; received each day a magnolia from an unknown hand, and gave\nstrange orders to the servants ; it was impossible fox her to touch suede without\nfainting. She shut herself off from life by specious reasonings; she received me\nreclining on panther skins and her words became elliptical.\nOne day she took me into her room. Above her bed were pinned an assort-\nment of bills, letters, photographs of foot racers, and' a placard on which I read :\nDo not forget to make love on Saturday with Igor. I felt I should not question\nher. But she looked at me :\n\" Your eyes are dull, \" she said. \" The eyes of Igor are crystal. I don't\nlike resigned heroes. \"\n\"As for me I like women who make their own hats, and who speak of the\ndeceptions of existence. \"\n\"As you like. But beware of falling of the womb. \"\nShe placed her glass on the disc of the phonograph and watched it turn to\nthe sound of \" Naples ! I want to die, 'neath your enchanted sky. \"\n\" You ...\"\n\" Don't talk, \" she interrupted. \" I feel what you are going to say : 'My\nGod ! that a woman who does not love me can be such a hussy. ' Or perhaps\n' Stick to me, you will see, I will bring you luck.\nIgor had a friend, Wanda. Isabelle introduced me to her: she was Polish\nand believed in ghosts. We made several nocturnal excursions to the site of\nOstium. I sat on the bracket seat. Isabelle had Wanda on her right, Igor on\nher left, and held under her hands their similar fingers. Her sincerity discon-\ncerted me. To keep from abuse, I joked :\n\" I would rather be the first in my village than the second in Rome, or the\nthird ...\"\nUnder cover of my gracefulness and insolence I laid bare my lost and found\nsufferings. I would have wished to live near Isabelle and to love her as completely\nas when far away. But in the evening I found myself discovering in her that\nwhich I was obliged in the morning to detest, her imprudences and the prompt-\nitude and low character of her entertainments.\nThrough Wanda, Isabelle learned to know the odor of red hair, the explanation\nof her afternoon melancholy, the best addresses for silk jerseys, unpublished"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "296", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.10", "texte": "Levantine solitaire on a horoscopic base, and to kill bees in order to suck their\nhoney. This was the regime of lemons, of shaddocks, of jujubes and of tri-colored\nbonbons. Isabelle painted lozenges and spirals on her trunks, searched far and\nwide for devices, sent anonymous letters to statesmen, bought mosaic brooches,\nwore chasubles, disturbed her quarter by nocturnal uproars, extolled poverty,\nand discovered she was afflicted by aortic lesion.\nDuring this period I was less unhappy. Isabelle summoned me to a meeting\nin the public gardens. On a bench she told me that she would commit suicide\nwith gas, and that she did not wish to be carried into a drug-store.\nLaughable and pale, she repeated :\n\" I am at a cross-roads ...\"\nTo console her I cited these verses of the good La Fontaine of Ravignan\nstreet :\nChild Hercules found two roads on his route\nOne leading to vice the other to virtue\nContinuing the first he would doubtless have found\nSome bifurcations which would have confused him.\nI met Wanda one morning. It was on the Piazza S. Isidoro. In building\na branch of the Banca Commerciale, they had excavated by chance a temple of\nJupiter. The illustrated papers were taking photographs. It was an occasion\nfor a promenade. It was raining. All mauve and green, Wanda was domiciled\nin an unsinkable waterproof.\nI upbraided her for her spirit of domination, her skillful fencing, her\nsweet and nasty habits, in a word, for the ambuscade into which Isabelle\nhad fallen.\n\" Don't you know, \" said she, \" how I met Isabelle ? My hair is red, but\nit is she who is jealous. She waited until morning in front of Igor's door. It\nwas I who came out. She spoke without knowing me.\n\" I want a word with you, \" she said.\n\" I led her away to my rooms. She remained there .. . We were more\nthan a week without daring to confess to Igor. \"\nUnclosed by a screen of reed cane, the sub-basements of the bank were vis-\nible among which a two-faced Jupiter had just been brought to life, frigid and\ndominating, the first vice-president.\n\" My story doesn't please you ?\n\" It hurts me to see how all you women of today are disorderly and un-\nproductive. \"\n\" Complain all you like .. . But believe me, all these vagrancies of Isabelle\nare only mortifying experiences destined to humiliate her pride."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "297", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.11", "texte": "\" You are but an amiable sophism, \" I answered, and left her.\nWanda called after me :\n\" Do you really find that I look like a holly-oak tree ? \"\nThen Isabelle invented a mulatto. His name was Jock and his trousers\nhung from a nickel-plated belt. He inscribed on hardwood floors with the toe\nand heel of his polished shoes, magic characters which one wished to decipher.\nHis nails like pink drops stopped at the ends of his fingers. Without apparent\neffort, either forward or backward, he could touch the ground with his woolly\nhair. He worshipped fetiches and adored ladies' purses. One saw them toge-\nther at the Palatino and at the Excelsior bar.\nIsabelle was about to sing his praises but I got in the first blow.\n\" Don't tell me that he looks like a wild rose tree. \"\nIn a little while she developed a taste for denatured alcohol, plug tobacco,\nclog dancing, the noisiest ragtime, vermillion tablecloths, gooseberry colored\nsatin knickerbockers, a cloak made of patches placed end to end.\n\" Jock loves me, \" said Isabelle. \"He has asked me for letters and photo-\ngraphs. His skin is crackled to imitate porcelain. He has prehensile feet and\ngoes down trees like a cat, head foremost. He is enormous. . . How does Buff on\nput it in speaking of elephants, a monster of matter ? He also knows how to\nforge signatures and pick locks. W7hen he comes to see me he says : 'I cannot\nleave you without carrying off something of yours. ' \"\nShe added : \" I love him also. We attracted each other at once like ma-\ngnetized bars. His great black hand on my forehead, and headaches pass away;\nmust I lose your esteem for this ? And my mother claims I am unmanage-\nable ! A change of love works on me as a change of air on others. It per-\nforms miracles. \"\n\" What a queer couple ! And never divided by boredom ? \"\n\" Never. But all this is dangerous and complicated. I will explain it to\nyou some day. \"\nWhat was his hour at Isabelle's ? One never ran into him. But we received\nanonymous envelopes which contained monstrous photographs of our friend.\nLooking more closely, we noticed that the head had been cut out and glued\non. I discovered in a pawnbroker's on the Trastevere a bracelet that I had\ngiven her.\nWanda told me.\n\" Yesterday morning, I was in my room ; I was dressing. Some one rang.\nBeing alone, I did not open.\n\" Who is there ? \""}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "298", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.12", "texte": "Behind the door someone muttered :\n\" Let me in ; it's a friend. \"\nI did nothing.\nSome one went down the stairs and that was all.\nMeanwhile Isabelle disappeared, as I have told, at the very moment her mo-\nther was leaving Rome. I waited, knowing that she would not put off giving me\na sign. Nothing happened. Her absence sometimes was agreeable, but more\noften distressing : we cease having a taste for mystery when our friends prove\nthemselves amateurs of enigma. I accumulated fears. After a day without\nher, my room, in the evening would give but a cold reception , I lived on exaspe-\nrations, deploring the blemishes of life, hastening to mingle with the crowds on\nthe streets, reacting to the headlines of the newspapers; I was a scholar, I could\nnot accustom myself to live, as is necessary these days, without documentation,\nwithout preliminary investigations, going to press madly every moment.\nOne evening I found Igor and Wanda on a terrace. They were taking\na drink the colour of colchicum before the petrified furbelows of the church of\nJesus.\nIsabelle had given no indication of life to anyone.\n\" I onlv know from the masseuse, \" said Wanda, that she has rented a\nhouse outside of the walls. Pavillion 12, in a Boche villa which has a name like\na cafe. Just beyond la Porta del Popolo, a hole between two hills, in which lies\na garden damp and crushed by shade ...\"\nIgor interrupted her.\n\" The proprietor springs from a German story with a black knitted bonnet\nand a beard full of bats ? He lives in the central chalet with some watchdogs\nwho intone the death rattle under the doors ? It is the same one. I know the\nplace, we acted a film there. \"\n\" Let's take supper to her, unexpectedly, \" I said. \" Surprise Party. \"\nWe put into the carriage champagne, a basket of fruit and five pounds of ice.\nThe horse had to stop half way up the hill.\nWe were weighed down with provisions, the gate was open. Igor and Wanda\nwere puffing in the dark, imitating every kind of a stable noise, and on their hands\nthe noise of kissing.\nThe howling of dogs shattered the night. We sought our way under the\nsemi-circles of the fig trees. Then the path twisted and stopped before a cur-\ntain of bamboos, rubbing their leaves. It was even more like the jungle, as the\nroar of a lion resounded from the zoological garden of the villa Borghese nearly.\nA white pavilion marked No. 12."}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "299", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.13", "texte": "Wanda knocked, softly at first, then more strongly. We called. A field\nmouse scampered off. We paused, grouped, silent, dazed by the darkness,\nour arms loaded with bottles. The ice burned my fingers.\nIgor suggested entering by going round the garden. We scaled the wall\nhelped by a pine tree whose cones fell with a crash. Not a sound, not a light,\ninside. I struck a match. It revealed a stoop. The door was open. I turned\nthe switch. A central lamp hanging from a chain burned us alive, flooding\nthe salon with white daylight. We smelled the odor of musk ; Igor put the cham-\npagne on the ground and ran forward. In the bedroom, Isabelle lay on the floor,\nnaked, notionless, with black marks around her neck.\n\nFrom the French of\nPaul, Morand."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "300", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.14", "texte": "Carlo Carrà.\nStill life."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "301", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.15", "texte": "NEW YORK, A FAREWELL.\n\nThere is a Tintoretto or a Veronese — somewhere. A fresco, I believe.\nIdo not now remember. It does not matter.\nThe only thing that stands out clearly from it in my memory is the bold\nfigure of a woman sitting — her back against the monumental staircase of a\nchurch or temple — one arm hanging down loosely from the knee — the hand\nof the other shading a pair of keen old hawk's eyes gazing at something —\nintently\nShe is a wicked thing — she is a strong old witch — she might be exer-\ncising some black magic. . .\nYou are that Witch — New York ! I've thought of you sitting thus —\noften. Leaning your broad and bony back, your strong hard frame, against\na Continent — you gaze across intently, expectantly — shading your keen\nold hawk's eyes. You gaze across the waters.\nThere's magic in that gaze.\nAnd so they keep coming and coming .\nYou are a fierce old Witch !\nYou are a trickster.\nThe first time I approached you I got tricked.\nOur liner, on a misty night, crept toward Manhattan. (My memory con-\ntained no skyscrapers, those days).\nThey loomed up through the mist. Said I:\nWhat are those strange old ruins ?\nRuins ? ? — They laughed. — It's skyscrapers you see. Broadway —\nthe Battery — dear old New York. Wake up, child ! We have no ruins here.\nNo ruins here — dear old New York ?\nWhat else are you but ruins, Sorceress ?\nWhat else do you draw strength from, what else is it you squeeze between\nyour claws, what else is it you feed on ?"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "302", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.16", "texte": "You — City of the Rootless and the Homeless.\nYou — Figure with your back on the Not-Yet and with your eyes on the\nNo-Longer !\nNo ruins here ?\nThey've called you a terrible city, New York.\nA city without equal for wickedness and cruelty, for chaos, magic, promise ...\nO the things you keep whispering under your fierce hot breath, the things\nyou keep mumbling between those hard old lips — as you sit there with your\nframe supported by a Continent, with your eyes gazing across ! The incanta-\ntions and the magic formulas you whisper, stammer, mutter in a tongue that\nis no tongue . . .\nNo ruins here ?\nEven your language — what else is it made of but ruins of languages ?\nA cross between no-longer and not-yet ?\nI've heard you of an evening — gibbering, gabbling rapidly (always rapidly)\n—- whetting your teeth on the shards and fragments of a hundred languages\n— I've tried to understand your speech, Old Character. But who can under-\nstand a speech that is a hundred speeches of the Past — a thousand of the Pre-\nsent — a million of the Future, all in one ?\n— I've tried to make you out — you Witch. To size you up. To get\nyour measure, (It's you yourself have taught me those expressions). I've sat\nof an evening looking at you. At your strange little ways — at your abomi-\nnable — well — characteristics . . .\nThere are Cities, you know, with beautiful gardens — velvety grassplots\nall bordered with flowers. Tremendous Cities even, careful of appearances,\ngraceful and trim, made fair by artists' hands. Cities of race and lineage —\nAnd You — Who are nobody — everybody — a monstrous thing of\nmixtures — an old mongrel —\nYou sneer at flowers, fairness, artists' hands. You sneer at race and lineage.\nYour hard eyes glitter at the word contemptuously. The flowers bordering your\nmangy grassplots are human beings... And printed papers are your butterflies ...\nPosies of papers sway in the night breeze — black and white butterfly\npapers frisk on your lawns, shine in the grasses. Your spring nights — they\nare redolent — of printer's ink.\nYou chuckle, Witch ?\nYou go on shading those keen eyes with the merciless hand — the claw-\nlike hand — gazing for more to come and more — more human flowers to edge\nyour mangy grassplots ?\nMore ruins to feed on — Old Insatiable ?"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "303", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.17", "texte": "You're doing a brisk business, Hawk-Eyed One ! Keeping that halfway-\nhouse (for transients only . . .). A halfway-house for wanderers from no-longer\nto not-yet . . .\nYou're doing a brisk trade — in ruins.\nRuins of styles and traditions, ruins of aims and desires, ruins of faiths\nand homes — of all the settled structures of the earth.\nYou carry on a trade — in withered roots.\nYou buy the no-longer. You. sell — the not-yet. You are a sly one.\nThere is nothing about you of the maternal, Old Ifady !\nOne does not lest his head on your old bosom — one does not, softly, sink\ninto your lap. One haggles with you — one haggles — for a bit of soul to keep,\nor for a dream to rescue from the bargain — for some old precious curio to hide.\nYou are a fierce old Witch, New York [\nYou City of the Rootless and the Homeless — your strong hard frame\nagainst a Continent — your keen eyes gazing so intently — And your thin\nlips that always mutter :\nNo longer . . .\nAlways\nNot yet. . .\nYou are a trickster.\nThere is another trick you've played on me. Your last one.\nWas it black magic ? Was it a wizard's potion — given while I slept ?\nFor I had sworn to hate you (as others swear). To hate you fiercely —\nmerciless fierce Thing !\nHave I not called you names — gambler in rootless souls, buyer of ruins,\nshrewd innkeeper for all the tribes that wander — ?\nHave I not seen you sitting thus — gibbering and gabbling in a hundred\ntongues — that broad and bony back leaning so carelessly — that hawk's\nbeak ? (a Tintoretto or a Veronese ...?).\nYou rose — one twilight — suddenly —\nYou rose — and passed me — lost in dreams — heeding me not.\nYou of the harsh staccato name, of the crude market gestures — could\nthat be you — New York ?\nYour eyes — there was a wistfulness in them. . .\nYou whispered softly to yourself — you spoke in a new language — my\near caught song. —\nI saw your stone flesh all diaphanous and radiant like molten amethyst\n— and the touch of your hands as I felt them in passing was like the touch\nof one entreating to have her innermost desire understood . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "304", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.18", "texte": "I saw you — smilingly shedding your flesh as a thing of no consequence\n(flesh of a strong old Witch exercising black magic). Smilingly shedding surface\nand reality.\nI saw the flower soul in you as it bloomed in the twilight — naked and chaste\n— for the rapturous gaze of the Lover. . .\nAnd I who swore to hate you,\nTrickster !\nGreat City of the Fleeting Moment — between No Linger and Not Yet. . .\n\nEmmy Veronica Sanders."}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "305", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.19", "texte": "« Princesse Brambila » Conte de Hoffman\nKamernä Theatre; Moscow 1920.\nDecoration and costumes by Jakouloff."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "306", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.20", "texte": "A NOTE ON THE NEW RUSSSIAN POETRY\n\nHad your international affiliation or personal curiosity led you to the new\nJerusalem of Communist Russia in the busy lecture season of 1918, a certain\nposter would have, doubtless, attracted your attention, for it announced to\nred Muscovy a discourse of the famous Bolshevik poet Vassily Kamensky.\nThe title of the discourse was : The Career of a Son of a Bitch (Karyera Su-\nkinavo Syna), and lest you misunderstood the drift and the purport thereof\na parenthetic subtitle came obligingly to your aid : The Story of the Russian\nIntelligentzia (Istoria Russkoy Intelligentzii).\nThe piquant incident is significant. Communist Russia is recasting old\nstandards in new moulds, and in the process, Intelligentzia comes in for a heavy\ndrubbing. Well deserved, it must be admitted. The Intelligentzia dreamt\nthe Revolution, gloried in it, deified it. From Hertzen to Plechanov, from La-\nvrov to Merezhkovsky the Revolution had been foreseen and foretold with\nprophetic exactness — its whole course can be narrated in extracts from their\nworks. The Revolution came, and behold the Intelligentzia scatter precipit-\nously to all corners of the globe squealing pitifully its disaffection. Well\nmay the poet take it severely and mockingly to task :\nYou trembled apprehensively\nIyike children in some happy expectation\nYou welcomed the ruin and tragedy\nAnd horror of a new deluge\nAnd it came.\nWe hear reverberating thunders\nEternal foundations crash into the abyss.\nWhy then do you not plunge into the storm of events"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "307", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.21", "texte": "Intoxicated by the strangely terrible hurricane ?\nWhy do you still look sadly to the past\nAs to some land of promise ?\nIs it not because the past has now taken place of the future ? Is it not\nbecause :\nThe dream was welcome only from afar\nAnd originality pleased you\nOnly in books of poetic inspiration ?•\n(Vainery Bryussov \"Invective\").\nApparently, for revolutionary ardor has evaporated at the first approach\nof rough reality, and past prejudices still hold the Intelligentzia in the grip.\nAnd who is this ? Long haired\nAnd speaking in a whisper :\n' Traitors !\nRussia is lost!\n* Must be a writer. . .\nBi,ok \" Twelve \").\nAnd sticking out\nFrom amidst the cannon roar\nIs seen the round-shouldered back\nOf a bespectacled, sickly\nIntellectual.\nA shaggy head\nIs muttering\nIndignant\nWords\nAbout the importance\nOf Constantinople\nAnd the Straits.\n(Andrey Byei/v \" Christ Is Risen \").\nThe world is shattered to its foundation but the Intelligentzia still cher-\nishes its old illusions. Perish the Revolution that the old prejudices might\nsurvive. This is how the renegades are regarded by those members of the"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "308", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.22", "texte": "Ingelligentzia who stuck to the guns. But a further distinction must be drawn\nbetween the old and the young.\nBryussov, Byely, Blok, Ivanov, Sologub, men already in the 'fifties and the\n'sixties came to the revolution with a baggage difficult to discard. Extreme mo-\ndernists of some twenty years ago, they grew to maturity at a time when envir-\nonment was so oppressive and life so banal that they might have exclaimed\nwith the poet:\nUn couchant des Cosmogonies !\nAh ! Que la Vie est quotidienne !\n(J. IyAFORGUE \" Complainte sur certains ennuis \").\nDisgusted with the stifling circumambient atmosphere, they retired within\ntheir ego whence they exuded, as it were, a protective covering, a subjective\npoetry that sought respite in Ancient Greece, in the far Orient, in the infinity\nof the Cosmos.\nToo skeptic to accept official religion, they built up an ideologic logomachy\nof \"God-seekers\" (Bogoiskately) and \"God-creators\" (Bogostroitely). Mas-\nters of ancient and modern languages and literatures, thoroughly versed in old\nand contemporary philosophy, esthetic theoreticians of a high order, prose writ-\ners of great power — it was in poetry that they reached their full stature.\nNever before had Russian poetry ascended such heights or sounded such depths ;\nnever before had the Russian language exhibited such subtlety, richness, expres-\nsiveness. They brought Russian poetry to a state of excellence that will com-\npare favourably with the modern poetry of any nation.\nThe revolution shook them from their torpor but was powerless to transform\nthem completely. True, they turned from dream to reality, they forgot their\nindividual selves to blend with the mass, but they were not sufficiently asser-\ntive. It is with their pre-revolutionary achievements that their fame rests.\nBut if these men, entrenched behind their deep rooted habits and convic-\ntions, behave with reticence and speak with reserve, the younger poets\n' fling caution to the wind and bring their intemperate excesses into the market\nplace. Shershenevitch, Mariyengoff, Kamensky, Polyetayev, Yesenin, Guera-\nsimov, Kluyev, Mayakovsky throw a challenge to the whole world, exult in\nterror, blood, dynamite, blaspheme Christ and God, denounce Pushkin and Ra-\nphael, threaten destruction to the old order, call to universal revolution, cele-\nbrate the reign of labor. In a great outburst of revolutionary patriotism they\nglorify the Communist fatherland. The German Expressionist poet has well\nexpressed their attitude :"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "309", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.23", "texte": "Oh Tag der Wonne\nTag der Freiheit heiliges Russland !\nNie hat Europa schoneren Tag, nie unsere Jugend herrlicheres Ziel!\n(Carl Otten \" Fur Martinet\").\n/\nThey sing paeans to the new art and the new life. Art and life are for\nthem indissolubly one.\nPrikaz for the army of art.\nThe brigades of old men always trudge on slowly\nThe same straggling step\nTo the barricades comrades !\nTo the barricades of souls and hearts !\nEnough of jog-trotting\nA leap into the future !\nForward singing and whistling !\n• •••• •••••••••*••••••••»\nEnough of penny worth truth\nSweep clean every old notion from your heart.\nThe streets are our brushes\nThe public squares our palettes\nInto the streets, Futurists,\nDrum players and poets !\n(Vladimir Mayakovsky),\nDekret about fence literature, decoration of streets, balconies\nWITH MUSIC, CARNAVAIyS OF ART.\nCome on fellows —\nPoets, artists, musicians\nRoll up your sleeves\nYesterday the Tolstoys and Kants had taught you\nToday it is your own head that works."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "310", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.24", "texte": "Let us take all vacant fences\nRoofs, facades, sidewalks;\nLet us decorate them to the glory of Freedom\nLike universal cathedrals.\nThen follows an injunction for poets to paste their verse on posters all\nover the city, for painters to decorate it, for musicians to play and sing with and\nfor the nation.\nThere are six working days in the week,\nAnd I boldly propose\nTo stage carnivals and processions\nEvery day of rest,\nIn praise of the spirit of Revolution\nIn the world.\n(Vassixy Kamensky).\nTechnically little change has taken place in Russian poetry during the re-\nvolution. All schools of Europe are represented. The Soviet Government,\nmaster — nominally, at any rate — of the printing industry has shown itself ex-\ntremely indulgent (often too indulgent, one is tempted to say) with the poetic\neffusions of all schools and tendencies. Studios have been opened for recitation,\ntheoretic analysis, and esthetic discussion of poetry, anthologies have been is-\nsued, magazines have been published. When the shortage of paper is too great\n\" oral almanaclis \" do duty for printed ones. Poetic production has increased\nto proportions never before attained in Russia.\nAt one end — on the right — are the Proletarian poets who seek simplicity\nand the Symbolists who seek subtlety ; in the middle are the Imaginists (Ima-\nginisty) who seek rich imagery and the Futurists who seek the hidden contact\nof dissociated ideas ; at the other end — on the left — are the Suprematists who\nseek the \" Zero point of art \" and the Nothingists (Nitchevoki) who seem to\nhave found it. Before the revolution Krutchenych thought this admirable :\nDir boor shtchill\noobyeshtchoor\nskoom\nvy so boo\nrlez"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "311", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.25", "texte": "And now Malyevitch thinks this superb :\nOole Ele I,el Lee One Kon See An\nOnon Koree Ree Koazambe Moena Lezh\nSabno Oratr Tulozh Koaleebee Blestore\nTeebo Orene Alazh\nThese quotations are as cryptic in the Russian original as in the literal\nEnglish transcription. The theory of the extreme poetic Left absolves the poet from\nthe use of comprehensible language. The great Russian poet Tyutchev said :\nA thought once expressed\nBecomes a lie.\nThe poets of the extreme Left are evidently determined to utter no lie for\nthey express no thought. Poetry is to be sung in a language newly created\nby each poet, a language empty of logical content but full of emotional signifi-\ncance. It will not carry intelligibility but communicate emotion to all those\nwhose souls are attuned to receive it, and whose mood and temper are congenial\nwith the poet's own mood and temper. Whether these chosen spirits be ten or\na million is of no consequence.\nIn the background of the rich poetic activity there is an abundance of\nspeculation in the social theory of the new art (Lunatcharsky, Bogdanov, Frit-\nche, Tchukovsky) Russian society — and all other — is passing from the Hell\nof Capitalism through the Purgatory of Proletarian Dictatorship to the Paradise\nof Communism. To each different stage corresponds a different form of art\n(Poetry we know is a whore — ftoesia e una puttana — which is not the least\nof her merits). Present' Russian art is still wavering between capitalist reality\nand Communist visions. It would be therefore premature to draw a valedictory\nof Communist poetry before it found full expression. Daring experiments are\ntried and incompatible poetic elements often collide and burst into explosion.\nA school whose phylogenetic evolution, so to speak, five decades else-\nwhere is now ontogenetically recapitulated in five months. It is before all\nelse a period of preparation, fermentation, incubation. It may be that some\nattempts are halting and some experiments crude ; it may be that poetic circles\nare cluttered. But if the great energy liberated by the tremendous upheaval\nhas not yet crystallized into definite shape, high enthusiasm sustains every ef-\nfort, and, according to the Communists, when revolution is in full swing, he who\nwhines is an imbecile.\nAnd perhaps they are right!\n\nLOZOWICK."}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "312", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.26", "texte": "« L'Annonce faite à Marie ».\nCostumes by Vesnin."}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "313", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.27", "texte": "«L'Annonce faite à Marie ». — I. acte."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "314", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.28", "texte": "A NOTE ON THE NEW RUSSIAN THEATRE\n\nThe general tendency of the modern Russian theatre, as in all the other arts,\nis to drop the former aristocratic isolation of its appeal for one more generally\nhitman. The whole of existence is now being dramatized. Not that this trend\nleads to a paradise for dilettanti, or to a relaxation of the essential mastery over\nthe subject matter. In the old folk fairs, held under an open sky, and in the old\nnature plays, this principle was more evident than in the theatre of our day. In\nspite of the different character and viewpoints of the various stage workers,\nthey combine in endeavoring to condense the scenic demands. The theatre\nof the last period, the naturalistic, or rather the chaotic impressionistic, gave us\na perfect example of what one might call \" anti-theatricalism \". Therefore the\npresent theatre does not develop from the theatre of yesterday, expressed by the\nMaeterlincks, Andreieffs, etc. but from the previous period, that of the old Span-\nish, the old Shakespearean comedies, and from the Russian\" Hohlenhandlung \".\nThe present tendency is to ignore completely the intermediate period. It\nseeks full tones ; not dramas and comedies, but tragedies and burlesques. It\ndraws material from the better class booths at the folk fairs, and from the cir-\ncus. Finally, the theatre, which to the very last has sought to direct the cinema\nto a profounder psychological perception, must now learn the proper art of move-\nment from its younger brother. But in still greater contradiction to the con-\nventional stage formula stands the theatre of Meyerhold. He strives to draw\nthe actors and the public closer. His motto is : Away with the audience box. The\nfootlights are his worst enemies, and every theatre that persists in their use,\nhe ranks as dead.\nBy presenting the \" Mystere-Bouffes \" of the futuristic writer, Vladimir\nMajakowski, an heroic and satirical picture of our time, Meyerhold changes the\nwhole theatre into a stage not only placing it in the midst of the public, but per-\nsuading the latter to take part in the performance and this notwithstanding the\ngeneral untheatrical nature of the Russian masses. He plans to abolish conven-\ntional memories, to exhibit only the faces and the masquerade and to ignore the\nscript of the play. He demands that the play, from the beginning, must shape\nitself as it moves along. He regards the work of dramatists as mere problems\nwith the power of automatically unfolding as the production proceeds. There is\nno doubt that Hamlet, under Meyer hold's direction, would surprise Shakespeare."}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "315", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.29", "texte": "Another stream, from the same source, flowing in the same direction, expres-\nses itself in the Moscow \" Kammerspiel The director, Tiarov, endeavors,\nwithin the confines of the stage, to preserve only the absolute essence of the play.\nHe stands in the same relation to the theatre as the cubists to the art of painting.\nConstruction, the foundation of our time, permeates the Kammerspiel perfor-\nmances. He demonstrates that one can formulate movements as one builds\nhouses or aeroplanes. Acting used to be a chaos of different movements, diffe-\nrent actors moving from different impulses, through different experiences. The\nforce of a unified conception pervades the Kammerspiel. 1 External action is\nrehabilitated. Actors are forced to learn movements from acrobats. The Kam-\nmerspiel turns away from the former scenic decorations subservient to the pain-\nter. A human actor of three dimensions demands a decoration in three dimen-\nsions. Instead of a painter, an architect is required to present the mathematical\nformula of our present day. The accompanying pictures exhibit the Kammer-\nspiel decorative system.\nIn the « Princess Brambilla » by Hoffman the carnival is not a mere sty-\nlistic picture of any particular epoch. It is a representation of the eternal needs\nof mankind, irrespective of his social surroundings. The treatment as a whole\nis sternly organized. Yakulov, the decorator, expresses the atmosphere of\na fairy story, at the same time avoiding conventional banalities. «I/annonce\nfaite a Marie », by Claudel emerges from its narrow Catholic frame and becomes\na mystery of self sacrifice in love. The architect Vesnin adapted the Gothic idea\nfor the material of his conception, substituting fitting cubistic symbols of contem-\nporary art. The stage effects are monumental and dynamic in character. The\nvertical building up of a scene allows great variety for the stage direction.\nThe last play of the Kammerspiel, Romeo and Juliet, was treated like a sketch.\nThe decorations for it were executed by Exter.\nIt is beyond the scope of this article to give a complete survey of the Russian\ntheatre of today ; therefore I will not refer to the very interesting work of\nthe Petrograd men such as Mardganov, Evreinov, Radiov, etc. Despite external\ndifficulties, the formula of the new theatre in Russia is developing with the great-\nest decision and energy. Five years ago, the collapse of theatrical art was\neverywhere pronounced ; now the theatre strides ahead of all other arts in\nRussia. Perhaps the explanation is that the Revolution itself is a social drama\ncausing the creative stream to flow into an organization of movements such as\nthe theatre of today.\nFrom the Russian.\n1 Kamerny Theatre.\n\nEue Ehrenbourg."}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "316", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.30", "texte": "PROTEUS\n\n(Concluded)\n\nA Satiric drama in two acts.\nACT 11.\nSame scene as in the preceding act. When the curtain rises menei,aus is\ndiscovered lying on the beach, asleep, and holding in his hand the hand of Helen,\nveiled and seated. At the left, against the proscenium, leaning upon a rubber tipped\ncane, stands the satyr-major, listening to the orchestra. The orchestra plays.\nBacchanale nocturne.\n(■pianissimo).\nThe Satyr-major, to the orchestra.\nGently, quite softly. Lower ! Lower ! Lower !\nIf it was a question of making noise we should have no need of music.\nOur task is to make the silence audible. Shhh !\n[He beats time. The music, already faint, becomes\nalmost imperceptible).\nThat's better. Sss ! Lower still! What the deuce ! It is not for tink-\ners that you play.\nBut for demi-gods whose bestial ears terminate in a point as fine as a sin-\ngle hair\nAnd you are going to awaken this brave man who has taken Troy, and\nthrown a seal to earth, and who is much fatigued.\nAnd even Helen perhaps. Still lower.\n[The orchestra plays almost in dumb show, the violin\nbows just brushing the strings, cymbals not touching,\nbrasses stopped)."}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "317", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.31", "texte": "Very good. You have understood me ! This is music as I like it.\nThe snoring of drums, the clacking of hands, the hail of the castanets,\nComes to us from the other side of the moon.\nThe torrent of wooden shoes and bare feet that follow Bacchus\nReaches the ear no more than the stir in the depths of the stream of cray-\nfish in their cuirasses\nAnd all these desperate cries\nAre no more to us than the cold archery of Diana\nAnd the trumpet itself when it sounds, is as faint as a whistle of glass.\n[Faint music).\nThe night belongs to the gods.\n(The bass drum is beaten very softly).\nIndeed, it is too fair ! ' Tis too lovely this midst of the year.!'\nIt is because of this that Bacchus has come\nIn order to deliver the fields and deserts and the enormous folds of the\nearth filled to the brim with forests\nWith this triumphal march, and with this irresistible tread, in the midst\nof cries of despair imposing delight and terror.\nWoe to him who, reclined on the moistened leaves at midnight,\nShall see the white god mirrored, like a shining sun of milk.\nWoe to that stag who, amid his restless hinds, rearing an arborescent head,\nwatches the curious army as it crosses the mountain ford, among the roll-\ning stones,\nAnd already the god is there no more but precedes them, and one sees only\na fat man drunk upon his ass !\nOne is no longer at this call entirely a man\nFor the man that he may leap assumes the loins of a goaty\nAnd the goat, to gulp the sharp handful of the vine that one holds out\nto him,\nStands erect, and becomes a girl, her forehead decked with horns !\nSilence !\n(The music gradually ceases).\nHail, Menelaus !\n(Silence)."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "318", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.32", "texte": "He sleeps ! It is not in vain he has gazed in the eyes of the god of the Sea !\nAll is changed for him and I shall appear like the most adorable of the\nNymphs.\nHail to you, liberator!\n(Menelaus opens his eyes without wakening. The Sa-\ntyr-Major makes horrible grimaces at him. Menelaus\ngazes at him stupidly and imitates his grimaces. Then\nwith a bound he rises and leaps to his bow, but gradually\nas if overcome with astonishment he allows it to unbend).\nThe Satyr-Major.\nHail, Menelaus !\nMenelaus.\nWho is speaking to me ?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nI am speaking to you, good sir.\nMENEIyAUS.\nStrange ! Was there not here just now\nAnother of those wretched Satyrs that put out its tongue at me ?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThere is no one here but myself, quite at your service, good sir.\n(Menelaus presses his hand to his forehead).\nWhat is the matter ? You seem disturbed and troubled.\nMenelaus.\nAh, I am weary of all these devilries !\nThe Satyr-Major, simpering.\nAt least it is surely not I that you find alarming ?\nMenelaus.\nYou suit me admirably. I like you very much. You are pretty. Ah,\nit does me good to see an attractive face.\nThe Satyr-Major, with a reverence.\nMonseigneur !\nMenelaus.\nHow becoming a long blonde curl can be to the length of the delicious\nalmond of a youthful face,\nAnd what vivid color, as pure as a fresh begonia flower !\nWho are you ?"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "319", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.33", "texte": "The Satyr-Major.\nThe serving-maid of Lord Proteus.\nMknei^aus.\nYou have a very bad master.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nNaxos (most of the time)\nIs an isle in the midst of the sea that lies between the three Continents.\nAnd its shores receive all the derelicts of the currents and of the\nstorms.\nMENEIyAUS.\nYou are one of these derelicts yourself ?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nI was set adrift on the sea in a little boat\nAnd it was the old man Proteus took pity on my weakness and on my\ninnocence.\nMenelaus.\nHow sweetly phrased that was !\nListen, you are adorable !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThat's all very fine, my Lord !\nBut is'nt that your wife who is with you ?\nMENEIvAUS.\nThat makes no difference. It's all the same to her. \" I am Helen ! \"\nSay the word, and I take you away ! I will give you a place in the\nlinen-room.\nBut tell me first how your master has recovered from the massage that\nI have administered to him.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThanks, he is perfectly well and demands his spectacles.\nMenei^aus.\nAll in good time ! Let him come and seek them.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nHe does not dare to face you again.\nMENEIvAUS.\nI thought I was surely going to let him go,\nThe lion and all the rest didn't bother me at all. But the octopus was\na role that I did not expect.\nWhen I suddenly found myself in the midst of those floating tentacles"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "320", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.34", "texte": "Face to .face with that beak of a parroquet and that cylindrical head, like\nan enormons discoloured cucumber, full of a frightful wisdom,\nAnd those eyes devoid of pupils where floats a light like that of a lamp\nbehind a bowl of water\nI thought to vent my soul with disgust! Fortunately the vision did\nnot last.\nAnd immediately I beheld between my hands the slimy tree that yielded\npots of jam\nDevoured through the midst by a rosy cancer, like the teat of a cow.\nFaugh!\nThe Satyr-Major, clasping his hands.\nYou are a hero !\nMENEEAUS.\nAh well, what is it that he's demanding now, old collector that he is ?\nThe Satyr-Mayor.\nHe demands his spectacles.\nMeneeaus, putting them on his nose.\nOne cannot see anything with them.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nQuite naturally. They were not made to see with.\nMeneeaus.\nThen?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nIt's the sign of his authority.\nThe seals when they see his spectacles are struck with respect and terror\nIt is thus he constrains them to hunt for him and to learn arithmetic.\nMENEIvAUS.\nHere is another invention ! It is like those ribbons he showed me !\nI wished to know a little of what is occurring at Argos for there are nasty\nrumours afloat about my relatives there.\nGood ! The first thing that I see is my sister-in-law, Clotilde, to whom\nan unknown young man paid his respects by pulling from her belly a great\ntwo-edged sword.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nHeavens !\nMeneeaus.\nAh well! She did not suffer at all from this familiarity. One Saw her\narise and go out backwards arranging her coiffure."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "321", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.35", "texte": "The Satyr-Major.\nProdigy !\nMENEEAUS.\nImmediately there presented himself a man, his skull cloven in two, and\nClotilde — Clytemnestra, I mean — who stood beside him, holding an axe in\nher hand.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nGreat gods ! You frighten me !\nMENEIvAUS.\nThe skull reglued itself and my brother Agamemnon came out from his\nbath, quite unscathed and perfectly dry.\nAnd so it went on till all ended confusedly in a frightful jumble where\neverything was confounded, the sacrifice of my niece and the grill that they\nmade of my little cousins.\nIt has set my eyes to aching '\nIf I could even be sure that I knew the people ! But everything trembles\nand undulates like the faces one sees above a fire ! And in the most thrilling\nplaces were great white holes. For these ribbons are not first hand.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThe oracles are always obscure.\nMENEIvAUS.\nIn short, all these massacres that annul themselves form a symbol to my\nmind, and the sense is rather consoling.\nI conclude therefrom that all things are adjusted\nAs my own history proves.\n— Yet had I but a hundred fathoms of these ribbons, what rivalry for\nDelphi!\n— Thereafter I was exhausted and fell asleep.\nHolding firm in one hand the hand of that woman and in the other the\nspectacles.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nGive them to me !\nMeneeaus.\nA moment ! Is my barque repaired ?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nIt is ready and awaits you.\nMeneeaus.\nIs the eye of the ship repainted ?\n3"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "322", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.36", "texte": "The Satyr-Major.\nIt is repainted. It only remains to place the pupil there.\nYon have one sail of linen and one of jute, fifteen oars of the upper tier\nand twenty eight of the lower.\nAnd a good rudder that's almost new, originally designed for the Adminis-\ntration of Egyptian Funeral Pomps.\nMENEIvAUS.\nI'll restore the spectacles to him when I go.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nListen then ! You can ask him for something else.\nMenelaus.\nWhat?\nThe Satyr-Major.\nDo you not know that the famous Helen has lived for ten years in this isle.\nMenelvAUS, taking his bow.\nFly, or I'll kill you.\nThe Satyr-Major, in flight.\nLook behind you !\n{Enter Wiixowithe, veiled).\nW IlylyO WITHE.\nHail, O my husband, I find you again at last!\nMENEivAUS, facing about.\nWhat ?\nWIIXOWITHE.\nHail, O my husband, I find you again at last.\nMenei^aus.\nWho are 3;rou ?\n(WiiyiyOWiTHE throws back her veil. MenelyAUS looks\nat her in silence).\nMENEI.AUS.\nLook, Helen !\nHEi<EN, unveiling indolently.\nWho are you, Madam ?\nWIIyIyOWITHE.\nAnswer her, Menelaus. Tell her who I am. This voice, this face that\nturns itself towards yours, this woman before you who welcomes you, these,\ndo you not recognize them ?"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "323", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.37", "texte": "Meneeaus, in a low voice.\nHelen, it is Helen.\nHelen.\nThere is no other Helen here but I.\nMeneeaus.\nAh, my heart beats strangely! There are two Helens with me, that\nof the past and the other that Paris restored to me.\nIf I did not hold your hand I would say that this other is the true one.\nIt is the voice, the form, the fg.ce.\nOnly younger, purer perhaps.\nLook yourself.\nHeeen.\nI do not need to look.\nMeneeaus.\nLook, I tell you.\nHeeen, slowly turning her eyes towards him.\nThis woman resembles me as I resemble Andromache.\nMeneeaus.\nBe silent! You do not understand. I remember better than you !\nHeeen.\nThere is no Helen here but Helen of Troy,\nWho was carried away from Greece by Alexander, otherwise, Paris.\nAs is known throughout all the world from Gades up to Colchis.\nAnd as testify those great piles of blackened bricks that one beholds\nopposite Tenedos.\nWIEEOWtTHE.\nI know nothing of all this. As for me, I am Helen of Sparta.\nHeeen.\nYou are nothing of the sort.\nWieeowithe.\nAlways faithful, always loving, the same.\nAnd who have no other husband than my own.\nMeneeaus.\nHow is it/Madam, that you are here in this present isle of Naxos >\nWieeo withe.\nI slept.\nMeneeaus.\nYou slept ?"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "324", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.38", "texte": "WIl/IyO WITHE.\nHermes,\nHermes had scourged my face\nWith that bough embrued in the tide of the Lethean stream.\nMENEEAUS.\nYou slept! And I through all that time, casque on head and sword in hand,\nI was beleaguering Troy, yonder where you were.\nWieeowithe.\nNot I.\nMENEIvAUS.\nNot you ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nThis one, but not I !\nMENEIvAUS.\nYou say well, for this one is Helen.\nWIEEOWITHE.\nThen hail to you, Helen.\nMeneeaus.\nDon't you recognize her ?\nWIIXO WITHE.\nHail to you, Helen.\nMeneeaus.\nIt's Helen I hold by the hand ?\nWIEEO WHITE.\nWho else ?\nIs it not my face ? Is it not my form ? Is it not my breast this indignant\nbreath uplifts ?\nWhat have you done while I slept, O image of myself ? And for what\ndreadful use have the gods employed my sleep ?\nIt is for me that Troy flamed heavenward while I slept, it is I who laid it\nflat, as if with scythes, while I was not disturbed by any dream !\nIs my form so puissant then that its image alone suffices for the purpose\nof a god ?\nIs my soul so puissant that it suffices to make two bodies live ?\nHEEEN.\nThese are words I find it hard to bear.\nWieeowithe.\nAnd now, sister Helen, O my image,"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "325", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.39", "texte": "Now that your task is done,\nNow that I am awake, and it is day,\nIt is time for you to yield me my husband and my place.\nHave the goodness to vanish I beg of you.\nMeneeaus.\nBreathe upon her a little to see if she will vanish\nLike the vapor of water that begins to boil.\nWllylyO WITHE .\nBut you, Menelaus, for what do you wait to open your arms to me after\nthese ten years\nAnd that heart which is wholly mine.\nMeneeaus.\nWhat proof have you got that you are really Helen ?\nWieeo withe.\nI have none, except the truth.\nMenelaus.\nI feel I know not what doubt within me.\nHeeen.\nMenelaus, I have already borne many things from you. Through\nyou I have suffered much. All the same do not push me to extre-\nmities.\nAnd it is perfectly true that I am a woman and in your possession: not,\nhowever, so much as you think.\nBut I protest that if you are so unfortunate as to put me to this shame and\nonce let go my hand\nYou shall not lead Helen captive a second time,\nAnd neither in this life nor the next\nWill you find again these fingers so long disjoined from yours\nMeneeaus.\nI am master of all the Helens extant in the world.\nWieeowithe.\nOne alone suffices.\nMeneeaus.\nYou say well ! There is only one Helen for me.\nWileowithe.\nOnly one, the same.\nMeneeaus.\nYou say well, the same to me forever."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "326", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.40", "texte": "WIEEO WITHE.\nOne Helen only, she who was given you long ago.\nMeneeaus.\nI remember.\nWllylyO WITHE .\nThe daughter of I,eda and Jupiter. . .\nMeneeaus.\n. . .The wife of the king of Sparta.\nWIEEO WITHE.\n. . . Jupiter who thunders in the mists. . .\nWhen the clouds like great white mountains accumulated\nLittle by little increase in the pure blue vault of the sky\nAbove that small red temple well known to shepherds of which the pedi-\nment has three columns only.\nMeneeaus.\nYou remember ?\nWieeo withe.\nThere is a meadow shaded by poplars.\nHeeen.\nBut there were no poplars !\nMeneeaus.\nYes, there were ! Be silent!\nWIEEOWITHE.\nThere is a meadow shaded by poplars.\nMeneeatjs.\nThere were poplars, as she speaks it all comes back to me !\nWielo withe.\nThere where the rapid stream. . . Where was I ?\nMeneeaus.\nThere where the rapid stream. . .\nWieeo withe.\nHow clear those waters were !\nMeneeaus.\nHow clear those waters were and what a mournful noise they made among\nthe rolling stones !\nWieeo withe .\nBefore they enter the immense conch of June."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "327", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.41", "texte": "Mbnei,aus.\nBefore through a thousand ditches and sluices they are distributed to all\nthe rich herbage.\nWiixowithb.\nThere are three oaks that were hallowed to my father.\nHelen.\nGood ! Now we have oaks it seems !\nMenei^aus.\nShe is right. I remember. They are oaks.\nWnxo withe.\nThat great tree whose leaf is slowest to unfold.\nMENEIyAUS.\nIn that month of June when you tell me that you loved me, on those heights\nto which we had mounted\nI scarcely think that they had sprouted yet.\nWirj.OWiTHE.\nTheir colour is that of gold.\nMENEIyAUS.\nNot the gold of antiquity, but the young bough that begins\nBefore Jupiter has endowed them with\nThat puissant colour of green wherein his eyes delight.\nWIIXO WITHE.\nTheir colour is that of gold.\nMENEIyAUS.\nNot the colour of time that passes but of time about to begin.\nWllylyO WITHE.\nTheir colour is that of gold.\nMenelaus.\nNot their colour, O well-beloved.\nBut the hue of that great fire I had lighted just below them whose floating\nradiance gilded them with light.\nWIIyIyOWITHE.\nIs it not right that one purify oneself by silence and by fasting. . .\nMeneeaus.\nYes, it is right.\nWllylyO withe.\n. . . Is it not right that one purify oneself as for the Mysteries\nWhen one is about to wed the daughter of a god ?"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "328", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.42", "texte": "Meneeaus.\nWhen one holds in one's arms the child divine whose motionless eyes beneath\ntheir lashes\nRegard yon with indifference\nAnd like Victory you were between my arms and like the harp for\nthe blind.\nAnd like that young block of marble ivory-pale at the threshhold of the\nfatherland which the exile piously grasps with both his hands !\nWIEEOWITHE.\nAbove us rose those long ribbons of walls one above the other and that\ncitadel in the sky with its battlemented towers.\nAnd those long forests of oaks, all flat on the terraces, like the moss that\npushes its way between the stones.\nAnd those cascades, all silent and motionless,\nAnd this place, in advance upreared by the hand of Titans, on the mandate\nof my father.\nTo be his temple with us.\nMeneeaus.\nI remember.\nWIIXO WITHE.\nAnd you were handsome then, Menelaus, the strongest of those of your\nage and far the most skillful at games.\nMeneeaus.\nYou are still the same.\nWieeowithe.\nThe same, it is you that says so, are you convinced of it ?\nMeneeaus.\nHelen : there's no other woman in the world !\nWieeo withe.\nTell me then, have I made you suffer much ?\nMeneeaus.\nNot to the measure of my love !\nWieeo withe.\nWas it hard to be parted from me ?\nMeneeaus.\nMy desire has never left you.\nWieeo withe.\nNor have I. I have not left you."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "329", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.43", "texte": "Meneeaus.\nYou have not left me ?\nWileowithe.\nI slept in your arms.\nMeneeaus.\nTell me one thing only, daughter of Zeus !\nWieeowithe.\nYes, I wish to tell you all.\nMeneeaus.\nHow did I who among the chieftains of Greece was neither the first nor\nthe second\nFind favor in your eyes ?\nWieeowithe.\nHad you nothing through which to deserve it ?\nMeneeaus.\nNothing when I look at you and when I remember myself !\nWieeowithe.\nAnd who, then, would thus have held me in his arms, and would not have\nlet me go,\nThese ten years, which were only a single hour of the night,\nWhile I slept.\nMeneeaus.\nThe night is ended.\nWieeowithe.\nIt is ended and I am awake.\nMeneeaus.\nIt is ended and I see those eyes, full of indifference, once more\nregarding me.\nWIEEOWiTHE.\nFor what do you wait to clasp me in your arms ?\n[He makes as if to go towards her).\nHeeen.\nMenelaus !\nMenelaus.\nHelen !\nHeeen.\nWhat are you doing ? Do you intend to lose me a second time ?"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "330", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.44", "texte": "WIIXO WITHE.\nDo not listen to what she says ! Do not give ear to that shadow wrought\nin\" my image by envious gods which wishes again to deceive you !\nHEI,EN.\nTo deceive you ! Answer her ! Is it in dream that you suffered ?\nDid you take Troy, then, in a dream, and is it in dream that you led me\nfrom the sombre Asiatic gynecium\nThat night when one saw clear though never a lamp was lit ?\nIs it then false, the face that you recognized in the flame of such a light ?\nWiij<owithe.\nAll is a dream that is not those days of yore which have not ever ceased.\nHEIvEN.\nAnd say if it was also a dream, at that hour of noon, the enormous back\nof the sea, midway between Europe and Asia, that rose to take us like the spine\nof a bull\nAnd which, overmastering me by a single blow, with the Ravisher, in a\nsingle day,\nIyeft us on dry land there, beside a smoking beacon that quenched itself\nin the dawn.\nWilderwithe.\nAll is a dream except this face, turned towards you once again, and these\neyes, full of ignorance, turned towards yours like those of the animals.\nHEI.EN.\nAll is a dream except this hand, now clasped once more in yours, and this\nbody once more solid between your arms.\nWiixowithe.\nAh, the streams of the earth in the month of June when the scattered flocks\nremount the difficult grass and the shepherd thrusts aside with his knee this\ntorrent descending towards him, this flood of life, green, pink and all ashine,\nfull of flowers and bees and butterflies !\nAh, the honey I was to your lips, and that head that all at once I dropped\nupon your shoulder!\nHEEEN.\nYou caress, and I have struck.\nW ileo withe .\nI have won your heart.\nHEEEN.\nYou have not pierced it."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "331", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.45", "texte": "WILLO WITHE.\nRemember those nights of my youth when I slept by your side !\nHelen.\nRemember those nights when you were alone, and I in the arms of the\nRavisher.\nWILLO withe.\nI was faithful !\nHelen.\nSleeping fidelity.\nWillowithe.\nFaithful nevertheless !\nHelen.\nJewel of little worth, which was not lost, and which has not been disputed !\nWILLO WITHE.\nAlways the same !\nHelen.\nAnd what of me, am I not always the same ? And someone else besides.\nW illo withe .\nWife of one only !\nHelen.\nAnd I, was I then not your wife in the arms of the Ravisher ?\nWhen from the height of the lofty tower of Troy\nI saw on every side of that well-defended city,\nTo the North, to the South, to the East and to the West,\nYour patience and your desire, each evening round about me,\nRekindle with the hundred thousand fires of your encamping army !\nWILLO WITHE. •\nBe silent, illusion !\nHelen.\nBe silent, imposture !\nMenelaus.\nWhat to do ?\nWill o withe.\nWill you believe if this creation of a cunning god\nConfesses her fraud and declares that I am Helen ?\nHelen.\nCertainly in such a case we both should be convinced !"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "332", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.46", "texte": "WIEEO WITHE.\nThen leave me alone with her.\n(MenEEAUS goes out. Silence).\nNaturally, it is true, I confess it. You are Helen.\nHEEEN.\nThank you.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nConfess that I might be taken for you.\nHeeen.\nAs to that Ido not know. I have not looked at you.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nIvook at me then.\nHEEEN, looking at her.\nMenelaus must be even more mad than I had supposed he was.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nIt is Proteus caused this enchantment.\n(Silence).\nIt is the lord Proteus who caused this astounding enchantment.\n(Silence).\nIt is he who has put illusion in the eyes of Menelaus.\nAre you not curious to know who the lord Proteus is ?\nHeeen.\nNo.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nHe is the curator of this sea, drunk and out of his mind, where her\ngrandfather's limbs were scattered by Medea.\nOf which the depths are torn by sulphurous sighs\nAnd the surface incessantly flogged and churned to foam by the oars of\nfanatic expeditions,\nArgo, Troy,\nAll those adventurers, with jutting nose and meagre brow, glabrous as\nactors, rowing with good courage !\nAnd see, that ring of foam, is it a seal that respires ?\nBy no means, 'tis a cow.\nIt is Jupiter who swims under the form of a beast, his horns crowned\nwith daisies, to amuse a little girl."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "333", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.47", "texte": "HEEEN.\nAm I to then understand\nThat you look upon it as a freak of madness\nThis honorable attempt, shared by the whole of Greece, to win me back\nagain ?\nWieeowithe\nExactly so, and quite worthy of Proteus.\nHEEEN.\nYou will pardon me for not sharing your opinion,\nWieeowithe .\nHow beautiful you are, Helen, and how I adore those lustrous eyes emptied\nof all expression\nThat you turn slowly towards me.\nHeeen.\nYes, it is I that am the beautiful Helen.\nWllylyO WITHE .\nAh, it was not merely the work of Proteus !\nI swear that Menelaus is a dunce not to distinguish between us !\nHelen.\nIt is true.\nW lEEO WITHE.\nA fool, a nincompoop.\nHeeen.\nIt is true.\nWieeowithe.\nA brute, a villain !\nAh, I am sure of it. It isn't only once that he has caressed your spine\nwith the handle of his bow !\nHeeen.\nAll men are the same.\nWieeowithe.\nWhat, Paris a 150...\nHeeen.\nNo. He was an agreable man who knew how to treat a woman.\nWieeowithe.\nBut he is dead, is he not ?\nHeeen.\nIt is not necessary to think of it."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "334", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.48", "texte": "WIEEO WITHE.\nDo not think of it then and thus escape that vertical crease of the forehead,\nwhich is the most difficult wrinkle to efface.\nOne should massage it each evening with the thumb.\nHEEEN.\nWith the thumb and a little purified mutton-fat.\nWllJ-yO WITHE.\nIndeed one can teach you nothing.\nLet me regard you again, not as mere men would do, having no knowledge\nof such matters, but with the eye of a woman.\nGreat gods ! (She sighs)\nAh, gods, how beautiful you are. There is no fault nor blemish in you.\nEven Ariadne, who has given this isle its fame,\nCompared with you was only a fat Cretan.\nHEEEN.\nYou would say a certain freshness ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYes indeed. — But where did you find that dress ?\nHeeen.\nYou do not like it ? — Yet in Troy it was the latest fashion.\nWiEEOWITHE.\nPrecisely.\nAnd Troy has been cut off from the rest of the world — ten years.\nHeeen, with trembling voice.\nWhat can I do ? It's the fault of that horrid Menelaus.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nSuch a curious green... Ah, it's many a day since I beheld it last. My grand-\nmother had a special weakness for it.\nAnd those great, embroidered animals, how strange ! Those Phrygian shoes,\nthat truly Cimmerian clasp...\nHEEEN.\nIt is not my fault!\n[She bursts into tears).\nWIEEO WITHE.\nWhat have I done, my dear ? Do not weep ! Do not ruin those lovely\neyes !\nListen! Do you know what I think ? It is you that will soon be in the\nfashion and I behind the times."}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "335", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.49", "texte": "This spoil that disperses itself in all directions...\nEverything, this winter, will pattern itself on Troy.\nHelen, tearfully.\nAh, ah !\nWILLO WITHE.\nAre you not content ?\nHelen.\nAh, you pierce me to the heart !\nWhen that brute of a Menelaus came I bade him go at once to despoil my\nsisters-in-law.\nThere were fifty of them and I knew their wardrobes.\nWe had five great galleys filled with trunks when we sailed away from Troy.\nAll that has perished in the whirlwind !\nWILLOWITHE.\nAh, that was a cruel blow !\n[She puts an arm around her).\nHelen, feeling of the cloth of her dress.\nMy dear, what is this material of which your dress is made ? I have never\nseen anything like it.\nWILLOWITHE.\nIt is pongee from China made from the silk of the oak.\nHelen.\nAnd it will wash ?\nWILLO WITHE.\nThe ship that brought it to us had been under the sea three weeks. It's\nthe first consignment for Europe.\nHelen.\nHow fortunate you are !\nWillowithe.\nAnd what would you say of that stuff more brilliant than silk and more\nfresh than linen\nWhich is prepared from the nettle ?\nHelen.\nYou have much of it ?\nWillowithe.\nForty bales well marked from the coast of Pharos. Ah, I lack for nothing here !\nNot an equinoctial storm but brings us the latest novelties."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "336", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.50", "texte": "Not a house of Tyre or of Thebes Heeatomplyes\nThat is not well known to us.\nAnd what purple we have !\nAs fresh as blood ! Iyook, it is the latest thing from Tyre. They call it\n\" The Trojan Woman/' And this other is \" The Helen/'\nYou blush ? Confess that you find it flattering.\nHEIvEN.\nAh, how lucky you are to live in so frequented a place !\nWIIXO WITHE.\nYes, that is the merit of this little sea-port.\nHEI.EN.\nI myself am bound for Sparta.\nWiixowithe.\nIt is a most honorable city and the customs there are good.\nHEI,EN.\nSimple, but good.\nWIEEO WITHE.\nOnce there, what orgies of fidelity you can indulge in with your\nMenelaus.\nHEIyEN.\nThe form of the hats is prescribed by civic law under penalty of death.\nWIIJvO withe.\nBut Nature is beautiful there.\nHow solemn is the noon of those long summer days\nWhen amid the intermittent baying of cicadas in the light that makes all\nthings vanish\nOne hears what might be the noise of a god putting an edge on his sword.\nAnd how the Taygetus, in the evening after the storm, roasts, as it streams\nbefore the sun,\nLike the spitted quarter of an ox before an enormous bonfire.\nHEI,EN.\nThe best thing to do at Sparta is to sleep. I detest the country.\nWiixowithe.\nThe women are beautiful there.\nHei^EN.\nThey make bread, tend the cows and dance like beasts.\nWilylyO WITHE .\nThe men are good companions."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "337", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.51", "texte": "Helen.\nThey only permit me to converse with fathers of families, upwards of forty,\nand I am only summoned when the dessert is served.\nThen we crack nuts together and train ourselves to speak laconically.\nWlLLOwithe.\nPoor Helen, ah, how you are going to suffer, you whose experiences have\nbeen so interesting!\nHelen.\nI prefer not to think of that.\nWillo withe.\n\" Where is that famous Helen? \" they'll say. '\nShe is at Sparta now embroidering saltpouches for the shepherds\nIt is she with her women who prepares those local biscuits of such renown\nThat one breaks with a bar of lead discovering inside black mummies of\ndried raisins.\nHelen.\nWith you, too, life must be extremely monotonous.\nWillo withe.\nMy dear, what a curious notion ! everything passes here. It's the centre\nof three worlds.\nWithout speaking of that sky above which constitutes a fourth.\nNot a day that one does not see a god descend. Ah, I know your father\nextremely well!\nNot a hero who does not stop to pay us a visit.\nNothing falls into the sea of which I am not offered the best.\nHelen.\nAh well, you are fortunate !\nWILLO WITHE.\nNo. I'm a woman of the hearth.\nTranquil, modest.\nA simple life and all of a piece that is what I desire.\nAh, this would be a position for you !\nHelen.\nDo not tempt me.\nWILLO WITHE.\nHelen of Naxos after Helen of Troy. Helen-of-the-midst-of-the-seas !\nThey would arm from all the ports of the world to come to look at you.\nAs they go to Delos towards the altar of Apollo and of !\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "338", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.52", "texte": "HEEEN.\nAnd if Menelaus comes to take me ?\nWieeowithe.\nEntrust yourself to me. Entrust yourself to lord Proteus.\nHEEEN.\nWho is Proteus ?\nWieeowithe.\nThe richest of all the demi-gods.\nHe has the contract for all the sea even as far as Tarentum. Speak to\nme of your Priam !\nHeeen.\nAnd as to his person ?\nWIEEO WITHE.\nYou will make of it what you wish.\nHe's an oddity who in place of the usual two legs prefers a great fish's tail.\nHe's as inoffensive as a legless cripple.\nHEEEN.\nTruly, things are not a little dead at Naxos ?\nWieeowithe.\nDead? The sea is like a great journal where everything that happens is\nrecorded.\nAnd if Naxos bores you here\nThere is nothing to hinder your putting it somewhere else.\nThe rock is light and floats like a sponge cake and like the beaten white of egg\nAnd if you wish to depart, you are free as air.\nCome, your career is not over. There is more than one Troy in the world.\nHeeen.\nThat bracelet on your left arm, of what is it made ?\nWIEEOWITHE.\nOf a marvellous and priceless substance known as Celluloid.\nHeeen.\nOne would say ivory but a hundred times more beautiful!\nHow have they given it that rosy hue ? It seems a ribbon of silk and one can\nsee the buckle and the three holes for the tongue, all copied with marvellous art.\nAh, what exquisite taste !\nWieeowithe.\nI make you a present of it.\n[She gives it to her)."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "339", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.53", "texte": "HEIvEN.\nAnd you say that there are still three pieces of that pongee ?\nWIIXO WITHE.\nThree pieces. I plan to take them with me.\nHEI^EN.\nHelen— pardon, my dear, I don't know what to call you... Leave them for me.\nWItI^OWITHE.\nIt will be a great sacrifice.\nHEIvEN.\nAnd how do you fasten your waist ?\nWIIXO WITHE •\nBehind, naturally.\nHEIVEN.\nBehind ! By the Good Goddess ! A waist that fastens behind !\nWIIXO WITHE.\nDo you see these buttons ? One has only to press upon them, and clac !\nHEI<EN.\nHow ingenious ! Let me try myself. Clic I pull. Clac I press. Clic,\nclac, clic, clac !\nWIIXO WITHE.\nSnaps they are called.\nHEI^EN.\nHow lucky you are ! I blush for my Scythian clasps.\nWIIXO WITHE.\nIt was a traveller from Jerusalem, head downwards who brought them to\nus the other day, on his way to the bottom of the sea.\nWe have three boxes of them.\nHEi,EN.\nHelen, my little Helen !\nWllXO\"withe.\nWell, Helen ?\nHEIvEN.\nLet me have these buttons !\nWiixowithe.\nAnd you will stay at Naxos ?\nHEI.EN.\nI consent."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "340", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.54", "texte": "WIIXOWITHE.\nThank you, Helen.\nHEEEN.\nHelen, farewell.\nWIIXO WITHE.\nFarewell.\n(Heeen goes out — Pause — Meneeaus re-enters).\nMeneeaus.\nHelen, where is that other Helen who came to disquiet me ?\nW IlylyO WITHE.\nThere is only one Helen, always faithful to you.\nThe other has melted away like a dream.\n[Music played by the orchestra expressing the sol-\nitude of the sea).\nMENEIvAUS.\nI believe you. For me alone you will be the Helen I have loved. The same,\nalways faithful.\nW IlylyO WITHE .\nThe other has melted away like a dream.\nMENEEAUS.\nBut, great gods ! Don't let anyone else find out!\nWIEEOWITHE.\nDon't let anyone else find out ?\nMENEEAUS.\nWe must see to it that everyone believes you to be that Helen whom the\nRavisher bore away.\nWiixowitke.\nWhy?\nMeneeaus.\nMy honour is concerned.\nWhat glory would be mine ? What would be said by the mothers of all\nthose brave young men who fell on the banks of the Scanmnder ?\n[The ship approaches. It is manned by Satyrs who\npush it with their oars. And for greater convenience it\nis mounted upon rollers)."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "341", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.55", "texte": "Mbnei^aus.\nAnd who are these lovely nymphs with fair white arms guiding our ship?\nWiixowithe.\nThe maids who slept with me.\nIt is from these our mariners shall be drawn.\nThe favorable Auster breathes and with day we shall behold the whitening\nshores of Greece.\n[They lower a plank for embarking).\nMenei^aus.\nMount, Helen.\nWI3XO WITHE •\nBut, tell me, did you not promise that Nymph\nWillo withe and her Satyrs, too, that you would take them away with you ?\nMenei,aus.\nIt is true, I swore to do it, but the boat isn't large enough.\nWiixo withe.\nOaths ought to be kept.\nMenei,aus.\nI swore by Zeus, my father-in-law, you know.\nThat is of no importance. When it's all in the family one does not scan too\nclosely.\nBut there is one last rite I must accomplish.\n(They bring him a pot of paint and with the tip of\nthe brush he paints the pupil in the centre of the ship's\neye).\nStay open, vigilant eye. Day and night, evening and dawn,\nTowards the fires, towards the stars, towards the marks of the sea,\nGuide us, great, patient eye of the laden ship that contains us,\nSubmerged to the shoulders in the sinewy breast of those seas that are\nfurrowed by our prow.\n(Both mount om board. The plank is drawn up)\nChorus of satyrs hoisting the sail.\nHe - hho !\nHe - hhe - he - hhe - he hho !\nHe hho !\nHe hho !\nHe hho!"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "342", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.56", "texte": "Meneeaus.\nWe do not stir.\nThe Satyr-Major, at the tiller.\nWe are grounded on the sand !\nHEEEN.\nMenelaus, give Proteus his spectacles.\nMENEIvAUS.\nNever. What I have taken by force only foice shall make me yield.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nDig a hollow with your oars.\n(They dig around the ship without effect).\nMENEIvAUS.\nHelp me, Jupiter !\n(Clap of thunder. Iris all bedecked with plaques\nof gold and little bells, in a costume that reminds one strong-\nly of that worn by Siamese dancers, falls from heaven at\nthe end of a cord. She attaches the hook from which she\nis suspended to the corresponding hook of the isle, and the\nwhole, whirling precariously, mounts to heaven amid ge-\nneral admiration. The isley in rising, reveals Proteus\nseated on a chair, a prey to profound dejection.\nThe ship is left solitary in the midst of a vast expanse\nof linoleum).\nWIELO WITHE.\nMiracle !\nMeneeaus.\nThanks, Jupiter !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nThe sea is free !\nOther Satyrs.\nFree ! Free ! Free ! Free !\nMeneeaus, going to the prow.\nBear to starboard, five points.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nBear to starboard, five points.\nThe Satyrs.\nWe move ! We move ! We're off! We're off !"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "343", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.57", "texte": "Meneeaus.\nThe breeze is not strong enough. All the oars in the sea !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nAll the oars in the sea ! {whistle).\nAttention !\nPull!\nOne, two ! One, two !\nThe Satyrs, singing at the top of their voices.\nMarguerite, she is ill' alas,\nShe must have the doctor come\nMarguerite, she is ill, ill, ill,\nShe must have, have, have, she must have, have, have,\nShe must have the doctor come.\nMENEIvAUS.\n0 Nymphs, what celestial voices ! What delicious melody !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nBack water, my children !\nThe Satyrs, as before.\nThe doctor who visits her\nForbids her any wine.\nDoctor, go to the devil\nIf you forbid me wine.\n1 have drunk it all my life\nAnd drink to the end shall I.\nX,et them lay me if I die\nIn the vault where they keep the wine.\nMy feet against the wall\nAnd my mouth beneath the bung.\nIf by chance some drops should fall\nMy gullet they'll appease,\nAnd if the cask should burst\nI would drink it at my ease.\n(Meneeaus raises his hand).\nThe Satyr-Major.\nPull in the oars !\nWhere are we going, my children.\nA Satyr.\nTo France."}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "344", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.58", "texte": "Another.\nTo Bordeaux.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nTo Burgundy ! When once we have freed ourselves from yonder imbecile.\nHear the wind that snores in the sail. It is Bacchus himself that calls us\nand offers us a sign !\nChorus of Satyrs.\nTo Burgundy ! To Burgundy ! Hurray for the Burgundian wine \\\nThe Satyr-Major.\nCome to plant the vine of Beaune !\nMenei.aus.\nBear to starboard, two points !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nBear to starboard, two points.\nA Satyr.\nI shall not stop before Chalons !\nAnother.\nI have a thirst that would drain the sea !\nThe Satyr-Major.\nMy children, what is the finest wine ?\nThe Chorus.\nIt is that of the coast that lies between Beaune and Dijon,\nThe Satyr-Major.\nMy children, what is the finest soil, the blackest, the richest, the best\nmanured.\nMENEIvAUS.\nThe breeze is dropping.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nWhistle for the breeze.\n(They whistle).\nThe Chorus.\nA soil that is dry and clotted, like curdled milk, and full of little chalky\npebbles,\nWhich retain the warmth like bricks,\nThat the heavy and dormant grape on two sides may be cooked.\nThe Satyr-Major.\nWhat is the finest soil, my children ?"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "345", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.59", "texte": "The Chorus.\nA meagre soil, with protruding bones,\nLike the cows that are good milkers, whereof the bones of the haunch\nprotrude\nMbnbi,aus.\nThe wind slackens.\nChorus of surging about the prow.\nFlouc ! flouc !\nThe isle of Naxos has been upraised to heaven. That's a good thing\nfor seals.\nFlouc ! flouc !\nOne less ! The fewer isles there are the better fare the seals. Hurrah !\nFlouc ! flouc !\nOld Proteus has lost his spectacles, hurrah! We shall have no more cube-\nroots to extract, hurrah !\nFlouc ! flouc !\nThe sea is free ! The sea is free ! It is free and we are in it!\nDo you feel it quake and tremble ? Do you feel this stroke of the loins\nthat sends us hurtling eight feet into the air !\nHurrah ! Hurrah !\nWhat a bound ! What a release !\nIt is free and we are in it! It is infinite and we are in it! There is more\nhere to drink than a cup of wine ! Youp, youp, youp, hurrah ! Youp, youp,\nyoup, hurrah !\n(The ship disappears followed by the seals).\nProteus, alone in the middle of the stage.\nAnd you find this reasonable ?\nWhat madness in all of this ! What derision of serious things 1 What a\nstupid farce !\nHere is Jupiter has need of his Helen to change her to a star.\nAnd it is true that there is a void in heaven that has a bad appearance\nbetween the stars of the Dioscurides.\nDoes he think of my sacred property rights for so much as a single moment ?\nDoes he even take the trouble to apprehend that wanton in the midst\nof my little garden where nevertheless she is plainly visible ?\nNot at all. Iyike an inattentive maid, like a careless swallow who, for a\nfly sweeps away the whole of a spider's web,\nIris being at hand, he mentions Helen's name, and it is my whole estate\nthat she carries up to heaven."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "346", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.60", "texte": "It is in heaven now, my sweet little isle of Naxos, with all of its collections\nand its six tobacco plants.\nGo there to look for it !\nIt is in heaven and waves of azure sky whiten against its reefs.\nAs for me, here I am alone, ruined, deprived of my spectacles.\nIt is well. I depart. I quit the surface. They shall not see me more.\nI plunge, nunc est bibendum!\nI shall make my retreat in the story below, in a more tranquil world,\nI shall live in a splendid palace, all made of bubbles of air, in the midst of corals,\nsponges, and sea-anemones !\nGoodbye, Menelaus, fair breeze, good voyage to you, navigator!\nIt is for this he has taken Troy !\nTo disembark on the Laconian shore this snub-nosed goat, this full cargo\nof horned beasts !\nWhere's the good sense in all this ? I put it to you. Where's the justice ?\nWhere's the good order and the good temperament ?\nAnd to think that this will always be so as long as the world is governed\nby poets ! Ah, it's not nearly ended yet.\nWhat misfortune ! What misfortune !\n(He dives).\nCurtain and Bnd.\n\nPaul, Claudel,\n(Translated from the French by John Strong Newberry)."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "347", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.61", "texte": "HELIOGRAPHS\nBayard Boyesen.\nFor Good and Evil the aspirant to wisdom substitutes Essential and Un-\nessential. This is the first step ; and the second is the realization that nothing\nis unessential.\nHe who looks to the future for anything thereby points to the inadequacy\nof his present; and therefore he would better look to his present in order that\nit may be repaired and fulfilled.\nFew men are wise, for few are capable of becoming what they are.\nHe who has become wise finds himself stripped of all the virtues without\nwishing or being able to do an unvirtuous act.\nThe sage neither seeks nor rejects ; he is content to hold himself so that\nthings may accrue or slough off according to his and their present needs.\nThe chief effort of religions is to force men up to a moral code. The chief\neffort of wisdom is to take them beyond the need of moral codes.\nHumanity constructs a personal God in order that it may praise itself\nwithout being conscious of conceit.\nIt is not the return to life that makes convalescence beautiful, but the\ntouch of death's reality still lingering as we come back.\nLove youth whole-heartedly and thus help it to unfold, or smite it most\ndrastically and thus force it to battle. But do not steal its confidence in order\nto betray it with the teachings of expediency.\nOne of the chief reasons why boyhood is so often beautiful is that it has\nnot yet learned to dissimulate the expression of the eyes."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "348", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.62", "texte": "ISHIJIMA\n\nIshijitna's poems were sung and recited by all the lovers in the Empire. He\nexpressed in golden words the pain and the joy and the trickery of the great\nPassion. Everybody said, — \" Many must be the poet's love affairs ! \" Men\nsaid it with a pang of jealousy, women with a sudden yearning to be embraced\nby him. But Ishijima was very lonesome and he had never known love. Out\nof his dreams and his desires he fashioned his poems.\nAt last, however, Ishijima met the woman, who seemed to him more beautiful\nthan his dreams, and he married her. And people said, — \" Now he will write\npoems about his beautiful wife. \" Men said it with a sigh of relief ; women\nwith a pang of jealousy.\nIshijima loved his wife and was loved by her, and their love was greater\nand more beautiful than his dreams.\nIshijima could not write any more. His brush traced languidly meaningless\ncharacters upon the gorgeous silk. What was there to write ? He had neither\ndreams nor desires, save the lips of his wife, and the lips of his wife were more\ndelightful than any words in any language. Therefore he did not write.\nAnd people gossiped. — \" Ishijima does not write any more. He does\nnot love his wife. Therefore he does not write. \" Men said it mockingly ;\nwomen with infinite compassion.\nIshijima thought: \" Happiness is the death of poetry And he mourned\nthe loss of his art, and yearned for his former illusions and pains.\nIn his despair, Ishijima pondered and ruminated : \" The death of love is\nthe resurrection of art, \" — and he took the soft throat of his wife between\nhis fingers, and pressed, until her little body, finer than a carven statuette, lay\nstill and pathetic upon the soft couch, covered with glistening silk on which were\nembroidered the greatest poems of Ishijima.\nBut Ishijima could not write. The meaning of words had vanished like\ncolored flames which are extinguished by an evil wind. He sat on his threshold,\nand drew long parallel lines with his dry brush.\nThe people talked. And some said, — \" Because of a mere woman, the\ngreat poet will never write again. \""}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "349", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.63", "texte": "Others : \" His hatred for her robbed him of his reason. \"\nOthers : \" Her cruel ghost has stolen his words. \"\nOthers : \" She was unfaithful, and her lips had become sour to him.There-\nfore he killed her. \"\nOthers : \" Without constant love poets cannot write. \"\nOne thought, but never said aloud : \" Love is the death of poetry. He lov-\ned her too much. Therefore he strangled her. He loves her still more now.\nHow then, shall he think of words ? It is best he draws parallel lines with his\ndry brush, — for who knows what he would say if his brush were wet, and he\nremembered the meaning of words ? \"\n\nPAUl Eldridge"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "350", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.64", "texte": "THE OFFERING OF PLEBS\n\nYou have betrayed me, Weak and Cold One\nWhom Plebs bestowed on me.\nHearing my cries in the night\nYou have brought me onion soups,\nArt of frying, red and then soft,\nCabbages and energetic dishes.\nAnd the bread of flowers become stale,\nYet the bread matured in the kneading trough,\n\" What ? the humble arts, the mud of floor,\nThe bread, the poor man's insipid walnut ? \"\nYou have not seen that I am the poor man\nAnd not the dealer who,\nWith buttocks breached with dead flesh,\nHas a mind well arranged in order,\nIn the boxes of a chessboard at rest,\nWith the symmetry of a shop enjoying good custom.\nYou have not seen that I am the poor man,\nAnd you have tried to ret me on the bank of the days\nWith tangible provisions.\nI wished only for bread,\nBut, in him,\nThe companion of mornings,\nEvenings and nights,\nYou did not care to recognize a man,\nBut a woman's husband,\nA function of man.\nI was in the night, Wise and Logical One,"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "351", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.65", "texte": "Discharged companion, delegate of Plebs,\nAnd you walked with me\nAs you loiter in broad day.\nYou have betrayed me without seeing me.\nYou have not known the prayer in the name of bread.\nAnd then, at the end, Mortal .One,\nYou have parted from me,\nYou have allowed me to raise my plaints of bitterness,\nLike vices of prisons and ships.\nYou have taken my pink staff away from me.\nYou have not perceived the man's misery at all.\nI am a poor man,\nAnd you have poured out animal drugs for me.\nYou have anointed me with oils that benefit,\nDogs in the laps of women.\nYou have not known the prayer in the name of bread.\nThe poet, here,\nIs the unknown master.\nHe rebuilds with his hands\nThe ruined houses.\nHe consecrates those which remain,\nThen he defends himself as best he can.\nAnd against him you have a single weapon,\nOne infallible lawT,\nThe smile, my wise and weak, indifferent friend,\nThe innocence which is not satisfaction,\nThe smile which is not altruism,\nNor ferocity, nor cowardice,\nBut the truce,\nThe door ajar,\nGod's part in the grey egg.\nYou have betrayed me,\nlistening to my troubles,"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "352", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.66", "texte": "Jean DE Yon have not seen that I am the poor man."}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "353", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.67", "texte": "Jean de Institutrice esthète.\n\n5"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "354", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.68", "texte": "Of which you made a long synoptic table,\nAnd then you brought to me\nThe lustral and medicinal jacket,\nThe Straps of ordinary commonsense,\nThe Clothes of \" searches for Utopia\nThe Roast beef for heavy buttocks,\nThe bouillabaisse of happiness,\nThe jacket which carries\nThe seal of the camp commander,\nAnd that of pathology.\nNow, your gown was too tight,\nBut still too large and too long.\nWhen you had thrust him in this gown,\nFor the madman's friend finds everywhere\nAccomplices with praises,\nFor the poet's friend possesses a straight jacket\nWhich is invisible and hard.\nThe friend finds assent from the fat,\nFrom the poised, from the good, from the nagels even,\nWhenever they stuffed him in this jacket,\nThey would lose him.\nHe was very tiny under the violent leather,\nAnd no part of neither straps nor cloth, touched him at all.\nPerhaps he was outside,\nOr perhaps inside.\nFor my part, X know that I was resisted.\nSo sometimes a lean flesh\nPasses through the meshes.\nBefore choosing another dear companion,\nHe summoned a minister, in consultation,\nWith a doctor and his syringes,\nAnd with an aesthetic governess\nThese heroes made fumigations,\nAnd then incantations of exorcism.\nThe poet coughs, sneezes, and runs away.\nThe wise man, the scientific comrade, cries :\n\" You see him, he lied,"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "355", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.69", "texte": "He concealed himself in the lustral gown ! \"\nAnd the poet thinks :\nThere were neither gown nor laws. \"\n■\nYou have not known the prayer in the name of bread.\nBut the poet's friend does not laugh.\nThere is a wrinkle on his forehead, erect, in altar smoke,\nWhich is the line between have and due.\nThe straight jacket is concealed in the cupboard.\nHe is the poet's guardian.\n\" This man bites, \" he says \" at his shadow.\nHe runs and leaps not like a man. \"\nHe is the poet's guardian.\nHe will answer for him before the tribe.\nHe measures his thoughts and leaps,\nBut not his onion soup,\nNor the four nails of his reason.\nHe is stupid !\nThe poet does not know if weight has gripped his feet.\nHe carries a cane if it rains.\nHe refuses to warm himself.\nHe commits crime for crime's sake.\nThey know it. They have said so.\nBut he, the friend,\nThe angel of the house,\nThe lion tamer and bear-trainer,\nHe, who has charmed the serpent,\nUnderstands all men.\nHe defends them against\nThis furious dog who bites and is ferocious.\nI am alone, ferocious !\nYou have betrayed me.\nYou have not known the prayer in the name of bread.\nYou have not known that I am the poor man,\nThe baggage of whose wild days' journeys"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "356", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.70", "texte": "Is not a knapsack with the fleas of reason,\nNor a branch of the tree of knowledge.\nBut who draws its last fragrance\nFrom a smile;\nWhose pilgrim's viaticum\nIs a smile\nIn the lasting shadow.\n\nJean de Bosschère."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "357", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.71", "texte": "FOX-TROT. — \" WHEN SOLOMON MET THE QUEEN\nOF SHEBA \"\n\nThe Navy at Ezion-Geba,\nGazed across the water amazed.\nWhen Solomon met the Queen of Sheba\nThe lions in the desert were dazed\nWith wonder at her striped pavilion\nThat blazed like a bright parhelion,\nThey roared their admiration\nAt this strange coruscation\nTill the satyrs took their tawny children trampling through the sand,\nTo march with the procession, to march with the band.\nThe flaming phoenix flew with its feathers to fan\nThe Queen at the head of her caravan ;\nBut the phoenix, though famously fabulous,\nWas jealous, envious and emulous\nFor the Queen of Sheba had a retinue\nStrictly in keeping with her revenue —\nvSix thousand camels and camelopards,\nTen thousand and ninety nigger bodyguards,\nThe camelopards, proud-necked and tall,\nWould scarcely notice the Queen at all,\nBut holding their heads as high as cedars\nBooked down upon a hundred dwarf, harnessed zebras,\nWhose stripes were arranged with such success\nThat the Queen could play a game of Chess"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "358", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.72", "texte": "When travelling. The camels kneel,\nOffer their humps for the Queen to feel,\nNodding arched necks and plumes of ostrich feather\nDyed like her bright Abyssinian weather,\nThe ten thousand niggers beat on gourds and golden gongs,\nSlashing the air with their piebald songs.\nThus the Queen met the King in Jerusalem,\nAnd he seemed wiser than Methusalem ;\nWith a great black beard, and a nose like a scythe,\nHe lived in the palace and subsisted on a tithe.\nHe gave the Queen of Sheba a welcome\nProportionate to her income.\nBut this amazing Amazon\nWas loveable, generous and free.\nShe brought a gift to Solomon of cinnamon\nWith an almug and nutmeg tree.\nThese he placed before his palace\nFor the pleased admiration of the populace\nEach sweet-smelling branch bore a budding bell of gold\n(Oh ! the blood of the Israelites ran cold)\nWhen evening-wind blurred the hills with blue\nThe swinging and the singing of the bells sang true.\nThese, by some magic stratagem,\nPlayed the Sheban National Anthem.\nAnd the thrill of each bell was like an Abyssinian bird,\nOr the golden voice of the Queen. For each word\nShe spoke, trembled, sparkled in the air,\nThen spread its wings, and flew from her.\nBut the Queen of Sheba went with Solomon\nTo his country-house at Lebanon,\nWhere she brought him gifts of hot-house grapes,\nOf ivory, of ebony, of elephants and apes,\nOf peacocks and pearls, and a hundred pigmy slaves,"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "359", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.73", "texte": "Born orange-coloured with hair that, waves;\nAnd each of them wore a turban\nPicked out with the plumes of a pelican.\nBut of all her gifts, by far the rarest,\nBrought from the terrible central forest,\nWith a vein of gold in its ivory horn,\nWas a love-lorn, milk-white unicorn.\nBut the King, though sweet as honey,\nHad an eye for the value of money.\nSo he only gave her a heraldic lion\nEmbossed with the arms (and nose) of Zion.\nThough the Queen of Sheba loved Solomon\nShe was not happy at Lebanon.\nIt was not the women of the Edomites,\nThe Zidonians, the Moabites, the Hittites or the Ammonites ;\nShe even listened to his proverbs. She put up with very many wrongs,\nBut in secretly reading his note-book, she found Solomon's Song of Songs,\nShe knew it at once — it was poetry. And she left the palace that day.\nBut Solomon knew not where she went to, or why she had roamed away.\nBut every evening in Jerusalem\nThe almug and the nutmeg trees\nFlaunt the Sheban National Anthem\nIyike a banner on the spice-laden breeze\n(And oh ! each golden bell seems a turtle-dove that cooed\nWithin the moonlit shadow of the Abyssinian wood).\nBut we wonder what she looked like, this fascinating phantasmagoria—\nAtalanta, Gioconda, Semiramis — or the late Queen Victoria ?\n\nosbert sitwell"}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "360", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.74", "texte": "Josef Capek.\nThe Man with a Wounded Hand.\nCzecko—Slovak Painting."}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "361", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.75", "texte": "Josef Capek.\nThe Drinker.\nCzecko—Slovak Painting."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "362", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.76", "texte": "THE COCKERED\nAllardyce Cromartie.\n\nFlaming Oriental sultan among fowl, strutting in truculent obliviousness\nof the monogamous restraint of our chaster breeds, there is no more singular de-\nfiance of the Occident than you. Migrator from the tropic east, not all the\nfrozen winters of our northern climes have served to cool the burning ardour\nof your impetuous desire. Contemptuous of the customs of your adopted land,\nyou claim the profligate excesses of a harem, outvying all the sultans in pro-\nmiscuity and glory.\nRuling your clucking mistresses with a vain dignit}7 that is not quite ridi-\nculous until you feel the quickening urge to subdue an unwilling and protesting\nhen : then with foolish laughter-lifting, fluttering sidesteps and plunging rushes\nyou race and ruffle up your feathers until you have conquered her through\nweariness, and as she rises from your taloned caresses, fluffing out her feathers, you\nstrut away indifferent but dignified again, and make pretence of pecking grain.\nAnd now, in all the shining wonder of your burnished breast and plumed\ntail, with crested head raised proudly as a king's upon his throne, you mount\nyour favourite steaming dunghill to peal your challenge forth upon the glitter-\ning air, and listen with eye-cocked intentness for the answers from adjacent\nfarms. . .\nSolomon never sat astride a refuse heap, nor kingfisher perched upon a rot-\nten fish, yet you. . .\nYou are a vulgarian in masquerade of kingliness, degrader of a loveliness\nyou are too dull to cherish, treading hens and dung with equal gusto. You should\ntread daintily, and mount the rooftree for your crowing.\nPerhaps the foul dung smells less offensively for your unconscious patron-\nage ; maybe the sluttish ugliness that environs you is brightened by the sheen\nof your breast and the graceful curving beauty of your tail."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "363", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.77", "texte": "DEDICATED TO THE ENEMY\n\n(continued)\n\nDrama deals with the passions.\nIn England dramatists and actors seem to be out to please a public — a\ncertain public, not the People — who have a certain terror lest a scrap of real\npassion peep out at them.\nDramatists and actor succeed in pleasing and become mild in doing so.. .\ntame mildness is not serenity.\nIt is very difficult for them to get themselves mild enough — and that they\nsucceed in substituting sentimentality for real sentiment, for passion — for nearly\neverything — shows what awfully clever men they are. It takes them about\nfifteen years apiece to rid themselves of the instinct to think about things like\nShakespeare or Moliere. It is a very great achievement indeed, and the operation\nthey perform on themselves must be as painful as it is dangerous.\nShakespeare, whose plays are all passion, and who was once considered\nby us all to be a dramatist of some account, is nowadays held by this particular\npublic to be either pompous, gross, dull, or vague. His grand Ghosts, Autocratic\nKings, his splendid Aristocrats, and those very weak beings of his called the Heroes,\nare all considered a bore. And Romeo, the hero of all lovers, is only tolerable\nto-day if he can reassure the spectators by his drawl, by his inaccurate pronuncia-\ntion of our English, and by a west-end bearing that his position in Piccadilly is\nall right, and that he is one of us. . . top hole. . .\nIn short, to-day the spectator in the Theatre dominates the work of art,\nmaking it what it is — (a thing we were long ago warned against,) — and the\ndramatist and the actor — all three shiver to say Bo to the Public and daren't.\nJuliet or Ophelia to-day can just avoid our censure if she can cry well, lisping\nand panting the while as one who babbles on of love — flapper-like.\nSo the actor drops the Dramatic — Mr. Stoll opens one more Colosseum —\nruns it magnificently as usual, and makes it possible for the personality of\nMr. Wilkie Bard to charm thousands. There must be always room for such as\nMr. Bard — there always has been room."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "364", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.78", "texte": "But a place in the sun for Shakespeare too. . . would that be asking too\nmuch ? ... or cannot England run to it ?. . .\nNow someone in England who might honour Shakespeare for England's\nsake — not for sentimental reasons, for mighty serious ones — this someone\ndoesn't. Who is the boss, as the workmen call the governor, the chief. . . who\nis he ? Is it our Prime Minister, is it another, is it a third ?—or do all these\nthree plus a few more make up the total ? I don't care who it is, but the\nboss is not playing the game. The dramatists and actors would like to, but\nunless they see the boss doing it they never will.\nNow suppose (as I suppose 'tis true) that the two Houses — the Lords and\nCommons — stand for what is called the boss. I don't imply some bogey who\nstruts and frets, but a fine old figure who spite of his tantrums and errors and all,\ndoes really stand as head of our family — the English Family. If it be the two\nHouses, then it is within the power of the two Houses to unite without one dissenting\nvoice in this little matter of the Theatre.\nThis would be playing the game, and nothing else is.\nTo go into this matter is a proper thing to do in 1922. There is no reason\nwhy this one branch of Public Service should-be allowed to go to ruin, because\nthere is a little uncertainty as to who's who in the world of the English Theatre.\nEveryone is Who. Everyone of our Dramatists, Actors, and Stage-managers ;\neveryone of the profession and of the trade.\nBUT — (and here is where cheating begins as soon as the ball is started\nrolling) every one in his right place, not in some one else's place.\nThere are the Dramatists, Shaw, Pinero, Jones.\nThere are the Stage-managers, Poel, Barker, and Myself.\nThere are the Actors, Martin Harvey, Matheson Lang, Henry Ainley.\nThere are the Designers, Wilkinson, Fraser, Rutherston.\nI select only four branches of the service and name only three men to\neach branch because one can't make interminable lists.\nNow I have not put down any list of actor-managers — for to put things,\nand each man, in his right place one must not include those men who are every-\nthing and nothing.\nFor example, in my opinion (and I hope my old friend will not disagree),\nMartin Harvey is essentially an actor, and one of our very best: and it is a loss\nto England and to the English Theatre that he is unable to confine himself solely\nto the development of his considerable talent instead of stage-managing, produ-\ncing, and designing, three branches of the stage-manager's craft and three bran-\nches which he does indifferently well.\nThe same thing applies to Ainley and to Matheson Lang.\nIn short, to put all in place once more in the English Theatre the first thing"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "365", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.79", "texte": "to be done (I repeat what I have said in my other books and must do so till it\nis accomplished) is to find your stage-managers, for it is the stage-manager who\nis the boss in the theatre. One for each Theatre has to be found, and, when\nfound, empowered.\nAnd there is no better way of honouring an artist than by empowering him\nto do his work.\nAnd in doing this the two Houses would be playing the game again so far\nas our Dramatic Art is concerned.\nTill this is done all the fine reasons which can be found to excuse all action\nis but a begging of the question.\nBut what can we do ? \" Up go the brows, and worry is once more at\nher silly work.\nWhat you can do is this. . . Make it clear to the People that the Stage, Shake-\nspeare, our modern Dramatists, Actors and all, are worthy of the support and\nfriendship of England.\nBut how can we do this ?\nHow do you do it when you wish to make it plain that I,ord Northcliffe and\nhis journals are worthy of England, etc. ? How do you make it plain to the\nPeople that our British Navy is a National Institution worth honouring ? Certain-\nly not by cheapening Lord Nelson — yet you cheapen Shakespeare. — \" When ?\n— How ? \" — I leave it to you to remember when and how ; . . . not so far back,\neither,. v . not long ago.\nYou honour the English Theatre, the British Theatre, by first honouring\nits most trusted Guides. Not its actors,... the Public honours them evervnight.\nNot its tradesmen,. . . they get paid well, and will always prosper, we hope. Not\nits Societies, \" \" Leagues \" and its little beginners down at Bard-on-Avon,\ngood though all these may be IN their place : but look more carefully — more\ncuriously and select your men with greater care. Search for twenty stage-man-\nagers, and if you fail to find them call some of us to help you. Do not allow it to\nbe said once more Search was Made all ovey England foy a Company which could\nbe putin the field which should beay comparison with that of Pyofessoy Reinhardt\nand could not be found \"... don't allow that to be stated by an authority as\nit was stated, for it's not playing the game — it is defrauding the English People —\nit is mightily worthy of mugs.\nWhile this whole Book dedicates itself to the enemy, the Foreword I dedi-\ncate to my friends.\nAnd if my critics are friends to the whole content of The Theatre, then my\ncritics must be among my friends.\nYet even good friends possibly can sometimes misrepresent us. — And"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "366", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.80", "texte": "it is to suggest that there might be a little less misrepresentation going on in\nEngland about members of what is known all over the world as the New Move-\nment in the Theatre. . . that Movement which represents all that is best in the\nTheatre of today. . . that I write this.\nI happen to be one of these members ; and in misrepresenting my aims —\nby stating that my sole thought is for Sceneries, you, my critics not only misre-\npresent me but the whole Theatrical Movement. Doing this you run the chance\nof doing a good deal of harm to the English Theatre and misleading the younger\nmen who are so full of promise and whose work deserves better than that of\nyou. To annoy good fellows who do good work and show loyaity to the best\nideals of work, art and comradeship in work, is not the best way to serve the\nEnglish Theatre, nor is it your conscious wish to act so. — If you ever do so\nyou do so unconsciously I am sure.\nYou fancy — owing to the simple fact that you have not the time to study\nmy work nor learn my reasons for not competing with the commercial theatres\nor the \" artistic theatres, \" — and because you have not the faintest notion\nof how much I have gladly sacrificed in the last fifteen years to set an example\nto my followers — you fancy that you ought not to study my work ought\nnot to learn why I act as I do . . and more than this you fancy that you ought\nnot to study carefully what the great masters of the different crafts have done\nand written in the Past.\nNow I suggest that unless you do this and unless you make yourselves under-\nstand what it is I have done and still continue to do, and what they have done and\nsaid, you will be acting in a manner unworthy of every fine tradition of journalism\nand every English tradition.\nThat it is not entirely your fault is obvious.\nThe life of the dramatic critic of to-day is no easy job. — To have to write\nabout the stuff which the Commercial spirit of any Theatrical Manager puts\nbefore you must be nauseating \\ to have to awctkcu an interest where none yet\nexists must be a little wearisome at times, more especially when it is obvious\nthat a living interest in such things is as natural as eating and drinking. But\nyour power is very great — and your trust a very fine one, and were I not a\npractitioner in the Art and I can imagine no greater happiness than to be solely a\nstudent of past present conditions. . . a rabid student for facts and dates. But I\nfind that English critics do not reveal a knowledge of the facts and dates beyond\nknowing what has occurred in the English branch of the stage crafts.\nIn America it's as difficult and as unpleasing a job to-day as in England,\nbut I really don't think it is too difficult if only some one would begin.\nIn fact I know of only one critic in America who has real discernment and\npluck, but then he has studied and knows more than the rest. He enjoys the old"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "367", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.81", "texte": "rubbish of the Playhouse (I think we all do) just as he appreciates the old master-\npieces — but he doesn't get muddled as to which is which, praising the rubbish\nand carping at the masters. He discerns — and is not that the first duty of\nthe critic ?\nDon't you think it would be delightful to have read Riccoboni's works,\nbesides knowing his name and his worth ; to have heard of a man called Gali\nwho lived in Bibiena and had eight remarkable theatrical sons and grandsons ;\nto have read d'Ancona, dipped into Sabbattini and Serlio, and know our friends\nJacob, Olivier, Dorpfeld, Jullien, Chambers, Giorgi, Bartoli, Scherillo, Rigal,\nBapst, Lecomte, Semper, nd Dumont, as well as our old friends whom we know\nwell enough, Collier, Cibber, and the rest.\nConceive the happiness of the Editors who could count on scholarly critics,\nmen never tired of indulging their taste for learning ; who could count on human\ncritics, — men never too tired to have the ancient and best joy of helping young\nmen on by being a little blind to their faults, while all the time encouraging\nthem with information as to past failures and how success was won or snatched\nfrom such failures. The pride the younger men would have in you, the friend-\nship they would hold for you would be surely something worth all the labour and\nthe sacrifice... for I suppose it would entail some sacrifice.\nIt would also entail having no fear.\nAnd after all there should be nothing so very alarming about an Editor.\nWhat can he do ? If lam a Dramatic Critic he can but give me the sack. If\nI get the sack once I try again: — if twice, I reconsider all things ; — if thrice,\nI publish what I want to say as I want to say it in a journal of my own . . . but\nI do not give into ignorance, although its stomach may measure sixty-two inches\nand be the highest and mightiest tool in the land, the tool of ambitious vulgar-\nities who must paddle their own canoes just because their husbands run their\nown steamboats.\nReading over some of the five or six thousand criticisms on my productions\n— I have made thirteen in all; —of my books — four or five have appeared;\nof my twenty-six exhibitions of designs and of other activities — I come upon\nthe very last criticism of all dated July 4th 1920. It appeared in the \" Observer, \"\nit was not signed. I will not quote, it, but I give the date so that anyone\ncurious to make a note of its contents may do so.\nIt is one of those typically hopeless pieces of criticism. I mean it shows\nthat the writer had not taken the trouble of learning his business . . or had\nlearnt it once and forgotten it.\nIt is the first business of a critic to know what an artist has done — to be\ninformed. Then he runs no danger of misinforming others."}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "368", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.82", "texte": "Now in our Theatre of Europe as it advances, critics must have a chance to\nadvance with us.\nOur English critics may be badly informed . . . and when we realize that\nthis is seldom their own fault it seems a little too bad. It is bad for the\nPublic, who get misinformed, bad for Journalism, wich becomes incorrect. . .\nbad for the Arts, bad for progress.\nTo sum up, it is just a little silly because quite easily put to rights.\nIn Politics, in Commerce, in all the other fields of endeavour I'm sure I know\nnot at all whether to be exact is of value or valueless. It might do a lot of harm\nI (as an outsider) suppose for the true facts of a Political case to be recorded.\nI suppose it might be in some cases even more truthful to lie, . . . let me\nsuppose.\nIn the Arts — in our Theatre Art — it is not so. About this I do not sup-\npose — I know. Yet it seems to me that the critic journalist brings to his\ntask all the doubts and fears as to what is best to tell the Public about our Arts\nas does his brother in the Political field.\nI make a plea that in the matter of the Arts critics be left free — that the\nonly order they receive from their Editors is, \" Be well informed — and exact.\"\nNo harm can be done — much good would come.\nBut something more would have to be done to aid the Dramatic Critic\nthan to give him an order. He needs to be as versatile in his own way as a stage-\nmanager — such a stage-manager as I have drawn in my book published by\nHeinemann. 1\nFor example, since Drama and Theatre are a composite art he should know\nwhat it is that a Dramatist or a Stage-manager is about when he writes a play\nlike \" The Tempest, \" or produces one like \" The Miracle, \" and whether in the\nHistory of the Theatre any such attempts were ever made before — or not.\nHe should be able to visit the Dowdeswell Galleries and speak with real\nunderstanding and illumination of the designs shown there by Bakst, Wilkinson,\nor Rutherston. He should be able to pass from there to the models by C. Lovat\nFraser and understand what is in them. Then on to the South Kensington\nMuseum and let us hear all abut the Bibienas there — and the architectural\ndrawings for Theatres.\nHe should know something more than we hear about the modern inventions\nfor stage machinery, and he should tell us what he has found out. He should\nknow about all the ancient devices for lighting a stage and an auditorium. He\nshould know, in short, what can be actually known, not guessed about — and\nhe should pass it on to us all.\n1 \"On the Art of the Theatre.\""}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "369", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.83", "texte": "What we hear about is how Garrick played this scene and how Mrs. Siddons\nplayed that one : and the modern English theatrical critic of course retells us\nall about this hearsay. But if we should ask him how many permanent thea-\ntres existed in 1600 and where these theatres built, and if he has seen designs\nof them, and whether any are still in existence, if he has visited them, what they\nare like, where we can see them or their plans, what it costs to go there or get\nthese, I fancy he will be able to give us but a poor answer. It would be the\nsame with questions we might put to him about nearly everything relating to\nthe stage of the past and the stage of to-day — excluding England; and even\nof this stage he is sometimes behind the times in his information.\nAs I said, this is not his fault. He is not allowed time to study, nor time\nand money to travel. And so he is apt to write as ignorantly as did the writer in\nthe \" Observer \"on 4th July 1920.\nEveryone nowadays is forming Committees or \" Guilds, \" or \" Leagues, \"\nor \" Societies \" to deal with Theatrical matters.\nI would willingly act in any capacity on a first-class \" Society, \" which would\nhave as its sole aim the betterment of English Dramatic and Theatrical Criticism,\nbased upon a thorough knowledge of all that has been done and all that is being\ndone in Europe and America to improve Theatrical and Dramatic Art.\nI make this suggestion here in my book because I want it known — the\nidea may not be taken *up for a while, but someone reading this even in a year\nfrom now may see how important it is that in a matter useful to all and harm-\nful to none we should have exact information all the time, and it may occur to\nsomeone able to improve the lot of Dramatic Critics that the way to help best is\nto establish a substantial fund ... a Chair, maybe, of Dramatic Criticism . . .\nAnyhow,to give a proper chance to half a dozen men eager to take it, of leading\nthe Dramatic Criticism of Europe.\nIt may be that a genius for Criticism can go ahead without information.\nI believe otherwise. lam sure that we all need more and more reliable books\non the Theatre written by Englishmen — such men should have the leisure to do\nthis — and who but the Dramatic Critics are the men to whom this task belongs\nby right ?\nSome younger men should be released from that regular drudgery of having\nto witness night after night dull \" premieres \" which in the end kills all imagi-\nnation and distorts all perspective. They should be released and given oppor-\ntunities, and, allow me to emphasize it now and here, cash ... the means to travel\nand see what is being done, discover what has been done and come back and tell us.\nI really hope that something will be started at once to bring this about.\nI believe the English Theatre would feel the benefit of the results in less than a\nyear or two.\n6"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "370", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.84", "texte": "\" Why, what should be the fear ? . .\nWhen last I was in London in June of 1920 I stated that there were no\nactors in England who could act Shakespeare.\nThis gave some offence to a number of gentlemen and ladies of the Theatri\ncal Profession — and it gave greater offence to a few whose affection I value,\nwho began to tell me I had no right to make such a statement.\nOf course I have no right to do so. There are twenty or thirty reasons why\nI have no right to. But there is one reason which out-weighs the thirty, even\nwhen we add thirty to them and so make sixty. — Make it ninety-nine . .\nand my reason still outweighs the lot.\nMy reason is this.\nAll the ninety-nine reasons which are advanced are advanced by men and\nwomen who do not and will not sacrifice an immediate success for a truth. Be\nit a successful engagement — or two — or three ; be it a sum of money —\nbe it the approval of their fellows (and what is sweeter than this ?) — be it\npersonal ambition or personal vanity . . . none of these will our good friends\nof the Theatrical Profession sacrifice when it comes to choosing between these\npersonal advantages or standing firm for the truth about the English Theatre.\nNow what is the truth about our Theatre ? It is something like this .. ,\nIst Truth : It possesses the best set of Plays in any language.\n2nd Truth : It rarely exercises these. They are like a marvellous stud of\nblood horses cooped up in their stables, and the very devil to ride when anyone\ndoes venture to exercise them in the paddock.\n3nd Truth : The best of riders, if they continue to ride hacks, court a fall\nwhen they mount thoroughbreds.\nSo that unless Shakespeare's plays are being continually acted by our ac-\ntors — unless they can come to cope with the versatility of his genius . . . the\nheroic size of his thought and the stupendous force of his passion, our actors\ncannot produce a company which we can call representative of England.\n4th Truth : Those of our actors and actresses who best perform the Shakes-\npearean Drama (and they are quite a number *) will admit that if they under-\nstand and love the great Drama as it deserves, nothing they could do for it would\nbe too much — no sacrifice they could make would be too great for the honour of\nShakespeare — their Profession and England. — Well, they sacrifice nothing\nfor it.\nI put it to them that a sacrifice worthy of their calling and their ideals would\n1 As they all know, I have the liveliest appreciation of the qualities of our best\nShakespearean actors: of Ainley, Norman Forbes, Matheson Martin Harvey, Fisher\nWhite, Quartermaine, Carter; of Miss Nielson Terry, Miss Sybil Thorndike, Miss Viola\nTree, and of some others too."}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "371", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.85", "texte": "be to raise the standard of playing and keep it flying ; to take no offence when\nsuch an old friend and an old worker as I am says that the standard is not high\nenough, but, first ridding themselves of their own personal feelings as I have\nrid myself of these, come nobly to me and give me a hand, a heart, and that which\ngoes with it, a purpose and a promise to see things through. After that a council\nas to how best to do it.\nThe truth is that no such spirit existed when I made my statement last\nJune — in 1920.\nsth5th Truth : The English actors and actresses are very polite, very charming,\netc., etc. ~ . \" I come to wake up Caesars, not to praise them. \". . . I am\nnot particular to be \" polite \" to a few at the expense of the whole Nation —\nand the Art of the Theatre. I'll be as rude as is necessary, till it's acknowledged\nthat I am right about this.\n\" The Polite \" are often given to saying the rudest things behind one's\nback. The Rude are sometimes given to speaking better of us in private than\none would imagine. In fact Truth is more often Rude than Polite. It shows\na rude exterior to me and to you if we play hanky-panky with it. It treats you\nand me alike in this.\n\" And so, \" says my friend the Actor to me, \"You think that you — you —\nare the chosen one, the mouth from which Truth about the Theatre alone .\nissues...\" To which I reply : \" When you will enjoy to give up a tenth of what I\nhave enjoyed giving up to serve the cause of truth in respect to the European\nTheatre — and the English Theatre in particular — then everyone will recognize\nyou also have a right to claim that what you say is the truth. \"\nAgain, it is one of the most usual things for us all to express, and express\nvery strongly, our opinion of a Gladstone, a Beaconsfield, or a Lloyd George.\nOne we call the murderer of Gordon; the other the Pantaloon of Politics ; the last,\n— I don't know what we don't call him. Honourable Members do not actually\nfire pistols at one another across the venerable floor of the House, but they go\nit pretty strongly. I like that; — you like that; — it's awfully English,\nyou know.\nNow, no one ever goes for me except in the \" polite \" rather mean manner.\nI seem to have to be on my feet all the time and doing all the cackling. When\nby chance a member of our House does get up it's one of my own side . . . can't\nfight my own side. The Government sits tight and mute — yes, mute and let\nus hope tight. For lam on the opposition benches as yet.\nDon't let us play at Politics. . . the politics of the Theatre are futile.\nMy word about Beaconsfield and Gladstone and the House of Commons was\nmerely shot out to illustrate the truth that yon can differ and be friends ; and to\nsuggest that some talk from both sides does no harm and a mighty lot of good."}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "372", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.86", "texte": "Personally I know no better talkers than the actors — good humoured\nbeyond words — I'd like to exchange some of my pedantic humours for some\nof their geniality ; then why not — why must all the talk of their side be\nwhispered and be confined to the question of \" shop \"; or, if not that, dressing\nroom or club room talk in which all the best they have to say is lost on those who\nare the opposite bench... all because they will whisper.\nThat isn't good for us and isn't good for them.\nSpeaking of us I may as well mention that in the Profession there really\nis an Opposition Party as well as a Government Party. (I continue the use of\nPolitical terms for a while because it expresses clearly to all how we are placed—\nand what the Theatre all over the world is made up of.) In England, then,\n\" the Theatrical Profession \" is the group which we may call the Government,\nand the Group which, known as the Opposition, is that smattering of independent\nmen and women who are not in \" Power \" and yet are the inspiration of the\nothers.\nAll the artists are in the Opposition all over the Earth.\nYou query that: you point to the great Sarah Bernhardt. . Why, once\nupon a time there never was a bigger figure on the Opposition benches than Sarah\nBernhardt. She selected to go over to the other side, that's all. Now she is a\nmember of the Government. That's very right and proper for people past\nsixty, . . . but it does seem a bit natural for younger folk . . . now doesn't it,\nPhyllis ? ... to be in the Opposition.\nThe momentary lapse into Political figures of speech is not so out of place\njust here, for there's a among a number of men and women in the\nTheatre who could .. . and don't. . . help to push things along, to sit on the\nfence — to attempt to be just — to take no sides.\nThat would be fine if it wasn't a bit futile.\nFor while actually there are no sides as there are in Politics — and thank\nHeaven for this — there is a standard, and it must be up or down ; — half-\nmast high — the golden mean — compromise, announces a death. And, as we\nshould know by now, \" the man who sees two sides to a question sees nothing\nat all.\"\nAnd although we have no \" sides \" in our work, there must be and there are\nmany sides to our difficult problems, the main problem of which is for us \" How\nto bring our English Theatre to a condition which shall finally place it second to\nnone in Europe. \" And I should say the answer is to use every man and every\ntalent and every penny we have to back our best horse.\nI think that to-day our best horse is called Shakespeare.\nSomeone tells me that I have written elsewhere that Shakespeare's Plays\nare not for acting. — Can I have contradicted myself ? Oh, what a sin ! Can"}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "373", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.87", "texte": "I have said that you can say \" Yes \" and \"No \" and yet reply correctly. If\nI have not said so you know quite well that this is true — tha under some con-\nditions Yes is the only reply to make to a question to which No is the sole\nanswer.\nLet me ask you to be a little more cautions before asserting that I contra-\ndict myself — for here I happen not to. When I spoke of Shakespeare as being\nnot actable, not for the Stage, I spoke, if you will remember, as one who was\nreviewing the whole question of the Theatre of the World — and the Theatre as\na creative Art. Here I speak as one who reviews one section of the whole — the\nmost backward section — that is, the English Theatre. And for the English\nTheatre it will do well — can do no better — to begin at Shakespeare. For\nin Shakespeare is all Burbage, remember ; in Shakespeare is a huge deposit of the\nCommedia dell'Arte. 1\nYou who fail to understand how I can make two such apparently contra-\ndictory statements about the Shakespearean Plays would fail to understand that\na paradox covers the whole truth. If you cannot understand that Shakespeare's\nPlays are unactable and yet are the best stuff on which to rebuild the English\nTheatre of 1921 — then you cannot understand a paradox.\nBother your head no longer about Paradoxes — be less clever till you are\ncleverer — remain in the dark rather than open eyes which cannot stand the glare\nof that torch which even Truth herself holds above her own head. There are\nplenty of hands waiting to take yours and help you along in the dark — if yon\nwon't talk, argue, and attempt to reason when crossing on a narrow plank over\nan abyss 30,000 feet deep — and that is what life amounts to.\nTruth is not one-sided, not three, not any number of sides. It is as round\nas it is square : as fluid as fixed : as strong as it is weak : as hot as cold.\nIt is not enough for us to say that while half the earth is awake the other\nhalf is asleep, for that is not at all true. The world, thank Heaven, is all the time\nhaving as much evening and morning as day and night. There is no moment\nbut in some place men are falling off to sleep and waking up. There is no moment\nbut in some place a bell is heard striking the hour of seven. Therefore for Mr.\nWilliam Archer to assert, as he strolls over to the theatre some evening, that it\nis seven o'clock would be incorrect of Mr. Archer. It is merely seven o'clock to\nhim. It is eight o'clock to Signor Danilo ; but Signor Danilo would never be rash\nenough to swear to the hour, for after all it is 10.30 in the morning to II Profes-\nsore in San Francisco.\n\n1 The Commedia dell'Arte, or Professional Comedy, was the sixteenth, seventeenth,\nand eighteenth, centuries' idea of genuine Theatricals unmixed with the literary, the phil-\nosophical and the metaphysical. It was the genuine expression of the actor."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "374", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.88", "texte": "\" Home at last, \" says Mr. Archer, looking at his watch which points to the\nhour of midnight. But Signor Danilo is at home and it is one o'clock, and the\nProfessor is at home and it is 3.30.\nAgain Books, Boats, Houses, Horses, screws, meals, and a host of other\nthings are not all made and handled alike, and so it is incorrect when the prim\ntell us we can't and we must'nt make or handle them in any but one way.\nBooks are not only printed forwards. In Japan they print 'em backwards.\nThere is not one rule of the road — if in England the horses are kept to the\nleft they will be right only in England, for in Italy the opposite is the rule.\nScrews of a carpenter's bench in Italy turn the other way to screws in an\nEnglish bench.\nAnd just as Mr. Archer and other good men get fixed ideas into their heads\nabout what seems to them to be the certainty of the hour and place, and the un-\nchangeability of other customs, so do the critics of this other world — this\nTheatre world — get just as fixed idea about the Theatre, or they would not be\nso ready to assert that the Theatrical Art is this or that, but cannot possibly\nbe the other.\nFor it can be what it likes.\n\nGordon Craig.\n\n(To be continued)"}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "375", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.89", "texte": "COMMENT\n\nThe December issue of our contemporary, Les Ecrits Nouveaux, contains\nan article on the Russian Theatre under the Soviets. A. Andre Julien, the\nauthor, so strikingly supplements and amplifies the Notes of M. Ehrenbourg in\nBroom that we paraphrase at length therefrom.\nThe present Russian Government has a secretary and department of \" Edu-\ncation by means of Theatrical Productions The present incumbent of this\nportfolio is Comrade Kel, whose duties, as he himself states them, chiefly consist\nin \" ideology and organization, \" i.e., an examination and search for artistic\ntrends in the theatres, and a dissemination of the best that is found. Kel ex-\npressed regret that little novelty had as yet emerged, but harboured the hope\nthat new inspiration would spring from the proletariat.\nThe immediate program of this department is to bring into the closest pos-\nsible contact the labouring classes and the theatres, by means, first of all, of the\ncreation of as many theatres as possible. In 1914 Russia possessed 70 good\ntheatres and 140 theatres of small account. The latter have been annihilated.\nSoviet Russia at present exults in 2197 subsidized theatres and 3452 active organ-\nizations in the smaller villages : altogether nearly 6000 stages compared with\n210 under the old regime. Most of the smaller organizations have arisen from\nthe private initiative of groups of communists unaided by official assistance. Of\ncourse the Bolsheviks do not neglect such an opportunity as the theatres provide\nfor addressing the people.\nControl of theatrical activity, since the inception of the Revolution, has\nbeen vested in a commission which enforced a strict censorship forbidding the\nstaging of any production not chosen by themselves. This seriously limited\ninitiative, and therefore the commission was suppressed last June.\nA new inclusive organization has been established instead, made up of Meyer-\nhold, Stanislavski, Sanine, Vacktangof and Kel. In other words the leading\ntheatrical artists of Russia : artists not propagandists.\nMeyerhold, the President, is the most daring, influential and original of those\ntheatrical directors with communist sympathies. He created the first theatre\nof \" The Socialist Federation of the Russian Soviets \" notable for having produced\nthe Aurora of Verhaeren and the Mysteres Bouffes of Maiakovski. The author\nof Mysteres Bouffes, has the same position among the writers, as Meyerhold"}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "376", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.90", "texte": "among the directors. He also fought in the war as a red soldier and assails the\nart of yersterday with the same violence. The Mysteres Bouffes in its futuristic\nvisions of class war and world struggle seeks to satisfy the eye and stimulate\nimagination rather than reason. It is criticised by the intellectuals ; I,unat-\ncharski has judged it severely, and Stanislavski has declared : \" It is a caricature\nthat never unfolds its wings. \" However, the crowd that nightly throngs the\ntheater acclaims it with enthusiasm.\nThus in the new commission, Meyerhold personifies communism, with\nits daring departures and Stanislavski, culture, taste and the old artistic con-\nscience. Even when his radical associates consider his conceptions passe,\nthey continue to hold him in deep veneration. Stanislavski has never faltered\nin his task. He is still the man whom Copeau credited (Cahier du Vieux Colom-\nbier — novembre 1921) with the creation of \" The only school of the modern\ntheatre carried to perfection. \" The same man of whom Gordon Craig writes in\na recent letter to Broom : \" Now the two (Stanislavski and his associate) made\ntheir theatre worlds famous — the first in Europe — How ? Their chief rule is\nthis : 'We will show a production to the public not by any given date but only\nwhen it is ready'\nAlthough this differentiation of ideal exists between Stanislavski and\nthe communists directors \" for whom the art theatre has no value beyond the\npersonality of its director, Stanislavski, since it is only of mediocre interest\nfrom the point of view of social life, because it addresses itself to the intellectuals, \"\nnevertheless he is allowed complete freedom. As Kel states it:\"It is such an\nartist of truly exceptional talent that we should surround with the greatest\nconsideration, for his cooperation is essential to us Stanislavski is more skep-\ntical of his confreres than they are of him. Before the creation of the newT com-\nmittee of which he is a member, he is quoted by M. Julien as having said : \" The\nrevolutionists wait for something new, but art comes ahead of the revolution\nand goes farther. One cannot make propaganda of art. \"\nThere is probably another reason for the division between Stanislavski\nand the new theatre, not mentioned by M. Julien. Stanislavski brought to\nperfection the realistic theatre ; he might be called an inspired Belasco ; 110 one\nhas evei produced dramas of Ibsen and Tschekoff in a comparable manner. Ev-\nery detail had to be true to life ; the actors were taught to lose themselves in\ntheir parts to such an extent that several have been reported to have gone insane.\nNot only in Russia is this emphasis antipathetic to the spirit of the new theatre.\nExpression by means of symbols, more abstract and less naturalistic, is the trend\nof creators in the western world ; and the Mysteres Bouffes might be preferred\nby the younger groups outside of Russia, to the Cherry Orchard, even under the\ndirection of Stanislavski."}, {"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "377", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.91", "texte": "M. Julien also describes Kachalof's presentations of Byron's Cain and of\nGogol's Revisor : The three new schoools opened under Kachalof's direction and\nthe continuation of the opera. He speaks of Vackatangof, the third member\nof the commission, and his performances of St. Anthony by Maeterlinck, of Sanine,\nformerly of the Imperial Theatre of Moscow, uniquely versed in \" scenes de masse\nTwo secretaries have been appointed to assist the central committee in the\nselection of plays. Maxim Gorki and Beskine are at present in charge of\nthis department of theatrical literature. The latter, an ex-laborer, also concerns\nhimself with the problem of bringing the theatre to the v/orkers and peasants,\nand vice-versa.\nAn interesting by-play of the main program is the regulation that each\nmember of the committee must go in turn into the' provinces and personally\ntake part in the local productions. The idea being, according to Kel, that\n\" The consequences of a stay in a village far from Moscow of personalities such\nas Stanislavski or Meyerhold, can achieve inestimable results in the future of the\ntheatre. \" — We would be pleased if it were also decreed that they visit\nMain Street. —\nM. Julien goes on to describe the projects for bringing the audience into the\nperformance — \"To mix the people in the creation \" — mentioned also by\nM. Ehrenbourg. Much importance is attached to this phase, as exemplified\nby organizations of pageants and street shows. The article concludes with the\nstatement: \" It is very likely that discoveries of greater power and importance\nwill arise from the Russian revolutionary theatre than our old world is apt\nto develop. \"\nThe November issue of our contemporary, L,es Ecrits Nouveaux, contains\nan article on America. M. Bernard Fay, the author, has a point of view and a\nFrench clarity of expression that so efficiently disperse the confused nimbi which\nshield that country from our understanding, that we quote at length therefrom.\nM. Fay divides America into two major divisions : the American world\nof letters with small centres in New York, Boston and Chicago, and the rest of\nAmerica. The former, which in spite of its three heads, is homogeneous, accord-\ning to M. Fay, recognized three outstanding literary events last year\n\" Iva Grande Rue, de Sinclair qui est un beau roman realiste et amer, la\nReine Victoria, de L. Strachey, l'Empereur Jones, drame realiste et douloureux\nd'Eugene O'Neill. \"\n\" All these works are competent and well done, and do honor to the authors\nwho created them and to the public who appreciate them. But, for a stranger,\nthey are empty. They are books for discussion. They give no new direction to"}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "378", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.92", "texte": "the human soul. They will cause no more commotion than an ambassadorial\ntoast at an international banquet or a controversy on the distribution of a prize.\nThen again, they are very English. Their style, their honesty, their literary\nmachinery are those of Great Britain, and one thinks of Wells, Shaw, Chester-\nton, and Lord Bryce, who at the moment are the favorite authors of this public. \"\nAnd a little further on —\n\" This literary public of the United States with its lectures, its newspapers\nof twenty pages, is the best informed in the entire world, has the best digestion\nof any nation and charming taste. But in its soul it loves to discuss only the\nmost precise subjects and to see its young authors march in ordered steps towards\nthe forms and traditions of literary England. In this direction it believes,\nlies the intellectual progress of the United States.\n\" There is no other literary public in America. But there are millions of\nliving men whom I have known. I did not land at New York ;, I entered on\nfoot living freely with those who came from all the States, North, South, West,\nand the Centre. Since I have known them, I have not been content to see only\nthe world of cultivated America. These young men were to me the symbol of\na mass which is not organized and has no consciousness, but which has taste,\nunbelievable liberty, vehemence of feelings and multiple and passionate desires.\nThe United States is not a myth of the geographical maps. It exists as an\nenormous space, it lives as a huge emotional crowd. \"\nSpeaking of The Kid by Charlie Chaplin :\n\" This film has been the great artistic event of the winter. It is sad and\nfull of reproaches, it criticises that which is most respected in the United States,\nwomen, social order, and the great thieves. Its triumph, in spite of prejudi-\nces, in spite of financial depression, is one of the most curious phenomena of last\nwinter. \"\nM. Fay also expresses a qualified admiration for American popular novels\nwhose authors \" dare not write liteiature\naI do not find these popular American stories entirely bad. They bore\nme, but are less deceiving than the liteiary creations. They inspire hope. They\nare not, like the others, an end. I love the Saturday Evening Post, which is\ncut into sections like a sausage, pages of stories, — epic, lyric, comic, sentimen-\ntal — intermixed with ads where one sees magnificent corsets and miraculous\ntooth powders. The same ladies who appear m the advertisements decorated in\ncorsets, die as queens in the stories, assassinated by ignoble negroes. \"\n\" It makes a strange impression upon the traveller when he perceives that\nAmericans have never regarded their civilization for its intrinsic value. They\naccept it, they praise it, they gloiify it as moral and ideal. They live it with\nenthusiasm but seek neither to analyze nor to judge it."}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "379", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.93", "texte": "Outside of some strangers and some Israelites, I have known no famous\nauthor who has seen the originality of this civilization. The literati consider\nAmerican culture as a branch of English culture. In the great universities,\nthere are four chairs of English literature to one of American. Those of their\nwriters who do not appear typical are treated with distrust, as dissenters. The\ncommunity of language which has given the Anglo-Saxon such a commercial\nadvantage is on the way toward ruining American art. \"\n\" One accuses the American newspaper of adding to this confusion and of\nbeing stupid. I do not know what one should say of our own in this regard.\nBesides, it seems to me the American newspapers have done more and better than\nthe literati. They have invented and established a new form which pleases the\npeople and corresponds to them. In their enormity, in their variety, these pa-\npers are one of the most sincere products under the sun. They are amusing,\nhardy, tragic, mundane. They indefinitely lenew the spectacle of existence. They\nare stupid, with less pretention than ours, and more informative. They have beau-\ntiful pictures, they pay moie. They circulate more widely. Their scandals\nare greater than ours, their heroines more virtuous. They cannot help but de-\nvelop imagination and taste for life. \" —\n\"The sight of the crowds which throng the museums, concerts, and public\nlibraries has surprised me. The prestige which surrounds the better artists\nhas persuaded me that the United States waits, longs for, and invokes with\npassion, the great man of letters of whom they have need.. They will bear\nin triumph the first writer of genius who will appear. \"\nM. Fay, like most Frenchmen, then admires American architecture, street\nplanning, football stadiums, and concludes —\n\" A stranger always receives the impression that the Americans have not\nyet found their intellectual milieu. They lack either a revealer, or the time,\nor the occasion. They have produced and produce beautiful things which are\nneither entirely beautiful nor entirely their own. Their literature seems to\nfree itself from commercial oppression only to become a kind of religion. Among\nthe conservatives it is a dogmatic esthetic which seeks to moralize, among the\nradicals it is a rapturous mysticism, tainted by a Bergsonism more or less con-\nscious, as in the work of Waldo Frank. Anarchists wish art to supress religion,\ntraditionalists that it recreate religion and be a part of it. The necessary distinc-\ntion between the religious life of the soul, and its pleasures, is either supressed\nor enfeebled. Art oscillates between soclal questions, moral problems, and re-\nvolution. Freudian doctrines have putin their appearance during the last two\nyears, to add to the harm. They verify Freud in verse and utilize him in novels.\nOne is forced to believe that American literature will not be worthy of itself until\nafter it has changed its methods of associating ideas and sentiments."}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "380", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.94", "texte": "We consider so many of M. Fay's reactions acrid and stimulating that\nwe have quoted at length. But we disagree in this particular: Queen Victoria,\none of the three major literary events specified, has primarily appealed\nto that literary America of charming taste, subservient to English literature.\nBut Main Street has not. Nor is Main Street a vengeance of the East upon the\nWest, as M. Fay states elsewhere. A study of the number of copies sold or\neven of their geographical distribution would rebut M. Fay's contention. Literary\nAmerica read Main Stleet (it reads everything, even Hamsun), but in general\nsniffed —\" his style does not flow, the English has no rhythm, no resonance —\nMain Street somehow got over to the \" mass which is not organized, has no\nconsciousness \" but which is rapidly acquiring one. And it got ovei not as a\nrevenge of the East upon the West but as a revolt against the dead, dried up,\nhypocritical, stagnant remnant of a civilization, currently called Puritanism,\nderived in bygone centuries from that same England to which literary America\nkowtows. Main Street lives on Fifth Avenue, 011 Beacon Hill, just as truly as it\nbisects Moose Jaw.\nRussia and America are sepai ated by many kilometres of land and miles\nof sea. Judging by the two articles from which we have quoted, they are as far\napart spiritually as they are corporeally. And yet one finds them associated\nin the strangest conjunction by disillusioned Europeans of all nationalities, except\nthe Irish. Sometimes it is an artistic renaissance, sometimes a spiritual revival,\nsometimes an economic panacea that is anticipated, but whatever it may be,\nthey are quite sure it will come from Russia or America, or possibly from both.\nA few palpable similarities are evident. Both have great size, untouched\nnatural resources and undeveloped territory. But these are more than balanced,\nby the fact that one is materially the richest and the other the poorest of occiden-\ntal nations. The American people possesses a naive trust in the value of univer-\nsal education ; the Russian government shares this confidence. The United\nStates is mottled with little theatres and debating clubs usually made up of\ninsurgents against the existing artistic or economic order. The Russian Govern-\nment, and the small party it represents, attempt artificially to effect a similar act-\nivity despite the apathy of the populace. In unsuspected recesses of the American\ncontinent free thinking individuals, who desperately contend with the accepted\nphilosophy, germinate spontaneously. In suspected quarters of the Russian po-\npulation, plots are incubated to restore the antecedent status quo. The indivi-\ndualistic liberalism professed by the alternating political paities, who ostensibly\nrule the United States, derives from the theories of j>re-revolutionary French"}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "381", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.95", "texte": "philosophers, whose decayed teeth had been efficaciously extracted by pre-em-\ninent American dentists. On the other hand, the existent Russian Government\nautocratically enforces the latest radical doctrines, allowing no criticism ex-\ncept from within its own party. In general, the Russian authorities expend as\nmuch energy in disseminating these tenets among their recalcitrant masses as\nthe American authorities exert in suppressing them.\nBut the vague faith of Europe in the two countries probably rests on other\ngrounds. Europe has lost all illusions about herself, is resigned to a cynical\nspirit of acceptance. To her, human nature is unchangeable, greed and envy\nwill continue to exist, and misery and wars to follow. In Russia and the Unit-\ned States credence abides that, given other conditions, the nature of man will\nchange. Therefore Europe, unable to resign herself, replaces by this faith in two\nunfathomed nations, the discarded trust in a progressive evolution that the\nNeo-Darwinists substituted for religion.\nThe December Dial prints an article on American Painting by Mr. Paul\nRosenfeld, tracing its development from Albert Pinkham Ryder to Georgia\nO'Keeffe. Mr. Rosenfeld has given several noteworthy precedents for plain\nspeaking when wielding a critical pen. We shall follow his excellent example.\nThe article under discussion is an offence to American criticism and a cal-\numny on American art. At this moment when the general public, stimulated\nby the publicity given to the mysterious new art, which up till now it had taken\nas a joke, asks for enlightenment and assistance, it is indeed a misfortune that\none of our most advanced journals should combine with a respected critic, to\nrain upon their expectant intelligences, such a melliflous pot-pourri.\n\" Disks of saddest silver burn coldly amid profound and undulent blacks ;\nrims of dreamy light glow palely as the greening skies of after sunset; dullest\ngold of night-cloud edge is subtly and mystically harmonized with sable and\nwith the aureate browns of embossed leather. The fanfares of romance breath\nthrough the tender mysterious tones, the sensitive foaming forms\nGreat stuff ! — Poe might have wished to incorporate it in his vision of\nEldorado but as an aid to understanding modern art, it is about as useful as a\nBaudelaire sonnet to designer of turbines.\nThe French, admittedly pre-eminent in pictorial art, devote several magaz-\nines to art criticism. They are read by a public more familiar with and cognizant\nof aesthetics than the American. Yet they resemble the Scientific American\nand the Mechanical Age infinitely more closely than they do this sample of art\ncriticism. We do not contend that the French should be slavishly imitated,"}, {"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "382", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.96", "texte": "even though they excel in this instance, but we consider it food for reflection\nthat the most distinguished art milieu prefers to study art scientifically, while\nthe unformed and chaotic Ameiican field is fed with spumescent rhetoric and\nconscious fine writing.\nBut our aversion to the form of this criticism is not our primary quarrel.\nThe article misinforms and is misleading.\n\" The stout woman in grey singing at the piano, opening her mouth in half\nintense and flaccid fashion, brings one the feeling of the monotony and second\nrate quality of existence, the languorous fashion in which nature takes and gives\nthe lives of her creatures, pours it out carelessly, wastes it; floods of energy\npoured forth, nothing very noble, very tragical, or very exciting happening\nwithal\".\nSince when is painting a medium for expounding philosophy ? Before\nwritten language was perfected painting recorded the dreams, the fears and the\naspirations of the race, but the modern artist is supposedly concerned with what\nClive Bell terms \" significant form \", the pattern or arrangement of form and\ncolour which has the power of evoking an \" aesthetic emotion \" in contrast to\nliterary or poetic sentiment.\n\" The mustard browns, the dull rich greens, the fawns and tans and soft\nwarm whites, call to mind the smell of hay, the breath of kine, the taste of warm\nsquirted milk. One hears perforce the grunting of piglets, the lowing of oxen,\nthe swishing of great slow tails. Butter and cheese and all dairy products have\na sort of apotheosis here Shades of Mid-Victorianism ! A good enough descrip-\ntion of an old time chromo or a dining room mural at which the polite guests\nexclaim, \" Why those grapes look jus' good enough to eat/' We doubt that Dove\nhad hoped thus to compete with coloured photography or the cinematograph.\nAt any rate the cow in the reproduction refused to swish for us.\nAnother inference of which we are persuaded, is that Mr. Rosenfeld is city\nbred and unfamiliar with natural functions. No other explanation can account\nfor his predilection for \" grossly animal processes We suggest that next sum-\nmer he beg permission of some friendly farmer to be present when the bull is\nlet in on the cow. It is really more interesting in life than are paintings of the\n\" Organs that differentiate the sex. \"\nNot that we agree with the \" puritan unwillingness to perceive man\nin his relation to the rest of creation\" but that to a painter a phallus\nlike a pistil is expressive only by its form. Perhaps the Egyptians habi-\ntually remarked \" some crocodile \" when they sauntered by the obelisk, but we\ndoubt it.\nAgain it may be that Miss O' Keeffe's paintings \" lead one further and fur-\nther into the truth of a woman's life/' her art may breathe \"a prayer that the"}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "383", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.97", "texte": "indifferent and envious world may be kept from defiling and wrecking the white\nglowing place \" but if so it has nothing to do with the question of whether her\nart is good or bad or as to what her painting means as painting.\nMr. Rosenfeld writes impressionistic criticism. He purports to transfer\nthe emotion of contemporary pictorial art into a literary form; to invoke by words\nthe beauty of the paintings and thereby to assist others not so well equipped\nartistically as he, to get a reaction. A legitimate and worth while aspiiation.\nBut the first essential is the ability to look at a picture. Not a line in the lengthy\ndiscourse gives an indication that this is the case. While Mi. Rosenfeld was\nin Paris he had every opportunity to familiarise himself with current art theories.\nHe could have read in many different forms : \" A great painter conceives and\nexecutes a homogenous organism, a new body from which one cannot subtract\nor risk the destruction of the smallest particle. But the novelty resides in the\narrangement of the elements and in their distribution. Their conventional\nmeaning matters not at all. A combat of gladiators, a pastoral idyll, or a sim-\nple relationship of angles can satisfy us equally. It is not necessary to humanize\ngeometric forms but to extricate from a work, its specifically plastic import/'\n(Waldemar George — in YAmour de TArt). But Mr. Rosenfeld seem either\nto have escaped contact with all such theorizing or to have dismissed it as\ninapplicable, although it underlies the work of the artists whom he criticizes.\nMr. Rosenfeld seems only to react to the literary content of the paintings, a\ntendency which has been the most destructive in the history of art and has caused\none decadence after another. Modern art has but recently tried to struggle\nfrom under this incubus, and it is the sacred duty of critics to assist this en-\ndeavor. To judge American painters by discarded criteria, and criteria\nwhich their creations ignore, is considerably worse than useless. Mr. Stieglitz,\nwhom he mentions, has devoted a life-time to the struggle, and the fight has only\ncommenced. Most American painting still endeavors to outdo realistic photo-\ngraphy, to be more lifelike than life.\nWe can understand why such criticism is written, Mr. Rosenfeld has sup-\nplied the key. — \" For an act of imagination is the process of perceiving an\nobjective verity, and no one born this side the Atlantic can stand looking\nlong into the face of the truth. Why it is so, why the truth, hard to envisage\nin the old world, should be a sort of head of Medusa in the New, it is not easy\nto say. Perhaps it is for the reason that the verity concerning America itself,\nthe prime truth for the American, is so painful that sluggish life prefers to main-\ntain itself on a low plane by means of a moral blindness rather than struggle\ndesperately and perhaps perish on a higher. Perhaps it is for the reason that\nno individual can see the realities unsustained by the will of the group. One\nknows it oneself whatever one be, the pain of gazing long at the truth concerning"}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "384", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.98", "texte": "oneself; the glare of the fierce light, the constantly recurrent impulse to glance\naway immediately after the vision into some consoling rose-land, to cuddle\noneself with the chocolate and the movies and newspaper patriotism of the eternal\nillusion. It's as if the breast were sore, and could'nt long bear the embrace of\nlife, and relaxing the passionate clasp shrank away/' (Dial, page 619, November)\n— but we cannot understand why it is printed by the paper which editorially\nasks. — \" Is it possible that the common literature of our day is forsaking the\ndirect simplicity which made it if nothing else intelligible, and, with an instinct\nfor these things, is beginning to give us exactly the wrong thing in style and an\ninitiation to bad poems-in prose ? — (Dial, page 624, November).\nIt is with feelings of deep regret that we have been forced to accept the re-\nsignation of Alfred Kreymborg from BROOM. 11l health and the demands of\nhis own work have necessitated this separation, and he leaves us to go North-\nwards accompanied by every wish of BROOM for his future welfare and success.\nMr. Kreymborg's address for the next two months will be Hotel Moderno,\nRapallo, Italy.\n\nH. A. L.\n\nKrnESTO PraTONI, Gerente responsabile.\nPrinted in Italy by «VUniverselle » Imprimerie Polyglotte — Roma."}, {"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[385]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.99", "texte": "Broom completes its first volume with the present number and takes\nTHE OPPORTUNITY OF SAYING A FEW WORDS ABOUT ITSELF.\nWe have introduced to the public not only American writers and ar-\nTISTS PREVIOUSLY UNKNOWN, BUT WE HAVE ALSO PUBLISHED TRANSLATIONS OF THE\nWORKS OF INNOVATORS, IMPORTANT TO EUROPEAN LITERATURE, WHO HAVE NOT HITH-\nERTO FOUND A HEARING IN THE UNITED STATES.\nAt the same time, Broom has placed before its readers selections from\nTHE CONTEMPORARY OUTPUT OF WRITERS OF REPUTATION SUCH AS GORDON CRAIG,\n€\nJames Stephens, Walter De La Mare, Paul Claudel, Picasso and Matisse,\nTO MENTION BUT A FEW OF THE EUROPEANS.\nBroom has before it a long program which it hopes to develop.\nIn these four numbers our foreign material has been derived chiefly\nfrom France, England, Italy and Russia, but we still have in Germany,\nSpain, and the countries of northern Europe a vast untouched field of which\nwe propose to avail ourselves.\nIn addition, it is our intention to offer to our readers material from\nTHE RECENT LITERATURE OF THOSE NEWLY CREATED STATES OF CENTRAL EUROPE,\nWHICH ARE ONLY NOW BEGINNING TO GIVE EXPRESSION TO THEIR NATIONAL CONSCIEN-\nCES, HITHERTO SUBMERGED.\nBroom is published in Rome, 3266 miles from New York, 4269 miles from\nChicago and 6227 miles from San Francisco.\nOwing to these distances which separate us from the Great Majority\nOF OUR READERS AND THE CONSEQUENT INEVITABLE DIFFICULTIES OF DISTRIBUTION,\nWE ASK THOSE INTERESTED IN US TO SUPPORT OUR VENTURE BY MORE THAN BOOK-\nSHOP PURCHASES AND\nTO SUBSCRIBE.\nAMERICAN subscriptions (5 dollars a year) should be\nmailed 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": "[386]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192202-01.1.100", "texte": "MAXWELL BODENHEIM - THE DIAL.\n«THE ARTIST, GRACEFULLY GES-\nTICULATING ABOUT HIMSELF, ON HIS\nDIVAN, IS HIDEOUS, BUT IF HE DANC-\nED ON A BOULDER AND WAVED A\nLILAC BOUGH IN ONE HAND AND A\n« BROOM » IN THE OTHER, ONE COULD\nRESPECT HIM. »"}]}