{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_sha256": "e133a8e6e2d2be65b5254009542e7eaba7447f5df31e82bdc76bb9ba8eb04af5", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/04_01/bmtnaap_1922-04_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/04_01/bmtnaap_1922-04_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Table of Contents", "titre_sommaire": "Table of Contents", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1061, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1739, "texte": "Page\nTo A Starving Man — John Gould Fletcher ~\"j\nPainting — Henri Matisse ' 2\nThe New Conditions of Phenomena — Jean Epstein 3\nGolden Fox — Edgar Masters X1\nMoissons en Ile-de-France — Alice Halicka | 1?\nBlack Jack Kerrigan — Israel Solon xg\nThe Mansion of Peace — Carl Engel ...\" 6\nHeavens — kouis Untermeyer 42\nI*es Bisques — F. Leger\nFish — William Carlos Williams\nTwo University Professors — John Dos Passos 59\nNature Morte — Marcoussis y2\nIf You Had Three Husbands — Gertrude Stein y4\nTheatre — John Rodker\nPaysage Anim£ — F. Leger yg\nDedicated to the Enemy — Gordon Craig g0\nPortrait del' Artiste — Alice Halicka gg\nHomage to Siva — Romain Rolland gg\nComment — H. A. L,\n94"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "1", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "To a Starving Man", "titre_sommaire": "To a Starving Man", "signature_source": "John Gould Fletcher", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1015, "texte": "TO A STARVING MAN\nJohn Gould Fletcher\nYou haggard, ragged caricature of man\nCowering alone upon the rain-swept pavement,\nOut of the mighty city I bring myself to you,\nYour wolf-like pallid face and matted hair are sacred ;\nSacred your lean grey throat, your knotted stringy hands.\nYour coat pinned at the neck, frayed and mud-stained trousers,\nYour bulging shoes, through which the bare toes pass,\nYour dirty greasy hat shrouding the aching eyes,\nAll these are beautiful ; like a ruined city\nYou watch, about you weeds and desolation,\nBut in the midst of you a human soul.\nYou who slip down the last glissade to death,\nMan starving without hope, whose empty heart\nHolds but the last despair, the dreadful peace of God ;\nI who have wrought for fifteen years in song\nCome now and stand beside you ; we are one.\nYou will even hear the song I make of you,\nI will not even know the thoughts you hold of me ;\nLet there be but between us now two pairs of eyes\nGazing into each other's depth ; and night, and nothingness.\ni"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "2", "page_fin": "2", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Painting", "titre_sommaire": "Painting", "signature_source": "Henri Matisse", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 65, "texte": "Henri Matisse.\nPainting.\nCourtesy Bernheim-Jeune Gallery — Paris."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "3", "page_fin": "10", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 12, "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=bmtnaap192204-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "The New Conditions of Literary Phenomena", "titre_sommaire": "The New Conditions of Literary Phenomena", "signature_source": "Jean Epstein", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2174, "texte": "THE NEW CONDITIONS OF LITERARY PHENOMENA\n\nThe fact that the world has changed can only have a theoretical importance,\nfurnish material for hypotheses, or pass unnoticed, a simple probability very\nlikely true. It is our knowledge of the world that has changed. The sum total\nof errors, of approximations, of arbitrary or experimental opinions —• with\nwhich thought weaves a net to cast over objects whose meshes then break and\nmust be laced up again — that changes astonishingly in the course of ten years.\nIt is true something remains of the old concepts, but those that were too much\nat variance with the new conditions of life have been expeditiously effaced,\nor at least sufficiently transformed so as no more to oppose events but to follow\nthem. Literature, that automatic register of human sensibility, is no more\nstable : a weathercock, showing the actual wind from the lofty plateaux of in-\ntelligence, but unable to direct it on the dial of the compass.\nWrhat are the new conditions of knowledge and life ?\nI\nThe speed realized by man has given a new character to civilized life, spa-\ntial speed first of all. Cities are bonnd to each other by the close-woven network\nof the rails Countries even more than cities. Automobiles roll along. Aero-\nplanes, in a line which is still more direct, leap over distances. Continents\nagain, even to a greater degree than countries, extend mobile bridges to one\nanother.\nEvery ten years the kilometre, like a depreciated banknote, loses in value.\nThe word \" far \" has not the same meaning today as yesterday, nor as it will\nhave to-morrow. Waste lands become populous, cheap tracts quintuple in\nprice because a tramway, and that feed wire from which it licks up the sap of\namperes and volts, now passes through a suburb. We travel eight hundred\nkilometres to divert ourselves, three thousand to sell a stock of furs. A new\nrace of men is born under the glazed waiting-rooms of the railroad stations and\non the decks of ocean liners — the Cosmopolite. I not say do Internationalist.\nThe Cosmopolite, notwithstanding the scorn with which some pronounce that\nword, can be as good a patriot and as bad a Chauvinist as another man who"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2717, "texte": "has never left his county. The peoples know each other better, love and hate\neach other more, but in the same proportion now as in former times. We\nexchange customs, words, ideas. The possession of speed has spread the know-\nledge of foreign tongues. There is no one to-day who does not know a few\nwords of English, of German, of Italian. The absolute mastery of these languages,\na rarity two century ago, is to-day nothing unusual. To create astonishment\nnow, it is necessary to know four or live languages at a time. The juxtaposition\nof dialects in the same brain means the juxtaposition of grammars. Grammar\nis the most simple, the most definite form of the logic\" peculiar to each people.\nThese logics of expression, which hinder association, nevertheless influence, in-\nterpenetrate, sustain, combat and modify each other reciprocally. Thought\nlittle by little, changes its moulds.\nBesides, the beautiful legendary geography of the old books is dead. No more\nare there countries eternally lost in the mist, nor waste shores, nor mountains\non which one picks up turquoises by the shovelfull. One has retraced a hundred\nthousand times the travels of Marco Polo, but they are no longer the same.\nVenice is less beautiful for being precisely so many hours and minutes from Pa-\nlis. The acquisition of spatial velocity has progressively created geography.\nThanks to it, white-haired astronomers run after eclipses and comets and catch\nthem up. Did not spatial velocity take part in the formation of those first\ncrystals of nitro-glycerine between Vienna and London ? It modifies the\nlanguage which neighboring peoples ornament wirh new words, alters the logic\nof utterance, grammar, thought ; hence every brain. It carries contagions of\nideas from one pole to another. It modifies commerce, the bank, that is to say\nthe foundation of our civilization. Money, that blood of the world, circulates\nmore rapidly because the heart of the locomotive beats more quickly. The\nearth is small.\nAll this has modified literature, that mobile countenance of a people.\nII\nBeside spatial velocity there is the velocity of thought. When we ask a\nquestion of several individuals, who are more or less cultivated, more or less\nintelligent, we receive at times the answer even before we have finished framing\nthe question. At other times, we must wait several seconds. This delay, this\ntime lost in understanding, is extremely variable. Its duration depends on the\ngreater or lesser thought-speed of the individual under consideration. This\nmental rapidity not only shows individual variations, but national variations,\nfrom country to country, from race to race.\nIf we wish to see the experimental demonstration of this phenomenon, we"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2893, "texte": "can find it in the cinema. The fact is that the films register and measure thought-\nspeed. The rapidity with which the episodes, the vicissitudes, and even the\ngestures succeed and are built upon each other on the screen —• a rapidity\nwhich is controlled and proportioned by the producer in such a manner that\nhis customary public can follow the scenario without either fatigue or boredom,\na rapidity which corresponds to the average mental speed of his public •— varies\naccording to the country from which the film comes. Italian films can be taken\nas an example of those which reveal their meaning most slowly. They bore\nthe French spectator, for instance, who does not know how to occupy his mind\nduring those superfluous ten seconds during which the scene of mimicked con-\nversation lasts, because he understood it ten seconds sooner than the average\nItalian spectator for whom the film was made. Oh the contrary, certain Amer-\nican films testify to considerable mental speed : in order to follow the action\nthere is not truly three seconds to squander in distractions. Evidently, there\nare some spectators left behind, lost, who ask help of their neighbors. In\nliteratures, the same difference is naturally evident, but the film presents this\ndifference in the more definite fashion of a registering machine.\nOn the other hand, one should not necessarily identify mental speed with\ngeneral intelligence.\nLet us suppose a people \"A\" between two peoples \" B \" and \" C \" of\nwThom one \" B \" thinks more quickly, and the other \" C \" more slowly. Spatial\nspeed permits contact between these three peoples. If the middle people \"A \"\ninterests itself in the products of the intellectual activity of its two neighbors,\nit will notice by degrees its superiority over the people \" C whose slowness\nof thought becomes then a source of irritation.\nOn the contrary, the thought-speed, of the other people \" B \" obliges the\npeople \" A \" to make an effort if it wishes to understand, to stay on a level, and\nnot be a source of irritation in its turn. Certain lazy folk will abandon the pur-\nsuit. Others, will go into training and will attain a greater thought-speed, just\nas a coming man in the boxing game progressively acquires his maximum speed.\nLittle by little, very slowly it is true, the picked few will be followed by the\nmass of onlookers or of readers. So it will happen that the thought-speed of\nthe middle people \" A \" will grow.\nThat mental speed in the past has increased cannot be doubted. Universal\ncompulsory education, which is not perhaps the omnitherapeutic panacea,\nhas at least done this, unless, instead of being the cause of this change, it has\nbeen only the simple consequence.\nTherefore, it is quite natural that certain kinds of modern French literature\nare veritable tours de force from the point of view of mental speed. The steno-\ngram passes from the merchant to the poet."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2938, "texte": "III\nCivilization, which is far indeed from being a simple word, presents for\nconsideration an infinite nnmber of views of the same object. Innumerable\napparatuses, complicated and delicate, supplement the information about the\nworld given us by our eyes, ears, and finger-tips. Just according to the number\nof the apparatuses by which we extend one or other of our senses —- be there\nfive or more — just so many new deformations are recorded by the intelligence.\nBy deformation, Ido not mean error or false deformation. All philosophies and\nall skepticisms lie in ambush for this word which I employ innocently. A line\nappears straight to my naked eye, and curved seen through a glass; this is a\ndeformation. That is all I intend to say.\nOne is not content with these deformations. As they differ from the per-\nceptions of our bare senses, which we are astonished to see transformed when we\nwished merely to amplify their range — just as a cannon's range is augmented\nin keeping very exactly the direction of the original trajectory — so we overlay\nthese deformations with new deformations, on the pretext, perhaps legitimate, of\ncorrecting them. We take account in every experience, in every calculation, of\nthe absolute error and the relative error, and thus we introduce the subtle, the\nimponderable, the uncontrollable error of the error, and the error of removing the\nerror and believing it removed. All this the intelligence notes, tries to under-\nstand, feeds upon and digests in its belly, like the sly beast it is.\nThe machine technology of civilization, the innumerable instrumentations\nthat encumber laboratories, factories, hospitals, photographic studios, and elec-\ntrical shops, the engineer's table and the architect's drawing-board, the aviator's\nseat, the moving picture theatre, the optician's show window and even the tool-\nkit of the carpenter allows man an infinite variety of angles of observation. Op-\ntics especially — and what is there atonishing in this, in a civilization which is\nessentially optical — hangs its lenses round our necks like the amulets on the\nneck of an Indian chief. And all these instruments : telephone, microscope,\nmagnifying glass, cinematograph, lens, microphone, gramophone, automobile,\nkodak, aeroplane, are not merely dead objects. At certain moments these\nmachines become part of ourselves, interposing themselves between the world and\nus, filtering reality as the screen filters radium emanations. Thanks to them,\nwe have no longer a simple, clear, continuous, constant notion of an object. Man\nhas seen a landscape not only with his naked eyes while walking, but blurred\nby speed through the window of a train, with eyes bitten by wind and dust from\nthe front seat of an automobile, from the height of an aeroplane, spread flat\nlike a geographical museum reproduction, through field glasses, in a diorama,\nin photographs, taken from left, from right, in sunlight, in shadow, with or"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2824, "texte": "without diaphragm, in the cinema, painted by a painter, drawn by another artist,\nsung by a poet; man has not one memory of this landscape ;he has a thousand\ndifferent ones, which may or may not resemble each other. The world for man\ntoday is like descriptive geometry, with its infinite planes of projection. Every-\nthing possesses hundreds of apparent diameters which never superimpose\nexactly. A voice heard naturally, then heard springing from the black graphite\nof the telephone, then finally resounding when the sapphire delivers it from the\ndisc, is no longer, whatever one may say, the simple voice, the same voice.\nNasal intonations reveal themselves, new sounds remain in the memory;\nhenceforward one will listen to them differently. An historical reconstruction\nin a theatre or on the screen strikes out for a few half hours twenty centuries\nof time. The instantaneous photograph has discovered gestures which the eye\nnow divines and the hand reproduces. We notice how suddenly a face on the\nscreen shows itself to be different. A wrinkle appears that we failed to notice\nfor twenty years : but from now on we shall have learned to see it.\nThis unheard of complexity of perceptions which modern civilized life\noffers ordinarily to our intelligences, this intellectual surcharge whereby a\nhundred different images correspond to a single object has not been without\ninfluence on modern French literature.\nIV\nArbitrarily, and to satisfy our mania for \" here begins \" and \" there ends, \"\nthe domain of thought, of imagination, of kinesthesia, ourselves, even our brain,\nall that circumscribes and encloses the pale air-tight limit of skin is opposed\nto the domain of acts, of apparent gestures, and of things exterior to ourselves.\nSelf-observation and auto-psychology exploit, as an inexhaustible quarry, this\ndomain or interior kingdom as certain people rather pompously call it.\nLet us take the case of a man who fills a small office position. His exterior\nlife is, so to speak, nothing at all. All day long with knees under the table,\nhis chest barred by the front of his desk, he hibernates, muttering over columns\nof figures. His evenings are enlivened by the watering of his little garden ; his\nSundays by a cigar and a walk in the suburbs. He hasn't been to the theatre\nfor ten years. Once or twice he has traveled on an excursion train. Never-\ntheless, this man can be a philosopher, a poet, an observer, intelligent, cultivated.\nHe reads. The walls of his room crumble away perhaps when he choses, and\nreveal the landscapes wherein he would have amused himself had he been\nallowed to live there. On a limitless stage, he is at once playwright, actor and\npartial critic. He may meditate on the august laws of the new theogonies.\nMiracles grow fertilely under the hands of this careful gardener and he trims in"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3120, "texte": "diverse fashions the leafy trees of wisdom that their shade may be less dense.\nHis shortsighted clerk's eyes, blinking behind glasses, see the galloping unicorns\npass, and sometimes he screws them up under the diaphragm of his pupils\nto mask an enormous and disdainful laugh. He listens to himself living, like a\ndoctor bent over the stethescope which trembles with the beating of a heart.\nHis sensibility, which may even be exquisite, warns him of the passing of a thou-\nsand things which escape the athlete, whose life only swells his muscles, or the\nbusiness man who recognizes as a warning nothing but the shrill ringing of the\ntelephone, or the explorer who smothers nostalgia by a siesta. A discreet life\nis not always an empty one. To inhale existence sweetly through a straw\ncan offer the palate richer feasts than gorging oneself with double mouthfulls.\nBut it seems that civilization clearly orients life \" inward \" and not \" out-\nward. \" General education, in spite of its frequent failure, puts self-observation\nwithin the reach of a greater number of people. The advertisements with which\nwe now greet cancer, tuberculosis, sub-alimentation and epidemics counsel men\nto examine themselves, to listen to their kinesthetic sensations, to take fright\nat the least internal disorder, at the slightest alarm signal of the nervous system.\nDoctors are more numerous today than yesterday, and as they live one presumes\nthey dont lack for patients. Not that there are more sick people — that would\nhave to be proved — but because there are more people who know they are sick.\nThe inquietude, doubtless unnecessary, created by statistics on the increase\nin the frequency of cancer is caused by this better self-observation as much\nas by the improvements in diagnosis. And the beginnings of illnesses are of-\nten insidious. How much attention is therefore given to kinesthesia. And I\nhave had the occasion to show elsewhere what close relation, almost identity\nlink the kinesthesia of an individual to his subconsciousness, and his subconscious-\nness to his religious feelings and his intelligence.\nAnother cause, due to civilization, for the orientation of thought \" inward \"\nis manual laziness. Of course, longshoremen, athletes, carpenters still exist.\nBut in how many trades have the arm, the hand, the shoulder, the foot been re-\nplaced by a transmission belt and a few gears and pulleys ? More and more\nthe workman, his hand on a lever, merely oversees the silent, regular, docile\nworking of a machine. A wipe with a bit of waste now and then, a few drops\nof oil. Between times, in the intervals of muscular inactivity, what would one\nhave the workman do but think, and think of himself and his life, of the means\nof bettering it ? Other professions have become exclusively cerebral: the busi-\nness man, the banker, the station master, the contractor, the broker, combine,\nreflect, wait, decide. To be sure, they do not always think of their inner life,\nbut when by chance one day they do think of it, all their intellectual agility\nacquired in the course of their other exercises suddenly drills a well in them,"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2626, "texte": "from which henceforth, Artesian, autopsychology spouts up like the liquid arc\nof petroleum in American landscapes.\nBooks of philosophy and abstract speculation sell up to ten thousand copies.\nPublishers print them. Who has not his library today, not to mention his news-\npapers ?\nThis orientation of thought \" inward \" has had its extremely strong reper-\ncussion on modern French literature.\nV\nI have sufficiently demonstrated that civilized life is above all cerebral,\nabove all nervous.\nThe banker, hanging on the telephone, his eyes on the stuttering Morse, re-\nmembers figures, calculates, interrupts himself to dictate an order to his steno-\ngrapher, signs thirty signatures with a recalcitrant fountain pen, foresees\nto-morrow's quotations, thinking of what they were six months ago, multiplies,\ndivides, lunches quickly, gets into his auto, and goes back to his work. The\nlocomotive engineer reads the slope of the gradients which obstinately vertical\nlittle posts hold out to him, guages the effort of the brakes, notes the speed of\nthe train, its weight, foresees the curve, the tunnel, tries to make up over a run\nof fifty kilometers, the time that has been lost, watches the signals, the steam\nguage, the water level. The captain of the steamship must be at once astro-\nnomer, meteorologist, mathematician, engineer, electrician and sometimes judge.\nThe storm, before taking place, lives in his brain. The possible iceberg, the\nocean current which carries it along, the speed which exhausts the coal bunkers,\nthe sudden call by wireless ;he thinks of all these. And the engineer, the aviat-\nor's mechanic, the photographer who is a chemist, and the chemist who veri-\nfies the alimentation of a city of five hundred thousand inhabitants, and pre-\npares the exact explosion of a shell or blasts a rock nearly a cubic metre in size,\nand the pharmacist who weighs the chances of poisoning in tiny little scales,\nand the farmers who now understand the mechanism of their tractors, the chem-\nistry of their fertilizers, the geology of their soil, veterinary therapeutics, me-\nteorology and the botany of their crops, the physics of their drainage. . . Every-\nbody knows how to read, write, calculate, drive an automobile, take a bicycle\nto pieces, clean a lock or a revolver, interpret the Stock Exchange returns,\nappreciate an altitude record. People read the Year Book of the Bureau of\nLongitude, the Manual of Bridges and Pavements, every one knows by heart\nthe metric system, the solar system, grammar, the table of logarythms, the symp-\ntoms of fifteen maladies, the time tables, the characteristics of twenty ma,kes"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2805, "texte": "of motors, their speed records, their best running time and their consumption of\ngas per hundred kilometers.\nI/ife is so cerebral and intense that it is logical to foresee signs of intellectual\nfatigue. It is not a question of a malady but a modification of the organism\nand particularly of a modification of the most sensitive organism, because the\ncommanding organism, the brain. Ido not mean to say — and I conjure all\nthe Max Nordaus of the Earth to listen to me — that the intelligent man has\nbecome a poor sick being, half mad, unbalanced, separated only by the width\nof two fingers from perdition. Far from that. Man has never seemed to me so\nbeautiful and so capable and so energetic as this day in which I live. But in\ntruth, it is undeniable that he has changed, and today the most important fac-\ntor in the change is the intensely cerebral, intensely nervous life of humanity, a\nlife which normally, logically, evidently, inevitably entails fatigue, a fatigue\ncorresponding to the nervous expenditure, that is to say cerebral and intellect-\nual. A light fatigue, universal in the measure that civilization is universal, not\npathological, since it is not exceptional in the new state of health.\nFor states of health change. The Ammonites with their complicated sut-\nures who have succeeded Ammonites with simple sutures cannot be considered\nabnormal compared with their predecessors. Present day horses are not abnormal\nin comparison with the three-toed fossil horses of the Myocene. They are differ-\nent, that is all. us be content with noticing the change without considering\nit morally. Decadence ? One can speak of intellectual decadence when one\nknows the point of departure and the objective that has been missed. Do we\nknowT the origin and objective of the human intelligence ? Perhaps there are no\nnew maladies — that is still to be seen — but there is new health — and a\nnew organic state of civilized humanity, a new biological equilibrium on the\nfrontier of pathogenesis, there where it has always been.\nThis fatigue, this health coloured with fatigue must not be exaggerated either.\nIt is of no more importance than the traces of chemicals specified on the labels\nof mineral water bottles. One must look very closely to perceive this fatigue.\nAs to valuing it exactly, it is still imponderable. But such as it is, it is clearly\nindicated in the civilized literatures of modern countries : German, Italian,\nEnglish or French.\nSpatial speed, mental speed, multiplication of intellectual images and\nthe deformations of these images, extension of auto-observation and of the im-\nportance given to the interior life, cerebral life and the fatigue that results from\nit. Such are the most important conditions under which the contemporary\nliterary phenomenon comes into being.\n\nJean Epstein"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "11", "page_fin": "16", "image_debut": 13, "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=bmtnaap192204-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Golden Fox", "titre_sommaire": "Golden Fox", "signature_source": "Edgar Lee Masters", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1198, "texte": "GOLDEN FOX\n\nWhether you hunt the fox four-footed,\nOr the fox two-footed;\nA rusty tail that shakes descending\nBelow the rim of a hill,\nOr a woman with ruddy hair —\nCorn-tasselled in streaks — natural you know !\nNot blondined — a woman who hides and runs —\nWhat's the difference, John, good John ?\nFoxes know nothing of anise hags,\nBut fox women — have a care !\nIf you don't, you'll chase the anise bag\nAnd she'll be off another way.\nAnyway, here's the sport — all justified :\nHow7 to overtake with fox-thoughts,\nHounds we'll say, the fox, the woman.\nSometimes a fox looks over a ridge ;\nSometimes between the leaves and clusters of wild grapes,\nGreens and purples and tangles of cinnamon colored vines,\nYou see the tawny triangle of a wistful face,\nAnd two gray eyes : —\nI explain : You're at a dance, we'll say,\nAnd your fox woman looks up at you.\nGrapes ? You have had drinks.\nGreens and purples ? Other dancing women.\nVines ? The plexus of amorous music.\nAnd you hold her waist and think you have caught her.\nBut she slips your hands of flesh\nWhen you press her tight with words,\nWhere is your husband, my dear ?\nAnd answers in heaven, changing her face\nFrom fox to angel. And what has happened ?"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1460, "texte": "She's tossed the anise bag, and your hounds\nOf fancy run for the beautiful,\nThe spiritual.\nAnd your fox, has slipped your fingers,\nAnd runs with a laugh to the arbor\nWhere she eats grapes, while watching\nYour mad pursuit of the anise bag.\nOh ho ! Call back my hounds,\nHere is the .fox in the arbor,\nEating grapes.\nYes, here she is in the arbor — her den,\nDesigned by herself, but paid for\nBy the man in heaven.\nBeautiful suites ! Connecting suites !\nClose hall doors and throw little locks\nOn connecting doors, and behold\nA suite with only a room between\nMy lair and hers.\nGrapes ? Yes, here is the arbor,\nAnd the golden fox is caught at last.\nShe purrs here, laughs and cuddles\nTamed amid the grapes.\nBut the next morning triste as a tired child\nMore anise trails : — give me delights of the mind !\nAnd she points to pictures of aged hunters,\nGlassy eyed veterans with the white rirn of sclerosis\nAround the dimmed iris : — friends ! friends !\nHeroes of the mind, the soul : — more anise,\nFriends who have been heie, but on the basis of friendship.\nFor you are the first to come here this way — and you\nHave bowed my head and taken my hand.\nFor I am not as these ! (pointing to pictures of other foxes\nThick on the wall around the pictures\nOf the tired hunters, winded veterans of the chase,\nFriends ! friends ! Companions of the soul !)\nThat was an excellent smear of the anise bag !\nAnd I was nearly off, chasing the disassociate,\nThe make-believe of a fox,"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1330, "texte": "When she turns to the memory of grapes,\nEaten a few hours before,\nWith her little red tongue insatiate\nLacking the pulpy ooze,\nBetween burst skins.\nSo we tumble off the starry-pointed peak\nWhither she had scampered, with her golden fur,\nAlluring the hunter soul of me\nTo the den of tangled leaves,\nAnd scented grasses warm from the sun.\nWell, golden fox, if there be two of you,\nI must hunt my best.\nThere may be three of you :\nThe fox that snarls and shows her teeth\nWhen one of the other two of you\nIs trapped and tied.\nAfter this, many visits to the den.\nShe is now my pet fox, can be stroked at will;\nCurls up on my breast to sleep,\nHer little cold nose stuck under my chin,\nSniffing delicious breath ; she's mine,\nAnd says so — all yours, she says — no anise bag.\nUntil when I come to go she wTeeps —\nWhich reminds me : —\nA piccolo carries a theme, or a string or two.\nBut let the viols catch it over here and the horns,\nThen companies of violins, then drums,\nFlutes, saxophones, the roll of the organ,\nAnd you have a symphony,\nAnd in every woman, fox or what not,\nSomething gives her the tune and pitch\nThe key, the tone-color — same theme, I mean.\nAnd you, you are just another harp\nTo her orchestra and to swell the theme\nOf her symphony.\nSo she to me : as a little girl\nI lost a string of amber beads,\nI lose everything ;"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1411, "texte": "And I shall lose you : many tears !\nThe anise gets in her eyes, perhaps,\nAnd I see her throw the bag as I say,\nOh, no ! You will not lose me.\nYes, but now many hounds in the distance howl:\nThey sense I have caught the golden fox.\nToothless bitches, and younger sluts,\nBut with yellow teeth begin to howl.\nMy golden fox pricks up her ears, in a trice\nIs trotting off, and I let her go.\nFor she's tamed now, known to the tiniest nerve\nOf her wild and mixed and timorous brain,\nChangeable, whimsical, childish, vain.\nAnd she shows her teeth as she trots away.\nShe would tear my hand if I gave her a chance.\nBut I have tamed her and she will return\nOr set up a cry from her hiding place\nAnd call me there.\nAnd pretty soon, as I do not follow,\nCries go up, from the Sierras.\nShe's there, but will soon be off\nTo parts unknown — more anise !\nCries, telegrams to be plain.\nSo I walk, but do not run to the Sierras,\nAnd find her there,\nPetted and curled in the lap of Aunt Visyana,\nAnd lying with closed eyes — so sweet!\nHead on shoulder of Aunt Visyana;\nHer little Puck eyebrows\nGiving a humorous innocence\nTo her little fox face;\nA pale cherub : cramps from forbidden apples :\nMemories of being caught,\nBut caught in the toils of Narcissism,\nMarvelously chaperoned against a wicked man !\nThere's no such thing as grapes, and never was ;\nNo sweet pulp oozing between burst skins,\nNo nest of fragrant grass under vines,"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1432, "texte": "No dens with locks that softly click.\nNo ! there are mountains and nothing else,\nNature, and nothing else;\nNoble thoughts ! music ! I am a beast,\nShe says to me and a hunter —\nAre you not ashamed in the presence of mountains\nThat you put traps of steel\nUnder the matted masses of sweet grass\nTo catch the delicate feet of a little girl — me ?\nAnd Aunt Visyana says to beware you.\nShe sighs like a seedless pod, being all spirit,\nAnd pets the golden fox, protects her\nAnd frowns on me\nAs a red faced Satan tracking an angel,\nA spirit pure as whitest fire —■\nMaybe — but why am I here ?\nWhy telegrams ?\nBut after a wrhile, we walk in the mountains,\nWhat for ? Thrill of high places,\nIvights of sunset, stars at dusk.\nAll right, stars, smell of pine needles, nature,\nSpiritual raptures !\nBut when we get there\nShe is the golden fox again :\nLaughs and shifts her eyes, pants, shows teeth,\nEats grapes from my hand — many kisses ;\nRuns here and there : anise theatricals.\nOh, Aunt Visyana, come and see.\nCome and hear the bitter prattle,\nSnarls of the golden fox !\nOther lovers ! favors ? None of your business !\nAnyway, wishers to be husbands, not just hunters,\nTrappers like you, you beast !\nCome let me stroke the corn tassel hair of you,\nPart it from the strawberry hair of you,\nI love you, you know ! Call back my hounds.\nCraftier work ; grapes hung on hedges,\nFat pigeons laid on pits ;\nThat is I grow sad, ask forgiveness for sin,"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1095, "texte": "Say I am going away — farewell ! farewell !\nAnd so leave Aunt Visyana — trust me.\nCome to the city from the Sierras,\nWhere we may be\nAlone in the last sacred hours !\nWell, she conies, takes a den,\nLocks and doors you know.\nOh, Aunt Visyana, come and see !\nGrapes ! wine and sweet pulp,\nDropping from the burst skins, riotous sweetness.\nLaughter and abandonment, surrender,\nBeing wholly tamed again —\nUntil she brings in poodles and terriers :\nProspective husbands ! Or lovers ? More .anise !\nHints of strolls, little mysterious sighs around,\nSnapping of real sparks at times\nFrom the standing on end of golden fur.\nBut anyway, it's a tame fox now,\nOnly a tamed fox plays with poodles,\nOr an anise bag with a clock inside\nTo move tufted feet\nAround with the feet of poodles.\nWell, then I walk off, not worried,\nAnd walk back not interested — not much\nTo find — Come, Aunt Visyana :\nHere is your angel asleep beside a poodle.\nClosed lid under Puck eyebrows,\nSmear of grapes on her lips —\nAnd to end, I scotch the io±\nAnd here's the pelt,\nI nail it 011 the wall of my habitation.\n\nEdgar Lee Masters"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "17", "page_fin": "17", "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=bmtnaap192204-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Moissons en Ile-de-France", "titre_sommaire": "Moissons en Ile-de-France", "signature_source": "Alice Halicka", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 41, "texte": "Alice Halicka.\nMoissons en Ile-de-France."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "18", "page_fin": "35", "image_debut": 20, "image_fin": 37, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Black Jack Kerrigan", "titre_sommaire": "Black Jack Kerrigan", "signature_source": "Israel Solon", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2152, "texte": "BLACK JACK KERRIGAN\n\nI\nAndrew Kerrigan, a tall, broad-boned, powerful man, sold mustard and\nchowchow that he prepared with his own hard hands in the reeking kitchen\nof his cottage in Elston Avenue west of the rolling mills. Every day of the year\nexcept Sundays and holidays, from sunup to sunset, and in all weathers, Andrew\nKerrigan strode up one street and down another, a twelve quart covered wooden\nbucket in either hand. He never changed his gait and never changed his route,\nstriding the same streets regularly on the same day once every week, and never\noftener than once every week.\nAndrew Kerrigan never called his wares and never offered them to anyone ;\nhe strode right ahead and looked neither to the right nor the left nor in front\nof him, paying no attention to anybody unless he was called ; and in the\nmaking of his sales he aimed to get along with the fewest possible number\nof words. After dealing with him for as many as thirty years, many of his\ncustomers knew that his name was Kerrigan, \" Mr. Kerrigan,\" and little else\nabout him.\nThey would not have known his name had he not insisted on their know-\ning it. During the many years that he strode the same streets, he had i,aught\nthe housewives to address him as \" Mr. Kerrigan,\" or they would go without\na relish to set on the table for dinner. Andrew Kerrigan would pass right by\nthe wife of some laborer newly moved to the neighborhood, never showing\nany sign that he heard or noticed her, if she had failed to address him properly.\nAnd if she called after him he would stop long enough to turn his head about\nand, without setting his buckets down or removing the pipe from between\nhis long teeth, he would bark back at her.\n\"My name is not ' Hey,' woman ! My name is Kerrigan, Mr. Kerrigan ! \"\nHe would resume his striding before the astonished housewiie had time to\nrealise the nature of her offence.\nMany an inquisitive housewife, hoping to learn more about him, had tried\nto engage him in conversation, beginning with some reference to the weather\nor to the state of his health. But always there was the same result. The words\nwould come sizzling from between his long teeth."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2800, "texte": "\" And what sort of weather would you be having now, woman ? \" Or,\ndepending on the nature of the reference, he would snarl back at her, \" Why\nwouldn't Ibe looking well, woman ? \" Or, \" Don't let you be worrying\nyourself about my health, woman ! \"\nAndrew Kerrigan shared his four room cottage in Elston Avenue west of\nthe rolling mills with his son Johnny. Johnny Kerrigan did not live with his\nfather ; nobody could live with Andrew Kerrigan. Johnny's mother had tried\nit and given it up when Johnny was still an infant.\nJohnny Kerrigan had never been allowed any playmates, and nobody\never came to visit him. In fair weather Johnny Kerrigan would play all by\nhimself in their back yard, among the rubbish collected there by his father ;\nor he would dig with the piece of an old fire shovel among the cinders dropped\nthere by the passing switch engines or from the tall steel smoke-stacks of the\nrolling mills ; and in cold or rainy weather Johnny Kerrigan would play with\nthe pile of junk his father had assigned to him in one of the corners of their\nkitchen, stale with the tobacco smoke of more than thirty years — he would\nplay with the metal parts of old wash wringers and washing machines, ribs\nof broken umbrellas, broken handles of sadirons, old spoons, knives and forks\nfrom which the plating had worn off with use, jar and bottle stoppers, suspender\nbuckles and corset steels : he would play with the pile of junk his father was\nalways adding to. Summer or winter, Johnny Kerrigan was never permitted\nto go beyond the front and rear gates, which his father always kept locked.\nWhen Johnny was six years old his father sent him to the Public School\nin Ashland Avenue, less than three blocks away, saying,\n\" Don't you be stopping on the way, going or coming ; and don't you be\nhaving anything to say to anybody at all. Just you keep your mouth shut\ntight, no matter what's said to you, going or coming. Did you hear me at all ?\nMind what I'm telling you. Don't you go blabbering to anybody. If you don't\nwant the hide taken off you! ''\nJohnny required neither his father's threats nor his warnings. He knew\nnothing that he could have told to anybody ; and he had long since given up\nthe asking of questions. His father was a hard teacher, and there were but\nfew things he had ever taught his son, but the few things he did teach him he\nhad taught with such violence that Johnny never forgot them. One of the things\nJohnny Kerrigan had learnt was that he must never use his mouth in speech.\n\" Don't you be letting the like of that troubling you, boy. You had better\nbe minding you don't get your -knuckles rapped for you, or something worse\nmaybe.\nThat was as good as the best answer that Johnny ever got from his father.\nEarly one Saturday morning, when Johnny was seven years old, his father"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2872, "texte": "shook him out of sleep and. told him to hurry and put his clothes on him ; there\nwas a vegetable pedlar waiting for him. While Johnny was still heavy and slow\nwith sleep, his father pushed him in front of him, out the rear door and across\nthe back yard, and through the rear gate, talking all the while.\n\" You want to be minding everything the pedlar will be saying to you,\ndo you hear ! And be sure to bring home the silver half dollar the pedlar\nwill be giving you, and don't you be losing of it on the way. Do you hear\nme at all ? Do as you are told, if you don't want to be given your own head\nto play with.\"\nJohnny climbed to the seat beside the pedlar without saying a word.\nThe pedlar gave Johnny a sugar-covered bun and a big red apple to eat all\nby himself. This did much to place Johnny in an expectant mood. The\nbreakfast was more than he had expected and better than he had ever eaten\nas long as he could lemember.\nThe pedlar drove far out to the north side without a stop, and from there\nbegan to sell his wares, driving closer into town as he went on. Johnny had\nnever suspected that there were so many beautiful houses in all the world.\nThere were just miles and miles of them. I,ots and lots of them had grass and\ntrees all around them, and nice white cement walks that ran way back.\nThe grass at first felt rather mushy underfoot, and Johnny did not know\nwhether he liked walking on grass or not ; but by the time it got warmer he learnt\nto like walking and running on the grass ; after a while he liked running on\nthe grass plots between the houses even better than on the white cement walks.\nRunning up and down the painted clean steps Johnny liked from the very first.\nIt was no trouble at all to him to take two steps at a time going up ; after many\nattempts he got so he could take two steps at a time going down, too. Only\nthat he got tired lots sooner than he had expected, though he could not have\nbeen got to admit it under torture. He had even tried taking three steps at\na time, but his legs weren't long enough.\nJohnny got to see the insides of many kitchens. They were wonderfully\nclean and the)' smelt nice, and the floors were whiter than the new lumber\nhe saw going by their own cottage door every day on the wagons from the lum-\nber yards. Lots of swell ladies talked to him ; and he would have liked to talk\nto them too, only he was afraid his father might find it out.\nIt was almost lunch time, although the factory whistles had not begun to\nblow yet, when Johnny was sent to carry a peck of apples into a lady's kitchen.\nShe was dressed all in white, lots of thin white fluffy things one over the other.\nHe had never in all his life before been so close to such a wonderful creature.\nHe was so close behind her that he could have touched her with his finger.\nIt was all he could do to keep his finger back from touching her. His finger"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2768, "texte": "kept on wanting to touch her and he didn't know why. The lady asked Johnny\nto wTait a moment in the kitchen while she went into the next room to get the\nmoney for the apples. Then Johnny noticed the most wonderful thing he\nhad ever seen.\nLying there on the window-sill close beside him was the most wonderful\nyellow7 shiny little gold watch he had ever seen. It was much littler than a\nlittle potato and lots flatter. Johnny was just as sure as anything that it was\na lady's gold watch, He had never really seen a lady's gold watch. He took\none small step and bent over a little, so as to be able to look at it closer. Then\nhe heard it make the most curious sort of noise, and he was wondering what\nit might be saying.\nJohnny never quite knew how it happened; it was all done before he\nknew it. His hand went out without his ever wanting it to ; and when the hand\nreturned to him there was the little thing right in his hand, and it felt as funn3r\nas anything, and it kept right on making that curious noise. Then he heard\nthe lady's steps as she was coming back into the kitchen. The tiny watch in\nhis hand seemed to be making a bigger noise all the time, and he was afraid\nit was going to tell on him, and he wanted to hit it on the floor and step on it,\nbut the lady was coming back and he had only just time enough to stick his\nhand into his pocket. He gave the watch a good squeeze, so it would shut\nup, but it went on just the same, and Johnny was becoming more scared every\nmoment. Pie was sure the lady would hear the watch making all that noise.\nAs the lady about to enter the kitchen, Johnny wanted to cry out\nthat he hadn't meant to take it, that it was only his hand had done it,\nbut the lady smiled on him as she came in, gave him the money and even a\npenny for himself. All his fears left him instantly, and he wanted to keep\nthe little watch. Apparently the lady could not hear the noise the watch\nwas making.\nJohnny was anxious to get out of that kitchen as quickly as possible.\nHe wanted to make one leap out the door, but he changed his mind and walked\nout slowly. All the way back to the pedlar's wagon Johnny walked slowly,\nthough with uneven steps, some of them longer than others. He turned the\nmoney over to the pedlar and began to pull himself into the seat, but by\nthat time his arms and legs felt so wreak that they refused to pull him up.\nSuddenly Johnny began to cry, and he told the pedlar that he was too\ntired and he would have to go home right away. He began to cry louder, saying\nhe would have to go home, he had to go home, and before the pedlar could\nsay anything, Johnny began to run home.\nThe pedlar called after him to come back. Johnny came back step by\nstep, rubbing his eyes with his closed fists. He kept repeating that he was"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2873, "texte": "tired and had to go home ; but the pedlar told him that it was near lunch\ntime, and they would be eating their lunch in a little while and Johnny could\nbe resting, and that he would not have to run so hard after lunch.\nJohnny did not know what to do. He thought he would run into the lady's\nkitchen and place the watch back on the window-sill while the lady was not\nlooking. But instead he burst out crying and fled as hard as he could go, crying\nlike a terrified puppy.\nJohnny had run a number of blocks before he became aware that he did\nnot know the way home. He knew that he must not ask a policeman. He ran\nand walked by turns and rubbed his tear-filled eyes with the back of his hands.\nWhen he came across a boy no bigger than himself he dared to ask for the\nway home. Everybody knew where the rolling mills were, and Johnny knew\nthat when he got to where he could see the tall steel smoke-stacks he would be\nable to find the way himself. Once he risked asking a boy considerably bigger\nthan himself. The boy looked him up and down several times before he made\nany reply. Johnny felt that the boy was going to attempt to take the watch\naway from him, and he made up his mind that he would kill the boy if he at-\ntempted to lay hold of him. He did not know just how he was going to ac-\ncomplish that, but he felt strong enough just then to have killed a policeman.\nFortunately, the boy told Johnny the way to the rolling mills and made no at-\ntempt at all to take the watch away from him ; only that after Johnny had\ntaken a few steps the boy cried after him and called him a \" Bohunk. \" But\nthis only made Johnny smile a small, bittei smile, because Johnny wasn't a\n\" Bohunk\" at all and didn't even look like one.\nJohnny ran into the alley back of their cottage, climbed the back fence,\nand let himself drop down into the back yard. He took the piece of an old fire\nshovel that he always dug with, scraped away the cinders and dug a hole\nby the side-of the second post from the rear gate. The hole was so big that\nit held both his hands all the way to the wrists. He then looked around to\nmake sure that nobody was observing him, took the watch out of his left pocket,\nplaced it at the bottom of the hole, covered it with a fiat stone, then with the\ndirt and after that with the cinders. He then stamped the little mound down\nwith his bare feet, so nobody would be able to find the watch and steal it from\nhim. That done, Johnny suddenly felt hungry. He went into the kitchen,\ntook the big knife and cut himself a thick slice of bread, then covered it with\na thick layer of bacon-fry. It then occured to Johnny that it would be nice\nto eat the bread on the fiont steps, where he could watch who might be com-\ning along.\nHe walked leisurely to the front gate, biting of his bread as he went along.\nHe was rather more awkward than usual in walking. He had tired himself"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2934, "texte": "that morning far more than he was aware of. Once or twice he stepped on his\nown toes, but Johnny paid no attention to that. Instead of going up the front\nsteps as he had intended, he climbed the front gate and leaned over the top,\nlooking up and down Elston Avenue. Hanging by his armpits, he bit into\nthe bread until his mouth was well filled. Johnny discovered that by doing\nthat, he could chew a longer time without having to take another bite ; in\nthe meanwhile he could be kicking out with both legs behind him, like a mule.\nIt then occured to Johnny that it must be time for Tom Kiernan, the po-\nliceman who lived up Elston Avenue aways, to be going home for lunch. Tom\nKiernan always said \"Hello \" to Johnny when he saw him, but Johmtyhad\nnever been able to make up his mind about Tom Kiernan, He never knew\nwhether he ought to be afraid of Tom Kiernan or not. Generally, Johnny\ncould not trust himself to stand close to the front gate when Tom Kiernan\nwent by. He used to retreat a piece, and stand between the cottage and the\nfence, so that if Tom Kiernan were to attempt to get hold of Johnny, he could\nrun away into the house and hide himself before Tom Kiernan could climb\nover the front fence. This time Johnny was not the least bit frightened. He\ndropped from the gate, ran between the cottage and the fence, and, with the\nbread in his left hand, he began to dig up the watch. But that was not fast\nenough for him, and so he took the bread between his teeth and commenced\nto dig with both hands. In another minute he held the watch in his hands.\nIt was still making that strange noise as loud as ever.\nFor a moment Johnny did not know what to do with the watch. Then\nhe took a big bite of the bread and put it away. He placed the watch on a\nstone and struck it with another one. He had to strike at it a number of times\nbefore it became quite still. After that he struck at it a number of more times,\nuntil he had pounded it flat almost, before he felt satisfied that it was not\nmerely letting on to be dead. By this time he had lost all interest in it, and\nhe threw it into the hole and covered it up quickly without paying any more\nattention to the way be was doing the job, and he did not take the trouble\nthis time to stamp the ground down.\nBy this time he had the bread all eaten. Still Johnny thought that it\nwould be nice to sit on the front steps and watch who might be coming along.\nA short time later, Johnny saw Tom Kiernan coming along, and it occured to\nJohnny that it would be nice to go into the kitchen now to play with the junk.\nTom Kiernan stopped at the front gate, and Johnny could hear him trying\nto open it. Johnny stole up quietly and looked through the open door leading\nfrom the kitchen. He was careful to show as little of himself as possible. He\nsaw Tom Kiernan going away and he gave a little chuckle. He was glad the\ngate was locked. But after a little while Tom Kiernan was at the rear gate"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2640, "texte": "in the alley. Tom Kiernan tried that gate, too, but it was locked ; and just\nas Johnny began to think that Tom Kiernan would be going away, he saw\nhim climbing over the gate.\nFor a moment Johnny remained sitting on the floor, keeping as still as he\ncould. Then he crawled out on all fours and hid himself under his father's bed.\nTom Kiernan walked up the rear steps and knocked on the door frame,\nsaying.\n\" Where are you, Johnny ? Come out here. I want to tell you something.\"\nJohnny knew better than to come out. In another minute Tom Kiernan\nwas inside the kitchen. Still he kept saying.\n\" Where are you, Johnny ? Come out here. I want to tell you something.\"\nJohnny was breathing as quietly as he could. The next minute Tom Kier-\nnan walked right in where Johnny lay hidden under that bed, and the next\ninstant Johnny felt himself being dragged out by the foot.\nThen Johnny began to scream as he had never screamed before in his life.\nTom Kiernan lifted Johnny by one aim and tried to set him on his feet, but\nJohnny's arms and legs shook so that he could not stand up by himself, and\nTom Kiernan had to hold Johnny by the arm to keep him from falling to the\nfloor. All this while Johnny kept shrieking with all his strength and Tom\nKiernan kept saying.\n\" Hush up, now, won't you ! Nobody is going to harm you at all. What\nare you afraid of ? Hush up, now, won't you ! \"\nTom Kiernan let go of Johnny's arm as soon as he could stand up by him-\nself. Gradually Johnny quieted down, and Tom Kiernan said.\n\" Tell your father that officer Kiernan is coming back later, and for him\nnot to be going away anywhere.\"\nJohnny played with the junk in the kitchen all the afternoon without\nstopping. The games he played had no name ; they did not follow any rules\nknown to him. He would arrange the various pieces of junk according to some\norder that he would think of at the time. Pie would arrange them in a row\nand talk to them as if they were persons, ordering them to move now to this\nside now to that, to stand still, get up and sit down. And since they failed\nto do as they were ordered, he would handle them violently. \" Didn't I tell\nyou to go over there ?\" Thereupon he would move the particular knife or fork\nor piece of a wash-wringer over to where he had pointed, striking it violently\nagainst the floor as he moved it. \" Now you stand here. Stand, I tell you !\nDidn't I tell you to stand ? \" He made use of all the oaths that he knew, and\nbecause he did not know the meaning of most of them, he aimed to utter them\nin the same tone of voice that he had heard them uttered.\nWhen Johnny had come to believe that Tom Kiernan was not coming"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2875, "texte": "again, he heard a noise at the back fence, and he saw Tom Kiernan letting him-\nself down over the fence into the back yard. The next minute Tom Kiernan\nwas knocking at the door-frame. But Johnny kept right on playing with his\njunk, though silently this time.\n\" Did your father get back ? \" Tom Kiernan said.\nJohnny did not answer him, but kept right on playing. Tom Kiernan\nwalked into the kitchen, helped himself to a chair and sat down. Johnny kept\nright on playing. Tom Kiernan said nothing, but just sat there watching Johnny.\nJohnny looked at Tom Kiernan with the corner of his eye and then at the\nkitchen table. The thought had come to Johnny that if he could steal over\nto the kitchen table, get hold of the big knife and sneak upon Tom Kiernan\nfrom behind, he could kill Tom Kiernan and buiy him in the back yard and\nnobody would know anything about it. He waited for a good opportunity ;\nfrom time to time his gaze would steal over to the kitchen table.\nBut Tom Kiernan must somehow have got to know of Johnny's plan, for\nhe got up from the chair and said, \"Be a good boy, now, Johnny.\" And he\nmoved his chair over into a corner of the kitchen, and from there continued\nto watch Johnny. But Johnny could not play after that. Then Johnny thought\nthat he would just run away where nobody could find him. But again Tom\nKiernan said, \"Be a good boy, now, Johnny.\" Then Johnny's father came,\nand Tom Kiernan got up and said, \" Good evening, Mr. Kerrigan.\" And John-\nny's father said, \" Good evening, Tom. \" And then Tom Kiernan told John-\nny's father that Captain Keogh wanted to see him at the West North Avenue\nStation, and for him to bring Johnny with him. Then all three went to the West\nNorth Avenue Station, and Johnny's father walked so fast that Tom Kiernan\ncould hardly keep up with him, and Johnny ran along behind.\nJohnny's father said, \" Good evening, Andy,\" and Captain Keogh said,\n\" Good evening, Mr. Kerrigan.\" And the Captain opened a drawer of his desk\nand took out something and held it in his hand, and he told Johnny's father\nthat Johnny had stolen a lady's gold watch and smashed it with a stone and\nburied it in the back yard. Johnny thought that Captain Keogh must be a\ndevil or a witch or something. Johnny stood up on his tip-toes to see what\nthe Captain had in his hand ; and, sure enough, there in the Captain's hand\nwas the watch Johnny had buried in the back yard. Johnny was just as sure\nas he could be that Tom Kiernan had stolen it from him. He wanted to tell\nit to the Captain, but he changed his mind. It was no use. The Captain would\nnever do anything to Tom Kiernan. Tom Kiernan was a man, and he could\ndo anything he liked. It was only little kids like Johnny that weren't allowed\nto do anything. Then Captain Keogh told Johnny's father to sign a bond that\nhe would bring Johnny to the West Chicago Avenue Police Court at nine o'clock"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2665, "texte": "on Monday morning, and Johnny's father said, \"No, you keep him, Andy\nHe's safer with you.\"\nThen Johnny's father went away with Tom Kiernan, and Johnny wanted\nto bawl and run after his father, but he did not let a whimper out of him, and\njust stood there first on one foot then on the other, and Captain Keogh said,\n\"You're a brave lad, Johnny. You'll be all right.\"\nThe following Monday morning Judge Kirschbaum said that Johnny had\nnever been brought up right. Johnny's father should not have been allowed\nto bring up a young child. And the Judge said that he would send Johnny\nto the Reform School, they would make a man of Johnny.\nJohnny did not know whether he wanted to be a man or not, but on think-\ning it over he decided that he did want to be a man, if it didn't take too long.\nA man could lick little kids any time he felt like it, and a man could just do\neverything. Johnny was sure he wanted to be a man.\nJohnny's former neighbors had made several attempts to obtain Johnny's\nrelease. There was a meeting held in the fire station in Waubensia Avenue\nshortly after Johnny was sent away. A dozen good women told how glad\nthey would have been to have given Johnny a home. Everybody agreed that\nJohnny should never have been sent to the Reform School. That was no place\nfor him. Resolutions were unanimously passed, calling upon Alderman Kiel-\nbassa to see to it that Johnny was released at once.\nThe following evening the Committee presented the resolutions to Alderman\nKielbassa. The Alderman assured the Committee that he was ready to do ev-\nerything for the citizens of his ward. He told the Committee that he wTould\nlet them know at once as soon as he had any good news for them, but the Com-\nmittee said they would come back twTo days later, and the Alderman wished\nthem all a good night.\nTwo days later the Committee again called on Alderman Kielbassa. The\nAlderman greeted them warmly. He opened up a fresh box of cigars and passed\nthem around, telling the gentlemen to help themselves. \" Would any of the\ngentlemen like to have a little smile, perhaps ? \" he inquired almost apolo-\ngetically. \"No ? That is the best way, certainly. I never touch it myself.\nBut I am not like some of those guys that fill up to the muzzle every time they\nget a chance and don't want to let anybody else have a single drink. lam\nliberal-minded.''\nThe Committee finally managed to ask him what he had done about get-\nting Johnny released.\n\" I was just coming to that,\" the Alderman replied. He opened a drawer\nof his desk and took out a folded formidable-looking paper. Holding it up\nin his left hand, he tapped it with a pencil that he held in his right hand, cleared"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2846, "texte": "his throat and said, \" I want you gentlemen to know that it was a big job you\nhave given me. I went direct to headquarters. That's always the best way.\nThey all know me, and they'll do anything I ask them. Anything in reason,\nof course. But they showed me the young man's record black on white.\"\nHere the Alderman again tapped the formidable-looking paper he held in his\nleft hand. \" I want you to understand lam not expressing my own opinion.\nI never like to express opinions in such things. But there it is ! He opened\nthe paper slowly and carefully, saying, \" His record shows black on white that\nthe young man is ' incorrigible,' (The Alderman had a terrible feeling that\nhe hadn't pronounced the word properly) ' obstinate,' he continued, \" and\n' refractory.' But ! \" he fairly shouted, and again he tapped the paper in his\nleft hand with the pencil that he held in his right. \" I never say die ! Not\nme ! I have not given this matter up yet. Not by a long shot ! There are\nmore ways to kill a calf besides tickling it to death. I intend to go right ahead\non this. So much for that.! \" he said, closing the subject ; and then added,\n\" Any time any of you gentlemen need a little favor. Remember, my door is\nalways open for you. Any time at all. Day or night. You'll find me a good\nfellow. Drop in for a friendly call. Any time you feel like it. Good evening,\ngentlemen. Glad to know you.\"\nAnd so nothing came of that attempt to get Johnny released from the Re-\nform School.\nThe most serious attempt in Johnny's behalf was made the following spring.\nThe \" Elston Social and Athletic Association,\" a young men's club of the neigh-\nborhood, and the \" Lilies of The Valley, \" a young ladies' club, got together\nand organised a ball for Johnny's benefit. The ball was a grand success. Every-\nbody said so. Everybody knew everybody else, and all had a wonderful time.\nAlderman Kielbassa spoke from the platform beside the musicians. He praised\neverybody present for their efforts in a worthy cause, and he told of all he him-\nself had done. At the end of his eloquent address he announced that he would\ncontribute twenty-five dollars towards the worthy cause. Everybody cheered\nhim again and again.\nBut as everybody had spent so much effort to make the ball a grand success,\nand had spent all they could afford to make a presentable appearance at the ball,\nand since it would not have been the correct thing to sell strong drinks at an\naffair of that nature, only a little more than a hundred and fifty dollars was\nrealised from the venture.\nA lawyer was engaged to go to Springfield and see the governor, and the\nBoard of Pardons. The lawyer was told not to mince matters nor beat about\nthe bush. He should tell those fellows down in Springfield that the citizens of\nthe twenty-fourth ward demanded Johnny Kerrigan's release — at once ! At once !"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2603, "texte": "You understand ? To a man, they demanded it ! And they weren't going\nto forget it at the coming election, either. That's the way to talk to those\nfellows.\nBut it was fully two months before the Committee was able to get the lawyer\nto say finally what he could and what he could not do. He had worked hard,\nbut thus far he had not been a.ble to accomplish anything. The records were\nall against Johnny Kerrigan. He had broken a machine in the chair factory.\nHow ? The records did not state. He was disobedient and intractable. The\nBoard of Pardons could not under the circumstances make a favorable recom-\nmendation to the Governor. Without a recommendation from the Board of\nPardons the Governor did not dare do anything with an election coming on.\nHowever ! If an additional five hundred dollars could be raised, he, the lawyer,\ncould sit down at a little game of cards with a certain number of persons ; the\nresult of which would be that these persons would all leave the table with their\npockets well lined, and that would be sure to have a most favorable effect on\nJohnny Kerrigan's record. Keep this under your hats, gentlemen. Not a word\nof this to anybody. Not even to your own wives. You know !\nFor a while, there was some talk of arranging for a picnic in Brand's Grove.\nBut the ball had involved so much work that nobody was willing to serve on\nthe committees. And so nothing came of the final effort to get Johnny Ker-\nrigan released.\nMore than ten years later-the Sovereign State released one Black Jack\nKerrigan under the legal fiction that it had restored Johnny Kerrigan, and much\nimproved. Those who still remembered Johnny Kerrigan had their own opin-\nions, but they said little and were willing to help.\nII\nFor several days after Black Jack Kerrigan's release he kept entirely to\nhimself, but the neighbors all understood, and they only waited for the oppor-\ntunity to show him that they felt friendly. Two days after Jack's return, it was\nreported to the men who foregathered in the fire station in Waubensia Avenue\nthat, every hour or two during the day and evening, Jack left the house, fol-\nlowed the alley for some blocks and returned the same way fifteen or twenty\nminutes later. He carried nothing in his hands, and seemed to have nothing\non his person, going or coming. There was some little speculation and dis-\ncussion, but in the end it was agreed that no notice had best be taken of his\nbehavior. There was time enough.\nIn the afternoon of th,e fourth day after Jack's return, Tom Kiernan went\nout into the alley in the rear of his home to empty the kitchen refuse into the"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2637, "texte": "garbage box. He was in his shirt sleeves at the time and carried no arms. Black\nJack Kerrigan leaped upon him from behind and took him by the throat. Mrs.\nKiernan who was working at the kitchen sink at the time, doing the dishes,\nthought she saw something jumping in the alley. But as there was no sound\nor sign of a struggle she dismissed it from her mind. But the next instant she\nsaw a man leap into the air feet uppermost. He described a semi-circle, struck\nthe top of the fence a dull, hard blow, and fell into the back yard all in a heap.\nShe did not know that her own husband by suddenly doubling up like a jack\nknife had sent that man through his singular movements. In another instant\nTom Kiernan was at the side of the prostrated man.\n\" Are you hurt much, Johnny ? \" Tom Kiernan asked excitedly. \" I\ndidn't know it was you was at me. Where's your senses, Johnny ? You might\nknow I did all I could to help you that time.\"\nBlack Jack Kerrigan lay there dazed. He was trying to recall where he\nwas and how he carne to be there.\nThe Captain ana I talked it over that time,\" Tom Kiernan continued,\n\" and he thought it was better that I went over to tell your father, so the wagon\nwouldn t have to be sent, and. them Hunkies wouldn't need to know there was\nanything the matter at all. Are hurt much, tell me ! Where was your\nsenses, Johnny ? You had better be rubbing some liniment on you, or you'll\nbe as stiff as a poker in the morning. Margaret ! \" Tom Kiernan shouted to\nhis wife. \" Fetch me that bottle of Muldoon's liniment, will you ! \" Again\nturning his attention to Black Jack Kerrigan, Tom Kiernan, said, \" I did what\nI could to help you that time, Johnny. Can't you understand that ? You\nain t taken leave of your senses, have you ? You might know I'd do all I could\nto help you.\"\nTom Kiernan went to meet his wife at the rear door. He took the bottle\nof liniment from her and motioned her back into the house. In the mean-\nwhile, Jack Kerrigan struggled to his left knee and then to his right foot ; plac-\ning his right hand against his thigh, he succeeded in getting himself erect.\nbetter let me rub some of this liniment on you, \" Tom Kiernan\nsaid.\nBut Jack Kerrigan had already begun to make his way through the rear\ngate.\n\" Take this liniment,\" Tom Kiernan said, holding out the bottle to Jack\nKerrigan. \" Rub it on you, so you won't go stiff by tomorrow. Take it,\nJohnny, and rub it in good.\"\nJack Kerrigan took the bottle from Tom Kiernan's hand without a word,\nand set off for his father's cottage. He walked slowly and carefully, as if he\nwere suffering from an acute internal pain. He tried to keep from limping,"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2770, "texte": "and he succeeded fairly well. From the beginning to the end he had not uttered\na sound.\nThat same evening everybody at the fire station in Waubensia Avenue\nagreed that Jack had to be found a job ; and the next day a job was found for\nJack with Voltz and Lacey, tinsmiths. Little Timmie Wade had agreed to take\nJack on as helper, and he further agreed that he would do all he could to teach\nJack the trade, and not merely use him for carrying the bag of tools and the fur-\nnace, as most others did.\nThere were some objections raised ; several doubted the advisability of\nletting Jack become Timmie Wade's helper. Timmie, or \" Slivers/' as he was\nmost generally called, forever offered to whip everybody in sight. It was all\nwell enough with those who knew how to take him. Nothing serious had ever\nreally come of it. If he ever took it into his head to tackle Jack the way he did\nthe others — there was no telling what might come of it. \" Just see what Jack\ntried to do to Tom Kiernan ! \" \" Slivers wasn't more than a good handful,\nand it would be a darned shame if Jack ever got at him, because of Slivers'\nfamily.\" \"It might do Slivers a lot of good to get mussed up. It might teach\nhim to keep his mouth shut.\" But since all agreed that Slivers was a good\nmechanic, and that he would be teaching Jack the trade if he happened to take\na liking to him, everybody agreed to let them try it out for a while. And so\nthe following morning Jack Kerrigan became Slivers' helper.\nJack Kerrigan still felt stiff ; his back pained him, and his left side felt\nraw and sore to the touch. He could not help being slow and deliberate as\nhe bent over to lift the bag of tools to his shoulder. Slivers, knowing nothing\nof Jack's encounter with Tom Kiernan, eyed Jack quizzically, a mocking twinkle\nin his small brown eyes. He was on the point of asking whether Jack's\nrheumatism troubled him, and whether he thought it was going to rain, but he\nchanged his mind, and contented himself with winking at the other men\nstanding around.\nA number of leaks had showed up during a rain in the new Swedish Luth-\neran Church. Slivers had done the work on that Church ; he was now setting\nout to mend it. The workmen all took delight in chaffing Slivers.\n\" Who ever told Slivers he was a tinsmith ? \" \" What sort of work do\nyou think we do here ? \" \" Some people will try to get away with murder,\nif you let 'em.\"\n\" I've got it on the best of you fellows, and you damned well know it.\"\n\" I guess we'll just have to take him across the knee one of these days and\nspank him good and plenty. We may as well be doing it first as last.\" \"You\nsaid it ! \" \" He's getting peskier every day, ain't he ? \" \"No use wasting any\ntime over it. This is as good a time as any. WTho gets the first crack at him? \""}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2686, "texte": "There was some shuffling of feet, as if there was a concerted movement to\nlay hold of Slivers ; and though he knew that this was all done to tease him,\nSlivers could not help rising for it.\n\" There ain't enough of you fellows here to do it — and what do you\nknow about that ? \"\nJack Kerrigan stood off to one side, the bag of tools on his left shoulder\nand the furnace in his right hand. He took no notice of all that went on around\nhim.\n\" Talking big for a little fellow, ain't he ? \" one of the men said, turning\nto the others.\n\" There ain't nobody here has got a better right to talk big \" Slivers shot\nback at them.\nSlivers began to walk slowly out of the shop, his head turned to the left,\nso the men might know that he was watching them, and that he was as ready\nas ever to give as good as he got and better. When he had got as far as the door,\nall the men began to go through various heckling gestures. One took the pipe\nfrom his mouth, crossed his right arm over his left, and spat in the direction of\nSlivers, though not at him. Others slapped their thighs, grinned, cackled and\nmade various animal sounds. Nobody showed any concern in Jack Kerrigan\nand he showed no concern in anybody.\nSlivers and Jack had to travel all the way out to Edgewater, more than\nfour miles from the shop. When they got there Slivers found that most of the\nleaks he could mend without any help. The one really serious one was located\nin the spire. He thought that he might better send Jack back to the shop\nfor a rope and tackle. He could be fetching them while he himself was mending\nthe other leaks. But he changed his mind. Slivers always prided himself\non his \" nerve.\" He liked to show those fellow that he wasn't afraid to take\na chance and a long chance ; and, when you came right down to it, none of them\nhad the guts to pull some of the stunts that he did. There was a sharp turn\nthere, with not enough room to set a ladder down in the gutter ; but he thought\nthat he would try to get up there someway, when he got to it. In the mean-\nwhile, it had occured to Slivers to send Jack on one of the fool errands that ap-\nprentices are always sent on when they first begin to work.\n\" Here's a dime for carfare, Jack,\" Slivers said to him with seeming ser-\niousness. \" Run down to the shop and tell the girl in the office to give you a\nwire stretcher. She'll make you sign a requisition for it. That's all right.\nWe'll bring it back when we get through here. Don't let her stick you with\none that's all banged up. See that the jaws are all right.\"\nIt had not occured to Jack to question whether there actually was such a\ntool as a wire stretcher. His own experience had taught him to ask no ques-"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2790, "texte": "tions and never to challenge those in authority. Having found it hopeless,\nJack had long since given up trying to understand the reasons back of an order\nfrom those above him. If only he understood what he was to do, that ended\nhis interest in what was said to him. Because of his many experiences in the\npast, it is even possible that Jack would have gone down to the shop if he knew\nthe fool nature of his errand.\nJack Kerrigan returned in the same dull way that he went, without saying\na word. Slivers felt himself frustrated. He had got himself all set to give\nJack the merry hah-hah ! when he got back ; but Jack's stolid, expressionless\nface and his cool, regular behavior puzzled Slivers. He frowned ; his face took\non a hard, truculent expression as he tried to penetrate Jack's mask-like face,\nto get what was back of it. It worried Slivers. Jack's dull disinterestedness\nseemed real. What was Jack thinking about ? What was he planning ? Such\nutter indifference was a new experience to Slivers. It did not fit in with his past\nexperiences. Slivers wanted to ask Jack what the girl in the office had said to\nhim and why he hadn't brought the wire stretcher ; he wanted to ask the ques-\ntions and have them over with. But, somehow, Slivers did not dare. Jack\nwas a foot taller than Slivers and weighed perhaps fifty pounds more, but that\nwas not what intimidated Slivers. The size of his opponent had never worried\nhim. That was precisely what made Slivers' present feeling so incomprehen-\nsible to him. Something was pressing against his confused brain and he could\nnot make out what it was.\nTo escape from this confusion, Slivers fled to his work. He became excess-\nively busy, in a disorderly, haphazard way. Instead of picking out the pre-\ncise tool he wanted, he would snatch up the first one his glance alighted on ;\nfinding that it was not the tool he wanted, he would fling it down, instead of\nreplacing it in its proper pocket.\nIt was then close to eleven o'clock. Ordinarily he would not have attempted\nto solder the leak in the spire that forenoon. The hour would have been spent\ngetting the job ready for the afternoon. Under his present false pressure he\nwas determined to do it at once.\nHe procured a short ladder, ordered Jack to take the furnace and follow\nhim, and he went up on to the roof.\nBecause of the shape of the roof at that point there was no place to set\nthe ladder down securely ; also the ladder was not long enough. But he quickly\nsaw a way how to get around these difficulties. He set one leg of the ladder\npart-way up on the side of the slanting slate roof ; the other leg he held in his\nhands, shoulder high. Jack being taller would have to hold it only breast-high.\nHe was strong enough. The job wasn't going to take ten minutes, once he got\nat it."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2580, "texte": "He set the furnace down in the copper gutter some feet behind them ;\nand, ordering Jack to watch him, he rehearsed the various operations. He again\npushed the ladder part-way up on the roof, and pulled it erect, holding the near\nleg in his hands ; he then inclined the ladder so that it also rested against the steep\nside of the spire. Jack was to do what he had just seen him do. It would be\neasy for him. The main thing was to hold the ladder steady. That was the\nmain thing.\n\" If you shake it — Jesus Christ ! \"\nHe watched Jack to see that he did everything right. He tugged at\nhis legs to make sure that they were resting securely. Everything was\nready.\nHe took up the pot of molten solder and the soldering iron in his right hand,\nand began to ascend the side of the roof, so that he would reach on a level with\nthe farther leg of the ladder, leaning towards the left as he went up, like a runner\nmaking a sharp turn. The ladder moved slightly when Slivers put his whole\nweight on the first rung, and.it frightened Slivers • more than he could ac-\ncount for.\n\" Hold her steady, for God's sake ! \" Slivers cried out in alarm. \" You'll\nkill me ! \"\nJack made no reply. He leaned somewhat more heavily against the spire,\nand his knuckles showed whiter.\nSlivers had got to within two rungs of the top of the ladder and on\nthe right level for doing the soldering. He moved his feet slightly, to make\nsure that he was standing all right ; after which he moved his shoulders\nseveral times, to see that nothing was binding him. Finding everything\nsatisfactory, he began to transfer the pot of molten solder from his right hand\nto his left.\nIn some inexplicable way, the pot struck the side of the ladder. Molten\nsolder dashed over the side of the pot and onto Jack's right hand, splashed against\nthe slates of the roof and into the copper gutter. For the fraction of second Sli-\nvers followed the course of the molten metal with his wild eyes. There was\nan instant sizzling and a sickening stench as the metal burned away the flesh\nof Jack's hand between the thumb and the first finger and between the first\nand second fingers and down the hand to the wrist.\n\" For God's sake, Jack, hold her steady ! \" Slivers cried in object terror.\n\" I'm coming down. Hold her steady, Jack ; for God's sake, hold her steady ! \"\nHe nearly fell off the ladder it] scampering down, because of his clumsiness,\nwhining all the while like a cowed dog about to receive a caning. His feet\nno sooner touched the roof then he began to cry.\n\" Put down the ladder, Jack ; put down the ladder, for God's sake. \""}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2510, "texte": "vSlivers began to jump up and down and around Jack, whining, thrashing\nthe air with his arms, his legs spread apart, almost doubled over, so that he pre-\nsented the appearance of a boy that is being beaten by his father. He still\nheld on to the pot of solder.\nJack Kerrigan put down the ladder, shook his hand with a wide sweep,\nand wiped it on the upper part of his left sleeve. His face was set hard and in-\nscrutable ; there was no way in which Slivers could learn what was going on\nbehind it.\n\" Let's go for a doctor, Jack ; let's go for a doctor/' Slivers cried in the\nsame whining voice. He flung the pot from him off the roof ; and touching .\nJack's arm, he began to lead the way off the roof, still whining, \" Let's go for\na doctor, Jack ; let's go for a doctor.\"\nSlivers led the way down the inside winding stairs, with Jack following\nclose behind him. In the semi-darkness Slivers calmed down, watching\nthe stairs, and looking up at Jack to make sure that he was following\nsafely.\nThey had got down to the ground and outside the church. Slivers looked\nup at Jack with timid, fearful eyes. It was all too much for Slivers. He\ncould not undertand Jack at all; and he could not face all that had happened\nin the past few minutes ; and he did not know what might happen next, and he\nwas terribly afraid.\nBy a sudden shift, Jack placed himself in front of Slivers.\n\" Square off!\" Jack yelled in a wild, terrifying voice. \"Square off!\nI've only got one arm. Square off ! \"\nHe held his right arm extended, moving rapidly in front of Slivers to cut\noff his possible escape.\n\" For God's sake, Jack, what are you going to do to me ? \" Slivers cried.\nThe most object terror was in his voice. He was trembling, and his knees\nbegan to bend under him. Tears forced themselves into his eyes. \" For\nGod's sake — \"\n\" Square off ! \" Jack yelled at him.\nJack Kerrigan began to dance from one foot to the other in front of Slivers,\nrocking forward and back, never still for an instant, his left arm crooked, ready\nto smash. Little by little, Jack Kerrigan backed Slivers into a corner formed\nby a buttress. Slivers could not raise an arm. He could barely keep on his\nfeet. Except for Jack Kerrigan's heavy breathing, there was not a sound.\nSlivers could not take his eyes from Jack. He had forgotten himself , he\nlost interest in himself and his possible fate. Nothing else now existed in the\nworld except that strange being there moving in front of him, crowding upon\nhim, moving in that strange way, in a silent world."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 275, "texte": "The next instant Jack Kerrigan leaped upon Slivers and clutched him\nby the throat. There was a sickening crash as Slivers' head smashed against\nthe rough lime stone wall of the church.\nWhen the other workmen came running to the spot it was a life-time\ntoo late.\n\nIsrael Solon"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "36", "page_fin": "41", "image_debut": 38, "image_fin": 43, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "The Mansion of Peace", "titre_sommaire": "The Mansion of Peace", "signature_source": "Carl Engel", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2408, "texte": "THE MANSION OF PEACE\n\nFor the consideration of ultra-modern trends in music, no one, perhaps,\nis placed at a greater disadvantage than lam at this moment. In order to\nspeak with credit, I should be struggling against the roar of the big city, the\nblasts of destruction and the shrieks of parturition. The beating of riveters\nshould be my pulses ; the rapids of the rush-hour, my native element. I should\nhold rank in the councils of the metropolis and have a charge at the court of the\nmysterious woman, arrayed in purple and scarlet, the mother of harlots and\nabominations of the earth. I should come to with the clear and aggressive\ncrow of a Jean Cocteau, with the clangor of a Marinetti and Russolo. Instead,\nI am tempted to quote you Michel de Montaigne or Lucius Annaeus\nSeneca. Instead, I am unbending in the stillness of a sleepy fishing town in\nMassachusetts, with nothing more exciting for music than the \" divisions \"\nof a fresh NE by E gale, the intermittent moan of a distant fog-horn, and the\nsoothing swish of the tide at the foot of the yard. Instead, I am enveloped\nin the hush of a house built one hundred and one years before I was born,\nand in my spacious room the bead-work along the ceiling, around the doors,\nlovingly devised upon a chaste white mantle-piece, tell a long story of untir-\ning patience, infinite leisure and quaint elegance. Worst of all: before sitting\ndown at my table and putting pencil to paper, I tinkled on my thin-voiced\n\" square \" a faded song by Samuel Webbe, Esq. — \" The Mansion of Peace. \"\nThere was appropriateness in it, after all.\nHow to escape the influences that surround me, is a problem. And yet,\non second thought, are these influences really so inimical to the task in hand ?\nDoes not the relative detachment of this solitude bring with it the advantage of\ncalmer judgment ? Have not the echoes of the past perhaps a bearing upon\nthe sounds of to which my ear is straining ? The past\nof music is shorter than that of any other art. Music is all future ; it is not\nmerely change ;so far it has always been growth. Yet, within the comparat-\nively brief span that lies behind us, how much that is definitive, or was regarded\nas such by the generation which saw it come into existence ! Music affords us\ntoday the singular sensation of realizing Mr. George Bernard Shaw's latest\nambition, — to attain the age of Methuselah. Under normal (not necessarily"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3025, "texte": "ideal) conditions, I should double the present number of my years. Yet, al-\nready I have lived long enough to remember the dissenters at Wagner's deifi-\ncation and now to witness M. Darius Milhaud's defiant \" a bas Wagner ; \"\nlong enough to have seem young Strauss branded as Antichrist and now expos-\ned as an old man with a bag of tricks ; long enough keenly to remember the magi-\ncal flowering of Debussy's \" poisonous \" garden, already marked by some as\nwaste land and as dump heap. It seems but yesterday that Schoenberg's Five\nOrchestral Pieces startled us, and today we discover that if we take a score\nof Mahler's and put it. before a concave or a convex mirror such as the midway\nknows for the delight of country cousins ,we get exactly the same thing. Now\nfor the \" vSix, \" and their followers, until they lastly resolve into the \" One \"\n— the comet with the trail of star dust — all this in half a lifetime !\nThe progress of music has been the conquest of discord, the liberation of\nthe human ear. We are learning daily to hear new things and are trying to\nrepeat them. At first we may stammer, but in the end we sing. If we could\nrepresent the whole substance of tone as a solid mass, we should trace the de-\nvelopment of music by marking the earliest and faintest impressions made on\nits surface, then the pits, the gullies, shafts and vaulted galleries, which, honey-\ncombing, we have wrought into this substance, until in intricacy it resemble\nthe last bead of a Flemish rosary. Or we should show how climbing, from land-\ning, to landing, the stairs of overtones, we entered one new chamber of sound\nafter the other and made ourselves at home in each. Our youngest are impa-\ntiently skipping ahead, knocking at unopened doors, prompt to break them\ndown if the lock will not yield. And the treasure they seek is a new thrill by\nvirtue of new discords.\nWhat is discord ? An irritation of the aural nerve. A sesnsitive musician\ndoes not have to hear a discord, he need think it only to feel the same physical\nreaction in his ear. Why is discord ? Because its irritation emphasizes\nthe sensuous element in tone, or what is most communicative in all music.\nDiscord then, is something physiological and psychological. While musical art\ncannot do witnout it, aesthetically it has no standing, is not a settled quantity.\nThis point bears remembering. Not merely for contrast, as a long list of\naestheticians would have it, but for itself we have learned to demand it. We\nhave no satisfactory explanation why it is that every discord should ultimately\nturn concord. But for this fact, the skein of music would never require un-\ntangling and re-winding. Were it a matter of contrast alone, that difference\nwould be permanent, in spite of modifications ; for light is light in any strength,\nand snadow always kin to darkness. The tapping of tonal sources is something\ndifferent, untranslatable in terms of any other art. It is not a case of find-\ning new pigment; rather of slowly shedding a horny film, enabled gradually"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2942, "texte": "to face more light, all the light. Yet, within that widening radiance the\nproportions of what we see, or hear, should prove constant; the projection of\nourselves into the work of art should be imbued with the spirit of sincerity,\npassionate with the desire for fresh aspects of beauty. That point also bears\nremembering. And thus it shall always be, even though the new light should\nblind us for a moment, should distort our vision. Therefore the cries of \" fraud, \"\nuntil we blink no longer and have become accustomed to new focuses. There-\nfore the danger of forming habits at any time. Therefore the critic, who is —\nor should be — the helper with the adjusting lens, never so needed as when\nan added ray of brightness has been cast upon the farther distance. Beyond\nthe remedying of astigmatism and myopia, his functions seldom go; unless,\nhe be not only critic but crusader, not only interpreter but vivifier, preacher\nand artist in one.\nI have said that the progress of music lies in the assimilation by the ear\nof more and more complex sonorities, which anticipating genius divines, and\nthe multitude at first refuses to accept. This has been, and still is, the con-\ntinual quarrel between advanced and retarded hearing. But the progress\nof music is twofold. The one road is marked by the milestones of plain\nchant, modal polyphony, the enharmonic scale of our tempered system, chro-\nmaticism, polyharmony, and so forth. It is the essentially musical path. The\nsecond road, which runs parallel with (though quite independently of) the\nfirst, carries us successively through the eras of Church and Renaissance, Court\nand Baroque, Revolution and Romanticism, Socialism and Impressionism,\nBolshevism and Post-Expressionism. It is the road of cultural development\nin general. The politico-social tenor of the times reflects, of course, on every\nart; this is not peculiar to music. The two roads represent definite and sepa-\nrate avenues. We may pick up music, in retrospect, on different points of\neither. For that reasons we are able to produce, for instance, the effect of a\n17th-century Sarabande by musical means which belong to the chromatic epoch,\nwithout committing so much as an anachronism, provided the result be artist-\nically satisfying. It is well to hold apart, in music, this dual development\nof form and contents. The whole and intricate web of civilization governs\nthe first; it is the ear — and the aural sense alone, as transmitter of sound —\nwhich demands the second. And of that puzzling need of the ear we know\nnothing. Science owes us still the very first and fundamental explanation.\nBut is that cause to be disturbed at the thought that music, as we conceive it\ntoday, may be but the crude beginning of an expansion and of wonders which\nwe cannot dream ?\nSo fax as goes the short hour of this life, the questioning look ahead is partly\nanswered by the reassuring glance behind. Music is born in the heat of strife,"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3009, "texte": "but it dwells in the mansion of peace. It is that bookcase there, with the\nfriendly folios and octavos of yellowed leaves, which seems to confirm my\nsuspicion that we are never very far from the center, turning ever around the\nsame axis, ascending spirally at best, dropping excrescences and perversions\nby the wayside, outgrowing innumerable stages of childhood ? From the\nshelves beckon Monteverdi's \" new discords in five parts \" ; the \" crudities \"of\nDr. Blow ; I/ully's \" faux accords \" ; the chorale harmonizations that got Johann\nSebastian Bach into trouble with the worshipful Consistory at Arnstadt;\nBeethoven's last quartets which priggish Louis Spohr though eccentric, uncon-\nnected and incomprehensible, and in which he saw nothing but the composer's\n\" constant endeavor to be original. \" Now, this endeavor is justly shared by\nevery new generation, but it is not given to every artist to be so. Here, finally,\nwe have to reckon with individuality and genius.\nIt is curious what rapid progress music has made since the advent of im-\nproved keyboard instruments, and what help this tastatura has afforded genius.\nThe tempered scale may be a curse, but the keys that strike it have been a\nblessing undisguised. It would seem that instinct guides the hand, and that\nthe hand awakens the ear. Bach's use of his hands, on ebony and ivory was a\ndeparture. So was his music. Mozart, the improvisor at the harpsichord,\nsurpassed in daring the composer Mozart. Beethoven deaf, remembered his\nfingers ; the silent reading and hearing of notes is associated in the mind of many\nmusicians with the playing of the music on an instrument. The three greatest\nmusical innovators of the 19th century — Chopin, Iriszt and Debussy —\nwrote their best music for that unspeakable piano. And all that in a day when\norchestral colors were growing ever richer and more subtle. The keyboard\nhas been the experimental laboratory of music, and a note missed has often\nproved a hit, as a mixture wrongly compounded has been known to account for\nchemical discoveries. The experimenters are not through. Some of them seem\nall too reckless in their mixing. In consequence, their explosives do not deton-\nate. Time is almost ripe for a new scale, composed of intervals smaller than\nhalftones, and for a new keyboard instrument wherewith to sound them.\nThe tendencies of modern music display again a kicking at the immediate\npast and a revulsion from accepted standards. Tonality is no longer a pre-\nrequisite. Music is gaining new freedom by its unhampered transit through\na variety of keys, without according to any of them a predominating or tyran-\nnical sway. Tonality has been a gauge for the ear. We are learning to do\nwithout that measure. Modulation may go by the board in the process, or at\nleast modulation as we have heretofore understood it. For its charm consisted\nchiefly in the fact that after a digression it returned to the point of de-\nparture, or that it led into a new tonality with the inevitableness that made"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2765, "texte": "the step convincing. But we shall be able to dispense with modulation in that\nsense much more readily when we realize that another characteristic of music,\nthe motive or theme as a germinative factor, is being abolished. Modulation\ninto other keys was an assistance and relief as long as, for structural reasons,\nthe composer had to develop his motive, recapitulate his themes. With the\nelement of vacuous imitation dropping into the discard, counterpoint is becoming\nmore pliant, and less a matter of stencilled repetition. For the lost keys and\ntonalities, we shall win a firmer giasp on tone values in the meaning which paint-\ners attach to color values that make a picture. Rhythm is falling into an am-\npler gait ; the bar is removed and the rhythmic flow unloosened. Quicker mo-\nbility will replace architectural stiffness. Music may thus strive to become even\nmore musical, by breaking its alliance with painting and poetry ; it may evolve\na language more direct and specific.\nThese are but a few of the principal which call for attention.\nThe situation is not unlike that in which music found itself at various turns of\nthe road when the cry for simplification was raised, when, \" the sluices of inno-\nvation once thrown open, such torrents of incongruous opinions deluged the\nworld, \" that a seeming anarchy threw everything helterskelter. Boldness was\nthe rejuvenating force in some of the Venetian madrigals ; expressionism was\nnot unknown to the groping Prince of Venosa, whose modulations Burnay\ncalled \" forced, affected and disgusting. \" But it was Monteverdi who set the\nsear of genius on these extensions to the charter of harmony. The smaller form\nis always the favorite during an interregnum. It lends itself better to tentative\nmethods. Moreover, there is another reason why our modern madrigalists\nshould want to faive petit : as a protest against the endless music-dramas\nagainst longwinded symphonies. The miniature has come once more into its\nown as a crystallization of thought or mood. We live in an age of \" columnists,\nthe essay has given plaxe to the paragraph, the epic to the epigram. Music\nalso has become paragraphic and epigrammatic. Orientalism, whicn had such\nfar reaching influence on modern arts and letters, has added exotic variegation\nto our tonal speech. The hysteria of the moment finds vent in grotescjueness,\nexaggeration arid caricature. We have with us, inevitably, the false prophets-\nSome call it Gijt, and some New Light,\nA liberal art that costs no pains\nOf study, industry or brains.\nThere are those to whom the spiritual side of music is poppy or mandragora.\nThey have done with the B minor Mass of Bach, the Missa Solemnis of Beethoven\nnot to mention the increasingly noisy thurifications of Berlioz and I^iszt."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1573, "texte": "These, or at least the two last, may be \" mediocre composers. \" But their\nspiritual exaltation was something we know not of today. We maybe reasonably\nsafe in not expecting a Te Deum from Mr. Ravel, a Litany to Saint John Cry-\nsostomos from Mr. ProkofiefT, or a Passion according to Matthew from Mr.\nStrauss. Schoenberg is threatening to give us an oratorio. That settles him.\nGod is not popular in art, these days. If lam not mistaken, Gauguin painted\na livid, agonizing Christ in a Breton landscape. Yet we would hardly think\nof him, Picasso or Matisse as painters of altar pieces. The sacramental vest-\nments of the church now serve as pillow covers or wall hangings, and we flip\nthe ashes of our cigarette into a quattrocento censer.. The curio and bric-a-brac\nis the thing to emulate. But is all this stranger or more unnatural than was\nthe florid, gilt, and festooned rococo ? Were those gallant abbes not worse\nthan candid atheists ? To compare modern music with the cast of modern life,\nis to find its aim and drift. To delineate its conquests in the realm of \" discord, \"\nis to point to the latest unshackling of sound. And in all this, technique is but\nconcomitant. Technique adjusts itself to the transformations of the material.\nCraftsmanship tells in the end, for it is one and indivisible with genius, requiring\nthat union of skill and inspiration which shapes the masterpiece.\nThe Wind is blowing up, the sea is getting frettish. Another back-log\non the fire, for the night. And why should I have running through my head\nold Webbe's pallid tune ?\n\nCarl Engel"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "42", "page_fin": "54", "image_debut": 44, "image_fin": 56, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Heavens", "titre_sommaire": "Heavens", "signature_source": "Louis Untermeyer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2145, "texte": "HEAVENS\nThe Prolog.\n\" So this, \" I exclaimed with a ghostly facetiousness, \" is Heaven ! \"\nIt was a vague, sprawling region with no definition of any sort. The place\nwas soundless, lifeless, motionless, save for the continual rising and falling of\ngauzy curtains of clouds. Except for a pale, gray light wanly diffused, there\nwas not a trace of color.\n\" No, \" said my guide, \" you are now in The Limbo of Infinity, a vast stretch\nthat some of our younger members have re-christened. The Neutral Zone. It\nis a kind of ante-chamber in which the guest is left to decide where he will go. \"\n\" But I have decided, \" I replied, with anxious haste, \" I want to go to\nHeaven. \"\n\" Which one ? \" he asked.\n\" Which one ? Why — er — are there more than one ? I gasjped.\n\" There aie \" he replied, \" if the last census can be relied upon, exactly\nnine hundred and seventy-six of them, not including the three score or so of\nSecessionist, Extremist, Intimate, Neighborhood, Revolutionary, Village and\nLittle Heavens that have clustered around the main, structures. The principal\ndivisions date back to antiquity; the Movement for Separate Incorporation came\nin 1935 and was caused, first of all, by the astonishing series of reports by the\nCommittee on Congested Districts. As everyone is aware, even the Infinite Void\nbecame crowded after the conversion of the Martians and Lunarians to your\nremarkable earthly standards. \"\nI gulped, \" But must I choose ? All I want is a comfortable cloud, a small\nharp and a neat, not too close-fitting halo. \"\n\"I am sorry, but that is the rule, \" the assured me. \" Besides, the acces-\nsories you mention have been discontinued. The Hygienic and Sanitary Cordon\nhas prohibited the use of halos ; the Cumulus Division of the Efficiency Board\nhas. taken over the control of clouds which were condemned as a menace to the\nPublic Highways, and the Musician's Union, Etherial Local, number 13, has passed\na by-law limiting the use of harps to holders of uncancelled cards. \"\n\" But\" —\n\" On the other hand, \" he continued, \" you should have no difficulty in se-\nlecting an appropriate sphere. What were you before you came here ? \""}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2195, "texte": "\" A crit — a book-reviewer,'' I blushed.\n\" Ah, \" he beamed, \" a lover of literature. \"\n\" A book-reviewer, \" I insisted.\n\" Well, \" he went on, unheeding, \" your place is obviously in a branch of\nthe literary Heavens — just which one 1 can not say. Have you any favorite\ngods ? \"\n\" None in particular. That is, not now. I used to have my preferences\nand prejudices. \"\n\"You will regain them, \"he chuckled. Gone but not forgotten' is true of\ncharacteristics that are not mentioned on tomb-stones. One of the delightful\nsurprises awaiting the dear departed is the spectacle of one's cherished convic-\ntions now tricked out in cap-and-bells and attending the coronation of his pet\naversion. But I digress. \"\n\" Don't apologize, \" I hastened to add. \" Digression is an art, not acci-\ndent. You wrere saying\" —\n\" I was saying that a corner in one of the literary Realms should suit you\nadmirably. Which would you prefer — the H. G. Wells Heaven, The Vers\nLibre Heaven, the Anatole France Heaven, the G. K. Chesterton Heaven, the\nRobert W. Chambers Heaven, the James Branch Cabell Heaven, the Freudian\nHeaven, the. . . — \"\n\" Heavens! \" I exclaimed, not irreverently. \" I could never decide\noffhand. Would it not be possible for me to try them first ? Not all of them,\nof course — just three or four of the more popular ones — or possibly a meagre\nhalf-dozen ?\n\" I don't know, \" he said dubiously, \" It isn't done and it's not quite regu-\nlar. Still, there's no particular law against it. On the other hand — \"\n\"Be human, \" I urged the angelic creature. \" A day in each would do —\na few hours — even a glimpse. \"\n\" Well, \" he temporized, \" the windows are tall but not so high If you\ncould get a foothold on the sills, you could see and hear. They seldom shut\nthe windows or draw the shades since the subconscious was discovered. You\nmust be prepared for anything. I warn you. If you still have the curiosity\nand courage, I will lead you. Come. \"\nI followed.\nThe Heaven of Queer Stars\nThe darkness was slashed with two intersecting bars of silver that split\nthe sky. They lay on the monstrous clouds like two swords still shining with\nthe faith of those who had swung them. They made, according to the view"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2988, "texte": "of the beholder, the pattern of some stupendous hieroglyphic which man must\neither decipher or die, or the still simpler pattern which men have died to decipher :\nthe pattern of a cross. Although the design did not change, the play of light was\nconstantly shifting ; the two blades of brilliance flashed, burned and coruscated\nwith colors that were as glittering and strange as a futurist poem or sunrise in\nthe wrong quarter of the sky. It was a wild and spectacular radiance, so dazzling\nthat the sparkle of the stars was wasted and every sun that flamed seemed a\nprodigal sun. One could perceive nothing else. One was, however, aware of\na vast undercurrent of gaiety, a bright violence, that swept thiough space with\nthe magnificent gusto of marching men or a March wind. It was as though\nsome gigantic virtuoso were improvising vast runs and terrific chords of mirth\non an orchestra of light, wood, winds and water. It rocked with benign and\nboisterous vigor ; an upheaval that was fervently humorous and furiously\nholy.\n(\" I can't make head or tail of this. It's all so brilliantly confusing, \" I com-\nplained to my guide. \"My head is spinning — upside down. \"\n\" That's the effect the Chesterton Heaven has on everyone at first, \" he assur-\ned me \" Wait a few moments ; the dazzle will wear off and you'll notice many-\nthings as familiar as they are astonishing. See — the air is beginning to clear. \")\nA more diffused but no less vivid light spread itself over the sky. It picked\nout curious corners and kindled them till they shone like candled niches ; it\nsoaked the gray fields of space till they burned like a battlefield ; it tipped the\ncrests of sleeping clouds till they woke and shook their gilded plumes, like\nknights roused by the clashing of steel. The accolade of sunlight fell impar-\ntially on endless spires, titanic peaks, sacred pinnacles and a fewT thousand spirits\nwho had nothing in common but their uncommon size. There was not one\nfigure in the crowds that was not six feet high and at least three feet wide. They\nwere Gargantuan, globular, glorious. And, what is more, they were galumphing.\nThey were, it became increasingly evident, the source and center of the mad\ngaiety that impelled their universe. Every one seemed bent on performing some\nathleticism more absurdly acrobatic than his fellow. Some were skipping on\nand off incredibly high walls, some were sliding down two-mile banisters, some\nspringing up fan-like and fantastic trees, while others were continually erect-\ning obstacles over which they would immediately bound like joyful and gigantic\nfootballs. Still others, dressed, like mystical punchinellos, were playing leap-\nfrog among the stars.\nIn this excited universe there were only two figures that remained without\nmotion. These twro, as though carved in Gothic stone, were seated on a low\neminence, the position of which was as contradictory as the two who\noccupied it. One of this queer couple was a round, red-faced, blinking individual"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2727, "texte": "who might have been either a butcher or a priest. The other had the indubit-\nable figure of a Greek poet and the face of a dubious Greek god ; his features were\nalmost perfect except for a peculiarly long and peculiarly cleft chin. There was\nnothing angelic about him and yet he bore the unmistakable traces of one who\nhad been one of God's angels.\n\" You are wrong again. \"he was saying. \" There is no divinity in peace.\nThere can be no such thing as a divine content. Discontent is the power that\ndrives the worlds. The angry waters send storming regiments upon the earth —\nand new life appears. The placid waters collect scum on a stagnant lake —\nand breathe death on everything they touch. Men do not know where their\ndeliverance lies nor who is their true deliverer. They grope — \"\n\" Sometimes they hold things beyond their grasp, \" mildly interpolated the\nrubicund one.\n\" They grope, \" continued his companion, \"in a darkness that is no less\ndark for being electric ; a darkness compared to which the so-called Dark Ages\nwere, if I may be permitted the metaphor, a succession of brief but blinding shoot-\ning-stars. Wild deeds and wilder thoughts may have reddened many a sanguine\nday ; but if the years shone like short-lived and sinister suns, at least they\nshone. \"\nIf you will pardon a — \"\n\" The blacksmith, \" he went on, unheeding, \" in those days had a position\nas dignified as the songsmith ; the armor he fashioned protected men by covering\ntheir bodies ; to-day the same iron destroys them since it has entered their souls.\nHospitality was once something more than a weak invitation for a week-end.\nOne could be sure of cakes and ale at every door-step, and every house was a\npublic-house. They have turned with a disheartening docility, from the time-\nspirit to The Times. \"\n\"If you will pardon me, they have done nothing so radical, \" objected the\nsimpler person, \"they have merely substituted the middle classes for the Middle\nAges. \"\n\" They have done something far worse ; they have learned to worship\nonly the middles ; either extreme is too much for them. And so they have\nbecome the creatures of their own creation. It used to be considered cheap, for\ninstance, to own slaves. They have advanced economically ; they find it\ncheaper to be slaves ... In nothing is their slavery so apparent as in the fetters\nthey place upon themselves. No longer do they cry out ' These things are un-\nworthy of us .' They ask, in an excess of humility, 'Are we worthy of our chains ?'\nIf any of them bear a cioss, they insist that they are carrying on a new kind of\nphysical culture. And thus, a lethargic content, a monstrous satisfaction has\nbegun to sap their blood. It has crept, like some unnameable horror, into their"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2854, "texte": "minds ; it lays its bloated hands upon the gyrations of the sun and twines its\nclammy fingers around the unconscious centuries. Dissatisfaction is their only\nremedy, their most potent saviour. Revolt is the heritage of a bountiful energy\nit is only the lack of it which is revolting. lam glad to know that the iconoclastic\nimpulse is growing. lam happy to feel that every dawn is a novel and more\nstartling experiment of that discontented spirit which we call Nature ; that,\nevery time the earth revolves upon its axis, we have actually accomplished,\nwith a quiet but terrible insurgence, a daily revolution. \"\n\"You are such an eloquent talker \" said the other, a bit wistfully, \" that I\nam sure you are wrong. The surprising beauty about the world and these hea-\nvens is not the fact that they are novel but that they are, what is even more sur-\nprising, very old. A novel thing is the least enduring thing in the world — even\nto the novelist. It is only something that is quite common or really old, like\ncountry wine or the belief in immortality, that is forever freshening and new.\nIt is only the bright sins and black virtues celebrated by minor poets that deny\nthe miracles of existence. \"\n\" And I deny them also ; \" rejoined the saturnine being whose chin had\nsomehow elongated into a pointed tuft of beard, \" the best thing about mira-\ncles is that they can not possibly happen. \"\n\" The best and strangest thing about miracles, \" quietly replied the combin-\nation that was part Santa Claus and part Father Brown, \" is that they are always\nhappening. A decadent play-wright actually does lead an army that conquers a\ncity. Steel floats in the air and leaps through the water. A man in London\ntalks to a woman in Chicago without raising his voice. A fanatic in a corner of\nEurope precipitates a world war with a bomb, and a college president on the\nother side of the ocean stops it with a phrase. You see, the whole trouble with\nordinary living is that it is such an extraordinary and wild succession of impossi-\nbilities ; a kaleidoscope of staggering surprises so continuous that, in the words\nof the American Dr. Harvey W. Fletcher, life is just one darn miracle after an-\nother. Look — \\ \"\nIt was an exclamation so sharp that the voice was curiously flat. A con-\ncourse of stars had gathered while the two had been debating, and these\nluminaries were scattering largesses of light. During the last sentences they\nhad grown larger and more animated ; their half-discernible faces shone with a\nbrilliance that was better than good news told by a pessimist. They clustered\nabout a radiant giant who held up his hand like a quivering baton. As it descend-\ned, he began to beat the time for a lungeing measure and tremendous voices swept\nthe sky.\n\"The stars are singing ! \" cried the defender of miracles, \" The morning\nstars led by St. Rabelais ! \""}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1667, "texte": "And this, to a tune where panets set the tempo, where moons were quarter-\ntones and in which comets were grace-notes, were the words of the song\nThe lanes that run through the Sussex downs\nAre spiced with a savory salt,\nAnd the crooked streets of Wess ex towns\nAre fruity with hops and malt;\nThey've kegs of ale and rum for sale\nIn fields where the Vie slips by ;\nAnd the roads that run through barleycorn\nWill lead you straight to Rye.\nThe path dividing the Kensal Green\nIs sharp as a Christian sword;\nIt cuts through poisonous alleys clean\nTo the heart of the dark East ward.\nIts lamps are stars where the scimitars\nAnd the moons of the Orient toss,\nAnd you turn from the Golden Crescent\nTo come to St. George's Cross.\nThe ocean's path is a rolling track\nWhere the shark can enjoy his feast,\nThe jungle's maze is cruel and black\nWith gods more brute than a beast.\nBut England lies where the holy skies\nAre warmer than wine or home —\nAnd the roads that run to the ends of the earth\nWith lead you' safe to Rome.\n\" A very pretty catch, \" sneered the spirit of negation, \" very romantic and\nvery ridiculous. \"\n\" Perhaps, \" answered his opponent, more mildly than ever, \" and yet the\nquality of ridicule is greater than you may imagine. Birth is a sublime adventure\nin the ridiculous — and what is death but a heroic return ; a transposition,\nI might say, from the ridiculous, to the sublime ! It is only the fool that fears\nbeing thought foolish for trumpeting trivialities. Trifles, alter all, are tremendous,\nsimply because they are too obvious to be noticed by anybody but detectives\nand poets. It is not the fool who discovers the commonplace for us; it is the poet"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2603, "texte": "who startles us with his own rapturous amazement upon discovering that the\nsky is still blue and that grass is even greener than the most modern nude by\nMatisse. It is not the fool fearing ridicule, but the brave man who can face an\naudience with nothing more startling than the news that God's in His Heaven\nthat death ends all our troubles, and that a penny saved is a penny earned. It\nrequires no hardihood to utter a glittering and anarchic sophistry. There is\nonly one thing that takes all a man's courage to maintain — and that is a pla-\ntitude. Here, thank the God of the Perfect Paradox, you will find only those\ndaring champions who have never faltered in their allegiance to the obvious, who\nhave devoted their hours to a contemplation of the sublime precision with which\nSpring follows Winter, and who have given their lives to prove the theory that\ntwo and two actually are four ! \"\n\" I can't stand this ! \" screamed his saturnine opponent. \" Talk — talk\n— talk ! I can't get a word in edgeways. Even Goethe gave me a better op-\nportunity. It isn't fair — it isn't — and I'll be roasted in my own fires if I\nstay here to make a Roman Catholic holiday. I'm going. \"\nThere was a spurt of flame and he vanished. Nothing remained of him\nbut a slight smell of brimstone and a sulphur-yellow blot on the porphyry bench.\nThe skies wTere darkened for a moment as though a pointed shadow had lallen\nover them ; a wailing cry xose from the gutters and ended among the stars.\n\" Too bad, \" sighed the benign dialectician, \" I think I almost convinced\nhim. \" He sighed again, lifting an empty tankard.\nFIRST INTERMISSION\n(\" Now 's your chance, \" whispered my guide \" His back is turned and you\ncould slip in here for a while. Shall I help you through ? \"\n\"No thanks, \" I said, \" I'm not as keen for the Chesterton Heaven as I thought\nI would be. I'm only a mild agnostic and I could never be happy in an atmosphere\nwhere, in order to outdo the other heretics, I would have to embrace the last of all he-\nresies — Orthodoxy. I admit the undeniable exhilaration gained by walking on one's\nhead, but one can overdo this cerebral pedestrianism. And in such a position there\nis always the possibility not only of talking through one's hat but the graver danger\nof thinking through one's shoes. Besides, lam far 100 dizzy to attempt it. Haven t\nyou something else to offer — something less scintillating and more static, something\ncontrolled not so much by rhodomontade as by reason? \"\n\" Very well \" he acquiesd, \" I'll take you to the most scientific and rational\nHeaven we've ever had. Come along. \"\nI came)."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2428, "texte": "THE HEAVEN OF THE TIME-MACHINE\n\n§ I.\nYou must imagine a vast laboratory — a tremendous affair of several thou-\nsand miles — stretching its spotless length of Albalune (a by-product of moon-\ndust that had superseded all wood-work and tilings since 2058), reflecting only\nthe purest of celestial colors. An intricate network of rapidly moving runways\nspanned the stars ; myriads of spinning platforms threaded the upper reaches\nwhich were reserved for aerocars, travelling at speeds of three hundred miles an\nhour and upward. The introduction of a dozen new metals in 1970 — especially\nMaximite, Kruppium and Luxpar, to name the three chief members of the\nimportant Iridio-Aluminoid family — had revolutionized aerial traffic and when,\na half century later, the full power of atomic energy was released ana exploited,\nland travel ceased entirely. The whirling streets flashed by in a maelstrom of\nsound. Huge trumpets, grotesquely curved to resemble calla lilies blared eter-\nnity's oldest scandals and its newest advertisements with an impartial clamour.\n\" Harrumph ! Harrumph ! Baroom ! Look slippy ! All the latest styles in\nlatter-day creeds ! Special Bargains To-Day in Neo-Paganism. Large Assort-\nment ! Baroom ! Ham's Halos for Happiness ! Ask Adam — He Knows !\nHarrumph ! Harrumph ! \"\n§ 2.\nDown one of these runways, seated on a machine not unlike a twentieth cen-\ntury bicycle but far more delicate and equipped with dozens of sensitive antennae,\nadvanced a figure. You had to look twice at his fantastic costume to assure yourself\nthat this was a man. You figure him a sallow, plumpish person, a little over mid-\ndle size and age, bespectacled, and with a thinning of the hair on his dolicocephalic\nhead — a baldness, if one examined closely, that might have been covered by\na shilling. His clothes, conforming to the etherial fashion, were loosely draped\nrather than tubular ; woven of some bright semipneumatic material, ingeniously\ninflated to suggest a sturdiness not naturally his. All vestiges of hair had been\nextracted by a capillotomist early in his youth and a neat translucent head-dress,\nnot unlike a cap, was fastened to his scalp by means of suction. You\nmust picture him borne down one of these ribbons of traffic, past the harr and boom\nof the Blare Machines, to a quiet curve (corners and all dust-collecting angles had\nlong since vanished from architecture) half-screened off by a translucent substance"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2486, "texte": "resembling milky glass ... In the centre of this chamber on a pedestal of weights\nand measures, stood a crystal ball that seemed to have a luminous quality of\nits own ; clouds, colours, half-defined shapes writhed within it; a faint humming\nseemed to emanate from its now sparkling, now nebulous core. Fastening\nthree of the web-like filaments of the machine to the globe, he pressed a series of\nstuds along what seemed to be the crank-shaft, spun the sphere with a gyroscopic\nmotion and brought it gradually to where a violet ray pierced the ramparts.\nThe light within the crystal ball grew brighter, turned orange, then flame-colour,\nthen prismatic in its fire, exhausting the spectrum until it assumed an unwa-\nvering brilliance. This play of colours was reflected in the features of the crys-\ntal-gazer ; his expression, almost kaleidoscopic in its changes, was in quick\nsuccession, imaginative, philosophic, extravagant, metaphysical, romantic, quiz-\nzical, analytic, middle-class, historical, prophetic.\n{\" Who is it ?\" I whispered in an awestruck undertone to my super-\nterrestrial companion. \"Am I actually gazing on God, the Invisible\nKing ? \"\n\" Scarcely, \" replied the unabashed angel. \" Those varying features belong\nto a more local divinity : Wells, the Divisible God. \"\n\" But look — \"7 exclaimed, \" he is drawing nearer. . , He is stop-\nping. . . immediately beneath us .. . We can even see what is happening\ninside the crystal. . . Look — ! \")\n§ 3.\nIt is very hard to tell precisely what period was registering itself in the heart\nof that amazing crystal. One saw walls quite plainly, a table with shaded lamp,\nbooks, chairs. From the conversation between the two men — they were both in\ntheir aggressive' thirties — the place seemed to be England some time in the\nNineteen Twenties. The older one, whose name was something incongruously\nlike Fulpper, had a trick of waving his arms whenever words failed him, finishing\nhis expansive sentences with a rush of onomatopoetic sound.\n\"We can't wait for wisdom, Balsmeer, \" you hear him saying, \" Life goes\ntoo damn fast. We start off at a fair pace, increase our speed a little, lag behind,\ntry to catch up and, first thing you know — whooosh ! That's what the whole\nbusiness is : an immense and hideous scramble, an irresistible race ending in\nheart-break and — whooosh ! \"\n\" But isn't there such a thing as the scientific temperament; something that\nis not carried away so passionately ? \" inquired Balsmeer.\n\" Meaning — ? \""}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2770, "texte": "\" Well, \" continued the younger chap, \" I'm what you might call a serious\nsociological student. I'm earnest straight through. No humor to speak of. No\nromance. I stumble over bright and beautiful things. .. missing most of 'em,\nI dare say, but getting on fairly well without 'em. I know there are high\necstasies in the world — splendid music, extraordinary women, stupendous ad-\nventures, great and significant raptures — but they are just so many abstrac-\ntions to me. Scientific truth is the least accessible of mistresses ; she disguises\nherself in unlovely trappings ; she hides in filthy places ; she is cold, hard, un-\nresponsive — but she can always be found ! She is the one certainty, the one\nradiance I have found in a muddle of dirt and misery and disease. \"\n\" And don't you see, \" pursued Fulpper with exuberant warmth, \" that\nthis same Science of yours is the very Romance, you're running away from ?\nThis whole mechanistic age with its oiled efficiency, its incalculable energy\nand speed and — whizz. . . What's it all for anyway ? Just to make traffic\ngo quicker ? To get the whole mess revolving faster ? Not a bit of it! Your\nResearch and my Romance are blood-brothers — or dual personalities, to\nbe more exact... I seem to see — wait a minute ! — I seem to see a time when this\nScience will be revealed not so much as the God from the Machine as a god\nwithin it. A socialized thing. A lessener of stupid an unnecessary labor. A\nforce to end the criminal exploitation of men by man. A power to finish, once .\nand for all, the muddle and waste and confusion that destroy the finest human\npossibilities\n\" Yes, \" Balsmeer conceded, \" but — \"\n\"I'm coming to that, \" continued Fulpper. \" That's where Love and Re-\nfined Thinking — grnr ! — meet as enemies. Mr. and Mrs. Grundy won't\nbe able to debase the latter and foul the former. Knowledge — a full, frank\nknowledge — is going to change all that \".\n\" But innocence —\n\"It may go. We've tasted the fruit of the tree. You can't have your\napple and eat it, any more than Adam could. But there's something better than\ninnocence. There's a fiercer virginity, a more courageous and affiimative pu-\nrity in wisdom. No more dark whisperings. No more poisonous insinuations,\nnasty suggestiveness. No more music-hall smut, no French farce allusions. No\nmore smirching of impulses that are as beautiful as art and as clean as chemistry.\nNo more nightmares of adolescence ;no more muddling up to sex. This, please\nmy God or your Science, will cease to be world of the bully, the enslaved woman\nthe frightened child — the domain of the mud-pelter, the hypocrite, the pro-\nfessional diplomat. It will no longer be the world of the underworld, the cesspool,\nthe liver-fluke ...\"\nHis voice trailed off, incontinently . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2493, "texte": "§ 4.\nThe crystal became suddenly opaque. For a few minutes there was\nabsolute silence. Then a faint clicking began ; invisible pistons tapped out a\ndelicate rhythm. The tympani increased both in volume and speed. A lever\nshot out from the very heart of the mechanism and the dials of the Time Machine\nbegan to register new eras. The radiometer clicked off years, decades, centuries,\nmillenials. . . Presently the hands stopped. The diffused light within the ball\nresolved itself ; a gray-blue mist lifted from a strange landscape as the magnetic\narrow pointed to 5,320,506.\n§ 5.\nIt was, as I have said, a strange landscape. There was no color, no motion,\nnot a sign of vegetation. Even as the darkness disappeared, the sun, a great\ngreenish disc half the size of the heavens, sprang out of the icy sea. The pla-\nnets were drawing nearer together for the the final debacle. The rocks on the\nshore were covered with frozen rime ; the shadow of Mars, a dark clinker as round\nas the forgotten moon, covered the ground. It fell on the faces of the two who sat\nas if carved, at the mouth of their subterranean tunnel. They were swathed in\nbands of electrons ; what showed of their faces was bloodless. Their lips did not\nmove — the organs of speech had disappeared during the second stages of tele-\npathic communication — and only the minute dilations of the pupils during some\nemotional passage, animated their chiselled immobility. You picture them sit-\nting there, strangely . . .\n\"The waste of it .. . the hideous waste of it, \" you figure him flashing\nthis to her, \" What's the whole push and struggle for ? Is every generation to\nbe at the beginning of new things, never at a happy ending ? Always prodded\nor prodding itself on with dreams, half-perceived vistas ? \"\n\" My dear . . . \" her eyes remonstrated.\n\" It's you and I against the world, \"he telepathed. I guess it's always been\nthat. Two alone against the welter of mud and ugliness, dulness, obstinacy ;\ntwo tiny rebels against a world frozen with hate and hypocrisy ... The pity\nand shame of it .. . The shabbiness of it all ... \"\n\" But, dear, \" she challenged, \" the human race is still so young. It is\nstill learning to progress. \"\n\" Progress ! \" his pupils contracted. \"We are as sunk in apathy and\nignorance as our mythical ancestors in the pre-historic twentieth century.\ngress is a shibboleth. It's worse — a religion that everyone professes and no-\nbody believes in. Where are we now ? Education has lost itself in the schools,"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2305, "texte": "Sex has been buried in lies and lingerie. Science is fuddling over its dead bones,\ntrying to reconstruct the brain-cells of the Post-Wilsonian man .. . Progress !\nUntil this icy earth falls at last into a solid sun, millions of us will come out of\nour burrows to question what it all means... Here, — at the very mouths of our\nundei ground tunnels, — man once walked, warm and careless and secure\nAnd here, before that, life ran prodigally on every inch of the surface .. . Here\nthe long-necked Brontosaurus waded and the Diplodocus thrashed his thirty-\nfoot tail among the muggers. Here the giant Moa screamed as the Hesperornis,\nthose wingless birds, pursued the fishes through the Mesozoic waters. Here\nthe Protohippus pranced on his three toes and the Tyrannosaurus, buoyed up\nby fertile mud, preyed on the happy herbivores . . And all for what ?. . .\n\" For something it will be hard to answer but harder to deny, \" she communed\nintensely, \" for some transfiguration, some sort of world cleansed of its crippling\njealousies its spites, its blunderings. . . After all, there is a long time ahead.\nMan has existd for little more than five or six million years. We are still so new...\nThe future is so enormous, so staggering, so superb. L,ife is forever young . . .\nforever eager . . Men will, in some distant maturity, unify their scattered dreams\nand energies. Even death will be a part of the great integration. And, whether\nwe die or live, mankind is in the making .. . Old world are being exchanged for\nnew. Utopias, anticipations, unguessed brotherhoods, the conquest of earth\nand the stars .. . All so slowly but so confidently, in the making .. .\n§ 6.\nThe picture faded out, dissolving imperceptibly, until the ball paled to a\nmere glassy transparency .. . The figure in the machine suddenly became ener-\ngetic. He wheeled about, took his hands from the controlling levers and touched\na series of buttons on delicate, jointed rods which terminated in a set of metal\nhieroglyphs. First one was struck, then another, then a swift succession of\nnotes. The fingers flew faster, as though they sought to wrest some harmony\nfrom the heart of the machine ... For some time, nothing else was heard\nbut tap, click — tap, tap, tap — click — tap — fting ! — as the typewri-\nter was driven on through space."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 2326, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2342, "texte": "Louis Untermeyer"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "50", "page_fin": "54", "image_debut": 52, "image_fin": 56, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.10.1", "titre_corps": "The Heaven of the Time-Machine", "titre_sommaire": "The Heaven of the Time-Machine", "signature_source": "Louis Untermeyer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2428, "texte": "THE HEAVEN OF THE TIME-MACHINE\n\n§ I.\nYou must imagine a vast laboratory — a tremendous affair of several thou-\nsand miles — stretching its spotless length of Albalune (a by-product of moon-\ndust that had superseded all wood-work and tilings since 2058), reflecting only\nthe purest of celestial colors. An intricate network of rapidly moving runways\nspanned the stars ; myriads of spinning platforms threaded the upper reaches\nwhich were reserved for aerocars, travelling at speeds of three hundred miles an\nhour and upward. The introduction of a dozen new metals in 1970 — especially\nMaximite, Kruppium and Luxpar, to name the three chief members of the\nimportant Iridio-Aluminoid family — had revolutionized aerial traffic and when,\na half century later, the full power of atomic energy was released ana exploited,\nland travel ceased entirely. The whirling streets flashed by in a maelstrom of\nsound. Huge trumpets, grotesquely curved to resemble calla lilies blared eter-\nnity's oldest scandals and its newest advertisements with an impartial clamour.\n\" Harrumph ! Harrumph ! Baroom ! Look slippy ! All the latest styles in\nlatter-day creeds ! Special Bargains To-Day in Neo-Paganism. Large Assort-\nment ! Baroom ! Ham's Halos for Happiness ! Ask Adam — He Knows !\nHarrumph ! Harrumph ! \"\n§ 2.\nDown one of these runways, seated on a machine not unlike a twentieth cen-\ntury bicycle but far more delicate and equipped with dozens of sensitive antennae,\nadvanced a figure. You had to look twice at his fantastic costume to assure yourself\nthat this was a man. You figure him a sallow, plumpish person, a little over mid-\ndle size and age, bespectacled, and with a thinning of the hair on his dolicocephalic\nhead — a baldness, if one examined closely, that might have been covered by\na shilling. His clothes, conforming to the etherial fashion, were loosely draped\nrather than tubular ; woven of some bright semipneumatic material, ingeniously\ninflated to suggest a sturdiness not naturally his. All vestiges of hair had been\nextracted by a capillotomist early in his youth and a neat translucent head-dress,\nnot unlike a cap, was fastened to his scalp by means of suction. You\nmust picture him borne down one of these ribbons of traffic, past the harr and boom\nof the Blare Machines, to a quiet curve (corners and all dust-collecting angles had\nlong since vanished from architecture) half-screened off by a translucent substance"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2486, "texte": "resembling milky glass ... In the centre of this chamber on a pedestal of weights\nand measures, stood a crystal ball that seemed to have a luminous quality of\nits own ; clouds, colours, half-defined shapes writhed within it; a faint humming\nseemed to emanate from its now sparkling, now nebulous core. Fastening\nthree of the web-like filaments of the machine to the globe, he pressed a series of\nstuds along what seemed to be the crank-shaft, spun the sphere with a gyroscopic\nmotion and brought it gradually to where a violet ray pierced the ramparts.\nThe light within the crystal ball grew brighter, turned orange, then flame-colour,\nthen prismatic in its fire, exhausting the spectrum until it assumed an unwa-\nvering brilliance. This play of colours was reflected in the features of the crys-\ntal-gazer ; his expression, almost kaleidoscopic in its changes, was in quick\nsuccession, imaginative, philosophic, extravagant, metaphysical, romantic, quiz-\nzical, analytic, middle-class, historical, prophetic.\n{\" Who is it ?\" I whispered in an awestruck undertone to my super-\nterrestrial companion. \"Am I actually gazing on God, the Invisible\nKing ? \"\n\" Scarcely, \" replied the unabashed angel. \" Those varying features belong\nto a more local divinity : Wells, the Divisible God. \"\n\" But look — \"7 exclaimed, \" he is drawing nearer. . , He is stop-\nping. . . immediately beneath us .. . We can even see what is happening\ninside the crystal. . . Look — ! \")\n§ 3.\nIt is very hard to tell precisely what period was registering itself in the heart\nof that amazing crystal. One saw walls quite plainly, a table with shaded lamp,\nbooks, chairs. From the conversation between the two men — they were both in\ntheir aggressive' thirties — the place seemed to be England some time in the\nNineteen Twenties. The older one, whose name was something incongruously\nlike Fulpper, had a trick of waving his arms whenever words failed him, finishing\nhis expansive sentences with a rush of onomatopoetic sound.\n\"We can't wait for wisdom, Balsmeer, \" you hear him saying, \" Life goes\ntoo damn fast. We start off at a fair pace, increase our speed a little, lag behind,\ntry to catch up and, first thing you know — whooosh ! That's what the whole\nbusiness is : an immense and hideous scramble, an irresistible race ending in\nheart-break and — whooosh ! \"\n\" But isn't there such a thing as the scientific temperament; something that\nis not carried away so passionately ? \" inquired Balsmeer.\n\" Meaning — ? \""}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2770, "texte": "\" Well, \" continued the younger chap, \" I'm what you might call a serious\nsociological student. I'm earnest straight through. No humor to speak of. No\nromance. I stumble over bright and beautiful things. .. missing most of 'em,\nI dare say, but getting on fairly well without 'em. I know there are high\necstasies in the world — splendid music, extraordinary women, stupendous ad-\nventures, great and significant raptures — but they are just so many abstrac-\ntions to me. Scientific truth is the least accessible of mistresses ; she disguises\nherself in unlovely trappings ; she hides in filthy places ; she is cold, hard, un-\nresponsive — but she can always be found ! She is the one certainty, the one\nradiance I have found in a muddle of dirt and misery and disease. \"\n\" And don't you see, \" pursued Fulpper with exuberant warmth, \" that\nthis same Science of yours is the very Romance, you're running away from ?\nThis whole mechanistic age with its oiled efficiency, its incalculable energy\nand speed and — whizz. . . What's it all for anyway ? Just to make traffic\ngo quicker ? To get the whole mess revolving faster ? Not a bit of it! Your\nResearch and my Romance are blood-brothers — or dual personalities, to\nbe more exact... I seem to see — wait a minute ! — I seem to see a time when this\nScience will be revealed not so much as the God from the Machine as a god\nwithin it. A socialized thing. A lessener of stupid an unnecessary labor. A\nforce to end the criminal exploitation of men by man. A power to finish, once .\nand for all, the muddle and waste and confusion that destroy the finest human\npossibilities\n\" Yes, \" Balsmeer conceded, \" but — \"\n\"I'm coming to that, \" continued Fulpper. \" That's where Love and Re-\nfined Thinking — grnr ! — meet as enemies. Mr. and Mrs. Grundy won't\nbe able to debase the latter and foul the former. Knowledge — a full, frank\nknowledge — is going to change all that \".\n\" But innocence —\n\"It may go. We've tasted the fruit of the tree. You can't have your\napple and eat it, any more than Adam could. But there's something better than\ninnocence. There's a fiercer virginity, a more courageous and affiimative pu-\nrity in wisdom. No more dark whisperings. No more poisonous insinuations,\nnasty suggestiveness. No more music-hall smut, no French farce allusions. No\nmore smirching of impulses that are as beautiful as art and as clean as chemistry.\nNo more nightmares of adolescence ;no more muddling up to sex. This, please\nmy God or your Science, will cease to be world of the bully, the enslaved woman\nthe frightened child — the domain of the mud-pelter, the hypocrite, the pro-\nfessional diplomat. It will no longer be the world of the underworld, the cesspool,\nthe liver-fluke ...\"\nHis voice trailed off, incontinently . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2493, "texte": "§ 4.\nThe crystal became suddenly opaque. For a few minutes there was\nabsolute silence. Then a faint clicking began ; invisible pistons tapped out a\ndelicate rhythm. The tympani increased both in volume and speed. A lever\nshot out from the very heart of the mechanism and the dials of the Time Machine\nbegan to register new eras. The radiometer clicked off years, decades, centuries,\nmillenials. . . Presently the hands stopped. The diffused light within the ball\nresolved itself ; a gray-blue mist lifted from a strange landscape as the magnetic\narrow pointed to 5,320,506.\n§ 5.\nIt was, as I have said, a strange landscape. There was no color, no motion,\nnot a sign of vegetation. Even as the darkness disappeared, the sun, a great\ngreenish disc half the size of the heavens, sprang out of the icy sea. The pla-\nnets were drawing nearer together for the the final debacle. The rocks on the\nshore were covered with frozen rime ; the shadow of Mars, a dark clinker as round\nas the forgotten moon, covered the ground. It fell on the faces of the two who sat\nas if carved, at the mouth of their subterranean tunnel. They were swathed in\nbands of electrons ; what showed of their faces was bloodless. Their lips did not\nmove — the organs of speech had disappeared during the second stages of tele-\npathic communication — and only the minute dilations of the pupils during some\nemotional passage, animated their chiselled immobility. You picture them sit-\nting there, strangely . . .\n\"The waste of it .. . the hideous waste of it, \" you figure him flashing\nthis to her, \" What's the whole push and struggle for ? Is every generation to\nbe at the beginning of new things, never at a happy ending ? Always prodded\nor prodding itself on with dreams, half-perceived vistas ? \"\n\" My dear . . . \" her eyes remonstrated.\n\" It's you and I against the world, \"he telepathed. I guess it's always been\nthat. Two alone against the welter of mud and ugliness, dulness, obstinacy ;\ntwo tiny rebels against a world frozen with hate and hypocrisy ... The pity\nand shame of it .. . The shabbiness of it all ... \"\n\" But, dear, \" she challenged, \" the human race is still so young. It is\nstill learning to progress. \"\n\" Progress ! \" his pupils contracted. \"We are as sunk in apathy and\nignorance as our mythical ancestors in the pre-historic twentieth century.\ngress is a shibboleth. It's worse — a religion that everyone professes and no-\nbody believes in. Where are we now ? Education has lost itself in the schools,"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2305, "texte": "Sex has been buried in lies and lingerie. Science is fuddling over its dead bones,\ntrying to reconstruct the brain-cells of the Post-Wilsonian man .. . Progress !\nUntil this icy earth falls at last into a solid sun, millions of us will come out of\nour burrows to question what it all means... Here, — at the very mouths of our\nundei ground tunnels, — man once walked, warm and careless and secure\nAnd here, before that, life ran prodigally on every inch of the surface .. . Here\nthe long-necked Brontosaurus waded and the Diplodocus thrashed his thirty-\nfoot tail among the muggers. Here the giant Moa screamed as the Hesperornis,\nthose wingless birds, pursued the fishes through the Mesozoic waters. Here\nthe Protohippus pranced on his three toes and the Tyrannosaurus, buoyed up\nby fertile mud, preyed on the happy herbivores . . And all for what ?. . .\n\" For something it will be hard to answer but harder to deny, \" she communed\nintensely, \" for some transfiguration, some sort of world cleansed of its crippling\njealousies its spites, its blunderings. . . After all, there is a long time ahead.\nMan has existd for little more than five or six million years. We are still so new...\nThe future is so enormous, so staggering, so superb. L,ife is forever young . . .\nforever eager . . Men will, in some distant maturity, unify their scattered dreams\nand energies. Even death will be a part of the great integration. And, whether\nwe die or live, mankind is in the making .. . Old world are being exchanged for\nnew. Utopias, anticipations, unguessed brotherhoods, the conquest of earth\nand the stars .. . All so slowly but so confidently, in the making .. .\n§ 6.\nThe picture faded out, dissolving imperceptibly, until the ball paled to a\nmere glassy transparency .. . The figure in the machine suddenly became ener-\ngetic. He wheeled about, took his hands from the controlling levers and touched\na series of buttons on delicate, jointed rods which terminated in a set of metal\nhieroglyphs. First one was struck, then another, then a swift succession of\nnotes. The fingers flew faster, as though they sought to wrest some harmony\nfrom the heart of the machine ... For some time, nothing else was heard\nbut tap, click — tap, tap, tap — click — tap — fting ! — as the typewri-\nter was driven on through space."}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 2326, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2342, "texte": "Louis Untermeyer"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "49", "page_fin": "49", "image_debut": 51, "image_fin": 51, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Les Disques", "titre_sommaire": "Les Disques", "signature_source": "F. Leger", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 24, "texte": "F. Leger.\nLes Disques.\n4"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "55", "page_fin": "58", "image_debut": 57, "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=bmtnaap192204-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Fish", "titre_sommaire": "Fish", "signature_source": "William Carlos Williams", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 736, "texte": "FISH\n\nIt is the whales that drive\nthe small fish into the fiords. *\nI have seen forty or fifty\nof them in the water at one time.\nI have been in a little boat.\nwhen the water was boiling\non all sides of us\nfrom them swimming underneath.\nThe noise of the herring\ncan be heard nearly a mile.\nSo thick in the water, they are,\nyou can't dip the oars in.\nAll silver !\nMen call from the cliffs\nor blow horns\nthat the fishermen\nshall go down to the shore\nto their boats and nets\nto make the catch.\nAnd all those millions of fish\nmust be taken, each one, by hand.\nThe women and children\npull out a little piece\nunder the throat with their fingers\nso that the brine gets inside.\nI have seen thousands of barrels\npacked with the fish on the shore."}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 938, "texte": "In winter they set the gill-nets\nfor the cod. Hundreds of them\nare caught each night.\nIn the morning the men\npull in the nets and fish\naltogether into the boats.\nCod so big— I have seen —\nthat when a man held one up\nabove his head\nthe tail swept the ground.\nSardines, mackerel, anchovies\nall of these. And in the rivers\ntrout and salmon. I have seen\na net set at the foot of a falls\nand in the morning sixty trout in it.\nBut I guess there are not\nsuch fish in Norway nowadays.\nOn the Lofoten Islands —\ntill I was twelve.\nNot a tree or a shrub on them.\nBut in summer\nwith the sun never gone\nthe grass is higher than here.\nThe sun circles the horizon.\nBetween twelve and one at night\nit is very low, near the sea,\nto the north. Then\nit rises a little, slowly,\ntill midday, then down again\nand so for three months, getting\nhigher at first, then lower,\nuntil it disappears —\nIn winter the snow is often\nas deep as to the ceiling of this room."}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 922, "texte": "If you go there you will see\nmany Englishmen\nnear the falls and on the bridges\nfishing, fishing.\nThey will stand there for hours\nto catch the fish.\nNear the shore\nwhere the water is twenty feet or so\nyou can see the kingflounders\non the sand. They have\nred spots on the side. Men come\nin boats and stick them\nwith long pointed poles.\nHave you seen how the Swedes drink tea ?\nSo, in the saucer. They blow it\nand turn it this way and that: so.\nTall, gaunt\ngreat drooping nose, eyes dark circled,\nthe voice slow and smiling :\nI have seen boys stand\nwhere the stream is narrow\na foot each side on two rocks\nand grip the trout as they pass through.\nThey have a special way to hold them,\nin the gills, so. The long\nfingers arched like grapplehooks.\nThen the impatient silence\nwhile a little man said :\nThe English are great sportsmen.\nAt the winter resorts\nwhere I stayed\nthey wTere always the first up\nin the morning, the first"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 315, "texte": "on with the skiis.\nI once saw a young Englishman\nworth seventy million pounds —-\nYou do not know the north.\n— and you will see perhaps the huldra\nwith long tails\nand all blue, from the night,\nand the nekke, half man and half fish.\nWhen they see one of them\nthey know some boat will be lost.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "59", "page_fin": "71", "image_debut": 61, "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=bmtnaap192204-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Two University Professors", "titre_sommaire": "Two University Professors", "signature_source": "John Dos Passos", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1236, "texte": "TWO UNIVERSITY PROFESSORS\n\nI\nDoce dias son pasados\ndespues que el Cid acabdra ;\naderezanse las gentes\npara salir a batalla\ncon Bucar ese rey moro\n•y contra la su canalla.\nCuando fuera, media noche\nel cuerpo asi como estaba\nle ponen sobre Babieca. .\ny al caballo lo ataban.\nAnd when the army sallied out of Valencia, the Moors of king Bucar fled\nbefore the dead body of the Cid and ten thousand of them were drowned trying\nto scramble into their ships, among them twenty kings, and the Christians got\nso much booty of gold and silver among the tents that the poorest of them be-\ncame a rich man. Then the army continued. The dead Cid, riding each days'\njourney on his horse, across the dry mountains to Sant Pedro de Cardeha in\nCastile where the king Don Alfonso had come from Toledo, and he seeing the\nCid's face still so beautiful and his beard so long and his eyes so flaming, ordered\nthat instead of closing the body in a coffin with gold nails, they should set it\nupright in a chair beside the altar, with the sword Tizona in its hand. And\nthere he stayed more than ten years.\nMando que no se enter rase\nsino que el cuerpo arreado\nse ponga junto al altar\ny a Tizona en la su mano\nasi estuvo mudio tiempo\nque fueron mas de diez anos."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2954, "texte": "In the pass above people were skiing. On the hard snow of the road there\nwere orange skins. A victoria had just driven by in which sat a bored inflated\ncouple much swathed in furs. — Where on earth are they going ? — To the\nPuerta de Navecerrada, my friend answered. — But they look as if they'd\nbe happier having tea at Molinero's than paddling about up there in the snow. —\nThey would be, but it's the style . . . winter sport . . . and all because a lithe\nlittle brown man who died two years ago liked the mountains. Before him no\nMadrileno ever knew the Sierra existed. — Who was that ? — Don Francisco\nGiner.\nThat afternoon when it was already getting dark we were scrambling\nchilled, our faces lashed by the snow, down through drifts from a shoulder of Siete\nPicos with the mist all about us and nothing but the track of a flock of sheep\nfor a guide. The light from a hut pushed a long gleaming orange finger up the\nmountain-side. Once inside, we pulled off our shoes and stockings, and toasted\nour feet at a great fireplace round which were flushed faces, glint of teeth in\nlaughter, schoolboys and people from the university shouting and declaiming, a\nsmell of tea and wet woollens. Everybody was noisy with the rather hysteric-\nal excitement that warmth brings after exertion in cold mountain air. Cheeks\nwere purple and tingling. A young man with fuzzy yellow hair told me a story\nin French about the Emperor of Morocco, and produced a tin of potted black-\nbirds which it came out were from the said personage's private stores. Unend-\ning fountains of tea seethed in two smoke-blackened pots on the hearth. In\nthe back of the hut among leaping shadows were piles of skis and the door occas-\nionally opened to let in a wet snowy figure and shut again on skimming snow\ngusts. Everyone wTas rocked with enormous jollity. Then train-time came\nsuddenly and we ran the miles to the station crashing down the rocky path.\nIn the third class carriage people sang songs as the train jounced its way\ntowards the plain and Madrid. The man who sat next to me asked me if I\nknew it was Don Francisco who had had that hut built for the children of the\nInstitucion Libre de Ensefianza. Little by little he told me the history of the\nKrausistas and Francisco Giner de los Rios and the revolution of 1873, a story\nlike enough to many others in the annals of the nineteeth century movement\nfor education but in its overtones so intimately Spanish and individual, that it\ncame as the explanation of many things I had been wondering about and gave\nme an inkling of some of the origins of a rather special mentality I had noticed\nin people I knew about Madrid.\nSomewhere in the' forties a professor of the Universidad Central, banz de\nRio, was sent to Germany to study philosophy on a government scholarship.\nSpain was still in the intellectual coma that had followed the failure of the Cor-\ntes of Cadiz and the restoration of Fernando Septimo. A decade or more be-"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2422, "texte": "fore, Larra, the last flame of romantic revolt, had shot himself for love in Ma-\ndrid. In Germany at Heidelberg, Sanz del Rio found dying Krause, the first\narch- priest who stood interpreting between Kant and the world When he re-\nturned to Spain he refused to take up his chair at the university, saying he must\nhave time to think out his problems, and retired to a tiny room with one window\nin the town of Illescas, where was another student, Grecos San Ildefonso.\nThere he lived several years in seclusion. When he did return to his post in\nthe university, it was to reiuse to make ths profession of political and religious\nfaith lequired by a certain prime ministei named Orovio. He was dismissed\nand several of his disciples. At the same time Francisco Giner de los Rios,\nthen a young man who had just gained an appointment with great difficulty\nbecause of his liberal ideas, resigned out of solidarity with the rest. In 1868,\ncame the liberal revolution which was the political expression of this whole move-\nment and all these professors were reinstated. Until the restoration of the\nBourbons in '75 Spain was a hive of modernization, Buropeanization.\nReturned to power, Orovio lost no time in republishing his decree of a pro-\nfession of faith. Giner, Ascarate, Salmeron and several others were arrested and\nexiled to distant fortresses when they protested; their friends declared them-\nselves in sympathy and lost their jobs, and so many others resigned that the\nuniversity was at one blow denuded of its best men. From this came the idea\nof founding a free university which should be supported entirely by private sub-\nscription. From that moment the life of Giner de los Rios was completelv\nentwined with the growth of the Institution Libre de Ensenanza, which developed\nin the course of a few years into a coeducational primary school. And directly\nor indirectly there is not a single outstanding figure in Spanish life today whose\ndevelopment was not largely influenced by this dark slender baldheaded old\nman with a white beard, whose picture one finds on men's writing desks.\n. . . Oh, si, llevad, amigos,\nsu cuerpo a la Montana\na los azules montes\ndel ancho Guadarrama.\nWrote his pupil, Antonio Machado — and I rather think Machado is the pupil\nwhose name will live the longest — after Don Francisco's death in 1915.\n. . . Yes, carry, friends\nhis body to the hills,\nto the blue peaks\nof the wide Guadarrama"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2120, "texte": "There are deep gulches\nof green pines where the wind sings.\nThere is rest for his spirit\nunder a cold live oak\nin loam full of thyme, where play\ngolden butterflies . . .\nThere the master one day\ndreamed new flowerings for Spain.\nThese are fragments from an by Juan Ramon Jimenez, another poet\npupil of Don Francisco :\n\" Don Francisco ... It seemed that he incarnated all that is tender and\nkeen in life ; flowers, flames, birds, peaks, children. . . Now, stretched on his\nbed, like a frozen river that perhaps still flows under the ice, he is the clear\npath for endless recurrence .. . He was like a living statue of himself, a statue\nof earth of wind, of water, of fire. He has so freed himself from the task of every\nday that talking to him we might have thought we were talking to his image.\nYes. One would have said he wasnt going to die : that he had already passed,\nwithout anybody's knowing it, beyond death, that he was with us forever, like\na spirit.\n\"In the little door of the bedroom one already feels well-being. A trail\nof the smell of thyme and violets that comes and goes with the breeze from the\nopen window leads like a delicate hand towards where he lies. . . Peace. All\ndeath has done has been to infuse the color of his skin with a deep violet veiling\nof ashes.\n\" What a suave smell, and how excellent death is here ! No rasping es-\nsences, none of the exterior of blackness and crepe. All this is white and unclutt-\nered, like a hut in the fields in Andalucia, like the whitewashed portal of some\ngarden in the south. All just as it was. Only he who was there has gone.\n\" The day is fading, with a little wind that has a premonition of spring.\nIn the window-panes is a confused mirroring of rosy clouds. The blackbird,\nthat he must have heard for thirty years, that he'd have liked to have gone on\nhearing dead, has come to see if he's listening. Peace. The bedroom and the\ngarden strive quietly, light against light : the brightness of the bedroom is\nstronger and glows out into the afternoon. A sparrow flutters up into the\nsudden stain with which the sun splashes the top of a tree and sits there"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2572, "texte": "twittering. In the shadow below the blackbird whistles once more. Now and\nthen one seems to hear the voice that is silenced for ever.\n\" How pleasant to be here ! It's like sitting beside a spring, reading under\na tree, like letting the stream of a lyric river carry one away. . . And one\nfeels like never moving : like plucking to infinity, as one might tear roses to\npieces, these white full hours ; like clinging forever to this clear teacher in the\neternal twilight of this last lesson of austerity and beauty.\n\" Municipal Cemetery \" it says on the gate so that one may know of that\nother sign, Catholic Cemetery opposite.\n\" He didn't want to be buried in that cemetery, so opposed to the smiling\nsavorous poetry of his spirit. But it had to be. He'll still hear the black-\nbirds of the familiar garden. — After all, says Cossio, I dont think he'll be\nsorry to spend a little while with Don Julian . . .\n\" Careful hands have taken the dampness out of the earth with thyme :\non the coffin they have thrown roses, narcissus, violets. There comes, lost, an\naroma of last evening, a bit of the bedroom from which they took so much\naway . . .\n\" Silence. Faint sunlight. Great piles of cloud full of wind drag frozen\nshadows across us, and through them flying low, black grackles. In the distance,\nGuardarrama chaste beyond belief lifts crystals of cubed white light. Some\ntiny bird trills for a second in the sown fields nearby that are already vaguely\ngreenish, then lights on the creamy top of a tomb, then flies away . . .\n\" Neither impatience nor carping slowness and forgetfulness .. . Silence.\nIn the silence, the voice of a child walking through the fields, the sound of a\nsob hidden among the tombstones, the wind, the broad wind of these days.. . .\n\" I've seen occasionally a fire put out with earth. Innumerable little\ntongues spurted from every side. A pupil of his who was a mason made for this\nextinguished fire its palace of mud in a piece of earth two friends kept free. He\nhas at the head a euonimus, young and strong, and at the foot, already full of\nsprouts with coming spring, an acacia ...\"\nRound El Pardo the ever-green oaks, encinas, are scattered sparsely, tight\nround heads of blue green, over hills that in summer are yellow like the haunches\nof lions. From Madrid to El Pardo was one of Don Francisco's favorite walks,\nout past the jail where over the gate is an echo of his teaching : « Abhor\nthe crime but pity the criminal; \" past the palace of Moncloa with its stately\nabandoned gardens, and out along the Manzanares by a road through the royal"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3065, "texte": "domain, where are gamekeepers with shot guns and signs of \" Beware the man-\ntraps ; \" then up a low hill from which one sees the Sierra Guadarrama piled up\"\nagainst the sky to the north, greenish snowpeaks above long blue foothills, and\nall the foreground rolling land full of clumps of encinas; and at last into the\nlittle village with its barracks and its delapidated convent and its plane trees\nin front of the mansion Charles V built. It was under an encina near El Pardo\nthat I sat all one long morning r ading up in reviews and textbooks on the theory\nof law the life and opinions of Bon Francisco. In the moments when the sun\nshone, the heat made the sticky cistus bushes with their glistening white flowers\nall about me reek with pungence. Then a cool wisp of wind would bring a chill\nof snow slopes from the mountains and a passionless indefinable fragrance of\ndistances. At intervals, a church bell would toll in a peevish importunate\nmanner from the boxlike convent on the hill opposite. I was reading an account\nof the philosophical concept of monism, cudgelling my brain with phrases :\n\" And his fervent love of nature made the master evoke occasionally in class\nthis beautiful image of the great poet and philosopher Schelling: Man is the eye\nwith which the spiiit of nature contemplates itself, and then having qualified\nwith a phrase Schelling's expression, he would turn on those who see in nature\na manifestation of the rough, the gross, the instinctive, and offer for meditation\nthis saying of Michelet : Cloth woven by a weaver is just as natural as that a\nspider weaves. All is in one Being, all is in the Idea and for the Idea, the latter\nbeing understood in the way platonic substantialism has been interpreted ...»\nIn the grass under my book were bright fronds of moss, among which very\nsmall red ants performed prodigies of mountaineering, while through tramped\ntunnels long blacks ants scuttled darkly, glinting when the light struck them.\nThe smell of cistus was intense, hot, full of spices as the narrow streets of an\noriental town at night. In the distance the mountains piled up in zones, olive\ngreen, Prussian blue, ultramarine, ice-white. A cold windgust turned the\npages of the book : \" Thought and passion, reflection and instinct, affections,\nemotions, impulses collaborate in the rule of custom which is revealed not in\nwords declared and promulgated in view of future conduct, but in the act itself,\ntacit, taken for granted, or, according to the energetic expression of the Digest:\nrebus et factis. \"\nOver factis sat a little green and purple fly with the body curved under\nat the tail. I wondered vaguely if it was a May-fly. And then all of a sudden\nit was clear to me that these books, these dusty philosophical phrases, these\nmortuary articles by official personages were dimming the legend in my mind,\ntaking the brilliance out of the indirect but extraordinarily personal impact,\nof the man himself. They embalmed the Cid and set him up in the church\nwith his in his hand, for all men to see. What sort of legend would a"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "65", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2997, "texte": "5\n\ntechnical disquisition by the archbishop on the Cid's theory of the angle of ma-\nchiculations have generated in men's minds ? And what can a saint or a soldier\nor a founder of institutions leave behind him durable, but a legend ? Certainly\nit is not for the Franciscans that one remembers Francis of Assisi.\nAnd the curious thing about the legend of a personality is that it ma}' reach\nthe highest fervor without being formulated. It is something by itself that\nstands behind anecdotes, death notices, elegies.\nIn Madrid at the funeral of another of the great figures of nineteenth\ncentury Spain, Perez Galdos, I stood on the curb beside a large-mouthed youth\nwith a flattened toad-like face who was balancing a great white metal jar of milk\non his shoulder. The plumed hearse and the carriages full of flowers had just\npassed, ihe scieet in front 01 us was a slow stream of people very silent, their\nfeeL shuffling, shuffling, feet in patent leather shoes and spats, feet in square\n-toed shoes, pointed-toed shoes, alpargatas, canvas sandals ; people along the\nsidewalks seemed unable to resist the suction of it, joined in unostentatiously\nto follow if only a few moments the procession of the legend of Don Benito.\nThe bo;y with the milk turned to me and said how lucky it was they were burying\nSaldos, he'd have an excuse for being late for the milk. Then suddenly he\npulled his cap ofi, became enormously excited and began offering cigarettes to\neveryone round about. Pie scratched his head, and said in the voice of a Saul\nstricken 011 ihe road to Damascus ... How many books he must have written\nthat gentleman ! Carrajo !. . . It makes a fellow sorry when a gentleman like\nthat dies, and shouldering his pail, his blue tunic fluttering in the wind, he\njoined the procession.\nLike the milk boy, I found myself joining the procession of the legend of\nGiner de los Rios. That morning under the encina I closed up the volumes\non the theory of law and the bulletins with their death-notices and got to my\nfeet and looked over the tawny hills of El Pardo, and thought of the little lithe\nbald-headed man with a white beard like the beard in El Greco's portrait of\nCovarruoias, who had taught a generation to love the tremendous contours\nof their countiy, to climb mountains and bathe in cold torrents, who was the\nfirst, it aimost seems, to feel the tragic beauty of Toledo, who in a lifetime of\ncourageous unobtrusive work managed to stamp all the men and women whose\nlives remotely touched his with the seal of his personality. Born in Ronda\nin the wildest part of Andalusia of a family that came from Velez-Malaga,\na white town near the sea in the rich fringes of the Sierra Nevada, he had\ndie mental agility, the sceptical tolerance and the uproarious good nature of\nthe people of that region, combined with the sobriety and sinewiness of a\nmountaineer. His puritanism became a definite part of the creed of the\nhopeful discontented generations that are gradually, for better or for worse"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "66", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2295, "texte": "remoulding Spain. His nostalgia of the north of fjords where fir trees hang\nover black tidal waters, of blonde people cheerful, orderly, in rectangular\nblue-tiled towns became the gospel of Europeanization, of wholesale destruc-\ntion of all that was individual, savage, African in the Spanish tradition. Rebus\net factis. And yet none of these things and acts do much to explain the pe-\nculiar radiance of his memory, the jovial tenderness with which people tell one\nabout him. The immanence of the man is such that even an outsider, one who,\nlike the milk boy at the funeral of Galdos, meets the procession accidentally\nwith another errand in his head, is drawn in almost without knowing it. It is\nimpossible to think of him in a box in unconsacrated ground in the Cementerio\nCivil. In Madrid, in the little garden of the Institution where he used to teach\nthe children, in front of a certain open fire in a certain house at El Pardo where\nthey say he loved to sit and talk, I used to half expect to meet him, that some\nfriend would take me to see him as they took people to see the Cid in Sant\nPedro de Cardena.\nCara tiene de her mo sura\nmuy hermosa y colorada;\nlos ofos igual abiertos\nmuy afiuesta la su barb a.\nNon parece que esta muerto\nantes vivo semejaba.\nII\nAlthough Miguel de Unamuno was recently condemned to fifteen years\nimprisonment for lese majeste for some remark made in an article published in a\nValencia paper, no attempt has been made either to make him serve the term\nor to remove him from the chair of Greek at the University of Salamanca. Which\nproves something about the efficacy of the stand Giner de los Rios and his\nfriends made fifty years before. Furthermore, at the time of the revolutionary\nattempt of August 1917 the removal of Bestiero from his chair caused so many\nof the faculty to resign and such universal protest that it was restored to liim,\nalthough he was an actual member of the revolutionary committee and at\nthat time under sentence for life. In 1875, after the fall of the republic it had\nbeen in the face of universal popular reaction that the Krausistas founded\ntheir free university. The lump is leavened.\nBut Unamuno. A Basque from the country of living in Salamanca\nin the highest coldest part of the plateau of Old Castile, in many senses the op-"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "67", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2495, "texte": "posite of Giner de los Rios who was austere as a man on a long pleasant walk who\ndoesn't overeat or overdrink so that the walk may be longer and pleasanter,\nwhile Unamuno is austere religiously, mystically. Giner de los Rios was the\nchampion of life, Unamuno is the champion of death. Here is his creed, one\nof his creeds from the preface of the Vida de Don.Quijote y Sancho :\n\" There is no future : there is never a future. This thing they call the fu-\nture is one of the greatest lies. Today is the real future. What shall we be\ntomorrow ? There is no tomorrow. What about us today, now; that is the\nonly question.\n\" And as for today, all these nincompoops are thoroughly satisfied because\nthey exist today, mere existence is enough for them. Existence, or-\ndinary naked existence fills their whole soul. They feel nothing beyond\nexistence.\n\" But do they exist ?. Really exist? I think not, because if they did exist,\nif they realty existed, existence would be suffering for them and they wouldn't\ncontent themselves with it. If they really and truly existed in time and space,\nthey would suffer not being of eternity and infinity. And this suffering, this\npassion, what is it but the passion of God in us ? God who suffers in us from\nour temporariness and finitude ; that divine suffering will burst all the puny\nbonds of logic with which they try to tie down their puny memories and their\npuny hopes, the illusion of their past and the illusion of their future.\n\" Your Quixotic madness has made you more than once speak to me of\nQuixotism as the new religion. And I tell you this new religion you propose to\nme, if it hatched, would have two singular merits. One that its founder, its\nprophet, Don Quixote — not Cervantes — probably wasn't a real man of flesh\nand blood at all, indeed we suspect that he was pure fiction. And the other\nmerit would be that this prophet was a ridiculous prophet, people's butt and\nlaughing-stock.\n\" What we need most is the valor to face ridicule. Ridicule is the arm\nof all the miserable barbers, bachelors, parish priests, canons, and dukes who\nkeep hidden the sepulchre of the Knight of Madness. Knight who made all the\nworld laugh but never cracked a joke. He had too great a soul to bring forth\njokes. They laughed at his seriousness.\n\" Begin then, friend, to do the Peter the Hermit and call people to join\nyou, to join us, and let us all go win back the sepulchre even if we dont know\nwhere it is. The crusade itself will reveal to us the sacred place."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "68", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2638, "texte": "\" Start marching ! Where are you going ? The star will tell you: to the\nsepulchre ! What shall we do on the road while we march ? What ? Fight! Fight,\nand how ?\n\" How ? If you find a man lying ? Shout in his face : lie! and forward !\nIf you find a man stealing, shout : thief ! and forward ! If you find a man\nbabbling asininities, to whom the crowd listens open-mouthed, shout at them\nall: idiots ! and forward, always forward !\n\"To the march then ! And throw out of the sacred squadron all those\nwho begin to study the step and its length and its rhythm. Above everything\nthrow out all those who fuss about this business of rhythn. They'll turn the\nsquadron into a quadrille and the march into a dance. Away with them ! Let\nthem go off somewhere else to sing the flesh.\n\" Those who try to turn the squadron on the march into a dancing,\nquadrille call themselves and each other poets. But they're not. They're\nsomething else. They only go to the sepulchre out of curiosity, to see what\nit's like, looking for a new sensation, and to amuse themselves along the road.\nAway with them !\n\" It's these that with their indulgence of Bohemians contribute to maintain\ncowardice and lies and all the weaknesses that flood us. When they preach\nliberty they only think of one : that of disposing of their neighbor's wife. All\nis sensuality with them. They even fall in love sensually with ideas, with great\nideas. They are incapable of marrying a great and pure idea and breeding a\nfamily with it; they only flirt with ideas. They want them as mistresses, some-\ntimes just for the night. Away with them!\n\"If one wants to pluck some flower or other along the path, that smiles\nfrom the fringe of grass, let him pluck it, but without breaking ranks, without\ndropping out of the squadron of which the leader must always keep his eyes on\nthe flaming sonorous star. But if he puts the little flower in the strap above\nhis cuirass, not to look at it himself, but for others to look at, away with\nhim ! Let him go with his flower in his buttonhole and dance somewhere else.\n\" Look friend, if you want to accomplish your mission and serve your\ncountry, you must make yourself unpleasant to the sensitive boys who only see\nthe world through the eyes of their sweethearts. Or through something worse.\nLet your words be strident and rasping in their ears.\n\" The squadron must only stop at night, near a wood or under the lee of\na mountain. There they will pitch their tents and the crusaders will wash\ntheir feet, and sup off what their women have prepared ; then they will beget a\nson on then and kiss them and go to sleep to begin the march again the follow-"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2812, "texte": "ing day. And when someone dies, they will leave him on the edge of the road\nwith his armor on him, at the mercy of the crows. Let the dead bury the\ndead. \"\nInstead of the rationalists and humanists of the North, Unamuno's idols\nare the mystics and saints and sensualists of Castile, hard stalwart men who\nwalked with God, Loyola, Torquemada, Pizarro, Narvaez, who governed with\nwhips and thumbscrews and drank death down greedily like heady wine. He\nis excited by the amorous madness of the mysticism of Santa Teresa and San\nJuan de la Cruz. His religion is paradoxical, unreasonable, of faith alone, full\nof furious yearning, otherworldliness. His style it follows is headlong, gruff,\nredundant, full of tremendous pounding phrases. There is a vigorous almost\nangry insistance about his dogmas that makes his essays unforgettable, even if\none objects as violently as Ido to his asceticism and death-worship. There is\nan anarchic fury about his crying in the wilderness that will win many a man\nfrom the fleshpots and chain gangs. In the apse of the old cathedral of Sala-\nmanca is a fresco of the Last Judgment, perhaps by the Castilian painter Gal-\nlego. Over the retablo on a black ground is a tremendous figure of the evening\nangel brandishing a sword while behind him unrolls the scroll of the Dies I?ae\nand huddled clusters of plump little naked people fall away into space from\nunder his feet. There are moments in « Del Sentimiento Tragico de la Vida »\nand in the « Vida de DonQuijote y Sancho » when in the rolling earthy Castilian\nphrases one can feel the brandishing of the sword of that very angel. Not for\nnothing does Unamuno live in the rust and saffron-colored town of Salamanca\nin the midst of bare redhills that bulge against an enormous flat sky in which\nthe clouds look like piles of granite, like floating cathedrals they are so solid,\nheavy, ominous. A country where barenness and the sweep of cold wind and\nthe lash of strong wine have made people's minds ingrow into the hereafter, where\nthe clouds have been tramped by the angry feet of the destroying angel.\nHe is constantly attacking sturdily those who clamor for the modern-\nization, Europeanization of Spanish life and Spanish thought. He is in many\nways the counterprose to the humanitarian northern-looking movement of the\ndisciples of Giner de los Rios.\nIn an essay in one of the volumes published by the Residencia de Estudian-\ntes he wrote :\n\" As can be seen, I proceed by what they call arbitrary affirmations, without\ndocumentation, without proof, outside of modern European logic, disdainful\nof its methods.\n\" Perhaps. I want no other method than that of passion, and when my\nbreast swells with disgust, repugnance, sympathy or disdain, I let the mouth,\nspeak the bitterness of the heart, and let the words come as they come."}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "70", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2972, "texte": "\" We Spaniards are, they say, arbitrary charlatans, who fill up with rhet-\noric the gaps in logic, who subtilize with more or less ingenuity, but uselessly,\nwho lack the sense of coherence, with scolastic souls, casuists and all that.\n« I've heard similar things said of Augustine, the great African, soul of\nfire that spilt itself in leaping waves of rhetoric, twistings of the phrase, anti-\nthesis, paradoxes and ingenuities. Saint Augustine was a Gongorine and a con-\nceptualist at the same time. Which makes me think that Gongorism and con-\nceptualism are the most natural forms of passion and vehemence.\n\" The great African, the great ancient African ! Here is an expression —\nancient African — that one can oppose to modern European, and that's worth\nas much at least. African and ancient were Saint Augustine and Tertullian.\nAnd why shouldn't we say : We must make ourselves ancient Africanstyle or\nelse we must make ourselves African ancientstyle.\nThe typical tree of Castile is the encina, a kind of live oak that grows low\nwith dense bluish foliage and a ribbed knotted and contorted trunk ; it always\ngrows singly and on dry hills. On the roads one meets lean men with knotted\nhands and brown sun-wizened faces that seem brothers to the encinas of their\ncountry. The thought of Unamuno, emphatic, lonely, contorted is hammered\ninto homely violent phrases brother to the men on the roads and to the encinas\non the hills of Castile.\nThis from the end of « Del Sentimiento Tragico de la \"Vida »:\n\" And in this critical century, Don Quixote has also contaminated himself\nwith criticism, and he must charge against himself, victim of intellectualism and\nsentimentalism, who when he is most sincere, appears most affected. The poor\nman wants to rationalize the irrational, and irrationalize the rational. And\nhe falls victim of the inevitable despair of a rational century, of which the great-\nest victims were Tolstoy and Nietzsche. Out of despair, he enters into the heroic\nfury of that Quixote of thought who broke out of the cloister, Giordano Bruno,\nand makes himself awakener of sleeping souls, dormitantium animorum excubitor,\nas the ex-Dominican when of himself, when he wrote : . . . — The heroic love is\npropor to superior natures called insane — insane — not because the do not\nknow — non sanno — but because they know too much — soprasanno —.\n\" But Bruno believed in the triumph of his doctrines, or at least at the foot\nof his statue on the Campo dei Fiori, opposite the Vatican, they have put that\nit is offered by the century he had divined — il secolo da lui divinato. But our\nDon Quixote, the resurrected, Don Quixote, does not believe that\nhis doctrines will triumph in the world, because they are not his. And is it\nbetter that they should not triumph. If they wanted to make Don Quixote\nking, he would retire alone to the hill-top, fleeing the crowds of king-makers\nand king-killers, as did Christ when, after the miracle of the loaves and fishes,"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "71", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 818, "texte": "they wanted to proclaim him king. He left the title of king to be put above\nthe cross.\nWhat is, then, the new mission of Don Quixote in this world ? To cry\nto cry m the wilderness. For the wilderness hears although men do not hear,'\nand one day will turn into a sonorous wood, and that solitary voice that spreads\nm the desert like seed, will sprout into a gigantic cedar that will sing with a\nhundreu thousand tongues an eternal hosanna to the lord of life and death. \"\nIII\n. d hereby hangs a moral highly applicable to our own trustee-ridden\nuniversities, if to nothing else. If we really wanted liberty of speech and\ntnought, we could probably get it — Spain fifty years ago certainly had a longer\ntradition 01 despotism than has the United States - but do we want it ?\nIn these years we shall see.\n\nJohn Dos Passos"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "72", "page_fin": "72", "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=bmtnaap192204-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Nature Morte", "titre_sommaire": "Nature Morte", "signature_source": "Marcoussis", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 25, "texte": "Marcoussis.\nNature Morte."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "73", "page_fin": "73", "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=bmtnaap192204-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Nature Morte", "titre_sommaire": "Nature Morte", "signature_source": "Marcoussis", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 25, "texte": "Marcoussis.\nNature Morte."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "74", "page_fin": "77", "image_debut": 76, "image_fin": 79, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "If You Had Three Husbands", "titre_sommaire": "If You Had Three Husbands", "signature_source": "Gertrude Stein", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 25, "texte": "IF YOU HAD THREE HUSBANDS"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 41, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1857, "texte": "LENGTH OF TIME\nHe agreed. He said I would have known by this time. I don't like to\nthink about it. It would have led to so much. Not that I am disappointed\nI cannot be disappointed when I have so much to make me happy. I know all\nthat lam to happiness, it is to be happy and lam happy. lam so completely\nhappy that I mention it.\nIn writing now I find it more of a strain because now I write by sentences.\nI don't mean that I feel it above. I feel it here and by this time I mention it\ntoo. Ido not feel the significance of this list.\nCan you read a book,\nBy the time artificial flowers were made out of feathers no pride was left.\nAny one is proud if the name of their house is the name of a city.\nI remember very wrell the time I was asked to come up and I said I did not\nwant to. I said I did not want to, but I was willing not quite to understand\nwhy after all there need to poison. Do not say more than a word.\nNo that is wrong.\nCousins and cousins, height is a brother. Are they careful to stay.\nIf you had three husbands I don't mean that it is a guess or a wish.\nI believe finally in what I saw in what I see. I believe finally in what I see,\nin where I satisfy my extreme shadow.\nBelieving in an extreme dream. This is so that she told her mother.\nI do not believe it can be mentioned.\nAstonishing leaves are found in their dread in their dread of that color.\nAstonishing leaves can be found in their dread not in their dread of that\ncolor. Astonishing leaves can be found in their dread in their dread of\nthat color.\nWhen it came to say I mean a whole day nobody meant a whole day.\nWhen it came not to say a whole nobody meant a whole day. There never\nwTas a single day or a single murmur or a single word or a single circumstance\nof sweating. What is sweating. Not distilling. Distilling necessitates know-"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1864, "texte": "ing. Knowing necessitates reasons and reasons do not necessitate flowers\nStates are flowers.\nBrother to birthdays.\nTwenty four days.\nNot a beginning.\nBy politeness. It is not really polite to be unworthy. Unworthy of\nwhat unworthy of the house and of the property adjoining.\nLet me describe the red room. A red room isn't cold or warm. A red room\nis not meant to be icy. A red room is worthy of articles.\nHe pleased she pleased everybody. He pleased her.\nHe pleased her to go. She was attracted by the time. Ido not remember\nthat there were any clocks.\nI don't wish to begin counting.\nAll this was after it was necessary for us to be there all the time. Who\nwere we. We were often enlivening. By way of what. By way of steps or\nthe door. By way of steps. By way of steps or the door.\nI remember very well the day he asked me if I were patient. Of course I\nwas or of course I was patient enough, of course I was patient enough.\nWhen it was easy to matter we were all frames not golden or pointed, just\nfinely or formerly flattered. It was so easy easy to be bell. Belle was her name.\nBelle or Bella. I don't mean relations or overwhelming. I don't even mean\nthat we were fond of healthy trees. Trees aren't healthy by yesterday or by\nroots or by swelling. Trees are a sign of pleasure. It means that there is a\ncountry. A country give to me sweet land of liberty.\nOne can easily get tired of rolls and rows. Rows have one seat. Rolls are\npolite. In a way there is no difference between them. Rolls and rows have\nfinished purses. Rows and rolls have finished purses.\nIt isn't easy to be restless.\nIf sitting is not developed.\nIf standing is not open.\nIf active action is represented by lying and if piles of tears are beside\nmore delight, it is a rope.\nBy that we swim.\nCapture sealing wax not in or color.\nCeilings.\nI like that dwelling.\nAll the same sound or bore."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1051, "texte": "Do it.\nTry that.\nTry.\nWhy.\nWiden.\nPublic speaking is sinister if cousins are brothers. We were a little pile.\nBuy that.\nThere is no such sense.\nPleasant days.\nSo to speak.\nSand to-day.\nSunday.\nSight in there.\nSaturday.\nPray.\nWhat forsooth.\nDo be quiet.\nLaugh.\nI know it.\nShall we.\nOne must be willing.\nIf one loves one another by that means they do not perish. They\nfrequent the same day and nearly that it was six months apart.\nThree and three make two.\nTwo twenty.\nI was not disappointed.\nDo as you please, write the name, change it, declare that you are strong?\nbe annoyed. All this is not foolish.\nShe was doubtless not old.\nPleasant days brother. I don't mean this thing. I don't mean calling\naloud. I never did so, I was not plaintive. I was not even reached by\ncoughing. I was splendid and sorrowful. I could catch my breath.\nI don't feel that necessity.\nThey came home.\nThey came home beside.\nAll of it was strange, their daughter was strange, their excitement was\nstrange and painfully sheltered. Quiet leaning is so puzzling. Certainly glas-"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 451, "texte": "ses make cats a nuisance. We really have endured too much. Everybody\nsays the same thing.\n. Ild° not see nmch necessity for believing that it would have occurred\nas it did occur if sun and September and the hope had not been mentioned.\nIt was all foolish. Why not be determined. Why not oppose. Why not\nsettle flowers. Settle on flowers, speak cryingly, and be loath to detain her.\n1 dont see how any one can speak.\nI am not satisfied.\n\nGertrude Stein"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "78", "page_fin": "78", "image_debut": 80, "image_fin": 80, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Theatre", "titre_sommaire": "Theatre", "signature_source": "John Rodker", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 606, "texte": "THEATRE\nJohn Rodker\nClose held by warm darkness,\nwet murmuring darkness,\nthe crystal ball.\nThe mellow stage light\ntransfuses into the skull\nand the brain welters in light.\nThe body forgotten, one with the dark,\none's being nothing —\nbut it projects a facade\na tall window\nwhich sucks in the light.\nAnd the light breaks in hard splinters\nbetween one's being which is nothing\nand the very bright window\nwhich is nothing.\nIt is all very peaceful\nand probably like heaven.\nThough far off and thinly\nterror runs down a thin wire —\nWells into sound —\nFills the horizon to crush us\nwith a noise like tearing silk."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "79", "page_fin": "79", "image_debut": 81, "image_fin": 81, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Paysage Animé", "titre_sommaire": "Paysage Animé", "signature_source": "F. Leger", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 24, "texte": "F. Leger.\nPaysage Animé."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "80", "page_fin": "87", "image_debut": 82, "image_fin": 89, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Dedicated to the Enemy", "titre_sommaire": "Dedicated to the Enemy", "signature_source": "Gordon Graig", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 22, "texte": "DEDICATED TO THE ENEMY"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 37, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1854, "texte": "Here, again, in connection with my own work, are some few assertions\nwhich have been made, which, while containing some degree of trnth, none of\nthem contain the whole truth:\n\"Mr. Gordon Craig, who has thought out his subject more completely\nthan any of his English imitators, long ago came to the conclusion that he must\nmake his actors fit his background, and his logical mind created a new art in\nwhich each factor of the stage should be conditioned by the whole effect. He\nwanted something quite different from a drama of human beings. I think that\nis the logical outcome of highly-conventionalized back-grounds. Possibly\nMr. Gordon Craig, the originator of all modern scenic art, does not think that\nnow, for he himself says : 'My way changes every three years. Perhaps this\naccounts for my followers having lost their way.\nE A. Baughan, Daily News and Leader, 12 Feb. 1914.\n\" I gather that he [Mr. Gordon Craig] wants the scene, for all its simplifica-\ntions, to count for more, at any rate, than the words. It seems to me that he is\nmaking here for another form of art than drama. I can imagine that such\na form, in which figures magnified by mask and cothurnus moved about in the\nvast abstract spaces which his scenery can create, would be singularly beautiful\nand impressive ; but it will approximate rather to the dance than to the drama\nas we know it. \"\nRoger Fry, in the New Statesman, 27 June 1914.\n\"Mr. Craig is a bit of a genius (I hope he will agree with me that one must\nnot use that word to the full too rashly), and he is wholly an idealist. He\nwill have no less than the dramatic kingdom of heaven on earth. He will\nhave perfection as he sees it or nothing .. . Now, as with all idealists,\nMr. Craig's influence has been mainly destructive. \"\nGranville Barker, letter to Daily Mail, 25 Sept. 1912."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "81", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2351, "texte": "6\n\n\" The trouble with Mr. Gordon Craig's conception of the theatre seems to\nbe his preoccupation with the pictorial and decorative side of drama. The\nplays of Shakespeare fall into his scheme well enough ; but there is little room\nfor Sheridan, and still less for Shaw. He ignores modern comedy altogether,\nand modern comedy is as needful for our sanity as it is for our amusement. \"\nAshley Dukes, letter to Daily Mail, i Sept. 1913.\n\"Mr. Gordon Craig would shut the lips of the theatre. \"\nP. P. H. [owe.] Review of On the Art of the Theatre in Outlook, 23 Dec. 1912.\n\" Mr. Craig is a prophet. Like all prophets, he is wrong. And, like all\nprophets, he is valuable. If this book is one of the most useful things ever\nwritten upon the subject of the drama it is that virtue not of its immediate\npractical suggestions, but precisely by virtue of the fierce impossibilism of\nits ideal. He gives us a fresh appreciation of the possible. \"\nFloyd Dell. Review of On the Art of the Theatre in Chicago Evening Post,\n19 Jan. 1912.\n\" Mr. Gordon Craig, in the highest flights of his fancy, seems to desire,\nand expect, the total elimination of the speaking actor, leaving the interpreta-\ntion of the drama to mute figures — preferably mechanical — music, alle-\ngorical dancers, and special painted and atmospheric effects. \"\nReview of On the Art of the Theatre in The Nation, U. S. A., 1 Feb. 1912.\n\" I understand that this subordination of the player is one of the aims\nof Mr. Gordon Craig. \"\nWestminster Gazette. Notice of The Miracle, 27 Dec. 1912.\n\" Mr. Craig's designs not only make an appeal independently of the play\nthey are supposed to illustrate : they actually dwarf the player's art and\n•disastrously compete with the author's intention. \"\nThe Future of the Theatre, John Palmer, 1913 \\\nI hold that too much of this is rash and exaggerated misstatement born\nof unconscious (let us hope unconscious) misunderstanding.\nAgain, I remember once an actor-manager laughing at some painting\nbecause the artist had made the sea yellow and the rocks green. The sea can\nbe yellow —it can be red — I have seen it both colours. Rocks can be green\nand blue and crimson as well as gray, white, or brown. Trelawny —in his\nRecords — writes:\n1 This writer calls his book \"The Future of the Theatre, \" and yet writes solely of\none branch of it — of the English Theatre."}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "82", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2415, "texte": "\" Byron, looking at the western sky, exclaimed : ' Where is the green your\nfriend the Laker talks such fustian about ? ' meaning Coleridge :\nGazing on the western sky\nAnd its peculiar tint of yellow green.\nDejection : in Ode.\n\" ' Who ever, ' asked Byron, ' saw a yellow sky ? '\n\" Shelley was silent, knowing that if he replied Byron would give vent to\nhis spleen. So I said : ' The sky in England is oftener green than blue.\n\" ' Black, you mean, ' rejoined Byron; and this discussion brought us to\nhis door. \"\nBut we know that the sky can be blue, it can be green, yellow, black;\nit can be and is every blessed colour ever known to us, and some unknown\nvet. us get higher up and lower down in the heavens, on eaitn and under\nit before we make our assertions. And then we shall get fewer fixed and er-\nroneous ideas.\nAccept it from me then — I who have anyhow been up and down into\nfar-off places in our Theatre world — accept it from me that while the Drama\nis all that Mr. Archer and Mr. Palmer and Mr. Collier and Aristotle tell us it is,\nit can be a hundred other things and a hundred more besides ... it is permitted.\nA Drama can be a silent affair, a spoken thing, a thing sung, spoken\nand silent : it can be enacted by a single person — who says nothing, who\nmoves only, who moves feet, arms, legs, hands, head, and whole person, or\nby one who moves hands alone, or by two who move head and hands, or by\nfour of whom one moves some of his limbs only and the others move nothing\nbut their heads. It may be sung by people or one person unseen ;or it may be\nspoken by a single person or many persons seen for three minutes and never\nseen again. It may be made of scenes without figures as of figures without\nscenes. It may be made of forms signifying anything —or of sounds without\nwords.\nIf I have a fancy and can humour it to the extent of creating something —\nwell, I will choose motion, scene, and voice as my three elements for making\nDrama.\nBut that is merely my special fancy — and after all (if I create something\nworth while) then of a special fancy we shall all cry out — \" That is the truth. \"\nBut that is not quite the truth.\nThe truth is more than this and different.\nAnd as it is the critic's special delight to be just, to be ideal spectator\nand ideal judge, he must, I should think, realize without any delay that, un-\nless he announces that he intends to judge from a very small and low point of"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "83", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2578, "texte": "view, his business is to enlarge and enlarge the bounds for our endeavour and not,\nas he does to-day, narrow them to the round o of a wren's eye.\nIf the wise craftsman limits himself, not in thought but solely in his mat-\nerial, and to some particular tools of his trade, the critic need not concern\nhimself with teaching a craftsman to be wise. Let a craftsman attempt the\nimpossible — he can achieve it with one tool and with a minimum of material\n— but urge him on to attempt it : do not for ever blight his existence with the\ndreary pessimism of your despair. Despair we all can taste and without help\nfrom anyone. The help we need is encouragement. What if we topple over\nthe precipice ?. . . what if we blow ourselves to the moon ?. . . urge us to\nattempt the impossible even though it be fraught with great danger.\nThen we get an audience — for an audience enjoys seeing us run risks.\nWe do not get an audience to-day because critics are keen about turning on\nthe brake.\nVI\nI write this Note in a Theatre in Paris.\nThe old conviction returns . . . and I of the Theatre . . . living it . . . sworn\nto it . . . that all this closed in — cooped-up — darkened nonsense, is over and\ndone with ; . . this mystery of nothing — murky . . . dusky . . . damnable. . .\nAnd you on the stage whom I admire, who would gain everything by\ncoming out into the air — into the sun — losing nothing but some paint and a\nfew twopenny tricks which could all be replaced by valuable truths . . .\nWhy all this Red and Blue light, this purple artifice, which is all so in-\ncomplete ? . . . Where are your eyes that the yellow-white, pale blue, and\ndelicate mauve of Daylight touch you not, nor the ice-cold glare of white\nnights have no significance ? Why this mumbling or writhing beneath pink\nhalf-lights reminiscent of the candle-shades of the dear old restaurants?\nIf virtuosity must turn down the lights all the time — why must it ? Crea-\ntion turns them dowrn only once and again.\nI am of the opinion that the study of Creation when it is at work\nproducing its daily drama is still not to be despised. Can I be wrong and\nyou right ? . . . in this, I mean ?\nThe Shakespearean Plays, the Comedies of Moliere, may be for these the\nold pretty tricks are the very thing — Yet even here Shakespearean scholars\nremind us that the scenes and actors were lighted by the sun.\nBut you play no little dramas with others. You are alone — you enter\nand fill the stage with any figure you choose — and as many as you choose . . .\nyour imagination peoples the place ; just as in his lovely scenes the great"}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.86", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2350, "texte": "Appia seems to pack his empty platforms with a hundred hundred angels — and\nto start them singing when he chooses. This is the power of Imagination —\nyou both possess it -— yet you choose to trifle — you who have no need to.\nYour great power (the power not yours but which yields to you) enables\nyou to move your hand and, we seem to see lilies or roses or lilac growing —\n\" when lilac first in the doorway .. . \" You turn towards the right and by\nthe force of your imagination you project for us a group of three who seem\nto advance towards you : you turn from us a little and the dark comes on —\nyou turn a little more, evening ; a little more and it is night.\nIt is the power of Imagination, not your power, and you possess some of\nit — enough to convince a world and baffle a nation. I have seen you bring\npalm to palm silently and heard the cymbals — cymbals which sang rather\nthan clashed. I have seen your shoulders move bending and heard the thun-\nders of an old story rolling up around you. You have lain your hand on the\nearth obediently obeying the old Fate, and I have seen the earth open as a\nsmile spreads and drench you in a yellow light. You were more than three\nhundred years old as you bent to obey and you rose up a 3roung woman.\nYou who alone have the secret of this magic will never tinker with the\ntwopenny tricks of the trade.\nVII\nI write at another Theatre.\nHow enchanting are the electric batteries of the Modern Theatre, its wires,\nits bulbs, its switches and its resistances! How enchanting the mirrors\nof the ancients — and the reflectors of to-day . . . how delicious is all this\nmechanism and all its artificial products.\nYou who read give me up, I suppose. You heard me only two moments\nago calling such things twopenny tricks.\nExactly, dear friend, exactly.\nFor her —or for him twTopenny ; and twopence is too much. But for\nthe others, and certainly for me, quite satisfactory.\nDo you suppose I can see and admire two and take them to be one ? If\nimagination itself sings from the being we call Mozart — something else sings\nfrom him we call Balfe ....\nPlace for Balfe — place for Iyecoc, plenty of room for both and for Bizet. . .\nthree different places, three separate planes . . . Mozart's place is kept for him\nat Imagination's right hand. She herself keeps it for him. Then me needs\nmust find places for the rest."}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.87", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2435, "texte": "And with my artist living to-day — for him and for her, Imagination her-\nself keeps their places —at her right hand. And yet others must sit down at\nthe board.\nEach his place — the best possible — but it is not possible any others\nshall sit in theirs — nor near them..\nVIII\nI haven't the pleasure of the acquaintance of the ladies and gentlemen\nwho, I am told, run Covent Garden Theatre, but they are having a good time,\nI hope. Year in and year out these good and faithful amuse one another by\nfishing out from far-off lands such as Russia and Italy imitation works of art,\nabsolute forgeries, and before these they solemnly sit dressed in genuine pearls\nand diamonds, which shows that they have hope and patience if not discernment.\nI am told that the whole English Aristocracy runs Covent Garden. I'm\nsure I can't say. If it does, then the sooner the People take the place in hand\nthe better for England. For however badly the People will manage the place,\nI think they could not manage it worse.\nBy that I mean not the least suggestion of incompetence on the part of\nthe so-called managers, secretaries, and general staff of the Theatre. The whole\nstaff, as everyone can see by their work, is admirably organized and works\nwith precision and rapidity. No praise could be too great for it. It is of the\naristocratic \" managers \" I speak . . . those who decide, those in power.\nThese, owing to some advantage of education which they have over the\nrest of us, are supposed to be able to recognize a genuine work of art from a\nforgery. Alas, then, that they should take themselves in every time.\nPerversity runs Covent Garden, not nobility.\nIt's human after all —• but how expensive it must be !\nIt reminds me of the attitude of Georges Sand, exasperated because\nChopin (or was it De Musset) will not do as she wishes .. . really she was a\ndarling .. . Listen to her .. .\n\"I am sick of great men (forgive the expression) : I should like to see them\nall in Plutarch. There they do not make one suffer on the human side. Let\nthem be cut in marble or cast in bronze, and let them be silent. So long as\nthey live they are wicked, persecuting, fantastic, despotic, bitter, susxjicious.\nThey confuse in the same proud contempt the goats and the sheep \\ They\nare worse to their friends than to their enemies. God protect us from them ;\nbe good — stupid if you will. \"\n\n1 A thing Georges never could even suspect she might ever do or be doing."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2607, "texte": "And then she marries — Sandeau ! ! — and if ever there was a forgery\nSandeau was it. Sandeau for Chopin !! ! Well, Georges and the Syndicate\nat Co vent Garden are so alike. Perverse and piqued.\nIt may be mere pique that causes the aristocrats of Covent. Garden to\nfling themselves on the good Beecham and the excellent Djagelief and beg\nand beg for what we call \" fakes, \"... which they get; but the worst of it is\nthat the artists of strong personality seem to inspire terror in shareholders.\nThis can only mean one thing, which is that the shareholders feel that unless\ntheir will dominates the Theatre the results must be unsuccessful. This is one\nof the most expensive delusions good, if perverse, people are alwa}rs obliged to\npay for.\nI think this is the very place for me to repeat for the fifty-eighth time\nthat the Theatre belongs to the Artists of strong personality. By that I do\nnot mean belongs to theatrical people with a strong gift for managing men and\nwomen, although this is not seldom the definition given for an artist of strong\npersonality ... of which calamity I shall have something to say in a moment\nor two. I mean by an artist of strong personality one who has seen superb\nsights which no one else has ever seen, and is able in his art to express what\nhe has seen strongly.\nThere are only a very few such men and women.\nI would put down the names of a few of the great past, but it would only\nconfuse. I will confine myself to telling facts about the greatest living artists\nof the Theatre . . . you know their names well enough.\nI believe there are four, perhaps five, great artists in the Theatre of Europe.\nThere are six or seven more remarkable talents, — and another five who may\nbe said to have some surprising qualities.\nNot one of these ever comes to London, unless it be to some small\ninsignificant theatre which they rent for a short season at great personal\nexpense.\nNow if there are fifteen artists, five of whom are the very first living to-day,\nis it not reasonable for us all to suppose that Covent Garden or Drury Lane\nthe two quasi-national Theatres of Great Biitain, should understand how to\ninvite these to show London the Art of the Theatre ?\nThe truth is that Covent Garden and Druiy Lane do not know how to\naddress any but artists of the second or third rank.\nSo that really our English Covent Garden and our Lane are like a Zoolog-\nical Gardens without any examples of Lions, Tigers, Eagles, Pythons. . .\nI take it that these good animals are very difficult creatures to catch. . .\nrather sensitive and very ferocious ; shy as anything in front of a hunter —"}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.89", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1737, "texte": "rather more fond of liberty than any bushel of Covent Garden — certainly\nnot to be cajoled by a typewritten letter asking on what terms it will submit\nto be caught.\nChaliapine ! — for the moment I had forgotten this amazing actor singer.\nYes, Chaliapine did at last go to Covent Garden, but not before every French-\nman, Italian, Russian, and American had heard him and had taken his best.\nAnd I happen to know the whole silly comedy which the authorities of\nCovent Garden thought necessary to perform before Russian and French\neyes ere they discovered the right way to address Chaliapine.\nDo you know they actually told him that it would be so good for his career\nif he would visit Covent Garden for a smaller fee than he has received in other\ncities... It seems incredible that these methods can still be employed,\nbut so it is. M. Chaliapine made two replies. — The first is not publishable ;\nthe second admitted how good it would be for his career, and yet somehow,\nit went on, he did not believe he would find his way to Covent Garden for one\nrouble less than less the sum he had named.\nAnd so year in and year out the English people are obliged to wait five,\nten, or £fteen years after every other nation for a glimpse and a hearing of an\nartist to whom ultimately they pay more than any other nation. — And\nall because these great Theatres have and hold to shoplike methods — the\nmost unpractical and the most expensive from every point of view.\nWhat does it matter ? — Really nothing at all except that this is Eng-\nland, and if we had had our best English artists established firmly at the head\nof the first eight or ten English Theatres, we should then be rid of such wanton\nexpense and such gauche unpractically.\n\nGordon Graig"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "88", "page_fin": "88", "image_debut": 90, "image_fin": 90, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Portrait de l'Artiste", "titre_sommaire": "Portrait de l'Artiste", "signature_source": "Alice Halicka", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 37, "texte": "Alice Halicka.\nPortrait de l'Artiste."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "89", "page_fin": "93", "image_debut": 91, "image_fin": 95, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "Homage to Siva", "titre_sommaire": "Homage to Siva", "signature_source": "Romain Rolland", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "89", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.91", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2330, "texte": "HOMAGE TO SIVA\n\nThere are a certain number of us in Europe for whom the civilization\nof Europe does not suffice. We are dissatisfied sons of the West, who find\nourselves cramped in the old house, and who, though not failing to recognize\nthe fineness, the brilliancy and the heroic energy of an idea which conquered\nand dominated the world for more than two thousand years, have been oblig-\n.ed, in spite of ourselves, to confess its insufficiencies and its narrow pride.\nWe are the few who look towards Asia.\nAsia, the great continent, of which Europe is only a peninsula, the vanguard\nof the army, the prow of the heavy ship, loaded with the wisdom of thousands\nof years. From her have always come our gods and our ideas. But in\nlosing contact with the native East, in the wild marches of our peoples always\nfollowing the sun, we have deformed the universality of these vast thoughts for\nour own ends of limited and violent action.\nAnd now the races of the Occident find themselves cornered in a blind\nalley, and they crush each other ferociously. Let us wrench our spirit from\nthis mob of bloody chaos. Eet us try to regain the great cross road of the\nhighways, from which the streams of human genius have spread to the four\npoints of the horizon. In order to find air let us mount again to the high\nplateaux of Asia.\nEurope has certainly never forgotten the way to Asia when it was a matter\nof pillaging, levying tribute, or exploiting the material riches of those lands\nunder the banner of Christ or of civilization. But what advantage has she taken\nof these spiritual treasures ? They have lain buried in collections and in archeo-\nlogical museums. A few brilliant tourists from the Academies, have nibbled\nthe crumbs, but the spiritual life of Europe has not profited therefrom.\nWho, amid the confusion in which the chaotic consciousness of the Occident\nis struggling, has looked to see if the civilization, forty centuries-old, of India\nand China had no answer to offer our anguish, no models for our aspirations ?\nThe Germans, with their vitality, more exigent, more self-questioning,\nwere the first to seek in Asia that food which their famished spirit could no\nlonger find in Europe, and the catastrophes of the last years have precipi-\ntated this moral evolution, made up of disillusion with political action and exalt-"}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "90", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.92", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2975, "texte": "ation of inner life. Noble initiators, like Count Kayserling, have popula-r\nized the wisdom of Asia. And some of the purest poets of Germany, like Her-\nmann Hesse, have felt the magic of Oriental thought to the point of transform-\ning themselves so as to put their souls in accord with the artist-sages of the\nCelestial Empire.\nFrance, although similar currents are beginning to make themselves felt,\nand certain little known French individualities may be counted among the\ninitiators of the Awakening of Asia has remained behind in this movement of\ncuriosity and profound sympathies. In no part of Europe has the recent visit\nof Tagore and his-appeal for a common work of European-Asiatic culture awaken-\ned so little interest. A wall of self-satisfied indifference separates this country\nfrom the rest of world life. The choleric Bjorson used justifiable to reproach\nus with this fact. But he was unjust in not recognizing the ceaseless efforts\nof a small number of Frenchmen to effect a breach in the wall. And this very\nband, led by our friend Bazalgette — the brotherly friend in the Whitmanesque\nsense of all that is human — is a noble witness to it. us widen the breach !\nAnd through the opening may the rn.essa.ge of India be heard in France.\nAnanda Coomaraswamy is one of those great Hindus who, nourished\nlike Tagore, on the cultures of Europe and Asia, have conceived in the legitimate\npride of their splendid civilization the duty of working towards the union of ideas,\nOriental and Occidental, for the benefit of humanity. The spectacle of the re-\ncent war, which has made evident the signs of the approaching ruin of the Euro-\npean edifice, has shown them the urgency of their mission. At the same time\nthat the harmonious voice of Tagoie invites us to collaborate in his Interna-\ntional University of Santinikitan, Coomaraswamy raises his cry of alarm.\nHe says to us : \" Save Asia. Her idealism is in danger. If you do not save\nher, beware lest the great Nemesis turns against you by Asia's hands, the\nImperialism of lucre and violence with which you have armed her. Asia's\ndegradation will cause your ruin. Her uplifting will be your salvation\nBut proud Europe will not willingly admit that she can have need of\nAsia, whom she has trampled under foot for centuries without a suspicion\npassing through her mind that she was playing the role of Alaric on the ruins\nof Rome. Yet Rome conquered the victorious Barbarians, as Greece had con-\nquered Rome. As India and China will finally conquer Europe —by the spirit.\nThe aim of Coomaraswamy's book is to show the power of this spirit\nand all it holds in reserve for the grandeur and well-being of mankind.\nIn a collection of essays, seemingly separate, but which all proceed from\nthe same central idea and converge toward the same conclusion, we have an\nexposition of India's calm and ample metaphysic, her conception of the universe,\nher social organization, perfect in its own time and still capable of adapting"}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "91", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.93", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2844, "texte": "itself to the rhythm of the new time; the solution that she has given to the prob-\nlems of women, the family, love, marriage ; and the magnificient revelation\nof her art. Over all the cathedral, ornate and proportioned of Asia's mighty\nsoul, reigns the same spirit of sovereign synthesis. No negation. Everything\nis harmonized. All the forces of life group themselves like a forest with a thou-\nsand waving arms, directed by Kataraja the master of the dance. Each\nthing in its place, each being fulfilling its function, and all associated in the di-\nvine concert, making with their various voices and even dissonances, according\nto the saying of Heraclitus, the most exquisite harmony. While in the Occident,\na strong, cold logic separates the dissimilar and shuts it up sorted indistinct\nand definite compartments of the spirit, India, taking account of the natural\ndifferences of beings and of things, seeks to combine them so as to reestablish\nin its plenitude the total unity. The marriage of contraries forms the rhythm\nof Existence. Spiritual purity does not fear to ally itself with sensual delight,\nthe freest sexuality with the loftiest wisdom. (The amazing vSahaja is the ex-\ntreme type of this a paradoxical challenge of opposing forces united). The\nmasterpieces of art marry beauty to science and religion. Everywhere intense\nlife springs up in multiform but compact growth. Everywhere the look of\nthe One in millions of eyes. As Tagore has sung in these immortal verses : —\nIn each glory of sound and sight and scent\nI shall find thy infinite joy abiding:\nMy passion shall bwn as the flame of salvation.\nThe flower of my love shall become the ripe fruit of devotion.\nWithout a doubt, the edifice of India's life rests entirely on one faith,\ntherefore, like every creed, on a fragile and passionate hypothesis. But of all\nthe creeds of Europe and Asia, that of Brahmanistic India seems to me the one\nwhich embraces the most of the Universe.\nI do not speak against the others. The ecstatic intellectualism of primi-\ntive Buddhism, or the smiling serenity of the abyss which one breathes in\nTse are infinitely dear to me, but I see in them moments of exceptional subli-\nmity, giddy heights of spiritual life. And what makes me love the Brahmin\nconcept above all those of Asia is that it seems to me to contain them all. Bet-\nter than the faiths of Europe it could harmonize itself with the vast hypo-\ntheses of modern science. Our Christian religions have adapted themselves\nto the progress of science (when there was nothing else for fchem to do) but one\nwould say that they have difficulty in freeing themselves from the heaven of\nHipparchus and Ptolomeus, which they knew in their cradle.\nBut when, after having let myself be carried away on the curve of lives\nby the movement, now ascendant and now descendant, of the Brahministic"}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "92", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.94", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2928, "texte": "thought, I come back to my century, and I find there the prodigious efforts\nof the new cosmogony, sprung from the genius of Einstein, or freely inspired by\nhis discoveries, I do not feel myself expatriated. In the voyage of the spirit\n' across the stellar spaces, right to the bottom of the starry abyss, among the is-\nland universes, the nebulous spirals, the innumerable Milky Ways, the millions\nof worlds spinning in time-space, curved, infinite, limited, whose star rays etern-\nally circle and illuminate phantoms \" doubles \" on opposing points, I still\nhear resounding the cosmic symphony of the worlds which follow each other\nextinguishing and relighting with their living souls, their humanities and their\ngods, according to the law of the Eternal Becoming, the Brahministic Samsana.\nI hear Siva dancing in the world, in my heart ....\nI do not propose that Europeans, should adopt an Asiatic Creed. I\nadvise them only to enjoy the benefit of this magnificent rhythm, this breath\nlarge and slow. They will learn there what the souls of Europe and America1\nmost stand in need of today : calm, patience, virile hope, serene joy, \" like\na lamp in a windless spot, which does not flicker 2\nThe West, which furiously strives to attain individual and social happiness,\nfalsifies and spoils its life. It kills in the embryo the happiness it pursues\nby its frantic haste. Like a spent horse that see nothing between its\nblinkers but the dazzling road before it, the vision of the European\ngoes scarcely beyond the limits of his individual life or the life of his group,\nof his country or his party. Within these narrow limits his will encloses the\nrealization of the human ideal. He must at any price prove that he will\nsee it with his own eyes or — supreme concession that he will make to the slow-\nness of human progress — that his children will pluck the fruits. Hence these\nperpetual aspirations inevitably lost, these dreams of Picrocholes, these social\nparadises realized on Earth by machine gun volleys or by trenchant decrees,\nthis haste and this short-sighted violence. And since of necessity disillusion\nfollows, all is imagined to be lost, and the brief period of feverish exaltation\nis followed by a long period of morbid depression.\nThe great Brahmin thought does not know these oscillations of the pendu-\nlum. It does not expect from a war or a revolution, or sudden coup, a brusque\nand miraculous transformation of the world. It embraces immense periods,\ncycles of human ages, whose successive lives gravitate and slowly move towards\nthe center (in concentric circles), the place of Deliverance already realized\nin the souls of a few Forerunners. It is never discouraged. It has time. Acci-\ndents by the way cannot cast down or anger it. For it, error is not a sin;\n\n1 It goes without saying tliat everything I say about Europe applies equally to\ntbe European races who have peopled the New World.\n2 Bhagavada Gita."}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "93", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.95", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2627, "texte": "it is only youth. The whole cycle of time must be accomplished. It watches\nthe wheel turn and it waits. And its vision which passes beyond the changing\nhorizon of good and evil, judges, lucid and serene, the flood of souls that goes\nby, indulgent to the frailties of the weak, and severe only with the strong.\nFor this lofty thought demands much of those who are capable of much : and\nits entire conception of the hierarchy of castes, which at first sight seems so\ncontemptuously aristocratic, is based on this principle (diametrically opposed\nto that of the egotistical democracies of the West) that the more elevated the\nman, the fewer are his rights and the more numerous his duties !. . . And in\nany case, lowly as a man may be, every man can raise himself, everyone\nknows that he can, sooner or later, by reason of the normal evolution of exist-\ntences arrive at the culminating point of the curve, from whence by way\nof the return the soul will escape from Time and its vicissitudes.\nThus the infinite diversity of beings and desire becomes reconciled with\nthe eternity of the rhythm which binds them together in the one stream\nmoving towards unity.\nBut the question is not that this grandiose teaching of the spirit spread\nover Europe the golden shade of its cupola. No, Europe must not be Asia.\nBut she must not wish that Asia be Europe. She must learn to respect the\ngigantic personality of which her own is complimentary, without wishing\n(vain dream) to give a fictitious life to the forms of the past, so that these\ntwo human worlds, by allying their genius, should in their union hew the path\ntowards the future. This aim Ananda Coomaraswamy expresses with noble\ndaring at the end of his book, opposing the lofty idealism of Asia to the nation-\nalism of young India.\n\" Nationalism is not enough for the great Idealists of Young India.\nPatriotism is a parochial interest. . . vSuperior souls have finer roles to\nfill .. . Life, not only India's life, demands our loyalty. . . the flowering of\nhumanity is worth more for us than the victory of a party . . . the chosen people\nof the future can not be a nation or a race, but an aristocracy of the Earth\nuniting the energy of European action with the serenity of Asiatic thought.\nWe press in our own, this hand offered us by India. Our cause is the\nsame :to save the unity of mankind and its full harmony. Europe, Asia: our\nstrengths are different. Let us unite them to accomplish the common task:\nthe greatest civilization, the sum total of human genius.\nTeach us to understand all, Asia, teach us thy wise way of living. And\nfrom us learn how to act.\n\nRomain Rolland"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "94", "page_fin": "95", "image_debut": 96, "image_fin": 97, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.22", "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": 96, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.96", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2329, "texte": "comment\n\nIs it possible for a man, potentially great, to live and die, sterile and\nunnoticed ? The facile optimist replies no, \" Worth will out, you can't hide\na barn in a haystack. \" The pessimist on the other hand, answers in the\naffirmative, claims it happens every day and usually insinuates he is a case\nin point. And the argument lasts till tempers are sullied, without victory\nconsoling either party, for every example rules itself out by the very fact of\nits being brought in. A useless discussion unless it aids digestion.\nBut if one leaves the problem of men and examines the destiny of books,\nthe subject proves itself better adopted for debate, as data on which to base\none's opinion, is available. If such a query jumps through the smoke rings\nof the Saturday night peaceful knockers, general talk ceases. Each indivi-\ndual commences a monologue on \" good books I have known, \" and the in-\nnocent chair-backs resign themselves to listen to pathetic recitations on the\ndear departed. Countless volumes are dusted in memory and know for a\nmoment the fame they failed to realize.\nWe have always, at such a gathering, orated over the Dance of Siva.\nBut we can no longer. This volume of fourteen Indian essays, was written\nby Ananda Coomaraswamy and published by the Sunwise Turn. We were\nforced by circumstances to make its acquaintance immediately after its launch-\ning into the free for all of an autumn book season. We were stunned by it.\nNew worlds entered our field of interest, old concepts were seen to be question-\nable. An internal transformation took place, similar to that of the high\nschool boy on discovering H. G. Wells, or H. G. Wells on discovering God.\nWe followed the career of the book. Discerning critics in widely scattered\nlocalities, pointed out various laudable aspects of its variegated contents. Sev-\neral hundred readers actually purchased the volume. The British Empire\nordered one hundred and fifty copies, one third of which were consigned to its\nancient colony India about which the book was written. The second year\nthe same story was repeated on a much smaller scale, and the Dance of Siva\nwrent permanently out of print before Christmas 1920.\nFrom that date on, we found it proper food for obituary sermons, and\nused the material contained in its pages to make ourselves appear wise and"}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.97", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1401, "texte": "informed on matters pertaining to India's caste system, nuptial customs,\nart, music, love ideals, etc.\nBut our little game is spoiled. M. Bazalgette has selected the Dance\nof Siva for his series of \" lyes Prosateurs Modernes. \"J. Mademoiselle Made-\nleine Rolland has made the translation. M. Romain Rolland has acclaimed\nthe volume in the excellent preface, the translation of which we are privi-\nleged to reprint in this number of \" Broom. \" Dr. Coomaraswamy is now a\nmember of a goodly company. Before him, in this series of foreign writers\nmarch Cyril Buysse, Thomas Hardy, Knut Hamsun, Gottfried Keller, Scipio\nSlataper, John M. Synge, Frederick Van Eeden and Henry D. Thoreau:\nby his side — the printer will release April 1922 — walks Anton Tchekhov, and\nTheodore Dreiser, Felix Jimmermans, Rene Schickele, Boris Zaitsef and\nothers follow after.\nNo more can we exemplify the world's lack of discernment by calling\nattention to the neglect of the Dance of Siva, for not only is it being thus\nintroduced to France, but M. Ivan Goll is preparing to bring it out in German.\nPerhaps, after the fourteen Indian Essays have completed their foreign\ntour, the country of their birth may become sufficiently interested to make\nanother edition possible. It will not have been the first time an American\nbook has had to await foreign recognition before native readers would deign\nto cut its leaves.\n\nH. A. L."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 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=bmtnaap192204-01.2.23", "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": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.100", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 210, "texte": "MAXWELL BODENHEIM\n«THE ARTIST, 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. »"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[96]", "page_fin": "[96]", "image_debut": 98, "image_fin": 98, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "[96]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 191, "texte": "<®> THE WATERSIDE\nLAND CORPORATION\nOFFERS FOR SALE\nNO. 3 RIVERSIDE DRIVE\nNEW YORK CITY\nFIYE STORY ENGLISH BASEMENT DWELLING\n37 x 97 IRREGULAR\nFOR FURTHER INFORMATION\nAPPLY TO YOUR OWN BROKER."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[96]", "page_fin": "[96]", "image_debut": 98, "image_fin": 98, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "[96]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 193, "fin_caractere_exclue": 394, "texte": "THE SUNWISE TURN\nBOOK SHOP\nYALE CLUB BUILDING\n51 EAST 44th STREET\n(Neighboring the Grand Central)\nWrite us about our Poetry Evenings and\nour subscription plan.\nOriginal Publishers of\nTHE DANCE OF SIVA."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[96]", "page_fin": "[96]", "image_debut": 98, "image_fin": 98, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "[96]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.98", "debut_caractere": 396, "fin_caractere_exclue": 663, "texte": "LIBRERIA LIBERMA\nInternational Bookseller and\nGeneral Agents for\nITALIAN BOOKS\nOld and Rare Volumes - Periodicals\n- Current Books - Quickest Ser-\nvice - Cheapest Rates\nREFERENCES:\nUniversities - Public Libraries in\nEngland and America.\nVia Francesco Crispi, 81 - Rome"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[97]", "page_fin": "[97]", "image_debut": 99, "image_fin": 99, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[97]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.99", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 500, "texte": "ORIENTALIA IT ronn THP\nMay be obtained from 22, East 60™ Street J * UU 1\nNEW YORK CITY\nLA DANSE DE QVA\nBY\nANANDA COOMARASWAMY\nwith a Preface specially written for the French Edition\nby\nROMAIN ROLLAND\nThe American edition of which is now out of print and unobtainable.\nWith ten full page photogravure Plates i6M0 volume.\nPaper covers: francs 8\nSpecial art binding: » 12\nFirst Edition on Lafuma pure linen paper, each copy numbered: » 15\nF. RIEDER & C., PUBLISHERS - 7, Place ST. SULPICE - PARIS, (VI)."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[97]", "page_fin": "[97]", "image_debut": 99, "image_fin": 99, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[97]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.99", "debut_caractere": 502, "fin_caractere_exclue": 581, "texte": "LP.\nMembers\nNew York Stock Exchange\n120, Broadway.\no\noo\nTelephone: 3240 Rector."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-04-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-04_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[97]", "page_fin": "[97]", "image_debut": 99, "image_fin": 99, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[97]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.99", "debut_caractere": 583, "fin_caractere_exclue": 766, "texte": "QUISISANA LODGE\nAND\nBUNGALOES\nLake Kezar, Center Novell,\nMAINE.\nOpen June to October\nFor particulars address:\nMARION BROWN, Secretary.\n46-E. 75th Street.\nTelephone: RHINCLANDER, 2671."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn International Magazine of the Arts Published by Americans in Italy\nEditor, Harold A* I/>eb\naprii,, 1922\nvoi,. 2, no 1.\nThe Editor of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to him, but all mss. must\nbe accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. The Editor cannot hold himself respon-\nsible for loss of mss. in transit.\nMss. from Europe should be sent to the Rome office \\ mss. from America to the New\nYork 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\n60 francs for a year's subscription. For Great Britain, 3/6 the copy, and one pound and fifteen\nshillings for a year's subscription.\nThe contents of this issue are protected by copyright, January, 1922. Infringement of\nsame will be prosecuted.\nHeadquarters, 18, Trinita dei Monti, Rome (6), Italy.\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street.\nLondon Office, Cecil Palmer, Oakley House,'ls-18 Bloomsbury St., W. C. I.\n\nPage\nTo A Starving Man — John Gould Fletcher ~\"j\nPainting — Henri Matisse ' 2\nThe New Conditions of Phenomena — Jean Epstein 3\nGolden Fox — Edgar Masters X1\nMoissons en Ile-de-France — Alice Halicka | 1?\nBlack Jack Kerrigan — Israel Solon xg\nThe Mansion of Peace — Carl Engel ...\" 6\nHeavens — kouis Untermeyer 42\nI*es Bisques — F. Leger\nFish — William Carlos Williams\nTwo University Professors — John Dos Passos 59\nNature Morte — Marcoussis y2\nIf You Had Three Husbands — Gertrude Stein y4\nTheatre — John Rodker\nPaysage Anim£ — F. Leger yg\nDedicated to the Enemy — Gordon Craig g0\nPortrait del' Artiste — Alice Halicka gg\nHomage to Siva — Romain Rolland gg\nComment — H. A. L,\n94"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.3", "texte": "TO A STARVING MAN\nJohn Gould Fletcher\nYou haggard, ragged caricature of man\nCowering alone upon the rain-swept pavement,\nOut of the mighty city I bring myself to you,\nYour wolf-like pallid face and matted hair are sacred ;\nSacred your lean grey throat, your knotted stringy hands.\nYour coat pinned at the neck, frayed and mud-stained trousers,\nYour bulging shoes, through which the bare toes pass,\nYour dirty greasy hat shrouding the aching eyes,\nAll these are beautiful ; like a ruined city\nYou watch, about you weeds and desolation,\nBut in the midst of you a human soul.\nYou who slip down the last glissade to death,\nMan starving without hope, whose empty heart\nHolds but the last despair, the dreadful peace of God ;\nI who have wrought for fifteen years in song\nCome now and stand beside you ; we are one.\nYou will even hear the song I make of you,\nI will not even know the thoughts you hold of me ;\nLet there be but between us now two pairs of eyes\nGazing into each other's depth ; and night, and nothingness.\ni"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.4", "texte": "Henri Matisse.\nPainting.\nCourtesy Bernheim-Jeune Gallery — Paris."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.5", "texte": "THE NEW CONDITIONS OF LITERARY PHENOMENA\n\nThe fact that the world has changed can only have a theoretical importance,\nfurnish material for hypotheses, or pass unnoticed, a simple probability very\nlikely true. It is our knowledge of the world that has changed. The sum total\nof errors, of approximations, of arbitrary or experimental opinions —• with\nwhich thought weaves a net to cast over objects whose meshes then break and\nmust be laced up again — that changes astonishingly in the course of ten years.\nIt is true something remains of the old concepts, but those that were too much\nat variance with the new conditions of life have been expeditiously effaced,\nor at least sufficiently transformed so as no more to oppose events but to follow\nthem. Literature, that automatic register of human sensibility, is no more\nstable : a weathercock, showing the actual wind from the lofty plateaux of in-\ntelligence, but unable to direct it on the dial of the compass.\nWrhat are the new conditions of knowledge and life ?\nI\nThe speed realized by man has given a new character to civilized life, spa-\ntial speed first of all. Cities are bonnd to each other by the close-woven network\nof the rails Countries even more than cities. Automobiles roll along. Aero-\nplanes, in a line which is still more direct, leap over distances. Continents\nagain, even to a greater degree than countries, extend mobile bridges to one\nanother.\nEvery ten years the kilometre, like a depreciated banknote, loses in value.\nThe word \" far \" has not the same meaning today as yesterday, nor as it will\nhave to-morrow. Waste lands become populous, cheap tracts quintuple in\nprice because a tramway, and that feed wire from which it licks up the sap of\namperes and volts, now passes through a suburb. We travel eight hundred\nkilometres to divert ourselves, three thousand to sell a stock of furs. A new\nrace of men is born under the glazed waiting-rooms of the railroad stations and\non the decks of ocean liners — the Cosmopolite. I not say do Internationalist.\nThe Cosmopolite, notwithstanding the scorn with which some pronounce that\nword, can be as good a patriot and as bad a Chauvinist as another man who"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.6", "texte": "has never left his county. The peoples know each other better, love and hate\neach other more, but in the same proportion now as in former times. We\nexchange customs, words, ideas. The possession of speed has spread the know-\nledge of foreign tongues. There is no one to-day who does not know a few\nwords of English, of German, of Italian. The absolute mastery of these languages,\na rarity two century ago, is to-day nothing unusual. To create astonishment\nnow, it is necessary to know four or live languages at a time. The juxtaposition\nof dialects in the same brain means the juxtaposition of grammars. Grammar\nis the most simple, the most definite form of the logic\" peculiar to each people.\nThese logics of expression, which hinder association, nevertheless influence, in-\nterpenetrate, sustain, combat and modify each other reciprocally. Thought\nlittle by little, changes its moulds.\nBesides, the beautiful legendary geography of the old books is dead. No more\nare there countries eternally lost in the mist, nor waste shores, nor mountains\non which one picks up turquoises by the shovelfull. One has retraced a hundred\nthousand times the travels of Marco Polo, but they are no longer the same.\nVenice is less beautiful for being precisely so many hours and minutes from Pa-\nlis. The acquisition of spatial velocity has progressively created geography.\nThanks to it, white-haired astronomers run after eclipses and comets and catch\nthem up. Did not spatial velocity take part in the formation of those first\ncrystals of nitro-glycerine between Vienna and London ? It modifies the\nlanguage which neighboring peoples ornament wirh new words, alters the logic\nof utterance, grammar, thought ; hence every brain. It carries contagions of\nideas from one pole to another. It modifies commerce, the bank, that is to say\nthe foundation of our civilization. Money, that blood of the world, circulates\nmore rapidly because the heart of the locomotive beats more quickly. The\nearth is small.\nAll this has modified literature, that mobile countenance of a people.\nII\nBeside spatial velocity there is the velocity of thought. When we ask a\nquestion of several individuals, who are more or less cultivated, more or less\nintelligent, we receive at times the answer even before we have finished framing\nthe question. At other times, we must wait several seconds. This delay, this\ntime lost in understanding, is extremely variable. Its duration depends on the\ngreater or lesser thought-speed of the individual under consideration. This\nmental rapidity not only shows individual variations, but national variations,\nfrom country to country, from race to race.\nIf we wish to see the experimental demonstration of this phenomenon, we"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.7", "texte": "can find it in the cinema. The fact is that the films register and measure thought-\nspeed. The rapidity with which the episodes, the vicissitudes, and even the\ngestures succeed and are built upon each other on the screen —• a rapidity\nwhich is controlled and proportioned by the producer in such a manner that\nhis customary public can follow the scenario without either fatigue or boredom,\na rapidity which corresponds to the average mental speed of his public •— varies\naccording to the country from which the film comes. Italian films can be taken\nas an example of those which reveal their meaning most slowly. They bore\nthe French spectator, for instance, who does not know how to occupy his mind\nduring those superfluous ten seconds during which the scene of mimicked con-\nversation lasts, because he understood it ten seconds sooner than the average\nItalian spectator for whom the film was made. Oh the contrary, certain Amer-\nican films testify to considerable mental speed : in order to follow the action\nthere is not truly three seconds to squander in distractions. Evidently, there\nare some spectators left behind, lost, who ask help of their neighbors. In\nliteratures, the same difference is naturally evident, but the film presents this\ndifference in the more definite fashion of a registering machine.\nOn the other hand, one should not necessarily identify mental speed with\ngeneral intelligence.\nLet us suppose a people \"A\" between two peoples \" B \" and \" C \" of\nwThom one \" B \" thinks more quickly, and the other \" C \" more slowly. Spatial\nspeed permits contact between these three peoples. If the middle people \"A \"\ninterests itself in the products of the intellectual activity of its two neighbors,\nit will notice by degrees its superiority over the people \" C whose slowness\nof thought becomes then a source of irritation.\nOn the contrary, the thought-speed, of the other people \" B \" obliges the\npeople \" A \" to make an effort if it wishes to understand, to stay on a level, and\nnot be a source of irritation in its turn. Certain lazy folk will abandon the pur-\nsuit. Others, will go into training and will attain a greater thought-speed, just\nas a coming man in the boxing game progressively acquires his maximum speed.\nLittle by little, very slowly it is true, the picked few will be followed by the\nmass of onlookers or of readers. So it will happen that the thought-speed of\nthe middle people \" A \" will grow.\nThat mental speed in the past has increased cannot be doubted. Universal\ncompulsory education, which is not perhaps the omnitherapeutic panacea,\nhas at least done this, unless, instead of being the cause of this change, it has\nbeen only the simple consequence.\nTherefore, it is quite natural that certain kinds of modern French literature\nare veritable tours de force from the point of view of mental speed. The steno-\ngram passes from the merchant to the poet."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.8", "texte": "III\nCivilization, which is far indeed from being a simple word, presents for\nconsideration an infinite nnmber of views of the same object. Innumerable\napparatuses, complicated and delicate, supplement the information about the\nworld given us by our eyes, ears, and finger-tips. Just according to the number\nof the apparatuses by which we extend one or other of our senses —- be there\nfive or more — just so many new deformations are recorded by the intelligence.\nBy deformation, Ido not mean error or false deformation. All philosophies and\nall skepticisms lie in ambush for this word which I employ innocently. A line\nappears straight to my naked eye, and curved seen through a glass; this is a\ndeformation. That is all I intend to say.\nOne is not content with these deformations. As they differ from the per-\nceptions of our bare senses, which we are astonished to see transformed when we\nwished merely to amplify their range — just as a cannon's range is augmented\nin keeping very exactly the direction of the original trajectory — so we overlay\nthese deformations with new deformations, on the pretext, perhaps legitimate, of\ncorrecting them. We take account in every experience, in every calculation, of\nthe absolute error and the relative error, and thus we introduce the subtle, the\nimponderable, the uncontrollable error of the error, and the error of removing the\nerror and believing it removed. All this the intelligence notes, tries to under-\nstand, feeds upon and digests in its belly, like the sly beast it is.\nThe machine technology of civilization, the innumerable instrumentations\nthat encumber laboratories, factories, hospitals, photographic studios, and elec-\ntrical shops, the engineer's table and the architect's drawing-board, the aviator's\nseat, the moving picture theatre, the optician's show window and even the tool-\nkit of the carpenter allows man an infinite variety of angles of observation. Op-\ntics especially — and what is there atonishing in this, in a civilization which is\nessentially optical — hangs its lenses round our necks like the amulets on the\nneck of an Indian chief. And all these instruments : telephone, microscope,\nmagnifying glass, cinematograph, lens, microphone, gramophone, automobile,\nkodak, aeroplane, are not merely dead objects. At certain moments these\nmachines become part of ourselves, interposing themselves between the world and\nus, filtering reality as the screen filters radium emanations. Thanks to them,\nwe have no longer a simple, clear, continuous, constant notion of an object. Man\nhas seen a landscape not only with his naked eyes while walking, but blurred\nby speed through the window of a train, with eyes bitten by wind and dust from\nthe front seat of an automobile, from the height of an aeroplane, spread flat\nlike a geographical museum reproduction, through field glasses, in a diorama,\nin photographs, taken from left, from right, in sunlight, in shadow, with or"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.9", "texte": "without diaphragm, in the cinema, painted by a painter, drawn by another artist,\nsung by a poet; man has not one memory of this landscape ;he has a thousand\ndifferent ones, which may or may not resemble each other. The world for man\ntoday is like descriptive geometry, with its infinite planes of projection. Every-\nthing possesses hundreds of apparent diameters which never superimpose\nexactly. A voice heard naturally, then heard springing from the black graphite\nof the telephone, then finally resounding when the sapphire delivers it from the\ndisc, is no longer, whatever one may say, the simple voice, the same voice.\nNasal intonations reveal themselves, new sounds remain in the memory;\nhenceforward one will listen to them differently. An historical reconstruction\nin a theatre or on the screen strikes out for a few half hours twenty centuries\nof time. The instantaneous photograph has discovered gestures which the eye\nnow divines and the hand reproduces. We notice how suddenly a face on the\nscreen shows itself to be different. A wrinkle appears that we failed to notice\nfor twenty years : but from now on we shall have learned to see it.\nThis unheard of complexity of perceptions which modern civilized life\noffers ordinarily to our intelligences, this intellectual surcharge whereby a\nhundred different images correspond to a single object has not been without\ninfluence on modern French literature.\nIV\nArbitrarily, and to satisfy our mania for \" here begins \" and \" there ends, \"\nthe domain of thought, of imagination, of kinesthesia, ourselves, even our brain,\nall that circumscribes and encloses the pale air-tight limit of skin is opposed\nto the domain of acts, of apparent gestures, and of things exterior to ourselves.\nSelf-observation and auto-psychology exploit, as an inexhaustible quarry, this\ndomain or interior kingdom as certain people rather pompously call it.\nLet us take the case of a man who fills a small office position. His exterior\nlife is, so to speak, nothing at all. All day long with knees under the table,\nhis chest barred by the front of his desk, he hibernates, muttering over columns\nof figures. His evenings are enlivened by the watering of his little garden ; his\nSundays by a cigar and a walk in the suburbs. He hasn't been to the theatre\nfor ten years. Once or twice he has traveled on an excursion train. Never-\ntheless, this man can be a philosopher, a poet, an observer, intelligent, cultivated.\nHe reads. The walls of his room crumble away perhaps when he choses, and\nreveal the landscapes wherein he would have amused himself had he been\nallowed to live there. On a limitless stage, he is at once playwright, actor and\npartial critic. He may meditate on the august laws of the new theogonies.\nMiracles grow fertilely under the hands of this careful gardener and he trims in"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.10", "texte": "diverse fashions the leafy trees of wisdom that their shade may be less dense.\nHis shortsighted clerk's eyes, blinking behind glasses, see the galloping unicorns\npass, and sometimes he screws them up under the diaphragm of his pupils\nto mask an enormous and disdainful laugh. He listens to himself living, like a\ndoctor bent over the stethescope which trembles with the beating of a heart.\nHis sensibility, which may even be exquisite, warns him of the passing of a thou-\nsand things which escape the athlete, whose life only swells his muscles, or the\nbusiness man who recognizes as a warning nothing but the shrill ringing of the\ntelephone, or the explorer who smothers nostalgia by a siesta. A discreet life\nis not always an empty one. To inhale existence sweetly through a straw\ncan offer the palate richer feasts than gorging oneself with double mouthfulls.\nBut it seems that civilization clearly orients life \" inward \" and not \" out-\nward. \" General education, in spite of its frequent failure, puts self-observation\nwithin the reach of a greater number of people. The advertisements with which\nwe now greet cancer, tuberculosis, sub-alimentation and epidemics counsel men\nto examine themselves, to listen to their kinesthetic sensations, to take fright\nat the least internal disorder, at the slightest alarm signal of the nervous system.\nDoctors are more numerous today than yesterday, and as they live one presumes\nthey dont lack for patients. Not that there are more sick people — that would\nhave to be proved — but because there are more people who know they are sick.\nThe inquietude, doubtless unnecessary, created by statistics on the increase\nin the frequency of cancer is caused by this better self-observation as much\nas by the improvements in diagnosis. And the beginnings of illnesses are of-\nten insidious. How much attention is therefore given to kinesthesia. And I\nhave had the occasion to show elsewhere what close relation, almost identity\nlink the kinesthesia of an individual to his subconsciousness, and his subconscious-\nness to his religious feelings and his intelligence.\nAnother cause, due to civilization, for the orientation of thought \" inward \"\nis manual laziness. Of course, longshoremen, athletes, carpenters still exist.\nBut in how many trades have the arm, the hand, the shoulder, the foot been re-\nplaced by a transmission belt and a few gears and pulleys ? More and more\nthe workman, his hand on a lever, merely oversees the silent, regular, docile\nworking of a machine. A wipe with a bit of waste now and then, a few drops\nof oil. Between times, in the intervals of muscular inactivity, what would one\nhave the workman do but think, and think of himself and his life, of the means\nof bettering it ? Other professions have become exclusively cerebral: the busi-\nness man, the banker, the station master, the contractor, the broker, combine,\nreflect, wait, decide. To be sure, they do not always think of their inner life,\nbut when by chance one day they do think of it, all their intellectual agility\nacquired in the course of their other exercises suddenly drills a well in them,"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.11", "texte": "from which henceforth, Artesian, autopsychology spouts up like the liquid arc\nof petroleum in American landscapes.\nBooks of philosophy and abstract speculation sell up to ten thousand copies.\nPublishers print them. Who has not his library today, not to mention his news-\npapers ?\nThis orientation of thought \" inward \" has had its extremely strong reper-\ncussion on modern French literature.\nV\nI have sufficiently demonstrated that civilized life is above all cerebral,\nabove all nervous.\nThe banker, hanging on the telephone, his eyes on the stuttering Morse, re-\nmembers figures, calculates, interrupts himself to dictate an order to his steno-\ngrapher, signs thirty signatures with a recalcitrant fountain pen, foresees\nto-morrow's quotations, thinking of what they were six months ago, multiplies,\ndivides, lunches quickly, gets into his auto, and goes back to his work. The\nlocomotive engineer reads the slope of the gradients which obstinately vertical\nlittle posts hold out to him, guages the effort of the brakes, notes the speed of\nthe train, its weight, foresees the curve, the tunnel, tries to make up over a run\nof fifty kilometers, the time that has been lost, watches the signals, the steam\nguage, the water level. The captain of the steamship must be at once astro-\nnomer, meteorologist, mathematician, engineer, electrician and sometimes judge.\nThe storm, before taking place, lives in his brain. The possible iceberg, the\nocean current which carries it along, the speed which exhausts the coal bunkers,\nthe sudden call by wireless ;he thinks of all these. And the engineer, the aviat-\nor's mechanic, the photographer who is a chemist, and the chemist who veri-\nfies the alimentation of a city of five hundred thousand inhabitants, and pre-\npares the exact explosion of a shell or blasts a rock nearly a cubic metre in size,\nand the pharmacist who weighs the chances of poisoning in tiny little scales,\nand the farmers who now understand the mechanism of their tractors, the chem-\nistry of their fertilizers, the geology of their soil, veterinary therapeutics, me-\nteorology and the botany of their crops, the physics of their drainage. . . Every-\nbody knows how to read, write, calculate, drive an automobile, take a bicycle\nto pieces, clean a lock or a revolver, interpret the Stock Exchange returns,\nappreciate an altitude record. People read the Year Book of the Bureau of\nLongitude, the Manual of Bridges and Pavements, every one knows by heart\nthe metric system, the solar system, grammar, the table of logarythms, the symp-\ntoms of fifteen maladies, the time tables, the characteristics of twenty ma,kes"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.12", "texte": "of motors, their speed records, their best running time and their consumption of\ngas per hundred kilometers.\nI/ife is so cerebral and intense that it is logical to foresee signs of intellectual\nfatigue. It is not a question of a malady but a modification of the organism\nand particularly of a modification of the most sensitive organism, because the\ncommanding organism, the brain. Ido not mean to say — and I conjure all\nthe Max Nordaus of the Earth to listen to me — that the intelligent man has\nbecome a poor sick being, half mad, unbalanced, separated only by the width\nof two fingers from perdition. Far from that. Man has never seemed to me so\nbeautiful and so capable and so energetic as this day in which I live. But in\ntruth, it is undeniable that he has changed, and today the most important fac-\ntor in the change is the intensely cerebral, intensely nervous life of humanity, a\nlife which normally, logically, evidently, inevitably entails fatigue, a fatigue\ncorresponding to the nervous expenditure, that is to say cerebral and intellect-\nual. A light fatigue, universal in the measure that civilization is universal, not\npathological, since it is not exceptional in the new state of health.\nFor states of health change. The Ammonites with their complicated sut-\nures who have succeeded Ammonites with simple sutures cannot be considered\nabnormal compared with their predecessors. Present day horses are not abnormal\nin comparison with the three-toed fossil horses of the Myocene. They are differ-\nent, that is all. us be content with noticing the change without considering\nit morally. Decadence ? One can speak of intellectual decadence when one\nknows the point of departure and the objective that has been missed. Do we\nknowT the origin and objective of the human intelligence ? Perhaps there are no\nnew maladies — that is still to be seen — but there is new health — and a\nnew organic state of civilized humanity, a new biological equilibrium on the\nfrontier of pathogenesis, there where it has always been.\nThis fatigue, this health coloured with fatigue must not be exaggerated either.\nIt is of no more importance than the traces of chemicals specified on the labels\nof mineral water bottles. One must look very closely to perceive this fatigue.\nAs to valuing it exactly, it is still imponderable. But such as it is, it is clearly\nindicated in the civilized literatures of modern countries : German, Italian,\nEnglish or French.\nSpatial speed, mental speed, multiplication of intellectual images and\nthe deformations of these images, extension of auto-observation and of the im-\nportance given to the interior life, cerebral life and the fatigue that results from\nit. Such are the most important conditions under which the contemporary\nliterary phenomenon comes into being.\n\nJean Epstein"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.13", "texte": "GOLDEN FOX\n\nWhether you hunt the fox four-footed,\nOr the fox two-footed;\nA rusty tail that shakes descending\nBelow the rim of a hill,\nOr a woman with ruddy hair —\nCorn-tasselled in streaks — natural you know !\nNot blondined — a woman who hides and runs —\nWhat's the difference, John, good John ?\nFoxes know nothing of anise hags,\nBut fox women — have a care !\nIf you don't, you'll chase the anise bag\nAnd she'll be off another way.\nAnyway, here's the sport — all justified :\nHow7 to overtake with fox-thoughts,\nHounds we'll say, the fox, the woman.\nSometimes a fox looks over a ridge ;\nSometimes between the leaves and clusters of wild grapes,\nGreens and purples and tangles of cinnamon colored vines,\nYou see the tawny triangle of a wistful face,\nAnd two gray eyes : —\nI explain : You're at a dance, we'll say,\nAnd your fox woman looks up at you.\nGrapes ? You have had drinks.\nGreens and purples ? Other dancing women.\nVines ? The plexus of amorous music.\nAnd you hold her waist and think you have caught her.\nBut she slips your hands of flesh\nWhen you press her tight with words,\nWhere is your husband, my dear ?\nAnd answers in heaven, changing her face\nFrom fox to angel. And what has happened ?"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.14", "texte": "She's tossed the anise bag, and your hounds\nOf fancy run for the beautiful,\nThe spiritual.\nAnd your fox, has slipped your fingers,\nAnd runs with a laugh to the arbor\nWhere she eats grapes, while watching\nYour mad pursuit of the anise bag.\nOh ho ! Call back my hounds,\nHere is the .fox in the arbor,\nEating grapes.\nYes, here she is in the arbor — her den,\nDesigned by herself, but paid for\nBy the man in heaven.\nBeautiful suites ! Connecting suites !\nClose hall doors and throw little locks\nOn connecting doors, and behold\nA suite with only a room between\nMy lair and hers.\nGrapes ? Yes, here is the arbor,\nAnd the golden fox is caught at last.\nShe purrs here, laughs and cuddles\nTamed amid the grapes.\nBut the next morning triste as a tired child\nMore anise trails : — give me delights of the mind !\nAnd she points to pictures of aged hunters,\nGlassy eyed veterans with the white rirn of sclerosis\nAround the dimmed iris : — friends ! friends !\nHeroes of the mind, the soul : — more anise,\nFriends who have been heie, but on the basis of friendship.\nFor you are the first to come here this way — and you\nHave bowed my head and taken my hand.\nFor I am not as these ! (pointing to pictures of other foxes\nThick on the wall around the pictures\nOf the tired hunters, winded veterans of the chase,\nFriends ! friends ! Companions of the soul !)\nThat was an excellent smear of the anise bag !\nAnd I was nearly off, chasing the disassociate,\nThe make-believe of a fox,"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.15", "texte": "When she turns to the memory of grapes,\nEaten a few hours before,\nWith her little red tongue insatiate\nLacking the pulpy ooze,\nBetween burst skins.\nSo we tumble off the starry-pointed peak\nWhither she had scampered, with her golden fur,\nAlluring the hunter soul of me\nTo the den of tangled leaves,\nAnd scented grasses warm from the sun.\nWell, golden fox, if there be two of you,\nI must hunt my best.\nThere may be three of you :\nThe fox that snarls and shows her teeth\nWhen one of the other two of you\nIs trapped and tied.\nAfter this, many visits to the den.\nShe is now my pet fox, can be stroked at will;\nCurls up on my breast to sleep,\nHer little cold nose stuck under my chin,\nSniffing delicious breath ; she's mine,\nAnd says so — all yours, she says — no anise bag.\nUntil when I come to go she wTeeps —\nWhich reminds me : —\nA piccolo carries a theme, or a string or two.\nBut let the viols catch it over here and the horns,\nThen companies of violins, then drums,\nFlutes, saxophones, the roll of the organ,\nAnd you have a symphony,\nAnd in every woman, fox or what not,\nSomething gives her the tune and pitch\nThe key, the tone-color — same theme, I mean.\nAnd you, you are just another harp\nTo her orchestra and to swell the theme\nOf her symphony.\nSo she to me : as a little girl\nI lost a string of amber beads,\nI lose everything ;"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.16", "texte": "And I shall lose you : many tears !\nThe anise gets in her eyes, perhaps,\nAnd I see her throw the bag as I say,\nOh, no ! You will not lose me.\nYes, but now many hounds in the distance howl:\nThey sense I have caught the golden fox.\nToothless bitches, and younger sluts,\nBut with yellow teeth begin to howl.\nMy golden fox pricks up her ears, in a trice\nIs trotting off, and I let her go.\nFor she's tamed now, known to the tiniest nerve\nOf her wild and mixed and timorous brain,\nChangeable, whimsical, childish, vain.\nAnd she shows her teeth as she trots away.\nShe would tear my hand if I gave her a chance.\nBut I have tamed her and she will return\nOr set up a cry from her hiding place\nAnd call me there.\nAnd pretty soon, as I do not follow,\nCries go up, from the Sierras.\nShe's there, but will soon be off\nTo parts unknown — more anise !\nCries, telegrams to be plain.\nSo I walk, but do not run to the Sierras,\nAnd find her there,\nPetted and curled in the lap of Aunt Visyana,\nAnd lying with closed eyes — so sweet!\nHead on shoulder of Aunt Visyana;\nHer little Puck eyebrows\nGiving a humorous innocence\nTo her little fox face;\nA pale cherub : cramps from forbidden apples :\nMemories of being caught,\nBut caught in the toils of Narcissism,\nMarvelously chaperoned against a wicked man !\nThere's no such thing as grapes, and never was ;\nNo sweet pulp oozing between burst skins,\nNo nest of fragrant grass under vines,"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.17", "texte": "No dens with locks that softly click.\nNo ! there are mountains and nothing else,\nNature, and nothing else;\nNoble thoughts ! music ! I am a beast,\nShe says to me and a hunter —\nAre you not ashamed in the presence of mountains\nThat you put traps of steel\nUnder the matted masses of sweet grass\nTo catch the delicate feet of a little girl — me ?\nAnd Aunt Visyana says to beware you.\nShe sighs like a seedless pod, being all spirit,\nAnd pets the golden fox, protects her\nAnd frowns on me\nAs a red faced Satan tracking an angel,\nA spirit pure as whitest fire —■\nMaybe — but why am I here ?\nWhy telegrams ?\nBut after a wrhile, we walk in the mountains,\nWhat for ? Thrill of high places,\nIvights of sunset, stars at dusk.\nAll right, stars, smell of pine needles, nature,\nSpiritual raptures !\nBut when we get there\nShe is the golden fox again :\nLaughs and shifts her eyes, pants, shows teeth,\nEats grapes from my hand — many kisses ;\nRuns here and there : anise theatricals.\nOh, Aunt Visyana, come and see.\nCome and hear the bitter prattle,\nSnarls of the golden fox !\nOther lovers ! favors ? None of your business !\nAnyway, wishers to be husbands, not just hunters,\nTrappers like you, you beast !\nCome let me stroke the corn tassel hair of you,\nPart it from the strawberry hair of you,\nI love you, you know ! Call back my hounds.\nCraftier work ; grapes hung on hedges,\nFat pigeons laid on pits ;\nThat is I grow sad, ask forgiveness for sin,"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.18", "texte": "Say I am going away — farewell ! farewell !\nAnd so leave Aunt Visyana — trust me.\nCome to the city from the Sierras,\nWhere we may be\nAlone in the last sacred hours !\nWell, she conies, takes a den,\nLocks and doors you know.\nOh, Aunt Visyana, come and see !\nGrapes ! wine and sweet pulp,\nDropping from the burst skins, riotous sweetness.\nLaughter and abandonment, surrender,\nBeing wholly tamed again —\nUntil she brings in poodles and terriers :\nProspective husbands ! Or lovers ? More .anise !\nHints of strolls, little mysterious sighs around,\nSnapping of real sparks at times\nFrom the standing on end of golden fur.\nBut anyway, it's a tame fox now,\nOnly a tamed fox plays with poodles,\nOr an anise bag with a clock inside\nTo move tufted feet\nAround with the feet of poodles.\nWell, then I walk off, not worried,\nAnd walk back not interested — not much\nTo find — Come, Aunt Visyana :\nHere is your angel asleep beside a poodle.\nClosed lid under Puck eyebrows,\nSmear of grapes on her lips —\nAnd to end, I scotch the io±\nAnd here's the pelt,\nI nail it 011 the wall of my habitation.\n\nEdgar Lee Masters"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.19", "texte": "Alice Halicka.\nMoissons en Ile-de-France."}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.20", "texte": "BLACK JACK KERRIGAN\n\nI\nAndrew Kerrigan, a tall, broad-boned, powerful man, sold mustard and\nchowchow that he prepared with his own hard hands in the reeking kitchen\nof his cottage in Elston Avenue west of the rolling mills. Every day of the year\nexcept Sundays and holidays, from sunup to sunset, and in all weathers, Andrew\nKerrigan strode up one street and down another, a twelve quart covered wooden\nbucket in either hand. He never changed his gait and never changed his route,\nstriding the same streets regularly on the same day once every week, and never\noftener than once every week.\nAndrew Kerrigan never called his wares and never offered them to anyone ;\nhe strode right ahead and looked neither to the right nor the left nor in front\nof him, paying no attention to anybody unless he was called ; and in the\nmaking of his sales he aimed to get along with the fewest possible number\nof words. After dealing with him for as many as thirty years, many of his\ncustomers knew that his name was Kerrigan, \" Mr. Kerrigan,\" and little else\nabout him.\nThey would not have known his name had he not insisted on their know-\ning it. During the many years that he strode the same streets, he had i,aught\nthe housewives to address him as \" Mr. Kerrigan,\" or they would go without\na relish to set on the table for dinner. Andrew Kerrigan would pass right by\nthe wife of some laborer newly moved to the neighborhood, never showing\nany sign that he heard or noticed her, if she had failed to address him properly.\nAnd if she called after him he would stop long enough to turn his head about\nand, without setting his buckets down or removing the pipe from between\nhis long teeth, he would bark back at her.\n\"My name is not ' Hey,' woman ! My name is Kerrigan, Mr. Kerrigan ! \"\nHe would resume his striding before the astonished housewiie had time to\nrealise the nature of her offence.\nMany an inquisitive housewife, hoping to learn more about him, had tried\nto engage him in conversation, beginning with some reference to the weather\nor to the state of his health. But always there was the same result. The words\nwould come sizzling from between his long teeth."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.21", "texte": "\" And what sort of weather would you be having now, woman ? \" Or,\ndepending on the nature of the reference, he would snarl back at her, \" Why\nwouldn't Ibe looking well, woman ? \" Or, \" Don't let you be worrying\nyourself about my health, woman ! \"\nAndrew Kerrigan shared his four room cottage in Elston Avenue west of\nthe rolling mills with his son Johnny. Johnny Kerrigan did not live with his\nfather ; nobody could live with Andrew Kerrigan. Johnny's mother had tried\nit and given it up when Johnny was still an infant.\nJohnny Kerrigan had never been allowed any playmates, and nobody\never came to visit him. In fair weather Johnny Kerrigan would play all by\nhimself in their back yard, among the rubbish collected there by his father ;\nor he would dig with the piece of an old fire shovel among the cinders dropped\nthere by the passing switch engines or from the tall steel smoke-stacks of the\nrolling mills ; and in cold or rainy weather Johnny Kerrigan would play with\nthe pile of junk his father had assigned to him in one of the corners of their\nkitchen, stale with the tobacco smoke of more than thirty years — he would\nplay with the metal parts of old wash wringers and washing machines, ribs\nof broken umbrellas, broken handles of sadirons, old spoons, knives and forks\nfrom which the plating had worn off with use, jar and bottle stoppers, suspender\nbuckles and corset steels : he would play with the pile of junk his father was\nalways adding to. Summer or winter, Johnny Kerrigan was never permitted\nto go beyond the front and rear gates, which his father always kept locked.\nWhen Johnny was six years old his father sent him to the Public School\nin Ashland Avenue, less than three blocks away, saying,\n\" Don't you be stopping on the way, going or coming ; and don't you be\nhaving anything to say to anybody at all. Just you keep your mouth shut\ntight, no matter what's said to you, going or coming. Did you hear me at all ?\nMind what I'm telling you. Don't you go blabbering to anybody. If you don't\nwant the hide taken off you! ''\nJohnny required neither his father's threats nor his warnings. He knew\nnothing that he could have told to anybody ; and he had long since given up\nthe asking of questions. His father was a hard teacher, and there were but\nfew things he had ever taught his son, but the few things he did teach him he\nhad taught with such violence that Johnny never forgot them. One of the things\nJohnny Kerrigan had learnt was that he must never use his mouth in speech.\n\" Don't you be letting the like of that troubling you, boy. You had better\nbe minding you don't get your -knuckles rapped for you, or something worse\nmaybe.\nThat was as good as the best answer that Johnny ever got from his father.\nEarly one Saturday morning, when Johnny was seven years old, his father"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.22", "texte": "shook him out of sleep and. told him to hurry and put his clothes on him ; there\nwas a vegetable pedlar waiting for him. While Johnny was still heavy and slow\nwith sleep, his father pushed him in front of him, out the rear door and across\nthe back yard, and through the rear gate, talking all the while.\n\" You want to be minding everything the pedlar will be saying to you,\ndo you hear ! And be sure to bring home the silver half dollar the pedlar\nwill be giving you, and don't you be losing of it on the way. Do you hear\nme at all ? Do as you are told, if you don't want to be given your own head\nto play with.\"\nJohnny climbed to the seat beside the pedlar without saying a word.\nThe pedlar gave Johnny a sugar-covered bun and a big red apple to eat all\nby himself. This did much to place Johnny in an expectant mood. The\nbreakfast was more than he had expected and better than he had ever eaten\nas long as he could lemember.\nThe pedlar drove far out to the north side without a stop, and from there\nbegan to sell his wares, driving closer into town as he went on. Johnny had\nnever suspected that there were so many beautiful houses in all the world.\nThere were just miles and miles of them. I,ots and lots of them had grass and\ntrees all around them, and nice white cement walks that ran way back.\nThe grass at first felt rather mushy underfoot, and Johnny did not know\nwhether he liked walking on grass or not ; but by the time it got warmer he learnt\nto like walking and running on the grass ; after a while he liked running on\nthe grass plots between the houses even better than on the white cement walks.\nRunning up and down the painted clean steps Johnny liked from the very first.\nIt was no trouble at all to him to take two steps at a time going up ; after many\nattempts he got so he could take two steps at a time going down, too. Only\nthat he got tired lots sooner than he had expected, though he could not have\nbeen got to admit it under torture. He had even tried taking three steps at\na time, but his legs weren't long enough.\nJohnny got to see the insides of many kitchens. They were wonderfully\nclean and the)' smelt nice, and the floors were whiter than the new lumber\nhe saw going by their own cottage door every day on the wagons from the lum-\nber yards. Lots of swell ladies talked to him ; and he would have liked to talk\nto them too, only he was afraid his father might find it out.\nIt was almost lunch time, although the factory whistles had not begun to\nblow yet, when Johnny was sent to carry a peck of apples into a lady's kitchen.\nShe was dressed all in white, lots of thin white fluffy things one over the other.\nHe had never in all his life before been so close to such a wonderful creature.\nHe was so close behind her that he could have touched her with his finger.\nIt was all he could do to keep his finger back from touching her. His finger"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.23", "texte": "kept on wanting to touch her and he didn't know why. The lady asked Johnny\nto wTait a moment in the kitchen while she went into the next room to get the\nmoney for the apples. Then Johnny noticed the most wonderful thing he\nhad ever seen.\nLying there on the window-sill close beside him was the most wonderful\nyellow7 shiny little gold watch he had ever seen. It was much littler than a\nlittle potato and lots flatter. Johnny was just as sure as anything that it was\na lady's gold watch, He had never really seen a lady's gold watch. He took\none small step and bent over a little, so as to be able to look at it closer. Then\nhe heard it make the most curious sort of noise, and he was wondering what\nit might be saying.\nJohnny never quite knew how it happened; it was all done before he\nknew it. His hand went out without his ever wanting it to ; and when the hand\nreturned to him there was the little thing right in his hand, and it felt as funn3r\nas anything, and it kept right on making that curious noise. Then he heard\nthe lady's steps as she was coming back into the kitchen. The tiny watch in\nhis hand seemed to be making a bigger noise all the time, and he was afraid\nit was going to tell on him, and he wanted to hit it on the floor and step on it,\nbut the lady was coming back and he had only just time enough to stick his\nhand into his pocket. He gave the watch a good squeeze, so it would shut\nup, but it went on just the same, and Johnny was becoming more scared every\nmoment. Pie was sure the lady would hear the watch making all that noise.\nAs the lady about to enter the kitchen, Johnny wanted to cry out\nthat he hadn't meant to take it, that it was only his hand had done it,\nbut the lady smiled on him as she came in, gave him the money and even a\npenny for himself. All his fears left him instantly, and he wanted to keep\nthe little watch. Apparently the lady could not hear the noise the watch\nwas making.\nJohnny was anxious to get out of that kitchen as quickly as possible.\nHe wanted to make one leap out the door, but he changed his mind and walked\nout slowly. All the way back to the pedlar's wagon Johnny walked slowly,\nthough with uneven steps, some of them longer than others. He turned the\nmoney over to the pedlar and began to pull himself into the seat, but by\nthat time his arms and legs felt so wreak that they refused to pull him up.\nSuddenly Johnny began to cry, and he told the pedlar that he was too\ntired and he would have to go home right away. He began to cry louder, saying\nhe would have to go home, he had to go home, and before the pedlar could\nsay anything, Johnny began to run home.\nThe pedlar called after him to come back. Johnny came back step by\nstep, rubbing his eyes with his closed fists. He kept repeating that he was"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.24", "texte": "tired and had to go home ; but the pedlar told him that it was near lunch\ntime, and they would be eating their lunch in a little while and Johnny could\nbe resting, and that he would not have to run so hard after lunch.\nJohnny did not know what to do. He thought he would run into the lady's\nkitchen and place the watch back on the window-sill while the lady was not\nlooking. But instead he burst out crying and fled as hard as he could go, crying\nlike a terrified puppy.\nJohnny had run a number of blocks before he became aware that he did\nnot know the way home. He knew that he must not ask a policeman. He ran\nand walked by turns and rubbed his tear-filled eyes with the back of his hands.\nWhen he came across a boy no bigger than himself he dared to ask for the\nway home. Everybody knew where the rolling mills were, and Johnny knew\nthat when he got to where he could see the tall steel smoke-stacks he would be\nable to find the way himself. Once he risked asking a boy considerably bigger\nthan himself. The boy looked him up and down several times before he made\nany reply. Johnny felt that the boy was going to attempt to take the watch\naway from him, and he made up his mind that he would kill the boy if he at-\ntempted to lay hold of him. He did not know just how he was going to ac-\ncomplish that, but he felt strong enough just then to have killed a policeman.\nFortunately, the boy told Johnny the way to the rolling mills and made no at-\ntempt at all to take the watch away from him ; only that after Johnny had\ntaken a few steps the boy cried after him and called him a \" Bohunk. \" But\nthis only made Johnny smile a small, bittei smile, because Johnny wasn't a\n\" Bohunk\" at all and didn't even look like one.\nJohnny ran into the alley back of their cottage, climbed the back fence,\nand let himself drop down into the back yard. He took the piece of an old fire\nshovel that he always dug with, scraped away the cinders and dug a hole\nby the side-of the second post from the rear gate. The hole was so big that\nit held both his hands all the way to the wrists. He then looked around to\nmake sure that nobody was observing him, took the watch out of his left pocket,\nplaced it at the bottom of the hole, covered it with a fiat stone, then with the\ndirt and after that with the cinders. He then stamped the little mound down\nwith his bare feet, so nobody would be able to find the watch and steal it from\nhim. That done, Johnny suddenly felt hungry. He went into the kitchen,\ntook the big knife and cut himself a thick slice of bread, then covered it with\na thick layer of bacon-fry. It then occured to Johnny that it would be nice\nto eat the bread on the fiont steps, where he could watch who might be com-\ning along.\nHe walked leisurely to the front gate, biting of his bread as he went along.\nHe was rather more awkward than usual in walking. He had tired himself"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.25", "texte": "that morning far more than he was aware of. Once or twice he stepped on his\nown toes, but Johnny paid no attention to that. Instead of going up the front\nsteps as he had intended, he climbed the front gate and leaned over the top,\nlooking up and down Elston Avenue. Hanging by his armpits, he bit into\nthe bread until his mouth was well filled. Johnny discovered that by doing\nthat, he could chew a longer time without having to take another bite ; in\nthe meanwhile he could be kicking out with both legs behind him, like a mule.\nIt then occured to Johnny that it must be time for Tom Kiernan, the po-\nliceman who lived up Elston Avenue aways, to be going home for lunch. Tom\nKiernan always said \"Hello \" to Johnny when he saw him, but Johmtyhad\nnever been able to make up his mind about Tom Kiernan, He never knew\nwhether he ought to be afraid of Tom Kiernan or not. Generally, Johnny\ncould not trust himself to stand close to the front gate when Tom Kiernan\nwent by. He used to retreat a piece, and stand between the cottage and the\nfence, so that if Tom Kiernan were to attempt to get hold of Johnny, he could\nrun away into the house and hide himself before Tom Kiernan could climb\nover the front fence. This time Johnny was not the least bit frightened. He\ndropped from the gate, ran between the cottage and the fence, and, with the\nbread in his left hand, he began to dig up the watch. But that was not fast\nenough for him, and so he took the bread between his teeth and commenced\nto dig with both hands. In another minute he held the watch in his hands.\nIt was still making that strange noise as loud as ever.\nFor a moment Johnny did not know what to do with the watch. Then\nhe took a big bite of the bread and put it away. He placed the watch on a\nstone and struck it with another one. He had to strike at it a number of times\nbefore it became quite still. After that he struck at it a number of more times,\nuntil he had pounded it flat almost, before he felt satisfied that it was not\nmerely letting on to be dead. By this time he had lost all interest in it, and\nhe threw it into the hole and covered it up quickly without paying any more\nattention to the way be was doing the job, and he did not take the trouble\nthis time to stamp the ground down.\nBy this time he had the bread all eaten. Still Johnny thought that it\nwould be nice to sit on the front steps and watch who might be coming along.\nA short time later, Johnny saw Tom Kiernan coming along, and it occured to\nJohnny that it would be nice to go into the kitchen now to play with the junk.\nTom Kiernan stopped at the front gate, and Johnny could hear him trying\nto open it. Johnny stole up quietly and looked through the open door leading\nfrom the kitchen. He was careful to show as little of himself as possible. He\nsaw Tom Kiernan going away and he gave a little chuckle. He was glad the\ngate was locked. But after a little while Tom Kiernan was at the rear gate"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.26", "texte": "in the alley. Tom Kiernan tried that gate, too, but it was locked ; and just\nas Johnny began to think that Tom Kiernan would be going away, he saw\nhim climbing over the gate.\nFor a moment Johnny remained sitting on the floor, keeping as still as he\ncould. Then he crawled out on all fours and hid himself under his father's bed.\nTom Kiernan walked up the rear steps and knocked on the door frame,\nsaying.\n\" Where are you, Johnny ? Come out here. I want to tell you something.\"\nJohnny knew better than to come out. In another minute Tom Kiernan\nwas inside the kitchen. Still he kept saying.\n\" Where are you, Johnny ? Come out here. I want to tell you something.\"\nJohnny was breathing as quietly as he could. The next minute Tom Kier-\nnan walked right in where Johnny lay hidden under that bed, and the next\ninstant Johnny felt himself being dragged out by the foot.\nThen Johnny began to scream as he had never screamed before in his life.\nTom Kiernan lifted Johnny by one aim and tried to set him on his feet, but\nJohnny's arms and legs shook so that he could not stand up by himself, and\nTom Kiernan had to hold Johnny by the arm to keep him from falling to the\nfloor. All this while Johnny kept shrieking with all his strength and Tom\nKiernan kept saying.\n\" Hush up, now, won't you ! Nobody is going to harm you at all. What\nare you afraid of ? Hush up, now, won't you ! \"\nTom Kiernan let go of Johnny's arm as soon as he could stand up by him-\nself. Gradually Johnny quieted down, and Tom Kiernan said.\n\" Tell your father that officer Kiernan is coming back later, and for him\nnot to be going away anywhere.\"\nJohnny played with the junk in the kitchen all the afternoon without\nstopping. The games he played had no name ; they did not follow any rules\nknown to him. He would arrange the various pieces of junk according to some\norder that he would think of at the time. Pie would arrange them in a row\nand talk to them as if they were persons, ordering them to move now to this\nside now to that, to stand still, get up and sit down. And since they failed\nto do as they were ordered, he would handle them violently. \" Didn't I tell\nyou to go over there ?\" Thereupon he would move the particular knife or fork\nor piece of a wash-wringer over to where he had pointed, striking it violently\nagainst the floor as he moved it. \" Now you stand here. Stand, I tell you !\nDidn't I tell you to stand ? \" He made use of all the oaths that he knew, and\nbecause he did not know the meaning of most of them, he aimed to utter them\nin the same tone of voice that he had heard them uttered.\nWhen Johnny had come to believe that Tom Kiernan was not coming"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.27", "texte": "again, he heard a noise at the back fence, and he saw Tom Kiernan letting him-\nself down over the fence into the back yard. The next minute Tom Kiernan\nwas knocking at the door-frame. But Johnny kept right on playing with his\njunk, though silently this time.\n\" Did your father get back ? \" Tom Kiernan said.\nJohnny did not answer him, but kept right on playing. Tom Kiernan\nwalked into the kitchen, helped himself to a chair and sat down. Johnny kept\nright on playing. Tom Kiernan said nothing, but just sat there watching Johnny.\nJohnny looked at Tom Kiernan with the corner of his eye and then at the\nkitchen table. The thought had come to Johnny that if he could steal over\nto the kitchen table, get hold of the big knife and sneak upon Tom Kiernan\nfrom behind, he could kill Tom Kiernan and buiy him in the back yard and\nnobody would know anything about it. He waited for a good opportunity ;\nfrom time to time his gaze would steal over to the kitchen table.\nBut Tom Kiernan must somehow have got to know of Johnny's plan, for\nhe got up from the chair and said, \"Be a good boy, now, Johnny.\" And he\nmoved his chair over into a corner of the kitchen, and from there continued\nto watch Johnny. But Johnny could not play after that. Then Johnny thought\nthat he would just run away where nobody could find him. But again Tom\nKiernan said, \"Be a good boy, now, Johnny.\" Then Johnny's father came,\nand Tom Kiernan got up and said, \" Good evening, Mr. Kerrigan.\" And John-\nny's father said, \" Good evening, Tom. \" And then Tom Kiernan told John-\nny's father that Captain Keogh wanted to see him at the West North Avenue\nStation, and for him to bring Johnny with him. Then all three went to the West\nNorth Avenue Station, and Johnny's father walked so fast that Tom Kiernan\ncould hardly keep up with him, and Johnny ran along behind.\nJohnny's father said, \" Good evening, Andy,\" and Captain Keogh said,\n\" Good evening, Mr. Kerrigan.\" And the Captain opened a drawer of his desk\nand took out something and held it in his hand, and he told Johnny's father\nthat Johnny had stolen a lady's gold watch and smashed it with a stone and\nburied it in the back yard. Johnny thought that Captain Keogh must be a\ndevil or a witch or something. Johnny stood up on his tip-toes to see what\nthe Captain had in his hand ; and, sure enough, there in the Captain's hand\nwas the watch Johnny had buried in the back yard. Johnny was just as sure\nas he could be that Tom Kiernan had stolen it from him. He wanted to tell\nit to the Captain, but he changed his mind. It was no use. The Captain would\nnever do anything to Tom Kiernan. Tom Kiernan was a man, and he could\ndo anything he liked. It was only little kids like Johnny that weren't allowed\nto do anything. Then Captain Keogh told Johnny's father to sign a bond that\nhe would bring Johnny to the West Chicago Avenue Police Court at nine o'clock"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.28", "texte": "on Monday morning, and Johnny's father said, \"No, you keep him, Andy\nHe's safer with you.\"\nThen Johnny's father went away with Tom Kiernan, and Johnny wanted\nto bawl and run after his father, but he did not let a whimper out of him, and\njust stood there first on one foot then on the other, and Captain Keogh said,\n\"You're a brave lad, Johnny. You'll be all right.\"\nThe following Monday morning Judge Kirschbaum said that Johnny had\nnever been brought up right. Johnny's father should not have been allowed\nto bring up a young child. And the Judge said that he would send Johnny\nto the Reform School, they would make a man of Johnny.\nJohnny did not know whether he wanted to be a man or not, but on think-\ning it over he decided that he did want to be a man, if it didn't take too long.\nA man could lick little kids any time he felt like it, and a man could just do\neverything. Johnny was sure he wanted to be a man.\nJohnny's former neighbors had made several attempts to obtain Johnny's\nrelease. There was a meeting held in the fire station in Waubensia Avenue\nshortly after Johnny was sent away. A dozen good women told how glad\nthey would have been to have given Johnny a home. Everybody agreed that\nJohnny should never have been sent to the Reform School. That was no place\nfor him. Resolutions were unanimously passed, calling upon Alderman Kiel-\nbassa to see to it that Johnny was released at once.\nThe following evening the Committee presented the resolutions to Alderman\nKielbassa. The Alderman assured the Committee that he was ready to do ev-\nerything for the citizens of his ward. He told the Committee that he wTould\nlet them know at once as soon as he had any good news for them, but the Com-\nmittee said they would come back twTo days later, and the Alderman wished\nthem all a good night.\nTwo days later the Committee again called on Alderman Kielbassa. The\nAlderman greeted them warmly. He opened up a fresh box of cigars and passed\nthem around, telling the gentlemen to help themselves. \" Would any of the\ngentlemen like to have a little smile, perhaps ? \" he inquired almost apolo-\ngetically. \"No ? That is the best way, certainly. I never touch it myself.\nBut I am not like some of those guys that fill up to the muzzle every time they\nget a chance and don't want to let anybody else have a single drink. lam\nliberal-minded.''\nThe Committee finally managed to ask him what he had done about get-\nting Johnny released.\n\" I was just coming to that,\" the Alderman replied. He opened a drawer\nof his desk and took out a folded formidable-looking paper. Holding it up\nin his left hand, he tapped it with a pencil that he held in his right hand, cleared"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.29", "texte": "his throat and said, \" I want you gentlemen to know that it was a big job you\nhave given me. I went direct to headquarters. That's always the best way.\nThey all know me, and they'll do anything I ask them. Anything in reason,\nof course. But they showed me the young man's record black on white.\"\nHere the Alderman again tapped the formidable-looking paper he held in his\nleft hand. \" I want you to understand lam not expressing my own opinion.\nI never like to express opinions in such things. But there it is ! He opened\nthe paper slowly and carefully, saying, \" His record shows black on white that\nthe young man is ' incorrigible,' (The Alderman had a terrible feeling that\nhe hadn't pronounced the word properly) ' obstinate,' he continued, \" and\n' refractory.' But ! \" he fairly shouted, and again he tapped the paper in his\nleft hand with the pencil that he held in his right. \" I never say die ! Not\nme ! I have not given this matter up yet. Not by a long shot ! There are\nmore ways to kill a calf besides tickling it to death. I intend to go right ahead\non this. So much for that.! \" he said, closing the subject ; and then added,\n\" Any time any of you gentlemen need a little favor. Remember, my door is\nalways open for you. Any time at all. Day or night. You'll find me a good\nfellow. Drop in for a friendly call. Any time you feel like it. Good evening,\ngentlemen. Glad to know you.\"\nAnd so nothing came of that attempt to get Johnny released from the Re-\nform School.\nThe most serious attempt in Johnny's behalf was made the following spring.\nThe \" Elston Social and Athletic Association,\" a young men's club of the neigh-\nborhood, and the \" Lilies of The Valley, \" a young ladies' club, got together\nand organised a ball for Johnny's benefit. The ball was a grand success. Every-\nbody said so. Everybody knew everybody else, and all had a wonderful time.\nAlderman Kielbassa spoke from the platform beside the musicians. He praised\neverybody present for their efforts in a worthy cause, and he told of all he him-\nself had done. At the end of his eloquent address he announced that he would\ncontribute twenty-five dollars towards the worthy cause. Everybody cheered\nhim again and again.\nBut as everybody had spent so much effort to make the ball a grand success,\nand had spent all they could afford to make a presentable appearance at the ball,\nand since it would not have been the correct thing to sell strong drinks at an\naffair of that nature, only a little more than a hundred and fifty dollars was\nrealised from the venture.\nA lawyer was engaged to go to Springfield and see the governor, and the\nBoard of Pardons. The lawyer was told not to mince matters nor beat about\nthe bush. He should tell those fellows down in Springfield that the citizens of\nthe twenty-fourth ward demanded Johnny Kerrigan's release — at once ! At once !"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.30", "texte": "You understand ? To a man, they demanded it ! And they weren't going\nto forget it at the coming election, either. That's the way to talk to those\nfellows.\nBut it was fully two months before the Committee was able to get the lawyer\nto say finally what he could and what he could not do. He had worked hard,\nbut thus far he had not been a.ble to accomplish anything. The records were\nall against Johnny Kerrigan. He had broken a machine in the chair factory.\nHow ? The records did not state. He was disobedient and intractable. The\nBoard of Pardons could not under the circumstances make a favorable recom-\nmendation to the Governor. Without a recommendation from the Board of\nPardons the Governor did not dare do anything with an election coming on.\nHowever ! If an additional five hundred dollars could be raised, he, the lawyer,\ncould sit down at a little game of cards with a certain number of persons ; the\nresult of which would be that these persons would all leave the table with their\npockets well lined, and that would be sure to have a most favorable effect on\nJohnny Kerrigan's record. Keep this under your hats, gentlemen. Not a word\nof this to anybody. Not even to your own wives. You know !\nFor a while, there was some talk of arranging for a picnic in Brand's Grove.\nBut the ball had involved so much work that nobody was willing to serve on\nthe committees. And so nothing came of the final effort to get Johnny Ker-\nrigan released.\nMore than ten years later-the Sovereign State released one Black Jack\nKerrigan under the legal fiction that it had restored Johnny Kerrigan, and much\nimproved. Those who still remembered Johnny Kerrigan had their own opin-\nions, but they said little and were willing to help.\nII\nFor several days after Black Jack Kerrigan's release he kept entirely to\nhimself, but the neighbors all understood, and they only waited for the oppor-\ntunity to show him that they felt friendly. Two days after Jack's return, it was\nreported to the men who foregathered in the fire station in Waubensia Avenue\nthat, every hour or two during the day and evening, Jack left the house, fol-\nlowed the alley for some blocks and returned the same way fifteen or twenty\nminutes later. He carried nothing in his hands, and seemed to have nothing\non his person, going or coming. There was some little speculation and dis-\ncussion, but in the end it was agreed that no notice had best be taken of his\nbehavior. There was time enough.\nIn the afternoon of th,e fourth day after Jack's return, Tom Kiernan went\nout into the alley in the rear of his home to empty the kitchen refuse into the"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.31", "texte": "garbage box. He was in his shirt sleeves at the time and carried no arms. Black\nJack Kerrigan leaped upon him from behind and took him by the throat. Mrs.\nKiernan who was working at the kitchen sink at the time, doing the dishes,\nthought she saw something jumping in the alley. But as there was no sound\nor sign of a struggle she dismissed it from her mind. But the next instant she\nsaw a man leap into the air feet uppermost. He described a semi-circle, struck\nthe top of the fence a dull, hard blow, and fell into the back yard all in a heap.\nShe did not know that her own husband by suddenly doubling up like a jack\nknife had sent that man through his singular movements. In another instant\nTom Kiernan was at the side of the prostrated man.\n\" Are you hurt much, Johnny ? \" Tom Kiernan asked excitedly. \" I\ndidn't know it was you was at me. Where's your senses, Johnny ? You might\nknow I did all I could to help you that time.\"\nBlack Jack Kerrigan lay there dazed. He was trying to recall where he\nwas and how he carne to be there.\nThe Captain ana I talked it over that time,\" Tom Kiernan continued,\n\" and he thought it was better that I went over to tell your father, so the wagon\nwouldn t have to be sent, and. them Hunkies wouldn't need to know there was\nanything the matter at all. Are hurt much, tell me ! Where was your\nsenses, Johnny ? You had better be rubbing some liniment on you, or you'll\nbe as stiff as a poker in the morning. Margaret ! \" Tom Kiernan shouted to\nhis wife. \" Fetch me that bottle of Muldoon's liniment, will you ! \" Again\nturning his attention to Black Jack Kerrigan, Tom Kiernan, said, \" I did what\nI could to help you that time, Johnny. Can't you understand that ? You\nain t taken leave of your senses, have you ? You might know I'd do all I could\nto help you.\"\nTom Kiernan went to meet his wife at the rear door. He took the bottle\nof liniment from her and motioned her back into the house. In the mean-\nwhile, Jack Kerrigan struggled to his left knee and then to his right foot ; plac-\ning his right hand against his thigh, he succeeded in getting himself erect.\nbetter let me rub some of this liniment on you, \" Tom Kiernan\nsaid.\nBut Jack Kerrigan had already begun to make his way through the rear\ngate.\n\" Take this liniment,\" Tom Kiernan said, holding out the bottle to Jack\nKerrigan. \" Rub it on you, so you won't go stiff by tomorrow. Take it,\nJohnny, and rub it in good.\"\nJack Kerrigan took the bottle from Tom Kiernan's hand without a word,\nand set off for his father's cottage. He walked slowly and carefully, as if he\nwere suffering from an acute internal pain. He tried to keep from limping,"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.32", "texte": "and he succeeded fairly well. From the beginning to the end he had not uttered\na sound.\nThat same evening everybody at the fire station in Waubensia Avenue\nagreed that Jack had to be found a job ; and the next day a job was found for\nJack with Voltz and Lacey, tinsmiths. Little Timmie Wade had agreed to take\nJack on as helper, and he further agreed that he would do all he could to teach\nJack the trade, and not merely use him for carrying the bag of tools and the fur-\nnace, as most others did.\nThere were some objections raised ; several doubted the advisability of\nletting Jack become Timmie Wade's helper. Timmie, or \" Slivers/' as he was\nmost generally called, forever offered to whip everybody in sight. It was all\nwell enough with those who knew how to take him. Nothing serious had ever\nreally come of it. If he ever took it into his head to tackle Jack the way he did\nthe others — there was no telling what might come of it. \" Just see what Jack\ntried to do to Tom Kiernan ! \" \" Slivers wasn't more than a good handful,\nand it would be a darned shame if Jack ever got at him, because of Slivers'\nfamily.\" \"It might do Slivers a lot of good to get mussed up. It might teach\nhim to keep his mouth shut.\" But since all agreed that Slivers was a good\nmechanic, and that he would be teaching Jack the trade if he happened to take\na liking to him, everybody agreed to let them try it out for a while. And so\nthe following morning Jack Kerrigan became Slivers' helper.\nJack Kerrigan still felt stiff ; his back pained him, and his left side felt\nraw and sore to the touch. He could not help being slow and deliberate as\nhe bent over to lift the bag of tools to his shoulder. Slivers, knowing nothing\nof Jack's encounter with Tom Kiernan, eyed Jack quizzically, a mocking twinkle\nin his small brown eyes. He was on the point of asking whether Jack's\nrheumatism troubled him, and whether he thought it was going to rain, but he\nchanged his mind, and contented himself with winking at the other men\nstanding around.\nA number of leaks had showed up during a rain in the new Swedish Luth-\neran Church. Slivers had done the work on that Church ; he was now setting\nout to mend it. The workmen all took delight in chaffing Slivers.\n\" Who ever told Slivers he was a tinsmith ? \" \" What sort of work do\nyou think we do here ? \" \" Some people will try to get away with murder,\nif you let 'em.\"\n\" I've got it on the best of you fellows, and you damned well know it.\"\n\" I guess we'll just have to take him across the knee one of these days and\nspank him good and plenty. We may as well be doing it first as last.\" \"You\nsaid it ! \" \" He's getting peskier every day, ain't he ? \" \"No use wasting any\ntime over it. This is as good a time as any. WTho gets the first crack at him? \""}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.33", "texte": "There was some shuffling of feet, as if there was a concerted movement to\nlay hold of Slivers ; and though he knew that this was all done to tease him,\nSlivers could not help rising for it.\n\" There ain't enough of you fellows here to do it — and what do you\nknow about that ? \"\nJack Kerrigan stood off to one side, the bag of tools on his left shoulder\nand the furnace in his right hand. He took no notice of all that went on around\nhim.\n\" Talking big for a little fellow, ain't he ? \" one of the men said, turning\nto the others.\n\" There ain't nobody here has got a better right to talk big \" Slivers shot\nback at them.\nSlivers began to walk slowly out of the shop, his head turned to the left,\nso the men might know that he was watching them, and that he was as ready\nas ever to give as good as he got and better. When he had got as far as the door,\nall the men began to go through various heckling gestures. One took the pipe\nfrom his mouth, crossed his right arm over his left, and spat in the direction of\nSlivers, though not at him. Others slapped their thighs, grinned, cackled and\nmade various animal sounds. Nobody showed any concern in Jack Kerrigan\nand he showed no concern in anybody.\nSlivers and Jack had to travel all the way out to Edgewater, more than\nfour miles from the shop. When they got there Slivers found that most of the\nleaks he could mend without any help. The one really serious one was located\nin the spire. He thought that he might better send Jack back to the shop\nfor a rope and tackle. He could be fetching them while he himself was mending\nthe other leaks. But he changed his mind. Slivers always prided himself\non his \" nerve.\" He liked to show those fellow that he wasn't afraid to take\na chance and a long chance ; and, when you came right down to it, none of them\nhad the guts to pull some of the stunts that he did. There was a sharp turn\nthere, with not enough room to set a ladder down in the gutter ; but he thought\nthat he would try to get up there someway, when he got to it. In the mean-\nwhile, it had occured to Slivers to send Jack on one of the fool errands that ap-\nprentices are always sent on when they first begin to work.\n\" Here's a dime for carfare, Jack,\" Slivers said to him with seeming ser-\niousness. \" Run down to the shop and tell the girl in the office to give you a\nwire stretcher. She'll make you sign a requisition for it. That's all right.\nWe'll bring it back when we get through here. Don't let her stick you with\none that's all banged up. See that the jaws are all right.\"\nIt had not occured to Jack to question whether there actually was such a\ntool as a wire stretcher. His own experience had taught him to ask no ques-"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.34", "texte": "tions and never to challenge those in authority. Having found it hopeless,\nJack had long since given up trying to understand the reasons back of an order\nfrom those above him. If only he understood what he was to do, that ended\nhis interest in what was said to him. Because of his many experiences in the\npast, it is even possible that Jack would have gone down to the shop if he knew\nthe fool nature of his errand.\nJack Kerrigan returned in the same dull way that he went, without saying\na word. Slivers felt himself frustrated. He had got himself all set to give\nJack the merry hah-hah ! when he got back ; but Jack's stolid, expressionless\nface and his cool, regular behavior puzzled Slivers. He frowned ; his face took\non a hard, truculent expression as he tried to penetrate Jack's mask-like face,\nto get what was back of it. It worried Slivers. Jack's dull disinterestedness\nseemed real. What was Jack thinking about ? What was he planning ? Such\nutter indifference was a new experience to Slivers. It did not fit in with his past\nexperiences. Slivers wanted to ask Jack what the girl in the office had said to\nhim and why he hadn't brought the wire stretcher ; he wanted to ask the ques-\ntions and have them over with. But, somehow, Slivers did not dare. Jack\nwas a foot taller than Slivers and weighed perhaps fifty pounds more, but that\nwas not what intimidated Slivers. The size of his opponent had never worried\nhim. That was precisely what made Slivers' present feeling so incomprehen-\nsible to him. Something was pressing against his confused brain and he could\nnot make out what it was.\nTo escape from this confusion, Slivers fled to his work. He became excess-\nively busy, in a disorderly, haphazard way. Instead of picking out the pre-\ncise tool he wanted, he would snatch up the first one his glance alighted on ;\nfinding that it was not the tool he wanted, he would fling it down, instead of\nreplacing it in its proper pocket.\nIt was then close to eleven o'clock. Ordinarily he would not have attempted\nto solder the leak in the spire that forenoon. The hour would have been spent\ngetting the job ready for the afternoon. Under his present false pressure he\nwas determined to do it at once.\nHe procured a short ladder, ordered Jack to take the furnace and follow\nhim, and he went up on to the roof.\nBecause of the shape of the roof at that point there was no place to set\nthe ladder down securely ; also the ladder was not long enough. But he quickly\nsaw a way how to get around these difficulties. He set one leg of the ladder\npart-way up on the side of the slanting slate roof ; the other leg he held in his\nhands, shoulder high. Jack being taller would have to hold it only breast-high.\nHe was strong enough. The job wasn't going to take ten minutes, once he got\nat it."}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.35", "texte": "He set the furnace down in the copper gutter some feet behind them ;\nand, ordering Jack to watch him, he rehearsed the various operations. He again\npushed the ladder part-way up on the roof, and pulled it erect, holding the near\nleg in his hands ; he then inclined the ladder so that it also rested against the steep\nside of the spire. Jack was to do what he had just seen him do. It would be\neasy for him. The main thing was to hold the ladder steady. That was the\nmain thing.\n\" If you shake it — Jesus Christ ! \"\nHe watched Jack to see that he did everything right. He tugged at\nhis legs to make sure that they were resting securely. Everything was\nready.\nHe took up the pot of molten solder and the soldering iron in his right hand,\nand began to ascend the side of the roof, so that he would reach on a level with\nthe farther leg of the ladder, leaning towards the left as he went up, like a runner\nmaking a sharp turn. The ladder moved slightly when Slivers put his whole\nweight on the first rung, and.it frightened Slivers • more than he could ac-\ncount for.\n\" Hold her steady, for God's sake ! \" Slivers cried out in alarm. \" You'll\nkill me ! \"\nJack made no reply. He leaned somewhat more heavily against the spire,\nand his knuckles showed whiter.\nSlivers had got to within two rungs of the top of the ladder and on\nthe right level for doing the soldering. He moved his feet slightly, to make\nsure that he was standing all right ; after which he moved his shoulders\nseveral times, to see that nothing was binding him. Finding everything\nsatisfactory, he began to transfer the pot of molten solder from his right hand\nto his left.\nIn some inexplicable way, the pot struck the side of the ladder. Molten\nsolder dashed over the side of the pot and onto Jack's right hand, splashed against\nthe slates of the roof and into the copper gutter. For the fraction of second Sli-\nvers followed the course of the molten metal with his wild eyes. There was\nan instant sizzling and a sickening stench as the metal burned away the flesh\nof Jack's hand between the thumb and the first finger and between the first\nand second fingers and down the hand to the wrist.\n\" For God's sake, Jack, hold her steady ! \" Slivers cried in object terror.\n\" I'm coming down. Hold her steady, Jack ; for God's sake, hold her steady ! \"\nHe nearly fell off the ladder it] scampering down, because of his clumsiness,\nwhining all the while like a cowed dog about to receive a caning. His feet\nno sooner touched the roof then he began to cry.\n\" Put down the ladder, Jack ; put down the ladder, for God's sake. \""}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.36", "texte": "vSlivers began to jump up and down and around Jack, whining, thrashing\nthe air with his arms, his legs spread apart, almost doubled over, so that he pre-\nsented the appearance of a boy that is being beaten by his father. He still\nheld on to the pot of solder.\nJack Kerrigan put down the ladder, shook his hand with a wide sweep,\nand wiped it on the upper part of his left sleeve. His face was set hard and in-\nscrutable ; there was no way in which Slivers could learn what was going on\nbehind it.\n\" Let's go for a doctor, Jack ; let's go for a doctor/' Slivers cried in the\nsame whining voice. He flung the pot from him off the roof ; and touching .\nJack's arm, he began to lead the way off the roof, still whining, \" Let's go for\na doctor, Jack ; let's go for a doctor.\"\nSlivers led the way down the inside winding stairs, with Jack following\nclose behind him. In the semi-darkness Slivers calmed down, watching\nthe stairs, and looking up at Jack to make sure that he was following\nsafely.\nThey had got down to the ground and outside the church. Slivers looked\nup at Jack with timid, fearful eyes. It was all too much for Slivers. He\ncould not undertand Jack at all; and he could not face all that had happened\nin the past few minutes ; and he did not know what might happen next, and he\nwas terribly afraid.\nBy a sudden shift, Jack placed himself in front of Slivers.\n\" Square off!\" Jack yelled in a wild, terrifying voice. \"Square off!\nI've only got one arm. Square off ! \"\nHe held his right arm extended, moving rapidly in front of Slivers to cut\noff his possible escape.\n\" For God's sake, Jack, what are you going to do to me ? \" Slivers cried.\nThe most object terror was in his voice. He was trembling, and his knees\nbegan to bend under him. Tears forced themselves into his eyes. \" For\nGod's sake — \"\n\" Square off ! \" Jack yelled at him.\nJack Kerrigan began to dance from one foot to the other in front of Slivers,\nrocking forward and back, never still for an instant, his left arm crooked, ready\nto smash. Little by little, Jack Kerrigan backed Slivers into a corner formed\nby a buttress. Slivers could not raise an arm. He could barely keep on his\nfeet. Except for Jack Kerrigan's heavy breathing, there was not a sound.\nSlivers could not take his eyes from Jack. He had forgotten himself , he\nlost interest in himself and his possible fate. Nothing else now existed in the\nworld except that strange being there moving in front of him, crowding upon\nhim, moving in that strange way, in a silent world."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.37", "texte": "The next instant Jack Kerrigan leaped upon Slivers and clutched him\nby the throat. There was a sickening crash as Slivers' head smashed against\nthe rough lime stone wall of the church.\nWhen the other workmen came running to the spot it was a life-time\ntoo late.\n\nIsrael Solon"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.38", "texte": "THE MANSION OF PEACE\n\nFor the consideration of ultra-modern trends in music, no one, perhaps,\nis placed at a greater disadvantage than lam at this moment. In order to\nspeak with credit, I should be struggling against the roar of the big city, the\nblasts of destruction and the shrieks of parturition. The beating of riveters\nshould be my pulses ; the rapids of the rush-hour, my native element. I should\nhold rank in the councils of the metropolis and have a charge at the court of the\nmysterious woman, arrayed in purple and scarlet, the mother of harlots and\nabominations of the earth. I should come to with the clear and aggressive\ncrow of a Jean Cocteau, with the clangor of a Marinetti and Russolo. Instead,\nI am tempted to quote you Michel de Montaigne or Lucius Annaeus\nSeneca. Instead, I am unbending in the stillness of a sleepy fishing town in\nMassachusetts, with nothing more exciting for music than the \" divisions \"\nof a fresh NE by E gale, the intermittent moan of a distant fog-horn, and the\nsoothing swish of the tide at the foot of the yard. Instead, I am enveloped\nin the hush of a house built one hundred and one years before I was born,\nand in my spacious room the bead-work along the ceiling, around the doors,\nlovingly devised upon a chaste white mantle-piece, tell a long story of untir-\ning patience, infinite leisure and quaint elegance. Worst of all: before sitting\ndown at my table and putting pencil to paper, I tinkled on my thin-voiced\n\" square \" a faded song by Samuel Webbe, Esq. — \" The Mansion of Peace. \"\nThere was appropriateness in it, after all.\nHow to escape the influences that surround me, is a problem. And yet,\non second thought, are these influences really so inimical to the task in hand ?\nDoes not the relative detachment of this solitude bring with it the advantage of\ncalmer judgment ? Have not the echoes of the past perhaps a bearing upon\nthe sounds of to which my ear is straining ? The past\nof music is shorter than that of any other art. Music is all future ; it is not\nmerely change ;so far it has always been growth. Yet, within the comparat-\nively brief span that lies behind us, how much that is definitive, or was regarded\nas such by the generation which saw it come into existence ! Music affords us\ntoday the singular sensation of realizing Mr. George Bernard Shaw's latest\nambition, — to attain the age of Methuselah. Under normal (not necessarily"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.39", "texte": "ideal) conditions, I should double the present number of my years. Yet, al-\nready I have lived long enough to remember the dissenters at Wagner's deifi-\ncation and now to witness M. Darius Milhaud's defiant \" a bas Wagner ; \"\nlong enough to have seem young Strauss branded as Antichrist and now expos-\ned as an old man with a bag of tricks ; long enough keenly to remember the magi-\ncal flowering of Debussy's \" poisonous \" garden, already marked by some as\nwaste land and as dump heap. It seems but yesterday that Schoenberg's Five\nOrchestral Pieces startled us, and today we discover that if we take a score\nof Mahler's and put it. before a concave or a convex mirror such as the midway\nknows for the delight of country cousins ,we get exactly the same thing. Now\nfor the \" vSix, \" and their followers, until they lastly resolve into the \" One \"\n— the comet with the trail of star dust — all this in half a lifetime !\nThe progress of music has been the conquest of discord, the liberation of\nthe human ear. We are learning daily to hear new things and are trying to\nrepeat them. At first we may stammer, but in the end we sing. If we could\nrepresent the whole substance of tone as a solid mass, we should trace the de-\nvelopment of music by marking the earliest and faintest impressions made on\nits surface, then the pits, the gullies, shafts and vaulted galleries, which, honey-\ncombing, we have wrought into this substance, until in intricacy it resemble\nthe last bead of a Flemish rosary. Or we should show how climbing, from land-\ning, to landing, the stairs of overtones, we entered one new chamber of sound\nafter the other and made ourselves at home in each. Our youngest are impa-\ntiently skipping ahead, knocking at unopened doors, prompt to break them\ndown if the lock will not yield. And the treasure they seek is a new thrill by\nvirtue of new discords.\nWhat is discord ? An irritation of the aural nerve. A sesnsitive musician\ndoes not have to hear a discord, he need think it only to feel the same physical\nreaction in his ear. Why is discord ? Because its irritation emphasizes\nthe sensuous element in tone, or what is most communicative in all music.\nDiscord then, is something physiological and psychological. While musical art\ncannot do witnout it, aesthetically it has no standing, is not a settled quantity.\nThis point bears remembering. Not merely for contrast, as a long list of\naestheticians would have it, but for itself we have learned to demand it. We\nhave no satisfactory explanation why it is that every discord should ultimately\nturn concord. But for this fact, the skein of music would never require un-\ntangling and re-winding. Were it a matter of contrast alone, that difference\nwould be permanent, in spite of modifications ; for light is light in any strength,\nand snadow always kin to darkness. The tapping of tonal sources is something\ndifferent, untranslatable in terms of any other art. It is not a case of find-\ning new pigment; rather of slowly shedding a horny film, enabled gradually"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.40", "texte": "to face more light, all the light. Yet, within that widening radiance the\nproportions of what we see, or hear, should prove constant; the projection of\nourselves into the work of art should be imbued with the spirit of sincerity,\npassionate with the desire for fresh aspects of beauty. That point also bears\nremembering. And thus it shall always be, even though the new light should\nblind us for a moment, should distort our vision. Therefore the cries of \" fraud, \"\nuntil we blink no longer and have become accustomed to new focuses. There-\nfore the danger of forming habits at any time. Therefore the critic, who is —\nor should be — the helper with the adjusting lens, never so needed as when\nan added ray of brightness has been cast upon the farther distance. Beyond\nthe remedying of astigmatism and myopia, his functions seldom go; unless,\nhe be not only critic but crusader, not only interpreter but vivifier, preacher\nand artist in one.\nI have said that the progress of music lies in the assimilation by the ear\nof more and more complex sonorities, which anticipating genius divines, and\nthe multitude at first refuses to accept. This has been, and still is, the con-\ntinual quarrel between advanced and retarded hearing. But the progress\nof music is twofold. The one road is marked by the milestones of plain\nchant, modal polyphony, the enharmonic scale of our tempered system, chro-\nmaticism, polyharmony, and so forth. It is the essentially musical path. The\nsecond road, which runs parallel with (though quite independently of) the\nfirst, carries us successively through the eras of Church and Renaissance, Court\nand Baroque, Revolution and Romanticism, Socialism and Impressionism,\nBolshevism and Post-Expressionism. It is the road of cultural development\nin general. The politico-social tenor of the times reflects, of course, on every\nart; this is not peculiar to music. The two roads represent definite and sepa-\nrate avenues. We may pick up music, in retrospect, on different points of\neither. For that reasons we are able to produce, for instance, the effect of a\n17th-century Sarabande by musical means which belong to the chromatic epoch,\nwithout committing so much as an anachronism, provided the result be artist-\nically satisfying. It is well to hold apart, in music, this dual development\nof form and contents. The whole and intricate web of civilization governs\nthe first; it is the ear — and the aural sense alone, as transmitter of sound —\nwhich demands the second. And of that puzzling need of the ear we know\nnothing. Science owes us still the very first and fundamental explanation.\nBut is that cause to be disturbed at the thought that music, as we conceive it\ntoday, may be but the crude beginning of an expansion and of wonders which\nwe cannot dream ?\nSo fax as goes the short hour of this life, the questioning look ahead is partly\nanswered by the reassuring glance behind. Music is born in the heat of strife,"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.41", "texte": "but it dwells in the mansion of peace. It is that bookcase there, with the\nfriendly folios and octavos of yellowed leaves, which seems to confirm my\nsuspicion that we are never very far from the center, turning ever around the\nsame axis, ascending spirally at best, dropping excrescences and perversions\nby the wayside, outgrowing innumerable stages of childhood ? From the\nshelves beckon Monteverdi's \" new discords in five parts \" ; the \" crudities \"of\nDr. Blow ; I/ully's \" faux accords \" ; the chorale harmonizations that got Johann\nSebastian Bach into trouble with the worshipful Consistory at Arnstadt;\nBeethoven's last quartets which priggish Louis Spohr though eccentric, uncon-\nnected and incomprehensible, and in which he saw nothing but the composer's\n\" constant endeavor to be original. \" Now, this endeavor is justly shared by\nevery new generation, but it is not given to every artist to be so. Here, finally,\nwe have to reckon with individuality and genius.\nIt is curious what rapid progress music has made since the advent of im-\nproved keyboard instruments, and what help this tastatura has afforded genius.\nThe tempered scale may be a curse, but the keys that strike it have been a\nblessing undisguised. It would seem that instinct guides the hand, and that\nthe hand awakens the ear. Bach's use of his hands, on ebony and ivory was a\ndeparture. So was his music. Mozart, the improvisor at the harpsichord,\nsurpassed in daring the composer Mozart. Beethoven deaf, remembered his\nfingers ; the silent reading and hearing of notes is associated in the mind of many\nmusicians with the playing of the music on an instrument. The three greatest\nmusical innovators of the 19th century — Chopin, Iriszt and Debussy —\nwrote their best music for that unspeakable piano. And all that in a day when\norchestral colors were growing ever richer and more subtle. The keyboard\nhas been the experimental laboratory of music, and a note missed has often\nproved a hit, as a mixture wrongly compounded has been known to account for\nchemical discoveries. The experimenters are not through. Some of them seem\nall too reckless in their mixing. In consequence, their explosives do not deton-\nate. Time is almost ripe for a new scale, composed of intervals smaller than\nhalftones, and for a new keyboard instrument wherewith to sound them.\nThe tendencies of modern music display again a kicking at the immediate\npast and a revulsion from accepted standards. Tonality is no longer a pre-\nrequisite. Music is gaining new freedom by its unhampered transit through\na variety of keys, without according to any of them a predominating or tyran-\nnical sway. Tonality has been a gauge for the ear. We are learning to do\nwithout that measure. Modulation may go by the board in the process, or at\nleast modulation as we have heretofore understood it. For its charm consisted\nchiefly in the fact that after a digression it returned to the point of de-\nparture, or that it led into a new tonality with the inevitableness that made"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.42", "texte": "the step convincing. But we shall be able to dispense with modulation in that\nsense much more readily when we realize that another characteristic of music,\nthe motive or theme as a germinative factor, is being abolished. Modulation\ninto other keys was an assistance and relief as long as, for structural reasons,\nthe composer had to develop his motive, recapitulate his themes. With the\nelement of vacuous imitation dropping into the discard, counterpoint is becoming\nmore pliant, and less a matter of stencilled repetition. For the lost keys and\ntonalities, we shall win a firmer giasp on tone values in the meaning which paint-\ners attach to color values that make a picture. Rhythm is falling into an am-\npler gait ; the bar is removed and the rhythmic flow unloosened. Quicker mo-\nbility will replace architectural stiffness. Music may thus strive to become even\nmore musical, by breaking its alliance with painting and poetry ; it may evolve\na language more direct and specific.\nThese are but a few of the principal which call for attention.\nThe situation is not unlike that in which music found itself at various turns of\nthe road when the cry for simplification was raised, when, \" the sluices of inno-\nvation once thrown open, such torrents of incongruous opinions deluged the\nworld, \" that a seeming anarchy threw everything helterskelter. Boldness was\nthe rejuvenating force in some of the Venetian madrigals ; expressionism was\nnot unknown to the groping Prince of Venosa, whose modulations Burnay\ncalled \" forced, affected and disgusting. \" But it was Monteverdi who set the\nsear of genius on these extensions to the charter of harmony. The smaller form\nis always the favorite during an interregnum. It lends itself better to tentative\nmethods. Moreover, there is another reason why our modern madrigalists\nshould want to faive petit : as a protest against the endless music-dramas\nagainst longwinded symphonies. The miniature has come once more into its\nown as a crystallization of thought or mood. We live in an age of \" columnists,\nthe essay has given plaxe to the paragraph, the epic to the epigram. Music\nalso has become paragraphic and epigrammatic. Orientalism, whicn had such\nfar reaching influence on modern arts and letters, has added exotic variegation\nto our tonal speech. The hysteria of the moment finds vent in grotescjueness,\nexaggeration arid caricature. We have with us, inevitably, the false prophets-\nSome call it Gijt, and some New Light,\nA liberal art that costs no pains\nOf study, industry or brains.\nThere are those to whom the spiritual side of music is poppy or mandragora.\nThey have done with the B minor Mass of Bach, the Missa Solemnis of Beethoven\nnot to mention the increasingly noisy thurifications of Berlioz and I^iszt."}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.43", "texte": "These, or at least the two last, may be \" mediocre composers. \" But their\nspiritual exaltation was something we know not of today. We maybe reasonably\nsafe in not expecting a Te Deum from Mr. Ravel, a Litany to Saint John Cry-\nsostomos from Mr. ProkofiefT, or a Passion according to Matthew from Mr.\nStrauss. Schoenberg is threatening to give us an oratorio. That settles him.\nGod is not popular in art, these days. If lam not mistaken, Gauguin painted\na livid, agonizing Christ in a Breton landscape. Yet we would hardly think\nof him, Picasso or Matisse as painters of altar pieces. The sacramental vest-\nments of the church now serve as pillow covers or wall hangings, and we flip\nthe ashes of our cigarette into a quattrocento censer.. The curio and bric-a-brac\nis the thing to emulate. But is all this stranger or more unnatural than was\nthe florid, gilt, and festooned rococo ? Were those gallant abbes not worse\nthan candid atheists ? To compare modern music with the cast of modern life,\nis to find its aim and drift. To delineate its conquests in the realm of \" discord, \"\nis to point to the latest unshackling of sound. And in all this, technique is but\nconcomitant. Technique adjusts itself to the transformations of the material.\nCraftsmanship tells in the end, for it is one and indivisible with genius, requiring\nthat union of skill and inspiration which shapes the masterpiece.\nThe Wind is blowing up, the sea is getting frettish. Another back-log\non the fire, for the night. And why should I have running through my head\nold Webbe's pallid tune ?\n\nCarl Engel"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.44", "texte": "HEAVENS\nThe Prolog.\n\" So this, \" I exclaimed with a ghostly facetiousness, \" is Heaven ! \"\nIt was a vague, sprawling region with no definition of any sort. The place\nwas soundless, lifeless, motionless, save for the continual rising and falling of\ngauzy curtains of clouds. Except for a pale, gray light wanly diffused, there\nwas not a trace of color.\n\" No, \" said my guide, \" you are now in The Limbo of Infinity, a vast stretch\nthat some of our younger members have re-christened. The Neutral Zone. It\nis a kind of ante-chamber in which the guest is left to decide where he will go. \"\n\" But I have decided, \" I replied, with anxious haste, \" I want to go to\nHeaven. \"\n\" Which one ? \" he asked.\n\" Which one ? Why — er — are there more than one ? I gasjped.\n\" There aie \" he replied, \" if the last census can be relied upon, exactly\nnine hundred and seventy-six of them, not including the three score or so of\nSecessionist, Extremist, Intimate, Neighborhood, Revolutionary, Village and\nLittle Heavens that have clustered around the main, structures. The principal\ndivisions date back to antiquity; the Movement for Separate Incorporation came\nin 1935 and was caused, first of all, by the astonishing series of reports by the\nCommittee on Congested Districts. As everyone is aware, even the Infinite Void\nbecame crowded after the conversion of the Martians and Lunarians to your\nremarkable earthly standards. \"\nI gulped, \" But must I choose ? All I want is a comfortable cloud, a small\nharp and a neat, not too close-fitting halo. \"\n\"I am sorry, but that is the rule, \" the assured me. \" Besides, the acces-\nsories you mention have been discontinued. The Hygienic and Sanitary Cordon\nhas prohibited the use of halos ; the Cumulus Division of the Efficiency Board\nhas. taken over the control of clouds which were condemned as a menace to the\nPublic Highways, and the Musician's Union, Etherial Local, number 13, has passed\na by-law limiting the use of harps to holders of uncancelled cards. \"\n\" But\" —\n\" On the other hand, \" he continued, \" you should have no difficulty in se-\nlecting an appropriate sphere. What were you before you came here ? \""}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.45", "texte": "\" A crit — a book-reviewer,'' I blushed.\n\" Ah, \" he beamed, \" a lover of literature. \"\n\" A book-reviewer, \" I insisted.\n\" Well, \" he went on, unheeding, \" your place is obviously in a branch of\nthe literary Heavens — just which one 1 can not say. Have you any favorite\ngods ? \"\n\" None in particular. That is, not now. I used to have my preferences\nand prejudices. \"\n\"You will regain them, \"he chuckled. Gone but not forgotten' is true of\ncharacteristics that are not mentioned on tomb-stones. One of the delightful\nsurprises awaiting the dear departed is the spectacle of one's cherished convic-\ntions now tricked out in cap-and-bells and attending the coronation of his pet\naversion. But I digress. \"\n\" Don't apologize, \" I hastened to add. \" Digression is an art, not acci-\ndent. You wrere saying\" —\n\" I was saying that a corner in one of the literary Realms should suit you\nadmirably. Which would you prefer — the H. G. Wells Heaven, The Vers\nLibre Heaven, the Anatole France Heaven, the G. K. Chesterton Heaven, the\nRobert W. Chambers Heaven, the James Branch Cabell Heaven, the Freudian\nHeaven, the. . . — \"\n\" Heavens! \" I exclaimed, not irreverently. \" I could never decide\noffhand. Would it not be possible for me to try them first ? Not all of them,\nof course — just three or four of the more popular ones — or possibly a meagre\nhalf-dozen ?\n\" I don't know, \" he said dubiously, \" It isn't done and it's not quite regu-\nlar. Still, there's no particular law against it. On the other hand — \"\n\"Be human, \" I urged the angelic creature. \" A day in each would do —\na few hours — even a glimpse. \"\n\" Well, \" he temporized, \" the windows are tall but not so high If you\ncould get a foothold on the sills, you could see and hear. They seldom shut\nthe windows or draw the shades since the subconscious was discovered. You\nmust be prepared for anything. I warn you. If you still have the curiosity\nand courage, I will lead you. Come. \"\nI followed.\nThe Heaven of Queer Stars\nThe darkness was slashed with two intersecting bars of silver that split\nthe sky. They lay on the monstrous clouds like two swords still shining with\nthe faith of those who had swung them. They made, according to the view"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.46", "texte": "of the beholder, the pattern of some stupendous hieroglyphic which man must\neither decipher or die, or the still simpler pattern which men have died to decipher :\nthe pattern of a cross. Although the design did not change, the play of light was\nconstantly shifting ; the two blades of brilliance flashed, burned and coruscated\nwith colors that were as glittering and strange as a futurist poem or sunrise in\nthe wrong quarter of the sky. It was a wild and spectacular radiance, so dazzling\nthat the sparkle of the stars was wasted and every sun that flamed seemed a\nprodigal sun. One could perceive nothing else. One was, however, aware of\na vast undercurrent of gaiety, a bright violence, that swept thiough space with\nthe magnificent gusto of marching men or a March wind. It was as though\nsome gigantic virtuoso were improvising vast runs and terrific chords of mirth\non an orchestra of light, wood, winds and water. It rocked with benign and\nboisterous vigor ; an upheaval that was fervently humorous and furiously\nholy.\n(\" I can't make head or tail of this. It's all so brilliantly confusing, \" I com-\nplained to my guide. \"My head is spinning — upside down. \"\n\" That's the effect the Chesterton Heaven has on everyone at first, \" he assur-\ned me \" Wait a few moments ; the dazzle will wear off and you'll notice many-\nthings as familiar as they are astonishing. See — the air is beginning to clear. \")\nA more diffused but no less vivid light spread itself over the sky. It picked\nout curious corners and kindled them till they shone like candled niches ; it\nsoaked the gray fields of space till they burned like a battlefield ; it tipped the\ncrests of sleeping clouds till they woke and shook their gilded plumes, like\nknights roused by the clashing of steel. The accolade of sunlight fell impar-\ntially on endless spires, titanic peaks, sacred pinnacles and a fewT thousand spirits\nwho had nothing in common but their uncommon size. There was not one\nfigure in the crowds that was not six feet high and at least three feet wide. They\nwere Gargantuan, globular, glorious. And, what is more, they were galumphing.\nThey were, it became increasingly evident, the source and center of the mad\ngaiety that impelled their universe. Every one seemed bent on performing some\nathleticism more absurdly acrobatic than his fellow. Some were skipping on\nand off incredibly high walls, some were sliding down two-mile banisters, some\nspringing up fan-like and fantastic trees, while others were continually erect-\ning obstacles over which they would immediately bound like joyful and gigantic\nfootballs. Still others, dressed, like mystical punchinellos, were playing leap-\nfrog among the stars.\nIn this excited universe there were only two figures that remained without\nmotion. These twro, as though carved in Gothic stone, were seated on a low\neminence, the position of which was as contradictory as the two who\noccupied it. One of this queer couple was a round, red-faced, blinking individual"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.47", "texte": "who might have been either a butcher or a priest. The other had the indubit-\nable figure of a Greek poet and the face of a dubious Greek god ; his features were\nalmost perfect except for a peculiarly long and peculiarly cleft chin. There was\nnothing angelic about him and yet he bore the unmistakable traces of one who\nhad been one of God's angels.\n\" You are wrong again. \"he was saying. \" There is no divinity in peace.\nThere can be no such thing as a divine content. Discontent is the power that\ndrives the worlds. The angry waters send storming regiments upon the earth —\nand new life appears. The placid waters collect scum on a stagnant lake —\nand breathe death on everything they touch. Men do not know where their\ndeliverance lies nor who is their true deliverer. They grope — \"\n\" Sometimes they hold things beyond their grasp, \" mildly interpolated the\nrubicund one.\n\" They grope, \" continued his companion, \"in a darkness that is no less\ndark for being electric ; a darkness compared to which the so-called Dark Ages\nwere, if I may be permitted the metaphor, a succession of brief but blinding shoot-\ning-stars. Wild deeds and wilder thoughts may have reddened many a sanguine\nday ; but if the years shone like short-lived and sinister suns, at least they\nshone. \"\nIf you will pardon a — \"\n\" The blacksmith, \" he went on, unheeding, \" in those days had a position\nas dignified as the songsmith ; the armor he fashioned protected men by covering\ntheir bodies ; to-day the same iron destroys them since it has entered their souls.\nHospitality was once something more than a weak invitation for a week-end.\nOne could be sure of cakes and ale at every door-step, and every house was a\npublic-house. They have turned with a disheartening docility, from the time-\nspirit to The Times. \"\n\"If you will pardon me, they have done nothing so radical, \" objected the\nsimpler person, \"they have merely substituted the middle classes for the Middle\nAges. \"\n\" They have done something far worse ; they have learned to worship\nonly the middles ; either extreme is too much for them. And so they have\nbecome the creatures of their own creation. It used to be considered cheap, for\ninstance, to own slaves. They have advanced economically ; they find it\ncheaper to be slaves ... In nothing is their slavery so apparent as in the fetters\nthey place upon themselves. No longer do they cry out ' These things are un-\nworthy of us .' They ask, in an excess of humility, 'Are we worthy of our chains ?'\nIf any of them bear a cioss, they insist that they are carrying on a new kind of\nphysical culture. And thus, a lethargic content, a monstrous satisfaction has\nbegun to sap their blood. It has crept, like some unnameable horror, into their"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.48", "texte": "minds ; it lays its bloated hands upon the gyrations of the sun and twines its\nclammy fingers around the unconscious centuries. Dissatisfaction is their only\nremedy, their most potent saviour. Revolt is the heritage of a bountiful energy\nit is only the lack of it which is revolting. lam glad to know that the iconoclastic\nimpulse is growing. lam happy to feel that every dawn is a novel and more\nstartling experiment of that discontented spirit which we call Nature ; that,\nevery time the earth revolves upon its axis, we have actually accomplished,\nwith a quiet but terrible insurgence, a daily revolution. \"\n\"You are such an eloquent talker \" said the other, a bit wistfully, \" that I\nam sure you are wrong. The surprising beauty about the world and these hea-\nvens is not the fact that they are novel but that they are, what is even more sur-\nprising, very old. A novel thing is the least enduring thing in the world — even\nto the novelist. It is only something that is quite common or really old, like\ncountry wine or the belief in immortality, that is forever freshening and new.\nIt is only the bright sins and black virtues celebrated by minor poets that deny\nthe miracles of existence. \"\n\" And I deny them also ; \" rejoined the saturnine being whose chin had\nsomehow elongated into a pointed tuft of beard, \" the best thing about mira-\ncles is that they can not possibly happen. \"\n\" The best and strangest thing about miracles, \" quietly replied the combin-\nation that was part Santa Claus and part Father Brown, \" is that they are always\nhappening. A decadent play-wright actually does lead an army that conquers a\ncity. Steel floats in the air and leaps through the water. A man in London\ntalks to a woman in Chicago without raising his voice. A fanatic in a corner of\nEurope precipitates a world war with a bomb, and a college president on the\nother side of the ocean stops it with a phrase. You see, the whole trouble with\nordinary living is that it is such an extraordinary and wild succession of impossi-\nbilities ; a kaleidoscope of staggering surprises so continuous that, in the words\nof the American Dr. Harvey W. Fletcher, life is just one darn miracle after an-\nother. Look — \\ \"\nIt was an exclamation so sharp that the voice was curiously flat. A con-\ncourse of stars had gathered while the two had been debating, and these\nluminaries were scattering largesses of light. During the last sentences they\nhad grown larger and more animated ; their half-discernible faces shone with a\nbrilliance that was better than good news told by a pessimist. They clustered\nabout a radiant giant who held up his hand like a quivering baton. As it descend-\ned, he began to beat the time for a lungeing measure and tremendous voices swept\nthe sky.\n\"The stars are singing ! \" cried the defender of miracles, \" The morning\nstars led by St. Rabelais ! \""}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.49", "texte": "And this, to a tune where panets set the tempo, where moons were quarter-\ntones and in which comets were grace-notes, were the words of the song\nThe lanes that run through the Sussex downs\nAre spiced with a savory salt,\nAnd the crooked streets of Wess ex towns\nAre fruity with hops and malt;\nThey've kegs of ale and rum for sale\nIn fields where the Vie slips by ;\nAnd the roads that run through barleycorn\nWill lead you straight to Rye.\nThe path dividing the Kensal Green\nIs sharp as a Christian sword;\nIt cuts through poisonous alleys clean\nTo the heart of the dark East ward.\nIts lamps are stars where the scimitars\nAnd the moons of the Orient toss,\nAnd you turn from the Golden Crescent\nTo come to St. George's Cross.\nThe ocean's path is a rolling track\nWhere the shark can enjoy his feast,\nThe jungle's maze is cruel and black\nWith gods more brute than a beast.\nBut England lies where the holy skies\nAre warmer than wine or home —\nAnd the roads that run to the ends of the earth\nWith lead you' safe to Rome.\n\" A very pretty catch, \" sneered the spirit of negation, \" very romantic and\nvery ridiculous. \"\n\" Perhaps, \" answered his opponent, more mildly than ever, \" and yet the\nquality of ridicule is greater than you may imagine. Birth is a sublime adventure\nin the ridiculous — and what is death but a heroic return ; a transposition,\nI might say, from the ridiculous, to the sublime ! It is only the fool that fears\nbeing thought foolish for trumpeting trivialities. Trifles, alter all, are tremendous,\nsimply because they are too obvious to be noticed by anybody but detectives\nand poets. It is not the fool who discovers the commonplace for us; it is the poet"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.50", "texte": "who startles us with his own rapturous amazement upon discovering that the\nsky is still blue and that grass is even greener than the most modern nude by\nMatisse. It is not the fool fearing ridicule, but the brave man who can face an\naudience with nothing more startling than the news that God's in His Heaven\nthat death ends all our troubles, and that a penny saved is a penny earned. It\nrequires no hardihood to utter a glittering and anarchic sophistry. There is\nonly one thing that takes all a man's courage to maintain — and that is a pla-\ntitude. Here, thank the God of the Perfect Paradox, you will find only those\ndaring champions who have never faltered in their allegiance to the obvious, who\nhave devoted their hours to a contemplation of the sublime precision with which\nSpring follows Winter, and who have given their lives to prove the theory that\ntwo and two actually are four ! \"\n\" I can't stand this ! \" screamed his saturnine opponent. \" Talk — talk\n— talk ! I can't get a word in edgeways. Even Goethe gave me a better op-\nportunity. It isn't fair — it isn't — and I'll be roasted in my own fires if I\nstay here to make a Roman Catholic holiday. I'm going. \"\nThere was a spurt of flame and he vanished. Nothing remained of him\nbut a slight smell of brimstone and a sulphur-yellow blot on the porphyry bench.\nThe skies wTere darkened for a moment as though a pointed shadow had lallen\nover them ; a wailing cry xose from the gutters and ended among the stars.\n\" Too bad, \" sighed the benign dialectician, \" I think I almost convinced\nhim. \" He sighed again, lifting an empty tankard.\nFIRST INTERMISSION\n(\" Now 's your chance, \" whispered my guide \" His back is turned and you\ncould slip in here for a while. Shall I help you through ? \"\n\"No thanks, \" I said, \" I'm not as keen for the Chesterton Heaven as I thought\nI would be. I'm only a mild agnostic and I could never be happy in an atmosphere\nwhere, in order to outdo the other heretics, I would have to embrace the last of all he-\nresies — Orthodoxy. I admit the undeniable exhilaration gained by walking on one's\nhead, but one can overdo this cerebral pedestrianism. And in such a position there\nis always the possibility not only of talking through one's hat but the graver danger\nof thinking through one's shoes. Besides, lam far 100 dizzy to attempt it. Haven t\nyou something else to offer — something less scintillating and more static, something\ncontrolled not so much by rhodomontade as by reason? \"\n\" Very well \" he acquiesd, \" I'll take you to the most scientific and rational\nHeaven we've ever had. Come along. \"\nI came)."}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.51", "texte": "F. Leger.\nLes Disques.\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.52", "texte": "THE HEAVEN OF THE TIME-MACHINE\n\n§ I.\nYou must imagine a vast laboratory — a tremendous affair of several thou-\nsand miles — stretching its spotless length of Albalune (a by-product of moon-\ndust that had superseded all wood-work and tilings since 2058), reflecting only\nthe purest of celestial colors. An intricate network of rapidly moving runways\nspanned the stars ; myriads of spinning platforms threaded the upper reaches\nwhich were reserved for aerocars, travelling at speeds of three hundred miles an\nhour and upward. The introduction of a dozen new metals in 1970 — especially\nMaximite, Kruppium and Luxpar, to name the three chief members of the\nimportant Iridio-Aluminoid family — had revolutionized aerial traffic and when,\na half century later, the full power of atomic energy was released ana exploited,\nland travel ceased entirely. The whirling streets flashed by in a maelstrom of\nsound. Huge trumpets, grotesquely curved to resemble calla lilies blared eter-\nnity's oldest scandals and its newest advertisements with an impartial clamour.\n\" Harrumph ! Harrumph ! Baroom ! Look slippy ! All the latest styles in\nlatter-day creeds ! Special Bargains To-Day in Neo-Paganism. Large Assort-\nment ! Baroom ! Ham's Halos for Happiness ! Ask Adam — He Knows !\nHarrumph ! Harrumph ! \"\n§ 2.\nDown one of these runways, seated on a machine not unlike a twentieth cen-\ntury bicycle but far more delicate and equipped with dozens of sensitive antennae,\nadvanced a figure. You had to look twice at his fantastic costume to assure yourself\nthat this was a man. You figure him a sallow, plumpish person, a little over mid-\ndle size and age, bespectacled, and with a thinning of the hair on his dolicocephalic\nhead — a baldness, if one examined closely, that might have been covered by\na shilling. His clothes, conforming to the etherial fashion, were loosely draped\nrather than tubular ; woven of some bright semipneumatic material, ingeniously\ninflated to suggest a sturdiness not naturally his. All vestiges of hair had been\nextracted by a capillotomist early in his youth and a neat translucent head-dress,\nnot unlike a cap, was fastened to his scalp by means of suction. You\nmust picture him borne down one of these ribbons of traffic, past the harr and boom\nof the Blare Machines, to a quiet curve (corners and all dust-collecting angles had\nlong since vanished from architecture) half-screened off by a translucent substance"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.53", "texte": "resembling milky glass ... In the centre of this chamber on a pedestal of weights\nand measures, stood a crystal ball that seemed to have a luminous quality of\nits own ; clouds, colours, half-defined shapes writhed within it; a faint humming\nseemed to emanate from its now sparkling, now nebulous core. Fastening\nthree of the web-like filaments of the machine to the globe, he pressed a series of\nstuds along what seemed to be the crank-shaft, spun the sphere with a gyroscopic\nmotion and brought it gradually to where a violet ray pierced the ramparts.\nThe light within the crystal ball grew brighter, turned orange, then flame-colour,\nthen prismatic in its fire, exhausting the spectrum until it assumed an unwa-\nvering brilliance. This play of colours was reflected in the features of the crys-\ntal-gazer ; his expression, almost kaleidoscopic in its changes, was in quick\nsuccession, imaginative, philosophic, extravagant, metaphysical, romantic, quiz-\nzical, analytic, middle-class, historical, prophetic.\n{\" Who is it ?\" I whispered in an awestruck undertone to my super-\nterrestrial companion. \"Am I actually gazing on God, the Invisible\nKing ? \"\n\" Scarcely, \" replied the unabashed angel. \" Those varying features belong\nto a more local divinity : Wells, the Divisible God. \"\n\" But look — \"7 exclaimed, \" he is drawing nearer. . , He is stop-\nping. . . immediately beneath us .. . We can even see what is happening\ninside the crystal. . . Look — ! \")\n§ 3.\nIt is very hard to tell precisely what period was registering itself in the heart\nof that amazing crystal. One saw walls quite plainly, a table with shaded lamp,\nbooks, chairs. From the conversation between the two men — they were both in\ntheir aggressive' thirties — the place seemed to be England some time in the\nNineteen Twenties. The older one, whose name was something incongruously\nlike Fulpper, had a trick of waving his arms whenever words failed him, finishing\nhis expansive sentences with a rush of onomatopoetic sound.\n\"We can't wait for wisdom, Balsmeer, \" you hear him saying, \" Life goes\ntoo damn fast. We start off at a fair pace, increase our speed a little, lag behind,\ntry to catch up and, first thing you know — whooosh ! That's what the whole\nbusiness is : an immense and hideous scramble, an irresistible race ending in\nheart-break and — whooosh ! \"\n\" But isn't there such a thing as the scientific temperament; something that\nis not carried away so passionately ? \" inquired Balsmeer.\n\" Meaning — ? \""}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.54", "texte": "\" Well, \" continued the younger chap, \" I'm what you might call a serious\nsociological student. I'm earnest straight through. No humor to speak of. No\nromance. I stumble over bright and beautiful things. .. missing most of 'em,\nI dare say, but getting on fairly well without 'em. I know there are high\necstasies in the world — splendid music, extraordinary women, stupendous ad-\nventures, great and significant raptures — but they are just so many abstrac-\ntions to me. Scientific truth is the least accessible of mistresses ; she disguises\nherself in unlovely trappings ; she hides in filthy places ; she is cold, hard, un-\nresponsive — but she can always be found ! She is the one certainty, the one\nradiance I have found in a muddle of dirt and misery and disease. \"\n\" And don't you see, \" pursued Fulpper with exuberant warmth, \" that\nthis same Science of yours is the very Romance, you're running away from ?\nThis whole mechanistic age with its oiled efficiency, its incalculable energy\nand speed and — whizz. . . What's it all for anyway ? Just to make traffic\ngo quicker ? To get the whole mess revolving faster ? Not a bit of it! Your\nResearch and my Romance are blood-brothers — or dual personalities, to\nbe more exact... I seem to see — wait a minute ! — I seem to see a time when this\nScience will be revealed not so much as the God from the Machine as a god\nwithin it. A socialized thing. A lessener of stupid an unnecessary labor. A\nforce to end the criminal exploitation of men by man. A power to finish, once .\nand for all, the muddle and waste and confusion that destroy the finest human\npossibilities\n\" Yes, \" Balsmeer conceded, \" but — \"\n\"I'm coming to that, \" continued Fulpper. \" That's where Love and Re-\nfined Thinking — grnr ! — meet as enemies. Mr. and Mrs. Grundy won't\nbe able to debase the latter and foul the former. Knowledge — a full, frank\nknowledge — is going to change all that \".\n\" But innocence —\n\"It may go. We've tasted the fruit of the tree. You can't have your\napple and eat it, any more than Adam could. But there's something better than\ninnocence. There's a fiercer virginity, a more courageous and affiimative pu-\nrity in wisdom. No more dark whisperings. No more poisonous insinuations,\nnasty suggestiveness. No more music-hall smut, no French farce allusions. No\nmore smirching of impulses that are as beautiful as art and as clean as chemistry.\nNo more nightmares of adolescence ;no more muddling up to sex. This, please\nmy God or your Science, will cease to be world of the bully, the enslaved woman\nthe frightened child — the domain of the mud-pelter, the hypocrite, the pro-\nfessional diplomat. It will no longer be the world of the underworld, the cesspool,\nthe liver-fluke ...\"\nHis voice trailed off, incontinently . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.55", "texte": "§ 4.\nThe crystal became suddenly opaque. For a few minutes there was\nabsolute silence. Then a faint clicking began ; invisible pistons tapped out a\ndelicate rhythm. The tympani increased both in volume and speed. A lever\nshot out from the very heart of the mechanism and the dials of the Time Machine\nbegan to register new eras. The radiometer clicked off years, decades, centuries,\nmillenials. . . Presently the hands stopped. The diffused light within the ball\nresolved itself ; a gray-blue mist lifted from a strange landscape as the magnetic\narrow pointed to 5,320,506.\n§ 5.\nIt was, as I have said, a strange landscape. There was no color, no motion,\nnot a sign of vegetation. Even as the darkness disappeared, the sun, a great\ngreenish disc half the size of the heavens, sprang out of the icy sea. The pla-\nnets were drawing nearer together for the the final debacle. The rocks on the\nshore were covered with frozen rime ; the shadow of Mars, a dark clinker as round\nas the forgotten moon, covered the ground. It fell on the faces of the two who sat\nas if carved, at the mouth of their subterranean tunnel. They were swathed in\nbands of electrons ; what showed of their faces was bloodless. Their lips did not\nmove — the organs of speech had disappeared during the second stages of tele-\npathic communication — and only the minute dilations of the pupils during some\nemotional passage, animated their chiselled immobility. You picture them sit-\nting there, strangely . . .\n\"The waste of it .. . the hideous waste of it, \" you figure him flashing\nthis to her, \" What's the whole push and struggle for ? Is every generation to\nbe at the beginning of new things, never at a happy ending ? Always prodded\nor prodding itself on with dreams, half-perceived vistas ? \"\n\" My dear . . . \" her eyes remonstrated.\n\" It's you and I against the world, \"he telepathed. I guess it's always been\nthat. Two alone against the welter of mud and ugliness, dulness, obstinacy ;\ntwo tiny rebels against a world frozen with hate and hypocrisy ... The pity\nand shame of it .. . The shabbiness of it all ... \"\n\" But, dear, \" she challenged, \" the human race is still so young. It is\nstill learning to progress. \"\n\" Progress ! \" his pupils contracted. \"We are as sunk in apathy and\nignorance as our mythical ancestors in the pre-historic twentieth century.\ngress is a shibboleth. It's worse — a religion that everyone professes and no-\nbody believes in. Where are we now ? Education has lost itself in the schools,"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.56", "texte": "Sex has been buried in lies and lingerie. Science is fuddling over its dead bones,\ntrying to reconstruct the brain-cells of the Post-Wilsonian man .. . Progress !\nUntil this icy earth falls at last into a solid sun, millions of us will come out of\nour burrows to question what it all means... Here, — at the very mouths of our\nundei ground tunnels, — man once walked, warm and careless and secure\nAnd here, before that, life ran prodigally on every inch of the surface .. . Here\nthe long-necked Brontosaurus waded and the Diplodocus thrashed his thirty-\nfoot tail among the muggers. Here the giant Moa screamed as the Hesperornis,\nthose wingless birds, pursued the fishes through the Mesozoic waters. Here\nthe Protohippus pranced on his three toes and the Tyrannosaurus, buoyed up\nby fertile mud, preyed on the happy herbivores . . And all for what ?. . .\n\" For something it will be hard to answer but harder to deny, \" she communed\nintensely, \" for some transfiguration, some sort of world cleansed of its crippling\njealousies its spites, its blunderings. . . After all, there is a long time ahead.\nMan has existd for little more than five or six million years. We are still so new...\nThe future is so enormous, so staggering, so superb. L,ife is forever young . . .\nforever eager . . Men will, in some distant maturity, unify their scattered dreams\nand energies. Even death will be a part of the great integration. And, whether\nwe die or live, mankind is in the making .. . Old world are being exchanged for\nnew. Utopias, anticipations, unguessed brotherhoods, the conquest of earth\nand the stars .. . All so slowly but so confidently, in the making .. .\n§ 6.\nThe picture faded out, dissolving imperceptibly, until the ball paled to a\nmere glassy transparency .. . The figure in the machine suddenly became ener-\ngetic. He wheeled about, took his hands from the controlling levers and touched\na series of buttons on delicate, jointed rods which terminated in a set of metal\nhieroglyphs. First one was struck, then another, then a swift succession of\nnotes. The fingers flew faster, as though they sought to wrest some harmony\nfrom the heart of the machine ... For some time, nothing else was heard\nbut tap, click — tap, tap, tap — click — tap — fting ! — as the typewri-\nter was driven on through space.\n\n(To be continued)\n\nLouis Untermeyer"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.57", "texte": "FISH\n\nIt is the whales that drive\nthe small fish into the fiords. *\nI have seen forty or fifty\nof them in the water at one time.\nI have been in a little boat.\nwhen the water was boiling\non all sides of us\nfrom them swimming underneath.\nThe noise of the herring\ncan be heard nearly a mile.\nSo thick in the water, they are,\nyou can't dip the oars in.\nAll silver !\nMen call from the cliffs\nor blow horns\nthat the fishermen\nshall go down to the shore\nto their boats and nets\nto make the catch.\nAnd all those millions of fish\nmust be taken, each one, by hand.\nThe women and children\npull out a little piece\nunder the throat with their fingers\nso that the brine gets inside.\nI have seen thousands of barrels\npacked with the fish on the shore."}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.58", "texte": "In winter they set the gill-nets\nfor the cod. Hundreds of them\nare caught each night.\nIn the morning the men\npull in the nets and fish\naltogether into the boats.\nCod so big— I have seen —\nthat when a man held one up\nabove his head\nthe tail swept the ground.\nSardines, mackerel, anchovies\nall of these. And in the rivers\ntrout and salmon. I have seen\na net set at the foot of a falls\nand in the morning sixty trout in it.\nBut I guess there are not\nsuch fish in Norway nowadays.\nOn the Lofoten Islands —\ntill I was twelve.\nNot a tree or a shrub on them.\nBut in summer\nwith the sun never gone\nthe grass is higher than here.\nThe sun circles the horizon.\nBetween twelve and one at night\nit is very low, near the sea,\nto the north. Then\nit rises a little, slowly,\ntill midday, then down again\nand so for three months, getting\nhigher at first, then lower,\nuntil it disappears —\nIn winter the snow is often\nas deep as to the ceiling of this room."}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.59", "texte": "If you go there you will see\nmany Englishmen\nnear the falls and on the bridges\nfishing, fishing.\nThey will stand there for hours\nto catch the fish.\nNear the shore\nwhere the water is twenty feet or so\nyou can see the kingflounders\non the sand. They have\nred spots on the side. Men come\nin boats and stick them\nwith long pointed poles.\nHave you seen how the Swedes drink tea ?\nSo, in the saucer. They blow it\nand turn it this way and that: so.\nTall, gaunt\ngreat drooping nose, eyes dark circled,\nthe voice slow and smiling :\nI have seen boys stand\nwhere the stream is narrow\na foot each side on two rocks\nand grip the trout as they pass through.\nThey have a special way to hold them,\nin the gills, so. The long\nfingers arched like grapplehooks.\nThen the impatient silence\nwhile a little man said :\nThe English are great sportsmen.\nAt the winter resorts\nwhere I stayed\nthey wTere always the first up\nin the morning, the first"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.60", "texte": "on with the skiis.\nI once saw a young Englishman\nworth seventy million pounds —-\nYou do not know the north.\n— and you will see perhaps the huldra\nwith long tails\nand all blue, from the night,\nand the nekke, half man and half fish.\nWhen they see one of them\nthey know some boat will be lost.\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.61", "texte": "TWO UNIVERSITY PROFESSORS\n\nI\nDoce dias son pasados\ndespues que el Cid acabdra ;\naderezanse las gentes\npara salir a batalla\ncon Bucar ese rey moro\n•y contra la su canalla.\nCuando fuera, media noche\nel cuerpo asi como estaba\nle ponen sobre Babieca. .\ny al caballo lo ataban.\nAnd when the army sallied out of Valencia, the Moors of king Bucar fled\nbefore the dead body of the Cid and ten thousand of them were drowned trying\nto scramble into their ships, among them twenty kings, and the Christians got\nso much booty of gold and silver among the tents that the poorest of them be-\ncame a rich man. Then the army continued. The dead Cid, riding each days'\njourney on his horse, across the dry mountains to Sant Pedro de Cardeha in\nCastile where the king Don Alfonso had come from Toledo, and he seeing the\nCid's face still so beautiful and his beard so long and his eyes so flaming, ordered\nthat instead of closing the body in a coffin with gold nails, they should set it\nupright in a chair beside the altar, with the sword Tizona in its hand. And\nthere he stayed more than ten years.\nMando que no se enter rase\nsino que el cuerpo arreado\nse ponga junto al altar\ny a Tizona en la su mano\nasi estuvo mudio tiempo\nque fueron mas de diez anos."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.62", "texte": "In the pass above people were skiing. On the hard snow of the road there\nwere orange skins. A victoria had just driven by in which sat a bored inflated\ncouple much swathed in furs. — Where on earth are they going ? — To the\nPuerta de Navecerrada, my friend answered. — But they look as if they'd\nbe happier having tea at Molinero's than paddling about up there in the snow. —\nThey would be, but it's the style . . . winter sport . . . and all because a lithe\nlittle brown man who died two years ago liked the mountains. Before him no\nMadrileno ever knew the Sierra existed. — Who was that ? — Don Francisco\nGiner.\nThat afternoon when it was already getting dark we were scrambling\nchilled, our faces lashed by the snow, down through drifts from a shoulder of Siete\nPicos with the mist all about us and nothing but the track of a flock of sheep\nfor a guide. The light from a hut pushed a long gleaming orange finger up the\nmountain-side. Once inside, we pulled off our shoes and stockings, and toasted\nour feet at a great fireplace round which were flushed faces, glint of teeth in\nlaughter, schoolboys and people from the university shouting and declaiming, a\nsmell of tea and wet woollens. Everybody was noisy with the rather hysteric-\nal excitement that warmth brings after exertion in cold mountain air. Cheeks\nwere purple and tingling. A young man with fuzzy yellow hair told me a story\nin French about the Emperor of Morocco, and produced a tin of potted black-\nbirds which it came out were from the said personage's private stores. Unend-\ning fountains of tea seethed in two smoke-blackened pots on the hearth. In\nthe back of the hut among leaping shadows were piles of skis and the door occas-\nionally opened to let in a wet snowy figure and shut again on skimming snow\ngusts. Everyone wTas rocked with enormous jollity. Then train-time came\nsuddenly and we ran the miles to the station crashing down the rocky path.\nIn the third class carriage people sang songs as the train jounced its way\ntowards the plain and Madrid. The man who sat next to me asked me if I\nknew it was Don Francisco who had had that hut built for the children of the\nInstitucion Libre de Ensefianza. Little by little he told me the history of the\nKrausistas and Francisco Giner de los Rios and the revolution of 1873, a story\nlike enough to many others in the annals of the nineteeth century movement\nfor education but in its overtones so intimately Spanish and individual, that it\ncame as the explanation of many things I had been wondering about and gave\nme an inkling of some of the origins of a rather special mentality I had noticed\nin people I knew about Madrid.\nSomewhere in the' forties a professor of the Universidad Central, banz de\nRio, was sent to Germany to study philosophy on a government scholarship.\nSpain was still in the intellectual coma that had followed the failure of the Cor-\ntes of Cadiz and the restoration of Fernando Septimo. A decade or more be-"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.63", "texte": "fore, Larra, the last flame of romantic revolt, had shot himself for love in Ma-\ndrid. In Germany at Heidelberg, Sanz del Rio found dying Krause, the first\narch- priest who stood interpreting between Kant and the world When he re-\nturned to Spain he refused to take up his chair at the university, saying he must\nhave time to think out his problems, and retired to a tiny room with one window\nin the town of Illescas, where was another student, Grecos San Ildefonso.\nThere he lived several years in seclusion. When he did return to his post in\nthe university, it was to reiuse to make ths profession of political and religious\nfaith lequired by a certain prime ministei named Orovio. He was dismissed\nand several of his disciples. At the same time Francisco Giner de los Rios,\nthen a young man who had just gained an appointment with great difficulty\nbecause of his liberal ideas, resigned out of solidarity with the rest. In 1868,\ncame the liberal revolution which was the political expression of this whole move-\nment and all these professors were reinstated. Until the restoration of the\nBourbons in '75 Spain was a hive of modernization, Buropeanization.\nReturned to power, Orovio lost no time in republishing his decree of a pro-\nfession of faith. Giner, Ascarate, Salmeron and several others were arrested and\nexiled to distant fortresses when they protested; their friends declared them-\nselves in sympathy and lost their jobs, and so many others resigned that the\nuniversity was at one blow denuded of its best men. From this came the idea\nof founding a free university which should be supported entirely by private sub-\nscription. From that moment the life of Giner de los Rios was completelv\nentwined with the growth of the Institution Libre de Ensenanza, which developed\nin the course of a few years into a coeducational primary school. And directly\nor indirectly there is not a single outstanding figure in Spanish life today whose\ndevelopment was not largely influenced by this dark slender baldheaded old\nman with a white beard, whose picture one finds on men's writing desks.\n. . . Oh, si, llevad, amigos,\nsu cuerpo a la Montana\na los azules montes\ndel ancho Guadarrama.\nWrote his pupil, Antonio Machado — and I rather think Machado is the pupil\nwhose name will live the longest — after Don Francisco's death in 1915.\n. . . Yes, carry, friends\nhis body to the hills,\nto the blue peaks\nof the wide Guadarrama"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.64", "texte": "There are deep gulches\nof green pines where the wind sings.\nThere is rest for his spirit\nunder a cold live oak\nin loam full of thyme, where play\ngolden butterflies . . .\nThere the master one day\ndreamed new flowerings for Spain.\nThese are fragments from an by Juan Ramon Jimenez, another poet\npupil of Don Francisco :\n\" Don Francisco ... It seemed that he incarnated all that is tender and\nkeen in life ; flowers, flames, birds, peaks, children. . . Now, stretched on his\nbed, like a frozen river that perhaps still flows under the ice, he is the clear\npath for endless recurrence .. . He was like a living statue of himself, a statue\nof earth of wind, of water, of fire. He has so freed himself from the task of every\nday that talking to him we might have thought we were talking to his image.\nYes. One would have said he wasnt going to die : that he had already passed,\nwithout anybody's knowing it, beyond death, that he was with us forever, like\na spirit.\n\"In the little door of the bedroom one already feels well-being. A trail\nof the smell of thyme and violets that comes and goes with the breeze from the\nopen window leads like a delicate hand towards where he lies. . . Peace. All\ndeath has done has been to infuse the color of his skin with a deep violet veiling\nof ashes.\n\" What a suave smell, and how excellent death is here ! No rasping es-\nsences, none of the exterior of blackness and crepe. All this is white and unclutt-\nered, like a hut in the fields in Andalucia, like the whitewashed portal of some\ngarden in the south. All just as it was. Only he who was there has gone.\n\" The day is fading, with a little wind that has a premonition of spring.\nIn the window-panes is a confused mirroring of rosy clouds. The blackbird,\nthat he must have heard for thirty years, that he'd have liked to have gone on\nhearing dead, has come to see if he's listening. Peace. The bedroom and the\ngarden strive quietly, light against light : the brightness of the bedroom is\nstronger and glows out into the afternoon. A sparrow flutters up into the\nsudden stain with which the sun splashes the top of a tree and sits there"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.65", "texte": "twittering. In the shadow below the blackbird whistles once more. Now and\nthen one seems to hear the voice that is silenced for ever.\n\" How pleasant to be here ! It's like sitting beside a spring, reading under\na tree, like letting the stream of a lyric river carry one away. . . And one\nfeels like never moving : like plucking to infinity, as one might tear roses to\npieces, these white full hours ; like clinging forever to this clear teacher in the\neternal twilight of this last lesson of austerity and beauty.\n\" Municipal Cemetery \" it says on the gate so that one may know of that\nother sign, Catholic Cemetery opposite.\n\" He didn't want to be buried in that cemetery, so opposed to the smiling\nsavorous poetry of his spirit. But it had to be. He'll still hear the black-\nbirds of the familiar garden. — After all, says Cossio, I dont think he'll be\nsorry to spend a little while with Don Julian . . .\n\" Careful hands have taken the dampness out of the earth with thyme :\non the coffin they have thrown roses, narcissus, violets. There comes, lost, an\naroma of last evening, a bit of the bedroom from which they took so much\naway . . .\n\" Silence. Faint sunlight. Great piles of cloud full of wind drag frozen\nshadows across us, and through them flying low, black grackles. In the distance,\nGuardarrama chaste beyond belief lifts crystals of cubed white light. Some\ntiny bird trills for a second in the sown fields nearby that are already vaguely\ngreenish, then lights on the creamy top of a tomb, then flies away . . .\n\" Neither impatience nor carping slowness and forgetfulness .. . Silence.\nIn the silence, the voice of a child walking through the fields, the sound of a\nsob hidden among the tombstones, the wind, the broad wind of these days.. . .\n\" I've seen occasionally a fire put out with earth. Innumerable little\ntongues spurted from every side. A pupil of his who was a mason made for this\nextinguished fire its palace of mud in a piece of earth two friends kept free. He\nhas at the head a euonimus, young and strong, and at the foot, already full of\nsprouts with coming spring, an acacia ...\"\nRound El Pardo the ever-green oaks, encinas, are scattered sparsely, tight\nround heads of blue green, over hills that in summer are yellow like the haunches\nof lions. From Madrid to El Pardo was one of Don Francisco's favorite walks,\nout past the jail where over the gate is an echo of his teaching : « Abhor\nthe crime but pity the criminal; \" past the palace of Moncloa with its stately\nabandoned gardens, and out along the Manzanares by a road through the royal"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.66", "texte": "domain, where are gamekeepers with shot guns and signs of \" Beware the man-\ntraps ; \" then up a low hill from which one sees the Sierra Guadarrama piled up\"\nagainst the sky to the north, greenish snowpeaks above long blue foothills, and\nall the foreground rolling land full of clumps of encinas; and at last into the\nlittle village with its barracks and its delapidated convent and its plane trees\nin front of the mansion Charles V built. It was under an encina near El Pardo\nthat I sat all one long morning r ading up in reviews and textbooks on the theory\nof law the life and opinions of Bon Francisco. In the moments when the sun\nshone, the heat made the sticky cistus bushes with their glistening white flowers\nall about me reek with pungence. Then a cool wisp of wind would bring a chill\nof snow slopes from the mountains and a passionless indefinable fragrance of\ndistances. At intervals, a church bell would toll in a peevish importunate\nmanner from the boxlike convent on the hill opposite. I was reading an account\nof the philosophical concept of monism, cudgelling my brain with phrases :\n\" And his fervent love of nature made the master evoke occasionally in class\nthis beautiful image of the great poet and philosopher Schelling: Man is the eye\nwith which the spiiit of nature contemplates itself, and then having qualified\nwith a phrase Schelling's expression, he would turn on those who see in nature\na manifestation of the rough, the gross, the instinctive, and offer for meditation\nthis saying of Michelet : Cloth woven by a weaver is just as natural as that a\nspider weaves. All is in one Being, all is in the Idea and for the Idea, the latter\nbeing understood in the way platonic substantialism has been interpreted ...»\nIn the grass under my book were bright fronds of moss, among which very\nsmall red ants performed prodigies of mountaineering, while through tramped\ntunnels long blacks ants scuttled darkly, glinting when the light struck them.\nThe smell of cistus was intense, hot, full of spices as the narrow streets of an\noriental town at night. In the distance the mountains piled up in zones, olive\ngreen, Prussian blue, ultramarine, ice-white. A cold windgust turned the\npages of the book : \" Thought and passion, reflection and instinct, affections,\nemotions, impulses collaborate in the rule of custom which is revealed not in\nwords declared and promulgated in view of future conduct, but in the act itself,\ntacit, taken for granted, or, according to the energetic expression of the Digest:\nrebus et factis. \"\nOver factis sat a little green and purple fly with the body curved under\nat the tail. I wondered vaguely if it was a May-fly. And then all of a sudden\nit was clear to me that these books, these dusty philosophical phrases, these\nmortuary articles by official personages were dimming the legend in my mind,\ntaking the brilliance out of the indirect but extraordinarily personal impact,\nof the man himself. They embalmed the Cid and set him up in the church\nwith his in his hand, for all men to see. What sort of legend would a"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "65", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.67", "texte": "5\n\ntechnical disquisition by the archbishop on the Cid's theory of the angle of ma-\nchiculations have generated in men's minds ? And what can a saint or a soldier\nor a founder of institutions leave behind him durable, but a legend ? Certainly\nit is not for the Franciscans that one remembers Francis of Assisi.\nAnd the curious thing about the legend of a personality is that it ma}' reach\nthe highest fervor without being formulated. It is something by itself that\nstands behind anecdotes, death notices, elegies.\nIn Madrid at the funeral of another of the great figures of nineteenth\ncentury Spain, Perez Galdos, I stood on the curb beside a large-mouthed youth\nwith a flattened toad-like face who was balancing a great white metal jar of milk\non his shoulder. The plumed hearse and the carriages full of flowers had just\npassed, ihe scieet in front 01 us was a slow stream of people very silent, their\nfeeL shuffling, shuffling, feet in patent leather shoes and spats, feet in square\n-toed shoes, pointed-toed shoes, alpargatas, canvas sandals ; people along the\nsidewalks seemed unable to resist the suction of it, joined in unostentatiously\nto follow if only a few moments the procession of the legend of Don Benito.\nThe bo;y with the milk turned to me and said how lucky it was they were burying\nSaldos, he'd have an excuse for being late for the milk. Then suddenly he\npulled his cap ofi, became enormously excited and began offering cigarettes to\neveryone round about. Pie scratched his head, and said in the voice of a Saul\nstricken 011 ihe road to Damascus ... How many books he must have written\nthat gentleman ! Carrajo !. . . It makes a fellow sorry when a gentleman like\nthat dies, and shouldering his pail, his blue tunic fluttering in the wind, he\njoined the procession.\nLike the milk boy, I found myself joining the procession of the legend of\nGiner de los Rios. That morning under the encina I closed up the volumes\non the theory of law and the bulletins with their death-notices and got to my\nfeet and looked over the tawny hills of El Pardo, and thought of the little lithe\nbald-headed man with a white beard like the beard in El Greco's portrait of\nCovarruoias, who had taught a generation to love the tremendous contours\nof their countiy, to climb mountains and bathe in cold torrents, who was the\nfirst, it aimost seems, to feel the tragic beauty of Toledo, who in a lifetime of\ncourageous unobtrusive work managed to stamp all the men and women whose\nlives remotely touched his with the seal of his personality. Born in Ronda\nin the wildest part of Andalusia of a family that came from Velez-Malaga,\na white town near the sea in the rich fringes of the Sierra Nevada, he had\ndie mental agility, the sceptical tolerance and the uproarious good nature of\nthe people of that region, combined with the sobriety and sinewiness of a\nmountaineer. His puritanism became a definite part of the creed of the\nhopeful discontented generations that are gradually, for better or for worse"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "66", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.68", "texte": "remoulding Spain. His nostalgia of the north of fjords where fir trees hang\nover black tidal waters, of blonde people cheerful, orderly, in rectangular\nblue-tiled towns became the gospel of Europeanization, of wholesale destruc-\ntion of all that was individual, savage, African in the Spanish tradition. Rebus\net factis. And yet none of these things and acts do much to explain the pe-\nculiar radiance of his memory, the jovial tenderness with which people tell one\nabout him. The immanence of the man is such that even an outsider, one who,\nlike the milk boy at the funeral of Galdos, meets the procession accidentally\nwith another errand in his head, is drawn in almost without knowing it. It is\nimpossible to think of him in a box in unconsacrated ground in the Cementerio\nCivil. In Madrid, in the little garden of the Institution where he used to teach\nthe children, in front of a certain open fire in a certain house at El Pardo where\nthey say he loved to sit and talk, I used to half expect to meet him, that some\nfriend would take me to see him as they took people to see the Cid in Sant\nPedro de Cardena.\nCara tiene de her mo sura\nmuy hermosa y colorada;\nlos ofos igual abiertos\nmuy afiuesta la su barb a.\nNon parece que esta muerto\nantes vivo semejaba.\nII\nAlthough Miguel de Unamuno was recently condemned to fifteen years\nimprisonment for lese majeste for some remark made in an article published in a\nValencia paper, no attempt has been made either to make him serve the term\nor to remove him from the chair of Greek at the University of Salamanca. Which\nproves something about the efficacy of the stand Giner de los Rios and his\nfriends made fifty years before. Furthermore, at the time of the revolutionary\nattempt of August 1917 the removal of Bestiero from his chair caused so many\nof the faculty to resign and such universal protest that it was restored to liim,\nalthough he was an actual member of the revolutionary committee and at\nthat time under sentence for life. In 1875, after the fall of the republic it had\nbeen in the face of universal popular reaction that the Krausistas founded\ntheir free university. The lump is leavened.\nBut Unamuno. A Basque from the country of living in Salamanca\nin the highest coldest part of the plateau of Old Castile, in many senses the op-"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "67", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.69", "texte": "posite of Giner de los Rios who was austere as a man on a long pleasant walk who\ndoesn't overeat or overdrink so that the walk may be longer and pleasanter,\nwhile Unamuno is austere religiously, mystically. Giner de los Rios was the\nchampion of life, Unamuno is the champion of death. Here is his creed, one\nof his creeds from the preface of the Vida de Don.Quijote y Sancho :\n\" There is no future : there is never a future. This thing they call the fu-\nture is one of the greatest lies. Today is the real future. What shall we be\ntomorrow ? There is no tomorrow. What about us today, now; that is the\nonly question.\n\" And as for today, all these nincompoops are thoroughly satisfied because\nthey exist today, mere existence is enough for them. Existence, or-\ndinary naked existence fills their whole soul. They feel nothing beyond\nexistence.\n\" But do they exist ?. Really exist? I think not, because if they did exist,\nif they realty existed, existence would be suffering for them and they wouldn't\ncontent themselves with it. If they really and truly existed in time and space,\nthey would suffer not being of eternity and infinity. And this suffering, this\npassion, what is it but the passion of God in us ? God who suffers in us from\nour temporariness and finitude ; that divine suffering will burst all the puny\nbonds of logic with which they try to tie down their puny memories and their\npuny hopes, the illusion of their past and the illusion of their future.\n\" Your Quixotic madness has made you more than once speak to me of\nQuixotism as the new religion. And I tell you this new religion you propose to\nme, if it hatched, would have two singular merits. One that its founder, its\nprophet, Don Quixote — not Cervantes — probably wasn't a real man of flesh\nand blood at all, indeed we suspect that he was pure fiction. And the other\nmerit would be that this prophet was a ridiculous prophet, people's butt and\nlaughing-stock.\n\" What we need most is the valor to face ridicule. Ridicule is the arm\nof all the miserable barbers, bachelors, parish priests, canons, and dukes who\nkeep hidden the sepulchre of the Knight of Madness. Knight who made all the\nworld laugh but never cracked a joke. He had too great a soul to bring forth\njokes. They laughed at his seriousness.\n\" Begin then, friend, to do the Peter the Hermit and call people to join\nyou, to join us, and let us all go win back the sepulchre even if we dont know\nwhere it is. The crusade itself will reveal to us the sacred place."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "68", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.70", "texte": "\" Start marching ! Where are you going ? The star will tell you: to the\nsepulchre ! What shall we do on the road while we march ? What ? Fight! Fight,\nand how ?\n\" How ? If you find a man lying ? Shout in his face : lie! and forward !\nIf you find a man stealing, shout : thief ! and forward ! If you find a man\nbabbling asininities, to whom the crowd listens open-mouthed, shout at them\nall: idiots ! and forward, always forward !\n\"To the march then ! And throw out of the sacred squadron all those\nwho begin to study the step and its length and its rhythm. Above everything\nthrow out all those who fuss about this business of rhythn. They'll turn the\nsquadron into a quadrille and the march into a dance. Away with them ! Let\nthem go off somewhere else to sing the flesh.\n\" Those who try to turn the squadron on the march into a dancing,\nquadrille call themselves and each other poets. But they're not. They're\nsomething else. They only go to the sepulchre out of curiosity, to see what\nit's like, looking for a new sensation, and to amuse themselves along the road.\nAway with them !\n\" It's these that with their indulgence of Bohemians contribute to maintain\ncowardice and lies and all the weaknesses that flood us. When they preach\nliberty they only think of one : that of disposing of their neighbor's wife. All\nis sensuality with them. They even fall in love sensually with ideas, with great\nideas. They are incapable of marrying a great and pure idea and breeding a\nfamily with it; they only flirt with ideas. They want them as mistresses, some-\ntimes just for the night. Away with them!\n\"If one wants to pluck some flower or other along the path, that smiles\nfrom the fringe of grass, let him pluck it, but without breaking ranks, without\ndropping out of the squadron of which the leader must always keep his eyes on\nthe flaming sonorous star. But if he puts the little flower in the strap above\nhis cuirass, not to look at it himself, but for others to look at, away with\nhim ! Let him go with his flower in his buttonhole and dance somewhere else.\n\" Look friend, if you want to accomplish your mission and serve your\ncountry, you must make yourself unpleasant to the sensitive boys who only see\nthe world through the eyes of their sweethearts. Or through something worse.\nLet your words be strident and rasping in their ears.\n\" The squadron must only stop at night, near a wood or under the lee of\na mountain. There they will pitch their tents and the crusaders will wash\ntheir feet, and sup off what their women have prepared ; then they will beget a\nson on then and kiss them and go to sleep to begin the march again the follow-"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.71", "texte": "ing day. And when someone dies, they will leave him on the edge of the road\nwith his armor on him, at the mercy of the crows. Let the dead bury the\ndead. \"\nInstead of the rationalists and humanists of the North, Unamuno's idols\nare the mystics and saints and sensualists of Castile, hard stalwart men who\nwalked with God, Loyola, Torquemada, Pizarro, Narvaez, who governed with\nwhips and thumbscrews and drank death down greedily like heady wine. He\nis excited by the amorous madness of the mysticism of Santa Teresa and San\nJuan de la Cruz. His religion is paradoxical, unreasonable, of faith alone, full\nof furious yearning, otherworldliness. His style it follows is headlong, gruff,\nredundant, full of tremendous pounding phrases. There is a vigorous almost\nangry insistance about his dogmas that makes his essays unforgettable, even if\none objects as violently as Ido to his asceticism and death-worship. There is\nan anarchic fury about his crying in the wilderness that will win many a man\nfrom the fleshpots and chain gangs. In the apse of the old cathedral of Sala-\nmanca is a fresco of the Last Judgment, perhaps by the Castilian painter Gal-\nlego. Over the retablo on a black ground is a tremendous figure of the evening\nangel brandishing a sword while behind him unrolls the scroll of the Dies I?ae\nand huddled clusters of plump little naked people fall away into space from\nunder his feet. There are moments in « Del Sentimiento Tragico de la Vida »\nand in the « Vida de DonQuijote y Sancho » when in the rolling earthy Castilian\nphrases one can feel the brandishing of the sword of that very angel. Not for\nnothing does Unamuno live in the rust and saffron-colored town of Salamanca\nin the midst of bare redhills that bulge against an enormous flat sky in which\nthe clouds look like piles of granite, like floating cathedrals they are so solid,\nheavy, ominous. A country where barenness and the sweep of cold wind and\nthe lash of strong wine have made people's minds ingrow into the hereafter, where\nthe clouds have been tramped by the angry feet of the destroying angel.\nHe is constantly attacking sturdily those who clamor for the modern-\nization, Europeanization of Spanish life and Spanish thought. He is in many\nways the counterprose to the humanitarian northern-looking movement of the\ndisciples of Giner de los Rios.\nIn an essay in one of the volumes published by the Residencia de Estudian-\ntes he wrote :\n\" As can be seen, I proceed by what they call arbitrary affirmations, without\ndocumentation, without proof, outside of modern European logic, disdainful\nof its methods.\n\" Perhaps. I want no other method than that of passion, and when my\nbreast swells with disgust, repugnance, sympathy or disdain, I let the mouth,\nspeak the bitterness of the heart, and let the words come as they come."}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "70", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.72", "texte": "\" We Spaniards are, they say, arbitrary charlatans, who fill up with rhet-\noric the gaps in logic, who subtilize with more or less ingenuity, but uselessly,\nwho lack the sense of coherence, with scolastic souls, casuists and all that.\n« I've heard similar things said of Augustine, the great African, soul of\nfire that spilt itself in leaping waves of rhetoric, twistings of the phrase, anti-\nthesis, paradoxes and ingenuities. Saint Augustine was a Gongorine and a con-\nceptualist at the same time. Which makes me think that Gongorism and con-\nceptualism are the most natural forms of passion and vehemence.\n\" The great African, the great ancient African ! Here is an expression —\nancient African — that one can oppose to modern European, and that's worth\nas much at least. African and ancient were Saint Augustine and Tertullian.\nAnd why shouldn't we say : We must make ourselves ancient Africanstyle or\nelse we must make ourselves African ancientstyle.\nThe typical tree of Castile is the encina, a kind of live oak that grows low\nwith dense bluish foliage and a ribbed knotted and contorted trunk ; it always\ngrows singly and on dry hills. On the roads one meets lean men with knotted\nhands and brown sun-wizened faces that seem brothers to the encinas of their\ncountry. The thought of Unamuno, emphatic, lonely, contorted is hammered\ninto homely violent phrases brother to the men on the roads and to the encinas\non the hills of Castile.\nThis from the end of « Del Sentimiento Tragico de la \"Vida »:\n\" And in this critical century, Don Quixote has also contaminated himself\nwith criticism, and he must charge against himself, victim of intellectualism and\nsentimentalism, who when he is most sincere, appears most affected. The poor\nman wants to rationalize the irrational, and irrationalize the rational. And\nhe falls victim of the inevitable despair of a rational century, of which the great-\nest victims were Tolstoy and Nietzsche. Out of despair, he enters into the heroic\nfury of that Quixote of thought who broke out of the cloister, Giordano Bruno,\nand makes himself awakener of sleeping souls, dormitantium animorum excubitor,\nas the ex-Dominican when of himself, when he wrote : . . . — The heroic love is\npropor to superior natures called insane — insane — not because the do not\nknow — non sanno — but because they know too much — soprasanno —.\n\" But Bruno believed in the triumph of his doctrines, or at least at the foot\nof his statue on the Campo dei Fiori, opposite the Vatican, they have put that\nit is offered by the century he had divined — il secolo da lui divinato. But our\nDon Quixote, the resurrected, Don Quixote, does not believe that\nhis doctrines will triumph in the world, because they are not his. And is it\nbetter that they should not triumph. If they wanted to make Don Quixote\nking, he would retire alone to the hill-top, fleeing the crowds of king-makers\nand king-killers, as did Christ when, after the miracle of the loaves and fishes,"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "71", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.73", "texte": "they wanted to proclaim him king. He left the title of king to be put above\nthe cross.\nWhat is, then, the new mission of Don Quixote in this world ? To cry\nto cry m the wilderness. For the wilderness hears although men do not hear,'\nand one day will turn into a sonorous wood, and that solitary voice that spreads\nm the desert like seed, will sprout into a gigantic cedar that will sing with a\nhundreu thousand tongues an eternal hosanna to the lord of life and death. \"\nIII\n. d hereby hangs a moral highly applicable to our own trustee-ridden\nuniversities, if to nothing else. If we really wanted liberty of speech and\ntnought, we could probably get it — Spain fifty years ago certainly had a longer\ntradition 01 despotism than has the United States - but do we want it ?\nIn these years we shall see.\n\nJohn Dos Passos"}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.74", "texte": "Marcoussis.\nNature Morte."}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.75", "texte": "Marcoussis.\nNature Morte."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.76", "texte": "IF YOU HAD THREE HUSBANDS\n\n(icontinued)\n\nLENGTH OF TIME\nHe agreed. He said I would have known by this time. I don't like to\nthink about it. It would have led to so much. Not that I am disappointed\nI cannot be disappointed when I have so much to make me happy. I know all\nthat lam to happiness, it is to be happy and lam happy. lam so completely\nhappy that I mention it.\nIn writing now I find it more of a strain because now I write by sentences.\nI don't mean that I feel it above. I feel it here and by this time I mention it\ntoo. Ido not feel the significance of this list.\nCan you read a book,\nBy the time artificial flowers were made out of feathers no pride was left.\nAny one is proud if the name of their house is the name of a city.\nI remember very wrell the time I was asked to come up and I said I did not\nwant to. I said I did not want to, but I was willing not quite to understand\nwhy after all there need to poison. Do not say more than a word.\nNo that is wrong.\nCousins and cousins, height is a brother. Are they careful to stay.\nIf you had three husbands I don't mean that it is a guess or a wish.\nI believe finally in what I saw in what I see. I believe finally in what I see,\nin where I satisfy my extreme shadow.\nBelieving in an extreme dream. This is so that she told her mother.\nI do not believe it can be mentioned.\nAstonishing leaves are found in their dread in their dread of that color.\nAstonishing leaves can be found in their dread not in their dread of that\ncolor. Astonishing leaves can be found in their dread in their dread of\nthat color.\nWhen it came to say I mean a whole day nobody meant a whole day.\nWhen it came not to say a whole nobody meant a whole day. There never\nwTas a single day or a single murmur or a single word or a single circumstance\nof sweating. What is sweating. Not distilling. Distilling necessitates know-"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.77", "texte": "ing. Knowing necessitates reasons and reasons do not necessitate flowers\nStates are flowers.\nBrother to birthdays.\nTwenty four days.\nNot a beginning.\nBy politeness. It is not really polite to be unworthy. Unworthy of\nwhat unworthy of the house and of the property adjoining.\nLet me describe the red room. A red room isn't cold or warm. A red room\nis not meant to be icy. A red room is worthy of articles.\nHe pleased she pleased everybody. He pleased her.\nHe pleased her to go. She was attracted by the time. Ido not remember\nthat there were any clocks.\nI don't wish to begin counting.\nAll this was after it was necessary for us to be there all the time. Who\nwere we. We were often enlivening. By way of what. By way of steps or\nthe door. By way of steps. By way of steps or the door.\nI remember very well the day he asked me if I were patient. Of course I\nwas or of course I was patient enough, of course I was patient enough.\nWhen it was easy to matter we were all frames not golden or pointed, just\nfinely or formerly flattered. It was so easy easy to be bell. Belle was her name.\nBelle or Bella. I don't mean relations or overwhelming. I don't even mean\nthat we were fond of healthy trees. Trees aren't healthy by yesterday or by\nroots or by swelling. Trees are a sign of pleasure. It means that there is a\ncountry. A country give to me sweet land of liberty.\nOne can easily get tired of rolls and rows. Rows have one seat. Rolls are\npolite. In a way there is no difference between them. Rolls and rows have\nfinished purses. Rows and rolls have finished purses.\nIt isn't easy to be restless.\nIf sitting is not developed.\nIf standing is not open.\nIf active action is represented by lying and if piles of tears are beside\nmore delight, it is a rope.\nBy that we swim.\nCapture sealing wax not in or color.\nCeilings.\nI like that dwelling.\nAll the same sound or bore."}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.78", "texte": "Do it.\nTry that.\nTry.\nWhy.\nWiden.\nPublic speaking is sinister if cousins are brothers. We were a little pile.\nBuy that.\nThere is no such sense.\nPleasant days.\nSo to speak.\nSand to-day.\nSunday.\nSight in there.\nSaturday.\nPray.\nWhat forsooth.\nDo be quiet.\nLaugh.\nI know it.\nShall we.\nOne must be willing.\nIf one loves one another by that means they do not perish. They\nfrequent the same day and nearly that it was six months apart.\nThree and three make two.\nTwo twenty.\nI was not disappointed.\nDo as you please, write the name, change it, declare that you are strong?\nbe annoyed. All this is not foolish.\nShe was doubtless not old.\nPleasant days brother. I don't mean this thing. I don't mean calling\naloud. I never did so, I was not plaintive. I was not even reached by\ncoughing. I was splendid and sorrowful. I could catch my breath.\nI don't feel that necessity.\nThey came home.\nThey came home beside.\nAll of it was strange, their daughter was strange, their excitement was\nstrange and painfully sheltered. Quiet leaning is so puzzling. Certainly glas-"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.79", "texte": "ses make cats a nuisance. We really have endured too much. Everybody\nsays the same thing.\n. Ild° not see nmch necessity for believing that it would have occurred\nas it did occur if sun and September and the hope had not been mentioned.\nIt was all foolish. Why not be determined. Why not oppose. Why not\nsettle flowers. Settle on flowers, speak cryingly, and be loath to detain her.\n1 dont see how any one can speak.\nI am not satisfied.\n\nGertrude Stein\n\nbe concluded)"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.80", "texte": "THEATRE\nJohn Rodker\nClose held by warm darkness,\nwet murmuring darkness,\nthe crystal ball.\nThe mellow stage light\ntransfuses into the skull\nand the brain welters in light.\nThe body forgotten, one with the dark,\none's being nothing —\nbut it projects a facade\na tall window\nwhich sucks in the light.\nAnd the light breaks in hard splinters\nbetween one's being which is nothing\nand the very bright window\nwhich is nothing.\nIt is all very peaceful\nand probably like heaven.\nThough far off and thinly\nterror runs down a thin wire —\nWells into sound —\nFills the horizon to crush us\nwith a noise like tearing silk."}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.81", "texte": "F. Leger.\nPaysage Animé."}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.82", "texte": "DEDICATED TO THE ENEMY\n\n(continued)\n\nHere, again, in connection with my own work, are some few assertions\nwhich have been made, which, while containing some degree of trnth, none of\nthem contain the whole truth:\n\"Mr. Gordon Craig, who has thought out his subject more completely\nthan any of his English imitators, long ago came to the conclusion that he must\nmake his actors fit his background, and his logical mind created a new art in\nwhich each factor of the stage should be conditioned by the whole effect. He\nwanted something quite different from a drama of human beings. I think that\nis the logical outcome of highly-conventionalized back-grounds. Possibly\nMr. Gordon Craig, the originator of all modern scenic art, does not think that\nnow, for he himself says : 'My way changes every three years. Perhaps this\naccounts for my followers having lost their way.\nE A. Baughan, Daily News and Leader, 12 Feb. 1914.\n\" I gather that he [Mr. Gordon Craig] wants the scene, for all its simplifica-\ntions, to count for more, at any rate, than the words. It seems to me that he is\nmaking here for another form of art than drama. I can imagine that such\na form, in which figures magnified by mask and cothurnus moved about in the\nvast abstract spaces which his scenery can create, would be singularly beautiful\nand impressive ; but it will approximate rather to the dance than to the drama\nas we know it. \"\nRoger Fry, in the New Statesman, 27 June 1914.\n\"Mr. Craig is a bit of a genius (I hope he will agree with me that one must\nnot use that word to the full too rashly), and he is wholly an idealist. He\nwill have no less than the dramatic kingdom of heaven on earth. He will\nhave perfection as he sees it or nothing .. . Now, as with all idealists,\nMr. Craig's influence has been mainly destructive. \"\nGranville Barker, letter to Daily Mail, 25 Sept. 1912."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "81", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.83", "texte": "6\n\n\" The trouble with Mr. Gordon Craig's conception of the theatre seems to\nbe his preoccupation with the pictorial and decorative side of drama. The\nplays of Shakespeare fall into his scheme well enough ; but there is little room\nfor Sheridan, and still less for Shaw. He ignores modern comedy altogether,\nand modern comedy is as needful for our sanity as it is for our amusement. \"\nAshley Dukes, letter to Daily Mail, i Sept. 1913.\n\"Mr. Gordon Craig would shut the lips of the theatre. \"\nP. P. H. [owe.] Review of On the Art of the Theatre in Outlook, 23 Dec. 1912.\n\" Mr. Craig is a prophet. Like all prophets, he is wrong. And, like all\nprophets, he is valuable. If this book is one of the most useful things ever\nwritten upon the subject of the drama it is that virtue not of its immediate\npractical suggestions, but precisely by virtue of the fierce impossibilism of\nits ideal. He gives us a fresh appreciation of the possible. \"\nFloyd Dell. Review of On the Art of the Theatre in Chicago Evening Post,\n19 Jan. 1912.\n\" Mr. Gordon Craig, in the highest flights of his fancy, seems to desire,\nand expect, the total elimination of the speaking actor, leaving the interpreta-\ntion of the drama to mute figures — preferably mechanical — music, alle-\ngorical dancers, and special painted and atmospheric effects. \"\nReview of On the Art of the Theatre in The Nation, U. S. A., 1 Feb. 1912.\n\" I understand that this subordination of the player is one of the aims\nof Mr. Gordon Craig. \"\nWestminster Gazette. Notice of The Miracle, 27 Dec. 1912.\n\" Mr. Craig's designs not only make an appeal independently of the play\nthey are supposed to illustrate : they actually dwarf the player's art and\n•disastrously compete with the author's intention. \"\nThe Future of the Theatre, John Palmer, 1913 \\\nI hold that too much of this is rash and exaggerated misstatement born\nof unconscious (let us hope unconscious) misunderstanding.\nAgain, I remember once an actor-manager laughing at some painting\nbecause the artist had made the sea yellow and the rocks green. The sea can\nbe yellow —it can be red — I have seen it both colours. Rocks can be green\nand blue and crimson as well as gray, white, or brown. Trelawny —in his\nRecords — writes:\n1 This writer calls his book \"The Future of the Theatre, \" and yet writes solely of\none branch of it — of the English Theatre."}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "82", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.84", "texte": "\" Byron, looking at the western sky, exclaimed : ' Where is the green your\nfriend the Laker talks such fustian about ? ' meaning Coleridge :\nGazing on the western sky\nAnd its peculiar tint of yellow green.\nDejection : in Ode.\n\" ' Who ever, ' asked Byron, ' saw a yellow sky ? '\n\" Shelley was silent, knowing that if he replied Byron would give vent to\nhis spleen. So I said : ' The sky in England is oftener green than blue.\n\" ' Black, you mean, ' rejoined Byron; and this discussion brought us to\nhis door. \"\nBut we know that the sky can be blue, it can be green, yellow, black;\nit can be and is every blessed colour ever known to us, and some unknown\nvet. us get higher up and lower down in the heavens, on eaitn and under\nit before we make our assertions. And then we shall get fewer fixed and er-\nroneous ideas.\nAccept it from me then — I who have anyhow been up and down into\nfar-off places in our Theatre world — accept it from me that while the Drama\nis all that Mr. Archer and Mr. Palmer and Mr. Collier and Aristotle tell us it is,\nit can be a hundred other things and a hundred more besides ... it is permitted.\nA Drama can be a silent affair, a spoken thing, a thing sung, spoken\nand silent : it can be enacted by a single person — who says nothing, who\nmoves only, who moves feet, arms, legs, hands, head, and whole person, or\nby one who moves hands alone, or by two who move head and hands, or by\nfour of whom one moves some of his limbs only and the others move nothing\nbut their heads. It may be sung by people or one person unseen ;or it may be\nspoken by a single person or many persons seen for three minutes and never\nseen again. It may be made of scenes without figures as of figures without\nscenes. It may be made of forms signifying anything —or of sounds without\nwords.\nIf I have a fancy and can humour it to the extent of creating something —\nwell, I will choose motion, scene, and voice as my three elements for making\nDrama.\nBut that is merely my special fancy — and after all (if I create something\nworth while) then of a special fancy we shall all cry out — \" That is the truth. \"\nBut that is not quite the truth.\nThe truth is more than this and different.\nAnd as it is the critic's special delight to be just, to be ideal spectator\nand ideal judge, he must, I should think, realize without any delay that, un-\nless he announces that he intends to judge from a very small and low point of"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "83", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.85", "texte": "view, his business is to enlarge and enlarge the bounds for our endeavour and not,\nas he does to-day, narrow them to the round o of a wren's eye.\nIf the wise craftsman limits himself, not in thought but solely in his mat-\nerial, and to some particular tools of his trade, the critic need not concern\nhimself with teaching a craftsman to be wise. Let a craftsman attempt the\nimpossible — he can achieve it with one tool and with a minimum of material\n— but urge him on to attempt it : do not for ever blight his existence with the\ndreary pessimism of your despair. Despair we all can taste and without help\nfrom anyone. The help we need is encouragement. What if we topple over\nthe precipice ?. . . what if we blow ourselves to the moon ?. . . urge us to\nattempt the impossible even though it be fraught with great danger.\nThen we get an audience — for an audience enjoys seeing us run risks.\nWe do not get an audience to-day because critics are keen about turning on\nthe brake.\nVI\nI write this Note in a Theatre in Paris.\nThe old conviction returns . . . and I of the Theatre . . . living it . . . sworn\nto it . . . that all this closed in — cooped-up — darkened nonsense, is over and\ndone with ; . . this mystery of nothing — murky . . . dusky . . . damnable. . .\nAnd you on the stage whom I admire, who would gain everything by\ncoming out into the air — into the sun — losing nothing but some paint and a\nfew twopenny tricks which could all be replaced by valuable truths . . .\nWhy all this Red and Blue light, this purple artifice, which is all so in-\ncomplete ? . . . Where are your eyes that the yellow-white, pale blue, and\ndelicate mauve of Daylight touch you not, nor the ice-cold glare of white\nnights have no significance ? Why this mumbling or writhing beneath pink\nhalf-lights reminiscent of the candle-shades of the dear old restaurants?\nIf virtuosity must turn down the lights all the time — why must it ? Crea-\ntion turns them dowrn only once and again.\nI am of the opinion that the study of Creation when it is at work\nproducing its daily drama is still not to be despised. Can I be wrong and\nyou right ? . . . in this, I mean ?\nThe Shakespearean Plays, the Comedies of Moliere, may be for these the\nold pretty tricks are the very thing — Yet even here Shakespearean scholars\nremind us that the scenes and actors were lighted by the sun.\nBut you play no little dramas with others. You are alone — you enter\nand fill the stage with any figure you choose — and as many as you choose . . .\nyour imagination peoples the place ; just as in his lovely scenes the great"}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.86", "texte": "Appia seems to pack his empty platforms with a hundred hundred angels — and\nto start them singing when he chooses. This is the power of Imagination —\nyou both possess it -— yet you choose to trifle — you who have no need to.\nYour great power (the power not yours but which yields to you) enables\nyou to move your hand and, we seem to see lilies or roses or lilac growing —\n\" when lilac first in the doorway .. . \" You turn towards the right and by\nthe force of your imagination you project for us a group of three who seem\nto advance towards you : you turn from us a little and the dark comes on —\nyou turn a little more, evening ; a little more and it is night.\nIt is the power of Imagination, not your power, and you possess some of\nit — enough to convince a world and baffle a nation. I have seen you bring\npalm to palm silently and heard the cymbals — cymbals which sang rather\nthan clashed. I have seen your shoulders move bending and heard the thun-\nders of an old story rolling up around you. You have lain your hand on the\nearth obediently obeying the old Fate, and I have seen the earth open as a\nsmile spreads and drench you in a yellow light. You were more than three\nhundred years old as you bent to obey and you rose up a 3roung woman.\nYou who alone have the secret of this magic will never tinker with the\ntwopenny tricks of the trade.\nVII\nI write at another Theatre.\nHow enchanting are the electric batteries of the Modern Theatre, its wires,\nits bulbs, its switches and its resistances! How enchanting the mirrors\nof the ancients — and the reflectors of to-day . . . how delicious is all this\nmechanism and all its artificial products.\nYou who read give me up, I suppose. You heard me only two moments\nago calling such things twopenny tricks.\nExactly, dear friend, exactly.\nFor her —or for him twTopenny ; and twopence is too much. But for\nthe others, and certainly for me, quite satisfactory.\nDo you suppose I can see and admire two and take them to be one ? If\nimagination itself sings from the being we call Mozart — something else sings\nfrom him we call Balfe ....\nPlace for Balfe — place for Iyecoc, plenty of room for both and for Bizet. . .\nthree different places, three separate planes . . . Mozart's place is kept for him\nat Imagination's right hand. She herself keeps it for him. Then me needs\nmust find places for the rest."}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.87", "texte": "And with my artist living to-day — for him and for her, Imagination her-\nself keeps their places —at her right hand. And yet others must sit down at\nthe board.\nEach his place — the best possible — but it is not possible any others\nshall sit in theirs — nor near them..\nVIII\nI haven't the pleasure of the acquaintance of the ladies and gentlemen\nwho, I am told, run Covent Garden Theatre, but they are having a good time,\nI hope. Year in and year out these good and faithful amuse one another by\nfishing out from far-off lands such as Russia and Italy imitation works of art,\nabsolute forgeries, and before these they solemnly sit dressed in genuine pearls\nand diamonds, which shows that they have hope and patience if not discernment.\nI am told that the whole English Aristocracy runs Covent Garden. I'm\nsure I can't say. If it does, then the sooner the People take the place in hand\nthe better for England. For however badly the People will manage the place,\nI think they could not manage it worse.\nBy that I mean not the least suggestion of incompetence on the part of\nthe so-called managers, secretaries, and general staff of the Theatre. The whole\nstaff, as everyone can see by their work, is admirably organized and works\nwith precision and rapidity. No praise could be too great for it. It is of the\naristocratic \" managers \" I speak . . . those who decide, those in power.\nThese, owing to some advantage of education which they have over the\nrest of us, are supposed to be able to recognize a genuine work of art from a\nforgery. Alas, then, that they should take themselves in every time.\nPerversity runs Covent Garden, not nobility.\nIt's human after all —• but how expensive it must be !\nIt reminds me of the attitude of Georges Sand, exasperated because\nChopin (or was it De Musset) will not do as she wishes .. . really she was a\ndarling .. . Listen to her .. .\n\"I am sick of great men (forgive the expression) : I should like to see them\nall in Plutarch. There they do not make one suffer on the human side. Let\nthem be cut in marble or cast in bronze, and let them be silent. So long as\nthey live they are wicked, persecuting, fantastic, despotic, bitter, susxjicious.\nThey confuse in the same proud contempt the goats and the sheep \\ They\nare worse to their friends than to their enemies. God protect us from them ;\nbe good — stupid if you will. \"\n\n1 A thing Georges never could even suspect she might ever do or be doing."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.88", "texte": "And then she marries — Sandeau ! ! — and if ever there was a forgery\nSandeau was it. Sandeau for Chopin !! ! Well, Georges and the Syndicate\nat Co vent Garden are so alike. Perverse and piqued.\nIt may be mere pique that causes the aristocrats of Covent. Garden to\nfling themselves on the good Beecham and the excellent Djagelief and beg\nand beg for what we call \" fakes, \"... which they get; but the worst of it is\nthat the artists of strong personality seem to inspire terror in shareholders.\nThis can only mean one thing, which is that the shareholders feel that unless\ntheir will dominates the Theatre the results must be unsuccessful. This is one\nof the most expensive delusions good, if perverse, people are alwa}rs obliged to\npay for.\nI think this is the very place for me to repeat for the fifty-eighth time\nthat the Theatre belongs to the Artists of strong personality. By that I do\nnot mean belongs to theatrical people with a strong gift for managing men and\nwomen, although this is not seldom the definition given for an artist of strong\npersonality ... of which calamity I shall have something to say in a moment\nor two. I mean by an artist of strong personality one who has seen superb\nsights which no one else has ever seen, and is able in his art to express what\nhe has seen strongly.\nThere are only a very few such men and women.\nI would put down the names of a few of the great past, but it would only\nconfuse. I will confine myself to telling facts about the greatest living artists\nof the Theatre . . . you know their names well enough.\nI believe there are four, perhaps five, great artists in the Theatre of Europe.\nThere are six or seven more remarkable talents, — and another five who may\nbe said to have some surprising qualities.\nNot one of these ever comes to London, unless it be to some small\ninsignificant theatre which they rent for a short season at great personal\nexpense.\nNow if there are fifteen artists, five of whom are the very first living to-day,\nis it not reasonable for us all to suppose that Covent Garden or Drury Lane\nthe two quasi-national Theatres of Great Biitain, should understand how to\ninvite these to show London the Art of the Theatre ?\nThe truth is that Covent Garden and Druiy Lane do not know how to\naddress any but artists of the second or third rank.\nSo that really our English Covent Garden and our Lane are like a Zoolog-\nical Gardens without any examples of Lions, Tigers, Eagles, Pythons. . .\nI take it that these good animals are very difficult creatures to catch. . .\nrather sensitive and very ferocious ; shy as anything in front of a hunter —"}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.89", "texte": "rather more fond of liberty than any bushel of Covent Garden — certainly\nnot to be cajoled by a typewritten letter asking on what terms it will submit\nto be caught.\nChaliapine ! — for the moment I had forgotten this amazing actor singer.\nYes, Chaliapine did at last go to Covent Garden, but not before every French-\nman, Italian, Russian, and American had heard him and had taken his best.\nAnd I happen to know the whole silly comedy which the authorities of\nCovent Garden thought necessary to perform before Russian and French\neyes ere they discovered the right way to address Chaliapine.\nDo you know they actually told him that it would be so good for his career\nif he would visit Covent Garden for a smaller fee than he has received in other\ncities... It seems incredible that these methods can still be employed,\nbut so it is. M. Chaliapine made two replies. — The first is not publishable ;\nthe second admitted how good it would be for his career, and yet somehow,\nit went on, he did not believe he would find his way to Covent Garden for one\nrouble less than less the sum he had named.\nAnd so year in and year out the English people are obliged to wait five,\nten, or £fteen years after every other nation for a glimpse and a hearing of an\nartist to whom ultimately they pay more than any other nation. — And\nall because these great Theatres have and hold to shoplike methods — the\nmost unpractical and the most expensive from every point of view.\nWhat does it matter ? — Really nothing at all except that this is Eng-\nland, and if we had had our best English artists established firmly at the head\nof the first eight or ten English Theatres, we should then be rid of such wanton\nexpense and such gauche unpractically.\n\nGordon Graig\n\n[To be continued)"}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.90", "texte": "Alice Halicka.\nPortrait de l'Artiste."}, {"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "89", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.91", "texte": "HOMAGE TO SIVA\n\nThere are a certain number of us in Europe for whom the civilization\nof Europe does not suffice. We are dissatisfied sons of the West, who find\nourselves cramped in the old house, and who, though not failing to recognize\nthe fineness, the brilliancy and the heroic energy of an idea which conquered\nand dominated the world for more than two thousand years, have been oblig-\n.ed, in spite of ourselves, to confess its insufficiencies and its narrow pride.\nWe are the few who look towards Asia.\nAsia, the great continent, of which Europe is only a peninsula, the vanguard\nof the army, the prow of the heavy ship, loaded with the wisdom of thousands\nof years. From her have always come our gods and our ideas. But in\nlosing contact with the native East, in the wild marches of our peoples always\nfollowing the sun, we have deformed the universality of these vast thoughts for\nour own ends of limited and violent action.\nAnd now the races of the Occident find themselves cornered in a blind\nalley, and they crush each other ferociously. Let us wrench our spirit from\nthis mob of bloody chaos. Eet us try to regain the great cross road of the\nhighways, from which the streams of human genius have spread to the four\npoints of the horizon. In order to find air let us mount again to the high\nplateaux of Asia.\nEurope has certainly never forgotten the way to Asia when it was a matter\nof pillaging, levying tribute, or exploiting the material riches of those lands\nunder the banner of Christ or of civilization. But what advantage has she taken\nof these spiritual treasures ? They have lain buried in collections and in archeo-\nlogical museums. A few brilliant tourists from the Academies, have nibbled\nthe crumbs, but the spiritual life of Europe has not profited therefrom.\nWho, amid the confusion in which the chaotic consciousness of the Occident\nis struggling, has looked to see if the civilization, forty centuries-old, of India\nand China had no answer to offer our anguish, no models for our aspirations ?\nThe Germans, with their vitality, more exigent, more self-questioning,\nwere the first to seek in Asia that food which their famished spirit could no\nlonger find in Europe, and the catastrophes of the last years have precipi-\ntated this moral evolution, made up of disillusion with political action and exalt-"}, {"page_pdf": 92, "page_imprimee": "90", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.92", "texte": "ation of inner life. Noble initiators, like Count Kayserling, have popula-r\nized the wisdom of Asia. And some of the purest poets of Germany, like Her-\nmann Hesse, have felt the magic of Oriental thought to the point of transform-\ning themselves so as to put their souls in accord with the artist-sages of the\nCelestial Empire.\nFrance, although similar currents are beginning to make themselves felt,\nand certain little known French individualities may be counted among the\ninitiators of the Awakening of Asia has remained behind in this movement of\ncuriosity and profound sympathies. In no part of Europe has the recent visit\nof Tagore and his-appeal for a common work of European-Asiatic culture awaken-\ned so little interest. A wall of self-satisfied indifference separates this country\nfrom the rest of world life. The choleric Bjorson used justifiable to reproach\nus with this fact. But he was unjust in not recognizing the ceaseless efforts\nof a small number of Frenchmen to effect a breach in the wall. And this very\nband, led by our friend Bazalgette — the brotherly friend in the Whitmanesque\nsense of all that is human — is a noble witness to it. us widen the breach !\nAnd through the opening may the rn.essa.ge of India be heard in France.\nAnanda Coomaraswamy is one of those great Hindus who, nourished\nlike Tagore, on the cultures of Europe and Asia, have conceived in the legitimate\npride of their splendid civilization the duty of working towards the union of ideas,\nOriental and Occidental, for the benefit of humanity. The spectacle of the re-\ncent war, which has made evident the signs of the approaching ruin of the Euro-\npean edifice, has shown them the urgency of their mission. At the same time\nthat the harmonious voice of Tagoie invites us to collaborate in his Interna-\ntional University of Santinikitan, Coomaraswamy raises his cry of alarm.\nHe says to us : \" Save Asia. Her idealism is in danger. If you do not save\nher, beware lest the great Nemesis turns against you by Asia's hands, the\nImperialism of lucre and violence with which you have armed her. Asia's\ndegradation will cause your ruin. Her uplifting will be your salvation\nBut proud Europe will not willingly admit that she can have need of\nAsia, whom she has trampled under foot for centuries without a suspicion\npassing through her mind that she was playing the role of Alaric on the ruins\nof Rome. Yet Rome conquered the victorious Barbarians, as Greece had con-\nquered Rome. As India and China will finally conquer Europe —by the spirit.\nThe aim of Coomaraswamy's book is to show the power of this spirit\nand all it holds in reserve for the grandeur and well-being of mankind.\nIn a collection of essays, seemingly separate, but which all proceed from\nthe same central idea and converge toward the same conclusion, we have an\nexposition of India's calm and ample metaphysic, her conception of the universe,\nher social organization, perfect in its own time and still capable of adapting"}, {"page_pdf": 93, "page_imprimee": "91", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.93", "texte": "itself to the rhythm of the new time; the solution that she has given to the prob-\nlems of women, the family, love, marriage ; and the magnificient revelation\nof her art. Over all the cathedral, ornate and proportioned of Asia's mighty\nsoul, reigns the same spirit of sovereign synthesis. No negation. Everything\nis harmonized. All the forces of life group themselves like a forest with a thou-\nsand waving arms, directed by Kataraja the master of the dance. Each\nthing in its place, each being fulfilling its function, and all associated in the di-\nvine concert, making with their various voices and even dissonances, according\nto the saying of Heraclitus, the most exquisite harmony. While in the Occident,\na strong, cold logic separates the dissimilar and shuts it up sorted indistinct\nand definite compartments of the spirit, India, taking account of the natural\ndifferences of beings and of things, seeks to combine them so as to reestablish\nin its plenitude the total unity. The marriage of contraries forms the rhythm\nof Existence. Spiritual purity does not fear to ally itself with sensual delight,\nthe freest sexuality with the loftiest wisdom. (The amazing vSahaja is the ex-\ntreme type of this a paradoxical challenge of opposing forces united). The\nmasterpieces of art marry beauty to science and religion. Everywhere intense\nlife springs up in multiform but compact growth. Everywhere the look of\nthe One in millions of eyes. As Tagore has sung in these immortal verses : —\nIn each glory of sound and sight and scent\nI shall find thy infinite joy abiding:\nMy passion shall bwn as the flame of salvation.\nThe flower of my love shall become the ripe fruit of devotion.\nWithout a doubt, the edifice of India's life rests entirely on one faith,\ntherefore, like every creed, on a fragile and passionate hypothesis. But of all\nthe creeds of Europe and Asia, that of Brahmanistic India seems to me the one\nwhich embraces the most of the Universe.\nI do not speak against the others. The ecstatic intellectualism of primi-\ntive Buddhism, or the smiling serenity of the abyss which one breathes in\nTse are infinitely dear to me, but I see in them moments of exceptional subli-\nmity, giddy heights of spiritual life. And what makes me love the Brahmin\nconcept above all those of Asia is that it seems to me to contain them all. Bet-\nter than the faiths of Europe it could harmonize itself with the vast hypo-\ntheses of modern science. Our Christian religions have adapted themselves\nto the progress of science (when there was nothing else for fchem to do) but one\nwould say that they have difficulty in freeing themselves from the heaven of\nHipparchus and Ptolomeus, which they knew in their cradle.\nBut when, after having let myself be carried away on the curve of lives\nby the movement, now ascendant and now descendant, of the Brahministic"}, {"page_pdf": 94, "page_imprimee": "92", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.94", "texte": "thought, I come back to my century, and I find there the prodigious efforts\nof the new cosmogony, sprung from the genius of Einstein, or freely inspired by\nhis discoveries, I do not feel myself expatriated. In the voyage of the spirit\n' across the stellar spaces, right to the bottom of the starry abyss, among the is-\nland universes, the nebulous spirals, the innumerable Milky Ways, the millions\nof worlds spinning in time-space, curved, infinite, limited, whose star rays etern-\nally circle and illuminate phantoms \" doubles \" on opposing points, I still\nhear resounding the cosmic symphony of the worlds which follow each other\nextinguishing and relighting with their living souls, their humanities and their\ngods, according to the law of the Eternal Becoming, the Brahministic Samsana.\nI hear Siva dancing in the world, in my heart ....\nI do not propose that Europeans, should adopt an Asiatic Creed. I\nadvise them only to enjoy the benefit of this magnificent rhythm, this breath\nlarge and slow. They will learn there what the souls of Europe and America1\nmost stand in need of today : calm, patience, virile hope, serene joy, \" like\na lamp in a windless spot, which does not flicker 2\nThe West, which furiously strives to attain individual and social happiness,\nfalsifies and spoils its life. It kills in the embryo the happiness it pursues\nby its frantic haste. Like a spent horse that see nothing between its\nblinkers but the dazzling road before it, the vision of the European\ngoes scarcely beyond the limits of his individual life or the life of his group,\nof his country or his party. Within these narrow limits his will encloses the\nrealization of the human ideal. He must at any price prove that he will\nsee it with his own eyes or — supreme concession that he will make to the slow-\nness of human progress — that his children will pluck the fruits. Hence these\nperpetual aspirations inevitably lost, these dreams of Picrocholes, these social\nparadises realized on Earth by machine gun volleys or by trenchant decrees,\nthis haste and this short-sighted violence. And since of necessity disillusion\nfollows, all is imagined to be lost, and the brief period of feverish exaltation\nis followed by a long period of morbid depression.\nThe great Brahmin thought does not know these oscillations of the pendu-\nlum. It does not expect from a war or a revolution, or sudden coup, a brusque\nand miraculous transformation of the world. It embraces immense periods,\ncycles of human ages, whose successive lives gravitate and slowly move towards\nthe center (in concentric circles), the place of Deliverance already realized\nin the souls of a few Forerunners. It is never discouraged. It has time. Acci-\ndents by the way cannot cast down or anger it. For it, error is not a sin;\n\n1 It goes without saying tliat everything I say about Europe applies equally to\ntbe European races who have peopled the New World.\n2 Bhagavada Gita."}, {"page_pdf": 95, "page_imprimee": "93", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.95", "texte": "it is only youth. The whole cycle of time must be accomplished. It watches\nthe wheel turn and it waits. And its vision which passes beyond the changing\nhorizon of good and evil, judges, lucid and serene, the flood of souls that goes\nby, indulgent to the frailties of the weak, and severe only with the strong.\nFor this lofty thought demands much of those who are capable of much : and\nits entire conception of the hierarchy of castes, which at first sight seems so\ncontemptuously aristocratic, is based on this principle (diametrically opposed\nto that of the egotistical democracies of the West) that the more elevated the\nman, the fewer are his rights and the more numerous his duties !. . . And in\nany case, lowly as a man may be, every man can raise himself, everyone\nknows that he can, sooner or later, by reason of the normal evolution of exist-\ntences arrive at the culminating point of the curve, from whence by way\nof the return the soul will escape from Time and its vicissitudes.\nThus the infinite diversity of beings and desire becomes reconciled with\nthe eternity of the rhythm which binds them together in the one stream\nmoving towards unity.\nBut the question is not that this grandiose teaching of the spirit spread\nover Europe the golden shade of its cupola. No, Europe must not be Asia.\nBut she must not wish that Asia be Europe. She must learn to respect the\ngigantic personality of which her own is complimentary, without wishing\n(vain dream) to give a fictitious life to the forms of the past, so that these\ntwo human worlds, by allying their genius, should in their union hew the path\ntowards the future. This aim Ananda Coomaraswamy expresses with noble\ndaring at the end of his book, opposing the lofty idealism of Asia to the nation-\nalism of young India.\n\" Nationalism is not enough for the great Idealists of Young India.\nPatriotism is a parochial interest. . . vSuperior souls have finer roles to\nfill .. . Life, not only India's life, demands our loyalty. . . the flowering of\nhumanity is worth more for us than the victory of a party . . . the chosen people\nof the future can not be a nation or a race, but an aristocracy of the Earth\nuniting the energy of European action with the serenity of Asiatic thought.\nWe press in our own, this hand offered us by India. Our cause is the\nsame :to save the unity of mankind and its full harmony. Europe, Asia: our\nstrengths are different. Let us unite them to accomplish the common task:\nthe greatest civilization, the sum total of human genius.\nTeach us to understand all, Asia, teach us thy wise way of living. And\nfrom us learn how to act.\n\nRomain Rolland"}, {"page_pdf": 96, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.96", "texte": "comment\n\nIs it possible for a man, potentially great, to live and die, sterile and\nunnoticed ? The facile optimist replies no, \" Worth will out, you can't hide\na barn in a haystack. \" The pessimist on the other hand, answers in the\naffirmative, claims it happens every day and usually insinuates he is a case\nin point. And the argument lasts till tempers are sullied, without victory\nconsoling either party, for every example rules itself out by the very fact of\nits being brought in. A useless discussion unless it aids digestion.\nBut if one leaves the problem of men and examines the destiny of books,\nthe subject proves itself better adopted for debate, as data on which to base\none's opinion, is available. If such a query jumps through the smoke rings\nof the Saturday night peaceful knockers, general talk ceases. Each indivi-\ndual commences a monologue on \" good books I have known, \" and the in-\nnocent chair-backs resign themselves to listen to pathetic recitations on the\ndear departed. Countless volumes are dusted in memory and know for a\nmoment the fame they failed to realize.\nWe have always, at such a gathering, orated over the Dance of Siva.\nBut we can no longer. This volume of fourteen Indian essays, was written\nby Ananda Coomaraswamy and published by the Sunwise Turn. We were\nforced by circumstances to make its acquaintance immediately after its launch-\ning into the free for all of an autumn book season. We were stunned by it.\nNew worlds entered our field of interest, old concepts were seen to be question-\nable. An internal transformation took place, similar to that of the high\nschool boy on discovering H. G. Wells, or H. G. Wells on discovering God.\nWe followed the career of the book. Discerning critics in widely scattered\nlocalities, pointed out various laudable aspects of its variegated contents. Sev-\neral hundred readers actually purchased the volume. The British Empire\nordered one hundred and fifty copies, one third of which were consigned to its\nancient colony India about which the book was written. The second year\nthe same story was repeated on a much smaller scale, and the Dance of Siva\nwrent permanently out of print before Christmas 1920.\nFrom that date on, we found it proper food for obituary sermons, and\nused the material contained in its pages to make ourselves appear wise and"}, {"page_pdf": 97, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.97", "texte": "informed on matters pertaining to India's caste system, nuptial customs,\nart, music, love ideals, etc.\nBut our little game is spoiled. M. Bazalgette has selected the Dance\nof Siva for his series of \" lyes Prosateurs Modernes. \"J. Mademoiselle Made-\nleine Rolland has made the translation. M. Romain Rolland has acclaimed\nthe volume in the excellent preface, the translation of which we are privi-\nleged to reprint in this number of \" Broom. \" Dr. Coomaraswamy is now a\nmember of a goodly company. Before him, in this series of foreign writers\nmarch Cyril Buysse, Thomas Hardy, Knut Hamsun, Gottfried Keller, Scipio\nSlataper, John M. Synge, Frederick Van Eeden and Henry D. Thoreau:\nby his side — the printer will release April 1922 — walks Anton Tchekhov, and\nTheodore Dreiser, Felix Jimmermans, Rene Schickele, Boris Zaitsef and\nothers follow after.\nNo more can we exemplify the world's lack of discernment by calling\nattention to the neglect of the Dance of Siva, for not only is it being thus\nintroduced to France, but M. Ivan Goll is preparing to bring it out in German.\nPerhaps, after the fourteen Indian Essays have completed their foreign\ntour, the country of their birth may become sufficiently interested to make\nanother edition possible. It will not have been the first time an American\nbook has had to await foreign recognition before native readers would deign\nto cut its leaves.\n\nH. A. L.\n\n1 Published by F. Rieder et Cie, Place Saint-Sulpice, Paris (VI)\nERNESTO FraTONI. Gerente responsabile\nPrinted in Italy by «I,'Universellc » Imprimerie Polyglotte — Roma."}, {"page_pdf": 98, "page_imprimee": "[96]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.98", "texte": "<®> THE WATERSIDE\nLAND CORPORATION\nOFFERS FOR SALE\nNO. 3 RIVERSIDE DRIVE\nNEW YORK CITY\nFIYE STORY ENGLISH BASEMENT DWELLING\n37 x 97 IRREGULAR\nFOR FURTHER INFORMATION\nAPPLY TO YOUR OWN BROKER.\n\nTHE SUNWISE TURN\nBOOK SHOP\nYALE CLUB BUILDING\n51 EAST 44th STREET\n(Neighboring the Grand Central)\nWrite us about our Poetry Evenings and\nour subscription plan.\nOriginal Publishers of\nTHE DANCE OF SIVA.\n\nLIBRERIA LIBERMA\nInternational Bookseller and\nGeneral Agents for\nITALIAN BOOKS\nOld and Rare Volumes - Periodicals\n- Current Books - Quickest Ser-\nvice - Cheapest Rates\nREFERENCES:\nUniversities - Public Libraries in\nEngland and America.\nVia Francesco Crispi, 81 - Rome"}, {"page_pdf": 99, "page_imprimee": "[97]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.99", "texte": "ORIENTALIA IT ronn THP\nMay be obtained from 22, East 60™ Street J * UU 1\nNEW YORK CITY\nLA DANSE DE QVA\nBY\nANANDA COOMARASWAMY\nwith a Preface specially written for the French Edition\nby\nROMAIN ROLLAND\nThe American edition of which is now out of print and unobtainable.\nWith ten full page photogravure Plates i6M0 volume.\nPaper covers: francs 8\nSpecial art binding: » 12\nFirst Edition on Lafuma pure linen paper, each copy numbered: » 15\nF. RIEDER & C., PUBLISHERS - 7, Place ST. SULPICE - PARIS, (VI).\n\nLP.\nMembers\nNew York Stock Exchange\n120, Broadway.\no\noo\nTelephone: 3240 Rector.\n\nQUISISANA LODGE\nAND\nBUNGALOES\nLake Kezar, Center Novell,\nMAINE.\nOpen June to October\nFor particulars address:\nMARION BROWN, Secretary.\n46-E. 75th Street.\nTelephone: RHINCLANDER, 2671."}, {"page_pdf": 100, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192204-01.1.100", "texte": "MAXWELL BODENHEIM\n«THE ARTIST, 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. »"}]}