{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_sha256": "64e16b097c6ce8edcc65f3fc99280fa555a5daf281f544557269a8a8aacdd409", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/05_01/bmtnaap_1922-05_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/05_01/bmtnaap_1922-05_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "97", "page_fin": "97", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Four Steichen Prints", "titre_sommaire": "Four Steichen Prints", "signature_source": "Carl Sandburg", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "97", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1193, "texte": "FOUR STEICHEN PRINTS\nCarl Sandburg\nThe earth, the rock and the oil of the earth, the slippery\nfrozen places of the earth, these are for homes of rainbow\nbubbles, curves of the circles of a bubble, curves of the\narcs of the rainbow prisms—between sun and rock they lift\nto the sun their foam feather and go.\nThrow your neck back, throw it back till the neck muscles shine\nat the sun, till the falling hair at the scalp is a black cry,\ntill limbs and knee bones form an altar and a girl's torso over\nthe fire rock torso shouts hi yi, hi yee, hallelujah.\nGoat girl caught in the brambles, deerfoot or foxhead, ankles\nand hair of feeders of the wind, let all the covering burn,\nlet all stopping a naked plunger from plunging naked, let it\nall burn in this wind fire, let the fire have it in a fast\ncrunch and a flash.\nThey threw you in a pot of thorns with a wreath in your hair\nand the bunches of grapes over your head—your hard little\nbuttocks in the thorns—then the black eyes, the white teeth,\nthe nameless muscular flair of you, rippled and twisted in\nsliding rising scales of laughter; the earth never had a\ngladder friend; pigs, goats, deer, tawny tough-haired jaguars\nmight understand you."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[98]", "page_fin": "[98]", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Porto Longone — Elba", "titre_sommaire": "Porto Longone — Elba", "signature_source": "Richard Seewald", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[98]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 36, "texte": "Porto Longone — Elba\nRichard Seewald"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "99", "page_fin": "103", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 9, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "Marche Funèbre", "titre_sommaire": "Marche Funèbre", "signature_source": "Lawrence Vail", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "99", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1203, "texte": "EXTRAVAGANZAS\nMARCHE FUNEBRE\n\nI was despondent that day — till I met the funeral procession.\nIt was going my way, up the Boulevard Saint Michel. No rea-\nson, I argued, why I should turn aside. Never had I interfered with\nthe dead. Why should I allow the dead to interfere with me ?\nSo I walked on the pavement, parallel to the mourners who walked\nin the middle of the street. How far, I wondered, will these black\nsorrowing ladies and gentlemen continue to follow a corpse ? Perhaps\nto the gate of the cemetery, into the graveyard. Why not even furth-\ner, into the grave itself ? There was nothing to shock me in this\nsupposition. For surely they must have tendencies towards death\n— those who follow the dead.\nWatch them — the mourners. See their dun sightless faces.\nWatch their gestures, listen to the noises they make.\nRight leg forwards. Left leg forwards.\nRight leg. Left leg.\nSniff. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg. Sniff.\nLeft leg.. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg forwards. Left leg forwards.\nWhat does this prove ? That they live ? Not a bit of it. I\nknow of toys sold on the Grand Boulevards at Christmas that can\nmake at the same time five gestures and as many noises. You would\nnot call them alive."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "100", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1796, "texte": "These mourners are dead. They follow the man in the coffin.\nWhy ? He is their chief. The chief of the dead. Of course there\nis a difference. He is ahead of them, beyond ; in a rarer plane,\nhigher; in a sublimated clique. Having attained he has ceased\nto aspire. Or rather he aspires at his ease. No moving of legs and\nblowing of noses in his sublime set. He has reached the silent,\nthe motionless, the forever recumbent. Gloriously dead he is,\nflat on his back. Pettishly dead are the mourners, still on the\nmarch.\nBut I, though despondent, was alive. I followed no dead chief.\nInstead I followed the sad and merry, random and often mechanical\ncross purposes of life. People around and about me, in front and\nbehind, were also alive — everyone of them. That girl with the loaf\nof bread in her arms was alive. Ivater, she or someone else, would\nset live teeth into the crust. The priest with the small cruel eyes\nwas alive ; doubtless he was subtly compromising with the serpent\nas he muttered his Pater. That mason was alive, you had but to\nwatch him brawnily mixing mortar and with disdain spitting. Alive\nthose determined people deepening the rut to the workshop. Alive\nthose less determined ones, those who looked at advertisements\nwistfully. Yes, all of us were alive. That moment I was\nalmost glad.\nUp the Boulevard Saint Michel moved the funeral procession.\nFirst the black horses, like death lackadaisical. The coachmen, corp-\nses rouged by the wind, parodying grimly, pianissimo, the gestures\nof the hack drivers of the living. The coach where the chief reposed\nin dead state. Then the mourners, on the apathetic march :\nRight leg forwards. L,eft leg forwards.\nRight leg. leg.\nSniff. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg. Sniff.\nIyeft leg. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg forwards. L,eft leg forwards."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "101", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1340, "texte": "And along the sidewalk, a little in the rear of the dry eyed men\nwho took off their hats and the women who made less precise\ngestures but looked more convincingly affected, almost gladly, I\nwalked.\nvSuddenly I remembered a thing I had done yesterday and would\ndo tomorrow. And this thing was linked up to other things I had\ndone in the yesterdays and would do in the tomorrows. Habits they\nwere, common tricks, gestures, attitudes of thought, spleens, evasions,\nresignations, ways of being sorry and glad.\nIt was an avalanche on me of commonplace memories. And sud-\ndenly my soul sickened. It tightened and snarled, made as though\nto vomit the customary memories. Now it was with a new eye that\nI regarded the funeral. With a new respect I glanced at the coffin.\nFor he in the coffin was doing a thing unmatched in his memory.\nHis journey up the street, the grandiose manner of it, was for him\noriginal and unprecedented. Bitterly, I envied him.\nI acted then in a manner peculiar. Very inconspicuously I\nclimbed onto the coach, opened the coffin, removed the body. I\nsettled myself on my back, comfortably. Then, taking my time,\nI quietly died.\nI am sure nobody noticed me, for through a crack in the boards\nI saw people walking up and down as they do when funerals goby.\nI even saw a man in a black overcoat who bore a striking resemblance"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "102", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 344, "texte": "to me. Possibly this man was I. I was not sure then. I watched\nhim bump into a man and apologize.\nBehind, muffled by the walls of my coffin, I heard the march\nof my mourners:\nRight leg forwards. Left leg forwards.\nRight leg. Left leg.\nSniff. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg. Sniff.\nLeft leg. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg forwards. Left leg forwards."}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "103", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1149, "texte": "Now I was at home. Within and around me, my soul stretched\nitself, purred. I was content, satisfied. Without doubt I had a\nvocation for death.\nNow and then I looked out on the live world through the crack\nin my coffin. Men whom I did not know lifted their hats. Many\nof them were famous men, I was sure, who had never troubled about\nme during my lifetime. Womii looked at me in their charming\neasily affected ways, sighed, crossed themselves. Good looking\nwomen, too, many of them. At last I was appreciated,\nBut the supreme acknowledgement was in store for me. Sud-\ndenly, probably owing to some tangle in the traffic, the coach which\nbore me stopped. A man who had kept a little in the rear came up\nto my level. The same man wearing a black overcoat who had re-\nminded me of myself some minutes ago. I examined him carefully,\nwith that impartial thoroughness only practised by the dead. There\nwas no mistaking him. That man was I.\nHe stopped for a moment, lifted his hat, passed on. Suddenly\nI felt my soul in and around me swelling with a great pride and joy.\nThis was the crowning gratification and homage. I had come into\nmy own.\n\nLawrence Vail"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "105", "page_fin": "105", "image_debut": 11, "image_fin": 11, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "The Wardrobe with the Mirror Door", "titre_sommaire": "The Wardrobe with the Mirror Door", "signature_source": "Ramón Gómez de la Serna", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "105", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1234, "texte": "THE WARDROBE WITH THE MIRROR DOOR\nThat mirrored wardrobe on the first floor faced the street and if\none opened it a little, one saw the paved bed of a river through trans-\nparent and delicate waters.\nI am a swimmer ever going against the current, joining my hands\nlike the mystic. Hop ! I dive, hands in form of prow, into the water\nof the wardrobe mirror, as one who throws himself from the height\nof a spring-board into the sea.\nI find myself, all of a sudden, among some blouses which smell\nof clean women and vervain.\nMy voyage had been like the most daring swim of the Channel,\nand it has remained a secret even to me how I crossed all the liquid\nglance of the mirror which united the street and the wardrobe like a\nbridge.\nHow sweet the repose of this wardrobe ! I touched everything\nin the obscurity. Silk stockings delicious to crumple, prayer-books\nbound in ivory, rosaries of mother of pearl, kid gloves exquisite\nas hands.\nThen like the swimmer who comes back to the street by the same\nway, I threw myself into the water of the mirror and I swam to the\nother shore, taking the pavement that I was following when I came\nupon the path of the fourth dimension in front of the mirror which\nreflected us both, me and the street."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "106", "page_fin": "107", "image_debut": 12, "image_fin": 13, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "The Son that I Would Have Had", "titre_sommaire": "The Son that I Would Have Had", "signature_source": "Ramón Gómez de la Serna", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "106", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1593, "texte": "THE SON THAT I WOULD HAVE HAD\nI had not had a son and I met the son that I would have had if\nI had had a son.\n— \" Father, I would have been your son, the son that you would\nhave had, the son that you should have had, \" said this young ado-\nlescent to me when I passed out of life into a kind of immense alcove,\nsomething like the alcove of a hospital without windows but illumi-\nnated by the livid light of a perpetual Sunday.\nI looked at him who would have been my son and I said to him :\n\" I am overjoyed to make your acquaintance, my son, that is to\nsay my son who is not my son ... I had a desire to know you . . .\nSo it's you! How curious life would have been if it had been\ndifferent. \"\n\" I have waited in vain, father, \" said the pale adolescent, pale as\neven a corpse can never be pale.\n\" What can we do about it, my son ? If only I had known that\nit was you ! But think, you might have been one of those idiotic sons\nwho think of nothing, who maltreat their parents, and whose mad am-\nbition to tyrannize the world is especially painful to contemplate. . .\nAnd they can never be tyrants, they become the most miserable pro-\nletariat in the world ; and their fathers, before a pride so ignoble and\nso little justified, should demolish them . . .\n— \" Well, you see that I would not have been thus ; I would have\nbeen full of common sense, and simplicity, worthy of you ...\"\n\" I see it now .. . but how could I have guessed it ? If I had known\nit, I would have found you a mother . . . but there is such a chance\nof getting an antipathetic son, one of those low vulgar-minded\nrascals...\""}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "107", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1567, "texte": "He interrupted me :\n\"Or an antipathetic father. \"\nYes you are right. But I would not have been a bad father, I\nwould not have showed for there is nothing that justi-\nfies the hatred of sons as much as the favoritism of fathers. I\nwould have been one of those rare fathers, equitable and capable of\nfeeling himself the son of his son. \"\nMy son, that is to say, the son that I would have had if I had\nhad a son, replied to me :\n\" I know it well, father. \"\nAnd pausing he drew from his pocket a bundle of letters and\nsaid to me :\ni/ook at the letters that I would have written you. \"\nThis gesture, which made rue think of a prisoner who had occupied\nthe houis of his confinement in writing, upset me more than every-\nthing, and I saw him,, my possible son, bent over the desk of chaos,\nkilling the nostalgia that he had for his father in writing the letters\nthat he would have written him during the absences which would\nhave separated them in life.\nThe handwriting of these letters was faint as though written with\nwhite ink, but in a fine Bnglish handwriting, and in the one which I\nchose from the package, the style was sincere, full of memories,\ntenderness and solitude.\nAnd I was impatient, tortured without knowing what to say, nor\nhow to exonerate myself; and tapping the shoulders of the son that\nI would have had, I said : \" Well, my son, I am very glad to have\nmet you. \"\nI went out of the hall, large as hospital ward, with no windows\non either side but nevertheless illuminated by the livid light of an\neternal Sunday, that made fluorescent the stucco walls."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "108", "page_fin": "108", "image_debut": 14, "image_fin": 14, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "One Hundred Envelopes", "titre_sommaire": "One Hundred Envelopes", "signature_source": "Ramón Gómez de la Serna", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "108", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 962, "texte": "ONE HUNDRED ENVELOPES\n(Translated from the Spanish of)\nRamon Gomez de la Serna\nThe dead man, who had expected death, cried out in the other\nworld, with rage, indignation and sorrow :\n\" And I had just bought a hundred envelopes this very day so\nthat I could write to many people over a long time ! \"\nReally the act of buying one hundred envelopes seems to give an\nirresistible continuity to life, to put off death until the hundred en-\nvelopes are exhausted.\n\" One hundred envelopes ! One hundred envelopes that I had just\nbought! \" cried the dead man, \" Such things don't happen ! \"\nReally it would seem that a hundred envelopes should last a life-\ntime, never be used up, be ready for emergencies, help many people\nto live, and keep death in abeyance.\nNow they would be of no use, even for his funeral announcements,\nsince they were not mourning envelopes.\n\" One hundred envelopes, bought only yesterday \" is all that the\ncan say in the eternal to-day of death."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "109", "page_fin": "112", "image_debut": 15, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "The Poets and the Housewife", "titre_sommaire": "The Poets and the Housewife", "signature_source": "Martin Armstrong", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1937, "texte": "THE POETS AND THE HOUSEWIFE\n\nOnce upon a time, on a summer's day, two poets having shut up\nshop, went out into the country to collect copy, for their stock of\nthis commodity was exhausted.\nAnd they were careful to dress themselves carelessly : and one put\non a black collar and black-and-white checked trousers, and the other\na cravat of raging scarlet, \" for \" they thought (though they did\nnot say so) \" we must dress the part/' And their hats were wide and\nreckless and the hair beneath their hats was as the thatch upon a\nbroad-eaved barn.\nAnd as they journeyed, poking about with their walking-sticks\nafter the precious substance of their quest, there gathered over their\nheads the devil of a storm.\nAnd at the proper moment the storm burst and the rain came down\nand the poets left off seeking for copy and huddled under a hawthorn-\ntree. And they appeared as two proud exotic birds, lighted down from\nthe Iyord knows where.\nAnd there was a lodge near the hawthorn-tree, and the lodge-\nkeeper's wife looked out and, seeing the two, she exclaimed : — \" lyord,\nlook what the wet brings out! \" And the rain increased fearfully.\nAnd when, after a while, she looked out again the poets were changed,\nfor their bloom was impaired, the rain had clotted their hair, and\nthe scarlet cravat of the one had become crimson from saturation.\nAnd rain dripped from all their extremities.\nAnd the lodgekeeper's wife was grieved for them and called out :\n— \" Young men, will you not come in ? Why play the heron who\nstands lugubrious with his feet in cold water when it is open to you\nto become as sparrows twittering with gladness beneath the eaves ? \"\nBut they bowed politely and replied: — \" Thanks awfully,\nma'am, but we are poets and we like it. \"\nAnd the lodgekeeper's wife was riled and sneered at them, saying :—\n\" They have had a drop too much. \" But they, smiling deprecatingly\nupon her, responded :— \" Madam, you are pleased to be dry. \""}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1919, "texte": "\" And you, \" quoth she, \" are pleased to be wet. \" And she\nclapped-to the window, casting up her eyes and enquiring rhetorically\n\" Did you ever ? \" and \" What next ?\nAnd the rain came down like hell, leaping a foot high from the road\nand sousing all things.\nAnd after another while the lodgekeeper's wife looked out again,\nand the two had gathered closer about the trunk of the hawthorn-\ntree, and they were as two old crows, for their shoulders were up and\ntheir beaks were down and they were unbelievably dishevelled.\nAnd, being a charitable woman, she shouted to them again :—\n\" Miserable gentlemen, in the name of civilization and commonsense,\ncome inside. \"\nBut they dared not turn their faces to her for fear that the water\nshould run down their necks ; so, revolving themselves all of a piece,\nthey replied :— \" Renewed thanks, ma'am, but we are very well\nfor we are acquiring copy. \"\nBut the lodgekeeper's wife did not understand the wood copy,\nso that she was amazed beyond measure and the power of comment\nwas taken from her.\nAnd the storm, having stormed itself out, abated: and the place\nwas filled with delicious smells of breathing leaves, and the warm\nsweetness of hawthorn perfumed the air.\nAnd the lodgekeeper's wife looked out from the window a fourth\nand last time, and the poets were departing. And the tragedy of\ntheir appearance was beyond all computing. For the scarlet from\nthe cravat of the one had run down into the bosom of his shirt, so\nthat he was as it were a robin-redbreast. And both were soaked to\nthe uttermost.\nAnd when those poets were returned home, the one found that\nhe had lost a shirt and the other that he had gained a cold. There-\nfore the one went out and bought a new shirt at seven and six and dear\nat that, and the other got himself a shilling bottle of Ammoniated\nQuinine which was tolerably cheap considering.\nAnd the one wrote an ode called Midsummer Storm for which he"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 676, "texte": "obtained five guineas, so that (deducting fourpence for stamps and\nseven and six for the shirt) his net profit was four pounds seventeen\nand twopence.\nBut the other could only manage a one-guinea sonnet called Rain\nAmong Leaves, so that (deducting fourpence for stamps and a shil-\nling for the Quinine) his net profit was but nineteen and eight.\nThus the two acquired great store of copy (more indeed than\nthey bargained for) and the sum of five pounds sixteen shillings and\ntenpence thrown in.\nBut the wife of the lodgekeeper knew nothing of this : therefore\nshe still believes, like many other ill-informed persons, that poets\nare but unpractical dreamers.\n\nMartin Armstrong"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "113", "page_fin": "116", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 22, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Monkey Island", "titre_sommaire": "Monkey Island", "signature_source": "Robert Musil", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1902, "texte": "MONKEY ISLAND\nIn the Vilia Borghese in Rome stands a very high tree, without\ntwigs or bark. The trunk is as smooth as a skull, peeled by the sun\nand water, and as yellow- as a skeleton. It stands bolt upright, with.,\nout roots, dead, planted in cement like a mast in the middle of an\noval island about the size of a river steamer, and is separated from\nthe Kingdom of Italy oy a smootii concrete trench. This trench is\njust so wide, and at the outer edge so deep, that a monkey from the\nisland could neither climb nor spring over it. From the outside it\nmight be done, but not from the inside. The trunk gives a good\nfoochold, ana as tne mountain tourists say \" makes easy pleasant\nclimbing. At the top of it are strong branches running out hori-\nzontally in several diiections. If one could take off shoes and. socks,\nwith heels in, soles pressing well about the rounding of the trunk,\nand che hands gripping tensely above, how splendidly one could get\nout and along to the end of that sun-warmed branch, stretching away\nover the green ostrich feather tips of the pines.\nThis wonderful island is inhabited by three different families.\nAbout fifteen quick moving sinewy fellows, with their girls — each one\nthe size of a child of four — live on the tree. At the foot, in the only\nhouse on the island a palace the form and size of a dog kennel — live a\nmarried couple of a much mightier breed, with their tiny little son. This\nis the King of the island, the Queen, and the Crown Prince. It never\nhappens that the old ones wander far from him on the ground. They\nsic, one on each side of the little Prince, immovably alert, gazing wide\nout past their noses. They never leave him, except once in every\nhour, when the King mounts the tree to inspect his domain. Pie\nthen strides gravely along the trunk, and it seems as if he will not no-\ntice how humbly and mistrustfully the others retreat before him. To"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 744, "texte": "avoid the look of unseemly haste or fear they slide sideways along the\nbranches, till the end gives them no more quarter, and they must\ntake the dangerous steep leap on to the hard cement below. So the\nKing strides on, from one branch to the other, till every branch\nis empty when he returns again. And the keenest observer cannot\ntell from his expression if it is a necessary Royal duty, or a mere health-\nful exercise. Meanwhile, the little Prince sits alone on the roof of the\npalace, for curiously enough, the Queen disappears each time the\nKing mounts the tree, and through his thin upstanding ears the sun\nshines coral red. One can scarcely imagine anything more stupid or\nhelpless, and yet so incomprehensibly mantled around with dignity"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2244, "texte": "as this little monkey. The hunted-down-tree-folk, one after the other,\nslip past him; each one, if he wished, could wring with ease that thin\nlittle neck — and they are manifestly ill humoured — but they all make\na wide curve around him, and exhibit other signs of the respect and shy-\nness due from them to one of his breed. It takes some time before\none discovers that still another monkey folk find shelter on the is-\nland. Driven from the air and the surface of the earth, a horde of\nstill smaller monkeys takes refuge in the trench. If one of them un-\nbetimes, dares to show a face on the island, the tree folk hunt him\nrelentlessly back again with insult and bloody disciplines. When\nfood comes, they must wait till every one else is satisfied, and back\nagain in their places, before they dare creep out to capture the scraps.\nSometimes a malicious fellow or jocose maiden from the tree, so satis-\nfied apparently that digestive difficulties have begun, waits slyly till\nthe little folk begin to approach the food, then slips down again,\nwhereupon the first comers rush screaming back to the others in the\ntrench, and they all whimper together, and press against each other,\ntill a surface of air, flesh, and crazy dark eyes is formed, welling up\nthe outer wall of the trench like water in a leaning vessel. The perse-\ncutor paces along the edge of the trench, driving the wave of terror\nbefore him. The little folk uplift their black faces, and fling their\narms heavenward, their hands turned palms out, in defence against the\nevil eye which looks down from the edge. But gradually one of their\nnumber is singled out; he pushes this way and that restlessly some\nfive others with him, not yet sure which is the real target of the\nevil stare.\nThe soft mass, lame from terror, still holds together. Finally\nthat indifferent stare nails its victim, there is no escape. He is ab-\nsolutely unable to control his little face, to show neither too much nor\ntoo little of the terror that is convulsing him. From second to second\nit descends deeper, this indifferent gaze from one soul into the soul of\nanother, boring down past all reserve, till hate is bare, and a crea-\nture without restraint, or form, or shame, whimpers under its pun-\nishment."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 620, "texte": "With cries of relief the others dash away along the trench. Flick-\nering along, without one gleam of light, as possessed souls in Pur-\ngatory, they huddle together at the furthermost edge, chattering\ngaily.\nWhen all is past, the persecutor climbs with elastic grip the\ntopmost branch of the tree. He sits there erect, motionless and au-\nstere, and so remains ages long. Although he is still concealed in the\ngreen shimmering clouds of the tree tops, the line of his stare sweeps\nthe summits of the Pincio and the Villa Borghese and beyond them to\nwhere the great yellow city lies extended, and back again, indifferently."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "116", "page_fin": "118", "image_debut": 22, "image_fin": 24, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Tanglefoot", "titre_sommaire": "Tanglefoot", "signature_source": "Robert Musil", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 622, "fin_caractere_exclue": 964, "texte": "TANGLEFOOT\nFly paper \" Tanglefoot \" is almost twelve inches long by seven\nbroad, and found in every household. It is spread about with a yellow\npoisonous substance, and comes to us from Canada. When a fly\nalights on it, not from greed so much as from a certain conventiona-\nlity — many flies are there already — it sticks with the extremities"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2250, "texte": "of its little legs. First a strange soft feeling arises, just as if we, in\nthe dark, should tread suddenly on a substance, at first nothing but\na warm soft unrecognizable resistence, but assuming gradually the\nhorribly familiar characteristics of a human hand, that lies there for\nsome unknown purpose, and grips at us with its five ever clearer\nshaping fingers.\nIt first pulls itself up like a paralytic who would mirror immobil-\nity, or like a shaky old officer — a little bow-legged truly — as if it\nstood on a sharp edge. Then it recovers itself, and gathers together\nevery faculty of strength and wisdom it possesses. After a few se-\nconds, the decision is made, and it does all it can by whirring its wings\nto lift itself. It continues these mad efforts till exhausted, a breath-\ning pause follows, then a new trial. But the intervals, between the\nstruggles grow longer. It now stands quite still, and I feel how\nhelpless it is. Intoxicating vapours rise. Its tongue beats in and out\nlike a tiny hammer. Its head, as if cut out of cocoanut, is brown and\nhairy, like the nigger idol heads that look like men's. It sways backward\nand forward, and bends in the joints at the knees, as men do who\nendeavour to lift an impossible weight, though more tragicly than the\neffort of a labourer, more like the heroic spirit of uttermost resistance\nin the limbs of the Iyaocoon. The time comes finally —it is ever\nthe same — when the need of a moment overcomes the mightiest\nvitality of that mighty instinct in us all, the will to live. It is the mo-\nment when the climber opens his hand involuntarily from the pain in\nhis fingers, and lets go : when the body lost in the snow lies down to\nsleep like a tired child ; like the moment when the quarry with\nburning flanks stops short. No longer erect in the old straining ter-\nror, it relaxes perceptibly, and, quite human, is caught at once in an-\nother place, higher up the legs, or behind on the body, or at the tip of\na wing.\nWhen the spiritual exhaustion is overcome, and it is ready again\nfor the life struggle, it is situated so unfavourably that its movements\nbecome eccentric and unnatural. It tries to pull itself up, supported\nby the elbows, the hind legs stretched out; or it sits down completely,"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1169, "texte": "arms extended like a woman vainly endeavouring to free her hands\nfrom the closed fists of a man ; or it lies flat on its stomach, head and\narms in front, as if it had fallen in running while holding up its head.\nThe enemy remains passive, but it gains with every confused and\ndespairing movement. A nothing which is everything. So slowly,\nthat one can scarcely follow its gain until the end, when the victory\nis completed with unexpected swiftness. The last inner despair\nfloods through the little victim, it lets itself collapse head over heels,\nor on one side, legs out as if rowing. There it lies like a broken areo-\nplane, one wing in the air, or like the dead body of a horse, or like a\nsleeper.\nEven on the next day, one fly, here and there, will wake again, to\nagitate a limb in the air or flutter a wing. Sometimes such a move-\nment shudders right through the field after which they all sink again\ndeeper into their death. On the one side of the body, there, where\nthe legs join, is a little flimmering organ which still lives, opening and\nclosing ; one cannot see it without a magnifying glass. It looks like\na tiny human eye, that ceaselessly opens and shuts."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "118", "page_fin": "119", "image_debut": 24, "image_fin": 25, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "The Mouse in the Fodara Vedla", "titre_sommaire": "The Mouse in the Fodara Vedla", "signature_source": "Robert Musil", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 1171, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1820, "texte": "THE MOUSE IN THE FODARA VEDLA\n\nFodara Vedla, Indian Alps, three thousand feet and more above\nthe peopled country and then still further away ; who has placed a\nbench here ?\nHe who sits on this bench, sits tight, mouth closed. Breathing\nseems strange, a process of nature, not quite natural when one is con-\nscious of it, for then it becomes a happening — like pregnacy in a\nwoman.\nThe grass, from the year before, is as pallid as if a stone had just\nrolled off it. All around are hunches and troughs, senseless and\nnumberless; stunted pines and Alps. From this surging quiet one's\nvision is thrown again and again to the round yellow cliffs where it"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 934, "texte": "is shivered into hundreds of fragments. It is not excessively high,\nbut above is only blue nothingness. The world is once more as de-\nserted and inhuman as during the creation.\nThe little mouse has laid in the earth a system of trenches. Mouse\ndeep, with holes in which to disappear, and others to come up from.\nIt darts in circles, stands still, then darts off again in wider rings. The\nhuman hand sinks down from the back of the bench. An eye as large\nand black as the head of a pin looks at it. Is it the tiny, restless, alive\neye, or the immovability of the mountains ?\nIs it God's will, or the will of a little field mouse that makes you\nstand shaken and unprepared ?\nOne puts aside the thought of God, and asks oneself more exactly:\nis it the mobility of the eye, or the immovability of the enormous\nmountains ? And helpless, one perceives that they are one and the\nsame thing . . .\n\nTranslated from the German of)\nRobert Musil,"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "120", "page_fin": "121", "image_debut": 26, "image_fin": 27, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "The Snow Man", "titre_sommaire": "The Snow Man", "signature_source": "Donald Corley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1749, "texte": "THE SNOW MAN\n\nThe Square was at afternoon ; snow fell: straight, monotonous,\nunflurried ; it made little cones on the tops of posts, it made hawsers\nout of wires, it amplified every twig on every tree, it made the roofs\nlook thatched, it filled foot-prints and wheel-tracks. A man paused\nin one of the curving pathways, and having paused stayed there. There\nwas nowhere for him to go, he was not cold nor hungry nor thirsty\nnor sleepy any more, nor had he any elation about anything. As he\nstood there motionless looking across the square, his hands deep in\nthe pockets of his long overcoat, the snow made a high-peaked fool's\ncap out of his derby hat, put epaulets on his shoulders, changed the\ncolor of his coat from black to white. Until presently the man was\nobliterated except for the end of his pipe, which smoked, notwithstand-\ning the snow that fell into it, though the stem, too, had its little crest-\ning of snow like the tops of the iron fences.\nSome urchins of the street came by, shuffling lanes in the snow\nwith their feet. \" Let's, make a snow man,\" one of them yelled.\n\" Here's one started, \" the others said, and they heaped the snow\nabout the man's feet, and built it up about his legs, his body, his arms,\nhis shoulders.\n\" Aw, leave the pipe, \" screamed one.\nThey covered his head about with snow. He was not very tall.\nAnd in the top of his snow-cap they stuck a dead twig from a tree. The\npipe kept on smoking. Then, as it was dusk, the boys, after making\neyes, nose and mouth for their snow man and buttons down the front\nof his coat, with bits of blackened sticks from the trees, went home.\nAnd the snow stopped, and no more smoke came out of the snow man's\npipe, and as the watch went on their rounds they each whacked at the"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1485, "texte": "snow man in a friendly way with their night-sticks, to keep warm,\nand because they must whack somebody. But the snow man had\nquite frozen.\nAs the extinguisher of lamps hurried that way over the ice, putting\nout the street lights at six the next morning, he thought he heard a\nvoice asking him for a light. But looking around and seeing no one\nbut the snow man, and being intent upon putting out the lights and\ngetting to the corner for a cup of coffee, he paid little attention. When\nall the lights in the square were out and the sun came up, more boys\npassed that way.\n\" See the snow guy wid de pipe, \" they said, and forthwith, fol-\nlowing the instinct of their race, set to work to knock the pipe out of\nthe snow man's mouth.\nThis accomplished, they decided to bombard him. After many\nlumps of ice had struck the snow man on his chest, on his head, on\nhis arms, on his ears, he fell down, and the boys walked on him.\n\" He's a stiff, \" they commented, and went their way hooting.\nIn the full splendour of forenoon, when the twigs of all the trees,\nencased in ice, were gossamer arabesques against the sky, and men\nwith spades were scraping all the sidewalks, making hoarse sounds,\none of the watch, striding past, paused, and surveyed the prostrate\nsnow man.\n\" Get on out of this, \" he ordered, and smote the soles of the snow\nman's feet with his stave, first one and then the other, with the accom-\nplished tattoo of the sole-beater.\nBut the snow man lay quite still.\n\nDonald Corley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "122", "page_fin": "123", "image_debut": 28, "image_fin": 29, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Four Etudes", "titre_sommaire": "Four Etudes", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 953, "texte": "FOUR ETUDES\n\nI.\nThe forenoon sleeps peacefully in the heat\nof the vast stupefying sun. The fruit trees\nand green plants in the orchard bleach and suffer\nunthinkingly and still there blows no breeze,\nbut carries to us gnats and stinging flies.\nThe parched air permits no murmured thought,\nand light beats down, while the earth mutely fries. .\nIn the intense silence time flows unseen\nfrom the glistening ether over the hot pale green\nof the motionless fields.\n2.\nSpeckled cows graze in humble pastures,\nblotted against the richness of a long hill,\nwhile a chance cloud above keeps them in shadow.\nHeads bent in the invisible vassalage,\nthey are the sweet wet-nurses of the world,\nheavy with the good milk that streams from them . . .\nThere was the young Jersey that went rioting madly over the pasture,\nher long yoked passions buffeting her against the wooden enclosures,\nand died with a rail piercing her udders, so that the blood mingled\nwith the milk,"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1580, "texte": "3.\n— \" Having turned this trying hill, we may rest here and regard\nthe valleys below, the confronting mountain, and the many purple\ndips of the earth-crust in the clouded distance, but above all this\nsingularly charming valley at its tranquil level, whose suavity sof-\ntens even the flow of sunlight into it.\n\" us hold this height, viewing the valley at our feet and many\nothers, including the occasionally glimpsed stream which gutted\nthem, not to speak of the numberless hills and mountains so entwined\nin their uncertain directions and distances, that it all but gives one\nthe vertigo to eye them.\"\n— \" But come, I grow faint here, as if my identity were escaping\nfrom me. No, let us rather go down into this valley with its yellow\nfields, than stay here. . . Now see, how, with the hills running sheer\nagainst the sky, locking us in so there is apparently no egress, we\nare within our microcosm again ! \"\n4.\nIn the whole valley there was but one light,\na lamp in a farm-house shooting through four windows ;\nand the dark hummed with the irresolute voices of the fields.\nBut the uneasy darkness could not bend or silence\nthe small still light,\nwhich from the four windows\npast fronting trees stabbed long yellow lines\ntoward the four corners of the valley, where they lay\ndemolished at the feet of the hills.\nHow more lavish a sky the hills suspend,\nwith what largesse, what helter-skelter of motive and tenor\ndo the busy and voluble stars complain,\nthe distant suns and their broods of planets drench the fields,\nand the Milky Way filter through tree-tops ?\n\nMatthew Josephson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "124", "page_fin": "132", "image_debut": 30, "image_fin": 38, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "George Moore, Aesthete", "titre_sommaire": "George Moore, Aesthete", "signature_source": "Marianne Moore", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2139, "texte": "GEORGE MOORE, AESTHETE\n\nGeorge Moore's experience of life has been exceptional, and there are phases\nof life with which he is not familiar but it is his idiosyncrasy not to qualify.\nHe is an aesthete, a man of supreme accomplishement in presenting sensation.\nTo any but one who has made a specialty of sensation, he seems superficial,\nbut a nerve is a nerve and his expertness as an observer makes one feel as if\nsensation might at any time wander all the way to the heart as indeed it does\nin Esther Waters. His introducing in his work so many imagined instances of\nsuffering illustrates this aesthetic sensitiveness and is a marvel of contrast to\nthe unconcern of such a writer as Defoe, who tells in Robinson Crusoe of the\nhungry wildcat:\n\" I tossed her a bit of biscuit, though by the way I was not very free of\nit, for my store was not great : however, I spared her a bit, I say, and she went\nto it, smelled of it, and ate it, and looked (as pleased) for more, but I thanked\nher, and could spare no more ; so she marched off \"\nand of the sleeping lion :\n\" I took the best aim I could with the first piece to have shot him in the\nhead, but he lay so with his leg raised a little above his nose, that the slugs hit\nhis leg about the knee, and broke the bone.... I took a second piece immediat-\nely, and though he began to move off fired again, and shot him into the head,\nand had the pleasure to see him drop, and make but little noise, but lay strug-\ngling for life. .. . This was indeed game to us, but this was no food, and I was\nvery sorry to lose three charges of powder and shot upon a creature that was\ngood for nothing to us. ... I bethought myself, however ; . . .at last we got\noff the hide of him, and spreading it on top of our cabin, the sun effectually\ndried it in two days' time and it afterward served me to lie upon. \"\nDefoe is austere; George Moore, the obverse ; the sense of sense is so poignant\nthat there is no room for pity. In Hail and Farewell, he speaks of his\nand Yeats's altering of Edward Martyn's play The Tale of a Town, with Edward\nMartyn in an adjoining room and says, \"We were like two boys threading a"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2989, "texte": "bluebottle. \" Heloi'se said, \" I cannot sit reading with the skin of the animal\nabout my knees that howled to me for help\" and Heloise and Abelard\n\" continued talking through a cloudy morning of May, puzzled to discover in their\nimagination how a wolf and her cub had come by their deaths. \" There is a\ntinge of misery in this pathological humanitarianism.\nAesthetic feeling sometimes plays Mr. Moore false, for narrator though\nhe is, apparently impeccable in conversation and in his conception of dramatic\ninterval, there are in Heloi'se and Abelard, passages in which crudeness, mawkish-\nness, indecision and lame unnatural cadence spring out at one : \"A good\nbaby, the best of babies Heloi'se said ; I believe that there was never so good\na child. .. . Dear wife, dear wife !he said overcoming the suffocation of the\nmoment. \" The Spectator remarks that Mr. Moore has chosen to write \"in a\nkind of diluted Wardour Street, \" that \" his characters do not say Tush ! or\nZooks ! \" and that \"he has avoided the worst blunders of-the 'hath done'\nstyle, but. . . there is too much talk of ' ousels ' and ' willow beds ; ' \" a not\nunfair criticism. One is merely aware of these flaws upon perfection as of the\nminor blemish of cover and print. One expects the taste of an aesthete to be\nimpeccable; then why the pale print and clamorous bourgeois binding of the\nAmerican edition ?\nIn common with other aesthetes, Mr. Moore sacrifices the austere beauty\nof the athlete ; this would perhaps be his defence for so repeatedly making a\nstudy of themes which involve the disintegrating factor of sensuality. Perhaps\nhe would have one charitably transfer to him Heloi'se's defence of Abelard when\nshe says, \" If we are to have genius we must put up with the consequences of gen-\nius, a thing the world will never do ; it wants geniuses but it would like them to\nbe just like other people. \" The average person has seen genius walking erect too\nmany times to accept the implication that genius progresses best when it crawls ;\ninnate sensuality is a mildew and in defense of an author who is aesthete pure and\nsimple, one recalls Abelard's observation respecting Madelon : \" We owe her\na good deal. . . and we are paying with our patience all that we owe her. \"\nAs in The Brook Kerith Mr. Moore is not a theologian, so in Heloi'se and\nAbelard, he is not a philosopher. His knowledge is a knowledge of living, not\na concept of life ; his philosophical discussions no more attain the illusion of real-\nness than he seems in them, like Socrates. To those deeply interested in phil-\nosophy, it is irritating that philosophy should be made a back drop to \" a ram-\npage of the passions, \" but Mr. Moore's imperviousness to disapproval is part of\nhis virtue and in Heloise and Abelard, it is not twelfth century scholastic phil-\nosophy but George Moore that we read. In Abelard, Madelon, Heloise and Ful-\nbert, we have four aspects of him.\nIn Abelard, we have the Arabian nights concept of masculine favour in"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "126", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2635, "texte": "which the grand-vizier indicates with his sceptre, which maiden shall advance\n— a contrast indeed, to the \" charity in armour \" of mediaevelism — to Rudel\nof whom Abelard says that he walked \" with a stoop, deep in his dream, seeing\nhis princess far more clearly than the women about him \" and to the romantic\nself abasement of the seventeenth century :\n\" Mon Dieu, aide-moi !\nThat I with the primroses of my fresh wit,\nMay tumble her tyranny under my feet.\nDone je serai un jeune roi. \"\nInstead of being \" animated by a durable ecstasy. . . which rendered him\ncapable of haughty thoughts and valiant deeds, \" Abelard was demoralized,\nfinding in Heloise, man's natural enemy ; this fact Mr. Moore elaborates, quoting\nProverbs, \" I have found woman bitterer than death; . . . her hands are chains; \"\nciting Adam and how \" the first woman brought about the banishment of\nman from paradise ; \" Samson, \" brought to such despair that he buried him-\nself. . . under the ruins of the temple ; \" Solomon who \" lost his reason through\na woman ; \" Socrates, whose sufferings should \" cause the most thoughtless\nto ponder; \" and Job, \" for it was against his wife that Job, that holy man,\nfought the last and hardest fight of all. \" Mr. Moore shares the oriental concep-\ntion that to be inescapably associated with woman, is degradation. Although,\nas he says, \" in every life there is an adventure that sums up lesser adventures, \"\nand in Abelard's case, \" Heloise was this summary, \"he causes Abelard to\nreflect that \" if he had not met her his life would have continued to be an ever-\nswirling adventure. \" \"He hated to think of himself as an animal at tether,\nmoving circle wise, always equidistant from the centre, never able to project\nhimself even a few feet farther into the unknown. \" In reading George Moore,\none cannot but feel the retentiveness of his mind and in his attributing to Abe-\nlard a remarkable memory, one is aware of his own highly specialized faculty.\nWhen Abelard says to Heloise : \" if the Georgics were lost, we could recover them\nall from our memories, for where mine failed thou wouldst come to my aid, and\ntogether we could give back to the world the book it had lost, \" we are reminded\nof Avowals in which Mr. Moore says, \" Your memory is better than mine. . .\nin this instance, certainly \" and Mr. Gosse replies, \" Thank you for this tribute,\nwhich it is an honour to receive from one of prodigious memory, though of slight\nreading. \"\nIn Madelon, we have the foil to reflection — corresponding to that which we\nhave in the Gosse of Avowals.\nIn Heloise, we have Mr. Moore's concept of woman as man's satellite and"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "127", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3072, "texte": "handmaid. Heloise is like the Lady Malberge of the Hermit's ballad : \" She\nhas no real being except in me; she is here, and nowhere else, and the Hermit\npointed to his heart. \" Life at Argenteuil was to her after leaving Abelard,\n\" shadowy as the world she saw about her when she left the library and walked\ninto the open air \" and \" there was nothing true in her except her love for\nAbelard, whom she would follow into the gulfs of hell rather than live in paradise\nwithout. \" \" And in one intense moment of vision, \" says Mr. Moore, \" she\nsaw into life as it is offered to women, the obliteration of themselves in marriage\nor the obliteration of themselves in convent rules ; . . . convent or marriage, it's\nalways that for a woman. \" Another phase of Mr, Moore's notion of woman's\nsubordinate role, we have in the young Astrolabe's ennui at being obliged to stay\nin the convent with the nuns and with his mother; he said, \" I don't want to live\nhere shut up with a lot of women \" and upon being asked, \" And what will you\ndo, little sir, when you are older ? I do not know so much what I shall do, Astro-\nlabe answered. I shall escape away from women of whom I have seen enough. \"\nAlthough Mr. Moore apparently supports the illusion of Heloise's erudition, her\nOvid and Virgil do not as presented make her seem learned. She is like Tappe's\nMiss Pellicoe, \" circumspect and tidy, polite and tractable, working away\nbehind closed doors at deportment, penmanship, Latin, Greek and botany. \"\n\" Moreover, \" says Tappe, \" Miss Pellicoe is not six forever ; she eventuall}-\nachieves the academic age of sixteen and with it the dignity of profound hours\nin a college library. \" It is dignity of this sort that Heloise seems to us to have\nattained. In insisting upon her indifference to religion, Mr. Moore departs pos-\nsibly a little from the original. Roman Catholicism is a formal religion and she\nwas negatively its disciple although she had also, it is true, definite interests of\nthe intellect and of the emotions.\nBut if, according to Mr. Moore, she was indifferent to religion, she was\nnot more so than Fulbert in whom we have a fourth phase of Mr. Moore's\naesthetics of materialism. \"He had gone for a handful of nuts and a tankard\nof wine, \" says Mr. Moore. \"He sat cracking and skinning the nuts and\ndrinking large draughts in silence. \" Despite the fact that Mr. Harris lauds\nMr. Moore's moderation, anything more unequivocally sottish, it would be\nimpossible to imagine. Fulbert remarks that \" when the belly suffers, the\nheart is hard, \" and other like allusions are made, as that of the robber.\nThe Canon speculates upon \" the shortsightedness of servants governed always\nby the seeming need of the moment \" and upon the advisability of \" throwing\nhimself upon the charity of a new servant who, though she might not have the\nfaults that Madelon had, would have other faults. . . and the thought of Madelon's\ndismissal was dropped almost as quickly as it had come. \" His appreciation of\ncreature comfort has no less conspicuous a counterpart in Abelard and Heloise"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "128", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3022, "texte": "than in Madelon, who is made to say of the pigeon that he \"is better if he be\nlaid out between slices of good beef, for the neighborhood of the beef favours him \"\nand \" when the king of fishes, the shad, was laid before them : of more delicate\nflavour than the bass, better than the turbot, a fish that makes the sole seem\ncommon, said Abelard. \" Abelard is made to speak \"of a vexing puffing wind, that\ncarries us a little way and then leaves us \" and many times in this book as in others\nof his books, one notes Mr. Moore's appraisement of the pain of being thwarted.\nWhen Heloise inquired about Abelard, \" As the student gave ear to him, thinking\nhe was about to speak of Abelard. But it was of the fine weather they spoke. \"\nIn the matter of architectural setting which is essentially a matter of feel-\ning, in the crafty, leisurely advance, one is conscious of no flaws. The fact that\nMr. Moore tells a story different from the one on which his narrative is based,\ndoes not matter. The proportioned, unhurried spaciousness of design — so much\nthe reverse of what is usual — excites admiration. Buildings of great size are\noften complained of as not being set in sufficient greensward; similarly, one must\ngive architectural advantage to an experience of colossal size and this Mr. Moore\ndoes. There is an orchestral quality, a premonitory note in his deliberate ad-\nvance upon his theme, whereby he carries one \" like a fish in net drawn along. \"\nIn the beginning, one notes this atmosphere of veiled suspense, in the uncer-\ntainty which surrounds Heloise's future. The possibility of her becoming an\nabbess is mentioned and of her being forced into a marriage abhorrent to her.\nMadelon is made to say, \" I have my doubts if thou'lt ever get back to Argen-\nteuil. \" She is made to \" ask herself for the first time. . . if she had a destiny,\nglad or sad. . . and waited for an answer that did not come. \"\nMr. Moore's conception of narrative is supported, moreover, by his predi-\nlection for reverie — by the romantic warpedness of his imagination. He\nspeaks of \" the sense of sadness inseparable from a river, \" of how \" the dead\nhave a hold upon us that the living haven't. \" He of Heloise, that \" her\nthoughts seemed to fall into nothing \" and speaks of \" innumerable peacocks,\nghostly birds in the mild moonlight, whose long white tails set Madelon crying :\n\" ghosts or angels; let us away. \" <r Is it not strange, \" Abelard said to himself,\n\" that what I love best in the world should bring me back to the country most\nantagonistic to me and my ideas, and reining in his horse he pondered in front\nof the city on hatred and love, asking himself which was the deeper feeling. \"\nObserve, moreover, how in Heloise's meditation on the soul and the body,\nhe gives a facsimile of the mental process in which the mind picks us and drops\nan idea and picks it up again :\n\" She returned to the window overlooking the Seine ; unable to take up\nthe book again, she fell to thinking instead of the Poet whim Christianity unites"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3107, "texte": "with paganism in honouring : and her eyes returning to the page, she reread that\nIris. . . descended to liberate the soul from the body. But why liberate the soul\nfrom the body ? she asked, since the two are inseparable as we know them. \"\nMr. Moore has said in Avowals, \" Whosoever keeps humour under lock and\nkey is read in the next generation, if he writes well, for to write well without\nhumour is the supreme test; \" nevertheless, sleights of mind should not count for\nnothing. \"In difficult and thorny questions an adjournment of the debate is\nalways welcome ; \" \" the false always being accepted, rather than the true, . . .\nsmall satisfaction it is to us that the truth shall prevail in the end, Abelard said ;''\n\" why, indeed, said Romauld, \" should one come between friends who have chos-\nen to quarrel, \" since swordsmanship proceeds out of friendship, like the egg\nfrom the hen ;we can't have one without the other. \" These things amuse us\nbut we agree that they are subsidiary to the structure. Mr. Moore's flawless\ntranscript of the surface of things makes him powerful; in his reverence for\nhimself as an artist — his willingness to \" pick a thing to threads and reweave, \"\nhe is essentially the writer, interested in elegance and lucidity. The tendency\nto experiment with punctuation — to take away unnecessary detail that one may\nexhibit the meaning — is characteristic only of those who are interested in the\nmechanics of language and his abandoning of quotation marks perhaps necessary\nto an understanding of the meaning as one feels by their absence, is none the less\na phase of the spirit which enables him to say, \" The exception to the rule must\nreturn to the rule for fortification against eccentricity \" and \" she awoke sud-\ndenly though she had not been asleep. \" His artificial simplicity — \" corrupt\nsimplicity \" so-called — is the artificial simplicity of every fashion expert and\nit is not to our discredit that we like it. When in Hail and Farewell, he says,\n\" We never grieve for anybody, parent or friend as we should like to grieve and\nare always shocked by our absentmindedness, \" when he says, \" The trouvere\ngetting the better of the philosopher he forgot faith and reason and said : the\nbeauty of the larches is enough, \" the demure, assured quality, the ripeness as\nof meat well hung yet not decayed — so recognizable as to be signed without a\nname — is none the less expert for the consciousness of its effort to be sensa-\ntional. It is the writer rather than the experiencer who says, \" Life is more ela-\nborate in its processes than we think for ; \" who says of Abelard that \" he never\nsaid anything twice in the same way, \" who causes Abelard to say that \" all\nsimiles are defective if pressed too far, \" who quotes from the two gleemen :\n\" At first our differences were slight, and it amused us to wrangle over an art\nthat was dear to both of us ; but in the second year we wearied of our differences. \"\n\" Buried shade is a strange expression » said Heloise and reminding one of Avow-\nals, she speculates further on the refinements of language when she says, \" But"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2801, "texte": "why, uncle, do we not write as the pagans wrote ? \" Mr. Moore exhibits in his\nsentence structure with its echo of The House that Jack Built, a seventeenth\ncentury fastidiousness :\n\"It may seem to thee that lam talking only as the mad talk... But lam not\ntalking, Abelard, lam thinking ; lam not thinking, Abelard, lam dreaming; lam\nnot dreaming, Abelard, lam feeling; and in this moment lam consonant with the\ntree above me and the stars above the tree ; I am amid the roots of the hills.\nIt is only one who has analyzed the secret of emphasis who could say, \" pro-\ntracted farewells may be borne only by those whose hearts are cold ; \" \"it is\nalways coming and going from the convent to the world, and from the world to\nthe convent; \" and \" the longer the immortality, the more perfect it becomes,\ntime putting a patina on the bronze and the marble and. . . I think upon texts. \"\nNote the outcome of sober observation, the accurate, crafty transcript\nof human behaviour and of nature — of the veracious, intentionally conspicuous\nlack of sentimentality in the following characterization :\n\" Of a sudden the voices ceased, and, turning her head, Heloi'se saw a short\nman, of square build, who, although well advanced in the thirties, still conveyed\nan impression of youthfulness ; for though squarely built his figure was well\nknit, his eyes bright, and his skin fresh and not of an unpleasing hue, brown and\nruddy. The day being warm, he walked carrying his hat in his hand, looking\nround him pleased at the attendance, and it was this look of self-satisfaction\nthat stirred a feeling of dislike in Heloise. He seemed to her complacent and\nvain ; and she did not like his round head, his black hair, his slightly prominent\neyes : . . . the only feature that forced an acknowledgement from her was his\nforehead, which was large and finely turned. . . She could not imagine Aristotle\nor Plato. . . or Seneca, or Virgil, or Ovid, or Tibullus. . . converging to the type\nthat Abelard represented so prominently. . . Half an hour must have been spent\nin the donning of the laces at his cuffs and another in choosing the buckles of\nhis shoes. But her criticism of his apparel was quickly swept away again by\nthe sound of the rich, smooth, baritone voice, and this time she perceived that the\nvoice was accompanied by an exquisite courtesy, and that the manner in which\nhe walked addressing those who gathered about him to admire and to listen was\nkindly, although it was plain that though familiarity from him would be an\nhonour he would resent it quickly in another. \"\nThe account of Heloise's behaviour upon her second visit to the Canon, more-\nover — the intense, introspective captiousness of youth — is psychologically\naccurate and is one of the most close-textured, distinctive episodes in the book :"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3037, "texte": "\" The Canon stopped speaking so that Heloise might ask him some questions\nthat would lead to a further unwinding of a story which had begun to seem to him\nmore inveigling than he knew it to be before he began it. But Heloise said no-\nthing, and after waiting for a question from her, he said : where are thy thoughts ?\nMy thoughts, uncle, were —I do not know where they were. I suppose I must\nhave been thinking. Can anyone think without words ? Ah, now I remember ;\nI was asking myself if Abelard's story would have revealed to me the man whom\nI saw and heard in the cloister. . . If thou hadst heard his story from me before\nseeing him ? Yes, uncle; and her face still deep in a cloud of meditation, she\nconfessed that it was not until she heard him in the cloister that she began to see\nthat what she saw and heard were not two different things but one thing for he\nwould not be himself without — Without what, niece ? the Canon asked, for\nhe was amused by Heloise's embarrassment, and to continue it he added : his\nbeauty ? The sneer threw Heloise off her guard, and she answered that nobody\ncould call Abelard an ugly man. A stocky little fellow, the Canon persisted. And\nhe would have said more of the same kind if Heloise's face had not warned him\nnot to proceed further with his teasing. He spoke instead of Abelard's fore-\nhead, which he admitted to be of the Socratic type in its amplitude ; but he\naverred that the likeness between the two men ceased at the forehead, for where-\nas Socrates was of the ascetic temperament, Abelard was by his face notably\na free liver, a disparagement that seemed to Heloise like a challenge. She\nasked the Canon to mention a feature that would testify to the truth of this, and\nthe spirit of battle being upon him he could not keep back the words : his singing\nof French songs. You never spoke to me before of Abelard as one divided be-\ntween free living and philosophy. Nor is it many minutes since you were speaking\nof him as the intellectual descendant of Aristotle and Plato ; your present sneers\nof him cannot be else than an attempt to anger me, and we would do better,\nmayhap, to talk of matters on which we are agreed. \"\nLater in the narrative, the characterization of Astrolabe — spoiled and ego-\ntistical but a child of parts — is true to the child mind and entertains us through-\nout. While the snare for the ducks was being woven, \"he practised quacking,\nbecoming quickly so skilful that his quacking deceived the nuns. \" He wished\nto have a lute or a ribeck and was aifronted for a day or two by being offered a\npair of regals when he recovered his humour enough to ask for a gittern. \" One\nhas to learn these instruments early when one is young just as I am, else it is\ndifficult to learn them later. But I heard thee say thou wert going to be a Cru-\nsader. Can't Ibe both, mother, gleeman and Crusader ? \" His mind was like\na genie in a box demanding freedom. \" And Heloise was jealous of Abelard and\nasked why he should have possessed himself so completely of his offspring. \""}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2888, "texte": "Of equal distinction with these characterizations are Mr. Moore's descrip-\ntions of nature. The Comte de Rodeboeuf says of a parrot, \" I bought a grey\nbird, whose wrinkled eyelid fell over an eye that seemed to know all things ; \"\nthe sense of Argenteuil's remoteness from Paris is felt and its lack of austerity,\nin \" the nuns . . . walking in their convent garden finding young spiders weaving\nglittering threads from spray to spray. \" We have an epitome of bird life in the\n\"■tall boles rising fifty or sixty feet from the roadway, the nests in the high\nbranches, and a great clamour about them. The wayfarers stopped to admire\nthe parent rook crawling gingerly into the nest with some snail or grub for the\nsqueakers within it, \" in the swallows at dusk \" flying more madly than ever,\nas if to lose a minute were a loss. \" In the description of the snowstorm, we\nhave a unified, perfectly fused fragment of atmosphere — in \" the sky copper and\nsulphur. . . along the horizon, betokening more snow, \" in \" the thin wintry\nday, a small passage of daylight between the long nights \" and \" people walking\nin the middle of the street to avoid the drip. \" Abelard's reference to his life in\nthe monastery of Saint-Gildas remains in the mind as vividly as the longer de-\nscription does of the forest — \" Saint-Gildas among the rocks where the tides\nare moaning always if they are not crashing. \" To Madelon, discoursing of the\npractical properties of the oak, \" Thou'rt forgetting, Madelon, the power of the\noak over the mind, said Abelard ; the oak grove was the cathedral of our ances-\ntors. Not a whit does that surprise me, said Madelon, for who can walk in these\nshades without awe ? \" Abelard remarks that \" the silence of the forest is\ndifferent from any other \" for \" the forest is never silent \" and we are told how\nthey \" rode beneath the boughs not yet in full leaf, following the path as it\nwound through hollows, losing it and finding it amid rocks, pushing their way\nthrough thickets that seemed impenetrable at a distance but did not prove, so\nhard to force through as they had appeared, —of how \" stooping low in their\nsaddles, they broke through somehow, \" of how Abelard \" pointed to a dark\nragged line of pines flowing down the northern sky \" and of \" the fringe of birch-\ntrees that encircled with their pallor the great district of pines that showed in\nblack masses over against Etampes. . . the pines rising up naked and bare some\nfifty or sixty feet, some straight, some leaning, in endless aisles. \" \" I,ike the\nspears, Heloi'se said, of Crusaders going into battle. \" What one does not like\nin Mr. Moore is not what one thinks of as one reverts to these verisimilitudes ;\none honotirs genius which is able to spin out of itself, the fabric of its illusions.\nAs Fulbert says : \"We must not ask more of paganism than it can give ; its\ngift is beauty. \"\n\nMarianne Moore"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[133]", "page_fin": "[133]", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 39, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Sailboats", "titre_sommaire": "Sailboats", "signature_source": "Richard Seewald", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "[133]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 25, "texte": "Sailboats\nRichard Seewald"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "134", "page_fin": "134", "image_debut": 40, "image_fin": 40, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "Mountain Farm", "titre_sommaire": "Mountain Farm", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 904, "texte": "MOUNTAIN FARM\nMalcolm Cowley\nI watched the agony of a mountain farm,\na gangrenous decay;\nthe farm died with the pines that sheltered it,\nthe farm died when the woodshed rotted away.\nIt died to the beat of a loose board on the barn\nthat flapped in the wind all night;\nnobody thought to drive a nail in it.\nThe farm died in a broken window light,\na broken pane upstairs in the double bedroom\nthrough which the autumn rain\nbeat down all night on the mouldy turkey carpet,\nnobody thought to putty another pane.\nNobody thought to nail a slat on the conic rib,\nnobody mowed the hay,\nnobody came to mend the rotting fences.\nThe farm died when the two boys went away,\nor lived, perhaps, till the lone old man was buried,\nbut after it was dead I loved it more,\nthough poison sumac grew in the empty pastures,\nthough ridgepoles fell, and though the fall winds whistled\nall the night through an open and empty door."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "135", "page_fin": "135", "image_debut": 41, "image_fin": 41, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "The Rakeoff and the Getaway", "titre_sommaire": "The Rakeoff and the Getaway", "signature_source": "Carl Sandburg", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1340, "texte": "THE RAKEOFF AND THE GETAWAY\nCarl Sandburg\n\" Shall we come back ? \" the gamblers asked.\n\" If you want to, if you feel that way, \" was the answer.\nAnd they must have wanted to,\nthey must have felt that way ;\nfor they came back,\nhats pulled down over their eyes\nas though the rain or the policemen\nor the shadows of a sneaking scar-face. Nemesis\nfollowed their tracks and hunted them down.\n\" What was the clean-up ? Iyet's see the rakeoff, \"\nsomebody asked them, looking into their eyes\nfar under the pulled-down hat rims;\nand their eyes had only the laugh of the rain in them,\nlights of escape from a sneaking scare-face Nemesis\nhunting their tracks, hunting them down.\nAnvils, pincers, mosquitoes, anguish, raspberries,\nsteaks and gravy, remorse, ragtime, slang,\na woman's looking glass to be held in the hand\nfor looking at the face and the face make-up,\nblackwing birds fitted onto slits\nof the sunsets they were flying into,\nbitter green waters, clear running waters,\nstanding pools ringing the changes\nof all the triangles of the equinoxes of the sky.\nand a woman's slipper\nwith a tarnished buckle,\na tarnished Chinese silver buckle.\nThe gamblers snatched their hats off babbling,\n\" Some layout—take your pick, kid. \"\nAnd their eyes had yet in them\nthe laugh of the rain\nand the lights of their getaway\nfrom a sneaking scar-face Nemesis."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[136]", "page_fin": "[136]", "image_debut": 42, "image_fin": 42, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "Ascona", "titre_sommaire": "Ascona", "signature_source": "Richard Seewald", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "[136]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 22, "texte": "Richard Seewald\nAscona"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c032", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c032", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "137", "page_fin": "145", "image_debut": 43, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "He Deceived Her", "titre_sommaire": "He Deceived Her", "signature_source": "Prána Srámek ; P. Silver", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2497, "texte": "HE DECEIVED HER\n\nWith a yawning, moistly bedaubed grayness began that March day which\nwas to provide the provincial town with an exciting occurrence There seemed\nto be a chilly shower ; then came a brief crackle of hail, unexpectedly, and with\nabruptness it stopped again. A few minutes after seven o'clock an officer made\nhis appearance on the stone bridge ; he was walking from the outskirts, and with\nrapid puffs he was finishing a cigarette. A few paces in front of him went a\nbutcher's cart, covered with a white awning ; otherwise, the bridge was empty\nat this moment. It was not until the butcher's cart had just about passed the\nmiddle of the bridge, that a man approached the bridge from the other side,\nand knocked out a pipe as he walked ; his gait was shambling and his knees\nwere thrust forward. A red-faced boy, sitting on the butcher's cart, looked\nfixedly at this man, feeling perhaps the need of something to rally his drowsy\neye£. The man came on a level with him; suddenly, he thrust his knees still\nfurther forwards and shouted : \" He's jumping. \" The boy felt as if someone\nhad twisted his head backwards with a single jerk, and this is what he saw.\nOn the parapet of the bridge stood the officer and made a curious dragging move-\nment with his right hand as if he were freeing it from something. Suddenly\nhis hand became motionless, it became motionless against his breast, for an\ninstant everything became motionless in a sort of horror ; the officer glanced\nin the direction of the cart, he frowned, said something, and just then a muffled\nshot was heard ; his body floundered on the parapet, he waved his arms and slid\nfrom the bridge into the river ; a cloudlet of smoke drifted to the other side of\nthe bridge ...\nThat day the pale, slender officer visited all the dwellings in the town.\nOn the left side of his breast his tunic was scorched ; and under the scorched\ntunic was the dark trace of a well-aimed wound, unerring and compact, like\nthe full stop at the end of a sentence. It seemed as if he were a little proud\nof his deed; he discovered his name upon everyone's lips, the women breathed\nmore quickly and the men puckered their brows uneasily. And perhaps also\nbecause the spring was just at hand, the town was groping, as it were, in a ro-\nmantic twilight; two girl pupils of a music teacher, suddenly and for no obvious\nreason, burst into tears at the piano, and in the grammar school a number of\nboys were sitting at their desks with completely vacant eyes."}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3010, "texte": "People made a pilgrimage to the stone bridge. Under the bridge the ice\nwas cut through in several places; it was in one of these openings that Lieutenant\nBartl had probably wished to disappear, twice shutting the door behind him ;\nbut by chance he had fallen close beside one of them and had been left lying\non the ice. A large, rust-coloured stain was left there, and the people leaned\nover the parapet to catch a glimpse of it. There was a nodding of heads ; each\nlooked at the other's lips in expectation of kind-hearted words. And they were\nduly uttered. \"He was a nice fellow, good-natured as could be, the soldiers\nin the barracks shed tears over him ; and there was no comforting his servant. \"\nA bugle sounded in the barracks near by ; there was more stealthy eyeing\nof the rust-coloured stain ; something both attractive and mournful came into\nthe minds of the onlookers. \" Why did he do it ? \" All necks were craned\nforward and the silence seemed to swell into a profound sigh. \" Why ? Nobody\nknows. Only this morning he sent two letters oil. Nobody knows. \"\nIn the course of the forenoon a little more hail came down; but in the\nafternoon there was a warm waft of spring, a downpour of rain, and towards\nevening a gust of stormy wind which set the gables and street lamps rattling.\nThe river seemed to be roaring with unusual loudness. And the people, listen-\ning to the noise of the wind and water, heard these sounds as if they were a tune\ncomposed especially for this particular day and moment. And while glances\nsought the darkest corner of the room, here and there somebody said : \" Two\nletters, fancy. Where ? To whom ? \"\nAll night long a tempestuous fiddler stood above the town and played.\nBut towards morning be became somehow uneasy ; there was something in the\neast which disturbed him. He glanced there for a moment, then closed his eyes\nand played afresh. His playing became wilder, and he let loose the strains of\nhis fiddle upon the town like horses stampeding on the pampas. But when he\ninquisitively half-opened his left eye and peeped for an instant towards the east,\nthe sun was rising there ; and then he stopped pla}>ing, uttered a brief, scornful\nchuckle in the direction of the sun, and swiftly departed. And so it came about\nthat the town awoke that morning amid peaceful springtide sunshine which lay\nupon all objects like, very fragile gossamer. On the eastward side the windows\nopened betimes, and the women leaned out from them, beckoning to the men\nwho were on their way to work. Throughout the day the sun was shining.\nAnd disagreeably affected by this springtide sun, the shadow of the pale, slender\nofficer wandered through the streets, entered the houses to get a close view, it\nseemed, of the changed situation, and in this way he lost much of his yesterday's\nself-assurance ; he really resembled someone who has lived a day too long, and\nis seeking to put matters right by making off with all possible speed. On that\nday the first violets were taken to the market."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3032, "texte": "On the following day also, the weather was fine and spring-like; it was spor-\ntive and glimmering as if with the presence of many bridesmaids, and for a\nwhile there stood a large, luminous cloud above the town, as if welded from\nmolten silver bells. And beneath the springtide firmament of this day they\ncarried Lieutenant Bartl to his grave ; the town once more opened its hearts,\nthat it might let the hearse and coffin pass through their midst. The women\nblenched a little when the music began. The officers marched in a solemn\nand beautiful manner, as if they were going to their deaths. Then appeared\nthe coffin and there was a strong fragrance of blossoms. The people suddenly\nbegan to crowd forward, as is their custom, by force of habit The curtain had\nfallen a little too quickly, leaving a distinct feeling of disappointment. \" And\nwho followed the coffin ? \" \"An old gentleman, it may have been his father.\nProbably he only had the one son .. \" \" A said affair, in truth. But on the\nwhole, — are we not all somehow disappointed ? \" And the people, glancing for\nanother moment as the curtain which had fallen somewhat quickly at last\nshrugged their shoulders and waved their hands. On the house-tops the\nsparrows, wild with spring, were causing an uproar. \" Ah, you wise creatures, \"\nsaid the people, looking at the house-tops ; and they smiled.\nThe town shrugged its shoulders and waved its hands. It was ready to\nforget the latest event as quickly as possible. But soon afterwards there was\nfresh talk about the officer who had shot himself. Certainly, in a rather odd\nconnection, which evoked mirth. The fact was that Miss Erna Slabochova\nhad on several occasions been observed at Lieutenant Bartl's grave. \" There\nshe stands, you know, at the grave, distracted and pale, just like a widow, you\nmight say ? \" The people laughed. For Miss Erna Slabochova was now really\nnot the sort of woman for whom a young lieutenant would take his own life ;\nshe was one of the town's sorry, cast off incumbrances, and that is why the people\nlaughed. Several years ago, oh yes, things were different.\nThe Slabochovas — the widow of an officer in the army service corps, with\nher daughter — lived then in a street through which the soldiers marched on\ntheir way to the parade-ground ; when they were returning, the officers used to\nsalute Miss Erna at the window with their swords, and Miss Erna slightly inclined\nher head in a queenly manner. Mrs. Slabochova would stand behind the curtain,\nimpressed and proud; she was as radiant as if she had plunged both her hands\nin a pile of ducats. Then they both left the window, Miss Erna gave a passing\nglance into the mirror, as if she were half-listening to someone reporting them-\nselves to her, and Mrs. Slabochova began to turn over the leaves of a photo-\ngraph album. \" A handsome man\" she would then say, gazing at one of them.\nShe would wait a moment, no, Miss Erna did not swallow the proffered bait.\nShe sat down in a rocking-chair, stretched out her slender, shapely legs beneath"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "140", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2431, "texte": "her dress, which produced the effect of a lengthy, dallying stroke with a violin-\nbow, and watched her mother with half-closed, slightly mocking eyes.\n\" Lieutenant Vacka turned remarkably pale when he saluted .. . didn't\nyou notice ? \" said Mrs. Slabochova again. But Miss Etna only shrugged her\nshoulders.\nThere was silence for a moment. The handsome man in the album did not\nblush. Then:\n\" How happy you are, my child. \"\nMiss Erna's expression suddenly became very weary. Mrs. Slabochova\nsighed deeply : she stroked the album with her hand; she sighed once more, and\nsoftly went from the room into the kitchen. She had forgotten the range, the\ndinner, everything ; she smiled towards some radiant dream, upon the topmost\nsummits of which stood Erna, victorious and beautiful. Then, for an obscure\nreason, she began to cry ; but letting her tears flow, she wrote in pencil on a piece\nof paper one of her occasional notes to her brother the major? which over-\nflowed with adoration for her daughter, like a room with the cries of a canary,\nand concluded with a plea for money.\nBut one day later on, when Mrs. Slabochova had consummated her silent\nrapture with the outcry : \" How happy you are, my child, \" — Miss Erna,\ncontrary to her custom, gave a curt laugh. Mrs Slabochova looked up in sur-\nprise, and encountered Erna's glance, beneath which she suddenly felt so strange-\nly ridiculous, as if someone had daubed a charcoal beard on her face. She -\nwas seized with alarm, and all at once something evil filled the air between her\nand Erna.\nThere sat Erna and kept looking at her mother with half-closed eyes.\n\" Mamma — \" she then said, and after apparently hesitating a little, she\nstrengthened her resolve and threw her head back. \" I -—- wasn't at the theatre\nyesterday ...\"\nMrs. Slabochova did not appear to understand properly.\n\" I was with Lieutenant Lerk. Where he lodges. In bis rooms. \"\n\" With Lieutenant . . . Lerk .*. . in his rooms . . . What a thing to make\nup ... \" mumbled Mrs. Slabochova.\n\" It isn't made up. \"\nBut Miss Erna had to repeat it all again. \" Sooner or later it was bound\nto come to that \" she added lightly, singingly almost. Mrs. Slabochova went\ngray in the face. Then she reddened. Suddenly she stood up and began to\ndress herself hastily.\n\" Where are you going, mamma ? \"\n\"To Lerk, of course. I'll talk to him. The wretch ...\"\nMiss Erna watched her mother; a curious smile hovered round her lips."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "141", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2571, "texte": "She said nothing. But when her mother was dressed, she went up to her and\nsaid tenderly : \" Take your things off, mamma ...\"\n\" No, it's impossible, I'll give the wretch a talking to ... \"\n\" Take your things off, mamma. What has it to do with Lerk ? I went of\nmy own accord. \"\nMrs. Slabochova burst out crying. aOh, my child .. . poor little Erna. . .\nhow soft-hearted you are ...\"\nThere was now something cruel in Miss Erna's smile. \" Anyhow he's .. .\na handsome man, mama \" she said with relish, as if she were eating a grape.\nAnd softly, laying her face against her shoulder, Mrs. Slabochova asked :\n\" Does he want you ? \"\nMiss Erna closed her eyes for an instant. \"Ah no ... \" she said, and then\nlaid her hand on her mother's mouth.\nMrs. Slabochova burst out crying. She understood nothing of what had\noccurred, but she did not venture to ask any more questions, Erna, was un-\nwilling, And if she was weeping now, she was really weeping a little with hap-\npiness because Erna was holding her arms around her, was smoothing her hair\nand speaking so tenderly to her. Not for an instant did she level any accusation\nagainst Erna, nor did she regard her as in any way sullied; as if suddenly obliv-\nious of all prejudices, and carried away by this oblivion, she looked upon Erna\nmerely as the heroine of some painfully beautiful episode, around which she\nwished to walk on tiptoe, without saying a word about it.\nAnd only to show that she was entirely reconciled and assented to every-\nthing, she raised her head, and gazing blissfully at Erna, she said softly : \" So\nit's L,erk . . . I,erk ...\"\nErna turned her head away slightly. \" Oh, the name doesn't matter,\nmamma ...\"\nThe bell rang outside, the postman had brought a letter for the young lady.\nShe opened it absently and read ; Mrs. Slabochova held her breath and left\nthe room on tiptoe. \" He's lost his wits — after yesterday \" sighed Erna\nwhen she had read the letter, and began to tear it into small pieces.\nShe returned from the afternoon promenade concert at the recreation ground\nin a somewhat nervous frame of mind. She unpinned and let down her hair,\nand for a moment rubbed her forehead and eyes.\nMrs. Slabochova was alarmed. \" Does your head pain you, darling ? \"\n\" No, no. Only it's tiring ... to walk round with so many people staring. . .\nShe drew herself together as if she felt a chill, and her smile wavered like a\ncandle-flame in a draught. \" There's a student who's awfully fond of me, I\nknow. It's very silly of him, though ...\"\n\" And how vilely, spitefully they stare\" she laughed nervously. \" I"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "142", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2907, "texte": "won't deprive the young ladies of their clerks, attorneys, school-teachers . . .\nI'm not jealous of them . . . but...\"\nShe turned rather pale and closed her eyes for a moment. \" But... it\nmakes you feel, mamma, somehow as if . . . as if you were sitting on a black\nhorse and galloping dreadfully fast without caring where ...\"\nMrs. Slabochova hurriedly spoke a few consoling words. But when Brna\nlooked at her closely, she turned red and became confused. Erna looked at her\nclosely for a moment, and then burst out laughing.\n\" I suppose you'd like to ask about someone, eh ? About Lerk ? \"\nThere was a sudden tearful glimmer in Mrs. Slabochova's eyes. But Erna\nshook her head. \"No, L,erk wasn't there. I suppose he had no time, he has to\nwrite stupid letters. Well, anyhow, he wasn't there. The others were. \" Her\neyes flashed, she joined her hands behind her head and said softly and tenderly :\n\" Come now, mama, give me a kiss ...\"\nWhen, two days later, Erna, who had gone out before nightfall, returned\nearly the following morning, exhibiting in all her movements and in the expres-\nsion of her face an unashamed avowal, as it were, of a joyous, light-hearted sin,\nand answered the unspoken question of her mother's startled, eyes with a shrug\nof the shoulders and a raffish clicking of the heels, and when the eyes went on\nquestioning, and she had said singingly, shaking her head in a gay manner :\n\" No, no, mama . . . this time it wasn't Lerk ...\" — then, Mrs. Slabochova,\nthoroughly upset by this behaviour and, as it was, exhausted by her sleepless\nnight, began at first to stagger and would perhaps have fallen over ; but Erna\nhaving laid her on the couch, she was soon assuaged by her caresses, and when\nshe opened her eyes and fixed them devotedly upon Erna, the clear message they\nconveyed wTas, that she was reconciled with everything for always, and assented\nto everything, while her lips whispered : \" How lovely you are. How lovely\nyou are. \" While she was still lying down, the bell rang outside. Erna went\nout and immediately returned with a small parcel, the mystery of which was solved\nin a few moments, and evoked a cry of admiration from Mrs. Slabochova.\nShe examined the gold bracelet, but suddenly her hand began to tremble beyond\nconcealment, she gulped quickly, and did not venture to look at Erna, and when\nErna, as if in jest, wanted to fasten the bracelet on her arm, she did not resist,\nand she turned very red and looked elsewhere, blinking her eyes the while.\nErna's face remained motionless.\nThis gold bracelet was not the last gift which Erna received. For three\nor four years the town whispered, there was a rustling in the track of her name,\nlike yellow leaves caught in the hem of her dress. \" Erna of the regiment \"\nsaid the town. But when all of a sudden she had somehow squandered her beauty\ntoo rapidly, the town rubbed its hands with malicious relish, and those who"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "143", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2456, "texte": "had been fulsome, now became abusive; it was then that Miss Erna's\npassage through the streets looked too much as if she were escaping from\nsomething.\nAfter that they stayed at home, she and her mother, each in her corner,\nscarcely ever speaking, and if they raised their heads, it was to exchange glances\nof astonishment. Erna, reading a German novel, gave a dry laugh from time\nto time. \" Liar, liar, \" she then muttered.\nHer mother looked up : \" What ? \"\n\" War. \"\nAnd her mother nodded. \" Yes ... they tell lies. \"\nErna at last stopped reading German novels. From now onwards she\njust sat there vacantly, looked at the rings on her fingers and moved her lips\ninaudibly.\n\" You know, mamma, you were just asking me about Lerk — \" she suddenly\nsaid one day.\nBut her mother had asked her nothing, and so she looked up in surprise.\n\" Poor Lerk. \"• And Erna thrust her ringed hand before her eyes. \"He\nkept begging of me. I couldn't help it, I said no. I wouldn't he his wife.\nAnd he feels it terribly, he's awfully fond of me. He's sure to commit suicide\nHer mother shook her head. \" But Lerk has been married for quite a long\ntime \" she said softly.\nErna first of all turned red, and then cast a spiteful glance at her mother.\nBut an instant later she laughed softly : \" Don't believe it, mamma. Those\nare slanders, intrigues. Intrigues. We have many enemies, Lerk and I. \"\nHer mother sighed.\nAnd when in the following days Erna kept coming back to Lerk, her moth-\ner raised no more objections and herself helped to weave this legend. And\nboth spoke about Lerk, as if this were not the last islet on which the last, belated\ndream had taken refuge.\nAnd so there arrived that March day which provided the town with an ex-\nciting occurrence. Lieutenant Bartl, Bartl, Mrs. Slabochova turned the name\nover in her memory, she could not recall it, but she wept nevertheless. Erna's\nface was parched by a spiteful expression. A lot to cry about, she said, and left\nthe room slamming the door ; all day long she went about with the same spiteful\nexpression, pursed up her lips contemptuously and slammed the doors. But when\nshe heard that it was entirely unknown why Lieutenant Bartl had shot himself,\nshe seemed to change completely ; she sat about and walked about, she appeared\nto keep laboriously pondering about something, and her mother grew uneasy\nat the steady fixedness of her glance.\nWhen on the third day Mrs. Slabochova went to the lieutenants's funeral."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "144", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2410, "texte": "Erna took some black clothes from the wardrobe, put them on, and sat down in\nan arm-chair by the open window. She sat there with her eyes closed, her lips\nmoved slightly.\nWhen the sound of the funeral march reached her, Erna opened her eyes\nand looked through the window at the sky, in which rested, a large silvery cloud ;\ntears began to flow freely over her face.\nThe belated dream was entering a fair haven.\nShe was sitting in the same place when her mother returned.\n\" And why did he do it, don't they know yet ? \" she asked, looking through\nthe window.\n\" No, they don't. \"\nShe repeated softly after her mother : \" No, they don't. \" But then,\nstill more softly : \" But I do. \"\nAnd looking by turns at her black clothes and at her mother, she was silent\nfor a moment.\nThen she lowered her head a little : \" All that about Lerk, mama, wasn't\ntrue. It wasn't Lerk. It was Bartl. Bartl shot himself because of me. \"\nHer mother said nothing . She looked sternly at Erna. Then she sighed\nand left the room.\n\" What can she be thinking of now ? \" she whispered. \" Perhaps we're\nboth off our heads. \" She remained standing behind the door and listened,\nshaking her head strangely ; fear froze in her face.\nBut Erna began to visit the cemetery. When she returned, she used to\nhave dilated and tranquil eyes.\n\" Now he's all right. Now he's happy. He knows I'm fond of him, and that\nI'm always thinking about him \" she used to say, and would dally tenderly\nwith her voice, as with white doves.\nShe did not notice that the people who met her on the way to the cemetery\nused to point significantly to their foreheads. She lived happily with this last\nlegend of hers. She was now the widow of someone who had shot himself for\nlove of her. White doves gleamed daintily snow-white on her dark widow's\nweeds.\nOne day, as she was returning, she met a strange lady at the cemetery\ngates, who was asking the sexton about something. But he did not seem to under-\nstand her, judging by the puzzled look in his face. The lady had a veil, but\neven so, it could be seen that she was very beautiful. Erna did not like beauti-\nful women, and so she lowered her head, but at the same instant she heard the\nname of Lieutenant Bartl, uttered by the strange lady, in a curious foreign\naccent. Now at last the sexton appeared to understand, for he said something,\nand the footsteps of them both crunched on the sand of the cemetery pathway"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "145", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 625, "texte": "as they went off towards Bartl's grave. The lady bowed her head lower and lower\nas she went. Perhaps she was weeping into her handkerchief.\nWhen Erna returned that day, she frightened Mrs. Slabochova by the\nexpression in her face. Erna stopped immediately at the door, and leaning\nback upon it, with upturned head and flattened palms she murmured icily :\n\" He deceived me. \"\nAnd immediately afterwards, falling to the ground and beating her head\nagainst it, she shrieked horribly, as though she were shrieking for her very\nlife :\net He deceived me. He deceived me. \"\n\n(Translated from the Czech of\nPrána Srámek by P. Silver)."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "145", "page_fin": "145", "image_debut": 51, "image_fin": 51, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "Woodcut", "titre_sommaire": "Woodcut", "signature_source": "Joseph Huber", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "145", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 627, "fin_caractere_exclue": 649, "texte": "Joseph Huber.\nWoodcut."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "146", "page_fin": "147", "image_debut": 52, "image_fin": 53, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "Three United States Sonnets", "titre_sommaire": "Three United States Sonnets", "signature_source": "E. E. Cummings", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "146", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 962, "texte": "THREE UNITED STATES SONNETS\n\nI.\nwhen you rang at Dick Mid's place\nthe madam was a bulb stuck in the door.\na fang of wincing gas showed how\nhair, in two fists of shrill colour\nclutched the dull volume of her tumbling face\nscribbled with a big grin, her sow-\neyes clicking mischief from thick lids.\nthe chunklike nose on which always the four\ntablets of perspiration erectly sitting.\n— if they knew you at Dick Mid's\nthe three trickling chins began to traipse\ninto the cheeks \" eet smeestare steevensun\nkum een, dare ease Bet, an Leelee, an dee beeg wun\nher handless wrists did gooey severe shapes.\nII.\nthe Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls\nare unbeautiful and have comfortable minds\n(also, with the church's protestant blessings\ndaughters, unscented shapeless spirited)\nthey believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,\nare invariably interested in so many things —\nat the present writing one still finds\ndelighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "147", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 841, "texte": "perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy\nscandal of Mrs. N and Professor D\n. . . the Cambridge ladies do not care, above\nCambridge if sometimes in its box of\nsky lavender and cornerless, the\nmoon rattles like a fragment of angry candy\nIII.\nby god i want above fourteenth\nfifth's deep purring biceps, the mystic screech\nof Broadway, the trivial stink of rich\nfrail firm asinine life\n(i pant\nfor what's below, the singer. Wall, i want\nthe perpendicular lips the insane teeth\nthe vertical grin\ngive me the Square in spring,\nthe little barbarous Greenwich perfumed fake\nAnd most, the futile fooling labyrinth\nwhere noisy colours stroll. . . and the Baboon\nsniggering insipidities while, i sit, sipping\nsingular anisettes as. One opaque\nbig girl jiggles thickly hips to the canoun\nbut Hassan chuckles seeing the Greeks breathe).\n\nE. E. Cummings"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "148", "page_fin": "148", "image_debut": 54, "image_fin": 54, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.29", "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": 54, "page_imprimee": "148", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2374, "texte": "HEAVENS\nSECOND INTERMISSION\n(\" Well, what do you say ? \" urged my guide. \"Isitto be the Heaven of Mr. H.\nG. Wells?\"\n\" No, no, \" I shuddered, \" I simply could not stand it. When I was below,\nit seemed so perfect and inevitable in print; but up here... \" I shuddered again.\n\" It is cool and logical enough, I suppose, but even machinery palls after the first\nhundred thousand years and the thought of endless colloquies upon the future of a\nmechanistic society is really too terrible ! \"\nHe seemed to regard me with an amusement in which commendation and con-\ntempt were equally mixed. \" What then, woutd you prefer ?\n<< j know I am captious and ungrateful and fickle and all that, \" I stammered,\n- but, although I am half ashamed to admit it, I want something more colorful,\nmore downright romantic — more tropical and bewildering and bizarre, more govern-\ned by fine writing than by fine thinking. Have you nothing in that line ?\n\" Indeed we have \", answered the patient being. \" There are two or three of\nwhich we are actually proud. Unfortunately, I cannot show you one of our most\npicturesque Nirvanas. It is closed temporarily for repairs or research, or some-\nthing of the sort. There are rumors abroad that certain factors have conspired to bring\nabout its temporary suspension / on the one hand, it is accused of being unauthen-\ntic, on the other, it is said to be immoral. Being angelic, none of us are able to judge.\nFrankly, I am sorry I cannot give you an opportunity to determine for yourself.\n\" Bui can't you give me a picture of the place — something a little more\ndefinite ? \" I pleaded.\n\" Very possibly. Let me see \"He drew a thin bundle of -papers from the folds\nof a cerulean mantle.\" I have here part of a manuscript which was rescued from the\nsuper-terrestrial waste-basket of one of its chief inhabitants. It purports to be a\ntranslation from certain pre-Provencal Poets, but several contradictory anachronisms\nmake me question the existence of the original. At any rate it is an indubitably ac-\ncurate portrait of the rich though restricted region I was about to describe. All that\nI have of this work is a rejected chapter and a title page which reads Runes of Life :\nA Tragedy of Disappearances ' j Adapted from Les Milles Gestes de Deodric jby\nR. E. Landsend/Edited by James Branch Cabell... If you like, I will read it to you.\"\nHe did. I listened)."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c039", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c039", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "164", "page_fin": "165", "image_debut": 70, "image_fin": 71, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "October", "titre_sommaire": "October", "signature_source": "Anatoly Maryngoff ; L. Lozowick", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 824, "texte": "OCTOBER\n\nWe trample filial reverence under foot.\nHat on head,\nWe sit down impudently,\nLegs crossed and heels kicked up.\nYou do not like our bloody laughter,\nOur refusal to wash again the rags already washed a million times,\nOur sudden daring\nTo bark a deafening bow-wow !\nYa-a, backbone\nUpright like a telegraph pole,\nNot mine alone,\nAll Russians, hunchbacked for centuries.\nWho on earth is now more clamorous than we ?\nBedlam, you say,\nNo mile-stones nor signposts —\nTo Hell! Our red cancan is a splendid sight.\nYou would not believe it: multitudes,\nDroves of clouds under human orders,\nAnd the sky spread out like a woman's wrap,\nAnd not a single sunray . . .\nChrist is on the Cross again, and Barabbas\nPromenading over Iversky . . .\nWho can stop — who ? — galloping Scythian steeds ?\nBowstrings singing the Marseillaise ?"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 919, "texte": "Did any hear of blacksmith\nForging railtrack bracelets for the Globe,\nPuffing his cheap plug with the air\nOf an officer clicking spurs ?\nYou ask : What next ?\nNext — dancing centuries,\nWe break into every door,\nAnd no one dares threaten : Here take that 1\nWe ! We ! We 're everywhere,\nAt the very footlights of the stage ;\nNo quiet lyricists,\nBut flaming clowns.\nRubbish, all rubbish into a heap\nAnd, singing like Savonarola, chuck it\nInto the fire.... No matter! Who is there to fear\n* When tiny worlds of petty souls are vast spheres now ?\nEvery day — a new chapter in the Bible,\nEvery page — an inspiration to a thousand generations.\nIt will be said about us:\nHappy they who lived in 1917.\nAnd still you whine : We are lost!\nAnd still you whimper!\nBlockheads,\nIs not yesterday squashed like a pigeon\nUnder an automobile\nRushing madly from a garage ?\n\n(Translated from the Russian of)\nAnatomy Maryngoff by L. Lozowick"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c040", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c040", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[166]", "page_fin": "[166]", "image_debut": 72, "image_fin": 72, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.31", "titre_corps": "Village Street with Cat", "titre_sommaire": "Village Street with Cat", "signature_source": "Richard Seewald", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "[166]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 39, "texte": "Richard Seewald\nVillage Street with Cat"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c041", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c041", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "167", "page_fin": "167", "image_debut": 73, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.32", "titre_corps": "Petals", "titre_sommaire": "Petals", "signature_source": "Wilhelm Klemm ; Olive Sclarf", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 468, "texte": "PETALS\nPetals of flowers from unending trees\nSink down, and soft, inexhaustible,\nGreat flakes of noiseless snow.\nBirds sink in swarms. The shivering fluttering\nButterflies tumble out of a deep gray. Heaven\nAbout me and pass . . .\nFoam spills noiselessly from high fountains.\nAll the books in the world torn into tatters\nAnd strewn by a giant hand through space . . .\nTear pearls, glass and clearer than glass,\nAll the thoughts fall. Sand and dust\nTrickling after . . ."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c042", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c042", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "167", "page_fin": "167", "image_debut": 73, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.33", "titre_corps": "Rain", "titre_sommaire": "Rain", "signature_source": "Wilhelm Klemm ; Olive Sclarf", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 470, "fin_caractere_exclue": 947, "texte": "RAIN\nWilhelm Klemm\n(Translated from the German by Olive Sclarf)\nA thousand little feet will come\nTo build the silvery pillars,\nAnd wet snakes rustle through the leaves.\nA symphony that rippling sings us in\nBehind its bars to loneliness.\nThe heaven's a sieve for tears,\nA shaking wonder holds the woods and fields.\nA faint sounding horn from afar,\nAnd the years are swept together.\nThe earth breathes it in with its broad green lungs\nAnd beneath lies the sacred black heart. . ."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c043", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c043", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "168", "page_fin": "175", "image_debut": 74, "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=bmtnaap192205-01.2.34", "titre_corps": "Modern German Literature", "titre_sommaire": "Modern German Literature", "signature_source": "Franz Blei", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2333, "texte": "MODERN GERMAN LITERATURE\n\nDuring the period of William 11, that colossus with feet of clay, German\nliterature was ever his faithful mirror, even when it twisted his image with in-\ngenious or satirical grimaces.\nThe opposition was always a loyal opposition, possessing an official charac-\nter. In 1914, when the defiant \" Simplicissimus\" became \" Kaiser true \",\nonly the most superficial observer was astonished, for in its heart it was ever\ntrue, it loved its enemy, jeered only at the \" beauty failings teased only where\nit loved. Ludwig Thoma, the satirist of \" Simplicissimus \", was what one calls\na \" Spiessbiirger \"of the purest alloy.\nWhat has happened to this literature of \" William now that every im-\nperial assumption of his lies in ruins ? When this man, who compensated both\nphysically and morally the deformity of his lame arm by refusing to remove\nhis military tunic, when this sabre-rattler mounted the throne, the socialistic\nlegislation was enacted. The labouring classes became at once literary mate-\nrial. Writers made a discovery which they called \" Naturalism though no-\nwhere in the world was it less natural than in Germany, that lyric and musical\nland. The movement, young at that time, declaimed against the tyranny of\npoverty and confronted the plush suites of the \" parlour \" with the cane chairs\nof the kitchen; champagne with schnaps; this vice against that. That the kit-\nchen used slang could not conceal the fact that the salons uttered drivel. This\n\" parade of poverty \" culminated in Hauptmann's \" Weavers \", some scenes\nof which were undoubtedly wild and strong, but the Weavers' rebellion of the\nforties was served up as material, though the miseries of labour in 1893 were no\nlonger topical. Wages had risen with exports, and the \" Iyasalle communist\nmanifesto \" labourer had grown into a little middle class voting socialist, not a\nfit subject any longer for literary rhetoric. Sudermann really changed his \" mi-\nlieu \" before Hauptmann. He became fascinated with the spectacle of the mid-\ndle class turning into a great super middle class with the stamp of William upon\nit. One grew more than rich, and the world was not only open to German com-\nmerce, but to every German eccentricity as well. German \" Naturalism\"\ngave up its short lived career, and became eclectic. The writers fumbled about"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3035, "texte": "in every style, old and new, their own, and that of strangers, becoming in their\ndeclining strength the mirror of a second hand internationalism. Hauptmann\nslipped with his \" Versunkene Glocke \" into the so called poetic manner, like\nthe young girls of the seventies who strolled about dreaming with albums under\ntheir arms. The verse in the \" Versunkene Glocke \"is as spurious as old Ger-\nman house furniture in the parlours of the seventies. Nevertheless he estab-\nlished himself with \" Die Versunkene Glocke \" as the representative poet of the\nday. He stretched the jocose and idyllic talent given him by nature to such\ndimensions, that one could hear its limbs crack. After that he wandered about\nuneasily, seeking here and there for material and new forms of expression. Only\nnow and then, perhaps in an instinct of self defence, he narrowed himself to the\nnatural measures of his talent, as in \" Biberpelz \" \" Pipa tanzt \" and \" Ratten\nThe growing wealth of the mighty German realm, its international status, export\ntotal and the size of its army, forced his poetry and prose to extend itself to keep\nup with them. Just as the Empire in its development grew out of its legiti-\nmate boundaries, so did the Empire's official poets. Hauptmann believed that\n\" Der arme Heinrich \", \" Griseldis \", \" Kaiser Karl and \" Florian Geyer \"\nwere duties required of him in his capacity as the first dramatist of the folk\nthat had at last succeeded in fighting its way to a proper place in the sun. One\ncan search through the length and breadth of Hauptmann's works and find\nno trace of doubt over this miracle of William's Empire, no tendency ever to\nview it problematically. Still the naivety with which he, untroubled by any\nscruples watever, gave himself over to the spinning out of his drama fables,\nhas something so childlike and touching in it that one is disarmed. This last\nyear, 1921, he published a short play, which he tells us was conceived in 1911.\nIt is an example of how completely unable he was to produce anything in the\nnature of genuine comedy, better than that of Kotzebue. This, no more child-\nlike, but definitely childish \" swan song \" is both epilogue and epigram on the\nwhole of Hauptmann's creation. The Hauptmann theatre was a theatre like\nWilliam's Empire, mere scenery and side wings, but without central action.\nEven as this Empire gave to its commerce an iron fist that shattered it, so did\nthe Empire's most representative poet, with a feeling for sentiment and hilly\nlandscape, stretch himself out to the dimensions of a Cimborasso, perishing\nthereby.\nIt will not interest the foreign reader to hear the names of the numerous\nwriters who paced their beats near by and about Hauptmann. Each year\nthey laid their little opus, and thought themselves poets. Those that are dead,\nare already forgotten. Those that are still alive, have lived longer than their\nworks. They may interest the historian perhaps, but no other living man. I\nam selecting the typical only from this epoch. The past is past, even if writers"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2997, "texte": "who are living beyond their time still sow seeds in the void. At the same time\nas Hauptmann, the contrasting message of Wedekind slowly came to the fore.\nThe prevailing hypocrisy in the so called \" upper circles \" over sex relation-\nship provided trumps for his hand that was not always absolutely clean.\nHis good intentions were not unjustly mistrusted. It was not without bias,\nthat he established himself as advocate for sexual and other freedoms; it put\nlively blood in his work, livelier than one had been accustomed to. His role\nof bad boy was more played at than experienced, and much more readily ac-\ncepted by the public than was truly comfortable for him, even in his younger\ndays. Wedekind's cynicism was never complete, many times it reached no far-\nther than a good \" bluff He prayed to God \" Lead me into temptation\nand was very glad when the dear God ignored his plea. He lost with the years\nmuch of his invention and spirit, and wrote plays that are little more than a\njustification of himself to the public, whom he deemed mistook him for a pig,\nwhen he was merely a prophet. The boredom in the latter plays should not\nblind one, however, to the genuine vitality in the earlier works such as \" Frtihl-\nings Erwachen \", \" Lulu (though this is -unbearably long) and his \" Schloss\nWetterstein At any rate, Wedekind was the only one among the drama-\ntists of the William epoch who had a genuine feeling for form, and a sense for\nthe lying brittle falseness of this period of German history. He is at his best\nwhen he utilises his sound shapely undecorative gift of words, not when he writes\nin iambics.\nNow I come to the third literary figure of this period, Stephan George.\nThough the symbolist would like to make him French, he is quite German in\nspirit, but of a newer alloy. For nearly two thirds of the William period he\nstood apart, as an unknown rather mysterious poet surrounded by an admiring\ncircle of fastidious youths, who made a cult of honouring him in order to lend\nthemselves an importance which they by no means possessed The formal pu-\nrity and intensity of his poetic insight became a challenge and incitement to\nthose among them who where free from the prevailing impulse to use the stage\nas a forum, and to others who, from an intuitive artistic perception, refrained\nfrom writing anything at all; and lastly to those few real poets, with a penetra-\ntion that belonged to them and to them alone. We shall only mention Hoff-\nmannsthal and Borchardt, not because they had already written fine poems,\nbut because they were themselves the creators of new ideas. Neither of them\ntook any outer part in this \" Williamism Hoffmannsthal, the Austrian, for\nanother reason than the Berliner Borchardt. George, their master, was not\nquite as innocent as the others in this respect. He erected a scaffolding of praise\nincluding in it a tribute to the \" imperial idea \" for a Klinger and a Boeklin.\nThis was not only a sign of bad taste, it was worse, it was compromise. Hoff-"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2940, "texte": "mannsthal was as free from this as Borchardt, the former as a result of his south-\nern temperament, sensibility, and inherited good taste; the latter from a self\ndisciplined and wise perception, and also an austere leaning to classicism: qual-\nities which armed him sufficiently against the romantic as well as the pseudo-\nromantic.\nStephan George—that means thirty beautiful poems, a permanent heritage\nfor the German people, Stephan George — that means, no person, no spirit,\nno programme, for when one rightly understands him, Stephan George is a myth\nthat has given life to two children of God: — Hoffmannsthal, and Borchardt.\nIt is not an accident that Hoffmannsthal only now writes his ripest things, \" The\nFrau ohne Shatten \" that deep poem in prose, and \" Der Schwierige \" the most\ndiscreet of all comedies, nor that Borchardt has witheld from the public till now,\nthe work of his last fifteen years. William's ridiculous fagades, aping marble,\nhave shown themselves for cheap painted stucco. A poet like Borchardt could\nnot hang his bronzes on them, would not, did not. And if nothing at all now\nhangs where those tawdry pillars stood, at least, the place is free.\nToo strident still, are the voices of those who helped to bring about the fi-\nnal collapse of William; unconquerable time has done the most. I allude to\nSternheim and Heinrich Mann, to mention two of them. As the building showed\ncracks, and the prophets, long conscious of its appointed doom, had ceased\ntalking about a fact so evident, Sternheim came along with his comedies, the\nfirst one in so called verse, satirising every manner of \" Spiessbiirger \" from\nthe labourer to the capitalist. They are very amusing, very drastic, and very\nintelligently built for the theatre, where the people whom he jeered at, had at\nall events their pleasure, perceiving in them chiefly a good chance to make mo-\nney — a perception that did not disappoint them. Sternheim was responsible\nfor a great deal of the new life in the German theatre. If he is inclined to see\nin this service, a gift to the world, to the German language, to the cultural heri-\ntage of Europe, and God knows what else, who will blame him in these mad\ndays ? If a man feels well in his own Heaven, we have no legitimate call to prove\nto him, that his Heaven is only in his own imagination.\nSome years ago Thomas Mann wrote the story of a German family. It\nwas a story of decadence. He possessed at that time more political insight\nthan his nervous and excitable brother Heinrich, who seems ever in a state of\nfury because Germans are not Frenchmen. Thomas, having lost some of his\nformer clarity of vision, believes that the Germans are as sound as they ever\nwere. Heinrich, Utopian, swears by 1789 ; and Thomas, also Utopian, by the\ntime of Fredericus Rex or 1813.\nDuring the time Hauptmann poeticized with emotions, and Wedekind\nwith sex, the Mann brothers and Sternheim became critics of their time. The"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2971, "texte": "last three however are only the bridges, none of them will have anything to say\nto the next generation. The old bourgeoisie has awakened with a very bad\nhead, and the new one of the money sharks, must first learn to read with the help\nof the stock exchange bulletins. Even were it otherwise, they have said and\nrepeated all they had to say. Dismayed in secret that their enemy is dead,\nthey wander through a strange country peddling chance wares.\nAn important feature will be missing in my picture, if I fail to mention\na well established fact; namely, that with the increased comforts and luxurious\npossibilities of living, the cultural standard in Germany has improved consider-\nably, slowly, for the first twenty years after the 'seventies, more stormily in\nthe second. One does not only gather this by the particular literature demanded\nby the reading public of any particular period, though perhaps most of all by\nit. Put on the same scales, a novel by Wassermann or Schnitzler is far more\ncivilized than the novels of Storm, Spielhagen, etc. who occupied the leisure\nhours of the generation before 1870. ' Also typical of the higher cultural demands\nof the reading public after '70 ', is this fact: Turgeniev and Daudet were for-\ngotten at the beginning of the 'eighties, Zola read intensely, if falsely, for a span,\nto be followed, from the 'nineties on, with Tolstoy, Dostoievsky, and Flaubert.\nNow all of these writers would be unreadable to the general public before the\n'seventies ; the mental horizons were too narrow then, the social conditions\nnot sufficiently civilized.\nDuring the last years before the war, the hunger for foreign literature in\nGermany grew so indiscriminating and voracious, that soon the symptoms of\nan overloaded stomach became evident; for instance, a monstrous over-estima-\ntion of Wilde, a failure to discover Meredith and Hardy, a gobbling at Strindberg\nwhile they neglected Ibsen whom they have never really understood. Claudel\nand Rimbaud were discovered here only shortly before the war when they could\nhave been found in 1908. Rimbaud was boomed here after the war began to\ngive the stuttering Expressionism a bodily father ; though Heaven only knows\nwhy Rimbaud should be chosen for such a post. A fever for travel and mate-\nrial advantages attacked the Germans in 1900, and reached up to their brains.\nThey went out of bounds, as newly rich people are inclined to do. A people\nhappier in serving than in commanding, for the spirit of the lackey dwells in\ntheir soul. It makes the German the most sought after waiter in the world.\nHe has the talent of feeling comfortable in humble circumstances to an abomin-\nable extent.\nThus, with growing Industrialism, and its accompanying wealth, the mo-\ndestly commercial class grew up to be a very rich one, with increased cultural\ndemands, never very deep perhaps, but still — weighed against the cultural\ndemands of other times and other folks — showing evidence of a certain quality"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3063, "texte": "of discrimination. For instance, the average German, even if lie is rich enough\nto renounce effort, has a strong inclination to improve his mind and outlook\non life. This must appear .strange to the American. What an American can\nread and digest in the way of small literature, would be rejected by the German\nas too stupid to be palatable in nine cases out of ten. The novels of Schnitz-\nler would appear to the average American reader as being none of his business,\nin fact, \" highbrow \" ; which they are not when one takes Flaubert as the stan-\ndard. Schnitzler then, is about the standard every day reading of the German\npublic. Not that Schnitzler has any call to be considered fine literature either.\nHe occupies himself with the endless psychology of love, observed from a liberal\nbourgeois angle. He has learned much from Balzac, Dostoievsky, and Flaubert,\nand I must say utilizes it intelligently within his limits.\nJust when it would seem, after the war, that the moment had arrived, de-\nfinitely to raise the reading level, it is curious to observe how it has fallen. Dur-\ning the war Heinrich Mann wrote a novel describing official Germany, known\nby us already to stupefaction; after the war he wrote another. He called it\n\" Die Armen \", in which we discovered with some astonishment, that he knew\nnothing whatever of the working poor, neither their lives, nor their aims. It is\nthe boring book of a dreamer, affecting realism, without any reality. The war\nhas robbed many writers of their \" milieu \", for whom and out of which they\nwrote. Their civilizing influences vanish with the whole class that they worked\nupon. The class that succeeds them reads exclusively, so far as it reads at all,\nthe books of Courths-Mahler, the most idiotic literature conceivable. Now this\ncondition may be extraordinarily favourable for the new men. They will not\nbe impelled to entertain a public, which does not exist for them as yet; and\nthey need not continue to pay a price for their success with conscious service.\nThey can be themselves at last. This is pure gain, even if all forms of diletan-\ntism and bluffing swindle also find the situation convenient enough to relieve\nthemselves of doubtful burdens.\nThose youngsters who believed themselves called upon to exercise lyri-\ncism at the expense of good sense and the German language, must find sooner\nor later, the situation unworkable. To earn at least a comfortable living,\nthey will be forced to become bank clerks or something or other of this nature.\nThe number of genuine ones that are left will be small, much smaller than in\n1913, when almost every better class family, merely because could afford\nsuch a luxury, had at least one son who was a poet. Only a sacred few will\nremain. They will take the chalice from the hands of those whose care had been\nto see that no drop of the precious liquid was spilled,— for no literary period can\nbegin quite anew; at the best it brings the buds, the breaking flowers, or the fruit\nof seeds that had been sown before ; or completes the development of those that"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3003, "texte": "have slipped through, and become rank before they were ripe. In this way\nHoffmannsthal would have exerted as small an influence on earlier times as he\ndoes on this. The deliberate compression of his style, and its all too clear nature,\nexclude the possibility of a great response in any period, notwithstanding a\ncapacity, which stretches itself to the very boundaries of wisdom. His thoughts\nappear to him first as pictures, then he makes his way back again to the original\nimage of thought before he can express it; a painful creative process like the\nboiling of glycerine, which does not bubble at 80 degrees, like water, but at\n400° R. Borchardt is luckier in the shaping of his material. One traces already\nhis influences on the younger generation, a notable achievement for a man well\nover forty. The voices have become steadier since Borchardt's verse appeared.\nNigger poems are no longer the ideals of the group that made them. The for-\ngotten Walser turns up again; a book of his poems appeared without attracting\nattention in the 'nineties. Konrad Weiss, the catholic poet, sings in his own\nvoice once more. Daubler scrapes himself clean from the clay and weeds that\nhave been hiding him. Rilke cannot read the new lyrics without a smile. They\nseem to him merely lyrical arts and crafts for decoration only. Paul Kraft\nI should mention here, Friedrich Schnack too, Berthold Viertel, also Werfel,\nhis comrade from Prague. With his brittle boy's soul, Werfel brings intense\nmoments sometimes to the surface ; sorrowful lines that remain, somewhat in\nthe nature of diary extracts, mounting with luck to poetry. He is too moved\nhimself to move others, too dissolved in softness to bring his form through,\nand his verse is rarely the crystal that it should be. Not like Browning whose\nown form was law. We have such a prose Browning here now, Franz Kafka.\nOur youngsters have been observing Borchardt very intently of late, in\nspite of differing temperaments, aims, and natures. His unequalled capacity\nto crystallise the fleeting lyrical moment makes careless accidental methods\nseem vain and stammering ; stuttering when one should speak, sighing when one\nshould cry out, playing with vain fingers in the air, when one should cast in bronze.\nI come now to the third great figure in our literary future, Robert Musil.\nBefore the war a novel appeared by him, called \" Die Verwirrungen des Zo-\nglings Toless The poetic possibilities of this book received scant notice at\nthe time. Its original methods of psychology, undreamt of by the knights of\nthe day, were ignored. A psychology that brings out of characters the same\nriddles that are put into them, so that they are proof against any unforeseen\ndevelopment, is mere child's play. To show the functioning of the \" born\nnaive \", the \" born criminal \", the \" born officer \" is easy enough for a dra-\nmatist. Riddles like this are always solved; that is they remain where they\nwere at the beginning; for characters born in cement cannot move. Musil"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1716, "texte": "has now conquered with a drama a whole thousand mile territory of new ground.\nIn his play \" Scharmen \" in every respect suitable for the theatre, — there are six\nfigures, and none of them \" born \", all of them are at one and the same time,\nyes and no, black and white. It is not a problem play as one interprets such\ntoday, for in itself it has no special problem. Problematic only by the nature\nof its characters who act, live, and work each other up in the play to culminating\ndecisions — a conception, dramatically and poetically new.\nOne scarcely sees how far from the accepted path such a track can carry\none. And neither is one certain if the temperature of the new climate is 50 de-\ngrees below, or above zero. One thing is certain however. It is a different\ntemperature.\nThis drama of Musil stands alone with the verse of Borchardt as a measure\nfor the younger generation of writers. One will no longer have the courage\nto swindle a way through psychological labyrinths, by mere cinema-like abre-\nviations. One need not stand the scenery on its head, nor use again the old\ndreary declamatory methods in order to bring new life into the theatre. One\nneed not rob the German grammar of its articles, nor deliberately change the\nnormal word sequences to appear new. If one realty has nothing to say, then\nsurely the already so mutilated German language is good enough to say it in.\nThis article is no more than a bird's-eye view of the subject, the typical\nalone is mentioned. The new post-William literature can be specialised later,\nperhaps. The foreign reader would count it no gain to have a catalogue of\nnames shaken before his eyes. A general orientation, I think, serves the pur-\npose better.\n\nFranz Blei"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c044", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c044", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "176", "page_fin": "181", "image_debut": 82, "image_fin": 87, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.35", "titre_corps": "Foreign Exchange", "titre_sommaire": "Foreign Exchange", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2332, "texte": "FOREIGN EXCHANGE\n\nLiterature, as well as finance, is sensible to the trade balance. Exports\nfrom the United States are at a minimum, for which the depreciation in foreign\nexchange is held responsible. But one commodity, sometimes overlooked, is\nreversely affected — that of improvident artists. Never before has their exodus\nattained to the present proportions, and already the reader of the more experi-\nmental American reviews may have noticed the existence of a new literary mi-\nlieu which may be the beginning of a new literary movement. A group of writers,\nbound together by similar reactions to their environment, is being allotted in-\ncreasing space. Another settlement of pilgrims is finding its voice, for, like the\nMayflower excursionists, they have crossed the ocean to escape economic oppres-\nsion and spiritual coercion.\nThe nation of their birth pays the highest rates known toman for certain\nspecial qualities. Bankers and promoters are so exuberantly rewarded that\ngreat industries are founded for the sole purpose of helping them disburse their\nannual accretion. And their servants are remunerated according to the laws\nof supply and demand, even down to their clowns and laundresses.\nBut the talents of some men cannot or will not serve. Unfortunately the\nartist pioneer usually belongs to this class. For it would not be kind to demand\nof the hard-working business man that he make the mental effort necessary to\nunderstand artists who do not follow the rules laid down in the primary schools.\nThus we find men of the greatest importance to the cultural progress of America\nfaced with the dilemma of deadening hack work or flight. Since the war and the\ndepreciation in foreign exchange, the latter alternative has become practical and\nalluring, and those who can rely on even a few dollars from America find life in\nEurope a possibility. The majority of these seek refuge in Paris, and now form\na considerable colony.\nThere is another reason for this efflux. America, sweet land of liberty, has,\nby a curious inversion, become despotic. Originally the theory of democracy,\nof control by the majority, was planned to protect the rights of individuals, to\nact as a check against the encroachment of tyrannies of all kinds. Later, its\nsignificance was widened ; it became a more general restraint but still negative."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2990, "texte": "Lincoln well expressed it in his aphorism : \" You can fool some of the people some\nof the time, but you can't fool all the people all of the time. \" The rule of the\nmajority protected rather than initiated.\nBut in late years, all this is changed. Common belief now holds that the\nthought of the majority is the wisest, their taste the best, their morals the most\nvirtuous. The ideal state is supposed to be the one which efficiently and imme-\ndiately reflects their will. The initiative, referendum and recall are all measures\ndestined to accomplish this end. In the light of this belief it is interesting to\nread in the \" Atlantic Monthly \" that according to the U. S. Army tests 47 %\nof the draft were morons, adults below the mental age of thirteen.\nThe result of the extension of the theory of majority rule has been one cur-\ntailment of individual liberty after another. The most prominent example is,\nof course, national prohibition. In Kansas city cigarette smoking is prohibited. We\nhave heard that one locality is considering the curtailment of intercourse between\nhusband and wife except for the procreation of children ; but we have been un-\nable to verify this rumour. In New York State the licence to teach is refused to\nany one who advocates \" a form of government other than the government of the\nUnited States or of this State. \" As the \" New Republic \" points out, this\nwould have prevented Woodrow Wilson from teaching, as he once recommended\na Cabinet Government for the United States.\nThe legal restraints of this character dally far behind the social pressures.\nThese often extend to ridiculous extremes. Breathing space can be found in a\nfew scattered oases, but many find emigration to Paris more congenial.\nThe effect of the proximity of foreign culture upon these emigrants is more\nrelevant to contemporary literature than the cause of their expatriation. Al-\nthough the social customs of the considerable American colony in Paris would be a\nstudy both interesting and astounding, we shall only consider the literary reac-\ntions of the writers to the French environment.\nTwo main influences predominate.\nThe first reveals itself in a meticulous attention to form. Inspired by the\nFrench literature of Flaubert and his time, these expatriates concentrate on\nfinding the \" mot juste not in quite the same sense as the original seekers\nfor the one and only word which fits exactly, but with consideration for the later\nrevision of this concept as effected by Remy de Gourmont. Though a word or a\nphrase may satisfy the intellect and give the meaning more exactly than any\nother, still it may be lifeless because of overuse. It is dead like the catch word or\npopular song of a year ago. This occurrence is continuous, inevitable and im-\nportant. The author who forgets it, writes himself out. It explains why the\npreceeding literary epoch is always scorned by the present, though a future gen-\nneration may read again its masterpieces and marvel that any one could have"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3134, "texte": "been so blind as not to appreciate their worth. — It explains why the most cul-\ntivated and specialised connoisseurs study the very old or the very new. For\nlapse of time revives sick language. Emphasis on this phenomenon is a recent\ndevelopment, and some writers strain the English, French, German and Russian\nlanguages to the limit of understanding in their terror of the cliche. The\nwork of the Americans in Paris is characterized by this fastidiousness, the prose\nas well as the poetry. At home it is conspicuous in the verse of Wallace Stevens\nand Marianne Moore, as well as in that of Eliot and Pound who have lived abroad\nfor many years. It is not so noticeable in prose.\nThe second and more important influence on the new pilgrims, is a revalua-\ntion of America. The distance partially explains the changed mental picture of\nthe country of their birth. A farmer who has spent all of his life on the shore of\na lake, has paddled on its surface, dived to its depths, ruminated over its vaga-\nries till he believes he notices the changing voices of its frogs as they grow up,\nsuddenly moves his home to the slope of its highest hill. With astonishment\nhe finds that this lake known from childhood is not the lake he had known, but\na polished mirror with a geometrical shape. Still it has moods, but they are\ndifferent. So America regarded from France is not the same America that bus-\ntles one from subway to elevator. The revaluation is accelerated and assisted\nby the curious attitude of admiration prevalent among French artists. The\napologetic American writer, who tries to make up by his modesty for the outrag-\neous bluster of the tourist American, will get a big shock, if, on meeting Blaise\nCendrars, he tries to praise the perfection, the grace, the form of French life and\nliterature while deprecating the crudeness and strain of his own country. \" Your\nintellectual America, yes, it bores me, but that other America of the skyscra-\npers, of the movies, of the streets, that is admirable. \" And Cendrars will go on and\ndescribe his arrival at New York in the steerage with a kopek and a quarter in his\npocket. How he spent his first night in a slaughter-house killing beef to get a little\nmoney. How during four months he wished to die and, in reaction against all the\nclean collars and shaved faces, let his beard grow and remained aloof. When sud-\ndenly he understood and stopped fighting. The barber in the Brevort extracted his\nwhiskers, he bought an Arrow collar, became like an American, and has never\nbeen the same since. This is a conspicuous example of the French attitude\nbut not isolated. Frenchmen who have never smiled at the statue of liberty\nstill share this enthusiasm for the land of hustle, with the lack of discrimination\nthat comes from hearsay knowledge, it is true. The ambitious American writer\nwho wishes to hear the new literary revival acknowledged, will be told that\nAmerican advertising, moving pictures, and architecture lead the world. He\nasks: \" Have you read Anderson ? \", and is answered : \"I love O'Henry. \"\nSuch an upsetting of preconceptions has its effect on the Americans in Paris."}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2866, "texte": "But not the effect one would expect. The Americans parallel the French auth-\nors by attempting to align their form with the new age, but leave their subject\nmatter as it was. The French naturally cannot express the American civiliza-\ntion in their creations. What they can do is to disregard the classic search for\nperfection and balance, and attempt to give instead the crudeness of the amazing\ncontrasts of the age and the speed of its mechanisms. This direction is obvious\nin the writings of Cocteau, Morand, Salmon,. Cendrars, etc., and is critically ex-\npressed by Epstein.\nIts effects on the Americans is adequately brought out in the following let-\nter recently forwarded from Paris :\n\" You may note that my story bears no positive ethical message, and lo-\ncates at the opposite pole to the Sherwood-Anderson, Russian-realism, American\nsoil spirit. The influence of the cinema as well as that of other mechanical mar-\nvels of the age has scarcely begun to show any repercussion in literature, which\nlags far behind the other arts, lead by Picasso, Iyipchitz, Satie, Schoenberg. I\nrefer especially to the elements of surprise, novelty, electricity, closeup, single-\nlight. \"\nAnd the story lived up to the definition. Its locale was Paris, its narrative of\nno importance. The nationality of the author inconsequential. The defin-\nition could have equally applied to a story by Paul Morand, and the author could\nhave been any foreigner living in Paris and well read in French. Yet it was\nexceedingly well done.\nIn general it is true that the transplanted American writers study the pro-\nduct of a recent and prominent school of French authors in order to learn how to\napply the lesson of the new American civilization to literature. This is not the\neconomical or the shortest route to the goal; however it might be of advantage\nif they would not also attempt to express the French state of mind and to adopt\nits view-points and conventions. If they could remain Americans, not narrow\nor bigoted Americans, and acquire French clarity, ease, and style, it would be\nall to the good, but to write bad French stories in good English is little gain.\nThe Parisian school of American letters could perform an invaluable ser-\nvice. A gap exists between America and literary America. This is dimly sen-\nsed on the West shore of the Atlantic and clearly perceived on the East shore.\nThe separation between \" high brow \" and \" low brow \" which isolates the\nartist from the community must be bridged if American literature is to become\nmore than surface ornamentation. Great writing expresses its time. Amer-\nican literary prose records frustrated ideals, inhibited sex, petty squalor. Our\ncivilization is more than these. A realization of this divergence is obligated by\ncontact with French thought.\nThe opinions of Cendrars and Fay are typical of the most influential group"}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.86", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2889, "texte": "of post-war artists in Germany and Russia as well as in France. They only\ndiffer from others in that they know by personal experience that which many ac-\ncept from hearsay. Both have lived and worked without money or friends, in\nthat ghoulish nightmare of struggling industries over which the American nove-\nlists shudder. They liked it. Cendrars longs to return, but first wishes to\ncapture King Menelik on a film. To both the work of the American literati is\nof no interest, while the natural and unconscious products of our civilization are\nthe marvels of the century.\nMr. Edmund Wilson Jr. in \" Vanity Fair \" adequately voices the other\npoint of view. He solemnly warns France : \"Do not try to make pets of the\nmachines ! Be careful that the elephants do not crush you !... The buildings are\nflattening us out; the machines are tearing us to pieces ; our ideals are formed by\nthe posters and the jazz. . . Your attempts at the barbarous and the harsh are\nthe most horrible things imaginable. The Electric Signs in Time Square make the\nDadaists look timid ; it is the masterpiece of Dadaism, produced naturally\nby our race and without the premeditation which makes your own horrors self-\nconscious. \"\nBut who can tell what France may not accomplish even in a direction dis-\ntinctly American ? And she would probabfy not have to confess as does \" Vanity\nFair \" in the heading of the illustrated page opposite Mr. Wilson's article.\nThe new Generation in literature. A group of young writers who\nHAVE COME UPON OLD AGE WHILE STILL IN THEIR TWENTIES.\nMr. Wilson has placed his thumb on the shortcoming of the American intel-\nlectual, though his interpretation of French tendencies is inadequate.\n\" The buildings are flattening us out; the machines are tearing us to pieces. \"\nTo day's environment is different from yesterday's. Man has had to change\nwith it or drop out of the running. The practical man has moved with the time,\nis part of the new world and has kept his health. The visionary, the idealist,\nfrom inertia or sentimentality or weakness, has stayed behind and finds himself\nout of sorts with a hostile world, which in his eyes is exceedingly ugly. He is\nsick and finds relief by expressing his pain on the printed page. A good thera-\npeutic measure according to psycho-analytic theory.\nMany a writer of American novels and stories belongs to this category, and\nresembles a maimed pedestrian gazing up at the intestines of the auto truck which\nis crushing his leg rather than the scientist studying a decapitated ant hill.\nSuch a posture is liable to narrow one's vision.\nThe authors of the past generation failed in a different way. They were\nphysically stronger and morally weaker. Mark Twain is perhaps its outstanding\nfigure. A genius, no one will ever know how great, for he accepted the prevail-\ning \" good taste \" and never realized how it stubbed his pen. Though he saw"}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.87", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2696, "texte": "truly, only a part of his vision was ever depicted. O'Henry also knew America\nbut accepted its moral fables. Though his detail was truthful, his philosophy\nwas stereotyped. Holmes wore blinders which guarded his eyes from passion.\nWriters of a lesser rank share this wider comprehension of America. Jack\nLondon, Richard Harding Davis, Booth Tarkington and many another have\nwritten books of great interest to the stranger as they delineate an amazing and\nnovel civilization. But the American is right in asking for more, in demanding\ntruth and depth and style as well as observation and good humour.\nThe novelists of to-day do not lack for courage. Crusaders against the\nevils of society, they smash idols and ideals with equal indifference. Plot,\ncharacter portrayal, logical sequence, everything is sacrificed to iteration of\ntheir plea for themselves versus American civilization. Charles Reade and great-\ner writers have married propaganda to narrative, but they did not subordinate\nstory to thesis, to any such extent. The so-called American realists are in effect\nextremely romantic, adequately voicing little more than their own stomach-\naches, and using the external scene but to show cause for their peculiar suffer-\nings. The impression left by many of the novelists is of young people who read\ndeeply in Horatio Alger at the age of ten, discovered his falsity when they were\ntwelve and grieve over the consequent disillusionment ever after.\nHowever, in the last few years a number of books have appeared in which\nboth reaction and progress are observable. The autobiographical form is de-\nserted for the more impersonal story, and the iconoclastic spirit is sufficiently\ncurbed to permit of accurate description and acute delineation.\nThe transplanted American writers, those already well known as well as\nthe younger nucleus now centering in Paris, have a greater importance for con-\ntemporary literature than possibly their combined or individual talents war-\nrant, in as much as they represent a direction diametrically opposed to the main\ncurrent of American prose. Objectivity, restraint, experimentation with form,\nis contrasted in their work with the subjectivity, looseness, and waste of the pre-\nvailing literature of revolt. The former assail the tradition of writing, while the\nlatter attack the conventions of living. The former concentrate on an ideal of\nart, the latter on expressing themselves.\nPerhaps from the fusion and interaction of these contrary ideals will\ncome the artist or school of artists who will combine truth of vision, perfection of\nform, courage of conviction with a wide comprehension of a civilization too\nmarvellous to be entirely hateful.\n\nH. A. L."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c045", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c045", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "182", "page_fin": "183", "image_debut": 88, "image_fin": 89, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.36", "titre_corps": "Comment", "titre_sommaire": "Comment", "signature_source": "Jean Cassou", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.88", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2041, "texte": "COMMENT\nJean Cassou\nRamon Gomez is on the way to become the greatest living Spanish writer.\nHis work is abundant and touches on everything which surrounds us, the un-\ncouth as well as the friendly. He has sung of cafes, of their tables, their gas\nfixtures, their sugar bowls, of daily exploits, of shop windows. He' has sung\nof the streets of Madrid, the breasts of its women, the heads of his friends, the\njokes of the circus, of all the bric-a-brac of modern life. He is a humorist full\nof the unforseen and the droll, his nerves are extraordinarily sensitive, his\neyesight of an unbelievable acuteness. Besides, no morbidity. On the con-\ntrary, a health, a deep-seated gaiety, a sincere love of life and of humanity.\nA stupendous optimism underlies this exuberance.\nThe sketches which are given in this number of Broom are selections\nfrom his last book, \" Disparates. \" The word \" disparate \" can be translated\nby fantasy or extravaganza. They characterize well enough the singular\nart of Ramon Gomez of Serna.\nWe have to acknowledge the receipt of \" Genius, \" a monumental magazine\nof the arts, printed in Leipzig and published in Munich by the firm of Kurt Wolff.\nThis German production, which is one of the handsomest things of the kind we\nhave seen for some time, may be described as a kind of anthology of the arts\nof painting and sculpture. In it are to found in a juxtaposition that is sometimes\nreally bewildering the latest manifestations of modernist art side by side with\nexamples of antique sculpture and architecture. The whole production which\nis in large quarto format is luxurious to a degree ; paper and reproductions\nof the finest.\nTo give an example of the catholicity of the production — a catholicity\nwhich is indeed on occasion overwhelning — we have in one and the same vo-\nlume Archipenko and reproductions of the interiors of the cathedrals of Carcas-\nsone and Poitiers, Georg Kolbe and Romain Rolland, an article on Charles-l/ouis\nPhilippe, and another on barocco German poetry of the XVlth and XVIIth\ncenturies."}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.89", "debut_caractere": 106, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2604, "texte": "In a forthcoming number of Broom we have arranged to begin the publi-\ncation of one of the most remarkable of modern Italian plays — Luigi Pi-\nrandello's \" Six Characters in Search of an Author. \" The work was given\nin London last month at two private performances of the Stage Society, and will\nin all probability be seen at a New York theatre in the fall. Pirandello is the\nleader of the so-called \" grotesque \" school of the modern Italian comedy, and is\nin every way a notable figure in the modern dramatic world. Although he is not\na young man, his influence is only just now beginning to be felt outside the con-\nfines of his own country. And even in Italy his brilliant plays still encounter\nhostility from the conservative public. When \" Six Characters \" was done\nin Rome last year, there was nearly a riot in the theatre.\nThe second number of Tyro conies to us from London (Egoist Press).\nAmong the contributors are : Wyndham Lewis, T. S. Eliot, Jessie Dismorr,\nJohn Rodker, Waldemar George, Heibert Read and Wyndham Lewis again.\nIn a \" tyronic dialogue \" which is sprightly enough, Mr Lewis writes a kind\nof Macchiavelli's Prince for modern artists, warning them to beware of each\nother, exposing some of the egoistic mainsprings of their action and hinting\nat how a man who would bear the title of modern artist should comport him-\nself in this more or less dirty old world. Among the reproductions are exam-\nples of the work of Lipchitz, Dobson, Wadsworth and Lewis.\nThe acitivity of modern Russia in the sphere of art is really remarkable,\nespecially that of expatriated Russia and more particularly still of that large\nportion of it which centers in Berlin and other German cities.\nE pur si muove is an expression of this spirit of restless modern Russia,\nlike that other fine production L'Oiseau de feu which is published in Berlin.\nCurious in E pur si muove are the illustrations. Side by side with reproductions\nof Iyipchitz's sculptures we have pages showing ten different kinds of Iyoiidon made\npipes. Then again we have Rodchenko's Project d'un kiosque and a pho-\ntograph of a steam crane at work by the dockside. Picasso is represented by\na design for a ballet - rather old material, dating back to 1917.\nIt appears that a Chapliniad exists in Russia. has illustrated this\nwork with Chaplin drawings, some of which, our readers will remember, have\nalready appeared in Broom. Pictures of hydroplanes, floating docks, snow ploughs\netc. enliven the pages of this Russian magazine."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c047", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c047", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[184]", "page_fin": "[184]", "image_debut": 90, "image_fin": 90, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.38", "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": 90, "page_imprimee": "[184]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 438, "texte": "ORIENTALIA it TQT IT\nMay be obtained from 22, East 60™ Street JLJ 1 UU I\nNEW YORK CITY\nLA DANSE DE CIVA\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 i6mo volume.\nPaper covers: francs 8\nSpecial art binding: » 12\nFirst Edition 011 Laiuina pure linen paper, each copy numbered: » 15"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c048", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c048", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[184]", "page_fin": "[184]", "image_debut": 90, "image_fin": 90, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.39", "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": 90, "page_imprimee": "[184]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 440, "fin_caractere_exclue": 503, "texte": "F. RIEDER & C., PUBLISHERS - 7, Place ST. SULPICE - PARIS, (VI)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c049", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c049", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[184]", "page_fin": "[184]", "image_debut": 90, "image_fin": 90, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.40", "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": 90, "page_imprimee": "[184]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 505, "fin_caractere_exclue": 583, "texte": "U.\nMembers\nNew York Stock Exchange\n12Q? Broadway.\no\noo\nTelephone: 3240 Rector."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c050", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c050", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[184]", "page_fin": "[184]", "image_debut": 90, "image_fin": 90, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.41", "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": 90, "page_imprimee": "[184]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.90", "debut_caractere": 585, "fin_caractere_exclue": 775, "texte": "OUISISANA LODGE\nAND\nBUNGALOES\nIyAKiv Kezar, Center Loveij,,\n* - MAINE.\nOpen June to October\nFor particulars address:\nMARION BROWN, Secretary.\n46-E. 75th Street.\nTelephone: RHINELANDER, 2671."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c051", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c051", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[185]", "page_fin": "[185]", "image_debut": 91, "image_fin": 91, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.42", "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": 91, "page_imprimee": "[185]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.91", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 567, "texte": "The largest selling quality\npencil in the worlds\nAS soft as you\nwish; as hard as\nyou please, but al-\nways smoother than\nyou had dreamed.\nAny VENUS Pen-\ncil you select glides\nover the paper with\na restful freedom free\nfrom friction.\n17 Black Degrees\n3 Copying\nFor bold heavy lines\n68-58-48-3B\nFor writing, sketching\n28-B-HB-F-H\nFor clean fine lines\n2H-3H-4H-SH-6H\nFor delicate, thin lines\n7H-BH-9H\nPlain Ends,\nper doz. $ 1.00\nRubber Ends,\nper doz. $ 1.20\nAt Stationers and Stores\nthroughout the World.\nAmerican\nLead Pencil Co\n220 Fifth Avenue\nNew York\nand London, Eng."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-05-01-c052", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01#c052", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-05_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[185]", "page_fin": "[185]", "image_debut": 91, "image_fin": 91, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.2.43", "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": 91, "page_imprimee": "[185]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.91", "debut_caractere": 569, "fin_caractere_exclue": 760, "texte": "THE WATERSIDE\nLAND CORPORATION\nOFFERS FOR SALE\nNO. 3 RIVERSIDE DRIVE\nNEW YORK CITY\nFIVE STORY EKGLISH BASEMENT DIELIIXS\n1\n37 x 97 IRREGULAR\ni\nFOR FURTHER INFORMATION\nAPPLY TO YOUR OWN BROKER."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[96]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn International Magazine of the Arts Published by Harold A. Loeb.\nEditor, Harold A. Loeb.\nMAY, 1922\nAPPEARS MONTHLY\nVOL. 2, NO 2.\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, 68, Via Leccosa, Rome (9), Italy.\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street.\nLondon Office, Cecil Palmer, Oakley House, 15-18 Bloomsbury St., W. C. I.\n\nPage\nCover Design — Kawashima.\nFour Steichen Prints — Carl Sandburg 97\nPorto Longone — Richard Seewald 99\nMarche — Lawrence Vail 99\nWoodcuts — E. Prampolini 101-121\nThe Wardrobe With the Mirror Door — Ramon Gomez 105\nThe Son That I Would Have Had— Ramon Gomez 106\nOne Hundred Envelopes — Ramon Gomez 108\nThe Poets and the Housewife — Martin Armstrong 112\nMonkey Island — Robert Musii. 113\nTangle-Foot — Robert Musii, 116\nThe Mouse in The Fodara Vedla — Robert Musii, 118\nThe Snow Man — Donald Corley 120\nFour Etudes — Matthew Josephson 122\nGeorge Moore, Aesthete — Marianne Moore 124\nSailboats — Richard Seewald . 133\nMountain Farm — Malcolm Cowley 134\nThe Rakeoff And The Getaway — Carl Sandburg 135\nAscona — Richard Seewald , 136\nHe Deceived Her — Frana Sranack 137\nThree United States Sonnets — E. E. Cummings 146\nHeavens — Louis Untermeyer 148\nOctober — Anatoly Maryngoff 164\nVillage Street With Cat — Richard Seewald 166\nPetals — Wilhelm Klemm 167\nModern German Literature — Franz Blei 168\nForeign Exchange — A. H. L I7^\nComment *82"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "97", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.3", "texte": "FOUR STEICHEN PRINTS\nCarl Sandburg\nThe earth, the rock and the oil of the earth, the slippery\nfrozen places of the earth, these are for homes of rainbow\nbubbles, curves of the circles of a bubble, curves of the\narcs of the rainbow prisms—between sun and rock they lift\nto the sun their foam feather and go.\nThrow your neck back, throw it back till the neck muscles shine\nat the sun, till the falling hair at the scalp is a black cry,\ntill limbs and knee bones form an altar and a girl's torso over\nthe fire rock torso shouts hi yi, hi yee, hallelujah.\nGoat girl caught in the brambles, deerfoot or foxhead, ankles\nand hair of feeders of the wind, let all the covering burn,\nlet all stopping a naked plunger from plunging naked, let it\nall burn in this wind fire, let the fire have it in a fast\ncrunch and a flash.\nThey threw you in a pot of thorns with a wreath in your hair\nand the bunches of grapes over your head—your hard little\nbuttocks in the thorns—then the black eyes, the white teeth,\nthe nameless muscular flair of you, rippled and twisted in\nsliding rising scales of laughter; the earth never had a\ngladder friend; pigs, goats, deer, tawny tough-haired jaguars\nmight understand you."}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "[98]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.4", "texte": "Porto Longone — Elba\nRichard Seewald"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "99", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.5", "texte": "EXTRAVAGANZAS\nMARCHE FUNEBRE\n\nI was despondent that day — till I met the funeral procession.\nIt was going my way, up the Boulevard Saint Michel. No rea-\nson, I argued, why I should turn aside. Never had I interfered with\nthe dead. Why should I allow the dead to interfere with me ?\nSo I walked on the pavement, parallel to the mourners who walked\nin the middle of the street. How far, I wondered, will these black\nsorrowing ladies and gentlemen continue to follow a corpse ? Perhaps\nto the gate of the cemetery, into the graveyard. Why not even furth-\ner, into the grave itself ? There was nothing to shock me in this\nsupposition. For surely they must have tendencies towards death\n— those who follow the dead.\nWatch them — the mourners. See their dun sightless faces.\nWatch their gestures, listen to the noises they make.\nRight leg forwards. Left leg forwards.\nRight leg. Left leg.\nSniff. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg. Sniff.\nLeft leg.. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg forwards. Left leg forwards.\nWhat does this prove ? That they live ? Not a bit of it. I\nknow of toys sold on the Grand Boulevards at Christmas that can\nmake at the same time five gestures and as many noises. You would\nnot call them alive."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "100", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.6", "texte": "These mourners are dead. They follow the man in the coffin.\nWhy ? He is their chief. The chief of the dead. Of course there\nis a difference. He is ahead of them, beyond ; in a rarer plane,\nhigher; in a sublimated clique. Having attained he has ceased\nto aspire. Or rather he aspires at his ease. No moving of legs and\nblowing of noses in his sublime set. He has reached the silent,\nthe motionless, the forever recumbent. Gloriously dead he is,\nflat on his back. Pettishly dead are the mourners, still on the\nmarch.\nBut I, though despondent, was alive. I followed no dead chief.\nInstead I followed the sad and merry, random and often mechanical\ncross purposes of life. People around and about me, in front and\nbehind, were also alive — everyone of them. That girl with the loaf\nof bread in her arms was alive. Ivater, she or someone else, would\nset live teeth into the crust. The priest with the small cruel eyes\nwas alive ; doubtless he was subtly compromising with the serpent\nas he muttered his Pater. That mason was alive, you had but to\nwatch him brawnily mixing mortar and with disdain spitting. Alive\nthose determined people deepening the rut to the workshop. Alive\nthose less determined ones, those who looked at advertisements\nwistfully. Yes, all of us were alive. That moment I was\nalmost glad.\nUp the Boulevard Saint Michel moved the funeral procession.\nFirst the black horses, like death lackadaisical. The coachmen, corp-\nses rouged by the wind, parodying grimly, pianissimo, the gestures\nof the hack drivers of the living. The coach where the chief reposed\nin dead state. Then the mourners, on the apathetic march :\nRight leg forwards. L,eft leg forwards.\nRight leg. leg.\nSniff. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg. Sniff.\nIyeft leg. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg forwards. L,eft leg forwards."}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "101", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.7", "texte": "And along the sidewalk, a little in the rear of the dry eyed men\nwho took off their hats and the women who made less precise\ngestures but looked more convincingly affected, almost gladly, I\nwalked.\nvSuddenly I remembered a thing I had done yesterday and would\ndo tomorrow. And this thing was linked up to other things I had\ndone in the yesterdays and would do in the tomorrows. Habits they\nwere, common tricks, gestures, attitudes of thought, spleens, evasions,\nresignations, ways of being sorry and glad.\nIt was an avalanche on me of commonplace memories. And sud-\ndenly my soul sickened. It tightened and snarled, made as though\nto vomit the customary memories. Now it was with a new eye that\nI regarded the funeral. With a new respect I glanced at the coffin.\nFor he in the coffin was doing a thing unmatched in his memory.\nHis journey up the street, the grandiose manner of it, was for him\noriginal and unprecedented. Bitterly, I envied him.\nI acted then in a manner peculiar. Very inconspicuously I\nclimbed onto the coach, opened the coffin, removed the body. I\nsettled myself on my back, comfortably. Then, taking my time,\nI quietly died.\nI am sure nobody noticed me, for through a crack in the boards\nI saw people walking up and down as they do when funerals goby.\nI even saw a man in a black overcoat who bore a striking resemblance"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "102", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.8", "texte": "to me. Possibly this man was I. I was not sure then. I watched\nhim bump into a man and apologize.\nBehind, muffled by the walls of my coffin, I heard the march\nof my mourners:\nRight leg forwards. Left leg forwards.\nRight leg. Left leg.\nSniff. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg. Sniff.\nLeft leg. Blow of the nose.\nRight leg forwards. Left leg forwards."}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "103", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.9", "texte": "Now I was at home. Within and around me, my soul stretched\nitself, purred. I was content, satisfied. Without doubt I had a\nvocation for death.\nNow and then I looked out on the live world through the crack\nin my coffin. Men whom I did not know lifted their hats. Many\nof them were famous men, I was sure, who had never troubled about\nme during my lifetime. Womii looked at me in their charming\neasily affected ways, sighed, crossed themselves. Good looking\nwomen, too, many of them. At last I was appreciated,\nBut the supreme acknowledgement was in store for me. Sud-\ndenly, probably owing to some tangle in the traffic, the coach which\nbore me stopped. A man who had kept a little in the rear came up\nto my level. The same man wearing a black overcoat who had re-\nminded me of myself some minutes ago. I examined him carefully,\nwith that impartial thoroughness only practised by the dead. There\nwas no mistaking him. That man was I.\nHe stopped for a moment, lifted his hat, passed on. Suddenly\nI felt my soul in and around me swelling with a great pride and joy.\nThis was the crowning gratification and homage. I had come into\nmy own.\n\nLawrence Vail"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "105", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.11", "texte": "THE WARDROBE WITH THE MIRROR DOOR\nThat mirrored wardrobe on the first floor faced the street and if\none opened it a little, one saw the paved bed of a river through trans-\nparent and delicate waters.\nI am a swimmer ever going against the current, joining my hands\nlike the mystic. Hop ! I dive, hands in form of prow, into the water\nof the wardrobe mirror, as one who throws himself from the height\nof a spring-board into the sea.\nI find myself, all of a sudden, among some blouses which smell\nof clean women and vervain.\nMy voyage had been like the most daring swim of the Channel,\nand it has remained a secret even to me how I crossed all the liquid\nglance of the mirror which united the street and the wardrobe like a\nbridge.\nHow sweet the repose of this wardrobe ! I touched everything\nin the obscurity. Silk stockings delicious to crumple, prayer-books\nbound in ivory, rosaries of mother of pearl, kid gloves exquisite\nas hands.\nThen like the swimmer who comes back to the street by the same\nway, I threw myself into the water of the mirror and I swam to the\nother shore, taking the pavement that I was following when I came\nupon the path of the fourth dimension in front of the mirror which\nreflected us both, me and the street."}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "106", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.12", "texte": "THE SON THAT I WOULD HAVE HAD\nI had not had a son and I met the son that I would have had if\nI had had a son.\n— \" Father, I would have been your son, the son that you would\nhave had, the son that you should have had, \" said this young ado-\nlescent to me when I passed out of life into a kind of immense alcove,\nsomething like the alcove of a hospital without windows but illumi-\nnated by the livid light of a perpetual Sunday.\nI looked at him who would have been my son and I said to him :\n\" I am overjoyed to make your acquaintance, my son, that is to\nsay my son who is not my son ... I had a desire to know you . . .\nSo it's you! How curious life would have been if it had been\ndifferent. \"\n\" I have waited in vain, father, \" said the pale adolescent, pale as\neven a corpse can never be pale.\n\" What can we do about it, my son ? If only I had known that\nit was you ! But think, you might have been one of those idiotic sons\nwho think of nothing, who maltreat their parents, and whose mad am-\nbition to tyrannize the world is especially painful to contemplate. . .\nAnd they can never be tyrants, they become the most miserable pro-\nletariat in the world ; and their fathers, before a pride so ignoble and\nso little justified, should demolish them . . .\n— \" Well, you see that I would not have been thus ; I would have\nbeen full of common sense, and simplicity, worthy of you ...\"\n\" I see it now .. . but how could I have guessed it ? If I had known\nit, I would have found you a mother . . . but there is such a chance\nof getting an antipathetic son, one of those low vulgar-minded\nrascals...\""}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "107", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.13", "texte": "He interrupted me :\n\"Or an antipathetic father. \"\nYes you are right. But I would not have been a bad father, I\nwould not have showed for there is nothing that justi-\nfies the hatred of sons as much as the favoritism of fathers. I\nwould have been one of those rare fathers, equitable and capable of\nfeeling himself the son of his son. \"\nMy son, that is to say, the son that I would have had if I had\nhad a son, replied to me :\n\" I know it well, father. \"\nAnd pausing he drew from his pocket a bundle of letters and\nsaid to me :\ni/ook at the letters that I would have written you. \"\nThis gesture, which made rue think of a prisoner who had occupied\nthe houis of his confinement in writing, upset me more than every-\nthing, and I saw him,, my possible son, bent over the desk of chaos,\nkilling the nostalgia that he had for his father in writing the letters\nthat he would have written him during the absences which would\nhave separated them in life.\nThe handwriting of these letters was faint as though written with\nwhite ink, but in a fine Bnglish handwriting, and in the one which I\nchose from the package, the style was sincere, full of memories,\ntenderness and solitude.\nAnd I was impatient, tortured without knowing what to say, nor\nhow to exonerate myself; and tapping the shoulders of the son that\nI would have had, I said : \" Well, my son, I am very glad to have\nmet you. \"\nI went out of the hall, large as hospital ward, with no windows\non either side but nevertheless illuminated by the livid light of an\neternal Sunday, that made fluorescent the stucco walls."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "108", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.14", "texte": "ONE HUNDRED ENVELOPES\n(Translated from the Spanish of)\nRamon Gomez de la Serna\nThe dead man, who had expected death, cried out in the other\nworld, with rage, indignation and sorrow :\n\" And I had just bought a hundred envelopes this very day so\nthat I could write to many people over a long time ! \"\nReally the act of buying one hundred envelopes seems to give an\nirresistible continuity to life, to put off death until the hundred en-\nvelopes are exhausted.\n\" One hundred envelopes ! One hundred envelopes that I had just\nbought! \" cried the dead man, \" Such things don't happen ! \"\nReally it would seem that a hundred envelopes should last a life-\ntime, never be used up, be ready for emergencies, help many people\nto live, and keep death in abeyance.\nNow they would be of no use, even for his funeral announcements,\nsince they were not mourning envelopes.\n\" One hundred envelopes, bought only yesterday \" is all that the\ncan say in the eternal to-day of death."}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.15", "texte": "THE POETS AND THE HOUSEWIFE\n\nOnce upon a time, on a summer's day, two poets having shut up\nshop, went out into the country to collect copy, for their stock of\nthis commodity was exhausted.\nAnd they were careful to dress themselves carelessly : and one put\non a black collar and black-and-white checked trousers, and the other\na cravat of raging scarlet, \" for \" they thought (though they did\nnot say so) \" we must dress the part/' And their hats were wide and\nreckless and the hair beneath their hats was as the thatch upon a\nbroad-eaved barn.\nAnd as they journeyed, poking about with their walking-sticks\nafter the precious substance of their quest, there gathered over their\nheads the devil of a storm.\nAnd at the proper moment the storm burst and the rain came down\nand the poets left off seeking for copy and huddled under a hawthorn-\ntree. And they appeared as two proud exotic birds, lighted down from\nthe Iyord knows where.\nAnd there was a lodge near the hawthorn-tree, and the lodge-\nkeeper's wife looked out and, seeing the two, she exclaimed : — \" lyord,\nlook what the wet brings out! \" And the rain increased fearfully.\nAnd when, after a while, she looked out again the poets were changed,\nfor their bloom was impaired, the rain had clotted their hair, and\nthe scarlet cravat of the one had become crimson from saturation.\nAnd rain dripped from all their extremities.\nAnd the lodgekeeper's wife was grieved for them and called out :\n— \" Young men, will you not come in ? Why play the heron who\nstands lugubrious with his feet in cold water when it is open to you\nto become as sparrows twittering with gladness beneath the eaves ? \"\nBut they bowed politely and replied: — \" Thanks awfully,\nma'am, but we are poets and we like it. \"\nAnd the lodgekeeper's wife was riled and sneered at them, saying :—\n\" They have had a drop too much. \" But they, smiling deprecatingly\nupon her, responded :— \" Madam, you are pleased to be dry. \""}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.17", "texte": "\" And you, \" quoth she, \" are pleased to be wet. \" And she\nclapped-to the window, casting up her eyes and enquiring rhetorically\n\" Did you ever ? \" and \" What next ?\nAnd the rain came down like hell, leaping a foot high from the road\nand sousing all things.\nAnd after another while the lodgekeeper's wife looked out again,\nand the two had gathered closer about the trunk of the hawthorn-\ntree, and they were as two old crows, for their shoulders were up and\ntheir beaks were down and they were unbelievably dishevelled.\nAnd, being a charitable woman, she shouted to them again :—\n\" Miserable gentlemen, in the name of civilization and commonsense,\ncome inside. \"\nBut they dared not turn their faces to her for fear that the water\nshould run down their necks ; so, revolving themselves all of a piece,\nthey replied :— \" Renewed thanks, ma'am, but we are very well\nfor we are acquiring copy. \"\nBut the lodgekeeper's wife did not understand the wood copy,\nso that she was amazed beyond measure and the power of comment\nwas taken from her.\nAnd the storm, having stormed itself out, abated: and the place\nwas filled with delicious smells of breathing leaves, and the warm\nsweetness of hawthorn perfumed the air.\nAnd the lodgekeeper's wife looked out from the window a fourth\nand last time, and the poets were departing. And the tragedy of\ntheir appearance was beyond all computing. For the scarlet from\nthe cravat of the one had run down into the bosom of his shirt, so\nthat he was as it were a robin-redbreast. And both were soaked to\nthe uttermost.\nAnd when those poets were returned home, the one found that\nhe had lost a shirt and the other that he had gained a cold. There-\nfore the one went out and bought a new shirt at seven and six and dear\nat that, and the other got himself a shilling bottle of Ammoniated\nQuinine which was tolerably cheap considering.\nAnd the one wrote an ode called Midsummer Storm for which he"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.18", "texte": "obtained five guineas, so that (deducting fourpence for stamps and\nseven and six for the shirt) his net profit was four pounds seventeen\nand twopence.\nBut the other could only manage a one-guinea sonnet called Rain\nAmong Leaves, so that (deducting fourpence for stamps and a shil-\nling for the Quinine) his net profit was but nineteen and eight.\nThus the two acquired great store of copy (more indeed than\nthey bargained for) and the sum of five pounds sixteen shillings and\ntenpence thrown in.\nBut the wife of the lodgekeeper knew nothing of this : therefore\nshe still believes, like many other ill-informed persons, that poets\nare but unpractical dreamers.\n\nMartin Armstrong"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.19", "texte": "MONKEY ISLAND\nIn the Vilia Borghese in Rome stands a very high tree, without\ntwigs or bark. The trunk is as smooth as a skull, peeled by the sun\nand water, and as yellow- as a skeleton. It stands bolt upright, with.,\nout roots, dead, planted in cement like a mast in the middle of an\noval island about the size of a river steamer, and is separated from\nthe Kingdom of Italy oy a smootii concrete trench. This trench is\njust so wide, and at the outer edge so deep, that a monkey from the\nisland could neither climb nor spring over it. From the outside it\nmight be done, but not from the inside. The trunk gives a good\nfoochold, ana as tne mountain tourists say \" makes easy pleasant\nclimbing. At the top of it are strong branches running out hori-\nzontally in several diiections. If one could take off shoes and. socks,\nwith heels in, soles pressing well about the rounding of the trunk,\nand che hands gripping tensely above, how splendidly one could get\nout and along to the end of that sun-warmed branch, stretching away\nover the green ostrich feather tips of the pines.\nThis wonderful island is inhabited by three different families.\nAbout fifteen quick moving sinewy fellows, with their girls — each one\nthe size of a child of four — live on the tree. At the foot, in the only\nhouse on the island a palace the form and size of a dog kennel — live a\nmarried couple of a much mightier breed, with their tiny little son. This\nis the King of the island, the Queen, and the Crown Prince. It never\nhappens that the old ones wander far from him on the ground. They\nsic, one on each side of the little Prince, immovably alert, gazing wide\nout past their noses. They never leave him, except once in every\nhour, when the King mounts the tree to inspect his domain. Pie\nthen strides gravely along the trunk, and it seems as if he will not no-\ntice how humbly and mistrustfully the others retreat before him. To"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.20", "texte": "avoid the look of unseemly haste or fear they slide sideways along the\nbranches, till the end gives them no more quarter, and they must\ntake the dangerous steep leap on to the hard cement below. So the\nKing strides on, from one branch to the other, till every branch\nis empty when he returns again. And the keenest observer cannot\ntell from his expression if it is a necessary Royal duty, or a mere health-\nful exercise. Meanwhile, the little Prince sits alone on the roof of the\npalace, for curiously enough, the Queen disappears each time the\nKing mounts the tree, and through his thin upstanding ears the sun\nshines coral red. One can scarcely imagine anything more stupid or\nhelpless, and yet so incomprehensibly mantled around with dignity"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.21", "texte": "as this little monkey. The hunted-down-tree-folk, one after the other,\nslip past him; each one, if he wished, could wring with ease that thin\nlittle neck — and they are manifestly ill humoured — but they all make\na wide curve around him, and exhibit other signs of the respect and shy-\nness due from them to one of his breed. It takes some time before\none discovers that still another monkey folk find shelter on the is-\nland. Driven from the air and the surface of the earth, a horde of\nstill smaller monkeys takes refuge in the trench. If one of them un-\nbetimes, dares to show a face on the island, the tree folk hunt him\nrelentlessly back again with insult and bloody disciplines. When\nfood comes, they must wait till every one else is satisfied, and back\nagain in their places, before they dare creep out to capture the scraps.\nSometimes a malicious fellow or jocose maiden from the tree, so satis-\nfied apparently that digestive difficulties have begun, waits slyly till\nthe little folk begin to approach the food, then slips down again,\nwhereupon the first comers rush screaming back to the others in the\ntrench, and they all whimper together, and press against each other,\ntill a surface of air, flesh, and crazy dark eyes is formed, welling up\nthe outer wall of the trench like water in a leaning vessel. The perse-\ncutor paces along the edge of the trench, driving the wave of terror\nbefore him. The little folk uplift their black faces, and fling their\narms heavenward, their hands turned palms out, in defence against the\nevil eye which looks down from the edge. But gradually one of their\nnumber is singled out; he pushes this way and that restlessly some\nfive others with him, not yet sure which is the real target of the\nevil stare.\nThe soft mass, lame from terror, still holds together. Finally\nthat indifferent stare nails its victim, there is no escape. He is ab-\nsolutely unable to control his little face, to show neither too much nor\ntoo little of the terror that is convulsing him. From second to second\nit descends deeper, this indifferent gaze from one soul into the soul of\nanother, boring down past all reserve, till hate is bare, and a crea-\nture without restraint, or form, or shame, whimpers under its pun-\nishment."}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.22", "texte": "With cries of relief the others dash away along the trench. Flick-\nering along, without one gleam of light, as possessed souls in Pur-\ngatory, they huddle together at the furthermost edge, chattering\ngaily.\nWhen all is past, the persecutor climbs with elastic grip the\ntopmost branch of the tree. He sits there erect, motionless and au-\nstere, and so remains ages long. Although he is still concealed in the\ngreen shimmering clouds of the tree tops, the line of his stare sweeps\nthe summits of the Pincio and the Villa Borghese and beyond them to\nwhere the great yellow city lies extended, and back again, indifferently.\n\nTANGLEFOOT\nFly paper \" Tanglefoot \" is almost twelve inches long by seven\nbroad, and found in every household. It is spread about with a yellow\npoisonous substance, and comes to us from Canada. When a fly\nalights on it, not from greed so much as from a certain conventiona-\nlity — many flies are there already — it sticks with the extremities"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.23", "texte": "of its little legs. First a strange soft feeling arises, just as if we, in\nthe dark, should tread suddenly on a substance, at first nothing but\na warm soft unrecognizable resistence, but assuming gradually the\nhorribly familiar characteristics of a human hand, that lies there for\nsome unknown purpose, and grips at us with its five ever clearer\nshaping fingers.\nIt first pulls itself up like a paralytic who would mirror immobil-\nity, or like a shaky old officer — a little bow-legged truly — as if it\nstood on a sharp edge. Then it recovers itself, and gathers together\nevery faculty of strength and wisdom it possesses. After a few se-\nconds, the decision is made, and it does all it can by whirring its wings\nto lift itself. It continues these mad efforts till exhausted, a breath-\ning pause follows, then a new trial. But the intervals, between the\nstruggles grow longer. It now stands quite still, and I feel how\nhelpless it is. Intoxicating vapours rise. Its tongue beats in and out\nlike a tiny hammer. Its head, as if cut out of cocoanut, is brown and\nhairy, like the nigger idol heads that look like men's. It sways backward\nand forward, and bends in the joints at the knees, as men do who\nendeavour to lift an impossible weight, though more tragicly than the\neffort of a labourer, more like the heroic spirit of uttermost resistance\nin the limbs of the Iyaocoon. The time comes finally —it is ever\nthe same — when the need of a moment overcomes the mightiest\nvitality of that mighty instinct in us all, the will to live. It is the mo-\nment when the climber opens his hand involuntarily from the pain in\nhis fingers, and lets go : when the body lost in the snow lies down to\nsleep like a tired child ; like the moment when the quarry with\nburning flanks stops short. No longer erect in the old straining ter-\nror, it relaxes perceptibly, and, quite human, is caught at once in an-\nother place, higher up the legs, or behind on the body, or at the tip of\na wing.\nWhen the spiritual exhaustion is overcome, and it is ready again\nfor the life struggle, it is situated so unfavourably that its movements\nbecome eccentric and unnatural. It tries to pull itself up, supported\nby the elbows, the hind legs stretched out; or it sits down completely,"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.24", "texte": "arms extended like a woman vainly endeavouring to free her hands\nfrom the closed fists of a man ; or it lies flat on its stomach, head and\narms in front, as if it had fallen in running while holding up its head.\nThe enemy remains passive, but it gains with every confused and\ndespairing movement. A nothing which is everything. So slowly,\nthat one can scarcely follow its gain until the end, when the victory\nis completed with unexpected swiftness. The last inner despair\nfloods through the little victim, it lets itself collapse head over heels,\nor on one side, legs out as if rowing. There it lies like a broken areo-\nplane, one wing in the air, or like the dead body of a horse, or like a\nsleeper.\nEven on the next day, one fly, here and there, will wake again, to\nagitate a limb in the air or flutter a wing. Sometimes such a move-\nment shudders right through the field after which they all sink again\ndeeper into their death. On the one side of the body, there, where\nthe legs join, is a little flimmering organ which still lives, opening and\nclosing ; one cannot see it without a magnifying glass. It looks like\na tiny human eye, that ceaselessly opens and shuts.\n\nTHE MOUSE IN THE FODARA VEDLA\n\nFodara Vedla, Indian Alps, three thousand feet and more above\nthe peopled country and then still further away ; who has placed a\nbench here ?\nHe who sits on this bench, sits tight, mouth closed. Breathing\nseems strange, a process of nature, not quite natural when one is con-\nscious of it, for then it becomes a happening — like pregnacy in a\nwoman.\nThe grass, from the year before, is as pallid as if a stone had just\nrolled off it. All around are hunches and troughs, senseless and\nnumberless; stunted pines and Alps. From this surging quiet one's\nvision is thrown again and again to the round yellow cliffs where it"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.25", "texte": "is shivered into hundreds of fragments. It is not excessively high,\nbut above is only blue nothingness. The world is once more as de-\nserted and inhuman as during the creation.\nThe little mouse has laid in the earth a system of trenches. Mouse\ndeep, with holes in which to disappear, and others to come up from.\nIt darts in circles, stands still, then darts off again in wider rings. The\nhuman hand sinks down from the back of the bench. An eye as large\nand black as the head of a pin looks at it. Is it the tiny, restless, alive\neye, or the immovability of the mountains ?\nIs it God's will, or the will of a little field mouse that makes you\nstand shaken and unprepared ?\nOne puts aside the thought of God, and asks oneself more exactly:\nis it the mobility of the eye, or the immovability of the enormous\nmountains ? And helpless, one perceives that they are one and the\nsame thing . . .\n\nTranslated from the German of)\nRobert Musil,"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.26", "texte": "THE SNOW MAN\n\nThe Square was at afternoon ; snow fell: straight, monotonous,\nunflurried ; it made little cones on the tops of posts, it made hawsers\nout of wires, it amplified every twig on every tree, it made the roofs\nlook thatched, it filled foot-prints and wheel-tracks. A man paused\nin one of the curving pathways, and having paused stayed there. There\nwas nowhere for him to go, he was not cold nor hungry nor thirsty\nnor sleepy any more, nor had he any elation about anything. As he\nstood there motionless looking across the square, his hands deep in\nthe pockets of his long overcoat, the snow made a high-peaked fool's\ncap out of his derby hat, put epaulets on his shoulders, changed the\ncolor of his coat from black to white. Until presently the man was\nobliterated except for the end of his pipe, which smoked, notwithstand-\ning the snow that fell into it, though the stem, too, had its little crest-\ning of snow like the tops of the iron fences.\nSome urchins of the street came by, shuffling lanes in the snow\nwith their feet. \" Let's, make a snow man,\" one of them yelled.\n\" Here's one started, \" the others said, and they heaped the snow\nabout the man's feet, and built it up about his legs, his body, his arms,\nhis shoulders.\n\" Aw, leave the pipe, \" screamed one.\nThey covered his head about with snow. He was not very tall.\nAnd in the top of his snow-cap they stuck a dead twig from a tree. The\npipe kept on smoking. Then, as it was dusk, the boys, after making\neyes, nose and mouth for their snow man and buttons down the front\nof his coat, with bits of blackened sticks from the trees, went home.\nAnd the snow stopped, and no more smoke came out of the snow man's\npipe, and as the watch went on their rounds they each whacked at the"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.27", "texte": "snow man in a friendly way with their night-sticks, to keep warm,\nand because they must whack somebody. But the snow man had\nquite frozen.\nAs the extinguisher of lamps hurried that way over the ice, putting\nout the street lights at six the next morning, he thought he heard a\nvoice asking him for a light. But looking around and seeing no one\nbut the snow man, and being intent upon putting out the lights and\ngetting to the corner for a cup of coffee, he paid little attention. When\nall the lights in the square were out and the sun came up, more boys\npassed that way.\n\" See the snow guy wid de pipe, \" they said, and forthwith, fol-\nlowing the instinct of their race, set to work to knock the pipe out of\nthe snow man's mouth.\nThis accomplished, they decided to bombard him. After many\nlumps of ice had struck the snow man on his chest, on his head, on\nhis arms, on his ears, he fell down, and the boys walked on him.\n\" He's a stiff, \" they commented, and went their way hooting.\nIn the full splendour of forenoon, when the twigs of all the trees,\nencased in ice, were gossamer arabesques against the sky, and men\nwith spades were scraping all the sidewalks, making hoarse sounds,\none of the watch, striding past, paused, and surveyed the prostrate\nsnow man.\n\" Get on out of this, \" he ordered, and smote the soles of the snow\nman's feet with his stave, first one and then the other, with the accom-\nplished tattoo of the sole-beater.\nBut the snow man lay quite still.\n\nDonald Corley"}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.28", "texte": "FOUR ETUDES\n\nI.\nThe forenoon sleeps peacefully in the heat\nof the vast stupefying sun. The fruit trees\nand green plants in the orchard bleach and suffer\nunthinkingly and still there blows no breeze,\nbut carries to us gnats and stinging flies.\nThe parched air permits no murmured thought,\nand light beats down, while the earth mutely fries. .\nIn the intense silence time flows unseen\nfrom the glistening ether over the hot pale green\nof the motionless fields.\n2.\nSpeckled cows graze in humble pastures,\nblotted against the richness of a long hill,\nwhile a chance cloud above keeps them in shadow.\nHeads bent in the invisible vassalage,\nthey are the sweet wet-nurses of the world,\nheavy with the good milk that streams from them . . .\nThere was the young Jersey that went rioting madly over the pasture,\nher long yoked passions buffeting her against the wooden enclosures,\nand died with a rail piercing her udders, so that the blood mingled\nwith the milk,"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.29", "texte": "3.\n— \" Having turned this trying hill, we may rest here and regard\nthe valleys below, the confronting mountain, and the many purple\ndips of the earth-crust in the clouded distance, but above all this\nsingularly charming valley at its tranquil level, whose suavity sof-\ntens even the flow of sunlight into it.\n\" us hold this height, viewing the valley at our feet and many\nothers, including the occasionally glimpsed stream which gutted\nthem, not to speak of the numberless hills and mountains so entwined\nin their uncertain directions and distances, that it all but gives one\nthe vertigo to eye them.\"\n— \" But come, I grow faint here, as if my identity were escaping\nfrom me. No, let us rather go down into this valley with its yellow\nfields, than stay here. . . Now see, how, with the hills running sheer\nagainst the sky, locking us in so there is apparently no egress, we\nare within our microcosm again ! \"\n4.\nIn the whole valley there was but one light,\na lamp in a farm-house shooting through four windows ;\nand the dark hummed with the irresolute voices of the fields.\nBut the uneasy darkness could not bend or silence\nthe small still light,\nwhich from the four windows\npast fronting trees stabbed long yellow lines\ntoward the four corners of the valley, where they lay\ndemolished at the feet of the hills.\nHow more lavish a sky the hills suspend,\nwith what largesse, what helter-skelter of motive and tenor\ndo the busy and voluble stars complain,\nthe distant suns and their broods of planets drench the fields,\nand the Milky Way filter through tree-tops ?\n\nMatthew Josephson"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.30", "texte": "GEORGE MOORE, AESTHETE\n\nGeorge Moore's experience of life has been exceptional, and there are phases\nof life with which he is not familiar but it is his idiosyncrasy not to qualify.\nHe is an aesthete, a man of supreme accomplishement in presenting sensation.\nTo any but one who has made a specialty of sensation, he seems superficial,\nbut a nerve is a nerve and his expertness as an observer makes one feel as if\nsensation might at any time wander all the way to the heart as indeed it does\nin Esther Waters. His introducing in his work so many imagined instances of\nsuffering illustrates this aesthetic sensitiveness and is a marvel of contrast to\nthe unconcern of such a writer as Defoe, who tells in Robinson Crusoe of the\nhungry wildcat:\n\" I tossed her a bit of biscuit, though by the way I was not very free of\nit, for my store was not great : however, I spared her a bit, I say, and she went\nto it, smelled of it, and ate it, and looked (as pleased) for more, but I thanked\nher, and could spare no more ; so she marched off \"\nand of the sleeping lion :\n\" I took the best aim I could with the first piece to have shot him in the\nhead, but he lay so with his leg raised a little above his nose, that the slugs hit\nhis leg about the knee, and broke the bone.... I took a second piece immediat-\nely, and though he began to move off fired again, and shot him into the head,\nand had the pleasure to see him drop, and make but little noise, but lay strug-\ngling for life. .. . This was indeed game to us, but this was no food, and I was\nvery sorry to lose three charges of powder and shot upon a creature that was\ngood for nothing to us. ... I bethought myself, however ; . . .at last we got\noff the hide of him, and spreading it on top of our cabin, the sun effectually\ndried it in two days' time and it afterward served me to lie upon. \"\nDefoe is austere; George Moore, the obverse ; the sense of sense is so poignant\nthat there is no room for pity. In Hail and Farewell, he speaks of his\nand Yeats's altering of Edward Martyn's play The Tale of a Town, with Edward\nMartyn in an adjoining room and says, \"We were like two boys threading a"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.31", "texte": "bluebottle. \" Heloi'se said, \" I cannot sit reading with the skin of the animal\nabout my knees that howled to me for help\" and Heloise and Abelard\n\" continued talking through a cloudy morning of May, puzzled to discover in their\nimagination how a wolf and her cub had come by their deaths. \" There is a\ntinge of misery in this pathological humanitarianism.\nAesthetic feeling sometimes plays Mr. Moore false, for narrator though\nhe is, apparently impeccable in conversation and in his conception of dramatic\ninterval, there are in Heloi'se and Abelard, passages in which crudeness, mawkish-\nness, indecision and lame unnatural cadence spring out at one : \"A good\nbaby, the best of babies Heloi'se said ; I believe that there was never so good\na child. .. . Dear wife, dear wife !he said overcoming the suffocation of the\nmoment. \" The Spectator remarks that Mr. Moore has chosen to write \"in a\nkind of diluted Wardour Street, \" that \" his characters do not say Tush ! or\nZooks ! \" and that \"he has avoided the worst blunders of-the 'hath done'\nstyle, but. . . there is too much talk of ' ousels ' and ' willow beds ; ' \" a not\nunfair criticism. One is merely aware of these flaws upon perfection as of the\nminor blemish of cover and print. One expects the taste of an aesthete to be\nimpeccable; then why the pale print and clamorous bourgeois binding of the\nAmerican edition ?\nIn common with other aesthetes, Mr. Moore sacrifices the austere beauty\nof the athlete ; this would perhaps be his defence for so repeatedly making a\nstudy of themes which involve the disintegrating factor of sensuality. Perhaps\nhe would have one charitably transfer to him Heloi'se's defence of Abelard when\nshe says, \" If we are to have genius we must put up with the consequences of gen-\nius, a thing the world will never do ; it wants geniuses but it would like them to\nbe just like other people. \" The average person has seen genius walking erect too\nmany times to accept the implication that genius progresses best when it crawls ;\ninnate sensuality is a mildew and in defense of an author who is aesthete pure and\nsimple, one recalls Abelard's observation respecting Madelon : \" We owe her\na good deal. . . and we are paying with our patience all that we owe her. \"\nAs in The Brook Kerith Mr. Moore is not a theologian, so in Heloi'se and\nAbelard, he is not a philosopher. His knowledge is a knowledge of living, not\na concept of life ; his philosophical discussions no more attain the illusion of real-\nness than he seems in them, like Socrates. To those deeply interested in phil-\nosophy, it is irritating that philosophy should be made a back drop to \" a ram-\npage of the passions, \" but Mr. Moore's imperviousness to disapproval is part of\nhis virtue and in Heloise and Abelard, it is not twelfth century scholastic phil-\nosophy but George Moore that we read. In Abelard, Madelon, Heloise and Ful-\nbert, we have four aspects of him.\nIn Abelard, we have the Arabian nights concept of masculine favour in"}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "126", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.32", "texte": "which the grand-vizier indicates with his sceptre, which maiden shall advance\n— a contrast indeed, to the \" charity in armour \" of mediaevelism — to Rudel\nof whom Abelard says that he walked \" with a stoop, deep in his dream, seeing\nhis princess far more clearly than the women about him \" and to the romantic\nself abasement of the seventeenth century :\n\" Mon Dieu, aide-moi !\nThat I with the primroses of my fresh wit,\nMay tumble her tyranny under my feet.\nDone je serai un jeune roi. \"\nInstead of being \" animated by a durable ecstasy. . . which rendered him\ncapable of haughty thoughts and valiant deeds, \" Abelard was demoralized,\nfinding in Heloise, man's natural enemy ; this fact Mr. Moore elaborates, quoting\nProverbs, \" I have found woman bitterer than death; . . . her hands are chains; \"\nciting Adam and how \" the first woman brought about the banishment of\nman from paradise ; \" Samson, \" brought to such despair that he buried him-\nself. . . under the ruins of the temple ; \" Solomon who \" lost his reason through\na woman ; \" Socrates, whose sufferings should \" cause the most thoughtless\nto ponder; \" and Job, \" for it was against his wife that Job, that holy man,\nfought the last and hardest fight of all. \" Mr. Moore shares the oriental concep-\ntion that to be inescapably associated with woman, is degradation. Although,\nas he says, \" in every life there is an adventure that sums up lesser adventures, \"\nand in Abelard's case, \" Heloise was this summary, \"he causes Abelard to\nreflect that \" if he had not met her his life would have continued to be an ever-\nswirling adventure. \" \"He hated to think of himself as an animal at tether,\nmoving circle wise, always equidistant from the centre, never able to project\nhimself even a few feet farther into the unknown. \" In reading George Moore,\none cannot but feel the retentiveness of his mind and in his attributing to Abe-\nlard a remarkable memory, one is aware of his own highly specialized faculty.\nWhen Abelard says to Heloise : \" if the Georgics were lost, we could recover them\nall from our memories, for where mine failed thou wouldst come to my aid, and\ntogether we could give back to the world the book it had lost, \" we are reminded\nof Avowals in which Mr. Moore says, \" Your memory is better than mine. . .\nin this instance, certainly \" and Mr. Gosse replies, \" Thank you for this tribute,\nwhich it is an honour to receive from one of prodigious memory, though of slight\nreading. \"\nIn Madelon, we have the foil to reflection — corresponding to that which we\nhave in the Gosse of Avowals.\nIn Heloise, we have Mr. Moore's concept of woman as man's satellite and"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "127", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.33", "texte": "handmaid. Heloise is like the Lady Malberge of the Hermit's ballad : \" She\nhas no real being except in me; she is here, and nowhere else, and the Hermit\npointed to his heart. \" Life at Argenteuil was to her after leaving Abelard,\n\" shadowy as the world she saw about her when she left the library and walked\ninto the open air \" and \" there was nothing true in her except her love for\nAbelard, whom she would follow into the gulfs of hell rather than live in paradise\nwithout. \" \" And in one intense moment of vision, \" says Mr. Moore, \" she\nsaw into life as it is offered to women, the obliteration of themselves in marriage\nor the obliteration of themselves in convent rules ; . . . convent or marriage, it's\nalways that for a woman. \" Another phase of Mr, Moore's notion of woman's\nsubordinate role, we have in the young Astrolabe's ennui at being obliged to stay\nin the convent with the nuns and with his mother; he said, \" I don't want to live\nhere shut up with a lot of women \" and upon being asked, \" And what will you\ndo, little sir, when you are older ? I do not know so much what I shall do, Astro-\nlabe answered. I shall escape away from women of whom I have seen enough. \"\nAlthough Mr. Moore apparently supports the illusion of Heloise's erudition, her\nOvid and Virgil do not as presented make her seem learned. She is like Tappe's\nMiss Pellicoe, \" circumspect and tidy, polite and tractable, working away\nbehind closed doors at deportment, penmanship, Latin, Greek and botany. \"\n\" Moreover, \" says Tappe, \" Miss Pellicoe is not six forever ; she eventuall}-\nachieves the academic age of sixteen and with it the dignity of profound hours\nin a college library. \" It is dignity of this sort that Heloise seems to us to have\nattained. In insisting upon her indifference to religion, Mr. Moore departs pos-\nsibly a little from the original. Roman Catholicism is a formal religion and she\nwas negatively its disciple although she had also, it is true, definite interests of\nthe intellect and of the emotions.\nBut if, according to Mr. Moore, she was indifferent to religion, she was\nnot more so than Fulbert in whom we have a fourth phase of Mr. Moore's\naesthetics of materialism. \"He had gone for a handful of nuts and a tankard\nof wine, \" says Mr. Moore. \"He sat cracking and skinning the nuts and\ndrinking large draughts in silence. \" Despite the fact that Mr. Harris lauds\nMr. Moore's moderation, anything more unequivocally sottish, it would be\nimpossible to imagine. Fulbert remarks that \" when the belly suffers, the\nheart is hard, \" and other like allusions are made, as that of the robber.\nThe Canon speculates upon \" the shortsightedness of servants governed always\nby the seeming need of the moment \" and upon the advisability of \" throwing\nhimself upon the charity of a new servant who, though she might not have the\nfaults that Madelon had, would have other faults. . . and the thought of Madelon's\ndismissal was dropped almost as quickly as it had come. \" His appreciation of\ncreature comfort has no less conspicuous a counterpart in Abelard and Heloise"}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "128", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.34", "texte": "than in Madelon, who is made to say of the pigeon that he \"is better if he be\nlaid out between slices of good beef, for the neighborhood of the beef favours him \"\nand \" when the king of fishes, the shad, was laid before them : of more delicate\nflavour than the bass, better than the turbot, a fish that makes the sole seem\ncommon, said Abelard. \" Abelard is made to speak \"of a vexing puffing wind, that\ncarries us a little way and then leaves us \" and many times in this book as in others\nof his books, one notes Mr. Moore's appraisement of the pain of being thwarted.\nWhen Heloise inquired about Abelard, \" As the student gave ear to him, thinking\nhe was about to speak of Abelard. But it was of the fine weather they spoke. \"\nIn the matter of architectural setting which is essentially a matter of feel-\ning, in the crafty, leisurely advance, one is conscious of no flaws. The fact that\nMr. Moore tells a story different from the one on which his narrative is based,\ndoes not matter. The proportioned, unhurried spaciousness of design — so much\nthe reverse of what is usual — excites admiration. Buildings of great size are\noften complained of as not being set in sufficient greensward; similarly, one must\ngive architectural advantage to an experience of colossal size and this Mr. Moore\ndoes. There is an orchestral quality, a premonitory note in his deliberate ad-\nvance upon his theme, whereby he carries one \" like a fish in net drawn along. \"\nIn the beginning, one notes this atmosphere of veiled suspense, in the uncer-\ntainty which surrounds Heloise's future. The possibility of her becoming an\nabbess is mentioned and of her being forced into a marriage abhorrent to her.\nMadelon is made to say, \" I have my doubts if thou'lt ever get back to Argen-\nteuil. \" She is made to \" ask herself for the first time. . . if she had a destiny,\nglad or sad. . . and waited for an answer that did not come. \"\nMr. Moore's conception of narrative is supported, moreover, by his predi-\nlection for reverie — by the romantic warpedness of his imagination. He\nspeaks of \" the sense of sadness inseparable from a river, \" of how \" the dead\nhave a hold upon us that the living haven't. \" He of Heloise, that \" her\nthoughts seemed to fall into nothing \" and speaks of \" innumerable peacocks,\nghostly birds in the mild moonlight, whose long white tails set Madelon crying :\n\" ghosts or angels; let us away. \" <r Is it not strange, \" Abelard said to himself,\n\" that what I love best in the world should bring me back to the country most\nantagonistic to me and my ideas, and reining in his horse he pondered in front\nof the city on hatred and love, asking himself which was the deeper feeling. \"\nObserve, moreover, how in Heloise's meditation on the soul and the body,\nhe gives a facsimile of the mental process in which the mind picks us and drops\nan idea and picks it up again :\n\" She returned to the window overlooking the Seine ; unable to take up\nthe book again, she fell to thinking instead of the Poet whim Christianity unites"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.35", "texte": "with paganism in honouring : and her eyes returning to the page, she reread that\nIris. . . descended to liberate the soul from the body. But why liberate the soul\nfrom the body ? she asked, since the two are inseparable as we know them. \"\nMr. Moore has said in Avowals, \" Whosoever keeps humour under lock and\nkey is read in the next generation, if he writes well, for to write well without\nhumour is the supreme test; \" nevertheless, sleights of mind should not count for\nnothing. \"In difficult and thorny questions an adjournment of the debate is\nalways welcome ; \" \" the false always being accepted, rather than the true, . . .\nsmall satisfaction it is to us that the truth shall prevail in the end, Abelard said ;''\n\" why, indeed, said Romauld, \" should one come between friends who have chos-\nen to quarrel, \" since swordsmanship proceeds out of friendship, like the egg\nfrom the hen ;we can't have one without the other. \" These things amuse us\nbut we agree that they are subsidiary to the structure. Mr. Moore's flawless\ntranscript of the surface of things makes him powerful; in his reverence for\nhimself as an artist — his willingness to \" pick a thing to threads and reweave, \"\nhe is essentially the writer, interested in elegance and lucidity. The tendency\nto experiment with punctuation — to take away unnecessary detail that one may\nexhibit the meaning — is characteristic only of those who are interested in the\nmechanics of language and his abandoning of quotation marks perhaps necessary\nto an understanding of the meaning as one feels by their absence, is none the less\na phase of the spirit which enables him to say, \" The exception to the rule must\nreturn to the rule for fortification against eccentricity \" and \" she awoke sud-\ndenly though she had not been asleep. \" His artificial simplicity — \" corrupt\nsimplicity \" so-called — is the artificial simplicity of every fashion expert and\nit is not to our discredit that we like it. When in Hail and Farewell, he says,\n\" We never grieve for anybody, parent or friend as we should like to grieve and\nare always shocked by our absentmindedness, \" when he says, \" The trouvere\ngetting the better of the philosopher he forgot faith and reason and said : the\nbeauty of the larches is enough, \" the demure, assured quality, the ripeness as\nof meat well hung yet not decayed — so recognizable as to be signed without a\nname — is none the less expert for the consciousness of its effort to be sensa-\ntional. It is the writer rather than the experiencer who says, \" Life is more ela-\nborate in its processes than we think for ; \" who says of Abelard that \" he never\nsaid anything twice in the same way, \" who causes Abelard to say that \" all\nsimiles are defective if pressed too far, \" who quotes from the two gleemen :\n\" At first our differences were slight, and it amused us to wrangle over an art\nthat was dear to both of us ; but in the second year we wearied of our differences. \"\n\" Buried shade is a strange expression » said Heloise and reminding one of Avow-\nals, she speculates further on the refinements of language when she says, \" But"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.36", "texte": "why, uncle, do we not write as the pagans wrote ? \" Mr. Moore exhibits in his\nsentence structure with its echo of The House that Jack Built, a seventeenth\ncentury fastidiousness :\n\"It may seem to thee that lam talking only as the mad talk... But lam not\ntalking, Abelard, lam thinking ; lam not thinking, Abelard, lam dreaming; lam\nnot dreaming, Abelard, lam feeling; and in this moment lam consonant with the\ntree above me and the stars above the tree ; I am amid the roots of the hills.\nIt is only one who has analyzed the secret of emphasis who could say, \" pro-\ntracted farewells may be borne only by those whose hearts are cold ; \" \"it is\nalways coming and going from the convent to the world, and from the world to\nthe convent; \" and \" the longer the immortality, the more perfect it becomes,\ntime putting a patina on the bronze and the marble and. . . I think upon texts. \"\nNote the outcome of sober observation, the accurate, crafty transcript\nof human behaviour and of nature — of the veracious, intentionally conspicuous\nlack of sentimentality in the following characterization :\n\" Of a sudden the voices ceased, and, turning her head, Heloi'se saw a short\nman, of square build, who, although well advanced in the thirties, still conveyed\nan impression of youthfulness ; for though squarely built his figure was well\nknit, his eyes bright, and his skin fresh and not of an unpleasing hue, brown and\nruddy. The day being warm, he walked carrying his hat in his hand, looking\nround him pleased at the attendance, and it was this look of self-satisfaction\nthat stirred a feeling of dislike in Heloise. He seemed to her complacent and\nvain ; and she did not like his round head, his black hair, his slightly prominent\neyes : . . . the only feature that forced an acknowledgement from her was his\nforehead, which was large and finely turned. . . She could not imagine Aristotle\nor Plato. . . or Seneca, or Virgil, or Ovid, or Tibullus. . . converging to the type\nthat Abelard represented so prominently. . . Half an hour must have been spent\nin the donning of the laces at his cuffs and another in choosing the buckles of\nhis shoes. But her criticism of his apparel was quickly swept away again by\nthe sound of the rich, smooth, baritone voice, and this time she perceived that the\nvoice was accompanied by an exquisite courtesy, and that the manner in which\nhe walked addressing those who gathered about him to admire and to listen was\nkindly, although it was plain that though familiarity from him would be an\nhonour he would resent it quickly in another. \"\nThe account of Heloise's behaviour upon her second visit to the Canon, more-\nover — the intense, introspective captiousness of youth — is psychologically\naccurate and is one of the most close-textured, distinctive episodes in the book :"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.37", "texte": "\" The Canon stopped speaking so that Heloise might ask him some questions\nthat would lead to a further unwinding of a story which had begun to seem to him\nmore inveigling than he knew it to be before he began it. But Heloise said no-\nthing, and after waiting for a question from her, he said : where are thy thoughts ?\nMy thoughts, uncle, were —I do not know where they were. I suppose I must\nhave been thinking. Can anyone think without words ? Ah, now I remember ;\nI was asking myself if Abelard's story would have revealed to me the man whom\nI saw and heard in the cloister. . . If thou hadst heard his story from me before\nseeing him ? Yes, uncle; and her face still deep in a cloud of meditation, she\nconfessed that it was not until she heard him in the cloister that she began to see\nthat what she saw and heard were not two different things but one thing for he\nwould not be himself without — Without what, niece ? the Canon asked, for\nhe was amused by Heloise's embarrassment, and to continue it he added : his\nbeauty ? The sneer threw Heloise off her guard, and she answered that nobody\ncould call Abelard an ugly man. A stocky little fellow, the Canon persisted. And\nhe would have said more of the same kind if Heloise's face had not warned him\nnot to proceed further with his teasing. He spoke instead of Abelard's fore-\nhead, which he admitted to be of the Socratic type in its amplitude ; but he\naverred that the likeness between the two men ceased at the forehead, for where-\nas Socrates was of the ascetic temperament, Abelard was by his face notably\na free liver, a disparagement that seemed to Heloise like a challenge. She\nasked the Canon to mention a feature that would testify to the truth of this, and\nthe spirit of battle being upon him he could not keep back the words : his singing\nof French songs. You never spoke to me before of Abelard as one divided be-\ntween free living and philosophy. Nor is it many minutes since you were speaking\nof him as the intellectual descendant of Aristotle and Plato ; your present sneers\nof him cannot be else than an attempt to anger me, and we would do better,\nmayhap, to talk of matters on which we are agreed. \"\nLater in the narrative, the characterization of Astrolabe — spoiled and ego-\ntistical but a child of parts — is true to the child mind and entertains us through-\nout. While the snare for the ducks was being woven, \"he practised quacking,\nbecoming quickly so skilful that his quacking deceived the nuns. \" He wished\nto have a lute or a ribeck and was aifronted for a day or two by being offered a\npair of regals when he recovered his humour enough to ask for a gittern. \" One\nhas to learn these instruments early when one is young just as I am, else it is\ndifficult to learn them later. But I heard thee say thou wert going to be a Cru-\nsader. Can't Ibe both, mother, gleeman and Crusader ? \" His mind was like\na genie in a box demanding freedom. \" And Heloise was jealous of Abelard and\nasked why he should have possessed himself so completely of his offspring. \""}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.38", "texte": "Of equal distinction with these characterizations are Mr. Moore's descrip-\ntions of nature. The Comte de Rodeboeuf says of a parrot, \" I bought a grey\nbird, whose wrinkled eyelid fell over an eye that seemed to know all things ; \"\nthe sense of Argenteuil's remoteness from Paris is felt and its lack of austerity,\nin \" the nuns . . . walking in their convent garden finding young spiders weaving\nglittering threads from spray to spray. \" We have an epitome of bird life in the\n\"■tall boles rising fifty or sixty feet from the roadway, the nests in the high\nbranches, and a great clamour about them. The wayfarers stopped to admire\nthe parent rook crawling gingerly into the nest with some snail or grub for the\nsqueakers within it, \" in the swallows at dusk \" flying more madly than ever,\nas if to lose a minute were a loss. \" In the description of the snowstorm, we\nhave a unified, perfectly fused fragment of atmosphere — in \" the sky copper and\nsulphur. . . along the horizon, betokening more snow, \" in \" the thin wintry\nday, a small passage of daylight between the long nights \" and \" people walking\nin the middle of the street to avoid the drip. \" Abelard's reference to his life in\nthe monastery of Saint-Gildas remains in the mind as vividly as the longer de-\nscription does of the forest — \" Saint-Gildas among the rocks where the tides\nare moaning always if they are not crashing. \" To Madelon, discoursing of the\npractical properties of the oak, \" Thou'rt forgetting, Madelon, the power of the\noak over the mind, said Abelard ; the oak grove was the cathedral of our ances-\ntors. Not a whit does that surprise me, said Madelon, for who can walk in these\nshades without awe ? \" Abelard remarks that \" the silence of the forest is\ndifferent from any other \" for \" the forest is never silent \" and we are told how\nthey \" rode beneath the boughs not yet in full leaf, following the path as it\nwound through hollows, losing it and finding it amid rocks, pushing their way\nthrough thickets that seemed impenetrable at a distance but did not prove, so\nhard to force through as they had appeared, —of how \" stooping low in their\nsaddles, they broke through somehow, \" of how Abelard \" pointed to a dark\nragged line of pines flowing down the northern sky \" and of \" the fringe of birch-\ntrees that encircled with their pallor the great district of pines that showed in\nblack masses over against Etampes. . . the pines rising up naked and bare some\nfifty or sixty feet, some straight, some leaning, in endless aisles. \" \" I,ike the\nspears, Heloi'se said, of Crusaders going into battle. \" What one does not like\nin Mr. Moore is not what one thinks of as one reverts to these verisimilitudes ;\none honotirs genius which is able to spin out of itself, the fabric of its illusions.\nAs Fulbert says : \"We must not ask more of paganism than it can give ; its\ngift is beauty. \"\n\nMarianne Moore"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "[133]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.39", "texte": "Sailboats\nRichard Seewald"}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.40", "texte": "MOUNTAIN FARM\nMalcolm Cowley\nI watched the agony of a mountain farm,\na gangrenous decay;\nthe farm died with the pines that sheltered it,\nthe farm died when the woodshed rotted away.\nIt died to the beat of a loose board on the barn\nthat flapped in the wind all night;\nnobody thought to drive a nail in it.\nThe farm died in a broken window light,\na broken pane upstairs in the double bedroom\nthrough which the autumn rain\nbeat down all night on the mouldy turkey carpet,\nnobody thought to putty another pane.\nNobody thought to nail a slat on the conic rib,\nnobody mowed the hay,\nnobody came to mend the rotting fences.\nThe farm died when the two boys went away,\nor lived, perhaps, till the lone old man was buried,\nbut after it was dead I loved it more,\nthough poison sumac grew in the empty pastures,\nthough ridgepoles fell, and though the fall winds whistled\nall the night through an open and empty door."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.41", "texte": "THE RAKEOFF AND THE GETAWAY\nCarl Sandburg\n\" Shall we come back ? \" the gamblers asked.\n\" If you want to, if you feel that way, \" was the answer.\nAnd they must have wanted to,\nthey must have felt that way ;\nfor they came back,\nhats pulled down over their eyes\nas though the rain or the policemen\nor the shadows of a sneaking scar-face. Nemesis\nfollowed their tracks and hunted them down.\n\" What was the clean-up ? Iyet's see the rakeoff, \"\nsomebody asked them, looking into their eyes\nfar under the pulled-down hat rims;\nand their eyes had only the laugh of the rain in them,\nlights of escape from a sneaking scare-face Nemesis\nhunting their tracks, hunting them down.\nAnvils, pincers, mosquitoes, anguish, raspberries,\nsteaks and gravy, remorse, ragtime, slang,\na woman's looking glass to be held in the hand\nfor looking at the face and the face make-up,\nblackwing birds fitted onto slits\nof the sunsets they were flying into,\nbitter green waters, clear running waters,\nstanding pools ringing the changes\nof all the triangles of the equinoxes of the sky.\nand a woman's slipper\nwith a tarnished buckle,\na tarnished Chinese silver buckle.\nThe gamblers snatched their hats off babbling,\n\" Some layout—take your pick, kid. \"\nAnd their eyes had yet in them\nthe laugh of the rain\nand the lights of their getaway\nfrom a sneaking scar-face Nemesis."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "[136]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.42", "texte": "Richard Seewald\nAscona"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.43", "texte": "HE DECEIVED HER\n\nWith a yawning, moistly bedaubed grayness began that March day which\nwas to provide the provincial town with an exciting occurrence There seemed\nto be a chilly shower ; then came a brief crackle of hail, unexpectedly, and with\nabruptness it stopped again. A few minutes after seven o'clock an officer made\nhis appearance on the stone bridge ; he was walking from the outskirts, and with\nrapid puffs he was finishing a cigarette. A few paces in front of him went a\nbutcher's cart, covered with a white awning ; otherwise, the bridge was empty\nat this moment. It was not until the butcher's cart had just about passed the\nmiddle of the bridge, that a man approached the bridge from the other side,\nand knocked out a pipe as he walked ; his gait was shambling and his knees\nwere thrust forward. A red-faced boy, sitting on the butcher's cart, looked\nfixedly at this man, feeling perhaps the need of something to rally his drowsy\neye£. The man came on a level with him; suddenly, he thrust his knees still\nfurther forwards and shouted : \" He's jumping. \" The boy felt as if someone\nhad twisted his head backwards with a single jerk, and this is what he saw.\nOn the parapet of the bridge stood the officer and made a curious dragging move-\nment with his right hand as if he were freeing it from something. Suddenly\nhis hand became motionless, it became motionless against his breast, for an\ninstant everything became motionless in a sort of horror ; the officer glanced\nin the direction of the cart, he frowned, said something, and just then a muffled\nshot was heard ; his body floundered on the parapet, he waved his arms and slid\nfrom the bridge into the river ; a cloudlet of smoke drifted to the other side of\nthe bridge ...\nThat day the pale, slender officer visited all the dwellings in the town.\nOn the left side of his breast his tunic was scorched ; and under the scorched\ntunic was the dark trace of a well-aimed wound, unerring and compact, like\nthe full stop at the end of a sentence. It seemed as if he were a little proud\nof his deed; he discovered his name upon everyone's lips, the women breathed\nmore quickly and the men puckered their brows uneasily. And perhaps also\nbecause the spring was just at hand, the town was groping, as it were, in a ro-\nmantic twilight; two girl pupils of a music teacher, suddenly and for no obvious\nreason, burst into tears at the piano, and in the grammar school a number of\nboys were sitting at their desks with completely vacant eyes."}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.44", "texte": "People made a pilgrimage to the stone bridge. Under the bridge the ice\nwas cut through in several places; it was in one of these openings that Lieutenant\nBartl had probably wished to disappear, twice shutting the door behind him ;\nbut by chance he had fallen close beside one of them and had been left lying\non the ice. A large, rust-coloured stain was left there, and the people leaned\nover the parapet to catch a glimpse of it. There was a nodding of heads ; each\nlooked at the other's lips in expectation of kind-hearted words. And they were\nduly uttered. \"He was a nice fellow, good-natured as could be, the soldiers\nin the barracks shed tears over him ; and there was no comforting his servant. \"\nA bugle sounded in the barracks near by ; there was more stealthy eyeing\nof the rust-coloured stain ; something both attractive and mournful came into\nthe minds of the onlookers. \" Why did he do it ? \" All necks were craned\nforward and the silence seemed to swell into a profound sigh. \" Why ? Nobody\nknows. Only this morning he sent two letters oil. Nobody knows. \"\nIn the course of the forenoon a little more hail came down; but in the\nafternoon there was a warm waft of spring, a downpour of rain, and towards\nevening a gust of stormy wind which set the gables and street lamps rattling.\nThe river seemed to be roaring with unusual loudness. And the people, listen-\ning to the noise of the wind and water, heard these sounds as if they were a tune\ncomposed especially for this particular day and moment. And while glances\nsought the darkest corner of the room, here and there somebody said : \" Two\nletters, fancy. Where ? To whom ? \"\nAll night long a tempestuous fiddler stood above the town and played.\nBut towards morning be became somehow uneasy ; there was something in the\neast which disturbed him. He glanced there for a moment, then closed his eyes\nand played afresh. His playing became wilder, and he let loose the strains of\nhis fiddle upon the town like horses stampeding on the pampas. But when he\ninquisitively half-opened his left eye and peeped for an instant towards the east,\nthe sun was rising there ; and then he stopped pla}>ing, uttered a brief, scornful\nchuckle in the direction of the sun, and swiftly departed. And so it came about\nthat the town awoke that morning amid peaceful springtide sunshine which lay\nupon all objects like, very fragile gossamer. On the eastward side the windows\nopened betimes, and the women leaned out from them, beckoning to the men\nwho were on their way to work. Throughout the day the sun was shining.\nAnd disagreeably affected by this springtide sun, the shadow of the pale, slender\nofficer wandered through the streets, entered the houses to get a close view, it\nseemed, of the changed situation, and in this way he lost much of his yesterday's\nself-assurance ; he really resembled someone who has lived a day too long, and\nis seeking to put matters right by making off with all possible speed. On that\nday the first violets were taken to the market."}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.45", "texte": "On the following day also, the weather was fine and spring-like; it was spor-\ntive and glimmering as if with the presence of many bridesmaids, and for a\nwhile there stood a large, luminous cloud above the town, as if welded from\nmolten silver bells. And beneath the springtide firmament of this day they\ncarried Lieutenant Bartl to his grave ; the town once more opened its hearts,\nthat it might let the hearse and coffin pass through their midst. The women\nblenched a little when the music began. The officers marched in a solemn\nand beautiful manner, as if they were going to their deaths. Then appeared\nthe coffin and there was a strong fragrance of blossoms. The people suddenly\nbegan to crowd forward, as is their custom, by force of habit The curtain had\nfallen a little too quickly, leaving a distinct feeling of disappointment. \" And\nwho followed the coffin ? \" \"An old gentleman, it may have been his father.\nProbably he only had the one son .. \" \" A said affair, in truth. But on the\nwhole, — are we not all somehow disappointed ? \" And the people, glancing for\nanother moment as the curtain which had fallen somewhat quickly at last\nshrugged their shoulders and waved their hands. On the house-tops the\nsparrows, wild with spring, were causing an uproar. \" Ah, you wise creatures, \"\nsaid the people, looking at the house-tops ; and they smiled.\nThe town shrugged its shoulders and waved its hands. It was ready to\nforget the latest event as quickly as possible. But soon afterwards there was\nfresh talk about the officer who had shot himself. Certainly, in a rather odd\nconnection, which evoked mirth. The fact was that Miss Erna Slabochova\nhad on several occasions been observed at Lieutenant Bartl's grave. \" There\nshe stands, you know, at the grave, distracted and pale, just like a widow, you\nmight say ? \" The people laughed. For Miss Erna Slabochova was now really\nnot the sort of woman for whom a young lieutenant would take his own life ;\nshe was one of the town's sorry, cast off incumbrances, and that is why the people\nlaughed. Several years ago, oh yes, things were different.\nThe Slabochovas — the widow of an officer in the army service corps, with\nher daughter — lived then in a street through which the soldiers marched on\ntheir way to the parade-ground ; when they were returning, the officers used to\nsalute Miss Erna at the window with their swords, and Miss Erna slightly inclined\nher head in a queenly manner. Mrs. Slabochova would stand behind the curtain,\nimpressed and proud; she was as radiant as if she had plunged both her hands\nin a pile of ducats. Then they both left the window, Miss Erna gave a passing\nglance into the mirror, as if she were half-listening to someone reporting them-\nselves to her, and Mrs. Slabochova began to turn over the leaves of a photo-\ngraph album. \" A handsome man\" she would then say, gazing at one of them.\nShe would wait a moment, no, Miss Erna did not swallow the proffered bait.\nShe sat down in a rocking-chair, stretched out her slender, shapely legs beneath"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "140", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.46", "texte": "her dress, which produced the effect of a lengthy, dallying stroke with a violin-\nbow, and watched her mother with half-closed, slightly mocking eyes.\n\" Lieutenant Vacka turned remarkably pale when he saluted .. . didn't\nyou notice ? \" said Mrs. Slabochova again. But Miss Etna only shrugged her\nshoulders.\nThere was silence for a moment. The handsome man in the album did not\nblush. Then:\n\" How happy you are, my child. \"\nMiss Erna's expression suddenly became very weary. Mrs. Slabochova\nsighed deeply : she stroked the album with her hand; she sighed once more, and\nsoftly went from the room into the kitchen. She had forgotten the range, the\ndinner, everything ; she smiled towards some radiant dream, upon the topmost\nsummits of which stood Erna, victorious and beautiful. Then, for an obscure\nreason, she began to cry ; but letting her tears flow, she wrote in pencil on a piece\nof paper one of her occasional notes to her brother the major? which over-\nflowed with adoration for her daughter, like a room with the cries of a canary,\nand concluded with a plea for money.\nBut one day later on, when Mrs. Slabochova had consummated her silent\nrapture with the outcry : \" How happy you are, my child, \" — Miss Erna,\ncontrary to her custom, gave a curt laugh. Mrs Slabochova looked up in sur-\nprise, and encountered Erna's glance, beneath which she suddenly felt so strange-\nly ridiculous, as if someone had daubed a charcoal beard on her face. She -\nwas seized with alarm, and all at once something evil filled the air between her\nand Erna.\nThere sat Erna and kept looking at her mother with half-closed eyes.\n\" Mamma — \" she then said, and after apparently hesitating a little, she\nstrengthened her resolve and threw her head back. \" I -—- wasn't at the theatre\nyesterday ...\"\nMrs. Slabochova did not appear to understand properly.\n\" I was with Lieutenant Lerk. Where he lodges. In bis rooms. \"\n\" With Lieutenant . . . Lerk .*. . in his rooms . . . What a thing to make\nup ... \" mumbled Mrs. Slabochova.\n\" It isn't made up. \"\nBut Miss Erna had to repeat it all again. \" Sooner or later it was bound\nto come to that \" she added lightly, singingly almost. Mrs. Slabochova went\ngray in the face. Then she reddened. Suddenly she stood up and began to\ndress herself hastily.\n\" Where are you going, mamma ? \"\n\"To Lerk, of course. I'll talk to him. The wretch ...\"\nMiss Erna watched her mother; a curious smile hovered round her lips."}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "141", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.47", "texte": "She said nothing. But when her mother was dressed, she went up to her and\nsaid tenderly : \" Take your things off, mamma ...\"\n\" No, it's impossible, I'll give the wretch a talking to ... \"\n\" Take your things off, mamma. What has it to do with Lerk ? I went of\nmy own accord. \"\nMrs. Slabochova burst out crying. aOh, my child .. . poor little Erna. . .\nhow soft-hearted you are ...\"\nThere was now something cruel in Miss Erna's smile. \" Anyhow he's .. .\na handsome man, mama \" she said with relish, as if she were eating a grape.\nAnd softly, laying her face against her shoulder, Mrs. Slabochova asked :\n\" Does he want you ? \"\nMiss Erna closed her eyes for an instant. \"Ah no ... \" she said, and then\nlaid her hand on her mother's mouth.\nMrs. Slabochova burst out crying. She understood nothing of what had\noccurred, but she did not venture to ask any more questions, Erna, was un-\nwilling, And if she was weeping now, she was really weeping a little with hap-\npiness because Erna was holding her arms around her, was smoothing her hair\nand speaking so tenderly to her. Not for an instant did she level any accusation\nagainst Erna, nor did she regard her as in any way sullied; as if suddenly obliv-\nious of all prejudices, and carried away by this oblivion, she looked upon Erna\nmerely as the heroine of some painfully beautiful episode, around which she\nwished to walk on tiptoe, without saying a word about it.\nAnd only to show that she was entirely reconciled and assented to every-\nthing, she raised her head, and gazing blissfully at Erna, she said softly : \" So\nit's L,erk . . . I,erk ...\"\nErna turned her head away slightly. \" Oh, the name doesn't matter,\nmamma ...\"\nThe bell rang outside, the postman had brought a letter for the young lady.\nShe opened it absently and read ; Mrs. Slabochova held her breath and left\nthe room on tiptoe. \" He's lost his wits — after yesterday \" sighed Erna\nwhen she had read the letter, and began to tear it into small pieces.\nShe returned from the afternoon promenade concert at the recreation ground\nin a somewhat nervous frame of mind. She unpinned and let down her hair,\nand for a moment rubbed her forehead and eyes.\nMrs. Slabochova was alarmed. \" Does your head pain you, darling ? \"\n\" No, no. Only it's tiring ... to walk round with so many people staring. . .\nShe drew herself together as if she felt a chill, and her smile wavered like a\ncandle-flame in a draught. \" There's a student who's awfully fond of me, I\nknow. It's very silly of him, though ...\"\n\" And how vilely, spitefully they stare\" she laughed nervously. \" I"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "142", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.48", "texte": "won't deprive the young ladies of their clerks, attorneys, school-teachers . . .\nI'm not jealous of them . . . but...\"\nShe turned rather pale and closed her eyes for a moment. \" But... it\nmakes you feel, mamma, somehow as if . . . as if you were sitting on a black\nhorse and galloping dreadfully fast without caring where ...\"\nMrs. Slabochova hurriedly spoke a few consoling words. But when Brna\nlooked at her closely, she turned red and became confused. Erna looked at her\nclosely for a moment, and then burst out laughing.\n\" I suppose you'd like to ask about someone, eh ? About Lerk ? \"\nThere was a sudden tearful glimmer in Mrs. Slabochova's eyes. But Erna\nshook her head. \"No, L,erk wasn't there. I suppose he had no time, he has to\nwrite stupid letters. Well, anyhow, he wasn't there. The others were. \" Her\neyes flashed, she joined her hands behind her head and said softly and tenderly :\n\" Come now, mama, give me a kiss ...\"\nWhen, two days later, Erna, who had gone out before nightfall, returned\nearly the following morning, exhibiting in all her movements and in the expres-\nsion of her face an unashamed avowal, as it were, of a joyous, light-hearted sin,\nand answered the unspoken question of her mother's startled, eyes with a shrug\nof the shoulders and a raffish clicking of the heels, and when the eyes went on\nquestioning, and she had said singingly, shaking her head in a gay manner :\n\" No, no, mama . . . this time it wasn't Lerk ...\" — then, Mrs. Slabochova,\nthoroughly upset by this behaviour and, as it was, exhausted by her sleepless\nnight, began at first to stagger and would perhaps have fallen over ; but Erna\nhaving laid her on the couch, she was soon assuaged by her caresses, and when\nshe opened her eyes and fixed them devotedly upon Erna, the clear message they\nconveyed wTas, that she was reconciled with everything for always, and assented\nto everything, while her lips whispered : \" How lovely you are. How lovely\nyou are. \" While she was still lying down, the bell rang outside. Erna went\nout and immediately returned with a small parcel, the mystery of which was solved\nin a few moments, and evoked a cry of admiration from Mrs. Slabochova.\nShe examined the gold bracelet, but suddenly her hand began to tremble beyond\nconcealment, she gulped quickly, and did not venture to look at Erna, and when\nErna, as if in jest, wanted to fasten the bracelet on her arm, she did not resist,\nand she turned very red and looked elsewhere, blinking her eyes the while.\nErna's face remained motionless.\nThis gold bracelet was not the last gift which Erna received. For three\nor four years the town whispered, there was a rustling in the track of her name,\nlike yellow leaves caught in the hem of her dress. \" Erna of the regiment \"\nsaid the town. But when all of a sudden she had somehow squandered her beauty\ntoo rapidly, the town rubbed its hands with malicious relish, and those who"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "143", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.49", "texte": "had been fulsome, now became abusive; it was then that Miss Erna's\npassage through the streets looked too much as if she were escaping from\nsomething.\nAfter that they stayed at home, she and her mother, each in her corner,\nscarcely ever speaking, and if they raised their heads, it was to exchange glances\nof astonishment. Erna, reading a German novel, gave a dry laugh from time\nto time. \" Liar, liar, \" she then muttered.\nHer mother looked up : \" What ? \"\n\" War. \"\nAnd her mother nodded. \" Yes ... they tell lies. \"\nErna at last stopped reading German novels. From now onwards she\njust sat there vacantly, looked at the rings on her fingers and moved her lips\ninaudibly.\n\" You know, mamma, you were just asking me about Lerk — \" she suddenly\nsaid one day.\nBut her mother had asked her nothing, and so she looked up in surprise.\n\" Poor Lerk. \"• And Erna thrust her ringed hand before her eyes. \"He\nkept begging of me. I couldn't help it, I said no. I wouldn't he his wife.\nAnd he feels it terribly, he's awfully fond of me. He's sure to commit suicide\nHer mother shook her head. \" But Lerk has been married for quite a long\ntime \" she said softly.\nErna first of all turned red, and then cast a spiteful glance at her mother.\nBut an instant later she laughed softly : \" Don't believe it, mamma. Those\nare slanders, intrigues. Intrigues. We have many enemies, Lerk and I. \"\nHer mother sighed.\nAnd when in the following days Erna kept coming back to Lerk, her moth-\ner raised no more objections and herself helped to weave this legend. And\nboth spoke about Lerk, as if this were not the last islet on which the last, belated\ndream had taken refuge.\nAnd so there arrived that March day which provided the town with an ex-\nciting occurrence. Lieutenant Bartl, Bartl, Mrs. Slabochova turned the name\nover in her memory, she could not recall it, but she wept nevertheless. Erna's\nface was parched by a spiteful expression. A lot to cry about, she said, and left\nthe room slamming the door ; all day long she went about with the same spiteful\nexpression, pursed up her lips contemptuously and slammed the doors. But when\nshe heard that it was entirely unknown why Lieutenant Bartl had shot himself,\nshe seemed to change completely ; she sat about and walked about, she appeared\nto keep laboriously pondering about something, and her mother grew uneasy\nat the steady fixedness of her glance.\nWhen on the third day Mrs. Slabochova went to the lieutenants's funeral."}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "144", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.50", "texte": "Erna took some black clothes from the wardrobe, put them on, and sat down in\nan arm-chair by the open window. She sat there with her eyes closed, her lips\nmoved slightly.\nWhen the sound of the funeral march reached her, Erna opened her eyes\nand looked through the window at the sky, in which rested, a large silvery cloud ;\ntears began to flow freely over her face.\nThe belated dream was entering a fair haven.\nShe was sitting in the same place when her mother returned.\n\" And why did he do it, don't they know yet ? \" she asked, looking through\nthe window.\n\" No, they don't. \"\nShe repeated softly after her mother : \" No, they don't. \" But then,\nstill more softly : \" But I do. \"\nAnd looking by turns at her black clothes and at her mother, she was silent\nfor a moment.\nThen she lowered her head a little : \" All that about Lerk, mama, wasn't\ntrue. It wasn't Lerk. It was Bartl. Bartl shot himself because of me. \"\nHer mother said nothing . She looked sternly at Erna. Then she sighed\nand left the room.\n\" What can she be thinking of now ? \" she whispered. \" Perhaps we're\nboth off our heads. \" She remained standing behind the door and listened,\nshaking her head strangely ; fear froze in her face.\nBut Erna began to visit the cemetery. When she returned, she used to\nhave dilated and tranquil eyes.\n\" Now he's all right. Now he's happy. He knows I'm fond of him, and that\nI'm always thinking about him \" she used to say, and would dally tenderly\nwith her voice, as with white doves.\nShe did not notice that the people who met her on the way to the cemetery\nused to point significantly to their foreheads. She lived happily with this last\nlegend of hers. She was now the widow of someone who had shot himself for\nlove of her. White doves gleamed daintily snow-white on her dark widow's\nweeds.\nOne day, as she was returning, she met a strange lady at the cemetery\ngates, who was asking the sexton about something. But he did not seem to under-\nstand her, judging by the puzzled look in his face. The lady had a veil, but\neven so, it could be seen that she was very beautiful. Erna did not like beauti-\nful women, and so she lowered her head, but at the same instant she heard the\nname of Lieutenant Bartl, uttered by the strange lady, in a curious foreign\naccent. Now at last the sexton appeared to understand, for he said something,\nand the footsteps of them both crunched on the sand of the cemetery pathway"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "145", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.51", "texte": "as they went off towards Bartl's grave. The lady bowed her head lower and lower\nas she went. Perhaps she was weeping into her handkerchief.\nWhen Erna returned that day, she frightened Mrs. Slabochova by the\nexpression in her face. Erna stopped immediately at the door, and leaning\nback upon it, with upturned head and flattened palms she murmured icily :\n\" He deceived me. \"\nAnd immediately afterwards, falling to the ground and beating her head\nagainst it, she shrieked horribly, as though she were shrieking for her very\nlife :\net He deceived me. He deceived me. \"\n\n(Translated from the Czech of\nPrána Srámek by P. Silver).\n\nJoseph Huber.\nWoodcut."}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "146", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.52", "texte": "THREE UNITED STATES SONNETS\n\nI.\nwhen you rang at Dick Mid's place\nthe madam was a bulb stuck in the door.\na fang of wincing gas showed how\nhair, in two fists of shrill colour\nclutched the dull volume of her tumbling face\nscribbled with a big grin, her sow-\neyes clicking mischief from thick lids.\nthe chunklike nose on which always the four\ntablets of perspiration erectly sitting.\n— if they knew you at Dick Mid's\nthe three trickling chins began to traipse\ninto the cheeks \" eet smeestare steevensun\nkum een, dare ease Bet, an Leelee, an dee beeg wun\nher handless wrists did gooey severe shapes.\nII.\nthe Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls\nare unbeautiful and have comfortable minds\n(also, with the church's protestant blessings\ndaughters, unscented shapeless spirited)\nthey believe in Christ and Longfellow, both dead,\nare invariably interested in so many things —\nat the present writing one still finds\ndelighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?"}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "147", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.53", "texte": "perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy\nscandal of Mrs. N and Professor D\n. . . the Cambridge ladies do not care, above\nCambridge if sometimes in its box of\nsky lavender and cornerless, the\nmoon rattles like a fragment of angry candy\nIII.\nby god i want above fourteenth\nfifth's deep purring biceps, the mystic screech\nof Broadway, the trivial stink of rich\nfrail firm asinine life\n(i pant\nfor what's below, the singer. Wall, i want\nthe perpendicular lips the insane teeth\nthe vertical grin\ngive me the Square in spring,\nthe little barbarous Greenwich perfumed fake\nAnd most, the futile fooling labyrinth\nwhere noisy colours stroll. . . and the Baboon\nsniggering insipidities while, i sit, sipping\nsingular anisettes as. One opaque\nbig girl jiggles thickly hips to the canoun\nbut Hassan chuckles seeing the Greeks breathe).\n\nE. E. Cummings"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "148", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.54", "texte": "HEAVENS\nSECOND INTERMISSION\n(\" Well, what do you say ? \" urged my guide. \"Isitto be the Heaven of Mr. H.\nG. Wells?\"\n\" No, no, \" I shuddered, \" I simply could not stand it. When I was below,\nit seemed so perfect and inevitable in print; but up here... \" I shuddered again.\n\" It is cool and logical enough, I suppose, but even machinery palls after the first\nhundred thousand years and the thought of endless colloquies upon the future of a\nmechanistic society is really too terrible ! \"\nHe seemed to regard me with an amusement in which commendation and con-\ntempt were equally mixed. \" What then, woutd you prefer ?\n<< j know I am captious and ungrateful and fickle and all that, \" I stammered,\n- but, although I am half ashamed to admit it, I want something more colorful,\nmore downright romantic — more tropical and bewildering and bizarre, more govern-\ned by fine writing than by fine thinking. Have you nothing in that line ?\n\" Indeed we have \", answered the patient being. \" There are two or three of\nwhich we are actually proud. Unfortunately, I cannot show you one of our most\npicturesque Nirvanas. It is closed temporarily for repairs or research, or some-\nthing of the sort. There are rumors abroad that certain factors have conspired to bring\nabout its temporary suspension / on the one hand, it is accused of being unauthen-\ntic, on the other, it is said to be immoral. Being angelic, none of us are able to judge.\nFrankly, I am sorry I cannot give you an opportunity to determine for yourself.\n\" Bui can't you give me a picture of the place — something a little more\ndefinite ? \" I pleaded.\n\" Very possibly. Let me see \"He drew a thin bundle of -papers from the folds\nof a cerulean mantle.\" I have here part of a manuscript which was rescued from the\nsuper-terrestrial waste-basket of one of its chief inhabitants. It purports to be a\ntranslation from certain pre-Provencal Poets, but several contradictory anachronisms\nmake me question the existence of the original. At any rate it is an indubitably ac-\ncurate portrait of the rich though restricted region I was about to describe. All that\nI have of this work is a rejected chapter and a title page which reads Runes of Life :\nA Tragedy of Disappearances ' j Adapted from Les Milles Gestes de Deodric jby\nR. E. Landsend/Edited by James Branch Cabell... If you like, I will read it to you.\"\nHe did. I listened).\n\n[Concluded)"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "149", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.55", "texte": "THE HEAVEN ABOVE STORISENDE\nThey of Poictesme tell the tale of how, in the days when the impossible was\nthe one thing that was always happening, Ortnitz rode forth to the battlements\nof Heaven. They narrate how Duke Ortnitz (who later was to be known in\nOstrogoth as Waldere, in Rossland as Vidigoia and in far Scandia as Hrolfdeo-\ndric) set out-with a company of scribes, minstrels, poets and other vagabonds.\nFor nine and ninety days and no one knows how nights, according to the\nancient rnne, they travelled. Past Pechlarn they rode, through the doubtful\ncountry of the Gjuki, skirting the forest of Niflhel where the trees move about\nmiserably in a wailing twilight. At last, after certain adventures which are\nrather more unmentionable than not, Ortnitz and his companions arrived, as\nhad been predicted, at a pool surrounded by young hazel trees. The circle of\ngreen was unbroken save where one half-stripped and aging birch held out its\nmottled arms in a remarkable gesture that is not to be talked about. Ortnitz\ndismounted, advanced to the foot of this obscene tree and, after having per-\nformed that which was requisite, cried out :\n\" Now, for the love of that high glamour seen before birth and beyond the\ngrave, we stretch our puny arms to the moon and stammer intolerably some bat-\ntered stave. Yet, driven by hungers beyond the yearning for what men take\nas a surety, I have come to the road that has no turning and call on the L,eshy\nto answer me. I call on Hogni and Mersin-Apollo, careless of whether they choose\nto descend ; for I am Ortnitz and I follow after the unattainable end. \"\nHe waited awhile, during which interval a little headless bird flew three\ntimes over the pool, and, there being no answer, Ortnitz continued :\n\" Now, for the dust of that dying beacon wavering still in the tattered shrine\nof autumn, now that the old lusts weaken and the night is only spilled dregs of\nwine—drown, in its ineffectual juices, whatever persists of the memories of\nburning thirsts and the forgotten uses of lips that reveal their inconstancies.\nHere, on the rim of your magic hollow I have abandoned father and friend;\nfor I am Ortnitz and I follow after the unattainable end. \"\nThere was a thin sobbing as a purple mouse perched on the back of a sa-\nlamander ran in and out of the jewel-weeds. ,Twice the salamander shed his\nskin into the waters and twice a faint mist rose from the ripples. Then cried\nOrtnitz :\n\" Now for the end of that final glory I wait and bend a complaisant back\nhere, where a livid aurora borealis makes all demoniac. Spurning the threat of"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "150", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.56", "texte": "the headless swallow, I neither doubt, nor deny nor defend ; for I am Ortnitz\nand I — \"\nThese sonorous strophes were broken by a rumble of voices that issued from\nhis retinue. And Ortnitz, realizing that the spell was broken beyond promise\nof repair, retraced his steps ruefully. It may be that he felt betrayed by those\nwho should have understood him best; it is indisputable that his high mood\nwas bedwarfed and, impatient at such belittlemrent, he turned on his\ncompanions.\n\" Do you tell me now without dubiety or odd by-ends of metaphor, what\nmay this turgescible clatter portend ? \"\n\" Messire, \" spoke one of them, a lad called Arnaut Daniel, \" we are but\nmen ; nevertheless we are poets. And as such we hold, not only to ourselves,\na dread responsibility. Iyook you, the record of these days and unguessed years\nis in our hands. The world lives only as we tell of it. The lurch of seas, the\nstealthy footsteps of the grass, the huge strides of the sun across the sky, the\nmystery and mastery of flesh, this snatch and blaze and insolence of life — who\nit to know of it save that we sing ; how can men learn of it except through us ?\nTherefore, subject to what limitations are placed upon us by our eyes and ears,\nare we bound to record only the Good, the Beautiful and the True. And there-\nfore, Messire, must we, who though poets are nevertheless men, be bound to\ndiffer in the interpretation of these three beatitudes. \"\nSaid Ortnitz :\n\" Ey, but wherein can there be so noisy and divergent an opinion ; the good,\nso runs the ancient cantrap, is always beautiful, the beautiful is true. \"\nDaniel returned :\n\" Good only for the time being, messire ; beautiful only as a challenge to\negotism : in the I of the beholder ; true only to the question of Pilate. \"\n\" I find that an obscure saying, \" Ortnitz considered.\n\" It is an untrue saying, sir,\" broke in a gaunt fellow with a pair of cold green\neyes and a sharp garden utensil which he carried in lieu of an instrument. \" There\nis only one Truth and that is the real truth, the whole truth and nothing but the\ntruth. All the rest is Romanticism. I have not seen the Soul that my friends\nhere prate of, so I can not call it my own ; but I can call this spade a spade. If\nyou will only listen to it, it will dig up the very roots of song. With it, I will\nunearth for you the bowels of time. With it I will go down as deep as hell. \"\n\" And as high as heaven ? \" questioned Ortnitz, not very mirthfully.\nThe Realist answered nothing, but with a gesture of despair mounted his\nhorse and followed by his adherents, departed toward the West.\nThen Ortnitz turned to a far more timid being whose dented and flimsy\nshield bore the device of a crumbling ivory tower. A single white poppy lay"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "151", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.57", "texte": "sheathed in his scabbard, and he was continually discarding and readjusting\nvariously coloured spectacles.\n\" Do you not heed him, beau sire, \" exclaimed this woeful but still milit-\nant minnesinger, \"do you not heed a syllable, of his mangled prose. For that\nwhich lives today is only an echo of what has died —- eh, how many times — and\nall this that seems so permanent is nothing more than the echo of its ghost.\nFor — look you, messire, what is reality but the shadow of romance, a shadow-\nthat most men take for the substance ? These actual adventures, physical en-\ncounters, journeyings of the flesh —- they are pallid things compared to the\nimagined odysseys. Give up this brutal and flagitious search. Come back with\nme, master, and behold grass that never fades, love that never deceives, a world\nwithout smirch or squalor. Come back with me, master, and you shall scale\ninsurmountable summits, swim lakes of blood, plunge through hurricanes of fire,\npossess all women, surpass all heroes without leaving your hearth. \"\n\" And what potent agency will you summon to accomplish these not un-\ndistinguished miracles ? \" inquired Ortnitz.\nHe answered : \" The myths and annals of the past. \"\n\"An indubitable magic. Yet lam bound for present dangers, newer haz-\nards. For lam Ortnitz and I follow after the unattainable end of which no\nman ever has had cognizance. Will you, therefore, not throw away your variously\ncoloured spectacles and follow me who am not altogether blind ? \"\nThe Romanticist answered nothing but, with a gesture of dismay, mounted\nhis horse and, followed by his adherents, departed toward the East,\n\" Nay, — ho, and even were the fellow less pitifully his own fool, you an-\nswered him rightly, messire, and you are well rid of him and his wistful tribe. \"\nThis one was a lank individual with womanish hands and rouged lips. He was\nclad in a brocaded golden stuff that shimmered upon him like scales on a yellow\nserpent and from time to time he sipped at a small vial labelled ' Poison \\\nSaid this one : \" Hah, what should such a maudlin evader know of Beauty ?\nThis luke-warm world has none of it. Come back with me, master, and you shall\nlive not unmoved among extraordinary hungers, strange and perverse desires.\nIn my demesne day never dawns and sunlight is unknown ; but great flowers,\nundreamed of here, add their hot fragrance to the spicy night. There our bod-\nies, capable of new and curious pleasures, will lie among lace and lilies, caressed\nby queens and the hands of queens' daughters. Virgin harlots with breasts\nlike boys ', will dance for us beneath a ring of moons while nightingales go mad.\n\" Come \", he cried with a wan rapture, \" we shall hear black masses sung in\nforests whose design was Time's contemporary and where all uncreated loveli-\nness lies hidden. There, by the Terrible Tree, will we find red Lilith who, re-\njected by Adam for a white and simpering Eve, assumed the form of a snake and"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "152", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.58", "texte": "thus rid Paradise of the children of these tepid usurpers. There, master, you\nshall never grow sane and temperate and old but pass from fever to fever, fed\nby fantastic cravings, roused and rejuvenated by sin. \"\nFor a moment Ortnitz meditated, while a shadow no larger than a crow's\nfoot crept into the corner of his eyes. \" Pardieu, \"he answered at length, \" but\nlam no longer young enough for such a high-flying eternity. These are pretty\npassions you offer me, to be sure and I would be the last to examine them too\ncircumspectly, but still\", Ortnitz estimated drily, \" but still it is not sin alone\nwill bring me to a heaven, however scarlet it may prove to be. What stock have\nyou of innocence? Can you not show me an unaffected virtue or two and a\npaltry half dozen of assorted simplicities ? \" •\nThe Decadent answered nothing but, with gesture of disdain, mounted his\nhorse and; followed by his adherents, departed toward the South.\nThen up spoke the last and youngest leader of them, sweeping a viola d'a-\nmore that had but one string. His face was smooth and asexual as an angel's\nand his thick hair shone like a tossing golden flame.\nSang this one:\n\" Goodness and beauty and truth. . . Where ? Well, but only in song ?...\nVirtue, Nobility, Youth, Goodness and Beauty — and Truth — shrink from man's\ndutches. In sooth, leave them, ah, where they belong. . . Goodness and Beauty\nand Truth wear well. But only in Song ! \"\n\" A skeptical though neatly-joined triolet, \" smiled Ortnitz, \" but you\ntalk in riddles, my fine young poet, for all your cynically smooth generalities.\nAnd for what, more specifically, would you have me abandon my quest for truth,\njustice and those ultimates that are the pavement and the pillars of heaven ? \"\nThus answered the minstrel:\n\" I offer you more than earthly riches in coin that none but the poet pays :\nFreedom from all the stings and itches of every trivial splutter and blaze ; a cup\nof healing ; a stirrup of praise ; a mood to meet the challenge of pleasure ; a\nlilt to the feet of dragging days — all in the heart of a minstrel's measure. \"\nSaid Ortnitz : \" That is indeed much to promise. \"\nBut the youth continued :\n\" I offer you more. I offer you niches where a sour world's grumbling never\nstrays, where ripples a mirthful music which is an echo of man's first laugh that\nplays in various keys and secret ways... There waits a land of Iyight and leisure\n(if you will pardon so mouldy a phrase) all in the, heart of a minstrel's measure.\"\nSaid Ortnitz: \"A great deal, to be sure. At the same time — \" His\ninterjection was interrupted by the poet who pursued his rhapsody, crying :\n\" I offer all that ever bewitches the mind of man from its yeas and nays:\nto the poet, immortal hemistitches; to the soldier, conquest crowned with the"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "153", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.59", "texte": "bays; to the lover, the breath of a thousand Mays; to the boy, a jingle of\nburied treasure; to the cheated and broken, a merciful haze — all in the heart\nof a minstrel's measure\n\" Master, I offer what never decays though all else wither. Master, what\nsays will to the magics that quicken and raise all in the heart of a\nminstrel's measure \"\nHe paused.\n\" My will says no, although my heart approves the purport as well as the\nburden of your ballade,\" replied Ortnitz not dispassionately. \" But I must go\nfurther than this place, even after the unattainable end, and I find little comfort\nand less pleasure in the doing of. it, and I would y6u were coming with me. \"\nThe Lyricist answered nothing but, without lowering his eyes, came close\nto Ortnitz. And Ortnitz saw why he would have to make the journey without\nhim, so he spoke :\n\" And so, farewell, you who dream in rhyme for I see your heaven will\nalways be here — an overwordy and somewhat silly nirvana but — God help\nme ! — a lovelier place than I have ever known. \"\nAnd the last poet answered: \" Farewell, Duke Ortnitz, farewell, unhappy\nclay that seeks what he can never find. Farewell, dreamer whose dreams are ten\ntimes more pitiful than mine for that yours have neither reason nor rhyme.\nSurely you will go for awhile — as long as this niggardly life will allow, it may\nbe — half-disillusioned, half-desperately, questing some comforting finality some\nassurance in a world of illimitable perplexities and contradictions. Surely you\nwill be buffeted here and there, searching vainly for the secret of those cryptic\nplatitudes that enliven religion, wars, persecutions, lynchings and all other such\nhigh crusades. And to what end ? Eh sirs, you will go down a bitterer man\nthan you are now — a preposterous but not unheroic creature. And so I cry\nfarewell with laughing pity, but with envy too. \"\nNow the tale tells that Ortnitz was quite alone amid the circle of hazel trees.\nAnd, after he had stood until the great wings of the Lyricist's white horse were\nno longer discernible in the sky, Ortnitz went about his last conjuration with\na sadder but no less determined expression. It was a blasphemous and appal-\nling ritual, which it is neither essential nor wise to record. But, after the final\nceremonies had been performed with a queerly constructed crystal of sphalerite *\nand the jintsan root shaped like a man had come to life and set about that which\nwas necessary, the waters of the pool were lifted. They grew solid, formed into\nsteps, one ripple following another, until Ortnitz beheld an extraordinary glassy\nstaircase leading straight toward the zenith. With a not unnatural wonder, he\nascended."}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "154", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.60", "texte": "For nine and ninety days and no one knows how many nights, Ortnitz climbed\nthose watery stairs. At length he came to the threshold of heaven. He knocked.\nThere was no answer. Then, raising his voice, he cried, \" I am Ortnitz,\nand I have come to learn of what miraculous composition and in what unlikely\nmanner were designed those elements of truth, justice and goodness which are\nthe pavement and the pillars of heaven. \" There was no answer.\nThen Ortnitz noticed that the hinges of the gate were rusty and that the huge\ndoor itself stood slightly ajar. Leaning his body against it, he pushed it open\nand entered while space rang with an insane creaking. Ortnitz stood astounded.\nThe place was empty ; a few spiders were spinning in what seemed to be an aban-\ndoned and primitive courtyard. There were neither pillars nor pavement. And\nOrtnitz, according to the Volundarkvidha, returned to Storisende.\nThus it was in the old days.\nTHIRD INTERMISSION\n\" You do not look as enthusiastic as I had hoped, \" said my guiding spirit\nafter he had stopped reading.\n\"No, \" I answered, \" I have not lost my admiration for this web of words\nbut I am fraid I am not mediaeval enough to live comfortably in such a tapestry.\nI have not sufficient poetry in my nature for such highly colored prose ; mine is too\ndull a doggerel. \"\n\" Granting that, \" he murmured with a benign tolerance, \" what would you\nhave ? \"\n'' I don't know exactly, \" I hesitated, rubbing an astral chin, \" I am sure\nI could never learn to talk this language. Ido not understand its signs and sym-\nbolic velleities ; the whole thing seems perversely cryptic and cabalistic. You see,\nI'm an American to begin with — much too provincial for Provenge — and,\ncoming from the state of Missouri, I. . .\n\" Wait — I have an idea \" interrupted the angel with no little animation.\n\" I think I know the very place for you. How would you like to try the Middle\nWestern Heaven ? \"\n<l You don't mean to tell me that you have a special heaven for mid-western-\ners \" I gasped.\n\"Not for strictly geographical mid-westerners,\" he replied with the suspi-\ncion of a smile, \" But ever since the success of your Main Street, Moon Calf, Poor\nWhite, Miss Iyulu Bett and others, that region has become fixed in the literary fir-\nmament. Inhere was nothing else to do but recognize it officially and make the"}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "155", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.61", "texte": "necessary arrangements. The structure, I warn you, is by no means completed ;\nthe architecture is rather sketchy, and the material itself is not distinguished by its\nfinish but you, doubtless, are *not over-particular. If you will step this way. . .\nTHE HEAVEN OF MEAN STREETS\n\nA place of crude color and primitive contrasts. A place indefinite in area\nand uncertain in its geography, that looked like the meeting-ground and battle-\nfield of a hundred cultures. This apotheosis of the Middle West seemed reared\nindifferently upon the black mud banks of the Missouri river, the blare and windy\nenergy of northern Illinois, the gaunt stretches of Minnesota, the epic prairies\nof Nebraska. A helter-skelter combination of parochial village, clean country-\nside and cheap, gritty industrial towns — the triumph of the booster over the\nbackwoodsman, the pioneer supplanted by the press-agent. Even the ground\nhad no uniformity. Here ran a wooden pavement with several boards broken\nand clumps of weeds sprouting in the irregular gaps between the planks ; beyond\nit was trampled dirt, a yellow soil, untilled and stony; opposite, a smug concreted\nsidewalk, with a \" parking \" of grass, was lined with sickly trees on which the\napis had been at work.\nThe architecture — if one could call it that — was similarly nondescript.\nRamshackle, unpainted, box-like houses stood among garish, two-story brick\ngroceries with signs of the B. P. O. E. and Knights of Pythias above the bleached\nawnings or leaned apathetically against The Eureka Garage with its grease-\nblackened, slippery floor. A third generation farmhouse squirmed between\nThe Nemo Moving Picture Palace with its tawdry electric sign in which eight of\nthe bulbs were missing, and the Paris Emporium whose half-washed windows\nassorted fly-spotted packages of garden-seeds, faded cotton blankets,\noveralls with the metal buckles showing a film of rust, gray hot-water bottles,\na tray of tarnished plated-post link buttons, several bolts of plaid ginghams and\ntwo strips of wrinkled fly-paper on one of which a large wasp was buzzing in-\ncongruously.\nOne could see the interior of these houses. . . The musty bedrooms with\ntheir broken rocking-chairs, the chromo-lithographs of Rosa Bonheur's \" Horse\nFair \" on one wall and a water-stained engraving of General Iyee's surrender on\nthe other. The dining room with tasteless food gulped noisily by people to whom\ntaste was an effeminate affectation, its shoddily upholstered chairs with the imi-\ntation leather peeling off at the corners, its broken cuckoo-clock with its listless\npendulum, its plated-silver fruit dish standing with a dull dignity and eternal"}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "156", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.62", "texte": "emptiness on a rickety side-board. The parlor with its portieres, its green\nplush sofa from which the nap had long since been worn, the bright mahogany\nupright piano, metallically out of tune and the false ivory missing from the low-\nest C sharp key, the curio cabinet, a nightmare of scrolls with its five shelves\nof souvenirs, card-board jewel-boxes encrusted with shells, pewter spoons showing\na bas-relief view of the Washington monument, a filigree-wire brooch that\nspelled \" Minnie, \" a Columbian half-dollar mounted in a bezel as a charm, a\nthick red glass tumbler with the words \" Greetings from Sioux City Fair \"\netched in white, . .\n\" And for this, \" a voice was saying with a ghostly shudder, \" Davy\nCrockett tamed the wilderness and Ponce de Leon died to discover the fountain\nof eternal youth. For this shrine of sodden respectability and standardized\nnegation, Sappho burned, Rome fell and Da Vinci planned his most fanta-\nstic dreams ! \"\nIt was a girlish figure that spoke. Trig, bright-eyed, poised like a humming-\nbird ready to dart off at a tangent, with a rather sentimental chin and a batik\nblouse, she seemed like a cross between a sublimated sophomore and an enthu-\nsiastic catalogue of the Roycrofters Arts and Crafts Association.\n\" I imagine — er — it must be, \" I stammered, \" surely you are Mrs. Carol\nKenicott ? \"\n\" How did you know ? \" she answered, with a ripple of surprise. \" But\nthat doesn't matter. Of course I am. And I'm frightfully glad to see you. When\ndid you come ? And can I show you around ? \"\n\" Thanks. I'd be delighted. And this is your heaven ? \"\n\" Heaven forbid! \" she shuddered visibly, \" This is the place we transplant-\ned Middle Westerners keep as an Awful Example. We only come here when\nwe are in danger of slipping into our mundane apathy or when we need material\nfor our celestial novels. You see the realistic method has its penalties. Now\nour real heaven — But do come along and let me show you. \"\nWe walked past several greasy cross streets, littered with unshaded \" com-\nmunity buildings, \" tin cans and asthmatic Fords. And then, suddenly — !\n\" . . .and that structure which looks like the Parthenon remodelled by Robert\nEdmund Jones, \" she was saying as I emerged from a dazzled unconsciousness,\n\" is Axel Egge's General Music Store with the loveliest assortment of Self Play-\ning Harps you ever saw. We have two at home. You ought to see Will\nworking the pedals while he runs off \" The Rosary That replica of St. Mark's,\nornamented with busts of Pestalozzi, Dalcroze, Montessori, Froebel and Freud,\nis the school building erected by the Sacred Seventeen. That large octagonal\nfield, flanked by lonic columns, is the Isadora Duncan Stadium where we have\nour weekly meetings of the Y. P. A. A. A. A. — the Young People's Aesthetic"}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "157", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.63", "texte": "and Athletic Association, you know. The bath of Caracalla ? Oh, you mean\nEzra Stowbody's First Celestial Bank. Impressive, don't you think ? That\nrow of Devonshire cottages ? We're rather proud of that bit —it is 'Ye Streets\nof Lyttle Shoppes,' full of quaint things and the loveliest reproductions of\nreal antiques. That vista of Oriental arcades is our parking space for fiery\nchariots designed by Simonson. The fountain is by Rodin after a sketch\nby Ra}rmie Witherspoon. That heroic statue is the work of Paul Darde, ' The\nPipes of Pan-America. ' So symbolic isn't it ? And that group of neo-Aztec\nresidences by Frank Wright — \"\n\" Why — hello, Carrie ! Didn't know you were out for a stroll. How's\ntricks today — huh ? \" It was a gruff, kindly voice-emanating from a tied-and-\ndyed toga.\n\" Oh, Will, how you startled me ! I had no idea — oh, allow me to present\nmy husband, Dr. Kennicott. \"\n\" Glad t'meet any friend of Carrie's. How're you making out ? Been\nhere long ? Aint it a dream of a place ? Greatest little spot in all creation,\nI'll say. Darn artistic, every inch of it and not a plank walk in miles. Full\nof up-and-coming people, too. Lewis — you know — the famous author of —\nwhat's the name of that book, Carrie, the one you and the Thanatopsis Club en-\njoyed so much ? — well, he lives here. Wouldn't change, he says, for any place\nin Heaven. Tried'em all but he's back here to stay — you can see him most\nany time floating along the avenue talking to the real estate boys — just plain\nfolks. And say, has Carrie shown you our new shack ? What ? Well, you come\nright along and —\n\" But don't you think, \" I stammered, \" that if I accepted your kind offer — \"\n\" Why, Lord love you, brother, don't worry yourself about that. You just\nhop along and take pot luck with us. No trouble at all — not by a long shot !\nWe'll shake up a cup of nectar and some boiled ambrosia if there's nothing else.\nYou come right — Well, look who's here ! If it ain't Juanita Haydock and Rita\nSimons all dressed up and no place to go. Where you been, ladies ? Stand and\ndeliver — an open confession, you know, is good for the soul.\"\n\" Oh, it's nothing very improper, \" giggled Rita, \" we've been over to the\nBernard Shaw Heaven to hear him read the preface to his latest drama of reli-\ngion and the race, Back to the Protoplasm, he calls it. An awful bore. Shaw\nis getting frightfully dull, don't you think ? And so sentimental! \"\n\" It isn't his old-fashioned sentiment that I object to, \" Juanita Haydock\ncontributed in her high cackle, \"it does him credit, poor dear. It's his public-\nschool ideas ! I suppose there was a time when the man was amusing but his\ntrick of stating the obvious in terms of the scandalous (you remember the phrase\nin The Smart Set) is really too provincial. \""}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "158", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.64", "texte": "\" That's true, \" Carol hurriedly assented, \" his influence on the Neighbor-\nhood Heaven has been anything but the best. It used to be such a lovely, ex-\nperimental centre for newly-incubated prose poems and plastiques. But ever\nsince he and Dunsany have been helping them put on their bills, there's practic-\nally no chance for the younger writer — not that I am in any hurry to see my\nfew things produced (and I would simply have to have the right atmosphere),\n— but it's too bad to see how they are pandering to the most commonplace and\nconventional tastes. \"\n\" Yes ! \" chimed in Rita \" could anything be more bourgeois than those\nSchnitzler plays they gave last week ? \"\n\" Or those hackneyed monodramas by Evreinof, \" flung out Juanita, \" with\noutmoded settings by Gordon Craig. Next, I suppose they'll trot out a back\nnumber like Reinhardt and have him put on things that have been done to death\nlike Hardy's old Dynasts' ! If it weren't for you, Carol, they'd be trying to\nfoist that sort of half-baked fare on our own Drama Iveague. \"\n\" Yes, \" agreed Rita, \"if it weren't for you — \"\n\" I suppose, Mrs. Kennicott, \" I interrupted, \" that you are the god —\nI should say the goddess — of this particular Nirvana. \"\n\" I — er — \"\n\" She certainly ought to be if she isn't, \" Carol's henchwomen chorused.\n\" The fact is, \" added the doctor, \" you've opened up a rather sore topic\nthat's just coming to a head. As things are, there're too many claimants to the\nso-to-speak throne. 'Course there's no question who's entitled to it. Before\nCarrie came here, what sort of place was this, anyway ? A kidney-colored, slab-\nsided dump that might have been a Paradise to a poor white like Hugh McVey\nbut hopeless for any live, art-loving guys. Beauty, hell! None in a million\nmiles and no one around with enough nerve, gumption or sticktuitiveness to\nfind any. Along comes this little lady, stirs up a lot of old Scandahoofians,\nputs pep into a bunch of hexes and grinds that only think of getting the world's\nwTork done, fills this dried-up burg with a real honest-to-God pride in itself, puts\nher shoulder to the job and digs in and today — Weill! \"He waved a proud and\ncomprehensive arm with a gesture that lost a little of its confidence as its sweep\nmet the figure of a tall, lean man with a shambling gait and a long, serious face.\n\" Sorry, Mc Vey, didn't see you coming. \"\n\" That's all right, \" said Hugh. \" That's all right. \" A lump arose in his\nthroat and for a moment he was torn with silence and self-pity. He thought\nof the old days in heaven before the coming of Carol and of the old days on earth\nbefore the coming of industry, before the time of the mad activities, before the\nWinesburgs and Picklevilles had grown into the Day tons, the Akrons, and all\nthe shrill new towns scattered over the flat lands. He thought of the time when"}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "159", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.65", "texte": "a quiet light and color used to play over the men and women walking on country\nroads and moonlit hills, working in the fields, hooking rag rugs, making shoes,\nbelieving in a God and dreaming great and serious dreams. From all sides, today,\nhe heard the clamor of a swifter age shouting at him in a voice that spoke of huge\nnumbers in a terrible, mechanical definiteness. He witnessed the erection of new\nsystems and movements that were demolished as fast as they were put up. He\nsaw men, massed in some gigantic machine, cutting and grinding their way through\nother men. He saw the crushed bodies, heard the unuttered cries of the defeated\nand trampled millions.\n\" I guess you're right, \" he said at last, \" It's your place, not mine. I\nain't fitten for it. It's too much for me down there. And too fancy up here. I\nain't fitten for it. \"\n\" But surely, Mr. McVey, \" I objected, \" you don't intend to renounce your\nclaim so lightly. If you were the presiding Genius of this Heaven you could\neasily invent something that would turn these mean streets into ambling roads\nas quickly as Mrs. Kennicott has changed them into brisk boulevards. \"\n\" Thanks. But it wouldn't be right. I ain't much of a hand at running\nthings.\nBesides, I promised Clara to get out of politics. I ain't fitten fer it. Clara\nand I are pulling for someone we can understand.\n\" Which means ? \"\n\" Meaning that I'm withdrawing in favor of this lady here — \" he indicated\nan olive woman, once handsome, with a fiat chest and eyes that wavered between\nbeing wistful and determined, a woman who had drifted noiselessly to where they\nwere standing — \" Miss L,ulu Bett. \"\nThe other members of the group gasped. Carol shuddered. \" Uh-but\ndear Lulu doesn't know a thing about city-planning or eugenics or community\nkitchens or Keats or intensive recreation or how to put on a Morris Dance or\nMotherhood Endowment or Pageants for the Poor or — \"\n\" Oh, no \" Iyiilu disclaimed. \"Of course I don't know anything about\nsuch things. I suppose there's lots of other things I better know, too. But\nI did see some dances. It was in Savannah. Savannah, Georgia. I don't\nknow the names of all the different dances they did but there were a good many.\nAnd they were real pretty. \" Never a skilled conversationalist, Lulu paused,\nconscious of the fact that the topic was not quite exhausted. Then she gulped\nand went on, ' There was a large band playing, too. I don't know how many\nmusicians they had in it, but there were a good many. It was in a big hotel and\nthe room was too crowded. We — \" she flushed suddenly —\" my first hus-\nband and I — I think it was my first husband, although the play and the book the\nlady wrote about me mixed me up, sort of, about myself — we were watching the"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "160", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.66", "texte": "dancing. I was ashamed at first. I started to get up. Then I set down. I\nmade up my mind to see what there was. I said I was going to learn all I could\nfrom Savannah, Georgia. I did. \"\n\" And is that all you learned ? \" Carol smiled, not without a thin coating\nof ice about the question.\n\" Oh, no, \" Lulu answered with even more of her usual innocence. \" After\nmy second marriage — \" she gulped again, turning a dull brick color, \" I either\nmarried Mr. Cornish who kept music or I re-married Mr. Deacon — the lady got\nme confused about it and I'm not sure which — Well, we came to New York\nCity, New York. We stayed there five days. I liked it. They had some lovely\nviews there and there were a lot of people in the streets all the time. And it\nwas too hot. \"\n\" And the result of your metropolitan researches — \" Carol proceeded,\nremorselessly.\n\" Well, we went to a lot of little places to eat. Mostly down in cellars with\ncandles. They had queer names. One of them was like a ship and the wait-\ners were dressed like pirates. It was just like a play. And everybody talked.\nThey didn't do anything. They talked about what you said. About pageants \"\n(Lulu pronounced it \" payjunts\") \" and the state's babies and why the\nHall should be done over by a — I think they said Compressionist,\nand — ',\n\" She's right. \" This was Felix Fay, a slim young man, careless as to dress\nand yet both conscious and proud of his carelessness. A shock of insurgent\nhair and the eyes of a dreamer coming slowly face to face with reality.\n\" She's right. Main Street or Greenwich Village ;it is only a difference of\nlongitude and —in both senses of the word — latitude. You flatter yourselves\nthat you are ' advanced ', that you have acquired social contacts or social con-\nsciousness. But what are you underneath this veneer of culture ? Carol adrift\non a rose-water sea of dreams. Hugh stumbling darkly among his own machines.\nMoon-calves, all of you — even poor Lulu, lost in her childish fantasies. Worst\nof all, Carol! Crying not only for the moon — you see, even here, the signifi-\ncant symbol — but wailing for a new earth and a whole new set of constella-\ntions ! If you really want a god — \"\n\" I suppose, young man, you could suggest the candidate, \" sneered Dr. Ken-\nnicott.\n\" I could, \" returned Felix unabashed, \" and I will. What we need in\nthis place is air — lots of it — salt breezes to sweep out these musty fantasies.\nWe need a harsher, more pragmastic realism ; a combination, if you can stand\nit, of Karl Marx, Rabelais and Friedrich Nietzsche.\n\" And you got the nerve to suggest that you — \""}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "161", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.67", "texte": "\" Not at all, \" calmly continued Felix, \" I propose H. Iy. Mencken, late\nof America and The Smart Set.\n\" Mencken ? \" gasped the others and \" Mencken ? \" spluttered Kennicott\nwith sudden exasperation, \" Why — that's impossible. He's too —er — vul-\ngar, he aint got the right idea at all. He's clever enough — oh, I'll admit that\n— but when it comes to the things that count, the big things like reverence and\nuplift and respect for women and civic pride and patriotism, why, he isn't there\nat all! Besides, what right has he got in a Middle Western Heaven ? Ain't\nhe from Baltimore ? \"\n\" And if I am, \" retorted a voice, well oiled with indignation and Pilsner,\na voice that emanated from a heavy-set individual who looked like a cross be-\ntween a visiting privat-docent and a seraphic butcher-boy, \" What if I am, my\nmasters, originally a citizen of the great Sahara of the South ? Did I not bang\nthe drum for every Westerner who lifted himself by sheer mule power above the\nrun of jackasses and old maids of both sexes ? Did I not champion Dreiser's\nIllinoise before he suffered from delusions of grandeur, when anyone engaged in\nsuch a crusade was howled down and accused of sedition, free love, heligoa-\nbalisme, obstructing the traffic in cheap fiction, obscenity, loss of critical manhood,\nmoral turpitude, anarchy, inciting to riot and mayhem ? Finally, did I not\ntrek through the sodden hinterland to discover Chicago and hail it as America's\nliterary center ? \"\n\" But, \" I interposed, \"Dr. Kennicott thinks that your standards might\nfind more appreciative audiences in — er — the other place than in heaven. \"\n\" Bah ! \" snapped Mencken, \" Even Brander Matthews would know better\nthan that ! What this place needs is a little force majeure to free it from its\nblubbering Sklavenmoral. It would be vastly more dignified and downright\nentertaining if we could get rid of the rumble-bumble of the pious snouters,\nthe gaudy bombast of the malignant moralists, the obtuse and snivelling tara-\ndiddle, the absurd hogwallowing, the balderdash, the pishposh, the abracadabra,\nthe hocus-pocus, the blaa-blaa and cavortings of all whoopers and snorters,\nof the rabble-rousers, bogus rosicrucians, kukluxers, well-greased tear-squee-\nzers, parlor pundits, boob-bumpers. The quackery, hugger-mugger idealism,\nand bumptiousness of a so-called democratic heaven is pathetic. Worse, it is\ngrotesque. In the course of a mere score of years we have been lamentably in-\ntrigued by a dozen messianic delusions ; we have allowed ourselves to be cares-\nsed impartially and in turn by the shibboleths of Tolstoy, Pastor Wagner,\nDrs. Palladino, Maeterlinck, Metchnikoff, Bergson, the Emanuel Movement,\nEucken, Veblen, Dalcroze, Isadora Duncan, Tagore, Freud and half a hundred\nother visiting boudoir-swamis, studio-psychics, jitney messiahs. . . We are con-\nstantly being bemused by the hopelessly mediocre. We have a prodigious"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "162", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.68", "texte": "appetite to be fooled, tricked, bamboozled and double-crossed; in short, to be\nignominiously but thoroughly hornswoggled. Hence, we swallow, with un-\nconcealed gusto, the pious garglings of the Sunday afternoon sentimentalists,\nthe windy platitudes and hollow stuff of any gaudy romanticism as long as it is\nsoothing. Hence, the local peasantry grows more and more inclined to the cackle\nand clowning of every cheap-jack, pimchinello, mountebank and booby, and\nhence sinks in its own soughs of booming and asinine fol-de-rol. The boobery\nhas a positive genius for scorning whatever is genuine or first-rate ; it holds beauty\nto be unbusiness-like, decorative, distracting and hence immoral > its anaesthe-\nsia to the arts is invariably one hundred percent. It is as unintelligent as a sen-\nator or a boy-orator fresh from the Chautauquas; it is the chief-actor in a bawdy\nfarce, a seborrhea on the face of Nature, a gawky villager who sees Iyove only as\nthe divine Shadchen, a tragic dill-pickle, a snitcher, a smut-hound, in brief, an\nass. Consider the way it has lauded the adenoidal tenors of Amer-\nican literature and has shut the door in the faces of such rare but indubitable\ngenii as Poe, Hearn, Whitman and the serious side of — God save the Mark ! —\nTwain. Consider the reception accorded Dreiser's \" Sister Carrie Or Nor-\nris's \" McTeague Or Conrad's \" Heart of Darkness. \" Or Sandburg's\n\" Chicago Poems. \" The thing is incredible, stupendous, fantastic, unglau-\nblich, gargantuan, kolossal — but nevertheless true. \"\n\" And what, \" Kennicott rejoined with more than the suspicion of a sneer,\n\" are you going to do about it ? \".\n\" First, \" replied Mencken, \" I shall pay a visit to the presiding Stamm-\nvaler and lay before him my plans for draining the body politic of its virulent\nglycosuria. Next I will broach — somewhat gingerly — a scheme to plough\nthrough the ranks, and weed out all those who suffer from comstockery, mega-\nlomania, right- thinking, the itch-to-reform, chemical purity, belief in the soul\nor share, in any way, the bovine honor and complacency of the herd. I have\nvarious suggestions as to a sweet and soulful euthanasia. I, myself, once proposed\nwholesale lynchings, volunteering to string up half the community of a small\ntown in Maryland at the local opera house and sell tickets to the other half at\nfive dollars per capita. It promised to be a profitable venture and a good show. . .\nI throw out the suggestion and pass on. Next, I will exhibit a machine, de-\nsigned by myself and Bernard Shaw out of Nietzsche, which will effectually apply\nthe slapstick to the posterior elevation of poets, cabots, Shakespearian cuties,\nSoutherners and other such pretty fellows and, as General Grant, has it somewhere,\ngive them a kick in the kishgiss. For one thing, I will make everybody listen\nto daily concerts confined to the quartets of Papa Haydn, the lieder of Richard\nStrauss, the nine symphonies of the immortal Iyudwig. For another, I will\nshow them that man, for all his flashy chivalry which invariably bites in the clin-"}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "163", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.69", "texte": "ches, is capable of appreciating fine letters, the sensuous ebb and flow of syllables,\nthe beautiful if polygamous marriage of nouns and adjectives, verbs, adverbs,\nprepositions, pronouns, exclamations, articles, participles, infinitives, possessT\nives, conjunctions. I will read thein the files of The Smart Set and strike a re-\nsponsive chord of E major in the dumb breasts of janitors, soda-clerks, mouzhiks\nMethodists, book-salesmen, officers of the Elks and duly elected members of the\nHouse of Representatives. Even the college professors will feel a stir of life.\nI do not say that I can pump up sufficient energy to destroy at one blow, all the\nmalaises and bugaboos that inhibit these provinces. I do say that, once my\ncampaign is in full swing, I will tear off the tin halos and false whiskers of the\nPuritan. . . \"\nHe got no farther. The last word seemed to inflame them with amazing\nvigor. Although a unanimity of opinion was evident, each one was so eager to\npay his tribute of invectives that the air thickened with fragments like. . . \" glib\ndunderheads \"... \" pious hypocrites \"... \" You've got a Puritan complex\nyourself\".. \" filthy and blackmailing crusaders — God save us all!\"...\n\" drowTn them in cold tea \" — in Puritanic acid —\". . . \" consider, also \". . .\n\"To the Puritan all things are impure ! \"\nThe crowd was growing larger, the exclamations louder. Mencken banging\na bass-drum which he had hidden beneath his overcoat, began whistling the\nMarche des \" Davidsbandlev \" contre les Philistins. Carol unfurled a screaming\nbanner while Hugh McVey tore off his jacket to display a flaming red under-\nshirt. A shot was fired — then others. Possibly, they were blank cartridges ;\nbut I was taking no chances. \" If this is Heaven, \" I gasped to my companion,\n\" Give me — \".\nBut my mentor had vanished. My heart lost several beats before I saw\nhim. He was slipping out the back-door. I agreed with him. He was an ex-\ncellent guide.\n\nLouis Untermeyer"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "164", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.70", "texte": "OCTOBER\n\nWe trample filial reverence under foot.\nHat on head,\nWe sit down impudently,\nLegs crossed and heels kicked up.\nYou do not like our bloody laughter,\nOur refusal to wash again the rags already washed a million times,\nOur sudden daring\nTo bark a deafening bow-wow !\nYa-a, backbone\nUpright like a telegraph pole,\nNot mine alone,\nAll Russians, hunchbacked for centuries.\nWho on earth is now more clamorous than we ?\nBedlam, you say,\nNo mile-stones nor signposts —\nTo Hell! Our red cancan is a splendid sight.\nYou would not believe it: multitudes,\nDroves of clouds under human orders,\nAnd the sky spread out like a woman's wrap,\nAnd not a single sunray . . .\nChrist is on the Cross again, and Barabbas\nPromenading over Iversky . . .\nWho can stop — who ? — galloping Scythian steeds ?\nBowstrings singing the Marseillaise ?"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "165", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.71", "texte": "Did any hear of blacksmith\nForging railtrack bracelets for the Globe,\nPuffing his cheap plug with the air\nOf an officer clicking spurs ?\nYou ask : What next ?\nNext — dancing centuries,\nWe break into every door,\nAnd no one dares threaten : Here take that 1\nWe ! We ! We 're everywhere,\nAt the very footlights of the stage ;\nNo quiet lyricists,\nBut flaming clowns.\nRubbish, all rubbish into a heap\nAnd, singing like Savonarola, chuck it\nInto the fire.... No matter! Who is there to fear\n* When tiny worlds of petty souls are vast spheres now ?\nEvery day — a new chapter in the Bible,\nEvery page — an inspiration to a thousand generations.\nIt will be said about us:\nHappy they who lived in 1917.\nAnd still you whine : We are lost!\nAnd still you whimper!\nBlockheads,\nIs not yesterday squashed like a pigeon\nUnder an automobile\nRushing madly from a garage ?\n\n(Translated from the Russian of)\nAnatomy Maryngoff by L. Lozowick"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "[166]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.72", "texte": "Richard Seewald\nVillage Street with Cat"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "167", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.73", "texte": "PETALS\nPetals of flowers from unending trees\nSink down, and soft, inexhaustible,\nGreat flakes of noiseless snow.\nBirds sink in swarms. The shivering fluttering\nButterflies tumble out of a deep gray. Heaven\nAbout me and pass . . .\nFoam spills noiselessly from high fountains.\nAll the books in the world torn into tatters\nAnd strewn by a giant hand through space . . .\nTear pearls, glass and clearer than glass,\nAll the thoughts fall. Sand and dust\nTrickling after . . .\n\nRAIN\nWilhelm Klemm\n(Translated from the German by Olive Sclarf)\nA thousand little feet will come\nTo build the silvery pillars,\nAnd wet snakes rustle through the leaves.\nA symphony that rippling sings us in\nBehind its bars to loneliness.\nThe heaven's a sieve for tears,\nA shaking wonder holds the woods and fields.\nA faint sounding horn from afar,\nAnd the years are swept together.\nThe earth breathes it in with its broad green lungs\nAnd beneath lies the sacred black heart. . ."}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "168", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.74", "texte": "MODERN GERMAN LITERATURE\n\nDuring the period of William 11, that colossus with feet of clay, German\nliterature was ever his faithful mirror, even when it twisted his image with in-\ngenious or satirical grimaces.\nThe opposition was always a loyal opposition, possessing an official charac-\nter. In 1914, when the defiant \" Simplicissimus\" became \" Kaiser true \",\nonly the most superficial observer was astonished, for in its heart it was ever\ntrue, it loved its enemy, jeered only at the \" beauty failings teased only where\nit loved. Ludwig Thoma, the satirist of \" Simplicissimus \", was what one calls\na \" Spiessbiirger \"of the purest alloy.\nWhat has happened to this literature of \" William now that every im-\nperial assumption of his lies in ruins ? When this man, who compensated both\nphysically and morally the deformity of his lame arm by refusing to remove\nhis military tunic, when this sabre-rattler mounted the throne, the socialistic\nlegislation was enacted. The labouring classes became at once literary mate-\nrial. Writers made a discovery which they called \" Naturalism though no-\nwhere in the world was it less natural than in Germany, that lyric and musical\nland. The movement, young at that time, declaimed against the tyranny of\npoverty and confronted the plush suites of the \" parlour \" with the cane chairs\nof the kitchen; champagne with schnaps; this vice against that. That the kit-\nchen used slang could not conceal the fact that the salons uttered drivel. This\n\" parade of poverty \" culminated in Hauptmann's \" Weavers \", some scenes\nof which were undoubtedly wild and strong, but the Weavers' rebellion of the\nforties was served up as material, though the miseries of labour in 1893 were no\nlonger topical. Wages had risen with exports, and the \" Iyasalle communist\nmanifesto \" labourer had grown into a little middle class voting socialist, not a\nfit subject any longer for literary rhetoric. Sudermann really changed his \" mi-\nlieu \" before Hauptmann. He became fascinated with the spectacle of the mid-\ndle class turning into a great super middle class with the stamp of William upon\nit. One grew more than rich, and the world was not only open to German com-\nmerce, but to every German eccentricity as well. German \" Naturalism\"\ngave up its short lived career, and became eclectic. The writers fumbled about"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "169", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.75", "texte": "in every style, old and new, their own, and that of strangers, becoming in their\ndeclining strength the mirror of a second hand internationalism. Hauptmann\nslipped with his \" Versunkene Glocke \" into the so called poetic manner, like\nthe young girls of the seventies who strolled about dreaming with albums under\ntheir arms. The verse in the \" Versunkene Glocke \"is as spurious as old Ger-\nman house furniture in the parlours of the seventies. Nevertheless he estab-\nlished himself with \" Die Versunkene Glocke \" as the representative poet of the\nday. He stretched the jocose and idyllic talent given him by nature to such\ndimensions, that one could hear its limbs crack. After that he wandered about\nuneasily, seeking here and there for material and new forms of expression. Only\nnow and then, perhaps in an instinct of self defence, he narrowed himself to the\nnatural measures of his talent, as in \" Biberpelz \" \" Pipa tanzt \" and \" Ratten\nThe growing wealth of the mighty German realm, its international status, export\ntotal and the size of its army, forced his poetry and prose to extend itself to keep\nup with them. Just as the Empire in its development grew out of its legiti-\nmate boundaries, so did the Empire's official poets. Hauptmann believed that\n\" Der arme Heinrich \", \" Griseldis \", \" Kaiser Karl and \" Florian Geyer \"\nwere duties required of him in his capacity as the first dramatist of the folk\nthat had at last succeeded in fighting its way to a proper place in the sun. One\ncan search through the length and breadth of Hauptmann's works and find\nno trace of doubt over this miracle of William's Empire, no tendency ever to\nview it problematically. Still the naivety with which he, untroubled by any\nscruples watever, gave himself over to the spinning out of his drama fables,\nhas something so childlike and touching in it that one is disarmed. This last\nyear, 1921, he published a short play, which he tells us was conceived in 1911.\nIt is an example of how completely unable he was to produce anything in the\nnature of genuine comedy, better than that of Kotzebue. This, no more child-\nlike, but definitely childish \" swan song \" is both epilogue and epigram on the\nwhole of Hauptmann's creation. The Hauptmann theatre was a theatre like\nWilliam's Empire, mere scenery and side wings, but without central action.\nEven as this Empire gave to its commerce an iron fist that shattered it, so did\nthe Empire's most representative poet, with a feeling for sentiment and hilly\nlandscape, stretch himself out to the dimensions of a Cimborasso, perishing\nthereby.\nIt will not interest the foreign reader to hear the names of the numerous\nwriters who paced their beats near by and about Hauptmann. Each year\nthey laid their little opus, and thought themselves poets. Those that are dead,\nare already forgotten. Those that are still alive, have lived longer than their\nworks. They may interest the historian perhaps, but no other living man. I\nam selecting the typical only from this epoch. The past is past, even if writers"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "170", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.76", "texte": "who are living beyond their time still sow seeds in the void. At the same time\nas Hauptmann, the contrasting message of Wedekind slowly came to the fore.\nThe prevailing hypocrisy in the so called \" upper circles \" over sex relation-\nship provided trumps for his hand that was not always absolutely clean.\nHis good intentions were not unjustly mistrusted. It was not without bias,\nthat he established himself as advocate for sexual and other freedoms; it put\nlively blood in his work, livelier than one had been accustomed to. His role\nof bad boy was more played at than experienced, and much more readily ac-\ncepted by the public than was truly comfortable for him, even in his younger\ndays. Wedekind's cynicism was never complete, many times it reached no far-\nther than a good \" bluff He prayed to God \" Lead me into temptation\nand was very glad when the dear God ignored his plea. He lost with the years\nmuch of his invention and spirit, and wrote plays that are little more than a\njustification of himself to the public, whom he deemed mistook him for a pig,\nwhen he was merely a prophet. The boredom in the latter plays should not\nblind one, however, to the genuine vitality in the earlier works such as \" Frtihl-\nings Erwachen \", \" Lulu (though this is -unbearably long) and his \" Schloss\nWetterstein At any rate, Wedekind was the only one among the drama-\ntists of the William epoch who had a genuine feeling for form, and a sense for\nthe lying brittle falseness of this period of German history. He is at his best\nwhen he utilises his sound shapely undecorative gift of words, not when he writes\nin iambics.\nNow I come to the third literary figure of this period, Stephan George.\nThough the symbolist would like to make him French, he is quite German in\nspirit, but of a newer alloy. For nearly two thirds of the William period he\nstood apart, as an unknown rather mysterious poet surrounded by an admiring\ncircle of fastidious youths, who made a cult of honouring him in order to lend\nthemselves an importance which they by no means possessed The formal pu-\nrity and intensity of his poetic insight became a challenge and incitement to\nthose among them who where free from the prevailing impulse to use the stage\nas a forum, and to others who, from an intuitive artistic perception, refrained\nfrom writing anything at all; and lastly to those few real poets, with a penetra-\ntion that belonged to them and to them alone. We shall only mention Hoff-\nmannsthal and Borchardt, not because they had already written fine poems,\nbut because they were themselves the creators of new ideas. Neither of them\ntook any outer part in this \" Williamism Hoffmannsthal, the Austrian, for\nanother reason than the Berliner Borchardt. George, their master, was not\nquite as innocent as the others in this respect. He erected a scaffolding of praise\nincluding in it a tribute to the \" imperial idea \" for a Klinger and a Boeklin.\nThis was not only a sign of bad taste, it was worse, it was compromise. Hoff-"}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "171", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.77", "texte": "mannsthal was as free from this as Borchardt, the former as a result of his south-\nern temperament, sensibility, and inherited good taste; the latter from a self\ndisciplined and wise perception, and also an austere leaning to classicism: qual-\nities which armed him sufficiently against the romantic as well as the pseudo-\nromantic.\nStephan George—that means thirty beautiful poems, a permanent heritage\nfor the German people, Stephan George — that means, no person, no spirit,\nno programme, for when one rightly understands him, Stephan George is a myth\nthat has given life to two children of God: — Hoffmannsthal, and Borchardt.\nIt is not an accident that Hoffmannsthal only now writes his ripest things, \" The\nFrau ohne Shatten \" that deep poem in prose, and \" Der Schwierige \" the most\ndiscreet of all comedies, nor that Borchardt has witheld from the public till now,\nthe work of his last fifteen years. William's ridiculous fagades, aping marble,\nhave shown themselves for cheap painted stucco. A poet like Borchardt could\nnot hang his bronzes on them, would not, did not. And if nothing at all now\nhangs where those tawdry pillars stood, at least, the place is free.\nToo strident still, are the voices of those who helped to bring about the fi-\nnal collapse of William; unconquerable time has done the most. I allude to\nSternheim and Heinrich Mann, to mention two of them. As the building showed\ncracks, and the prophets, long conscious of its appointed doom, had ceased\ntalking about a fact so evident, Sternheim came along with his comedies, the\nfirst one in so called verse, satirising every manner of \" Spiessbiirger \" from\nthe labourer to the capitalist. They are very amusing, very drastic, and very\nintelligently built for the theatre, where the people whom he jeered at, had at\nall events their pleasure, perceiving in them chiefly a good chance to make mo-\nney — a perception that did not disappoint them. Sternheim was responsible\nfor a great deal of the new life in the German theatre. If he is inclined to see\nin this service, a gift to the world, to the German language, to the cultural heri-\ntage of Europe, and God knows what else, who will blame him in these mad\ndays ? If a man feels well in his own Heaven, we have no legitimate call to prove\nto him, that his Heaven is only in his own imagination.\nSome years ago Thomas Mann wrote the story of a German family. It\nwas a story of decadence. He possessed at that time more political insight\nthan his nervous and excitable brother Heinrich, who seems ever in a state of\nfury because Germans are not Frenchmen. Thomas, having lost some of his\nformer clarity of vision, believes that the Germans are as sound as they ever\nwere. Heinrich, Utopian, swears by 1789 ; and Thomas, also Utopian, by the\ntime of Fredericus Rex or 1813.\nDuring the time Hauptmann poeticized with emotions, and Wedekind\nwith sex, the Mann brothers and Sternheim became critics of their time. The"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "172", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.78", "texte": "last three however are only the bridges, none of them will have anything to say\nto the next generation. The old bourgeoisie has awakened with a very bad\nhead, and the new one of the money sharks, must first learn to read with the help\nof the stock exchange bulletins. Even were it otherwise, they have said and\nrepeated all they had to say. Dismayed in secret that their enemy is dead,\nthey wander through a strange country peddling chance wares.\nAn important feature will be missing in my picture, if I fail to mention\na well established fact; namely, that with the increased comforts and luxurious\npossibilities of living, the cultural standard in Germany has improved consider-\nably, slowly, for the first twenty years after the 'seventies, more stormily in\nthe second. One does not only gather this by the particular literature demanded\nby the reading public of any particular period, though perhaps most of all by\nit. Put on the same scales, a novel by Wassermann or Schnitzler is far more\ncivilized than the novels of Storm, Spielhagen, etc. who occupied the leisure\nhours of the generation before 1870. ' Also typical of the higher cultural demands\nof the reading public after '70 ', is this fact: Turgeniev and Daudet were for-\ngotten at the beginning of the 'eighties, Zola read intensely, if falsely, for a span,\nto be followed, from the 'nineties on, with Tolstoy, Dostoievsky, and Flaubert.\nNow all of these writers would be unreadable to the general public before the\n'seventies ; the mental horizons were too narrow then, the social conditions\nnot sufficiently civilized.\nDuring the last years before the war, the hunger for foreign literature in\nGermany grew so indiscriminating and voracious, that soon the symptoms of\nan overloaded stomach became evident; for instance, a monstrous over-estima-\ntion of Wilde, a failure to discover Meredith and Hardy, a gobbling at Strindberg\nwhile they neglected Ibsen whom they have never really understood. Claudel\nand Rimbaud were discovered here only shortly before the war when they could\nhave been found in 1908. Rimbaud was boomed here after the war began to\ngive the stuttering Expressionism a bodily father ; though Heaven only knows\nwhy Rimbaud should be chosen for such a post. A fever for travel and mate-\nrial advantages attacked the Germans in 1900, and reached up to their brains.\nThey went out of bounds, as newly rich people are inclined to do. A people\nhappier in serving than in commanding, for the spirit of the lackey dwells in\ntheir soul. It makes the German the most sought after waiter in the world.\nHe has the talent of feeling comfortable in humble circumstances to an abomin-\nable extent.\nThus, with growing Industrialism, and its accompanying wealth, the mo-\ndestly commercial class grew up to be a very rich one, with increased cultural\ndemands, never very deep perhaps, but still — weighed against the cultural\ndemands of other times and other folks — showing evidence of a certain quality"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "173", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.79", "texte": "of discrimination. For instance, the average German, even if lie is rich enough\nto renounce effort, has a strong inclination to improve his mind and outlook\non life. This must appear .strange to the American. What an American can\nread and digest in the way of small literature, would be rejected by the German\nas too stupid to be palatable in nine cases out of ten. The novels of Schnitz-\nler would appear to the average American reader as being none of his business,\nin fact, \" highbrow \" ; which they are not when one takes Flaubert as the stan-\ndard. Schnitzler then, is about the standard every day reading of the German\npublic. Not that Schnitzler has any call to be considered fine literature either.\nHe occupies himself with the endless psychology of love, observed from a liberal\nbourgeois angle. He has learned much from Balzac, Dostoievsky, and Flaubert,\nand I must say utilizes it intelligently within his limits.\nJust when it would seem, after the war, that the moment had arrived, de-\nfinitely to raise the reading level, it is curious to observe how it has fallen. Dur-\ning the war Heinrich Mann wrote a novel describing official Germany, known\nby us already to stupefaction; after the war he wrote another. He called it\n\" Die Armen \", in which we discovered with some astonishment, that he knew\nnothing whatever of the working poor, neither their lives, nor their aims. It is\nthe boring book of a dreamer, affecting realism, without any reality. The war\nhas robbed many writers of their \" milieu \", for whom and out of which they\nwrote. Their civilizing influences vanish with the whole class that they worked\nupon. The class that succeeds them reads exclusively, so far as it reads at all,\nthe books of Courths-Mahler, the most idiotic literature conceivable. Now this\ncondition may be extraordinarily favourable for the new men. They will not\nbe impelled to entertain a public, which does not exist for them as yet; and\nthey need not continue to pay a price for their success with conscious service.\nThey can be themselves at last. This is pure gain, even if all forms of diletan-\ntism and bluffing swindle also find the situation convenient enough to relieve\nthemselves of doubtful burdens.\nThose youngsters who believed themselves called upon to exercise lyri-\ncism at the expense of good sense and the German language, must find sooner\nor later, the situation unworkable. To earn at least a comfortable living,\nthey will be forced to become bank clerks or something or other of this nature.\nThe number of genuine ones that are left will be small, much smaller than in\n1913, when almost every better class family, merely because could afford\nsuch a luxury, had at least one son who was a poet. Only a sacred few will\nremain. They will take the chalice from the hands of those whose care had been\nto see that no drop of the precious liquid was spilled,— for no literary period can\nbegin quite anew; at the best it brings the buds, the breaking flowers, or the fruit\nof seeds that had been sown before ; or completes the development of those that"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "174", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.80", "texte": "have slipped through, and become rank before they were ripe. In this way\nHoffmannsthal would have exerted as small an influence on earlier times as he\ndoes on this. The deliberate compression of his style, and its all too clear nature,\nexclude the possibility of a great response in any period, notwithstanding a\ncapacity, which stretches itself to the very boundaries of wisdom. His thoughts\nappear to him first as pictures, then he makes his way back again to the original\nimage of thought before he can express it; a painful creative process like the\nboiling of glycerine, which does not bubble at 80 degrees, like water, but at\n400° R. Borchardt is luckier in the shaping of his material. One traces already\nhis influences on the younger generation, a notable achievement for a man well\nover forty. The voices have become steadier since Borchardt's verse appeared.\nNigger poems are no longer the ideals of the group that made them. The for-\ngotten Walser turns up again; a book of his poems appeared without attracting\nattention in the 'nineties. Konrad Weiss, the catholic poet, sings in his own\nvoice once more. Daubler scrapes himself clean from the clay and weeds that\nhave been hiding him. Rilke cannot read the new lyrics without a smile. They\nseem to him merely lyrical arts and crafts for decoration only. Paul Kraft\nI should mention here, Friedrich Schnack too, Berthold Viertel, also Werfel,\nhis comrade from Prague. With his brittle boy's soul, Werfel brings intense\nmoments sometimes to the surface ; sorrowful lines that remain, somewhat in\nthe nature of diary extracts, mounting with luck to poetry. He is too moved\nhimself to move others, too dissolved in softness to bring his form through,\nand his verse is rarely the crystal that it should be. Not like Browning whose\nown form was law. We have such a prose Browning here now, Franz Kafka.\nOur youngsters have been observing Borchardt very intently of late, in\nspite of differing temperaments, aims, and natures. His unequalled capacity\nto crystallise the fleeting lyrical moment makes careless accidental methods\nseem vain and stammering ; stuttering when one should speak, sighing when one\nshould cry out, playing with vain fingers in the air, when one should cast in bronze.\nI come now to the third great figure in our literary future, Robert Musil.\nBefore the war a novel appeared by him, called \" Die Verwirrungen des Zo-\nglings Toless The poetic possibilities of this book received scant notice at\nthe time. Its original methods of psychology, undreamt of by the knights of\nthe day, were ignored. A psychology that brings out of characters the same\nriddles that are put into them, so that they are proof against any unforeseen\ndevelopment, is mere child's play. To show the functioning of the \" born\nnaive \", the \" born criminal \", the \" born officer \" is easy enough for a dra-\nmatist. Riddles like this are always solved; that is they remain where they\nwere at the beginning; for characters born in cement cannot move. Musil"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "175", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.81", "texte": "has now conquered with a drama a whole thousand mile territory of new ground.\nIn his play \" Scharmen \" in every respect suitable for the theatre, — there are six\nfigures, and none of them \" born \", all of them are at one and the same time,\nyes and no, black and white. It is not a problem play as one interprets such\ntoday, for in itself it has no special problem. Problematic only by the nature\nof its characters who act, live, and work each other up in the play to culminating\ndecisions — a conception, dramatically and poetically new.\nOne scarcely sees how far from the accepted path such a track can carry\none. And neither is one certain if the temperature of the new climate is 50 de-\ngrees below, or above zero. One thing is certain however. It is a different\ntemperature.\nThis drama of Musil stands alone with the verse of Borchardt as a measure\nfor the younger generation of writers. One will no longer have the courage\nto swindle a way through psychological labyrinths, by mere cinema-like abre-\nviations. One need not stand the scenery on its head, nor use again the old\ndreary declamatory methods in order to bring new life into the theatre. One\nneed not rob the German grammar of its articles, nor deliberately change the\nnormal word sequences to appear new. If one realty has nothing to say, then\nsurely the already so mutilated German language is good enough to say it in.\nThis article is no more than a bird's-eye view of the subject, the typical\nalone is mentioned. The new post-William literature can be specialised later,\nperhaps. The foreign reader would count it no gain to have a catalogue of\nnames shaken before his eyes. A general orientation, I think, serves the pur-\npose better.\n\nFranz Blei"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "176", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.82", "texte": "FOREIGN EXCHANGE\n\nLiterature, as well as finance, is sensible to the trade balance. Exports\nfrom the United States are at a minimum, for which the depreciation in foreign\nexchange is held responsible. But one commodity, sometimes overlooked, is\nreversely affected — that of improvident artists. Never before has their exodus\nattained to the present proportions, and already the reader of the more experi-\nmental American reviews may have noticed the existence of a new literary mi-\nlieu which may be the beginning of a new literary movement. A group of writers,\nbound together by similar reactions to their environment, is being allotted in-\ncreasing space. Another settlement of pilgrims is finding its voice, for, like the\nMayflower excursionists, they have crossed the ocean to escape economic oppres-\nsion and spiritual coercion.\nThe nation of their birth pays the highest rates known toman for certain\nspecial qualities. Bankers and promoters are so exuberantly rewarded that\ngreat industries are founded for the sole purpose of helping them disburse their\nannual accretion. And their servants are remunerated according to the laws\nof supply and demand, even down to their clowns and laundresses.\nBut the talents of some men cannot or will not serve. Unfortunately the\nartist pioneer usually belongs to this class. For it would not be kind to demand\nof the hard-working business man that he make the mental effort necessary to\nunderstand artists who do not follow the rules laid down in the primary schools.\nThus we find men of the greatest importance to the cultural progress of America\nfaced with the dilemma of deadening hack work or flight. Since the war and the\ndepreciation in foreign exchange, the latter alternative has become practical and\nalluring, and those who can rely on even a few dollars from America find life in\nEurope a possibility. The majority of these seek refuge in Paris, and now form\na considerable colony.\nThere is another reason for this efflux. America, sweet land of liberty, has,\nby a curious inversion, become despotic. Originally the theory of democracy,\nof control by the majority, was planned to protect the rights of individuals, to\nact as a check against the encroachment of tyrannies of all kinds. Later, its\nsignificance was widened ; it became a more general restraint but still negative."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "177", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.83", "texte": "Lincoln well expressed it in his aphorism : \" You can fool some of the people some\nof the time, but you can't fool all the people all of the time. \" The rule of the\nmajority protected rather than initiated.\nBut in late years, all this is changed. Common belief now holds that the\nthought of the majority is the wisest, their taste the best, their morals the most\nvirtuous. The ideal state is supposed to be the one which efficiently and imme-\ndiately reflects their will. The initiative, referendum and recall are all measures\ndestined to accomplish this end. In the light of this belief it is interesting to\nread in the \" Atlantic Monthly \" that according to the U. S. Army tests 47 %\nof the draft were morons, adults below the mental age of thirteen.\nThe result of the extension of the theory of majority rule has been one cur-\ntailment of individual liberty after another. The most prominent example is,\nof course, national prohibition. In Kansas city cigarette smoking is prohibited. We\nhave heard that one locality is considering the curtailment of intercourse between\nhusband and wife except for the procreation of children ; but we have been un-\nable to verify this rumour. In New York State the licence to teach is refused to\nany one who advocates \" a form of government other than the government of the\nUnited States or of this State. \" As the \" New Republic \" points out, this\nwould have prevented Woodrow Wilson from teaching, as he once recommended\na Cabinet Government for the United States.\nThe legal restraints of this character dally far behind the social pressures.\nThese often extend to ridiculous extremes. Breathing space can be found in a\nfew scattered oases, but many find emigration to Paris more congenial.\nThe effect of the proximity of foreign culture upon these emigrants is more\nrelevant to contemporary literature than the cause of their expatriation. Al-\nthough the social customs of the considerable American colony in Paris would be a\nstudy both interesting and astounding, we shall only consider the literary reac-\ntions of the writers to the French environment.\nTwo main influences predominate.\nThe first reveals itself in a meticulous attention to form. Inspired by the\nFrench literature of Flaubert and his time, these expatriates concentrate on\nfinding the \" mot juste not in quite the same sense as the original seekers\nfor the one and only word which fits exactly, but with consideration for the later\nrevision of this concept as effected by Remy de Gourmont. Though a word or a\nphrase may satisfy the intellect and give the meaning more exactly than any\nother, still it may be lifeless because of overuse. It is dead like the catch word or\npopular song of a year ago. This occurrence is continuous, inevitable and im-\nportant. The author who forgets it, writes himself out. It explains why the\npreceeding literary epoch is always scorned by the present, though a future gen-\nneration may read again its masterpieces and marvel that any one could have"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "178", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.84", "texte": "been so blind as not to appreciate their worth. — It explains why the most cul-\ntivated and specialised connoisseurs study the very old or the very new. For\nlapse of time revives sick language. Emphasis on this phenomenon is a recent\ndevelopment, and some writers strain the English, French, German and Russian\nlanguages to the limit of understanding in their terror of the cliche. The\nwork of the Americans in Paris is characterized by this fastidiousness, the prose\nas well as the poetry. At home it is conspicuous in the verse of Wallace Stevens\nand Marianne Moore, as well as in that of Eliot and Pound who have lived abroad\nfor many years. It is not so noticeable in prose.\nThe second and more important influence on the new pilgrims, is a revalua-\ntion of America. The distance partially explains the changed mental picture of\nthe country of their birth. A farmer who has spent all of his life on the shore of\na lake, has paddled on its surface, dived to its depths, ruminated over its vaga-\nries till he believes he notices the changing voices of its frogs as they grow up,\nsuddenly moves his home to the slope of its highest hill. With astonishment\nhe finds that this lake known from childhood is not the lake he had known, but\na polished mirror with a geometrical shape. Still it has moods, but they are\ndifferent. So America regarded from France is not the same America that bus-\ntles one from subway to elevator. The revaluation is accelerated and assisted\nby the curious attitude of admiration prevalent among French artists. The\napologetic American writer, who tries to make up by his modesty for the outrag-\neous bluster of the tourist American, will get a big shock, if, on meeting Blaise\nCendrars, he tries to praise the perfection, the grace, the form of French life and\nliterature while deprecating the crudeness and strain of his own country. \" Your\nintellectual America, yes, it bores me, but that other America of the skyscra-\npers, of the movies, of the streets, that is admirable. \" And Cendrars will go on and\ndescribe his arrival at New York in the steerage with a kopek and a quarter in his\npocket. How he spent his first night in a slaughter-house killing beef to get a little\nmoney. How during four months he wished to die and, in reaction against all the\nclean collars and shaved faces, let his beard grow and remained aloof. When sud-\ndenly he understood and stopped fighting. The barber in the Brevort extracted his\nwhiskers, he bought an Arrow collar, became like an American, and has never\nbeen the same since. This is a conspicuous example of the French attitude\nbut not isolated. Frenchmen who have never smiled at the statue of liberty\nstill share this enthusiasm for the land of hustle, with the lack of discrimination\nthat comes from hearsay knowledge, it is true. The ambitious American writer\nwho wishes to hear the new literary revival acknowledged, will be told that\nAmerican advertising, moving pictures, and architecture lead the world. He\nasks: \" Have you read Anderson ? \", and is answered : \"I love O'Henry. \"\nSuch an upsetting of preconceptions has its effect on the Americans in Paris."}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "179", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.85", "texte": "But not the effect one would expect. The Americans parallel the French auth-\nors by attempting to align their form with the new age, but leave their subject\nmatter as it was. The French naturally cannot express the American civiliza-\ntion in their creations. What they can do is to disregard the classic search for\nperfection and balance, and attempt to give instead the crudeness of the amazing\ncontrasts of the age and the speed of its mechanisms. This direction is obvious\nin the writings of Cocteau, Morand, Salmon,. Cendrars, etc., and is critically ex-\npressed by Epstein.\nIts effects on the Americans is adequately brought out in the following let-\nter recently forwarded from Paris :\n\" You may note that my story bears no positive ethical message, and lo-\ncates at the opposite pole to the Sherwood-Anderson, Russian-realism, American\nsoil spirit. The influence of the cinema as well as that of other mechanical mar-\nvels of the age has scarcely begun to show any repercussion in literature, which\nlags far behind the other arts, lead by Picasso, Iyipchitz, Satie, Schoenberg. I\nrefer especially to the elements of surprise, novelty, electricity, closeup, single-\nlight. \"\nAnd the story lived up to the definition. Its locale was Paris, its narrative of\nno importance. The nationality of the author inconsequential. The defin-\nition could have equally applied to a story by Paul Morand, and the author could\nhave been any foreigner living in Paris and well read in French. Yet it was\nexceedingly well done.\nIn general it is true that the transplanted American writers study the pro-\nduct of a recent and prominent school of French authors in order to learn how to\napply the lesson of the new American civilization to literature. This is not the\neconomical or the shortest route to the goal; however it might be of advantage\nif they would not also attempt to express the French state of mind and to adopt\nits view-points and conventions. If they could remain Americans, not narrow\nor bigoted Americans, and acquire French clarity, ease, and style, it would be\nall to the good, but to write bad French stories in good English is little gain.\nThe Parisian school of American letters could perform an invaluable ser-\nvice. A gap exists between America and literary America. This is dimly sen-\nsed on the West shore of the Atlantic and clearly perceived on the East shore.\nThe separation between \" high brow \" and \" low brow \" which isolates the\nartist from the community must be bridged if American literature is to become\nmore than surface ornamentation. Great writing expresses its time. Amer-\nican literary prose records frustrated ideals, inhibited sex, petty squalor. Our\ncivilization is more than these. A realization of this divergence is obligated by\ncontact with French thought.\nThe opinions of Cendrars and Fay are typical of the most influential group"}, {"page_pdf": 86, "page_imprimee": "180", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.86", "texte": "of post-war artists in Germany and Russia as well as in France. They only\ndiffer from others in that they know by personal experience that which many ac-\ncept from hearsay. Both have lived and worked without money or friends, in\nthat ghoulish nightmare of struggling industries over which the American nove-\nlists shudder. They liked it. Cendrars longs to return, but first wishes to\ncapture King Menelik on a film. To both the work of the American literati is\nof no interest, while the natural and unconscious products of our civilization are\nthe marvels of the century.\nMr. Edmund Wilson Jr. in \" Vanity Fair \" adequately voices the other\npoint of view. He solemnly warns France : \"Do not try to make pets of the\nmachines ! Be careful that the elephants do not crush you !... The buildings are\nflattening us out; the machines are tearing us to pieces ; our ideals are formed by\nthe posters and the jazz. . . Your attempts at the barbarous and the harsh are\nthe most horrible things imaginable. The Electric Signs in Time Square make the\nDadaists look timid ; it is the masterpiece of Dadaism, produced naturally\nby our race and without the premeditation which makes your own horrors self-\nconscious. \"\nBut who can tell what France may not accomplish even in a direction dis-\ntinctly American ? And she would probabfy not have to confess as does \" Vanity\nFair \" in the heading of the illustrated page opposite Mr. Wilson's article.\nThe new Generation in literature. A group of young writers who\nHAVE COME UPON OLD AGE WHILE STILL IN THEIR TWENTIES.\nMr. Wilson has placed his thumb on the shortcoming of the American intel-\nlectual, though his interpretation of French tendencies is inadequate.\n\" The buildings are flattening us out; the machines are tearing us to pieces. \"\nTo day's environment is different from yesterday's. Man has had to change\nwith it or drop out of the running. The practical man has moved with the time,\nis part of the new world and has kept his health. The visionary, the idealist,\nfrom inertia or sentimentality or weakness, has stayed behind and finds himself\nout of sorts with a hostile world, which in his eyes is exceedingly ugly. He is\nsick and finds relief by expressing his pain on the printed page. A good thera-\npeutic measure according to psycho-analytic theory.\nMany a writer of American novels and stories belongs to this category, and\nresembles a maimed pedestrian gazing up at the intestines of the auto truck which\nis crushing his leg rather than the scientist studying a decapitated ant hill.\nSuch a posture is liable to narrow one's vision.\nThe authors of the past generation failed in a different way. They were\nphysically stronger and morally weaker. Mark Twain is perhaps its outstanding\nfigure. A genius, no one will ever know how great, for he accepted the prevail-\ning \" good taste \" and never realized how it stubbed his pen. Though he saw"}, {"page_pdf": 87, "page_imprimee": "181", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.87", "texte": "truly, only a part of his vision was ever depicted. O'Henry also knew America\nbut accepted its moral fables. Though his detail was truthful, his philosophy\nwas stereotyped. Holmes wore blinders which guarded his eyes from passion.\nWriters of a lesser rank share this wider comprehension of America. Jack\nLondon, Richard Harding Davis, Booth Tarkington and many another have\nwritten books of great interest to the stranger as they delineate an amazing and\nnovel civilization. But the American is right in asking for more, in demanding\ntruth and depth and style as well as observation and good humour.\nThe novelists of to-day do not lack for courage. Crusaders against the\nevils of society, they smash idols and ideals with equal indifference. Plot,\ncharacter portrayal, logical sequence, everything is sacrificed to iteration of\ntheir plea for themselves versus American civilization. Charles Reade and great-\ner writers have married propaganda to narrative, but they did not subordinate\nstory to thesis, to any such extent. The so-called American realists are in effect\nextremely romantic, adequately voicing little more than their own stomach-\naches, and using the external scene but to show cause for their peculiar suffer-\nings. The impression left by many of the novelists is of young people who read\ndeeply in Horatio Alger at the age of ten, discovered his falsity when they were\ntwelve and grieve over the consequent disillusionment ever after.\nHowever, in the last few years a number of books have appeared in which\nboth reaction and progress are observable. The autobiographical form is de-\nserted for the more impersonal story, and the iconoclastic spirit is sufficiently\ncurbed to permit of accurate description and acute delineation.\nThe transplanted American writers, those already well known as well as\nthe younger nucleus now centering in Paris, have a greater importance for con-\ntemporary literature than possibly their combined or individual talents war-\nrant, in as much as they represent a direction diametrically opposed to the main\ncurrent of American prose. Objectivity, restraint, experimentation with form,\nis contrasted in their work with the subjectivity, looseness, and waste of the pre-\nvailing literature of revolt. The former assail the tradition of writing, while the\nlatter attack the conventions of living. The former concentrate on an ideal of\nart, the latter on expressing themselves.\nPerhaps from the fusion and interaction of these contrary ideals will\ncome the artist or school of artists who will combine truth of vision, perfection of\nform, courage of conviction with a wide comprehension of a civilization too\nmarvellous to be entirely hateful.\n\nH. A. L."}, {"page_pdf": 88, "page_imprimee": "182", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.88", "texte": "COMMENT\nJean Cassou\nRamon Gomez is on the way to become the greatest living Spanish writer.\nHis work is abundant and touches on everything which surrounds us, the un-\ncouth as well as the friendly. He has sung of cafes, of their tables, their gas\nfixtures, their sugar bowls, of daily exploits, of shop windows. He' has sung\nof the streets of Madrid, the breasts of its women, the heads of his friends, the\njokes of the circus, of all the bric-a-brac of modern life. He is a humorist full\nof the unforseen and the droll, his nerves are extraordinarily sensitive, his\neyesight of an unbelievable acuteness. Besides, no morbidity. On the con-\ntrary, a health, a deep-seated gaiety, a sincere love of life and of humanity.\nA stupendous optimism underlies this exuberance.\nThe sketches which are given in this number of Broom are selections\nfrom his last book, \" Disparates. \" The word \" disparate \" can be translated\nby fantasy or extravaganza. They characterize well enough the singular\nart of Ramon Gomez of Serna.\nWe have to acknowledge the receipt of \" Genius, \" a monumental magazine\nof the arts, printed in Leipzig and published in Munich by the firm of Kurt Wolff.\nThis German production, which is one of the handsomest things of the kind we\nhave seen for some time, may be described as a kind of anthology of the arts\nof painting and sculpture. In it are to found in a juxtaposition that is sometimes\nreally bewildering the latest manifestations of modernist art side by side with\nexamples of antique sculpture and architecture. The whole production which\nis in large quarto format is luxurious to a degree ; paper and reproductions\nof the finest.\nTo give an example of the catholicity of the production — a catholicity\nwhich is indeed on occasion overwhelning — we have in one and the same vo-\nlume Archipenko and reproductions of the interiors of the cathedrals of Carcas-\nsone and Poitiers, Georg Kolbe and Romain Rolland, an article on Charles-l/ouis\nPhilippe, and another on barocco German poetry of the XVlth and XVIIth\ncenturies."}, {"page_pdf": 89, "page_imprimee": "183", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.89", "texte": "Ernesto FraTOni, Gerente responsabile.\nPrinted in Italy by «I/Universelle» Imprimerie Polyglotte — Roma.\n\nIn a forthcoming number of Broom we have arranged to begin the publi-\ncation of one of the most remarkable of modern Italian plays — Luigi Pi-\nrandello's \" Six Characters in Search of an Author. \" The work was given\nin London last month at two private performances of the Stage Society, and will\nin all probability be seen at a New York theatre in the fall. Pirandello is the\nleader of the so-called \" grotesque \" school of the modern Italian comedy, and is\nin every way a notable figure in the modern dramatic world. Although he is not\na young man, his influence is only just now beginning to be felt outside the con-\nfines of his own country. And even in Italy his brilliant plays still encounter\nhostility from the conservative public. When \" Six Characters \" was done\nin Rome last year, there was nearly a riot in the theatre.\nThe second number of Tyro conies to us from London (Egoist Press).\nAmong the contributors are : Wyndham Lewis, T. S. Eliot, Jessie Dismorr,\nJohn Rodker, Waldemar George, Heibert Read and Wyndham Lewis again.\nIn a \" tyronic dialogue \" which is sprightly enough, Mr Lewis writes a kind\nof Macchiavelli's Prince for modern artists, warning them to beware of each\nother, exposing some of the egoistic mainsprings of their action and hinting\nat how a man who would bear the title of modern artist should comport him-\nself in this more or less dirty old world. Among the reproductions are exam-\nples of the work of Lipchitz, Dobson, Wadsworth and Lewis.\nThe acitivity of modern Russia in the sphere of art is really remarkable,\nespecially that of expatriated Russia and more particularly still of that large\nportion of it which centers in Berlin and other German cities.\nE pur si muove is an expression of this spirit of restless modern Russia,\nlike that other fine production L'Oiseau de feu which is published in Berlin.\nCurious in E pur si muove are the illustrations. Side by side with reproductions\nof Iyipchitz's sculptures we have pages showing ten different kinds of Iyoiidon made\npipes. Then again we have Rodchenko's Project d'un kiosque and a pho-\ntograph of a steam crane at work by the dockside. Picasso is represented by\na design for a ballet - rather old material, dating back to 1917.\nIt appears that a Chapliniad exists in Russia. has illustrated this\nwork with Chaplin drawings, some of which, our readers will remember, have\nalready appeared in Broom. Pictures of hydroplanes, floating docks, snow ploughs\netc. enliven the pages of this Russian magazine."}, {"page_pdf": 90, "page_imprimee": "[184]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.90", "texte": "ORIENTALIA it TQT IT\nMay be obtained from 22, East 60™ Street JLJ 1 UU I\nNEW YORK CITY\nLA DANSE DE CIVA\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 i6mo volume.\nPaper covers: francs 8\nSpecial art binding: » 12\nFirst Edition 011 Laiuina pure linen paper, each copy numbered: » 15\n\nF. RIEDER & C., PUBLISHERS - 7, Place ST. SULPICE - PARIS, (VI)\n\nU.\nMembers\nNew York Stock Exchange\n12Q? Broadway.\no\noo\nTelephone: 3240 Rector.\n\nOUISISANA LODGE\nAND\nBUNGALOES\nIyAKiv Kezar, Center Loveij,,\n* - MAINE.\nOpen June to October\nFor particulars address:\nMARION BROWN, Secretary.\n46-E. 75th Street.\nTelephone: RHINELANDER, 2671."}, {"page_pdf": 91, "page_imprimee": "[185]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192205-01.1.91", "texte": "The largest selling quality\npencil in the worlds\nAS soft as you\nwish; as hard as\nyou please, but al-\nways smoother than\nyou had dreamed.\nAny VENUS Pen-\ncil you select glides\nover the paper with\na restful freedom free\nfrom friction.\n17 Black Degrees\n3 Copying\nFor bold heavy lines\n68-58-48-3B\nFor writing, sketching\n28-B-HB-F-H\nFor clean fine lines\n2H-3H-4H-SH-6H\nFor delicate, thin lines\n7H-BH-9H\nPlain Ends,\nper doz. $ 1.00\nRubber Ends,\nper doz. $ 1.20\nAt Stationers and Stores\nthroughout the World.\nAmerican\nLead Pencil Co\n220 Fifth Avenue\nNew York\nand London, Eng.\n\nTHE WATERSIDE\nLAND CORPORATION\nOFFERS FOR SALE\nNO. 3 RIVERSIDE DRIVE\nNEW YORK CITY\nFIVE STORY EKGLISH BASEMENT DIELIIXS\n1\n37 x 97 IRREGULAR\ni\nFOR FURTHER INFORMATION\nAPPLY TO YOUR OWN BROKER."}]}