{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_sha256": "b3d3fda6eb48a42293f84812f0d2ff07be43945925c4cec3bea16fc8831f2fa9", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/08_01/bmtnaap_1922-08_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1922/08_01/bmtnaap_1922-08_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 2, "image_fin": 2, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "Table of Contents", "titre_sommaire": "Table of Contents", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1248, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2001, "texte": "Cover Design — Marcoussis\nExordium to Ducasse — Will Bray 3\nThe Lay of Maldoror — Comte de Lautreamont . 4\nWoodcuts — Max Weber 14~75\nNovemberleventh — James Daly 15\nWoodcut — Andrio Derain (From \" I/Enchanteur Pourrissant\") 17\nFrench Letters and the War — Jacoues Riviere 18\nPoems — Yvor Winters \" 30\nAt 125 Boulevard St. Germain — Benjamin Peret . , 31\nPeripatetics VI & Vegetable Classic — Matthew Josephson 4*~42\nWoodcut — Andre: Derain - . 43\nSix Characters in Search of an Author. Act 111 — Luigi Pirandello ...... 44\nHula-Hula — William Carlos Williams 55\nWoodcut — Andre: Derain 56\nAt the Doors — Boris Pilniak . . . 57\nWoodcut — Andre: Derain 76\nIvEs Noces de Clyte — John Crawford 77\nThe Woodpecker — Corrado Govoni 77\nRussian Berlin — L. L 78"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "3", "page_fin": "3", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Exordium to Ducasse", "titre_sommaire": "Exordium to Ducasse", "signature_source": "Will Bray", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2951, "texte": "EXORDIUM TO DUCASSE\nWill Bray\nThe age has been far more reluctant to concede the genius of Isadore Ducasse\n(\" Comte de l,autreamont \", 1850-1870), than is the case, perhaps, of any other of the\nextraordinary personalities of the past century. His writings, speciously damned as\nthe maunderings of a madman, were regarded up to very recently as having little in-\nterest, save for the alienist. Spurned thus by the French, there would have been little\nenough opportunity for that considerable part of the world which reads English to judge\nof his case, were it not for the enterprise of Mr. Rodker in translating Les Chants de\nMaldoror.\nIn France, however, the younger generation, which otherwise might well have\nbeen stifled by the sterile traditions of the preceding art-period, has taken Ducasse\nto its heart, and is producing a literature of great fertility, freedom, invention, agres-\nsiveness. It is postulated that the post-war period is, or is to become, a very pregnant\none, an age of unrivalled physical attainments and of the desperation born thereof.\nTo the period which has just set in, the personality of Ducasse, like that of Rimbaud,\nexercises a dominant attraction. These two weie the vaticinal spokesmen for a state\nof mind whose brutality and beauty none could have foretold.\nThe nineteenth century, again — it always serves as a point of departure — was\nenmeshed in a vicious cycle of quiddities and casuistries from which the spirit emerged\ninto either an unhealthy Christianity or a hybrid Epicureanism. Ducasse, like Rim-\nbaud, was neither pagan nor Christian. We are extricated from these dreaded cate-\ngories as we are from the fruitless post hoc ergo propter hoc.\nThe \" Songs of Maldoror \" form a legend on an heroic scale of the naked human\npassions working out their destinies. Since we have come to know more familiarly\nthe cavernous recesses of the mind and the momentous play of the unconscious in the\ndiurnal existence, the presumption of a Ducasse becomes pardonable. The contained,\ncomplex social nature of man drops off like an outworn robe. There is escape at\nlast from the button-moulder who menaced Peer Gynt. The standard associations of\nthought are forsworn ; the motivation verges from the most frightful niceties of obser-\nvation to gestures of gigantic scope, while the human role in the drama of nature be-\ncomes that of Prometheus. Man is a beast again ; his laughter, his weeping, his\nhowling, are as insistent and clamorous as those of the other beasts in the jungle.\nWith the nullification of human reason, the mind abandons itself to a sort of destruc\ntive sincerity, whereby all may be denied or posited, and nothing is impossible. The\ngift of song in man becomes atavistic again, chanting against pain, hunger and danger.\nIn Maldoror the incantations assume the rhythm of the baying of hounds, the long swell\nof sea-waves, or the furious velocity of a life that is consumed like a flame across\nthe sky."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "4", "page_fin": "14", "image_debut": 6, "image_fin": 16, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "The Lay of Maldoror", "titre_sommaire": "The Lay of Maldoror", "signature_source": "Comte de Lautréamont ; John Rodker", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1996, "texte": "THE LAY OF MALDOROR\nFirst Canto\n\nMay it please Heaven that the reader, emboldened and become\ntemporarily ferocious like what he is reading, will find his sudden and\nsavage way across the lonely marshes of these sombre and poisoned\nfilled pages without losing himself ; for unless he bring to his reading\na rigorous logic and tension of spirit equal at least to his suspicion, the\nmortal emanation of this book will soak his soul as water does sugar.\nIt is not a good thing for all the world to read the pages which are\nabout to follow ; a few only will, without danger, taste this bitter fruit.\nTherefore, timid soul, before penetrating further into such unexplored\nterritory, direct your heels backwards and not forwards. Ivisten well\nto what I say to you : direct your heels backwards and not forwards ;\nlike the eyes of a son who respectfully turns away from the august\nadmiration of the maternal visage ; or rather, like a wedge of deeply\nthoughtful and chilly cranes, who under full sail, fly powerfully through\nthe winter across the silence, towards a certain point 011 the horizon,\nwhence comes suddenly a violent and strange wind, forerunner of the\nstorm. The oldest crane, itself the ' vanguard \\ noting this, waves\nits head like a reasonable person, consequently its beak also is made\nto clap, and is not pleased (I too would not be happy were I in its\nplace) while its aged neck, featherless and contemporary with three\ngenerations of cranes, moves in irritable undulations as presage of\nthe storm which approaches nearer and nearer. After having looked\nseveral times coolly about her in all directions with eyes full of exper-\nience, the leader prudently (for she it is who has the distinction of\nshowing her tail feathers to the other cranes, her intellectual inferiors)\nwith her watchful cry as of a mournful sentinel; to repulse the common\nenemy, gracefully turns the point of the geometric figure (it may be\na triangle, but the third side which these curious birds of passage form"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2134, "texte": "like an experienced captain whether to port or to starboard is not\nseen) and manoeuvring with wings hardly larger than a sparrow's\nsince she is no fool, takes another and surer philosophical path.\nBy moonlight, near the sea, in remote parts of the countryside,\nplunged in bitter meditations, one sees everything take 011 yellow,\ndoubtful and fantastic shapes. Now quickly, now slowly, the trees'\nshadows run, approach and approach again in every shape, flattening\nthemselves, pressing closely to earth. In the past, when I was car-\nried away upon the wings of youth, that made me dream, seemed\nstrange to me ; now I am used to it. The wind moans through the\nleaves wdth languorous notes, and the owl recites its solemn lament\nmaking the hair of those who hear it stand on end. Then the dogs,\nmade savage, break their chains, escape from distant farms ; fly through\nthe countryside in all directions, a prey to madness. Suddenly they\nstop, examine all round them with ferocious disquiet; eyes blazing\nand like the elephants, which throw round them in the desert one\nlast look at the sky, despairingly raising their trunks before dying,\ntheir ears hanging inert; so the dogs leave their ears inert, lifting their\nheads, puffing out their dreadful necks and in turn like a baby crying\nwith hunger, or like a cat on a roof wounded in the belly, or like a\nwoman about to bring forth, or like a plague-stricken moribund in\nhospital, or like a young girl singing a noble air; begin to bay the north-\nern stars, the eastern stars, the southern stars, the western stars ;\nthe moon, the mountains resembling giant rocks, reclining in darkness;\nthe icy air they inhale deeply from a distance, and which makes the in-\nsides of their scarlet nostrils burn, the nocturnal silence ; the screech\nowl carrying off a rat or a frog in its beak, living food, tender for\nthe living ones, in oblique flight brushing their muzzles; the hares\ndisappearing in the twinkling of an eye ; the thief who after his crime\nflies fast as hoofs will carry him ; snakes disturbing the heather which\nmakes their skin quiver and gnash their teeth ; their own baying which"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2269, "texte": "frightens them ; the toads they crush with one snap of the jaw\n(why did they leave the marsh?) ; the trees whose gently waving\nleaves are so many uncomprehensible mysteries to them, which they\nwish to solve with their staring intelligent eyes ; the spiders hanging\namong their long legs who clamber up trees to save themselves,\nthe crows who could not find anything to eat during the day and who\nreturn to the nest with tired wings; the rocks of the shore, the files\nwhich appear at the masts of invisible vessels, the hollow noise of\nwaves, the great fish which, swimming show, their black backs, then\ndisappear into the abysm, and man who enslaves them. After which\nthey again rush through the countryside, leaping with bloody paws\nacross ditches, roads, fields, passes and craggy stones. One would\nthink them mad, seeking some waste lake to quench their thirst.\nTheir prolonged baying terrifies nature. Woe to the belated traveller !\nThe cemeteries' friends will cast themselves upon him, will tear him>\nwill eat him with blood-dripping fangs, for their teeth are not decayed.\nThe wild beasts, not daring to approach and take part in the meal\nof flesh, fly trembling out of sight. After some hours, the dogs, har-\nassed by running in all directions, and half dead, tongues hanging from\ntheir mouths, without knowing what they are doing, fall with an in-\ncredible swiftness, one upon the other, tearing each other into a\nthousand pieces. They do not behave thus out of cruelty. Once\nmy mother said to me with glassy eyes, \" When from your bed, you\nhear the baying of dogs in the countryside, hide under the blankets,\nnor mock their behaviour ; they have an unquenchable thirst for the\ninfinite, like you, like me, like the rest of humanity with long and\npallid features. I even permit you to stand in front of the window to\nobserve the spectacle, sublime enough. '' Since then I have observed\nthe dead one's wishes. Tike the dogs, I too feel the need of the\ninfinite ... I cannot, I cannot satisfy this need !\nAccording to what I have been told, I am the son of man and\nof woman. That astonishes me ! For the rest, what does it matter\nwhence I come ? I thought more of myself. For myself, if it had\ndepended on my own will, I would rather have wished to be the son of"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2214, "texte": "the female shark, whose hunger is the friend of tempests, and of the\ntiger of well known cruelty ; I will not be so malignant. You who\nlook at me, go to a distance, for I exhale a poisonous breath. No\none has yet seen the green wrinkles of my forehead, nor the projecting\nbones of my emaciated face, like the backbone of some great fish,\nor the rocks, covering the sea shore, or the abrupt alpine mountains,\nwhich I often travelled over, when I wore hair of a different color on\nmy head. And when during stormy nights I prowl round the habit-\nations of mankind, eyes burning, hair whipped by the storm wind,\nsolitary as a stone in the middle of the road, I cover my withered face\nwith a scrap of velvet, black as the soot which fills the insides of chim-\nneys ; it would not do for eyes to witness the ugliness that the Supreme\nBeing with a smile of mighty hate, has put upon me. Every morning,\nwhen the sun rises — for others, scattering joy and salutary heat to all\nnature, while no one of my features moves, gazing fixedly into the\nspace filled with shadow, crouching in the depths of my beloved cave,\nin a despair which intoxicates me like wine, I tear my chest in shreds\nwith powerful hands, yet I feel that I have not got hydrophobia. Yet\nI feel that it is not only I who suffer .. . ! Yet I feel that I breathe !\nBike a condemned man who tries his muscles, meditating upon their\nfate, and who will soon mount the scaffold, upright upon my pallet, eyes\nclosed, I turn my neck slowly from right to left, left to right during\nwhole hours ; I do not fall stark dead. From moment to moment,\nwhen my neck can no longer continue to turn in the same inertia,\nand stops in order to begin to turn the opposite way I see suddenly\nthe horizon through the thick brushwood, which cloaks the morth: Ido\nnot see anything ! Nothing .. . but for the countryside which dances\nin whirlwinds with the trees and with the long files of birds which tra-\nverse the sky.\nThat upsets my blood and brain .. . Who is it then who hits\nme on the head with a bar of iron, like a hammer striking an anvil ?\nI propose to declaim full-throatedly and unemotionally the cold\nand grave strophe you will hear, Be then attentive to its content and"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2176, "texte": "protect yourself against the painful impression which it cannot\nfail to leave like a blemish on your troubled thoughts. Do not imag-\nine me to be at death's door, for I am not yet a skeleton, and age\ndoes not cling to my forehead. Put aside therefore any idea of compar-\nison with the swan in that moment when his existence takes flight,\nbut see before you some monster, whose face I am glad you cannot\nsee ; but that is less horrible than its soul. All the same, I am no\ncriminal. . . Enough on this point. No great while has elapsed since\nI saw again the sea, and walked the bridges of ships, and my souven-\nirs are as lively as though it were but yesterday I left them. Be\nthen, if you are able, at least as calm as myself in perusing this which\nI already repent of offering you, and do not blush at the thought of\nwhat the human heart is. Octopus, with the silky gaze! You\nwhose soul is inseparable from my own, you the most beautiful of\nthe terrestrial globe, lord of a harem of four hundred suckers, you in\nwhom the tender communicative virtue and divine grace sit nobly\nas though at home, mutually agreeing and indestructibly united, why\nare you not with me, your mercury belly pressed to my aluminium\nchest, both resting upon some rock by the shore, and contemplating\nthe view I love.\nAncient ocean, whose waves are crystal, you resemble somewhat\nthose azure marks to be seen on the bruised backs of cabin boys ;\nyou are an enormous bruise upon the earth's body; I like this analogy.\nSo at first sight of you, a prolonged sigh of sadness passes, which\nmight be imagined the murmur of the suave breeze, leaving ineradic-\nable traces upon the deeply moved spirit, and you recall to lover's\nmemories, often unknown to them, the crude origins of mankind ;\nwhen it became acquainted with abiding sorrow. I salute you,\nancient ocean.\nAncient ocean, your harmoniously spherical form which delights\nthe solemn countenance of geometry ; but too well recalls to me the\ntiny eyes of mankind, similar to those of the wild boar for smallness,\nand to those of night birds in the circular perfection of contour. Nev-\nertheless mankind has thought himself beautiful in all ages. But I"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2128, "texte": "imagine rather that mankind only believes in his beauty out of conceit,\nand that he is not actually beautiful and suspects it; for, why does\nhe look at the faces of his fellows with so much scorn ? I salute you,\nancient ocean !\nAncient ocean, you are the symbol of identity, for ever equal to\nyourself. You do not essentially change, and if your waves are wild\nin one place, far off, in some other region, they are in utter calm.\nYou are not like mankind, who stops in the street to watch two bull-\ndogs seize each other by the neck, but does not stop when a funeral\nis passing ; who is agreeable in the morning and bad-tempered in\nthe evening; laughs to-day and cries to-morrow. I salute you,\nancient ocean !\nAncient ocean, it is not impossible that, as fabulous as futile util-\nities for mankind are hidden in your breast. Already you have giv-\nen him the whale. You do not easily allow the greedy eyes of\nnatural science to divine the thousand secrets of your hidden organ-\nisation : you are modest. Man prides himself without ceasing, and\nfor trivialities. I salute you, ancient ocean !\nAncient ocean, the diverse families of fish which you feed have\nnot sworn brotherhood with each other. Each family keeps to it-\nself. The temperaments and forms which vary in each of them,\nexplain satisfactorily what at first appears only an anomaly. So it\nis with man, who has not the same excuse. If a scrap of earth, is\ninhabited by thirty million human beings, they think themselves\nbound not to interfere in the lives of their neighbours, fixed like roots\nin the ad joinings scrap of earth.\nDescending from the great to the small, each man lives like a\nsavage in his lair, rarely leaving it to visit his fellow, similarly crouched\nin another lair. The large universal family of humanity is a Utopia\nworthy of the most mediocre logic. Besides, the sight of your fruitful\ndugs releases the idea of ingratitude, for one immediately thinks of\nall those numerous parents so ungrateful to the Creator as to abandon\nthe fruit of their miserable union. I salute you, ancient Ocean.\nAncient ocean, your material grandeur can only be compared"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2169, "texte": "with the measure one imagines of how much active force was needed\nto engender the whole of your bulk. You can tbe comprehended in\na flash. To contemplate you, sight must turn its telescope in a\ncontinuous movement through the four quarters of the horizon, even\nas a mathematician in resolving a problem is obliged to examine indiv-\nidually each possible variant before he can settle the difficulty.\nMan eats nourishing things and makes other efforts, worthy of a better\nfate, to appear plump. Let this adorable frog swell as much as it\nwants. Be at peace, it will never equal your hugeness, at least I\nsuppose not. I salute you, ancient ocean.\nAncient ocean, your waters are bitter. They taste exactly like\nthe bile which criticism distils upon art, science, everything. If one is\na genius he is made to pass for an idiot, if someone else has a beautiful\nbody he is made a frightful hunchback. Indeed man must feel his\nimperfections strongly (three parts of which are due entirely to himself)\nto criticise himself thus. I salute you ancient ocean.\nAncient ocean, mankind, despite the excellence of his method\nand assisted by scientific methods of enquiry has not yet arrived at\nmeasuring the giddy profundities of your abysms ; some you have\nwhich the longest and heaviest sounding lines have admitted in-\naccessible. To fish ... it is permitted .. , not toman. Often have I\nasked myself which were the easier to discover, the oceans depths or\nthe heart of man.\nOften, my hand to my forehead, standing on ships while the moon\nswung erratically between the masts, I have surprised myself abstracted\nto everything which was not the end I pursued, striving to resolve the\ndifficult problem.\nYes, which is the more obscure, the more impenetrable of the\ntwo ; the sea or the human heart ? If thirty years experience of\nlife may up to a certain point incline the balance towards one or other\nof these solutions it will be allowed me to say that despite the obscurity\nof the sea, it cannot toe the line, as far as this quality is concerned, with\nthe obscurity of the human heart. I have had to do with men who\nhave been virtuous. They died at sixty and no one hesitated to cry"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2235, "texte": "out: \"They did good upon the earth, that is to say, they were char-\nitable : that's all, it was not malicious, everybody can do as much\nWho can understand why two lovers who idolised each other the day\nbefore, for some misunderstood word will part stung by hatred, by re-\nvenge, by love and by remorse ; each draped in his lonely pride,\nnever to see the other more ? It is a miracle which each day renews\nitself and which is not the less miraculous. Who can understand why\none relishes' not only the general disgrace of one's fellows, but even the\nparticular disgraces of one's nearest friends, though afflicted at the\nsame time ?\nAn irrefutable example to close the series : man hypocritically\nsays yes and thinks no. That is why the young wild boars of humanity\nhave so much trust in each other and are not egotistical. Psychology\nhas still far to go. I salute you ancient ocean. Ancient ocean, you\nare so powerful that mankind has learnt it to his cost. It might well\nemploy all the resources of its genius . . . incapable of dominating you.\nIt has found a master. I say it has found something stronger than\nitself. This something has a name. That name is ocean. You in-\nspire him with such fear that he respects you. Despite that, you\nmake his heaviest machines waltz easily, gracefully and with elegance.\nYou make them leap gymnastically to the sky, and amazingly plunge\nto the very bottom of your realms; a clown would be jealous. They\nare happy if you do not ultimately wrap them in your frothing folds,\nto go and see, without the help of a train, how the fish are in your\nwatery entrails, above all how they themselves do.\nMan says\"I am more shrewd than the sea\". It is possible, it\nis even fairly true, but he is more afraid of the sea than the sea of\nhim : and that it is unnecessary to prove. This watchful patriarch\ncoeval with the earliest epochs of our suspended sphere, smiles piti-\nfully when he assists at the sea fights of nations. Behold a hundred\nleviathians issued from the hands of humanity. The emphatic com-\nmands of superiors, the cries of the wounded, the shock of cannons\nare noises expressly made to obliterate a few seconds. It seems that\nthe drama is over and that the sea has put everything into its maw."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2121, "texte": "Its jaws are frightful. It must be enormous toward the back in the\ndirection of the unknown. Finally to crown the stupid and not\neven interesting comedy, one sees, some crane hung in the sky, belated\nby tiredness, which begins crying, without interrupting the sweep of\nits flight: \" Hold !. . . I find that disagreeable. In the distance\nthere are black specks ; I have closed my eyes ; they are gone. \"\nI salute you, ancient ocean.\nAncient ocean, majestic bachelor, when you survey the grave\nsolitude of your phlegmatic kingdoms, justly you swell with pride at\nyour own magnificence, and the truthful praises which I hasten to\noffer you. Voluptuously swayed by the soft exhalations of your\nmajestic deliberation, the most grandiose amongst the attributes\nwith which the sovereign might has gratified you, centred in sombre\nmystery, you spread out, over all its sublime surface, your incompar-\nable waves, with the calm feeling of your eternal might. They follow\neach other in parallel, separated by brief intervals. Hardly does one\ngrow smaller when another goes to meet it growing larger, and accom-\npanied by the melancholy noise of spume which melts away to warn\nus that all is spume. (Thus, human beings; living waves, dying\none after the other, monotonously; but without leaving a spumy\nnoise).\nThe bird of passage rests upon them confidently, and abandons\nitself to their movement, full of proud grace, until the bones of its\nwings have received the accustomed vigour to continue the aerial\npilgrimage.\nI wish human majesty were not merely the incarnation of the\nreflection of your own. I ask a good deal and this sincere wish is to\nyour glory. Your moral grandeur, image of the infinite, is like the\nphilosopher's reflections, woman's love, birds' divine beauty, the poets\nmeditations. You are more beautiful than the night. Answer me\nocean, will you be my brother ? Stir yourself impetuously. . . more\n. . . still more, if you desire me to compare you to the vengence of\nGod, stretch your livid claws clearing a path across your own bosom . . .\nwell done. Unroll your terrifying waves, hideous ocean, comprehended"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2155, "texte": "of myself alone, and before wliom I fall prostrated on my knees. Man's\nmajesty is borrowed ; lie will not impose upon me at all; you, yes.\nOh ! when you advance, crest high and terrible, surrounded by your\ntortuous folds as though by a court, magnetic and ferocious, rolling\nyour waves one upon the other conscious of what you are, while from\nthe deeps of your breast and as though overcome by an intense sorrow\nwhich I am unable to penetrate, you utter that hollow bellowing so\nmuch feared of men, even though, breathing upon the shore, they\nregard you in safety ; then I see that the high right of calling myself\nyour equal does not belong to me. That is why, before your superio-\nrity, I would devote all my love to you (and nobody knows how much\nlove my aspirations towards the beautiful contain) if you did not\nmake me think painfully of my fellows, who make the most iron-\nical contrast with you, the most comical antithesis ever seen\nthroughout creation ; I cannot love you, I hate you. Why do I come\nback to you, for the thousandth time, to your friendly arms, which\nhalf open to kiss my burning brow, which sees its fever vanish at\ntheir contact! Ido not know your hidden destiny; everything which\nconcerns you, interests me. Tell me then if you are the dwelling\nplace of the Prince of Darkness. TeU me .. . tell me, ocean (only\nto me, so as not to sadden those who so far have but known illusions)\nand whether the breath of Satan makes the tempests which lift your\nsalty waters to the clouds. You must tell me, because I would be\nhappy to know hell so near mankind. I want this to be the last stro-\nphe of my invocation.\nConsequently, I want once again to hail you and say good-bye !\nAncient ocean with crystal waves, my eyes moisten with abundant\ntears and I have not the strength to continue, for I feel that the\nmoment to go back among man of the brutal countenance is come\nbut .. . courage. Iyet us make a great effort and end with the\nsentiment of duty, our destiny upon this earth. Hail, ancient\nocean.\nIf it is sometimes logical to relate oneself to the manifestations of\nphenomena, this first canto would finish here. Do not be severe on"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1134, "texte": "him who but still tunes his lyre ! Nevertheless, should you wish\nto be impartial, you will have received already a decided impression\ndespite his imperfections. As for myself, I am setting to work again\nto produce within a not too delayed period of time, a second canto.\nThe decline of the 19th century will see its poet (all the same, to be-\ngin with, one should not start with a masterpiece, but follow the laws\nof nature) ; he was born on American shores, at the mouth of Ba Plata,\nthere where two races, once rivals, now strive to surpass each other\nin material and moral progress. Buenos Aires, queen of the South,\nand Montevideo, the coquette, hold out to each other friendly hands\nacross the argentine waters of the great Estuary. But continual\nwar has fixed his destructive empire upon the fields and reaps with\njoy his numerous victims. Good-bye old man, and if you have read\nme, think of me. Young man, do not despair; for despite your contrary\nopinion, you have a friend in the vampire. If you include the sarcop-\nter acarus, which produces the oak gall, you will have two.\n\nComte de Lautréamont\n(Translated by John Rodker)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "15", "page_fin": "16", "image_debut": 17, "image_fin": 18, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "NOVEMBERLEVENTH", "titre_sommaire": "NOVEMBERLEVENTH", "signature_source": "James Daly", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 499, "texte": "NOVEMBERLEVENTH\n\nLight, light,\nAiry and bulbous.\nFringes...\nbuttermilk...\nSt. Gotthard tunnel.\nHa ha: I have you now.\nMove and I shoot.\nI shoot anyway.\nAh, how droll, dear Fido,\nsee how I pick up this\nMountain by its\nPeak... and hurl it.\nIsn't the world, stupid ?\nLast night I went to\nbed naked except\nFor a necktie and\nan Overcoat... my\nblanket I hung out the\nwindow... People laughed.\nWhen I die, shall they weep ?\nGod, shall they weep ?\nWeep, weep, weep ?\nCome here, Fido, let\nme Tickle your ear."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 588, "texte": "N0... your nose.\n(a rhyme is such abominable\ntaste. But you do like\nme to finger the place\nI first mentioned,—\ndon't you, Fido ?)\nAnd your nose is so cold.\nNow goes past a band,\npast the window, cymbals\ncrashing. I am\nreally moved,— affected ;\n... restraint always, Fido.\n(What, you scratch yourself\npublicly ? — Shame !)\nArmistice day. A\ngun.\nBooms. I i\nRemember...\nO Satan, I remember !\nThe bayonet through his throat.\nHe had the eyes of a...\n(crucified) and\nthey stared up at me As\nYours do Now, fido.\n...I shan't listen to the\nGuns ! any longer.\nInstead... the grapefruit.\n\nJames Daly"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "17", "page_fin": "17", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 19, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Woodcut", "titre_sommaire": "Woodcut", "signature_source": "André Derain", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 20, "texte": "Andr£ Dkrain\nWoodcut"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "17", "page_fin": "28", "image_debut": 19, "image_fin": 30, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "French Letters and the War", "titre_sommaire": "French Letters and the War", "signature_source": "Jacques Rivière", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2439, "texte": "FRENCH LETTERS AND THE WAR\n\nThe war had so profoundly disturbed our personal habits, that as long as it\nlasted we expected to see it produce similar revolutions in every branch of thought.\nWe were particularly concerned as to the transformations that the war might\neffect in art and literature. In the spring on 1918, the Grande Revue instituted\nan inquiry into this question, to which a large number of writers, especially\nforeigners, responded frankly.\nHowever, all their predictions reflected a dangerous a priori reasoning,\nwhich I, for my part, shall try to avoid. All of them seemed to expect uniform\nconsequences from the war. All of them considered the war as a cause for\nwhich a determined effect was given in advance, and which had only to be\nput into suitable words.\nThe problem, is, in spite of these conclusions, more complex. The mind\nis not developed in complete detachment from material things, that must be\nconceded ; the physical and social conditions of life exercise an influence upon\nit that Ido not question for a moment. But physical and social catastrophes,\nthe greatest upheavals, cannot alone dominate the mind. The mind recog-\nnizes and discovers only what exists potentially within itself, it is only trans-\nformed, at any rate, inasmuch as something is spontaneously added to itself ;\nit does not take directions other than those alieady contemplated by itself ;\nonly its own promptings are developed by external forces.\nThe problem of the changes wrought by the war in the processes of artistic\ncreation can scarcefy be solved, to all practical purposes, unless we keep in mind\nthe directions taken by the creative spirit at the moment when the storm broke.\nIt is obvious at once what formidable difficulties this method reveals. For\nthese directions were not at all simple. It is a delicate task to establish,\nwithout being arbitrary, a common tendency in all the writers before the war,\neven those of one country, and among those, only writers of any merit.\nA great earthquake — that is what the war meant for the mind. But to\npredict or even to distinguish, the new mountains and valleys that it would\nform, one should be very familiar with the previous relief of the terrain.\nI.\nWithout attempting a complete description, we can at least summarize\nthe situation of arts and letters when the war began by saying that the emotions\nand the senses had just been abandoned as the unique sources of inspiration."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2854, "texte": "In fact, so shortly before that a casual glance would seem to discover these\ntendencies still in full flower. This is what happened, more or less, in the case\nof M. Benda, who nevertheless knew how to analyze them clearly, and whose\nBelphegor remains an essential document on the question.\nBut by putting ourselves in the place of the creator (M. Benda studied\nrather the public and its tastes), we could say : the art of before the war was\nstill, or it was until very recently the direct product of the uncontrollable\nfaculties of the mind. The art of before the war was hardly beginning to re-\nnounce the impulsion of pure sensibility as its sole foundation.\nOne of its protagonists could still write the following confession of faith : *\n\" The universe is a creation of the intuition. Creative emotion is the only\ntrue knowledge. As it gives birth to itself, it gives birth to matter. And it\ndreams everything as it dreams itself. The heart is the means as it is the\nagent.\"\nAnd again : \" To plunge all ideas into love, and give the feeling rather\nthan the exact conception thereof, that is the music I mean. In such an art\nemotion is everything, the argument nothing. Now the more queenly emotion\nbecomes, the more must art, her king, become her master.\n\" The rhythm of love influences everything. The intelligence is the plough,\nnot the grain nor the harvest. Neither eloquence nor the evident idea is the\nbread that nourishes. It is no longer the refinement, 1101 the representation\nof the object that interests us, but the evocation of its form and of all the grace\nthat it contains, of the magic power it has to make us believe in life. Art\nmust reconcile us to life/'\nAll the writers of that period would not, perhaps, have openly subscribed\nto these principles, but practically all were still faithful to them. All of them,\nlike Suares, sought the lyric state, and, like Pythias, tried at first to place their\nstool in the abyss. All of them, it is true, did not call themselves poets, but\nfor all, it was no longer question of \" refinement, nor the representation of the\nobject, but the evocation of its form and of all the grace that it contains.''\nThis is the guiding principle. In pre-war literature one finds scarcely\nany concern with the painting, the representing, the describing of an object,\nsave in an embryonic state. Every creator starts from the tumult that an\nobject arouses in him, he permits himself to be carried away by it, he listens\nto it, he yields to it directly, and makes every effort to manifest it faithfully\nto the external world. Never were writers more religiously subservient to\nthemselves and their problems, never less concerned with abstract truth.\nOr rather — for what age has ever renounced the ideal of truth —- the\n* Andre Suares : Trois Hommes: Dostoievski, Editions de la Nouvelle Revue Fran\n9aise, p. 293"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2809, "texte": "truth, they said, in fact believed, could only be attained by creation, the world\ncould only be understood by admitting that \" the universe is the creation of\nthe intuition.\" In any case, it is love and all the various emotions which alone\ncan open the breach, attract knowledge, and permit of representation : \" The\nrhythm of love influences everything.\"\nThe object is merely a point of departure for the mind, and, by incorporating\nin it as much as possible of the self, we come to know the whole revolution\nthat it as produced in the soul. If it ceases by that to be recognizable to others,\nso mucq the worse ! \" The evocation... of the grace that it contains \"is more\nimportant than its discovery, than its exploration.\nAnd, without speaking of Suares himself, is it not obvious that a Claudel,\nfor example, would rely on nothing else but the whirlpool of his own emotions ?\nIn that respect he is a poet, one can say ; poets have never sought any other\ninspiration. Yes, but it is the immediacy with which he communicates with\nhis emotion, if you will, that strikes me. He has an extraordinary ability to\nexclude every element that could possibly have a contrary or even a directive\neffect. He will not budge unless stirred by his emotion, and then its vagaries\nwill carry him everywhere.\n\" We are ruled by only a gentle pressure of the hand.\"\nSuch confidence in the activities of the intuition (whose ways are so mys-\nterious to begin with) has perhaps never been equalled.\nTo express the matter a little differently — recalling all that Claudel con-\nfesses he owes to Rimbaud —he accepts no other index than illumination. The\nworld is known to him and consequently is represented by him only inasmuch\nas it manifests itself in his brain. That is as much as to that he charges and\nsaturates it with his own imaginative reactions.\nBut we must take for another example some one who is not a poet, Peguy,\nfor example. His manner is infinitely more simple; lie moves forward bluntly,\nwithout jumping, without dodging, without acrobatics. But his impulse is none\nthe less sympathetic. From the beginning to the end of his work, it is a faith,\nit is Faith itself that animates and impels him. From his birth he believed,\nin many things in turn it is true, but at no time was he without fire and\nenthusiasm for something or other.\nAnd here again it may be said : that every great writer is also a great be-\nliever, even if his belief is negative. But mark here in what a totally different\nfashion Peguy attaches himself to his convictions. What a oneness of faith\nand deed he epitomized — witness his death ! Truly his soul is a spring tapped\nat its source. There is no question of an intellectual persuasion : that had\nnot enough time to grow. Even his least significant phrases were dictated\ndirectly passion."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2773, "texte": "At what moment does lie seek to approach the truth ? When is he agi-\ntated by what may be the true \" state of the question ?\" He only marches for-\nward, with a sublime courage and integrity. Lost in himself, he is swept on\nto sheer madness. He throws himself forward exactly as he must have marched\nto the assault of that position where he gave his life — with a single and\nindomitable purpose.\nWe must take a last view of this immediacy of the literature of before\nthe war. Reaving aside all the poetry putin motion by Francis Jammes and\nClaudel, another group appears, dominated by the influence of Guillaume\nApollinaire.\nGuillaume Apollinaire is not a great poet, but he is a poet, nevertheless,\nwhich is a great deal. A certain part of his work is unquestionably mediocre ;\nthere remains a series of things of the most delicious irresponsibility, such as\nwe have always heretofore had to look for in German literature.\nBut what interests us for the moment, is only the process employed by\nApollinaire, his poetic method. This cannot be defined except by the renun-\nciation of all poetic method, by the complete failure to direct or select images\nas they arise in the brain.\nIt is no longer emotion nor \" love \" that leads the poet. He flies with\nthe wings of his Stimmung, changing direction at its will. He is a bird carried\nby the wind, and veering with it. Even his thought is dissipated like a thin\ncloud ; he does not know what he is saying, his movement alone concern him —\nhe yields himself to his vertigoes.\nHere again, in a new and more striking form than any of his predeces-\nsors had used, the writer gives utterance to his faintest velleities. The strange\nvibration of the words, as in the manner of a dream, seems exactly what we\nhave already observed to be the essential characteristics of the literature be-\nfore the war. Apollinaire is in a way the hero of poetic automatism ; his hand\non the paper is only the needle on the phonograph record, which translates\nthe oscillations of a hidden, almost external force. Of all the activities of which\nwe can be the subject or the playground, he submits to the dictation of the most\nremote, the least definite.\nAnd yet was the age before the war so completely under the influence\nof the unconscious as M. Benda would lead us to believe ? — No. The critical\nspirit, the intelligence were not entirely demoralized, as he tried to indicate.\nWe must avoid explanations that make everything too simple.\nThere was, first of all, Maurras, and his school, and all the neo-classicists\nwho made deliberate and noisy propaganda in favor of an intellectual art.\nThere was Moreas, his timid but sure taste, his great poetic erudition, his\nability to sing what he had no feeling for, his cleverness in reviving old refrains."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2653, "texte": "In the case of these men, it would be difficult to find the unconscious\nplaying the chief role in their inspiration, or indeed, playing any part at all.\nThere was also, in relative solitude, Andre Gide, formerly a singer over-\nwhelmed by voluptuousness and desire, but whose erudite genius and a feeling\nof regret had already brought him over to a more solid position. \" I am the\nman of the second movement/' he used to say at this time ; and with this\nsole conviction he reacted strongly against the vague tendencies of all those\nwho sought to lose themselves in their sentiments. Under his influence,\nthe Nouvelle Revue Frangaise, without separating itself from its period, and\ngathering to itself the most daring productions, constituted in the midst of\nthe sensual turmoil an asylum for reflection, study, and sober judgment.\nAnd finally, many of those whom we represented a little while ago as heroes\nof purely instinctive and provocative literature, did not inhibit the functioning\nof their intelligence when it did not conflict with their particular purpose. In\nSuares, as in Peguy and Claudel, it would be very unjust never to see anything\nbut pure emotion. To draw as penetrating portraits of great men as Suares\nhas done, to probe the psychology of virtue with Peguy, to enter as Claudel\nhas into regions of the soul where the love of God is at strife with the great\nhuman impulses, one would have to follow a surer guide, more authentic and\nmore constant than the mutability of the senses or the simple effusions of the\nheart.\nOf course, in these great men, the intellect already played a relatively\nimportant part, That is why I said above that from the moment when their\ngenius blossomed most gloriously, the decay of an immediate and instinctive\nart became immediately apparent.\nOne last fact must be cited to characterize this period, that is : that even\nif there was a tendency on the part of critics to awake, the critical spirit was\nstill not directly creative itself. Those who boasted of it exclusively, like\nMaurras, were unable to produce anything beautiful. Everywhere their efforts\nwere sterile. As in a certain season it is the wheat, and not the grape, that\nripens, so it seemed that the age of which we speak had sunlight only for the\nfruits of the instinct, and none for reflection. Only the offshoots of the un-\nconscious attained that life, growth, ripeness, only they were nourished by that\nsap, without which there is no work of art.\nII.\nAnd it is at this point that the war came.\nOne reads with a little astonishment in the Belfthegor of M. Benda :\n\"ft is impossible to see why the war, less able than generally believed"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2826, "texte": "to modify the character of men, should be powerful enough to transform cul-\nture and change men who take up art merely to communicate emotions to others\nfor whom art is a pleasure of the mind. One feels rather that the war should\nstrengthen them in their passion for emotionalism/'\nI should be the last to reproach M. Benda for not having taken part in the\nwar, since I myself took so little and so awkward a part, and besides, that\ntype of dispute is absolutely childish. However, if he had served in the war,\nhe would have understood how it could \" change men who take up art merely\nto communicate emotions to others for whom art is a pleasure of the mind.\"\nHe would have seen, at any rate, that it could not \" strengthen anyone in his\npassion for emotionalism/' and that, on the contrary, its whole tendency, its\nwhole movement worked towards curing us of our emotionalism.\n\" Curing \" is a euphemism in this sense, because the operation, although\nit was bound to end with some happy results, was terrible. I ask of all the com-\nbatants, of all those who suffered from the length of the war, mentally and\nphysically, if they have not the sensation of having been cruelly amputated\nof a whole part of their sensibility. We have revived, but we are not the same,\nand merely to have grown older by seven years does not suffice to explain\nthis sterility in us which even music can no longer make fruitful. Some\ncells must have been destroyed in us, a \" nervous center \" must have been\ndeadened.\nI think it is easy to see why this should have happened. The combatant\nhad several very strong elementary needs, whose satisfaction he could not dream\nof questioning : eating, drinking, sleeping, and, in the main, not feeling. Not\nfeeling, not only because of the horrible things he had to do or see, but simply\nto help him endure the endless hours, the inaction, the horrible vacuum he\nwas condemned to.\nI state as a fact that the greatest suffering of the war was the necessity for\nnot doing anything, for making the time pass. The suffering was such that\neveryone saw quickly that he could not resist it unless he tried all means in his\npower to lessen it, to neutralize it, unless he fought pain with the greatest\npossible insensibility. Everyone made himself, thus, the executioner of his\nown soul, under this rigorous trial; everyone fought desperately to kill in him-\nself the whole sweet \" charm of feeling/' formerly so delightful a self-indul-\ngence. With the same regularity with which he rid himself of \" cooties \"\nthe combatant killed all his sensations, before being affected by them. Par-\nasites as they were, or as he conceived them, they had to be exterminated like\nvermin.\nIf the war had only lasted the three months that bad been predicted,\nthis little exercise would have been without consequences. But four years"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2979, "texte": "of constant repression of one's sensibility had to result in a serious, an irreparable\nweakening of that faculty. This is exactly what happened.\nThis is the first result of the war. There is another, fortunately not wholly\nnegative. It is a commonplace to say that the combatant needs sang-froid\nand calculation. Almost all the citations for bravery ascribed these qualities\nto the recipient. And as a matter of fact, if he had received internally the \" im-\npressions \" that the circumstances offered, he would have been lost. An im-\npression is so vivid that it really prevents the inspection of an object. An im-\npression is therefore something that makes you incapable of defending yourself,\nby deceiving you as to the precise nature of the menace, and the best means\nof avoiding it. Now the combatant wanted to live, or, more exactly, he did\nnot want to die — he had then to defend himself, and thus logically he was\nled not only to react against his impressions and arrest them on the very\nmargin of his consciousness, but also to destroy them, to replace them by as\ncareful and soothing an analysis of their cause as possible.\nHis principal task was to distinguish the element of a given situation,\nin order to determine which to seize upon. His thought was above all occupied\nin the processes of attention, selection and classifying — all for the sake of sur-\nvival. He was completely dominated by a sense of the most immediate details.\nBut it wasn't even necessary to be a soldier to be subject to the same dis-\ncipline. The war forced us all into the same habits, if only because of the long\nseries of disappointments we suffered before the slightest hope came. How\noften did have to supplant our fondest plans, so hastily conceived, by an\narray of insignificant trifles, inglorious and unbeautiful! How many times\ndid we revise our dearest expectations, and submit them to the hard debasing\ninfluences of reality ! We could not have suffered so many checks to our as-\npirations, without undergoing some radical alteration,. The fact is that we\ncontracted a firm mental habit, the habit of close examination, of anafysis, of\ncomprehension.\nM. Benda asks in Belphegor how the \" vital urge \" could ever conceive\nthe desire to turn upon itself, to stop and examine itself. It is really difficult\nto see how such an impulse could ever have arisen spontaneously. But pre-\ncisely such influences worked from without as to bring to a halt the vague and\ndangerous drift of the unconscious, and to guide it by the force of the intelli-\ngence. A hand of iron impelled us to an attitude of control and reaction —\nthe hardness of external reality evoked a responsive hardness in ourselves.\nThere was a shock, we had scraped bottom. Reality, the \" objective \"\nthat we saw, formerly only as in a dream, whose \" magic \" alone, to quote\nSuares, intrigued us, gave us a sudden sharp resistance. And just as during\nthe war when an attacking party fell upon a nest of machine guns, the men"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2477, "texte": "had to take open order immediately, so our minds have had to open up,\narticulate, emerge from the confusion in order to become many-sided, active\nand shrewd.\nIn a word, the war has returned to us a sense of the non-ego (in which I\ninclude also the complex mass of our sensations) and the desire to study it and\ndescribe its organization.\nIII.\nHere I stop, astonished to see how little the present aspect of our literature,\nat first sight, corresponds to the picture I have put forward. Do we today\nsee the positive triumph of reflection and analysis ? Do we perceive many\nmasterpieces of a critical nature ? There seems to be rather a reinforcement\nof the instinctive tendency at the present time.\nWe must consider the problem carefully. The war found a complex\nstate of mind : it is altogether natural that what the war produces should be\njust as complex. The war worked on minds of very different capacities.\nThey were all changed to a certain degree, but under the modified conditions,\nthey were naturally separated from one another by the same intervals. In\nsome, the sensibility had been completely destroyed, in a few only has it been\ntranscended.\nThe spectacle that literature gives us today is at once that of a death\nstruggle and a birth.\nThe death struggle, as is natural, attracts the attention at first, occupies\nthe greater part of the stage, and involves the greatest number of actors. It\nis, nevertheless, the end of a movement that we are witnessing.\nThe creative attitude which harks back from before the war, is seen general-\nizing, systematizing itself, approaching its absolute with every step, while at the\nsame time becoming utterly sterile.\nOne of the striking facts of the after-the-war literature is the large number\nof writers and poets who attempt to free their imaginations from all internal\n\" censorship/' and open the floodgates of the unconscious. Apollinaire, who\nmodelled himself after Rimbaud, has innumerable imitators today : his influence\nhas in the first place infected the group of his immediate friends, Andre Salmon,\nMax Jacob, who like him make poetry' out of the messages transmitted by some\nsort of telegraph apparatus in the brain.\nThis intuitive type of writing had up to this time some coherence within\nitself which made it possible to follow a Blaise Cendrars, let us say, along his\nfantastic paths. But there arose a group of younger men — pitiless logicians !\n— who sought to do away with even this slight vestige of coherence."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2819, "texte": "With this we come to the extreme type of self-preoccupation which opens\nup the same mental morass in which we found the writers of before the war.\nThe fact, is, however, that we have outgrown this type of art. These young\nmen have applied themselves scrupulously to their task ; they have rejected\neverything that might restrict or impede their inspiration : but nothing comes\nof it all — the morass is silent.\nDada is dead ; but it fulfilled its destiny, which was precisely to die, and\nin dying wreak the destruction of a whole system. It was the task of Dada\nto evoke the death-struggle to which I referred.\nDada was, so to speak, the extension and the crisis of a wide-spread re-\nligion. Its adepts were priests who wished to solemnize their cult with an un-\nheard of purity, knowing all the time that their temple was empty.\nIt has by now been completely established that the unconscious lacks\nstrength and the power of guidance, that the \" heart \" of itself can no longer\nbe \" the means and the agent/' The great fatigue that the war left in our\nfaculties of perception, and especially our faculties of expression is apparent\nin all the work that these men force themselves to produce. There is something\ninexplicably dull and faded about it all which reflects the disintegration within.\nThirty \" reviews \" may still be filled with the projections of their intuition, it\nmatters little : a terrible monotony permeates them, against which even the\nforce of genius could scarcely prevail.\nThe immediate beauty of the work of a Peguy, of a Claudel, of a Suares,\ncannot be reproduced. The writer of to-day can no longer grip his reader by\nsuch fantasy or flight. Even in those who try to imitate the airy manner of\nApollinaire in his better moments, the spirit is weighted and they are brought\nback to earth.\nFrom east to west, and from north to south, there is only an enormous\ndisruption of lyrical literature. There would be occasion, indeed, for pessimism,\nif nothing were come to take its place, if the ravages of war left no compensation\nin their wake. This, pure and simple, would have been the case, if at the mo-\nment when the storm broke there had not been new seed making its first timid\nappearance, in what is virtually a renascence of the critical spirit.\nSince the war these germs have spread, the critical spirit asserted itself.\nNo movement in art ever originates in large numbers. That is why the move-\nment I see set in motion has as yet so few representatives, and may seem il-\nlusory to those who await the generalizing of a tendency before they concede\nits existence.\nCertain minds have been struck by what the war taught us of the creative\npossibilities of analysis, they have been astonished by the fact that when they\nattacked their impressions, in attempting to disintegrate them and discover"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2980, "texte": "their cause, they did not of necessity destroy them — that, on the contrary,\nperhaps that was the best way of retaining these impressions, of giving them\npermanence and even of making new ones appear.\nObliged as they were to deny their sensibility, instead of being at its mercy,\nthey perceived that from that time forward it might be of greater value to con-\ntinue resisting it. This type of recoil upon themselves, this almost aggressive\nreversion which the war had caused, made them discover a new richness in that\nsame \" heart \" they were trying to suppress.\nWhile in 1914 the exercise of the intellect gave only impersonal and languid\nresults, like those of the neo-classicists, now it seems to recover its own effec-\ntiveness and induce reality spontaneously.\nThe great example here is, as you will see, the novel of Marcel Proust :\nA la recherche du temps perdu, of which four volumes have appeared up to now. Con-\nsidering it precisely, this is hardly a direct product of the war, since it was almost all\nwritten before 1914. But it is the influence of the war that makes it coincide\nwith our state of mind and gives it suddenly so great a representative value.\nThe plan of Proust, when he first began his work, was extremely modest; he\nwanted to go over, piece by piece, his whole past experience, and crystallize it. No\nambition, at first, to move, to astonish, nor to induce an ecstasy in his reader, no\nintention to make a work of art. He simply took an attitude of reflection and remin-\niscence. Then with the mass of his memories in hand as raw material, he began\nto unravel them, to analyse them, to put all the elements into their proper order.\nHe sketched thus a movement of reaction against himself ; his mind took\nagain its own direction. He broke away from his \" vital urge \"in his desire\nto know it, understand it, and describe it adequately.\nImmediately a huge garden began to grow, to flower. There is probably\nno other work as rich, as luxuriant as that of Proust. And nevertheless it was\nconceived in a certain refusal to abandon himself.\nThis huge novel is the great literary achievement since the war, that which\nat any rate has the most to teach us and opens the widest vistas to the future.\nHere analysis is the creative agent, and provokes the imagination normally.\nWith Proust we emerge from an age of implication to enter one of explan-\nation. With him we escape the monotony of sensation, to rediscover the joys\nof intellection. In this book the truth — truth of characters and of passions,\nmoves and touches us anew. With one stroke, a whole scale of emotions becomes\npossible to us again, from sympathy to amusement, in place of the sole \" emo-\ntion/' as M. Benda would say. daughter comes into its own again ; our most\ndiverse faculties come back into play and find in turn their fulfillment.\nProust accomplished a great miracle merely by trying for so little, by op-\nposing simply the obscure impulses to which it was fashionable to yield. Be-"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2038, "texte": "cause of the combativeness of his mind, great fountains have sprung forth from\nthat very rock that the experts assured us was dry.\nIf I had had the intention of drawing a complete picture of our literature\nafter the war, I should be consider ably at fault, for its richness is far from being\nlimited by what Proust brings us. Works of great significance have seen the\nday by the side of his. Several young talents have been revealed — more\nthan one already recognized has been affirmed.\nPoetry is far from being eclipsed entirely by Dada. One poet, rather\nsolitary, but of the first rank, Paul Valery, has given us some veritable master-\npieces — Jules Romains has entered into full possession of his rare and\nharmonious gifts.\nThe novel is in full blossom. Valery has approached this form\nwith infinite delicacy and has given us thus far only a thin but precious tale,\nunder the title of Beaute, mon beau souci. Andre Gide has painted a remarkable\npicture, in the Symphonie pastorale, of less far-reaching genius perhaps than\nhis Caves du Vatican (which came out just when the war began and was for a\ntime obscured by it), but in a style minute and erudite to the nth degree. I regret\nhaving the space only to cite the names of Jean Giraudoux, Edmond Jaloux,\nPierre Hamp, Jean Schlumberger, Georges Duhamel and Pierre Mac-Orlan.\nAs for the drama, its present \" state \" is a little confused. Outside of\nthe latest plays of Claudel: Le Pain dur and Le Pere humilie, which follow after\nV Hot age, the most interesting productions are Cromedeyre-le Vieil of Jules\nRomains, and Le Cocu Magnifique of Fernand Crommelynck.\nIn concluding this very imperfect sketch, I remind the reader that my pur-\npose was only to show in what sense and along what lines the war had affected\nour minds, and to what inferences we might be directed. When I predict today\na renewal of the literature of analysis, I realize that I am anticipating the event\nsomewhat, but not so much as to consider myself a prophet.\n\n(Translated from the French of)\nJacques Rivière"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "29", "page_fin": "29", "image_debut": 31, "image_fin": 31, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Of a Day", "titre_sommaire": "Of a Day", "signature_source": "Yvor Winters", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 341, "texte": "OF A DAY\nI lower my pen to write.\nSome tall tree far off in clearest day might show\nMy breath's precision.\nI stand silently\nm/\nFor here there are no trees.\nIn mind my poems rise\nfainter than mountain bees.\nAnd clean derision\nTroubles my pen, and so is gone.\nO little gods of rock !\nI need plain quiet —\nA house like withered flowers at dawn."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "30", "page_fin": "30", "image_debut": 32, "image_fin": 32, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Drifting Deer", "titre_sommaire": "Drifting Deer", "signature_source": "Yvor Winters", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 567, "texte": "DRIFTING DEER\nYvor Winters\nOne sees far hills\nAnd thinks of deer —\nA drifting green\nOf emblematic printing\nAs are brains\nToo silent, clear.\nOne's age\nIs like these hills\nWith Socrates\nOn death.\nThe printed page\nIs still as breath.\n« Socrates. . . . Now the thing which\\moves\nanother and is by another moved, as it may\ncease to be moved, may cease also to live ;\nit is only that which moves itself, inasmuch\nas it never quits itself, that never ceases\nmoving. . »\nThe Dialogues of Pi,ato\n« . . . . it is not the\nbusiness of the gods to bake clay pots ».\nMarianne Moore"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "31", "page_fin": "40", "image_debut": 33, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "At 125 Boulevard St. Germain", "titre_sommaire": "At 125 Boulevard St. Germain", "signature_source": "Benjamin Péret ; Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2382, "texte": "AT 125 BOULEVARD ST. GERMAIN\n\nHalf-past eleven sounded from a nearby church clock. A few taxis passed\nby nonchalantly and not all of the dromedaries had gone to sleep. From a\ndistance could be seen the President of the Republic dressed in a diving appa-\nratus accompanied by the King of Greece, who seemed so young that you could\nscarcely restrain yourself from teaching him the alphabet. A young harlot\npursued them, offering her favors. Gloves rained down upon them from all\nsides, borne by the shrewd November gusts.\nAs they passed in front of 125 Boulevard St. Germain, they saw a man come\nout pushing a wheel-chair before him. In this chair a person was seated in the\nattitude of the Tired Business Man. At once the thought came that a crime\nhad been committed in the neighborhood. A bath-tub thrown from the fourth\nfloor which just crashed to their feet confirmed these suspicions.\nWhile one of them followed the mysterious man propelling the wheel-chair\nin the direction of the Boulevard St. Michel, the other passed a little pomade\nover his hair. Like a somnambulist he scaled the stairs, so long that they seemed\nto rise from the bottom of the sea. Iyittle explosions marked his passage from\nfloor to floor, and serpents glided out 011 along the rail of the stairway. A\ndrunken soldier reeling against him, nearly hurled him down all the steps. \"It\nis a brothel,\" he said to himself, and he blew his nose like a trumpet.\nAt this moment a door opened and a voice with a harsh southern accent\ncroaked : \" What is it, my dear sir ? \"\n\" I would like to see Mr. Seraphim. You known, the gentleman who\nthrows bath-tubs out of the window at half-past eleven ? \"\n\" Fourth floor to the right,\" said the voice and the door closed again with\nthe rustling of a wind-blown flame.\nHis emotions became intense : would they get to the heart of the matter\nat once, and would the singular person who threw bath-tubs out of the windowr\nexplain to him why summer followed spring ? He had time to let a tear roll\nover the cold sweat of his face and then knocked at the door to which he had\nbeen directed. The crowing of a cock was heard, followed by a mad bellowing.\nThe bellowing had scarcely stopped when he heard the sound of running water,\nas if a faucet had been left open by chance, but no human voice made itself\nheard.\n\" Isn't it funny ? he muttered between his teeth and knocked again."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2537, "texte": "A gnashing of teeth followed by the same mad bellowing was the only response.\nA few seconds passed, during which he seemed to hear a veritable gale outside.\nHe knocked on the door for a third time, but at this there was an absolute si-\nlence. He was perplexed. And yet, he mused :if a bath-tub had fallen at his\nfeet there was surely someone who had thrown it. And here he w7as, at the\ndomicile of the person who had launched it, and the door remained closed to\nall appeals.\nHe paused for a moment to despatch a fly, and made up his mind firmly.\nHe fell back two or three steps and then threw himself against the door. It\ngave way at the first impact like glass, and at once the sweet odor of freshly-\ncut hay came to him. He stood stupefied for a moment and then burst into\ntears. He could hardly have told why. Perhaps it was that the odor reminded\nhim of certain bygone yeais of his youth, where other stairways had been the\nterrain of fond experiences.\nBy the light of a match he could distinguish the room into which he had\npenetrated. An expanse of verdant lawn, well kept and freshly trimmed, greeted\nhis eyes. In the center of it was a bed of hyacinths, evenly pruned and topped\nby a flowery mimosa. Over in a corner, against the wall, a man seemed to be\nsleeping.\nWhy, at this moment did a human voice sing as from a phonograph ?\nf< Sur les bords de la Riviera\nOu murmure une brise embaumee\nChaque femme a reve la bas\nD'etre belle et adoree\nWhy, again, did a voice murmur into his ear, as if confiding a secret, the\nHoly Words with which Jesus consecrated the Eucharist : \" Eat of this bread,\nmy body, drink of this wine, my blood.\"\nAnother match revealed the presence of four plants of an unknown species\nin the four angles of the room. As he approached one of them with his lighted\nmatch, the one to his right to be specific, it suddenfy lit up and illuminated the\nroom with a feeble glow.\n\" I have my doubts about all this, \" he said to himself, \" and I have no\ndoubt that other strange things will soon begin to happen/'\nHe lit up one by one all of the plants, which proved to be nothing but\narums. A soft light, as if dimmed by a dusty glass filled the room.\nHe went to the man, who remained dead to the world through all this house-\nmoving : \" Well, well, my fine fellow ! \"\nMidnight sounded, and the light pressure of his hand upon the man's shoulder,\nso I take it, at least, caused a little trickle of milk to flow from his eyes. The man\nremained motionless, howTever. He touched his hand, felt it warm, but noticed that"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2825, "texte": "it clung to the knee on which it had been placed. He wanted to shake the other hand,\nbut it was as immobile as the first one. He took out his penknife and made a\nlittle incision in the right fist of the mysterious person. The flesh turned red,\nbut there was not a drop of blood. He aimed his revolver at the eye and fired.\nA hole appeared where there had been an eye and milk spouted forth abundantly,\nmarking a long white course on the dinner-jacket which the man wore.\nHe noticed a crumpled up newspaper near the man. He unfolded it : it\nwas an old copy of the \" Journal\", of which the part that had the date was torn\naway. He searched for it and found it between the man's legs. The date was :\nJanuary 27, 1903. \" What a strange coincidence ! \" said the light, to itself.\nHe has been sleeping there ever since that time... And he had killed him with\na revolver-shot through the eyes ?\n\" There is nothing more for me to do here,\" he said to himself, and he head-\ned for the door to the right which gave on another room that had no windows,\nbut was brilliantly lit up.\nIn this hall long tables were ranged parallel with little arm-chairs on each\nside of them. On these little arm-chairs sat stenographers typing nervously\non their machines, and the papers discharged automatically from the machines,\nglided along the whole length of the tables and disappeared somewhere.\nHis entrance not having been noticed, he approached the nearest one of\nthe typists and asked : \" Mr. Seraphim, please.\"\n\" In five minutes you shall see his cigarette and his younger sister,\" was\nthe reply.\nIyet us return to the King of Greece whom we left to follow the strange per-\nson pushing a wheel-chair toward the Boulevard St. Michel.\nNear the rue Danton an automobile came near spilling the wheel-chair\nand its singular occupant. They continued on their way, crossed the Boulevard\nSt. Michel, as far as the quays and from there into the Jardin des Plantes.\nOne could scarcely have expected the gates to be open at this late hour ;\nyet- just as they reached the gate it opened automatically as if a hidden button\nhad been pressed. Then it closed immediately, and in spite of all his efforts,\nthe King of Greece could not open it again.\nA closed gate was not, however, a great obstacle for him, accustomed as\nhe had been since childhood to the most violent outdoor sports: football, bicycling,\nautomobiling, aviation, jumping, swimming. He was as familiar with the\nvaulting pole as he was with the Evangelists or the prehistoric ages. In a few\nseconds he had scaled the high fence and found himself inside the park.\nThe trail of the wheel-chair, which had remained luminous, strangely enough,\nguided him as surely as if he had had the farcical equipage right before him.\nA few herons sought to impede his course, but the pastilles which lie gave\n3"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2659, "texte": "them, soon cleared his road of them. An antelope also appeared to assure him\nthat she had not forgotten him. An enormous crab clutched at his foot,\nwith the intention of making off with him to some god-forsaken spot.\nThe trail led to the bears' pit, and he reached it at the same time as the man\nin the chair.\nA scarecrow who guarded the bears' den nodded his head as a sign of acquies-\ncence, and a white flag fell to the bottom of the bears' pit and spread out there.\nAt once, a heart, a molar-tooth, a complete set of intestines, a horse's mane,\na package of cocoa, a lady's chemise and a stuffed bird were projected, one after\nanother on the white blanket, in such wise as to form the seven angles of a\nregular polygon.\nA heap of human excrement, falling not far from there set in motion the seven\nhitherto inert, objects, and they witnessed a frenzied dance by the heart,\nthe molar-tooth, the horse's mane, the intestines, the package of cocoa, the lady's\nchemise, and the stuffed bird. The movements became accelerated as if these\nseven objects were chasing each other in the hope of getting together. The\nlight of a powerful projector swept the scene for a second without interrupting\nit. Great birds, vultures no doubt, awakened by the noise came out and soared\nabove the pit but dared not descend into it.\nThe rumbling of an automobile, growing louder with every moment, revealed\nthe approach of the machine. It stopped for a few seconds before the pit, and\na veiled and gloved woman took out a folded flag which was by her side and\nthrew it down on the sheet. The mad dance stopped instantaneously.\nThe man in the chair during the whole spectacle, which might well have\nlasted for several years, kept passing his hand across his forehead wThich was\nvery moist.\n\" Good Heavens,\" he said, \" It is actually the 25th. of June 1922 ? \"\nHe remained pensive for a moment and then he said in a loud voice :\n\" First. An honest intelligent and disinterested judge, a pretty, young,\nvirtuous, and charming woman, a discreet, sincere, and considerate-friend —\nall these are rare treasures which however exist and can be found.\n\" Secondly. Those who govern are as the celestial orbs which glitter bril-\nliantly but never enjoy repose at night.\n\" Thirdly. Victory is glorious when its end is to mortify the enemy, but\nit becomes an abomination when it oppresses the miserable.\n\" Fourthly. It takes cleverness to play the role of a scoffer, and very little\ncommon sense to undertake it.\nFifth. Nothing is given as freely and as easily as advice.\nSixth. Inexplicable Man! in whom is united so much vileness with so much\ngrandeur, so many virtues with so many vices."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2637, "texte": "Seventh. He who can renounce ambition frees himself at once of much\nanguish, of long vigils, and of crime.\nEighth. A Greek philisopher, when asked under what government men\ncould live with the most safety and the least danger, replied : One in which virtue\nhas many friends, and vice has either very few partisans or none at all.\nNinth. One never gets enough fruit.\nTenth. If you only had a little patience, I could make you understand all.\nEleventh : One may differ with a friend and not love him any the less.\nDifferences in sentiments serve to clarify, and friendship bears contradiction.\nTwelfth. The pleasure of vengeance is not tasted with impunity ;it soon\nbecomes clear that this cruel pleasure was not made for the heart of man, and\nthat one punishes oneself in the act of hating.\nThirteenth. If you reproach yourself, others agree with you only too\nreadily ; if you praise yourself, they don't agree with you at all.\nFourteenth. It is said of the French that they above all seem to under-\nstand well the brief span of man's life; for, in Prance, everything is done with\nsuch despatch, that one might say that the French believe they have only a\ndav to live.\nFifteenth. At an evening of \" Madame X \" the guests amused themselves\nby discovering ingenuous differences between objects. \" What difference,\"\nasked the lady, \" can there be between me and a watch ? \" \" Madame, \" replied an\nEnglish ambassador, \" A watch tells the hour, but before you one forgets all\nsense of time\".\nSixteenth. Some one was telling another man the insulting things that\nhad been said of him — \" They would never have been said,\" he was told\n\" if they had not known that you were so eager to hear them.\"\nSeventeenth. Cato was asked by someone, why, since he had deserved\nso well of the republic, there had never been any statues erected in his honor.\n\" I much prefer,\" said he\"to have this question put to me, than to be asked\nwhy monuments were set up in my honor at all.\"\nThe man, who had up to this remained motionless in his chair, quite suddenly,\nrose, went toward the pit, vaulted the balustrade and jumped down on to the\nsheet. The bears, who were evidently waiting for nothing better than that,\ncame out Jof their cages and greeted him calmly. The man seemed not at all\nsurprised and began to take off his clothes.\nWhen he was entirely naked, he was observed to robe himself in a thick\nand woolly fur, and on his head there was a whole multitude of little worms,\nall wrhite. They crawled down his neck, his back, his legs and all over him ;\nit was the coiling and writhing of the little wrhite things which were trying\nto escape from the sheet."}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2731, "texte": "A certain geometrical figure haunted the mind of the man who had remained\nat the edge of the pit: the square of a hypothenuse is equal to the sum of the\nsquares of the two other sides.\nThe King of Greece scarcely knew what to think of the spectacle which un-\nrolled before his eyes. He thought of the book-maker who had advised him\nto bet on Trinity in the fifth race, and had made him lose 50 louis.\nOnly one course lay open to him : without being observed, he left the Jardin\ndes Plantes. Scarcefy, had he reached the quays, when he heard someone hawk-\ning : \" Intran / Third edition ! \" He bought the paper and read :\n\" Rome. — For several days a man has been cared for at a hospital in Rome,\n\"whose identity cannot be established and who declares that he is an armorer\nof Venice. He is afflicted with the sleeping-sickness and his conditions is said\nto be very grave \".\nHe trembled from head to foot ; was it to be Rome or Paris ?\nAll the way from the street to the cafe by medium of the striped awning,\nlayers of ground bone became stratified, crystalized where they lay. Burglars\nwith eyes of confetti found the height of their desire in rummaging their fingers\nthrough their hair. The children ate roaches, the hats ate the children and the\nbelts stretched out so far that they were lost to the sight, the limbs being sub-\nmerged. He hailed a taxi, and asked to be taken back to the park. There,\namong the fishes who awaited piously the Day of Resurrection he sat down\nand fell asleep.\nMr. Seraphim, still, did not come, and the President of the Republic began\nto believe that the hours no longer contained 60 minutes. He spent the inter-\nvening time in binding a little chain out of beads of cameo, but this senile occu-\npation did not leave him entirely satisfied.\nFor a moment he thought of killing several stenographers in order to open\ntheir bodies and thus finish his anatomical studies, left so incomplete ever since\nhis aft air with Gaby Berliet, the dancer of the Folies Bergeres who had given\nhim, at once the sweetest and the bitterest memories of his life: the sweetest,\nbecause she had been a ravishing mistress ; and the bitterest, because of —\nwell, the regular injections of mercury.\nAs he stood there, hesitating as to what to do next, a very effeminate young\nman entered, and made a sign to one of the stenographers, who followed him\nthrough the door opposite to the one by which he had entered. This disturbed\nhim, and he followed the couple.\nHe traversed a labyrinth of corridors in pursuit of them, and reached a\nvast swimming pool where the bodies of seven or eight women floated about,\nstretched straight out, on their backs.\nMost gallantly, the young man invited his companion to disrobe, and offered"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2180, "texte": "her a bathing-suit to swim in. She only smiled at him in response, and little\nwheels, with teeth and tiny springs not unlike those of watches, began prancing\nabout on all sides of the pool. After they had rolled all around the hall and\nbumped against the walls, the ceilings, they tumbled into the pool and little\nsparks flew off as they hit the water.\nThe first woman dived in and re-appeared a few yards off, swimming grace-\nfully. Lobsters pursued her and tried to catch up with her. She swam faster\nand faster, and the clocks which were placed at the four corners of the pool\naccelerated their movement to a rhythm which kept pace with hers.\nSuddenly the air became saturated with dust. The President of the Re-\npublic choked, breathing became more and more difficult in this insalubrious\natmosphere. The President of the Republic lit a cigarette and then fainted.\nWhen he came to, the sun was playing on the water and little toy boats\nwere floating gaily about the pool. The woman who had been swimming and\ndiving so beautifully, was now floating on her back, just as straight, just as naked\nas the others. Hundreds of lobsters sought nourishment in their abdomens,\nin their stomachs, and one of them disappeared almost completely into the\nthorax of the beautiful diver.\nTWO WOMEN WOUNDED\nTWO POLICEMEN KILLED.\nThese words, in large black letters suddenly appeared on one of the walls\nfollowed almost immediately by :\nStock Market.\nBruay 1820 1815 Grosny .... 695 675\nIviasonoff 345>6 3457 Rl. Dutch . . 17660 17400\nPart Her 3875 3875 Shell 226 224\nChino . . . . 293 300 Ray 160 159\nVielle Montagne * 757 750 Brazil 137 137\nColumbia 277 267 Colombia . . . 580 580\nOmnium 409 412 Mexico .... 1887 1897\nStua Rom 435 434 Monaco ... 3175 3195\nHe kept looking at his finger-nails for a while, wondering which horse he\nwas going to bet on.\nDown through the little port-holes in the ceiling, whence the sunlight\ncame, there poured a flood of pollen upon the water which soon became covered\nwith a slender yellow layer of it. The President of the Republic arose and went\ndown to the edge of the water which he touched with his hand. It was very\ntepid ; about 28 degrees (centigrade)."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2885, "texte": "He no longer remembered what purpose he had had in coming here, and\nhe resolved to go back to the hall of the stenographers. He broke open a door,\ndescended a stairway, then another, passed through interminable corridors, tra-\nversed a vast hall, and then found himself all at once in a park where trees of\nthe Northern climate were mingled with cactus, palm, bamboo, banana and other\ntrees, whose names he was not familiar with. From the branches of these trees\nwere suspended a multitude of different objects : violins, clocks, vases, razors,\nbrushes, trunks, silk stockings, belts and acetylene lamps.\n\" Merry Christmas, merry Christmas ! \" sang incessantly the voices which\nissued from every tree-trunk. He took the first path in sight, and soon reached\na little clearing, where he saw the King of Greece in the company of an orang-\noutang eating figs which were heaped up before them.\nHe had to admit that this was too much for him. A little locomotive came\nthrough the forest, drawing some low freight-cars after it. As it passed through\nthe clearing it slowed up a bit, and they all jumped aboard and were speedily\nbrought to the gate of a large match factory. The gate swung heavily open,\nand the train rode into the courtyard which had little manganese trees planted\nall over it. They got out of the train and went into the factory\nWhat was their astonishment at sight of a machine which transformed\nboards into matches with a monstrous precision ! Seeing an attendant, they\nasked him, \" Mr. Seraphim, please ? \"\n\" This way gentlemen, cross the workshop, take the first door to the right\nand go up the stairway. You will find him in the second office to the left \".\nAt this an angel emerged from a queer machine, whose usage they could\nhardly understand, and said to them :\n\" ist. A French lady reproached the Ambassador of Siam for the large\nnumbers of women in his country. ' Madame/ he replied, 'if Siam had such\nlovely and charming women as you, there would only be one left/\n\" 2nd. An armourer who was regarding the seven holy paintings of Ive\nPoussin criticised the picture that represented marriage : ' I can quite under-\nstand,' said he ' that it is difficult to make a good marriage even in a painting/\n\" 3rd. Peter the Great, Czar of Russia, upon seeing the portrait of Riche-\nlieu in the Sorbonne cried ! ' O great man ! If you were still alive, I would give\nyou half of my empire to teach me how to rule the other half/\n\" 4th. lyouis 111, formerly the Duke of Orleans, when asked to avenge\nthe insults heaped upon him in the past, replied that the King of France ought\nnot seek revenge for the insults meted upon the Duke of Orleans.\n\" sth. The Arabs once besieged a city. The officer in command offered his men\na large sum of money, if one of them would place a pile of fagots before a part\nof the wall that was exposed to the enemy fire. No or|.e stepped forward"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2492, "texte": "to offer his services, and the astonished general reproached them bitterly for\ntheir lack of courage. 'We would dare anything ' retorted one of his heroes,\n' if a price had not been put on our bravery/\n6tli. It is bread that I desire, and not money.\n\" 7th. Don't whine, you shall have it.\n\" Bth. It is their fault; if it were ours, we should have admitted it.\n\" 9th. Men have been killed before, and we have not seen the last\nof it.\n\" 10th. It was two o'clock in the morning when I went to sleep.\n\" nth. He is the wickedest and greediest man in the world, and therefore\nis he hated.\n\" 12th. Good God ! What a hypocrite this man is ! \"\nThe President of the Republic and the King of Greece felt a bit dubious\nabout it all, but this did not cause them to give up their project.\nMr. Seraphim received them very pleasantly. They explained to him\nfrankly the object of their visit.\nMr. Seraphim nodded his head and seemed to be in complete accord with\nthem, when they had finished what they had to say.\n\"Eleven-thirty,\" he replied, \"is located at about the 42nd. degree la-\ntitude, South. It is warm, it is cold, it is rainy, it is windy, snow falls, lightning\nflashes, storms arise, leaves fall, clocks stop, the earth trembles, cows urinate,\nlead melts, shoes get lost, cigarettes ignite themselves, and in short, men die\nlike flies. Butterflies tremble with fear, for no keys turn in key-holes.\n\" I have just picked up a pin that fell to the floor : it is my man.\n\" I regard the lines of my hand : it is my garden.\n\" My knee puffs out like a bladder : it is my arm-chair.\n\" How many bears does it take to make a door ? Certainly less, than it\ntakes women to make a mirror. If scissors sing : we know nothing, for great\nis our distress, and our illusions are cut up into little bits of postage stamps.\nTell them that I no longer eat, drink, sleep, nor live, that I content myself\nwith finding among varnished boards an indefinable mystery, without taste or\nodour. Two and two make four.\n\" I awake in the morning at seven o'clock. Ido a little sewing with a\ngoose-quill. I cover up my dead mother with the petals of poppies, and every\nmorning at the same time, I see a little capsule come out of each of her fingers and\neach of her ears, burst soon after and give off the odor of lemon.\n\" There are 110 chairs, there are no bath-tubs. I drink, I sleep, I eat, I\nlive, and I assure you :\n\" That nothing is more pleasant to the mind than the light of truth.\n\" Crime is more daring than virtuousness."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 793, "texte": "\" Anger is a movement of the soul, as impetuous as compassion is sweet;\nbut the one degrades man, as much as the other ennobles him.\n\" The art of living with others is as illusory as the Philosopher's Stone,\nor legal astrology.\n\" The simplicity of nature is more appealing than all the adornments of art.\n\" I have as much money as you have.\n\" She is very pretty.\n\" If you ever meet anywhere a woman, be she young or old, who talks\nto you of Napoleon 111, offer her a cigar and take her away to Spain to be cured.\n\" Gentlemen, your shirts hang downward, and your bodies follow suit.\nI can see your organs which are decorated with fringed butterflies. I have it\non good authority that you are hungry and I invite to partake of my modest\nrepast.\"\n\nBenjamin Péret\n(Translated by Matthew Josephson)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "41", "page_fin": "41", "image_debut": 43, "image_fin": 43, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Peripatetics VI", "titre_sommaire": "Peripatetics VI", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1165, "texte": "PERIPATETICS VI\nMatthew Josephson\nIt was but Sunday : sitting and walking and talking it is all\nthe same. We were all waiting for a lady. The sun the wind the\nrain were sitting and walking and talking.\nAll unsuspecting I was seated on the terrace and was left for a\nmoment by the unknown gentleman beside me (evil in motion) whose\ncane you know was left too . . . gingerly balanced against the bench —\nour bench for a moment when two minutes later what does the stick\ndo but slide down and strike me at the knee ? The evil that men do\nlives after them . . . the evil that men do after them . . . the evil that\nmen do after. I stalk about in a world of illhumour and illhumour\nstalks me. Make way! I am young-and-smiling.\nBut the taxi the beggar the horses the sailor the policeman the\nold man the coal man the octogenarian the flower lady ? Way !\nBlack soul shall I ever outlive the light stinging rebuff of that stick\nin that moment of warm delicious relaxation in front of my beer be-\nfore friend world ? . . . the quick cool rap that flicked my life away\nthat soured the beer that spoiled my stomach that twisted my\nfaith in you and the street and the afternoon."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "42", "page_fin": "42", "image_debut": 44, "image_fin": 44, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Vegetable Classic : To H. G.", "titre_sommaire": "Vegetable Classic : To H. G.", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1520, "texte": "VEGETABLE CLASSIC\nTo H.G.\nMatthew Josephson\nIt is my view that Spinach\nmay be remarked upon for aggressiveness ;\none may well regard Tomatoes as uncouth but honest ;\nthat Lettuce is an indifferent diurnal matter;\nAsparagus not to be sneered at; Beets and Carrots\nperambulating hand in hand, — but of the Onion\nthat eminent vegetable ! — let it here be spoken of\nwith reverence, of its Protean and ever succulent manners of charm.\nAnd then these various herbs and plants\n(ranged upon the table) fell to a great row and quarrelling ;\nthe Onions-Beans-Tomatoes, etc. joining arms in loud controversy\nwith the Bettuce-Beets-Spinach faction, the latter crying out:\n\" It is true, that our master is a foul carniverous beast,\nthat from his mouth at night comes the stench of the flesh he has\ntorn with his teeth and consumed !\nIt is of little import to him, whether we are canned or fresh from the\nearth !\nHis wife is a vegetarian at heart, but she fears him ...\"\nIt was in broad mockery, then, the others retorted :\n\" Were it not for us, whence his violence and energy ?\nIt is well that he spurns you, Oh darlings of withered spinsters ;\nwe are as a boon to him, we are the blood and fire of his body ! \"\nAnd the plates and serving dishes were vibrant upon the table,\nclattering about with no little fear, what of all the clash and bitterness\namong their contents . . .\n\" My dear, I shall bring you a marvelous brown nut-bread, tomorrow,\ndark,- whole-wheat bread, with raisins and citrons and fat almonds\nin the heart of it! \""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "43", "page_fin": "43", "image_debut": 45, "image_fin": 45, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Woodcut", "titre_sommaire": "Woodcut", "signature_source": "André Derain", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 21, "texte": "ANDRE; Dkrain\nWoodcut"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "44", "page_fin": "54", "image_debut": 46, "image_fin": 56, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Six Characters in Search of an Author", "titre_sommaire": "Six Characters in Search of an Author", "signature_source": "Luigi Pirandello ; Edward Storer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2086, "texte": "SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR\nACT III.\n\nWhen the curtain goes up again, it is seen that the stage hands have shifted\nthe bit of scenery used in the last part, and have rigged up instead at the back\nof the stage a drop with some trees and one or two wings. A portion of a fountain\nbasin is visible. The Mother is sitting on the Right with the two children by\nher side. The Son is on the same side, but away from the others. He seems\nbored, angry and full of shame. The Father and the Step-Daughter are also seated\ntowards the Right front. On the other side (Left) are the actors, much in the posi-\ntions they occupied before the curtain was lowered. Only the Manager is standing\nup in the middle of the stage, with his hand closed over his mouth in the act of\nmeditating.\nThe Manager (shaking his shoulders after a brief pause). Ah yes : the\nsecond act. Leave it to me, leave it all to me as we arranged, and you'll\nsee it'll go fine.\nThe Step-Daughter. Our entry into his house (indicates Father) in\nspite of him (indicates the Son).\nThe Manager (out of patience). Iyeave it to me, I tell you.\nThe Step-Daughter. Do let it be clear, at any rate, that it is in spite of\nmy wishes.\nThe Mother (from her corner, shaking her head). For all the good that's\ncome of it... .\nThe Step-Daughter (turning towards her quickly). It|jdoesn't matter.\nThe more harm done us, the more remorse for him.\nThe Manager (impatiently). I understand ! Good Heavens ! I under-\nstand. I'm taking it into account.\nThe Mother (supplicatingly). I beg you, Sir, to let it appear quite plain\nthat for conscience sake I did try in every way . . .\nThe Step-Daughter (interrupting indignantly and continuing for the Mo-\nther). ... to pacify me, to dissuade me from spiting him. (To Manager). Do\nas she wants ; satisfy her, because it is true. I enjoy it immensely. Anyhow,\nas you can see, the meeker she is, the more she tries to get at his heart, the\nmore distant and aloof does he become.\nThe Manager. Are we going to begin this second act or not ?\nThe Step-Daughter. I'm not going to talk an}' more now. But I"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2299, "texte": "must just tell you this : you can't have the whole action take place in the gar-\nden as you suggest. It isn't possible.\nThe Manager. Why not ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Because he (indicates the Son again) is always\nshut up alone in his room. And then there's all the part of that poor dazed-\nlooking boy there which takes place indoors.\nThe Manager. Maybe. On the other hand, you will understand we\ncan't change the scene three or four times in one act.\nThe Leading Man.\" They used to once.\nThe Manager. Yes, when the public was up to the level of that child there.\nThe Leading Lady. It makes the illusion easier.\nThe Father (irritated). The illusion ! For Heaven's sake, dont say il-\nlusion. Please don't use that word, which is particularly painful for us.\nThe Manager (astounded). And why if you please ?\nThe Father. It's painful, cruel, really cruel, and you ought to under-\nstand that.\nThe Manager. But why ? What ought we to say then ? The illusion\nI tell you Sir, which we've got to create for the audience . . .\nThe Leading Man. With our acting.\nThe Manager. The illusion of a reality.\nThe Father. I understand ; but you, perhaps, do not understand us.\nForgive me ! You see .. . here for you and your actors, the thing is only —\nand rightly so . . . a kind of game . . .\nThe Leading Lady (interrupting indignantly). A game! We're not\nchildren here, if you please. We are serious actors.\nThe Father. I don't deny it. What I mean is the game or play of\nyour art which has to give, as the gentleman says, a perfect illusion of reality.\nThe Manager. Precisely.\nThe Father. Now, if you consider the fact that we (indicates himself and\nthe other five Characters), as we are, have no other reality outside of this illusion . . .\nThe Manager (astonished, looking at his actors, who are also amazed).\nAnd what does that mean ?\nThe Father (after watching them for a moment with a wan smile). As I\nsay vSir. That which is a game of art for you is our sole reality. {Brief pause.\nHe goes a step or two nearer the Manager and adds) : But not only for us ; you\nknow, by the way. Just you think it over well. [Looks him in the eyes).\nCan you tell me who you are ?\nThe Manager (;perplexed, half smiling). What ? Who am I ? lam myself.\nThe Father. And if I were to tell you that that isn't true, because you\nare I."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2712, "texte": "The Manager. I should say you were mad. {The actors laugh).\nThe Father. You're quite right to laugh : because we are all making\nbelieve here {to Manager). And you can, therefore, object that it's only for a\njoke that that gentleman there (indicates the Leading Man) who naturally\nis himself has to be me, who am on the contrary myself — this thing you see\nhere. You see I've caught you in a trap. (The actors laugh).\nThe Manager {annoyed). But we've had all this over once before. Do\nyou want to begin again ?\nThe Father. No, no. That wasn't my meaning. In fact, I should\nlike to request you to abandon this game of art {looking at the Leading Lady\nas if anticipating her) which you are accustomed to play here with your actors\nand to ask you seriously once again : who are you ?\nThe Manager {astonished and irritated, turning to his actors). If this fellow\nhere hasn't got a nerve ! A man who calls himself a character comes and asks\nme who I am !\nThe Father {with dignity, but not offended). A character, Sir, may always\nask a man who he is. Because a character has really a life of his own, marked\nwith his especial characteristics, for which reason he is always \" somebody\nBut a man — I'm not speaking of you now — may very well be \" nobody\nThe Manager. Yes, but you are asking these questions of me, the boss,\nthe manager. Do you understand ?\nThe Father. But only in order to know if you, as you really are now,\nsee yourself as you once were with all the illusions that were yours then, with\nall the things both inside and outside of you as they seemed to you — as they\nwere then indeed for you. Well, sir, if you think of all those illusions that mean\nnothing to you now, of all those things which don't even seem to you to exist\nany more, while once they were for you, don't you feel that — I won't say these\nboards — but the very earth under your feet in sinking away from you when\nyou reflect that in the same way this you as you feel today, all this present\nreality of yours is fated to seem a mere illusion to you tomorrow ?\nThe Manager {without having understood much, but astonished by the specious\nargument). Well! Well! And where does all this take us, anyway ?\nThe Father. Oh, nowhere. It's only to show you that if we {indicating\nthe Characters) have no other reality beyond the illusion, you too must not count\novermuch on your reality as you feel it today, since, like that of yesterday,\nit may prove an illusion for you tomorrow.\nThe Manager {determining to make fun of him). Ah, excellent ! Then\nyou'll be saying next that you with this comedy of yours that you brought\nhere to act are truer and more real than I am.\nThe Father (with the greatest seriousness). But of course ; without doubt."}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2763, "texte": "The Manager. Ah, really ?\nThe Father. Why, I thought you'd understood that from the beginning.\nThe Manager. More real than I ?\nThe Father. If your reality can change from one day to another .. .\nThe Manager. But everyone knows it can change. It is always changing,\nthe same as anyone else's.\nThe Father (with a cry). No, sir, not ours. here ! This is the\ndifference. Our reality doesn't change ; it can't change. It can't be other\nthan what it is, because it is already fixed for ever. It's terrible. Ours is an\nimmutable reality which should make you shudder when you approach us if\nyou are really conscious of the fact that your reality is a mere transitory and\nfleeting illusion, taking this form today and that tomorrow, according to the con-\nditions, according to your will, your sentiments, which in turn are controlled by\nan intellect that shows them to you today in one manner and tomorrow . . . who\nknows how ? Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of life that\nnever ends, nor can ever end, because if tomorrow it were to end . . . then\nwhy, all would be finished.\nThe Manager. Oh, for God's sake will you at least finish with this philoso-\nphizing and let us try and shape this comedy which you yourself have brought\nme here ? You argue and philosophize a bit too much, my dear Sir. You know,\nyou seem to me almost, almost .. . (Stops and looks him over from head to foot).\nAh, by the the way, I think you introduced yourself to me as a ... shall we say\n\" character, \" created by an author who did not afterwards care to make a drama\nof his own creations.\nThe Father. It is the simple truth, sir.\nThe Manager. Nonsense. Cut that out, please ! None of us believes\nit, because it isn't a thing, as you must recognize yourself, which one can believe\nseriously. If you want to know, it seems to me you are trying to imitate the\nmanner of a certain author whom I heartily detest — I warn you — although I\nhave unfortunately bound myself to put on one of his works. As a matter\nof fact, I was just starting to rehearse it, when you arrived. (Turning to the\nactors). And this is what we've gained. Out of the frying-pan into the fire.\nThe Father. I don't know to what author you may be alluding, but\nbelieve me I feel what I think, and I seem to be philosophizing only for those\nwho do not think what they feel, because they blind themselves with their own\nsentiment. I know that for many people this self-blinding seems much more\n\" human \", but the contrary is really true. For man never reasons so much\nand becomes so introspective as when he suffers, since he is anxious to get at\nthe cause of his sufferings, to learn who has produced them, and whether it is just\nor unjust that he should have to bear them. On the other hand, when he is"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2778, "texte": "happy, he takes his happiness as it comes and doesn't analyse it, just as if hap-\npiness were his right. The animals suffer without reasoning about their\nsufferings. But take the case of a man who suffers and begins to reason about\nit. Oh 110 !it can't be allowed. Let him suffer like an animal, and then —\nah yes, he is \" human \" [\n9\nThe Manager. Look here ! look here ! You're off again philosophiz-\ning worse than ever.\nThe Father. Because I suffer, sir. I'm not philosophizing ; I'm crying\naloud the reason of my sufferings.\nThe Manager [makes brusque movement as he is taken with a new idea).\nI should like to know if anyone has ever heard of a character who gets right\n.out of his part and perorates and speechifies like you do. Have you ever\nheard of a case ? I haven't.\nThe Father. You have never met such a case, sir, because authors, as\na rule, hide the labour of their creations. When the characters are really alive\nbefore their author, the latter does nothing but follow them in their action, in\ntheir words, in the situations which they suggest to him, and he has to will them\nthe way they will themselves, for there's trouble if he doesn't. When a character\nis born, he acquires at once such an independence even of his own author, that\nhe can be imagined by everybody even in many other situations where the au-\nthor never dreamed of placing him, and so he acquires for himself a meaning which\nthe author never thought of giving him.\nThe Manager. Yes, yes, I know this.\nThe Father. What is there then to marvel at in us ? Imagine such\na misfortune for characters as I have described to you : to be born of an author's\nfantasy, and be denied life by him, and then answer me if these characters left\nalive, and yet without life, weren't right in doing what they did do and are\ndoing now after they have attempted everything in their power to persuade him\nto give them their stage life. We've all tried him in turns, I, she (:indicating the\nStep-Daughter) and she (indicating the Mother)„\nThe Step-Daughter. It's .true. I too have sought to tempt him,\nmany, many times, when he has been sitting at his writing table, feeling a bit\nmelancholy, at the twilight hour. He would sit in his armchair too lazy to\nswitch on the light, and all the shadows that crept into his room were full of\nour presence coming to tempt him (as if she saw herself still there by the writing\ntable, and was annoyed by the presence of the actors). Oh, if you would only go\naway, go away and leave us alone — mother here with that son of hers — I with\nthat Child — that Boy there always alone — and then I with him (just hints\nat the Father) — and then I alone, alone ... in those shadows. (Makes a sudden\nmovement as if in the vision she has of herself illuminating those shadows she wanted"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2465, "texte": "to seize hold of herself). Ah! my life! my life! O, what scenes we\nproposed to him, and I tempted him more than any of the others !\nThe Father. Maybe. But perhaps it was your fault that he refused to\ngive us life, because you were too insistent, too troublesome.\nTiib Step-Daughter. Nonsense! Didn't he make me so himself ?\n(Goes close to the 'Manager to tell him as if in confidence). In my opinion he aban-\ndoned us in a fit of depression, and disgust for the ordinary theatre as the public\nknows it and likes it.\nThe Son. Exactly what it was, sir; exactly that.\nThe Father. Not at all! Don't believe it for a minute. Iyisten to me !\nYou'll be doing quite right to modify, as you suggest, the excesses both of this\ngirl here who wants to do too much, and of this young man who won't do any-\nthing at all.\nThe Son. No, nothing.\nThe Manager. You too get over the mark occasionally, my dear sir, if\nI may say so.\nThe Father. I? When? Where?\nThe Manager. Always. Continuously. Then there's this insistence of\nyours in trying to make us believe you are a character. And then too, you\nmust realty argue and philosophize less you know, much less.\nThe Father. Well, if you want to take away from me the possibility\nof representing the torment of my spirit which never gives me peace, you will\nbe suppressing me : that's all. Every true man, sir, who is a little above the\nlevel of the beasts and plants does not live for the sake of living, without knowing\nhow to live, but he lives so as to give a meaning and a value of his own to life.\nFor me this is everything. I cannot give up this just to represent a mere\nfact as she (indicating the Step-Daughter) wants. It's all well for her, since\nher \" vendetta \" lies in the \" fact \". I'm not going to do it. It destroys my\nraison d'etre.\nThe Manager. Your raison d'etre ! Oh we're going ahead fine! First\nshe starts off, and then you jump in. At this rate, we'll never finish.\nThe Father. Now, don't be offended ! Have it your own way, provided,\nhowever, that within the limits of the parts you assign us each one's sacrifice\nisn't too great.\nThe Manager. You've got to understand that you can't go on arguing at\nyour own pleasure. Drama is action, Sir, action and not confounded philosophy.\nThe Father. All right. I'll do just as much arguing and philosophizing\nas everybody does when he is considering his own torments.\nThe Manager. If the drama permits. But for Heaven's sake man, let's\nget along and come to the scene.\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2873, "texte": "The Step-Daughter. It seems to me we've got too much action with, our\ncoming into his (indicating Father) house. You said before you couldn't\nchange the scene every five minutes.\nThe Manager. Of course not. What we've got to do is to combine and\ngroup up all the facts in one simultaneous close-knit action. We can't have it as\nyou want, with your little brother wandering like a ghost from room to room, hiding\nbehind doors and meditating a project which — what did you say it did to him ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Consumes him Sir, wastes him away.\nThe Manager. Well, it may be. And then at the same time, you want\nthe little girl there, to be playing in the garden . . . one in the house, and the\nother in the garden : isn't that it ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Yes, in the sun, in the sun. That is my only pleasure\nto see her happy and careless in the garden after the misery and squalor of the\nhorrible room where we all four slept together. And I had to sleep with her —\nI, do you understand ? — with my contaminated body next to hers, with her\nfolding me fast in her loving little arms. In the garden, whenever she spied me,\nshe would run to take me by the hand. She didn't care for the big flowers,\nonly the little ones and she loved to show me them and pet me.\nThe Manager. Well then, we'll have it in the garden. Everything shall\nhappen in the garden, and we'll group the other scenes there. (Calls a stage\nhand). Here, a back-cloth with trees and something to do as a fountain basin.\n(Turning round to look at the back of the stage). Ah, you've fixed it up. Good!\n(to Step-Daughter). This is just to give an idea of course. The Boy, instead of\nhiding behind the doors will wander about here in the garden, hiding behind\nthe trees. But it's going to be rather difficult to find a child to do that scene\nwith you when she shows you the flowers. (Turning to the Youth). Come\nforward a little, will you please ? Let's try it now! Come along ! come along !\n(Then seeing him come shyly forward, full of fear and looking lost). It's a nice\nbusiness this lad here. What's the matter with him ? We'll have to give him\na word or two to say. (Goes close to him, puts a hand on his shoulders, and leads\nhim behind one of the trees). Come on ! come on ! Let me see you a little !\nHide here .. . yes, like that. Try and show your head just a little as if you\nwere looking for someone .. . (Goes back to observe the effect, when the Boy at\nonce goes through the action). Excellent! fine! to Step-Daughter). Sup-\npose the little girl there were to surprise him as he looks round and run\nover to him, so we could give him a word or two to say ?\nThe Step-Daughter. It's useless to hope he will speak as long as that\nfellow there is here ~ . (Indicates the Son). You must send him away first.\nThe Son (jumping up). Delighted ! delighted ! I don't ask for anything\nbetter. (Begins to move away?)."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2575, "texte": "The Manager (at once stopping him). No ! No ! where are you going,\nWait a bit!\n(The Mother gets up alarmed and terrified at the thought that he is really about\nto go away. Instinctively, she lifts her arms to prevent him, without, however, leaving\nher seat).\nThe Son (to Manager who stops him). I've got nothing to do with this\naffair. Iyet me go please ! Iyet me go !\nThe Manager. What do you mean by saying you've got nothing to do\nwith this ?\nThe Step-Daughter (calmly, with irony). Don't bother to stop him ;\nhe won't go away. ,\nThe Father. He has to act the terrible scene in the garden with his mother.\nThe Son (suddenly resolute and with dignity). I shall act nothing at all.\nI've said so from the very beginning. (To the Manager). me go !\nThe Step-Daughter (going over the Manager). Allow me ? (Puts down\nthe Manager s arm which is restraining the Son). Well, go away then, if you want\nto ! (The Son looks at her with contempt and hatred. She laughs and says)\nYou see, he can't, he can't go away. He is obliged to stay here, indissolubly\nbound to the chain. If I who fly off when that happens which has to happen\nbecause I can't bear him — if I am still here and support that face and expression\nof his, you can well imagine that he is unable to move. He has to remain here,\nhas to stop with that nice father of his and that mother whose only son he\nis. (Turning to the Mother). Come on, mother, come along ! (Turning to Manager\nto indicate her). You see, she was getting up to keep him back. (To the Mother,\nbeckoning her with her hand). Come on! come on! (Then to Manager). You\ncan imagine how little she wants to show these actors of yours what she really\nfeels, but so eager is she to get near him that .. . there you see, she is willing\nto act her part (and in fact, the Mother approaches him, and as soon as the Step-\nDaughter has finished speaking, opens her arms to signify that she consents).\nThe Son (suddenly). No ! no ! If I can't go away, then I'll stop here,\nbut I repeat : I act nothing.\nThe Father (to Manager excitedly). You can force him, Sir.\nThe Son. Nobody can force me.\nThe Father. I can.\nThe Step-Daughter. Wait a minute, wait. . . First of all, tne baby\nhas to go to the fountain . . . (Runs to take the Child and leads her to the fountain).\nThe Manager. Yes, yes of course ; that's it. Both at the same time.\n(The second Lady Lead and the Juvenile Lead at this point separate themselves\nfrom the group of actors. One watches the Mother attentively; the other moves\nabout studying the movements and manner of the Son whom he will have to act)."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2194, "texte": "The Son (to Manager). What do you mean by both at the same time ?\nIt isn't right. There was no scene between me and her. {Indicates the Mother).\nAsk her how it was !\nThe Mother. Yes, it's true. I had come into his room .. .\nThe Son. Into my room, do you understand ? Nothing to do with the\ngarden.\nThe Manager. It doesn't matter. Haven't I told you we've got to group\nthe action ?\nThe Son (observing the Juvenile Lead studying him). What do you want?\nThe Juvenile IyEad. Nothing. I was just looking at you.\nThe Son (turning towards the second Lady Lead). Ah ! she's at it too.\nTo re-act her part (indicating the Mother).\nThe Manager. Kxactly. And it seems to me that you ought to be grate-\nful to them for their interest.\nThe Son. Yes, but haven't you yet perceived that it isn't possible to live\nin front of a mirror which not only freezes us with the image of ourselves, but\nthrows our likeness back at us with a horrible grimace ?\nThe Father. That is true, absolutely true. You must see that.\nThe Manager (to second Lady Lead and Juvenile Lead). He's right.\nMove away from them !\nThe Son. Do as you like ! I'm out of this.\nThe Manager. Be quiet you, will you, and let me hear your mother !\n(To Mother). You were saying you had entered .. .\nThe Mother. Yes, into his room, because I couldn't stand it any longer.\nI went to empty my heart to him of all the anguish that tortures me . . .\nBut as soon as he saw me come in .. .\nThe Son. Nothing happened. There was no scene. I went away ; that's\nall, I don't care for scenes.\nThe Mother. It's true, true. That's how it was.\nThe Manager. Well now, we've got to do this bit between you and him.\nIt's indispensable.\nThe Mother. I'm ready .. . when you are ready. If you could only\nfind a chance for me to tell him what I feel here in my heart.\nThe Father (going to Son in a great rage). You'll do this for your mother,\nfor your mother, do you understand ?\nThe Son (quite determined). I do nothing.\nThe Father (taking hold of him and shaking him). For God's sake do as\nI tell you ! Don't you hear your mother asking you for a favour ? Haven't\nyou even got the guts to be a son ?\nThe Son (taking hold of the Father). No ! No ! And for God's sake stop"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2175, "texte": "it, or else .. . (General agitatation. The Mother, frightened, tries to separate\nthem).\nThe Mother (pleading). Please! please!\nThe Father (not leaving hold of the Son). You've got to obey, do you\nhear.\nThe Son (almost crying from rage). What does it mean this madness you've\ngot ? (They separate). Have you no decency that you insist on showing every-\none our shame ? I won't do it. I won't. And I stand for the will of our\nauthor in this. He didn't want to put us on the stage after all.\nThe Manager. Man alive ! You came here.\nThe Son (indicating Father). He did. I didn't.\nThe Manager. Aren't you here now ?\nThe Son. It was his wish, and he dragged us along with him. He's told\nyou not only the things that did happen, but also things that have never hap-\npened at all.\nThe Manager. Well, tell me then what did You went out of\nyour room without saying a word ?\nThe Son. Without a word. So as to avoid a scene.\nThe Manager. And then what did udo ?\nThe Son. Nothing .. . walking in the garden .. . (hesitates for a moment\nwith expression of gloom).\nThe Manager (coming closer to him, interested by his extraordinary reserve).\nWell, well. . . walking in the garden .. .\nThe Son (exasperated). Why on earth do you insist ? It's horrible.\n(The Mother trembles, sobs and looks towards the fountain).\nThe Manager (slowly observing the glance and turning towards the Son with\nincreasing apprehension). The baby ?\nThe Son. There in the fountain .. .\nThe Father (pointing with tender pity to the Mother). She was following\nhim at the moment...\nThe Manager (to the Son anxiously). And then you .. ,\nThe Son. Iran over to her; I was jumping into drag her out when\nI saw something that froze my blood . . . the boy there standing stock still with\neyes like a madman's watching his little drowned sister, in the fountain (The\nStep-Daughter bends over the fountain to hide the Child. She sobs). Then .. .\n(A revolver shot rings out behind the trees where the Boy is hidden).\nThe Mother. (With a cry of terror runs over in that direction together with\nseveral of the actors amid general confusion).\nMy son ! my son (Then amid the cries and exclamations one hears her voice).\nHelp ! help !"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 490, "texte": "The Manager (pushing the actors aside while they lift up the Boy and cany\nhim off). Is lie really wounded ?\nSome Actors. He's dead ! dead !\nOther Actors. No, no, it's only make believe, it's only pretence.\nThe Father (with a terrible cry). Pretence ? Reality sir, reality!\nThe Manager. Pretence ? Reality ?To hell with it all! Never in mv\n•/\nlife has such a thing happened to me. I've lost a whole day over these people,\na whole day !\nCurtain\n\nLuigi Pirandello\n(Translated By Edward Storer)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "55", "page_fin": "55", "image_debut": 57, "image_fin": 57, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Hula-Hula", "titre_sommaire": "Hula-Hula", "signature_source": "William Carlos Williams", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 272, "texte": "HULA-HULA\nWilliam Carlos Williams\nI should like to come upon\nsome of the girls from\n\" Tangerine \"\ndoing their stunt\nnaked\nin their hair\non Brighton Beach\none of these fine mornings\nthat the horned sun\nmight laugh\nand I see him\nfresh from the seas\nshake his broad shoulders"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "56", "page_fin": "56", "image_debut": 58, "image_fin": 58, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "Woodcut", "titre_sommaire": "Woodcut", "signature_source": "André Derain", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 20, "texte": "André Derain\nWoodcut"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "57", "page_fin": "76", "image_debut": 59, "image_fin": 78, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "At the Doors", "titre_sommaire": "At the Doors", "signature_source": "Boris Pilniak ; Louis Lozowick", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2526, "texte": "AT THE DOORS\n\n(A word of introduction. This story forms a connecting link in the chain of stories\nabout the Splendid Face of the Revolution. And it is a story that tells about the snow\nof yesteryear melted under the fence).\nSo likewise ye, when ye shall\nsee all these things knozv that it\nis near, even at the doors.\n(vSt. Matthew, 24, 33)\nI.\nSome years ago the merchant's wife Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina had a pump-\ning station built at the foot of Sibirna Mountain. The station was nicknamed\nafter its owner, Olga Nicolayevna. No water was being pumped any more but\nthe whistle still blew regularly at 8 o'clock in the morning, and at 2 and 4 in\nthe afternoon. Whenever the morning whistle blew at the foot of the mountain,\nIvan Petrovitch Bekesh, who lived at the other end of the city, would wake\nup, and, filled with an inexpressible sadness in his half drowsy state, would\nbegin to weave dreams about the beauty of human life and the splendor of human\nspring. Ivan Petrovitch had once passed two days on the Volga, and the\nwhistle of Olga Nicolayevna seemed to him exactly like that of \" Caucasus Mer-\ncury\". Who, indeed, does not know the sweet melancholy of the Volga in spring\nand the longing its cool, red mornings inspire to embrace the whole world ?\nIvan Petrovitch would get up, drink his classical carrot-tea, and go to work at\nthe Finance Section. The life of Ivan Petrovitch was dull.\nOlga Nicolayevna stood at the foot of the mountain, and on the moun-\ntain itself, beyond the ramparts, near the Kremlin Gates, was the building for-\nmerly known as the Social now as the Communist Club. At the 2 o'clock whistle,\nDoctor Audrey Andreyevitch Veralsky dropped in for lunch. In the old days,\nthe bar tender wrould call his boy before the doctor's arrival arid say : \" Hey,\nkid, make it fresh.\" And the boy would use his tongue to refreshen the\ncaviar sandwiches which he handed the doctor together with a glass of vodka*\nNow the doctor was served an empty glass which he would fill from a specia\nvial, always kept in his vest pocket. But as ever before, when lunch was over'\nthe doctor would shout through the window and across the street : \" Ilya>\nfetch the carriage,\" and drive forth to his patients.\nChristmas.\nOwing to the holiday, the whistle of Olga Nicolayevna did not blow at 4.\nThe real Olga Nicolayevna, Mrs. Jmukhina had died from terror two years pre-\nviously when her furs and smoked geese were requisitioned. Hand-written\nposters hung on the walls of the club, And the bar tender knew that the orches-"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2635, "texte": "tra of the Cavalry Division would play on Christmas night at the ball of the\nVoyenkom (i) to celebrate his wife's birthday, and that on New Year's eve\n(old style) the Voyenspetz (2) of the Division would arrange an out of town\npicnic. On Christmas Eve everybody went to the Church of St. John the Baptist\nto meet the new Church warden, the Commander of the Division, comrade\nTanatar. Comrade Tanatar, a handsome Caticasian, dressed in a leather jacket\nand boots, was selling candles and passing around the plate.\nThe entire population was busy killing poultry, exchanging shirts for\nbutter, baking pies with beetroot instead of sugar. A week before the holi-\ndays, all drug stores in the city were cleaned empty.\nFrost and storm.\nIn the deadstill brick house of Doctor Veralsky, on the Sibirna Mountain,\nonly two rooms were fit for habitation. All the others were extremely cold\nand frost-covered. On the first day and night Olga, the doctor's daughter,\n%\nsat watching the weather outside. The frost was playing with its cold diamonds ;\nthe sky was an intense blue, and the moon seemed lost in it. Morning came\nyellow and wax-like. The sun was yellow like wax, yellow like the face of a\ncorpse. The barometer fell to 32. Ilya said the birds were falling frozen to\nthe ground. In the evening some one called up to say that a snow-storm was\ncoming from the Uial. It soon came sweeping along, dancing, howling, groaning,\nshrieking above the fields and the city, around the Sibirna Mountain, and in\nthe empty parlor. The only place in the house where one could support the\nweather was the corner near the stove. Olga Veralskaya saw now the revolution\nas a snow-storm and the people in it as mere snow-flakes. It seemed to Olga\nthat the snow-storm had killed her. Dressed in a fur coat and top boots, she\nsat huddled near the stove, tired of thinking, tired of reading.\nNevertheless, with the storm raging outside, she sat reading the diary of\nIvan Petrovitch Bekesh.\nFive image-lamps burned before Olga Veralskaya. The couch stood facing\nthe stove and was all cluttered with fur-coats. The tiles of the stove shone\ndimly. And behind tjie wall the wind was blowing in the empty rooms.\nJuly 11, 1913.\nAt the ball of Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina.\nHaving cleaned our faces of the make-up, we went there together with Volyns-\nkaya. We found the party in full swing. The old and middle-aged occupied two\nrooms ; our own company chose one far from indiscreet eyes. Samuel Tanatar\nsat beside me and Volynskaya opposite me. No sooner had I drunk the first glass\n(1) Voyenny Kommissar (Military Commissary)\n(2) Voyenny Specialist (Military Specialist)."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3033, "texte": "of vodka than V olynskaya came prof erring advice : \" Don I drink too much.\" She\nhad promised to spend the evening with me and allow me to accompany her home\nif I did not get drunk. Before half an hour was over everything was topsy-turvy.\nSome one shouted: \" Wine! \" Some one burst out singing. A roar went up.\nPlates began flying... My organism refused to drink any more. I began to feel\ntipsy. In order not to become completely drunk, I said to Volynskaya : \" Well,\nwho is going to see you home Tanatar or I?\" She was just then sitting beside him,\nand they were preparing to go home together. \"I do not really know \" she said\nand added: \" But you are already tipsy, Vania \". \" Alright \" I answered and went\ninto the next room where I found Doctor Veralsky, the father of my beloved Olga.\nAs soon as he saw me he made me sit down and silently treated me to a glass of some\nstrong drink. I drank it to spite Volynskaya, and at once became dead drunk.\nMy friends took me into the garden, gave me some soda water to drink, and went\naway. I sat there for a while, crying over my sorry state and thinking of Olga\nVeralskaya, the only woman I truly loved. Why, for Heaven's sake, did I ever ,\ndrink so much and spoil my whole evening — and spoil everything ? I did not\nremain alone for long. Volynskaya came, sat down beside me, put her arms around\nme and began preaching morality : \" One must not drink so much.\" In full\npossession of my wits I answered: t( lam not to blame, it is all Samuel's fault.\nI heard you arranging to go home together. And now lam far too drunk to do\nwhat we intended .\" She pressed close to me and embraced me. I was kissing\nher hands repeating : \" Forgive me, forgive me,\" and begged her not to leave\nme, adding: \" I know that this is the last time I see you.\" At these words I tried\nto break away from her and Tanatar (the latter had been present all this time).\nShe sought to hold me back, but I escaped. Tanatar caught me and made me sit\ndown beside her again. She took me into her arms and said : \" Vania, if you\nonly love me, you won't commit suicide,\" and clinging passionately to me she press-\ned her lips to mine and remained motionless. Oh, how much pity there was in this\nkiss, how much despair, frenzy, passion, how much unselfish love ! Minutes pass-\ned, each an eternity and each rich in memories {of Olga Veralskaya). Yes...\nthat kiss gave me the illusion of happiness ; mere illusion, it is true, but still of\nhappiness. When Volynskaya left (she went to dance) I noticed Tanatar and drove\nhim from me shouting: \" Rascal, scamp, you shattered my happiness ! \" I even\nbegan to cry. \" I won't have anything to do with you.\" Tanatar washed my head\nand gave me some soda- <water to drink. I felt sick. The boys tried to put me to\nbed, but no, by Heck ! I would not have anybody except Volynskaya. She helped\nme to reach the bed (/ could not walk alone) and it'as on the point of leaving when\n/ detained her and sang:\n\" Please don't go away, please stay with me,\nI feel so happy, so light-hearted, \""}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2770, "texte": "There she stood before me. I saw her splendid sensual body, her thick golden\nhair (ithe chignon) her snow white teeth framed with red voluptuous lips — and\nfelt an electric current shoot through me... Yes, happiness was so near, so near\n[Tanatar got it)... Oh happiness!\"\nJuly 12, 1913.\nWoke up at one in the afternoon and the first man I-saw, right in front of\nme, was Vassia Fedoroff. He slept in a curious position; his head was on\nthe pillow and his entire body on the dirty floor. We looked into the mirror and\n— Good Lord, what a sight ! My clothes were all crumpled, spewed over in various\nparts, and covered with feathers from top to bottom. Having performed the morn-\ning ritual, we went into the garden. We met Tanatar coming from the other end\nwhere he had probably been sleeping. He looked a terrible sight. On the front,\nhis clothes bore everywhere traces of vomiting ; on the back they were thickly covered\nwith dirt, as if he had been dragged by his feet over the ground. After Tanatar,\nwe met the girls coming from the pavilion where they had been sleeping. Soon\neverybody was present and Heavens, we did laugh ! The lunatic Fedoroff was the\nfirst to speak. Hardly able to stand on his feet, he had sneaked into the pavilion\njust as the girls were turning in after the ball. He bade them all good night, then\nseizing somebody's dress, jacket, and hat, he put them on and took to dancing. A\nyoung chap, scarcely known to anyone, had spent the entire evening with the hostess\nOlga Nicolayevna Jmukhina in a carriage outside, where they had supper and wine,\nspiced abundantly with frequent kissing and smutty talk. Then the girls told their\nversion of the story. They Had scarcely undressed when Sammy Tanatar broke\nin dead drunk announcing his intention of sleeping with them. The girls, of course,\nall got frightened and hid under the blankets. All their exhortations and prayers\nfor him to leave the pavilion were of no avail. Then, disregarding all rules of de-\ncency, the girls jumped out of b'ed and threw him out of the pavilion by main force.\nImmediately after Tanatar's departure came the lunatic Fedoroff, but everybody\nonly laughed at him because he was nice and behaved more decently than Tanatar.\nHappiness. Happiness and laughter.\nA lialf forgotten nursery tale is revived in some corner of her mind. If\nyou plunge a sharp knife into the funnel of whirling snow you will kill the grand-\ndaughter of the snow-storm — the snow-flake. A drop of her cold white\nblood will fall on the ground and this blood will bring happiness — happiness.\nIf one could only believe this tale, go out into the snow-storm — waylay the\nsnow-flake dancing carelessly its round dance — and attain happiness —\nBut what if one believes in nothing ?\nHappiness. Happiness."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2184, "texte": "And Olga Veralskaya knew : she was that snow-flake ; she had been killed.\nThe storm was blowing, sweeping onward, howling, raging. The fur coats\nwere lying on the couch. The five image lamps were burning, the tile was shining\ndimly. Doctor Veralsky was heard snoring. The diary had fallen in her lap ;\ntears were falling in her lap. Tears for him. Her head had fallen in her hands.\nBut what if one believes in nothing ? What if they had killed her like a\nsnow-flake ? No, not they — he had killed her. The story of Olga Veralska-\nya's life was simple : high school, college, the Red Front, where one could neither\nunderstand nor condemn, then he . . . A dark military hut, the smell of horses,\na dim lantern on the wall, a horse's head, black eyebrows, black eyes, red lips —\npain, pain, horror, horror, horror, disgust. That was all.\nThe diary had fallen in her lap ; tears were falling in her lap. The image\nlamps were burning. Her eyes were lanterns in an autumn rain. Anxiety. Pain.\nDoctor Andrey Andreyeviteh Veralsky, dressed in a fur coat and felt\nboots, came out of his room yawning, and got near the stove.\n\" Olenka, I've brought some mutton. Shall we treat ourselves to some\nmutton roast or use it for soup ? Tell Ilya about it.\"\n\" Father, what did Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina die from ? \"\n\" She died from a shock. Got frightened when her house was searched.\nThey found her dead under her bed. Why do you ask that ?\n\" What was she like ? \"\n\" What sort a person you mean ? Well, rather depraved but kind-hearted\nWon't tell, then, Ilya about the meat ?\nDoctor Andrey Andreyeviteh yawned sweetly.\nII.\nOn Christmas Eve a special messenger called at certain houses and deli-\nvered the following confidential note :\nv \" and gentlemen :\no If you wish to have the following goods :\n84j | Sugar, refined 1000 rbls per lb.\n\"8 * Sugar, pulverized 800 » » »\n0 $ Mutton 450 »_ » »\nd Pork 700 » )> »\n•H tO O\n1* | S Meat, Tcherkask 225 » » »\nS0 a 8 Meat, Russian 100 » » »\n— you will please state the quantity desired to our messenger who will call\nat 6 p. m. (old time) and the specified goods will be promptly delivered to you.\nNo deposit is required. We trust your honesty.\nYour Friends.\""}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2561, "texte": "Christmas Eve.\nA big bright star was to rise on Christmas Eve to unite all men — but no\nstar could yet be seen. The mother of Doctor P'ederoff was busy making pies\nand was happy because a Christmas star would rise in the evening, because\nthere would be pelmenis (i) in the house, and, for once, no potatoes at all, and,\nabove all, because Vassia was her only son — her all. And there would be\nnapkins, and a table cloth, and kerosene oil, and sweets, and pelmenis — the\nbest pelmenis in the city.\nJoy mixed with deepest sorrow — was the mother's; sorrow mixed with\nkeenest joy — was the son's. The Doctor chopped wood and heated the stove\nfor his mother, and his heart was overflowing with a fervent tenderness, with a\nfervent love for his mother. His mamma, his mammy, troubled and happy at\nthe same time, was fussing around the pelmenis, sweets, and the mutton pie.\nOn Christmas Night a ball was given at the Voyenkom's. There was an\norchestra, waiters, geese, pork, cognac, cavalry, jjonka (i), cakes, pies, candy\ntableaux vwants, games of forfeit, charades, flying post, speeches. It was a joint\nmeeting of the third element, i.e. the Intelligentzia, and the representatives of\nthe Communist Party.\nBut nothing special was happening on Christmas at the house of Ivan\nPetrovitch Bekesh, for if some people could and did find various provisions\nin the starving city, Bekesh was completely helpless. Together with his wife,\nmother, god-mother, and child he was forced to live on potatoes which, although\nincluding all his rations up to July, were in just sufficient to end the\nstarving family's days by certain death in spring.\nEarly on Christmas Eve Doctor Fedoroff and the writer lakov Kamynin\nstepped into see Ivan Petrovich Bekesh. In the blue twilight they came,\nwalking in the crisp snow along many side-streets. Skirting the fields they came\nthrough the suburbs and past houses buried in snow to the roof. They found\nIvan Petrovitch playing vingt-et-un with his wife, mother, and god-mother.\nHe took his guests into his study containing a double-bed, a Japanese fan, and\na table with postal cards arranged in symetric order. Kamynin who nearly\nreached up to the ceiling, sat down without removing his hat. Ivan Petrovitch\nknew why the writer and the doctor had come. Still he said :\n\" Well, how did you blow in ? It's quite an age since I saw you.\"\n\" On foot \" answered Kamynin, \" Yes.\"\n\" Ha, ha, ha,\" Bekesh snickered \"of course.\"\n\" Have a smoke ; the makhorka (2) is quite strong : how are you getting on ?\n(1) A sort of meat pie.\n(2) A cheap tobacco."}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1928, "texte": "a Hm... poor business. We live and eat, though, truth to tell, there is\nprecious little to eat/'\nSilence. Smoke.\n\" We came to see you about the \"\n\" Oh, I see, about the diary. All right, I have not changed my mind,\nbut... \"\n\" Then agree to sell it ? \"\n\" I have not changed my mind, but, really, of what use is it to you ? Amuse-\nment, I suppose.\n\" I need it \" said Karnynin and drew the smoke.\n\" It is for Olga Veralskaya, for my dear Olenka \" — Doctor FederofE was\nthinking with acute pain.\n\" Yes, I suppose, as material for your writing.\"\n\" That's it, I need it as material.\"\n\" But allow me to ask, lakov Sergeyevitch, what you found interesting\n• • j >}\nin it.\n\" Well, know... Quite a lot, yes.\"\n\" Are you going to write a novel around it ? \"\n\" Well, Ido not know. Perhaps.\"\nThey remained silent.\n\" How about the diary ? \"\n\" I am afraid I can not give it to you at this price.\"\n\" What price ? \"\n\" The one agreed upon. I am selling it to you only because you are a writer.\nI would not sell it to any one else.\"\n\" But nobody else would buy it except as wrapping paper.\"\n\" You are right. You are absolutely right. Remember, however, that I\nput all my soul into it, all my life.\"\n\" May be.\"\n\" And you want it for a thousand roubles ! \"\nDoctor Fedoroff looked at the trembling hands of Ivan Petrovich Bekesh\nand at his pale forehead. Ivan Petrovitch sat unnaturally erect, fidgeting as\nif he were on strings. And in the movements of his body, in the sweat on his\nforehead there was something loathsome, something cringing, calculating. lakov\nKamynin, who had written fifteen books, and who looked like another Don\nQuixote, sat there with his bony legs spread wide apart, with his hat on, smoking\nwearily, speaking slowly and also wearify. \" Olenka, Olenka, dearest, precious \"\nthought Fedoroff and his heart was filled with love and pain.\n\" Show me the diary, anyway.\"\nIvan Petrovitch turned to get up, then remained in his place."}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2389, "texte": "f< Upon my word, lakov Sergeyevitch, Ido not know where it is. Parts of it\nare in the lumber room and you have other parts. I,et us speak of something else/'\n\" Nonsense ; let us have done with that first/'\n\" One moment : I am going to look for it.\"\nIvan Petrovitch got under the table and took out a bundle of copy books.\n\" How disgusting all this. Very disgusting. And what if one believes in\nnothing \" — thought Doctor Pedoroff and turned his glance away. Kamynin\nrolled up another cigarette and began to undo the bundle.\n\" Have another smoke ! The makhorka is quite strong... Well, how much,\nthen ?\n\" There is some of my poetry here, too.\"\n\" All right, how much do you want for the whole thing ? \"\n\" Oh, you want to know the price ? Upon my word I did not intend selling\nit. I really do not know.\"\n\" What human wretchedness \" thought Doctor Fedoroff. \" And what if\none believes in nothing ? Olga Veralskaya believes in nothing, and yet her comb\nis sewn up carefully with cotton so that no one may notice it is broken. And\nmother, mammy dear, is busy making pelmenis in the city. And all for him, for Doc-\ntor Fedoroff. But the diary is for Olga Veralskaya.\" Then the Doctor said aloud :\n\" Listen, it is getting late. I have a headache. Hurry up with that\nbusiness.\"\nIvan Petrovitch was watching Kamynin turn the pages, and suddenly his\nface brightened.\n\" All right, I accept your offer ; only, please, leave me this copy book. It\nis quite small; it contains the story of my love for Olga Veralskaya. Her own\nnotes on the margin are a precious memory for me. My first love. It is nothing\nto you. But to me her notes are most important. She wrote them in pencil.\nLeave them here.\"\n\" Yes, I can leave them,\" said Kamynin.\n\" No, no, take them too,\" said the doctor with emotion.\n\" Leave them, doctor, \" said Kamynin ; \" it's a trifle.\"\n\" Vassia, you are the friend of my childhood days, leave them with me \" —\npleaded Bekesh.\n\" All right, it's all the same to me, all the same. Still lam very sorry \" —\nsaid Doctor Fedoroff. \" All right.\"\n\"My soul. And so cheap ! \" — this from Bekesh.\nAnd again the two walked silently through side streets, in the deep snow,\nin the blue twilight. Only the red light in the West had now gone out, and the\ntwilight was driving the starry Christmas nails into the firmament. A beautiful\nwoman was coming towards them. She was wrapped in a shawl and two pails"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "65", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2362, "texte": "were hanging from a beam across her shoulders. Ivan Sergeyevitch looked\nintently at her and stopped, spreading his legs wide apart — which made him\nlook like Don Quixote and a pair of scissors at the same time. Then he said :\n\" Have a smoke... There is beauty even in pain. What a beautiful woman.\nYes... and do you know, I've got three poods (i) of cod-liver oil and potatoes,\nand I can go on living and cultivating beauty for two years. I must write a\nbook. I have written fifteen books already and each about a different woman.\nMy wife, I think, is living with Tanatar. What does Olga Veralskaya really\nrepresent ? She is very beautiful. What a beautiful woman — the one with\npails ! \"\n\" It is the wife of Bekesh \" — said Fedoroff.\n\" Maybe. But Bekesh is already selling his diary and I have still plenty\nof cod-liver oil.\"\n\" lakov Sergeyevitch, are you not afraid ? \"\n\" I am, but I must write the book.\" — Kamynin added that he had beside\npotatoes and cod-liver oil also some denatured alcohol. Then the two separated.\n\" Kamynins wife was absent. Keeping his hat and coat on, Kamynin\nfound an old sword, peeled some potatoes with it and cooked them. He was\ncrouching on the floor, and as he went into his work his mouth twisted con-\nvulsively to one side. He drank some denatured alcohol, some cod-liver\noil, and soon fell asleep. His face now bore a calm and bright expression, though\nhis lips were still nervousl}7 contracted.\nAnd Doctor Fedoroff had pelmenis. There were also pies, napkins, a big\nlamp, and his mother was fussing about and repeating :\n\" Eat, Vassenka, eat, my darling, have some more, my boy.\"\nThe food was nice, but there were not enough pelmenis to appease his hunger.\nAnd his mother had been too busy to do her hair up for Christmas or to remove\nher old apron.\nBut all over the earth people were celebrating the holiday when Satan cast his\nspell over the earth for the last time before the coming of spring, sunlight, and joy.\nA note was brought to Doctor Fedoroff.\n\" The Soviet of the Workers' and Peasants' Deputies of the village Popovka\nCertificate\nThis is to certify that the refugee from Popovka, citizen Anton lusofat\nPanashtchiuk wants to be vaccinated against catching the cholera on his jour-\nney. His mother, who is in the city, wishes the same.\nFor the County Soviet\nPresident I. Ptitzyn.\n(i) Pood — forty Russian pounds.\n5"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "66", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2668, "texte": "III.\nAt Christmas people usually dress in their best clothes, go visiting their\nfriends, retire at four in the morning, make merry, organize soirees, five o'clock\nteas, balls, make love and feel reborn as it were, though in reality they remain\nthe same ; they suffer exactly as they did before or dodge suffering — also as\nthey used to do. On this particular Christmas day everybody went to the Com-\nmunist Club. All day long comrade Tanatar was driving through the city in\nhis troika (i) giving rides to every girl he knew.\nAnd all night long Tanatar, the handsome Caucasian, Tanatar, lay like a\nhuge tired cat before the holy images in the empty house of his father. The\nimage lamps were burning in front of him, the silver of the ikons was shining\ndimly. Comrade Tanatar lay there crouching as if ready to leap, and his eyes,\ndeep-set under the eyebrows, intense black spots on his dark thin face, seemed\nfrenzied with the yellow reflection from the image-lamps. His wife, pale and white,\nappeared on the threshold and said noiselessly :\n\" Get up, Samuel.\" And Tanatar pressed more closely to the floor in mad-\ndening agonizing fear. Once, at the front beyond the Volga, Tanatar stepped\naccidentally on a black lizard. Its bowels leaked out, its eyes started from\nits head ;if Tanatar's wife had seen that lizard then, she would have noticed\nthat Samuel's eyes on this Christmas night were exactly like the eyes of the li-\nzard on that day in the steppe.\n\" Get up, Samuel/' His wife, all white, was wandering that night through\nthe dark rooms. She passed to the kitchen where the hilarious orderlies were\nplaying treeleestneek (2). In the corridor one could distinguish by the light of\nthe smoking night lamps, saddles, swords, rifles, uniforms, shoulder straps all\nthrown together in great disorder. It smelled of horse sweat.\n\" Get up, Samuel.\"\nThe snow-storm was raging outside — the storm which told Olga the stoiy\nof little Grandchild snow-flake. It must indeed have been a witch's spell. It\nwas almost impossible to move about that night. The wind swept down from\nthe roofs, made somersaults, whirled in a fury, blew from the devastated fields.\nThe snow was heaving like a sea-wave. Instead of walking one was almost\nforced to crawl through the snowy dimness, the shrieking, groaning, howling\nwhirlwind, the white obscurity, the white deadly song. A.nd on this night\nthree people were hovering about the house of Andrea Veralsky on the Sibirna\nMountain. Tanatar left his house, and felt at once as if the white witch the snow-\nstorm had sunk her icy hands into his neck. Tanatar drew his head in and his\n(1) Team of three horses.\n(2) Trefoil, a game of cards."}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "67", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2617, "texte": "birdlike face with its aquiline nose stuck out prominently. And again it seemed\nthat the man, like some beast, was ready for a leap. Up to his waist in the snow\nTanatar ploughed through it, crossing side-streets, turning corners, until he\nfinally reached the invisible house of the Veralskys. Nothing could be seen\ntwo steps ahead. The storm was sweeping down from the mountains and\nthe steppes, flying at the houses with a strident cry. Some one came right\nupon him.\nThe tempest almost drowned the words :\n\" Who is there ? \"\n\" The Commander of the Cavalry Division — is this Doctor Fedoroff ? \" —\nTanatar shrunk still further into himself, and Fedoroff did not know whether\nthe cry that followed was the voice of Tanatar, the howling of the tempest,\nor the work of his own feverish brain :\n\"He is watching Olga Veralskaya. Olga is mine, I won't give her up.\nIyook out for Tanatar — Doctor ! He will kill you/'\nThey separated but met again, frightened, and having met, noticed a third\nperson. It was a white woman leaning against a fence. And when they had\npassed her, Tanatar bent over Fedoroff and whispered in his ear :\n\" That is my wife. My wife. Green sickness. She follows me every-\nwhere ; she knows everything but is silent, always silent. Bloodless. Doctor\nFedoroff, Vassia, what an empty existence ! Vassia, there is nothing worth\nliving for. lam no better than a beast, uncultured, ignorant. And my wife,\nalways silent, but knowing everything. She says that we must love man ;\nwe must love the worst examples of man — even Ivan Petrovitch Bekesh.\nWe have forgotten man.\"\nThey crossed two side-streets, and met Bekesh. Ivan Petrovitch was stand-\ning near a curbstone on which he had hurriedly placed a package. Having\nrecognized them as friends, he shouted gaily :\n\" You certainly frightened me. I have ruined myself to buy some bread\nfor Christmas. lam carrying it in the dark so that nobody will take it away\nfrom me.\"\nIn this snow-storm everybody came to the house of lakov Kamynin the\nwriter. The guests drank tea out of soup plates, peeled potatoes with an old\nsword, sent for vodka, and played chemin defer amid the shrieking of the storm,\nthe clatter of plates, and outbursts of laughter. All through the night and the\nfollowing day, the writer lakov Kamynin and the voyenospetz Tanatar remained\nstanding at the old round table ; they could not play otherwise. Oil-lamps\nwere burning till the morning. The table was cluttered with cards, thousand-\n\\\nlouble notes, glasses, plates, potatoes, tobacco. Tanatar's orderly went\ntwice to ask Tanatar's wife, all pale and white, for regimental cash. Others,"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "68", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2284, "texte": "having left the table, lay down on the sofa, to get np after an hour's nap and re-\nsume playing. The women left the room at daybreak and came back at noon.\nThe room seemed like the faces of the players, haggard and drawn ; the air\nwas dense with smoke and charged with alcohol. The mind, exhausted with\nextreme concentration, wandered absently over the round table, the carpet-\ncovered and dust-smelling sofa. The mind of the writer lakov Kamynin was\na dense gray like the smoke-filled room ; and black, pitch black was the mind\nof the voyenospetz Tanatar. Doctor Fedoroff had gone to bed long before and\nwas now speaking in his sleep. Kamynin was probably right when he said\nto the newcomers :\n\" Have a smoke. Cards, you know, are the only miracle in the world.\nMust be. That is why they are worth several sleepless nights. A miracle !\nWho does not dream of it ? Queen of Spades, King of Trumps, and Nine —\nthe unique miracle. And beauty. And woman — another miracle/'\nKamynin, while playing, was writing at the same time mechanically on his\ncalendar.\n\" The miracle of days.\"\nThe women came in the afternoon, after some hours of sleep. They cooked\npotatoes for the men. Kamynin's wife, however, Irina peeled potatoes not for\nher husband, nor for anyone else but Tanatar. Kamynin himself, hardly able\nto stand on his thin legs, was also peeling potatoes, while his eyes looked some-\nwhere far beyond. And Irina came and put her head not on her husband's\nshoulder but on Tanatar's.\n\" Have you lost ? \" — she asked in a low voice.\n\" Lost everything.\" And Tanatar smiled naively \" Regimental cash.\"\n\" Much ? \"\n\" Two hundred.\"\n\" Thousands ? \"\n\" Yes.\"\n\" Who got them ? \"\n\" Can't recall. lakov, I think. Anyhow, it has been all spent on vodka.\"\n\" Come to my room, I shall put you to bed.\"\n\" All right, put me to bed. \" And Tanatar smiled naively and helplessly.\n\" Is it still snowing outside ? \"\n\" No, the storm is past.\"\nNobody had ever seen Assyrian women, but everybody was certain they\nmust have looked like Irina. Cup-like breasts, almond-shaped eyes, hair\nlike that of the stony Ariman, stiff horse hair hanging in plaits 011 her bosom,\nface and body almost square, almost stone-like and yet mobile like those of\na circus woman. Irina had, in fact, once been a circus rider in Odessa."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2635, "texte": "The men finished drinking, crowded into the corners like flies on an autumn\nday and, keeping their military and ftir coats on, went to sleep. The women\nwere preparing the costumes for the evening masquerade. In the kitchen,\nthe orderlies of the voyenospetz took a hand now at playing cards. Kamynin\nremained sitting at the table, 'where the game had been going 011. He was\nwriting in his calendar and drinking wiiat was still left in the glasses. The\nadjutant, Prince Trubetzkoy sat beside him. They spoke to each other list-\nlessly. Before 1917, the prince was owner of property extending over several\nstreets in Moscow as well as of some estates in the Government of Moscow,\nTambov, Veronej and Poltava. Kamynin himself had owned a whole town in the\nWest of Russia, and his former forests, wood-mills, mines, and factories were\nscattered through several Governments, he himself could not tell exactly where.\n\" Let us send for another bottle of cognac, Prince, \" said Kamynin lazily.\n\" It would be best to take a bath now and have some white wine with\nstrawberries \" — answered the prince.\n\" Fresh strawberries. Yes. A good idea. But you know, when lam play-\ning cards and drinking champagne, fresh fruit is all right to begin with, but after\nawhile it's ham and cabbage I must have/'\nKamynin went on writing figures then repeated lazily :\n\" Let us send for another bottle of cognac, prince\n\" After all, the cognac is not better than home-made brew.\"\n\" Let us send for home-made brew then.\"\n\" With red pepper and filet. We have plenty of bread.\"\n\" WTell, there is no bread left, but that's nothing, we can have raw meat,\nPrince.\"\nKamynin wrote down the last figures, looked at his calendar a long time,\nthen stood up, his thin legs wide apart and his hands under his arm pits.\nTanatar, pale and with half-closed extinguished eyes, was lying in Irina's\nroom, on the sofa, covered with a plaid and resting his head in Irina's lap.\nKamynin and Fedoroff came into the room together with the twilight. Kamynin\nmade an effort to keep his balance and said :\n\" Have a smoke, Tanatar. Ira, I must write a book. A green forest,\na birch forest, is cut down to be made into paper. Everything for a book.\nFor beauty. For Beauty. Ira, you are living with Tanatar and I need another\nwoman — for my book. Let us discuss the subject. Good and evil, truth\nand untruth — that is all nonsense. Beauty is the thing. We must solve\nall questions in a very simple way. I mean to ask Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya\nto be my wife.\"\nTwilight was descending. The window pane turned frosty blue. The\nchurch bells were ringing. Nobody moved. Nobody said a single word."}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "70", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2389, "texte": "\" Olga Audreyevna Veralskaya ! I must set it down very simply before\nher. For the sake of beauty, for the sake of the book. It is all very simple/'\nTwilight. Gray, blue twilight. Shadows were creeping into the corners.\nThe face of Irina was the face of an Assyrian woman.\n\" Ira, we still have some cod-liver oil, we 'Shall have enough for all three\nof us.\"\n\" Tell us something about yourself, lakov.\"\n\" Well; life is nothing : beauty is all. Beauty and miracles. X,et us\nquit life.\"\n\"Do invite Olga, lakov, we shall drink together sometime. Imagine —\ntwo tipsy women ! \"\nGray twilight. Tanatar suddenly bounded up like a rubber ball.\n\" Hey, a troika, vodka, Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya... All here !\"\nThe orderlies drove up the Division troika harnessed to a sledge. Tanatar\nfussed about the room putting on a driver's suit. Then he took Irina into his\narms and began to shout incomprehensible words : \" Anara — tai — ra ! \"\nTanatar took the driver's seat; Kamynin and P'edoroff sat down in the\nsledge.\n\" Get up ! \"\nThe horses sent the silver dust flying ; the sledge was creaking, the bells\njingling. The house of Veralsky on the Sibirna Mountain looked as dark and\ngloomy as ever. Fedoroff stayed with the horses. Kamynin and Tanatar\nwent into the house. Tanatar remained in the cold parlor while Kamynin went\ninto Olga Veralskaya's room. And when Kamynin came out of her room he\nstumbled upon something in the dark and noticed Tanatar crouching on the\nfloor as if ready to jump like a black cat, and whispering (did Kamynin hear\nthe whisper ?) :\n\" Miracles happen ; miracles do happen. Don't play with secrets Olga.\nDon't.\"\nThat evening Comrade Tanatar drove madly through the city, giving\neverybody a ride in his troika ; Irina, the girls, tipsy Kamynin, tipsy Trubet-\nzkoy, the various voyenospetzs.\nThen came the masquerade ball at the Communist Club.\nOlga Andreyevna Veralskaya had sewn up her comb very carefully so that\nno one might notice it was broken, but Olga Andreyevna did not come to the\nball. The military orchestra thundered valses, Hungarian dances, mazurkas.\nThe voyenospetzs, particularly those of the cavalry regiments had come with their\nspurs and swords and were the heroes of the occasion. The ladies were masked\nas Nights, Springs (in paper flowers), Birch Trees, lyittle Russians (with beads\nfrom the Christmas trees), Tyrol Peasants, Cucumbers, and Dominoes. And"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "71", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2607, "texte": "because the baths of the city had not been heated and the perfumes had all\nbeen shipped to the villages by speculators, the air was thick with the smell\nof powder, tobacco, and the specific odor of the women's sweat. The voyenos-\npetzs clicked their heels and danced, inclining their heads to one side. Be-\ntween dances they went to the refreshment room to drink tea. Since 110 ladies\nwere present there, all sorts of anecdotes were being recounted.\n\" Maria Ivanovna told me yesterday that she would be dressed as Night\nand her sister Claudia as Cucumber. Well, I met Maria Ivanovna tonight\nand noticed beside her a Cupid. I thought this was Claudia and said : ' Why\nare you not a Cucumber ? 1 The Cupid burst out laughing and called me im-\npertinent. \"\n\" That's nothing, but one fairy has a ribbon... \"\nThe orchestra struck up — the Hiawatha. A girl dressed in a cheap suit\nwas waiting anxiously for some dancer to come along and invite her. Her little\nsister was in the way. Small, thin, with red hands, with a pale little face, in\na shabby dress and mended stockings, the little girl looked at everybody with\na frank and friendly glance of her pure bright eyes, laughed sweetly, and spoke\nsweetfy to her sister. JBut her sister answered reluctantly in monosyllables\nand looked back at her with anger. The little girl laughed and was happy.\nThen a post-office employee invited the sister and they went to dance. Doctor\nFedoroff watched the little girl closely.\nShe remained alone. She was sad and frightened, and she began to wander\nover the room, looking anxiously about her. The smile disappeared from her\nface. She looked fixedly ahead. Doctor Fedoroff probably did not notice\nthat he said aloud :\n\" There is still time ; it will come one day. Later. No. No.\"\nDoctor Fedoroff came towards the little girl and extended his hands.\n\" Don't be sad, please, don't. Let us go and dance. Let us go and have\nsome tea. Don't be sad. Come.\"\nThe little girl ran away from the stranger straight into the crowd of coup-\nles dancing the Hiawatha. She burst out crying bitterly, loudly. Doctor\nFedoroff threw himself on the table where tickets and home-made candies were\nbeing sold, and also began to cry, hiding his wet face in his hands and in the\nticket books.\n'■ Water was brought to Doctor Fedoroff. People gathered around him.\nThe Hiawatha stopped. Tanatar was most attentive and tender. And as\nhe was putting the Doctor into the sledge, the little girl came out with her sister\nand the post-office employee. Nearly lifting the little girl by her hand, her\nsister repeated angrily :\n\" Idiot, idiot, cry-baby ! \""}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2638, "texte": "When she saw Doctor Fedoroff, she whispered angrily to the post-office\nemployee :\n\" That one, too, — impertinent ! \"\nIV.\nOn New Year's Eve tlie voyenospetzs of the Division arranged a party in\nKamynin's former country villa now become Soviet property. The house, over\na century old, had been heated several days in succession but it was still cold\nand damp. And as this house had once been plundered, no lamps were now\nto be found and torches had to be used instead. On the gallery, in the white\nhall, the orchestra was playing in the dark, without notes and very badly out\nof tune. Some people came in the morning in order to spend the day in the\ncountry, to go out skiing or take a walk. Others arrived direct for supper. There\nis a special category of girls whose sole occupation is amusement. Plenty of\nthem were present that evening. A company of ski-runners gathered on the\nedge of the forest around a little bright fir-tree. They lighted two candles on\nit, danced around it, and burned it up. The night came, deep and silent, bring-\ning a myriad stars and lighting up a myriad icicles which also shone like stars.\nSupper was served in the stripped parlor lighted by torches. The company\nin uniforms, fur coats and hats sang, ate and drank. The orchestra played loudly,\nbut nobody danced. After supper everybody took to drinking again. A\ngreat surprise was then staged. The writer Kamynin, the former owner of\nthe house, opened, with his own key, a secret cupboard with wine. Some of\nthe wine had become sour, some of the cognac and vodka had lost its flavor,\nbut everybody drank, shouted hurrah, sang \" You'll be buried when you die \"\nand \" Gaudeamus\". Though half evaporated, there was still enough wine, cog-\nnac, and vodka left to carry on a cavalry attack. Everybody was merry. Some\ngirls got on the fire-place and from there onto the shoulders of the voyenospetzs\nwho were supposed to represent fiery steeds. This was called a cavalry attack.\nThe cavalcade rushed screaming through the dark rooms. In the sitting room\nsomebody started the game of Chemin defer. One could already hear whispers\nand screams coming from the dark rooms. Far from the sitting room the or-\nchestra went on playing. Tobacco smoke filled the sitting room where new\ncavalry detachments were constantly forming. The torches were smoking.\nKamynin found a book on the window. It was the New Testament. Standing\nnear a torch, his legs spread wide apart, Kamynin opened it at random and read\naloud :\n\" But he that is an hireling and not the shepherd whose own the sheep are,\nseeth the wolf coming and leaveth the sheep and fleeth, and the wolf catcheth them"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2362, "texte": "and scatter eth the sheep ; the hireling fleeth because he is an hireling and careth\nnot for the sheep.\"\nOne of the young girls fell from the lire-place and screamed. Somebody said :\n\" Va-banque.\"\nTanatar came near Kamynin and said in a low voice :\n\" Read something for me.\"\nThe telephone rang piercingly in the deserted rooms of Olga Veralskaya\n(the yellow desert) and the voice of Samuel Tanatar was heard across the wire\n\" Forgive me, Olga. Forgive me. I am so weary, so lonely. Forgive\nme. Forgive me everything. I shall expiate my sins. We have not long to live.\nWe are doomed. Forgive me. My ugliness here is perhaps, but a yearning\nfor other, more beautiful regions. I am speaking with the blood of my heart.\"\nAnd Olga answered in a low voice :\nm\n\" Yes, I forgive you. I do. I forgive you everything. Nothing has hap-\npened.\" Just as Tanatar was calling up Olga Veralskaya the whistle of Olga\nNicolayevna blew at the foot of the mountain, and at that moment Andrey\nAndreyevitch Veralsky probably shouted through the window of the Club: \" Ilya,\nfetch the carriage /' One of the girls fell from the fire-place and screamed. Some-\nbodysaid: \"Va-banque.\" Tanatar came near Kamynin and said in a low voice :\n\" Read something for me.\"\n\" All right. Something from Matthew :\n32. — Now learn a parable of the fig-tree : when his branch is yet tender\nand putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh :\n33. — So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things know that it is near,\neven at the doors. \"\nKamynin, completely drunk, finished and almost lost his balance. Ta-\nnatar looked at him fixedly.\n\" Shall I read for you now ? \"\n\" All right, read for me.\"\n\"I do not need the book, I know it by heart. This is also from Matthew :\nLet the dead bury the dead. Chapter VIII. Let the dead...\nTanatar turned abruptly and left the room. The lavatory was spoiled\nand the men had to go to the back porch. Tanatar followed tliem. The moon\nwas hanging low above the horizon. Dogs were barking in the village. Tru-\nbetzkoy put two fingers in his mouth and was sticking his head into the snow.\nAnother voyenospetz was lying on the snow to cool off. Two others were still\nsmoking. Tanatar walked down a couple of steps and stopped.\n\" The imbeciles have dirtied everything.\"\nHe took out the Nolan revolver, A low shot rang out, but Tanatar himself\nprobably did not hear it."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2624, "texte": "The orchestra played funeral marches and the Internationale. Only one\nwoman followed the red coffin of comrade Tanatar. It was his sad, thin, pale\nwife — his wife who knew everything.\nNight. Darkness. Snow. Stars. Silence. On the edge of the forest,\nnear the rigid pine trees, little fir trees stood wrapped in snow and bent to the\nground. One of them had been burned down and was still smoking. Silence.\nImmobility. The stars shone brightly and there were myriads of them. One\nstar fell down. Silence. . The hours passed. Suddenly something began to\nmove in the field, and a lone snow-flake came whirling among the fir trees. An-\nother followed and they both vanished. In the North somebody was pulling a\ndark mitten over the stars. Snow-flakes fell again — one, two, five. Two\nof them met, got entangled, whispered something to each other, merged in one\n«h\nand died. The forest answered the call of the snow-flakes. It sent up a piercing\ncry, and the fir trees bent their heads in a stately minuet. The trees cracked\nand began to drop old branches to the ground. And again there was silence.\nAnd again the snow-flakes came whirling — one, two, a hundred were born and\ndied. The fir trees bent their heads in a new minuet. A shouting, a ringing,\na howling was heard. The dark heavenly glove began to scatter grains over\nthe earth. Snow-flakes got entangled. They found the space too narrow and\ndashed across the fields. Myriads of them.\nAnd the storm was on. The dead snow-flakes, born by the snow-storm and\nflying for thousands of miles over field, forest, river, and city, moaned, laughed,\nshouted, wept in their mortal agony.\nThis snow-storm had not been announced. It came from beyond the Volga\nand was going in the direction of Yeletz, Kursk, Sumy, Poltava.\nDoctor Andrey Andreyevitch Veralsky did not go to see his patients in the\nstorm and was reading Mayne Reid all day. Dressed in his fur coat, cap, and\nboots, he came out for lunch at three. He ate shtchee (i) made of sour cabbage\nand mutton. He looked silently at Olga and said gloomily :\n\" Iyife is hard nowadays Olga. You have had a rest. You might be looking\nfor something to do — teaching, perhaps. The holidays are over. You ought\nto work. You would not feel so lonesome, then. Have some mutton.\"\nA word about Ivan Petrovitch Bekesh.\nIvan Petrovitch came to the writer Kamynin, spoke about the diary, and\nfinished by saying that the price he had asked for it was far too low and ought\ntherefore to be raised or the diary returned to him. Kamynin answered that\nhe had bought the diary not for himself, but for Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya,\n(i) A kind of soup."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 615, "texte": "Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya met Kamynin on tlie following morning in the\nlabor bureau. A young girl with sheepish black eyes and hips like the back\nof a sledge was being registered before them,\n\" What is your profession ? \" — asked the woman clerk.\n\" I am a political emigrant \" — answered the girl. \" Before 1917, I lived\nwithin the pale (2). My name is Sofia Pindrik.\"\n\" I see.\"\nIt was Kamynin's turn.\n\" Your profession ? — asked the clerk.\n\" A writer.\"\nAnd the woman clerk wrote down in the corresponding register : \" Clerk.\"\n(2) Territory Jews are allowed to settle.\n\nBoris Pilniak\n(Translated By Louis Lozowick)"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c028", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c028", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "76", "page_fin": "76", "image_debut": 78, "image_fin": 78, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "Woodcut", "titre_sommaire": "Woodcut", "signature_source": "André Derain", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 20, "texte": "André Derain\nWoodcut"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "77", "page_fin": "77", "image_debut": 79, "image_fin": 79, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "Les Noces de Clyte", "titre_sommaire": "Les Noces de Clyte", "signature_source": "John Crawford", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 333, "texte": "LES NOCES DE CLYTE\nJohn Crawford\nWhile it was light,\nhe was attended by a virgin\ncrisp as green lettuce.\nHer kisses left rings\nof coolness\non his cheeks.\nShe had slipped away\nbetween the buildings of the city ;\nthe windows still shining\nwhere she had loved her image.\nAround the corner\nnight waited\ndrugs dripping from her fingers..."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c030", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c030", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "77", "page_fin": "77", "image_debut": 79, "image_fin": 79, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "The Woodpecker", "titre_sommaire": "The Woodpecker", "signature_source": "Corrado Govoni ; E.S.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 335, "fin_caractere_exclue": 719, "texte": "THE WOODPECKER\nCorrado Govoni\n(Translated by E.S.)\nWho is that doctor down\nthere mid the flowering hemp,\nputting his ear in turn\nto all the trees ?\nThat steady hammering seems\nthe work of a crazy carpenter,\nall the day furiously\nnailing up coffins,\nalone there,\nmid the hemp and the stubble.\nEvery now and again he\nstops and flies madly away,\nbursting out into a\nhorrible eerie laugh."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "78", "page_fin": "79", "image_debut": 80, "image_fin": 81, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "Russian Berlin", "titre_sommaire": "Russian Berlin", "signature_source": "L. L.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2281, "texte": "RUSSIAN BERLIN\n\nGerman Berlin is astir.\nIsadora Duncan came from Russia, flying in an aeroplane.\nBut Russian Berlin is in even greater commotion.\nFor Isadora Duncan did not come empty-handed ; she brought some pre-\ncious freight along, to wit :\nA poet,\nAnd a husband —\nAll the same person, to be sure, the famous Russian Imaginist-peasant\nbard, Sergey Yessenin.\nIsadora Duncan and Sergey Yessenin will stay in Berlin for a time, take a\nflying trip to Paris and London, and in October depart for America where\na well known concert bureau has engaged them to tour the country. The bu-\nreau is reliable. Their success is assured.\nTo return to Berlin, however. The first thing for the couple to do was\nnaturally, to visit the Russian \" House of Art \" (Dom Isskusstva), an insti-\ntution where all great, near-great and would-be-great foregather without dis-\ntinction of race, religion or previous condition of servitude, where talk and\nsoda water flow in an unending stream ; where theories and tobacco are consumed\nin alarming quantities (both meeting the same fate).\nEverybody turned out for the festive occasion. The meeting was opened\nuncommonly early, to be precise : at half past ten P. M. which is not to say\nthat Yessenin was there. He let the audience wait. The audience did. Iyong\nbut not in vain. For as the midnight bell rang (he choose the psychological\nmoment), Yessenin appeared arm in arm with Isadora Duncan. The windows\nshook. It was no tempest without; it was a thunderous applause within. En-\nthusiasm was boundless. No wonder some young chap forgot himself (which\nwas not so bad) forgot the fact that the \" House of Art \" was non-political\n(which was far worse) and shouted :\n\" Vive rinternationale.\" (He meant the organization of course).\nIsadora Duncan who did not know the rule of the House took up the cry :\n\" Chantez la \" she said (she meant the song, of course).\n\" Down with the International! \" broke in a white guard officer (he meant\nboth, of course).\nAnd then the fun began. The Whites (rather black) and the Reds (ra-\nther pink) were each determined to fight out the battle to the bitter end. It\nwas the liveliest meeting in the history of this staid and lukewarm institution.\nThings went so far that Yessenin's fellow Imaginist, the fine Circassian poet"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2776, "texte": "Kussikov,who had smelt powder in his Red Army days, wtanted neither more nor\nless than to shoot the white guard officer, \" like a puppy \" as he eloquently put it.\nYessenin himself who had seen enough scandal in his Imaginist Club at\nMoscow to suffice half a dozen other men a long lifetime, would not be dis-\ncomfitted by a little incident like that. Anyhow, the Whites were completely\nrouted and the International rang out, quite naturally, out of tune and with\noverlapping stanzas, but none the less full-lunged and enthusiastic.\nThen Yessenin got up on a chair and read.\nOnly Russians can read thus and only one of them, Yessenin. Words\nthat pounce upon you, pummel you, lash you, cut into your flesh, daze 3^ou.\nIt is the peasant revolution million-voiced that speaks through the verse\nof Yessenin, the revolution with all its excesses and contradictions. A dualism\ncan be traced through all his work. The poet who at one moment declares\nhimself so harmless as not to touch a hare, is ready, at the next, to stick\nsomebody with a knife. The poet so humble as to tip his hat to the cow on\nthe sign of the city butcher .shop, is sufficiently daring to reform God himself.\nTender and coarse almost in the same breath :\n\" Good night ! \" \" Good night to you all.\"\n\" The scythe of evening rang out upon the glass of dusk.\nSomehow I feel like to-night.\nFrom my window to take a — on the moon.\"\n(Confession of a Scamp)\nThe down-trodden are not sufficiently sophisticated, not sufficiently schooled\nn the hypocricies of civilization to mince their words or check their instincts.\nThey have an inestiguishable love for animal existence. That is why they are\nready to take bitter revenge for past wrongs, defend stubbornly present pri-\nvileges, and stake all for future freedoms.\nYessenin understands the downtrodden. If he is to be believed, only\nprostitutes and bandits can understand him. Calling Nietzsche to witness,\nthis might be a compliment to those who appreciate the poetry of Yessenin,\nthough they have not the good luck to be prostitutes or bandits. Doubtless\nthey possess the requisite qualifications potentially, but they most have escaped\ntheir fate through mere accident (explanation of which may be found in Freud\n— or in Marx). In this respect they are not unlike Yessenin himself :\nIf I were not a poet, I would surely be a crook and thief/'\n(In the Land of Rogues)\nDuring the unprecedented upheaval in Russia, events have been moving\nat a giddy speed. The poetry of Yessenin moves synchronously with the speed\nof events. He piles novel image upon image ; he creates a new mythology ;\nhe invents new rhythms. The revolutionary trend will never quite be the same\nagain. But it has already been arrested, rendered concrete and lasting in the\npoetry of Yessenin\n\nL.L."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1", "page_fin": "1", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 3, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.32", "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": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4311, "texte": "The Most Important Announcement Made By An American Publisher In Years\nTHE CARRA EDITION OF\nTHE WORKS OF GEORGE MOORE\nBOOKIyO VERvS and admirers of George Moore have\neagerly awaited the announcement of a collected\nedition of his works. We take great pleasure in\nannouncing that we have completed arrangements for\nthe publication of a definitive subscription edition of his\nwritings, which will be the first unexpurgated and uni-\nform collection of all of his books which he desires to per-\npetuate. The author has not only written an entirely\nnew and characteristic preface, but has made textual\nchanges, in most cases of considerable importance, in\nevery one of the works reissued in this new edition. Two\nof these works, Modern Painting and The Brook Kerith,\nhave been entirely rewritten ; and there are two new\nbooks which will appear for the first time in this edition,\nIn Strict Singleness and Peronnik the Fool, Daphnis and\nChloe, etc. The set will include such heretofore priva-\ntely printed titles as A Story-Teller's Holiday, Avowals\nand Heloise and Ahelard, all of which are now very diffi-\ncult to obtain, and only at high premiums. New Moore\nworks are likely to be added in the same uniform for-\nmat from time to time, and the original subscribers to\nthis edition will have the privilege of purchasing them at\nthe first subscription price.\nThe Carra Edition is strictly limited to one thousand number* d sets for sale and twenty-five sets marked A\nto Y (not for sale). The first volume in each set will be signed by the author. The edition will be printed from\nspecial type on pure rag paper and bound uncut with vellum backs and paper board sides. The publishers plan\nto issue the books in groups of three volumes each, and the first group should be ready by October i, 1922 ;\nthe other groups will be published at intervals of two months. The price will be $ 8.50 per volume, and the pub-\nlishers reserve the right to advance the price to $ 10.00 per volume after the first publication day.\nYou are urged to place your subscription at once through your bookseller, or direct to the pub-\nlishers. A special brochure will be mailed on request. In view of the limited number available,\nan early subscription is desirable to avoid disappointment.\nZbc Untimate Uetters Series\nThese volumes are octavo size, printed on English laid paper, with uncut edges, and handsomely bound in\nlibrary buckram. The editions are strictly limited to 1,500 numbered copies. Each, $4.00.\nThe Twenty Titles in the\nCARRA EDITION are:\nLewis Seymour and Some Women\nThe Mummer's Wife\nMuslin\nSpring Days\nEsther Waters\nEvelyn Inness\nSister Teresa\nThe Lake and The Untilled Field\nAvowals and Confessions of a Young Man\nMemoirs of My Dead Life\nAve Salve Vale\nThe Brook Kerith\nA Story-Teller's Holiday\nHeloise and Abelard\nIn Strict Singleness\nPeronnik the Fool, Daphnis and Chloe,\netc.\nImpressions and Opinions\nModern Painting\nTHE GEORGE SAND - GUSTAVE\nFLAUBERT LETTERS\nTranslated by AIMEE McKENZIE\nIntroduction by STUART P. SHERMAN\nThese frank and affectionate letters, extending\nfrom 1866 to 1876, make an extraordinary fascinat-\ning volume. George Sand's family life at Nohant,\nthe old bachelor's solitude at Croisset, meetings in\nParis, adventures with publishers and theatrical man-\nagers, and pungent comment on such friends as Sainte-\nBeuve, Hugo, Gautier, and Turgenev, are here.\nTHE NIETZSCHE — WAGNER\nCORRESPONDENCE\nEdited by ELIZABETH FOERSTER - NIETZSCHE\nTranslated by CAROLINE V. KERR\nIntroduction by H. I,. MENCKEN\nHere are collected and published for the first time\nNietzsche's letters to and from Wagner. The book\ncontains much that is entirely new — in fact, every-\nthing that could contribute to a true estimate of one of\nthe most remarkable and romantic friendships of the\nxixth Century.\nROBERT HENRI\nEdited by WIIJJAM YARROW and EOUIS BOUCffik.\nThis first volume in the American Art library is a superb monograph on one of the foremost American ar-\ntists, and combines a charming resume of his life and work with forty full-page reproductions of his paintings\non the finest paper obtainable, without lettering, suitable for mounting. The edition is limited to nine hun-\ndred and ninety copies. Subscription price, $ 10.00. {Illustrated brochure on application).\nB0N1 & LIVERIGHT\n103 West 4otb ST.\nNEW YORK CITY"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "2", "page_fin": "2", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.2.33", "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": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1532, "texte": "Three Books that are current in the Intellectual Life of Today.\nWalter Lippmanri* s\n\" Public Opinion\"\n\" The most sane and inte-\nresting discussion of the to-\npics involved yet produced\nin America — Chicago\nDaily News.\nA book that is being\nwidely discussed by\nthe thoughtful peo-\nple of America.\n3£\\>elgn\nSCOtt' 6\n2.75,\nby mail $2.90\nA New Book by\nClive Bell\n\"Since Cezanne\nClive Bell's brilliant and\namusing criticism of modern\nart and aesthetics have\nmade him one of the fore-\nmost exponents of the\nx philosophy of the newer\nA new novel by the author \\1 x 1\nof \"The Narrow House\". \\ f°rms art. His la-\ntest book is invalu-\nHere is a novel that expresses in its \\ able to the artist\ninsight into human nature, the loss of \\ an(j tlloSe who\nstandards, the feverish turbulence of mo- \\ u 1 * A\ndern existence. Through the revelation of \\ have a knowledge\ntheir mental life Mrs. Scott has created a group \\ of art itself,\nof characters who are unforgettable. $1.75. \\ $2.00\nHARCOURT, BRACE and Co., i W. 47th St., New York.\nThe subscription price of BROOM is $5 per\nyear, but for a limited time only we are making\nthe following special offer:\n(1) BROOM for a year ($5) and Waldo\nFrank's Rahab (Boni & Liveright, $2). Both for $5.\n(2) BROOM for a year ($5) and Evelyn\nScott's Narcissus (Harcourt, $1.75). Both for $5.\n(3) BROOM for a year ($5) and D. H. Law-\nrense's Aaron's Rod (Seltzer, $2). Both for $5.\nBROOM\n3 EAST 91\" STREET, NEW YORK CITY\nFor the enclosed $ please send me Broom for a year and the\nfollowing book .\nName\nAddress\nC"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[80]", "page_fin": "[80]", "image_debut": 82, "image_fin": 82, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.34", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "[80]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1564, "texte": "THE LEY OF\n7R a 112 d or or\nIn Six Cantos\nby\nTHE COMTE de EAUTREAMONT\n[ Isidore Ducasse: 1850 -70 ]\nTranslated, from the French by JOHN RODKER\nwith 3 Plates after Odii(on Redon\nand with the Introduction by REMY de GOURMOJS/7\nand a new one by the translator.\nAn Edition limited to 1,000 numbered Copies,\nof which 100 Copies will be 011 large paper, specially\nbound, and with plates in duplicate.\nThis book is practically unknown in English-speaking coun-\ntries and very little in France. Its infernal grandeur, monstrous\nand tortured pride and touching puerility, reach a sublime height\nfound only in Wm. Blake. It is impossible in a note, to give any\nidea of the magnificence of its aspirations. Remy de Gourmont\nsays of it : ' This book will remain unique and from now on belongs\nto that list of works which, to the exclusion of all classicism, forms\nthe limited library and only possible reading of those whose ill made\nspirits will not lend themselves to the less rare joys of the common-\nplace and of conventional morality.'\nThis book, Demy Bvo. on hand made paper and of about 350\npages with prefaces will be privately printed on his own press by\nthe translator and should be ready in October 1922. Application for\ncopies price £2, (large paper £3), to be made in advance to : —\nJohn Rodker 4a Took's Court, Chancery Lane London E.C.4\nSubscribers may rest assured that the production will be a\nworthy one, and that it will receive the care and attention which\ncharacterised the Ovid Press of which most of the publications\nissued 1919-20 are now out of print."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c036", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c036", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[81]", "page_fin": "[81]", "image_debut": 83, "image_fin": 83, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.35", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "[81]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 383, "texte": "Pa rf u m PARI S „\nc The new COTY creation\n-V > *\no»v , - >.\nCr/ie fascination of —the\nvivid fcersorialitij 112 thei\ncitxf couvaqe—it breathies\nits inches ctihcthie allure irz the,\nexqjtilsite pe-jfttrne PAR.I S,,\nthe veritable, spirit essence of\"\nHs. the city CJ\n\"PARIS,,\nESSENCE\nTOILET WATER\nFACE POWDER\nCOMPACT\nSACHET\nQleuj ( 7t4- fjftfth d/Ivenue\ntyTlontreal 14- Phillips Scjuare"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 84, "image_fin": 84, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.36", "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": 84, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 294, "texte": "I—-— '\nI —I\nI—l-*—l\nea\n3\nDREIC\no\nI—l- —\nJ\nI — I ~;—r\n~—l ~T— I —i—l\n560 U\nvenue\ncinew tfJork,\nr=\ni^±zz=t=!=±TT=lM\nE=3\ni 1\nI—— I\ni '\ni—— i—— I\nr=n\ni— i — i\nl-r-l—r-l\nz;\nIIIIIIUIUHiailBHHII«i:«V t\nm\nIT\nJ.\nm\ns\niiiltiP-\nXVIth Ce\nI\nnlur\nw\n■J\nET\newe\nCasket\nbeio\nngi\nto the\nde^enddmfi\n§sl\nSS,\nm\nnsrw\nS"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1922-08-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1922-08_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "n. p.", "page_fin": "n. p.", "image_debut": 85, "image_fin": 85, "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=bmtnaap192208-01.2.37", "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": 85, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.85", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1778, "texte": "'Lfje §reaf\nOconocfasf\nSmasher of idols, deflater of balloons, pricker of bubbles, destroyer of\nillusions, and constant, implacable fighter of shams of all kinds, THE SMART\nSET is the great iconoclast among magazines.\nAnd because it is equally fearless in publishing what is good regardless\nof popular \" taste\" or author's obscurity, and because it publishes nothing\nthat is not good, it has gathered an audience that is remarkable alike for\nits sophistication and its intellectual brilliance.\nEvery appreciative reader of BROOM should read THE SMART SET\nregularly also. In many like BROOM, it is in many other ways the natural\ncomplement of BROOM. The two magazines together furnish an intellectual\ndiet that contains the proper proportions of proteins, vitamines and other\nproperties essential to perfect intellectual and spiritual nourishment.\nAs a matter of fact, the foregoing paragraphs might well have been omit-\nted, as they are all contained in the plain statement that Henry L. Mencken\nand George Jean Nathan are the editors of THE SMART SET and regular\ncontributors to it. The literary and dramatic criticisms of these gentlemen\nneed no comment here ; but it may be well to state that \" Repetition Gene-\nrale which appears in each issue and which is a joint contribution, contains\nsome of the most remarkable writing of the day, writing which will delight\nyour soul.\nGentle reader of BROOM, fill in the coupon below NOW, while it is in\nyour mind. You'll be thankful all your life.\nTHE SMART SET, 25 West 45th St., New York.\nFor the enclosed Four Dollars send me THE SMART SET for 12 months; and\nsend me copy of book checked below as a premium free with the subscription.\nthe; critic and the; drama,\nBy George Jean Nathan.\nTHE GIRI<S, by Edna Ferber\nCHEKHOV'S NOTEBOOK"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.2", "texte": "BROOM\nAn Internationai, Magazine op the Arts Published by Harold A. Iyoeb.\nEditor, Harold A. Loeb. Associate Editor, Edward Storer. American Editor, Lola Ridge.\naugust, 1922\nAPPEARS MONTHLY\nvol. 3, no 1.\nThe Editor of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to him, but all mss. must\nbe accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. The Editor cannot hold himself respon-\nsible for loss of mss. in transit.\nMss. from Europe should be sent to the Rome office; mss. from America to the New\nYork office.\nThe price of Broom is :\nFor America, fifty cents the copy, and five dollars for a year's subscription. For Italy,\n10 lire the copy, and 100 lire for a year's subscription. For France, 6 francs the copy, and\n60 francs for a year's subscription. For Great Britain, 3/6 the copy, and one pound and fifteen\nshillings for a year's subscription.\nThe contents of this issue are protected by copyright, January, 1922. Infringement of\nsame will be prosecuted.\nEntered as Second Class matter at the Post Office at New York, N. Y. April 22, 1922\nunder the Act of March 3, 1879.\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\nCover Design — Marcoussis\nExordium to Ducasse — Will Bray 3\nThe Lay of Maldoror — Comte de Lautreamont . 4\nWoodcuts — Max Weber 14~75\nNovemberleventh — James Daly 15\nWoodcut — Andrio Derain (From \" I/Enchanteur Pourrissant\") 17\nFrench Letters and the War — Jacoues Riviere 18\nPoems — Yvor Winters \" 30\nAt 125 Boulevard St. Germain — Benjamin Peret . , 31\nPeripatetics VI & Vegetable Classic — Matthew Josephson 4*~42\nWoodcut — Andre: Derain - . 43\nSix Characters in Search of an Author. Act 111 — Luigi Pirandello ...... 44\nHula-Hula — William Carlos Williams 55\nWoodcut — Andre: Derain 56\nAt the Doors — Boris Pilniak . . . 57\nWoodcut — Andre: Derain 76\nIvEs Noces de Clyte — John Crawford 77\nThe Woodpecker — Corrado Govoni 77\nRussian Berlin — L. L 78"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.3", "texte": "The Most Important Announcement Made By An American Publisher In Years\nTHE CARRA EDITION OF\nTHE WORKS OF GEORGE MOORE\nBOOKIyO VERvS and admirers of George Moore have\neagerly awaited the announcement of a collected\nedition of his works. We take great pleasure in\nannouncing that we have completed arrangements for\nthe publication of a definitive subscription edition of his\nwritings, which will be the first unexpurgated and uni-\nform collection of all of his books which he desires to per-\npetuate. The author has not only written an entirely\nnew and characteristic preface, but has made textual\nchanges, in most cases of considerable importance, in\nevery one of the works reissued in this new edition. Two\nof these works, Modern Painting and The Brook Kerith,\nhave been entirely rewritten ; and there are two new\nbooks which will appear for the first time in this edition,\nIn Strict Singleness and Peronnik the Fool, Daphnis and\nChloe, etc. The set will include such heretofore priva-\ntely printed titles as A Story-Teller's Holiday, Avowals\nand Heloise and Ahelard, all of which are now very diffi-\ncult to obtain, and only at high premiums. New Moore\nworks are likely to be added in the same uniform for-\nmat from time to time, and the original subscribers to\nthis edition will have the privilege of purchasing them at\nthe first subscription price.\nThe Carra Edition is strictly limited to one thousand number* d sets for sale and twenty-five sets marked A\nto Y (not for sale). The first volume in each set will be signed by the author. The edition will be printed from\nspecial type on pure rag paper and bound uncut with vellum backs and paper board sides. The publishers plan\nto issue the books in groups of three volumes each, and the first group should be ready by October i, 1922 ;\nthe other groups will be published at intervals of two months. The price will be $ 8.50 per volume, and the pub-\nlishers reserve the right to advance the price to $ 10.00 per volume after the first publication day.\nYou are urged to place your subscription at once through your bookseller, or direct to the pub-\nlishers. A special brochure will be mailed on request. In view of the limited number available,\nan early subscription is desirable to avoid disappointment.\nZbc Untimate Uetters Series\nThese volumes are octavo size, printed on English laid paper, with uncut edges, and handsomely bound in\nlibrary buckram. The editions are strictly limited to 1,500 numbered copies. Each, $4.00.\nThe Twenty Titles in the\nCARRA EDITION are:\nLewis Seymour and Some Women\nThe Mummer's Wife\nMuslin\nSpring Days\nEsther Waters\nEvelyn Inness\nSister Teresa\nThe Lake and The Untilled Field\nAvowals and Confessions of a Young Man\nMemoirs of My Dead Life\nAve Salve Vale\nThe Brook Kerith\nA Story-Teller's Holiday\nHeloise and Abelard\nIn Strict Singleness\nPeronnik the Fool, Daphnis and Chloe,\netc.\nImpressions and Opinions\nModern Painting\nTHE GEORGE SAND - GUSTAVE\nFLAUBERT LETTERS\nTranslated by AIMEE McKENZIE\nIntroduction by STUART P. SHERMAN\nThese frank and affectionate letters, extending\nfrom 1866 to 1876, make an extraordinary fascinat-\ning volume. George Sand's family life at Nohant,\nthe old bachelor's solitude at Croisset, meetings in\nParis, adventures with publishers and theatrical man-\nagers, and pungent comment on such friends as Sainte-\nBeuve, Hugo, Gautier, and Turgenev, are here.\nTHE NIETZSCHE — WAGNER\nCORRESPONDENCE\nEdited by ELIZABETH FOERSTER - NIETZSCHE\nTranslated by CAROLINE V. KERR\nIntroduction by H. I,. MENCKEN\nHere are collected and published for the first time\nNietzsche's letters to and from Wagner. The book\ncontains much that is entirely new — in fact, every-\nthing that could contribute to a true estimate of one of\nthe most remarkable and romantic friendships of the\nxixth Century.\nROBERT HENRI\nEdited by WIIJJAM YARROW and EOUIS BOUCffik.\nThis first volume in the American Art library is a superb monograph on one of the foremost American ar-\ntists, and combines a charming resume of his life and work with forty full-page reproductions of his paintings\non the finest paper obtainable, without lettering, suitable for mounting. The edition is limited to nine hun-\ndred and ninety copies. Subscription price, $ 10.00. {Illustrated brochure on application).\nB0N1 & LIVERIGHT\n103 West 4otb ST.\nNEW YORK CITY"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "2", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.4", "texte": "Three Books that are current in the Intellectual Life of Today.\nWalter Lippmanri* s\n\" Public Opinion\"\n\" The most sane and inte-\nresting discussion of the to-\npics involved yet produced\nin America — Chicago\nDaily News.\nA book that is being\nwidely discussed by\nthe thoughtful peo-\nple of America.\n3£\\>elgn\nSCOtt' 6\n2.75,\nby mail $2.90\nA New Book by\nClive Bell\n\"Since Cezanne\nClive Bell's brilliant and\namusing criticism of modern\nart and aesthetics have\nmade him one of the fore-\nmost exponents of the\nx philosophy of the newer\nA new novel by the author \\1 x 1\nof \"The Narrow House\". \\ f°rms art. His la-\ntest book is invalu-\nHere is a novel that expresses in its \\ able to the artist\ninsight into human nature, the loss of \\ an(j tlloSe who\nstandards, the feverish turbulence of mo- \\ u 1 * A\ndern existence. Through the revelation of \\ have a knowledge\ntheir mental life Mrs. Scott has created a group \\ of art itself,\nof characters who are unforgettable. $1.75. \\ $2.00\nHARCOURT, BRACE and Co., i W. 47th St., New York.\nThe subscription price of BROOM is $5 per\nyear, but for a limited time only we are making\nthe following special offer:\n(1) BROOM for a year ($5) and Waldo\nFrank's Rahab (Boni & Liveright, $2). Both for $5.\n(2) BROOM for a year ($5) and Evelyn\nScott's Narcissus (Harcourt, $1.75). Both for $5.\n(3) BROOM for a year ($5) and D. H. Law-\nrense's Aaron's Rod (Seltzer, $2). Both for $5.\nBROOM\n3 EAST 91\" STREET, NEW YORK CITY\nFor the enclosed $ please send me Broom for a year and the\nfollowing book .\nName\nAddress\nC"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "3", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.5", "texte": "EXORDIUM TO DUCASSE\nWill Bray\nThe age has been far more reluctant to concede the genius of Isadore Ducasse\n(\" Comte de l,autreamont \", 1850-1870), than is the case, perhaps, of any other of the\nextraordinary personalities of the past century. His writings, speciously damned as\nthe maunderings of a madman, were regarded up to very recently as having little in-\nterest, save for the alienist. Spurned thus by the French, there would have been little\nenough opportunity for that considerable part of the world which reads English to judge\nof his case, were it not for the enterprise of Mr. Rodker in translating Les Chants de\nMaldoror.\nIn France, however, the younger generation, which otherwise might well have\nbeen stifled by the sterile traditions of the preceding art-period, has taken Ducasse\nto its heart, and is producing a literature of great fertility, freedom, invention, agres-\nsiveness. It is postulated that the post-war period is, or is to become, a very pregnant\none, an age of unrivalled physical attainments and of the desperation born thereof.\nTo the period which has just set in, the personality of Ducasse, like that of Rimbaud,\nexercises a dominant attraction. These two weie the vaticinal spokesmen for a state\nof mind whose brutality and beauty none could have foretold.\nThe nineteenth century, again — it always serves as a point of departure — was\nenmeshed in a vicious cycle of quiddities and casuistries from which the spirit emerged\ninto either an unhealthy Christianity or a hybrid Epicureanism. Ducasse, like Rim-\nbaud, was neither pagan nor Christian. We are extricated from these dreaded cate-\ngories as we are from the fruitless post hoc ergo propter hoc.\nThe \" Songs of Maldoror \" form a legend on an heroic scale of the naked human\npassions working out their destinies. Since we have come to know more familiarly\nthe cavernous recesses of the mind and the momentous play of the unconscious in the\ndiurnal existence, the presumption of a Ducasse becomes pardonable. The contained,\ncomplex social nature of man drops off like an outworn robe. There is escape at\nlast from the button-moulder who menaced Peer Gynt. The standard associations of\nthought are forsworn ; the motivation verges from the most frightful niceties of obser-\nvation to gestures of gigantic scope, while the human role in the drama of nature be-\ncomes that of Prometheus. Man is a beast again ; his laughter, his weeping, his\nhowling, are as insistent and clamorous as those of the other beasts in the jungle.\nWith the nullification of human reason, the mind abandons itself to a sort of destruc\ntive sincerity, whereby all may be denied or posited, and nothing is impossible. The\ngift of song in man becomes atavistic again, chanting against pain, hunger and danger.\nIn Maldoror the incantations assume the rhythm of the baying of hounds, the long swell\nof sea-waves, or the furious velocity of a life that is consumed like a flame across\nthe sky."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "4", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.6", "texte": "THE LAY OF MALDOROR\nFirst Canto\n\nMay it please Heaven that the reader, emboldened and become\ntemporarily ferocious like what he is reading, will find his sudden and\nsavage way across the lonely marshes of these sombre and poisoned\nfilled pages without losing himself ; for unless he bring to his reading\na rigorous logic and tension of spirit equal at least to his suspicion, the\nmortal emanation of this book will soak his soul as water does sugar.\nIt is not a good thing for all the world to read the pages which are\nabout to follow ; a few only will, without danger, taste this bitter fruit.\nTherefore, timid soul, before penetrating further into such unexplored\nterritory, direct your heels backwards and not forwards. Ivisten well\nto what I say to you : direct your heels backwards and not forwards ;\nlike the eyes of a son who respectfully turns away from the august\nadmiration of the maternal visage ; or rather, like a wedge of deeply\nthoughtful and chilly cranes, who under full sail, fly powerfully through\nthe winter across the silence, towards a certain point 011 the horizon,\nwhence comes suddenly a violent and strange wind, forerunner of the\nstorm. The oldest crane, itself the ' vanguard \\ noting this, waves\nits head like a reasonable person, consequently its beak also is made\nto clap, and is not pleased (I too would not be happy were I in its\nplace) while its aged neck, featherless and contemporary with three\ngenerations of cranes, moves in irritable undulations as presage of\nthe storm which approaches nearer and nearer. After having looked\nseveral times coolly about her in all directions with eyes full of exper-\nience, the leader prudently (for she it is who has the distinction of\nshowing her tail feathers to the other cranes, her intellectual inferiors)\nwith her watchful cry as of a mournful sentinel; to repulse the common\nenemy, gracefully turns the point of the geometric figure (it may be\na triangle, but the third side which these curious birds of passage form"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "5", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.7", "texte": "like an experienced captain whether to port or to starboard is not\nseen) and manoeuvring with wings hardly larger than a sparrow's\nsince she is no fool, takes another and surer philosophical path.\nBy moonlight, near the sea, in remote parts of the countryside,\nplunged in bitter meditations, one sees everything take 011 yellow,\ndoubtful and fantastic shapes. Now quickly, now slowly, the trees'\nshadows run, approach and approach again in every shape, flattening\nthemselves, pressing closely to earth. In the past, when I was car-\nried away upon the wings of youth, that made me dream, seemed\nstrange to me ; now I am used to it. The wind moans through the\nleaves wdth languorous notes, and the owl recites its solemn lament\nmaking the hair of those who hear it stand on end. Then the dogs,\nmade savage, break their chains, escape from distant farms ; fly through\nthe countryside in all directions, a prey to madness. Suddenly they\nstop, examine all round them with ferocious disquiet; eyes blazing\nand like the elephants, which throw round them in the desert one\nlast look at the sky, despairingly raising their trunks before dying,\ntheir ears hanging inert; so the dogs leave their ears inert, lifting their\nheads, puffing out their dreadful necks and in turn like a baby crying\nwith hunger, or like a cat on a roof wounded in the belly, or like a\nwoman about to bring forth, or like a plague-stricken moribund in\nhospital, or like a young girl singing a noble air; begin to bay the north-\nern stars, the eastern stars, the southern stars, the western stars ;\nthe moon, the mountains resembling giant rocks, reclining in darkness;\nthe icy air they inhale deeply from a distance, and which makes the in-\nsides of their scarlet nostrils burn, the nocturnal silence ; the screech\nowl carrying off a rat or a frog in its beak, living food, tender for\nthe living ones, in oblique flight brushing their muzzles; the hares\ndisappearing in the twinkling of an eye ; the thief who after his crime\nflies fast as hoofs will carry him ; snakes disturbing the heather which\nmakes their skin quiver and gnash their teeth ; their own baying which"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "6", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.8", "texte": "frightens them ; the toads they crush with one snap of the jaw\n(why did they leave the marsh?) ; the trees whose gently waving\nleaves are so many uncomprehensible mysteries to them, which they\nwish to solve with their staring intelligent eyes ; the spiders hanging\namong their long legs who clamber up trees to save themselves,\nthe crows who could not find anything to eat during the day and who\nreturn to the nest with tired wings; the rocks of the shore, the files\nwhich appear at the masts of invisible vessels, the hollow noise of\nwaves, the great fish which, swimming show, their black backs, then\ndisappear into the abysm, and man who enslaves them. After which\nthey again rush through the countryside, leaping with bloody paws\nacross ditches, roads, fields, passes and craggy stones. One would\nthink them mad, seeking some waste lake to quench their thirst.\nTheir prolonged baying terrifies nature. Woe to the belated traveller !\nThe cemeteries' friends will cast themselves upon him, will tear him>\nwill eat him with blood-dripping fangs, for their teeth are not decayed.\nThe wild beasts, not daring to approach and take part in the meal\nof flesh, fly trembling out of sight. After some hours, the dogs, har-\nassed by running in all directions, and half dead, tongues hanging from\ntheir mouths, without knowing what they are doing, fall with an in-\ncredible swiftness, one upon the other, tearing each other into a\nthousand pieces. They do not behave thus out of cruelty. Once\nmy mother said to me with glassy eyes, \" When from your bed, you\nhear the baying of dogs in the countryside, hide under the blankets,\nnor mock their behaviour ; they have an unquenchable thirst for the\ninfinite, like you, like me, like the rest of humanity with long and\npallid features. I even permit you to stand in front of the window to\nobserve the spectacle, sublime enough. '' Since then I have observed\nthe dead one's wishes. Tike the dogs, I too feel the need of the\ninfinite ... I cannot, I cannot satisfy this need !\nAccording to what I have been told, I am the son of man and\nof woman. That astonishes me ! For the rest, what does it matter\nwhence I come ? I thought more of myself. For myself, if it had\ndepended on my own will, I would rather have wished to be the son of"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "7", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.9", "texte": "the female shark, whose hunger is the friend of tempests, and of the\ntiger of well known cruelty ; I will not be so malignant. You who\nlook at me, go to a distance, for I exhale a poisonous breath. No\none has yet seen the green wrinkles of my forehead, nor the projecting\nbones of my emaciated face, like the backbone of some great fish,\nor the rocks, covering the sea shore, or the abrupt alpine mountains,\nwhich I often travelled over, when I wore hair of a different color on\nmy head. And when during stormy nights I prowl round the habit-\nations of mankind, eyes burning, hair whipped by the storm wind,\nsolitary as a stone in the middle of the road, I cover my withered face\nwith a scrap of velvet, black as the soot which fills the insides of chim-\nneys ; it would not do for eyes to witness the ugliness that the Supreme\nBeing with a smile of mighty hate, has put upon me. Every morning,\nwhen the sun rises — for others, scattering joy and salutary heat to all\nnature, while no one of my features moves, gazing fixedly into the\nspace filled with shadow, crouching in the depths of my beloved cave,\nin a despair which intoxicates me like wine, I tear my chest in shreds\nwith powerful hands, yet I feel that I have not got hydrophobia. Yet\nI feel that it is not only I who suffer .. . ! Yet I feel that I breathe !\nBike a condemned man who tries his muscles, meditating upon their\nfate, and who will soon mount the scaffold, upright upon my pallet, eyes\nclosed, I turn my neck slowly from right to left, left to right during\nwhole hours ; I do not fall stark dead. From moment to moment,\nwhen my neck can no longer continue to turn in the same inertia,\nand stops in order to begin to turn the opposite way I see suddenly\nthe horizon through the thick brushwood, which cloaks the morth: Ido\nnot see anything ! Nothing .. . but for the countryside which dances\nin whirlwinds with the trees and with the long files of birds which tra-\nverse the sky.\nThat upsets my blood and brain .. . Who is it then who hits\nme on the head with a bar of iron, like a hammer striking an anvil ?\nI propose to declaim full-throatedly and unemotionally the cold\nand grave strophe you will hear, Be then attentive to its content and"}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "8", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.10", "texte": "protect yourself against the painful impression which it cannot\nfail to leave like a blemish on your troubled thoughts. Do not imag-\nine me to be at death's door, for I am not yet a skeleton, and age\ndoes not cling to my forehead. Put aside therefore any idea of compar-\nison with the swan in that moment when his existence takes flight,\nbut see before you some monster, whose face I am glad you cannot\nsee ; but that is less horrible than its soul. All the same, I am no\ncriminal. . . Enough on this point. No great while has elapsed since\nI saw again the sea, and walked the bridges of ships, and my souven-\nirs are as lively as though it were but yesterday I left them. Be\nthen, if you are able, at least as calm as myself in perusing this which\nI already repent of offering you, and do not blush at the thought of\nwhat the human heart is. Octopus, with the silky gaze! You\nwhose soul is inseparable from my own, you the most beautiful of\nthe terrestrial globe, lord of a harem of four hundred suckers, you in\nwhom the tender communicative virtue and divine grace sit nobly\nas though at home, mutually agreeing and indestructibly united, why\nare you not with me, your mercury belly pressed to my aluminium\nchest, both resting upon some rock by the shore, and contemplating\nthe view I love.\nAncient ocean, whose waves are crystal, you resemble somewhat\nthose azure marks to be seen on the bruised backs of cabin boys ;\nyou are an enormous bruise upon the earth's body; I like this analogy.\nSo at first sight of you, a prolonged sigh of sadness passes, which\nmight be imagined the murmur of the suave breeze, leaving ineradic-\nable traces upon the deeply moved spirit, and you recall to lover's\nmemories, often unknown to them, the crude origins of mankind ;\nwhen it became acquainted with abiding sorrow. I salute you,\nancient ocean.\nAncient ocean, your harmoniously spherical form which delights\nthe solemn countenance of geometry ; but too well recalls to me the\ntiny eyes of mankind, similar to those of the wild boar for smallness,\nand to those of night birds in the circular perfection of contour. Nev-\nertheless mankind has thought himself beautiful in all ages. But I"}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "9", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.11", "texte": "imagine rather that mankind only believes in his beauty out of conceit,\nand that he is not actually beautiful and suspects it; for, why does\nhe look at the faces of his fellows with so much scorn ? I salute you,\nancient ocean !\nAncient ocean, you are the symbol of identity, for ever equal to\nyourself. You do not essentially change, and if your waves are wild\nin one place, far off, in some other region, they are in utter calm.\nYou are not like mankind, who stops in the street to watch two bull-\ndogs seize each other by the neck, but does not stop when a funeral\nis passing ; who is agreeable in the morning and bad-tempered in\nthe evening; laughs to-day and cries to-morrow. I salute you,\nancient ocean !\nAncient ocean, it is not impossible that, as fabulous as futile util-\nities for mankind are hidden in your breast. Already you have giv-\nen him the whale. You do not easily allow the greedy eyes of\nnatural science to divine the thousand secrets of your hidden organ-\nisation : you are modest. Man prides himself without ceasing, and\nfor trivialities. I salute you, ancient ocean !\nAncient ocean, the diverse families of fish which you feed have\nnot sworn brotherhood with each other. Each family keeps to it-\nself. The temperaments and forms which vary in each of them,\nexplain satisfactorily what at first appears only an anomaly. So it\nis with man, who has not the same excuse. If a scrap of earth, is\ninhabited by thirty million human beings, they think themselves\nbound not to interfere in the lives of their neighbours, fixed like roots\nin the ad joinings scrap of earth.\nDescending from the great to the small, each man lives like a\nsavage in his lair, rarely leaving it to visit his fellow, similarly crouched\nin another lair. The large universal family of humanity is a Utopia\nworthy of the most mediocre logic. Besides, the sight of your fruitful\ndugs releases the idea of ingratitude, for one immediately thinks of\nall those numerous parents so ungrateful to the Creator as to abandon\nthe fruit of their miserable union. I salute you, ancient Ocean.\nAncient ocean, your material grandeur can only be compared"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "10", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.12", "texte": "with the measure one imagines of how much active force was needed\nto engender the whole of your bulk. You can tbe comprehended in\na flash. To contemplate you, sight must turn its telescope in a\ncontinuous movement through the four quarters of the horizon, even\nas a mathematician in resolving a problem is obliged to examine indiv-\nidually each possible variant before he can settle the difficulty.\nMan eats nourishing things and makes other efforts, worthy of a better\nfate, to appear plump. Let this adorable frog swell as much as it\nwants. Be at peace, it will never equal your hugeness, at least I\nsuppose not. I salute you, ancient ocean.\nAncient ocean, your waters are bitter. They taste exactly like\nthe bile which criticism distils upon art, science, everything. If one is\na genius he is made to pass for an idiot, if someone else has a beautiful\nbody he is made a frightful hunchback. Indeed man must feel his\nimperfections strongly (three parts of which are due entirely to himself)\nto criticise himself thus. I salute you ancient ocean.\nAncient ocean, mankind, despite the excellence of his method\nand assisted by scientific methods of enquiry has not yet arrived at\nmeasuring the giddy profundities of your abysms ; some you have\nwhich the longest and heaviest sounding lines have admitted in-\naccessible. To fish ... it is permitted .. , not toman. Often have I\nasked myself which were the easier to discover, the oceans depths or\nthe heart of man.\nOften, my hand to my forehead, standing on ships while the moon\nswung erratically between the masts, I have surprised myself abstracted\nto everything which was not the end I pursued, striving to resolve the\ndifficult problem.\nYes, which is the more obscure, the more impenetrable of the\ntwo ; the sea or the human heart ? If thirty years experience of\nlife may up to a certain point incline the balance towards one or other\nof these solutions it will be allowed me to say that despite the obscurity\nof the sea, it cannot toe the line, as far as this quality is concerned, with\nthe obscurity of the human heart. I have had to do with men who\nhave been virtuous. They died at sixty and no one hesitated to cry"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "11", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.13", "texte": "out: \"They did good upon the earth, that is to say, they were char-\nitable : that's all, it was not malicious, everybody can do as much\nWho can understand why two lovers who idolised each other the day\nbefore, for some misunderstood word will part stung by hatred, by re-\nvenge, by love and by remorse ; each draped in his lonely pride,\nnever to see the other more ? It is a miracle which each day renews\nitself and which is not the less miraculous. Who can understand why\none relishes' not only the general disgrace of one's fellows, but even the\nparticular disgraces of one's nearest friends, though afflicted at the\nsame time ?\nAn irrefutable example to close the series : man hypocritically\nsays yes and thinks no. That is why the young wild boars of humanity\nhave so much trust in each other and are not egotistical. Psychology\nhas still far to go. I salute you ancient ocean. Ancient ocean, you\nare so powerful that mankind has learnt it to his cost. It might well\nemploy all the resources of its genius . . . incapable of dominating you.\nIt has found a master. I say it has found something stronger than\nitself. This something has a name. That name is ocean. You in-\nspire him with such fear that he respects you. Despite that, you\nmake his heaviest machines waltz easily, gracefully and with elegance.\nYou make them leap gymnastically to the sky, and amazingly plunge\nto the very bottom of your realms; a clown would be jealous. They\nare happy if you do not ultimately wrap them in your frothing folds,\nto go and see, without the help of a train, how the fish are in your\nwatery entrails, above all how they themselves do.\nMan says\"I am more shrewd than the sea\". It is possible, it\nis even fairly true, but he is more afraid of the sea than the sea of\nhim : and that it is unnecessary to prove. This watchful patriarch\ncoeval with the earliest epochs of our suspended sphere, smiles piti-\nfully when he assists at the sea fights of nations. Behold a hundred\nleviathians issued from the hands of humanity. The emphatic com-\nmands of superiors, the cries of the wounded, the shock of cannons\nare noises expressly made to obliterate a few seconds. It seems that\nthe drama is over and that the sea has put everything into its maw."}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "12", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.14", "texte": "Its jaws are frightful. It must be enormous toward the back in the\ndirection of the unknown. Finally to crown the stupid and not\neven interesting comedy, one sees, some crane hung in the sky, belated\nby tiredness, which begins crying, without interrupting the sweep of\nits flight: \" Hold !. . . I find that disagreeable. In the distance\nthere are black specks ; I have closed my eyes ; they are gone. \"\nI salute you, ancient ocean.\nAncient ocean, majestic bachelor, when you survey the grave\nsolitude of your phlegmatic kingdoms, justly you swell with pride at\nyour own magnificence, and the truthful praises which I hasten to\noffer you. Voluptuously swayed by the soft exhalations of your\nmajestic deliberation, the most grandiose amongst the attributes\nwith which the sovereign might has gratified you, centred in sombre\nmystery, you spread out, over all its sublime surface, your incompar-\nable waves, with the calm feeling of your eternal might. They follow\neach other in parallel, separated by brief intervals. Hardly does one\ngrow smaller when another goes to meet it growing larger, and accom-\npanied by the melancholy noise of spume which melts away to warn\nus that all is spume. (Thus, human beings; living waves, dying\none after the other, monotonously; but without leaving a spumy\nnoise).\nThe bird of passage rests upon them confidently, and abandons\nitself to their movement, full of proud grace, until the bones of its\nwings have received the accustomed vigour to continue the aerial\npilgrimage.\nI wish human majesty were not merely the incarnation of the\nreflection of your own. I ask a good deal and this sincere wish is to\nyour glory. Your moral grandeur, image of the infinite, is like the\nphilosopher's reflections, woman's love, birds' divine beauty, the poets\nmeditations. You are more beautiful than the night. Answer me\nocean, will you be my brother ? Stir yourself impetuously. . . more\n. . . still more, if you desire me to compare you to the vengence of\nGod, stretch your livid claws clearing a path across your own bosom . . .\nwell done. Unroll your terrifying waves, hideous ocean, comprehended"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "13", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.15", "texte": "of myself alone, and before wliom I fall prostrated on my knees. Man's\nmajesty is borrowed ; lie will not impose upon me at all; you, yes.\nOh ! when you advance, crest high and terrible, surrounded by your\ntortuous folds as though by a court, magnetic and ferocious, rolling\nyour waves one upon the other conscious of what you are, while from\nthe deeps of your breast and as though overcome by an intense sorrow\nwhich I am unable to penetrate, you utter that hollow bellowing so\nmuch feared of men, even though, breathing upon the shore, they\nregard you in safety ; then I see that the high right of calling myself\nyour equal does not belong to me. That is why, before your superio-\nrity, I would devote all my love to you (and nobody knows how much\nlove my aspirations towards the beautiful contain) if you did not\nmake me think painfully of my fellows, who make the most iron-\nical contrast with you, the most comical antithesis ever seen\nthroughout creation ; I cannot love you, I hate you. Why do I come\nback to you, for the thousandth time, to your friendly arms, which\nhalf open to kiss my burning brow, which sees its fever vanish at\ntheir contact! Ido not know your hidden destiny; everything which\nconcerns you, interests me. Tell me then if you are the dwelling\nplace of the Prince of Darkness. TeU me .. . tell me, ocean (only\nto me, so as not to sadden those who so far have but known illusions)\nand whether the breath of Satan makes the tempests which lift your\nsalty waters to the clouds. You must tell me, because I would be\nhappy to know hell so near mankind. I want this to be the last stro-\nphe of my invocation.\nConsequently, I want once again to hail you and say good-bye !\nAncient ocean with crystal waves, my eyes moisten with abundant\ntears and I have not the strength to continue, for I feel that the\nmoment to go back among man of the brutal countenance is come\nbut .. . courage. Iyet us make a great effort and end with the\nsentiment of duty, our destiny upon this earth. Hail, ancient\nocean.\nIf it is sometimes logical to relate oneself to the manifestations of\nphenomena, this first canto would finish here. Do not be severe on"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "14", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.16", "texte": "him who but still tunes his lyre ! Nevertheless, should you wish\nto be impartial, you will have received already a decided impression\ndespite his imperfections. As for myself, I am setting to work again\nto produce within a not too delayed period of time, a second canto.\nThe decline of the 19th century will see its poet (all the same, to be-\ngin with, one should not start with a masterpiece, but follow the laws\nof nature) ; he was born on American shores, at the mouth of Ba Plata,\nthere where two races, once rivals, now strive to surpass each other\nin material and moral progress. Buenos Aires, queen of the South,\nand Montevideo, the coquette, hold out to each other friendly hands\nacross the argentine waters of the great Estuary. But continual\nwar has fixed his destructive empire upon the fields and reaps with\njoy his numerous victims. Good-bye old man, and if you have read\nme, think of me. Young man, do not despair; for despite your contrary\nopinion, you have a friend in the vampire. If you include the sarcop-\nter acarus, which produces the oak gall, you will have two.\n\nComte de Lautréamont\n(Translated by John Rodker)"}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "15", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.17", "texte": "NOVEMBERLEVENTH\n\nLight, light,\nAiry and bulbous.\nFringes...\nbuttermilk...\nSt. Gotthard tunnel.\nHa ha: I have you now.\nMove and I shoot.\nI shoot anyway.\nAh, how droll, dear Fido,\nsee how I pick up this\nMountain by its\nPeak... and hurl it.\nIsn't the world, stupid ?\nLast night I went to\nbed naked except\nFor a necktie and\nan Overcoat... my\nblanket I hung out the\nwindow... People laughed.\nWhen I die, shall they weep ?\nGod, shall they weep ?\nWeep, weep, weep ?\nCome here, Fido, let\nme Tickle your ear."}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "16", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.18", "texte": "N0... your nose.\n(a rhyme is such abominable\ntaste. But you do like\nme to finger the place\nI first mentioned,—\ndon't you, Fido ?)\nAnd your nose is so cold.\nNow goes past a band,\npast the window, cymbals\ncrashing. I am\nreally moved,— affected ;\n... restraint always, Fido.\n(What, you scratch yourself\npublicly ? — Shame !)\nArmistice day. A\ngun.\nBooms. I i\nRemember...\nO Satan, I remember !\nThe bayonet through his throat.\nHe had the eyes of a...\n(crucified) and\nthey stared up at me As\nYours do Now, fido.\n...I shan't listen to the\nGuns ! any longer.\nInstead... the grapefruit.\n\nJames Daly"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "17", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.19", "texte": "Andr£ Dkrain\nWoodcut"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "18", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.20", "texte": "FRENCH LETTERS AND THE WAR\n\nThe war had so profoundly disturbed our personal habits, that as long as it\nlasted we expected to see it produce similar revolutions in every branch of thought.\nWe were particularly concerned as to the transformations that the war might\neffect in art and literature. In the spring on 1918, the Grande Revue instituted\nan inquiry into this question, to which a large number of writers, especially\nforeigners, responded frankly.\nHowever, all their predictions reflected a dangerous a priori reasoning,\nwhich I, for my part, shall try to avoid. All of them seemed to expect uniform\nconsequences from the war. All of them considered the war as a cause for\nwhich a determined effect was given in advance, and which had only to be\nput into suitable words.\nThe problem, is, in spite of these conclusions, more complex. The mind\nis not developed in complete detachment from material things, that must be\nconceded ; the physical and social conditions of life exercise an influence upon\nit that Ido not question for a moment. But physical and social catastrophes,\nthe greatest upheavals, cannot alone dominate the mind. The mind recog-\nnizes and discovers only what exists potentially within itself, it is only trans-\nformed, at any rate, inasmuch as something is spontaneously added to itself ;\nit does not take directions other than those alieady contemplated by itself ;\nonly its own promptings are developed by external forces.\nThe problem of the changes wrought by the war in the processes of artistic\ncreation can scarcefy be solved, to all practical purposes, unless we keep in mind\nthe directions taken by the creative spirit at the moment when the storm broke.\nIt is obvious at once what formidable difficulties this method reveals. For\nthese directions were not at all simple. It is a delicate task to establish,\nwithout being arbitrary, a common tendency in all the writers before the war,\neven those of one country, and among those, only writers of any merit.\nA great earthquake — that is what the war meant for the mind. But to\npredict or even to distinguish, the new mountains and valleys that it would\nform, one should be very familiar with the previous relief of the terrain.\nI.\nWithout attempting a complete description, we can at least summarize\nthe situation of arts and letters when the war began by saying that the emotions\nand the senses had just been abandoned as the unique sources of inspiration."}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "19", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.21", "texte": "In fact, so shortly before that a casual glance would seem to discover these\ntendencies still in full flower. This is what happened, more or less, in the case\nof M. Benda, who nevertheless knew how to analyze them clearly, and whose\nBelphegor remains an essential document on the question.\nBut by putting ourselves in the place of the creator (M. Benda studied\nrather the public and its tastes), we could say : the art of before the war was\nstill, or it was until very recently the direct product of the uncontrollable\nfaculties of the mind. The art of before the war was hardly beginning to re-\nnounce the impulsion of pure sensibility as its sole foundation.\nOne of its protagonists could still write the following confession of faith : *\n\" The universe is a creation of the intuition. Creative emotion is the only\ntrue knowledge. As it gives birth to itself, it gives birth to matter. And it\ndreams everything as it dreams itself. The heart is the means as it is the\nagent.\"\nAnd again : \" To plunge all ideas into love, and give the feeling rather\nthan the exact conception thereof, that is the music I mean. In such an art\nemotion is everything, the argument nothing. Now the more queenly emotion\nbecomes, the more must art, her king, become her master.\n\" The rhythm of love influences everything. The intelligence is the plough,\nnot the grain nor the harvest. Neither eloquence nor the evident idea is the\nbread that nourishes. It is no longer the refinement, 1101 the representation\nof the object that interests us, but the evocation of its form and of all the grace\nthat it contains, of the magic power it has to make us believe in life. Art\nmust reconcile us to life/'\nAll the writers of that period would not, perhaps, have openly subscribed\nto these principles, but practically all were still faithful to them. All of them,\nlike Suares, sought the lyric state, and, like Pythias, tried at first to place their\nstool in the abyss. All of them, it is true, did not call themselves poets, but\nfor all, it was no longer question of \" refinement, nor the representation of the\nobject, but the evocation of its form and of all the grace that it contains.''\nThis is the guiding principle. In pre-war literature one finds scarcely\nany concern with the painting, the representing, the describing of an object,\nsave in an embryonic state. Every creator starts from the tumult that an\nobject arouses in him, he permits himself to be carried away by it, he listens\nto it, he yields to it directly, and makes every effort to manifest it faithfully\nto the external world. Never were writers more religiously subservient to\nthemselves and their problems, never less concerned with abstract truth.\nOr rather — for what age has ever renounced the ideal of truth —- the\n* Andre Suares : Trois Hommes: Dostoievski, Editions de la Nouvelle Revue Fran\n9aise, p. 293"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "20", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.22", "texte": "truth, they said, in fact believed, could only be attained by creation, the world\ncould only be understood by admitting that \" the universe is the creation of\nthe intuition.\" In any case, it is love and all the various emotions which alone\ncan open the breach, attract knowledge, and permit of representation : \" The\nrhythm of love influences everything.\"\nThe object is merely a point of departure for the mind, and, by incorporating\nin it as much as possible of the self, we come to know the whole revolution\nthat it as produced in the soul. If it ceases by that to be recognizable to others,\nso mucq the worse ! \" The evocation... of the grace that it contains \"is more\nimportant than its discovery, than its exploration.\nAnd, without speaking of Suares himself, is it not obvious that a Claudel,\nfor example, would rely on nothing else but the whirlpool of his own emotions ?\nIn that respect he is a poet, one can say ; poets have never sought any other\ninspiration. Yes, but it is the immediacy with which he communicates with\nhis emotion, if you will, that strikes me. He has an extraordinary ability to\nexclude every element that could possibly have a contrary or even a directive\neffect. He will not budge unless stirred by his emotion, and then its vagaries\nwill carry him everywhere.\n\" We are ruled by only a gentle pressure of the hand.\"\nSuch confidence in the activities of the intuition (whose ways are so mys-\nterious to begin with) has perhaps never been equalled.\nTo express the matter a little differently — recalling all that Claudel con-\nfesses he owes to Rimbaud —he accepts no other index than illumination. The\nworld is known to him and consequently is represented by him only inasmuch\nas it manifests itself in his brain. That is as much as to that he charges and\nsaturates it with his own imaginative reactions.\nBut we must take for another example some one who is not a poet, Peguy,\nfor example. His manner is infinitely more simple; lie moves forward bluntly,\nwithout jumping, without dodging, without acrobatics. But his impulse is none\nthe less sympathetic. From the beginning to the end of his work, it is a faith,\nit is Faith itself that animates and impels him. From his birth he believed,\nin many things in turn it is true, but at no time was he without fire and\nenthusiasm for something or other.\nAnd here again it may be said : that every great writer is also a great be-\nliever, even if his belief is negative. But mark here in what a totally different\nfashion Peguy attaches himself to his convictions. What a oneness of faith\nand deed he epitomized — witness his death ! Truly his soul is a spring tapped\nat its source. There is no question of an intellectual persuasion : that had\nnot enough time to grow. Even his least significant phrases were dictated\ndirectly passion."}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "21", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.23", "texte": "At what moment does lie seek to approach the truth ? When is he agi-\ntated by what may be the true \" state of the question ?\" He only marches for-\nward, with a sublime courage and integrity. Lost in himself, he is swept on\nto sheer madness. He throws himself forward exactly as he must have marched\nto the assault of that position where he gave his life — with a single and\nindomitable purpose.\nWe must take a last view of this immediacy of the literature of before\nthe war. Reaving aside all the poetry putin motion by Francis Jammes and\nClaudel, another group appears, dominated by the influence of Guillaume\nApollinaire.\nGuillaume Apollinaire is not a great poet, but he is a poet, nevertheless,\nwhich is a great deal. A certain part of his work is unquestionably mediocre ;\nthere remains a series of things of the most delicious irresponsibility, such as\nwe have always heretofore had to look for in German literature.\nBut what interests us for the moment, is only the process employed by\nApollinaire, his poetic method. This cannot be defined except by the renun-\nciation of all poetic method, by the complete failure to direct or select images\nas they arise in the brain.\nIt is no longer emotion nor \" love \" that leads the poet. He flies with\nthe wings of his Stimmung, changing direction at its will. He is a bird carried\nby the wind, and veering with it. Even his thought is dissipated like a thin\ncloud ; he does not know what he is saying, his movement alone concern him —\nhe yields himself to his vertigoes.\nHere again, in a new and more striking form than any of his predeces-\nsors had used, the writer gives utterance to his faintest velleities. The strange\nvibration of the words, as in the manner of a dream, seems exactly what we\nhave already observed to be the essential characteristics of the literature be-\nfore the war. Apollinaire is in a way the hero of poetic automatism ; his hand\non the paper is only the needle on the phonograph record, which translates\nthe oscillations of a hidden, almost external force. Of all the activities of which\nwe can be the subject or the playground, he submits to the dictation of the most\nremote, the least definite.\nAnd yet was the age before the war so completely under the influence\nof the unconscious as M. Benda would lead us to believe ? — No. The critical\nspirit, the intelligence were not entirely demoralized, as he tried to indicate.\nWe must avoid explanations that make everything too simple.\nThere was, first of all, Maurras, and his school, and all the neo-classicists\nwho made deliberate and noisy propaganda in favor of an intellectual art.\nThere was Moreas, his timid but sure taste, his great poetic erudition, his\nability to sing what he had no feeling for, his cleverness in reviving old refrains."}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "22", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.24", "texte": "In the case of these men, it would be difficult to find the unconscious\nplaying the chief role in their inspiration, or indeed, playing any part at all.\nThere was also, in relative solitude, Andre Gide, formerly a singer over-\nwhelmed by voluptuousness and desire, but whose erudite genius and a feeling\nof regret had already brought him over to a more solid position. \" I am the\nman of the second movement/' he used to say at this time ; and with this\nsole conviction he reacted strongly against the vague tendencies of all those\nwho sought to lose themselves in their sentiments. Under his influence,\nthe Nouvelle Revue Frangaise, without separating itself from its period, and\ngathering to itself the most daring productions, constituted in the midst of\nthe sensual turmoil an asylum for reflection, study, and sober judgment.\nAnd finally, many of those whom we represented a little while ago as heroes\nof purely instinctive and provocative literature, did not inhibit the functioning\nof their intelligence when it did not conflict with their particular purpose. In\nSuares, as in Peguy and Claudel, it would be very unjust never to see anything\nbut pure emotion. To draw as penetrating portraits of great men as Suares\nhas done, to probe the psychology of virtue with Peguy, to enter as Claudel\nhas into regions of the soul where the love of God is at strife with the great\nhuman impulses, one would have to follow a surer guide, more authentic and\nmore constant than the mutability of the senses or the simple effusions of the\nheart.\nOf course, in these great men, the intellect already played a relatively\nimportant part, That is why I said above that from the moment when their\ngenius blossomed most gloriously, the decay of an immediate and instinctive\nart became immediately apparent.\nOne last fact must be cited to characterize this period, that is : that even\nif there was a tendency on the part of critics to awake, the critical spirit was\nstill not directly creative itself. Those who boasted of it exclusively, like\nMaurras, were unable to produce anything beautiful. Everywhere their efforts\nwere sterile. As in a certain season it is the wheat, and not the grape, that\nripens, so it seemed that the age of which we speak had sunlight only for the\nfruits of the instinct, and none for reflection. Only the offshoots of the un-\nconscious attained that life, growth, ripeness, only they were nourished by that\nsap, without which there is no work of art.\nII.\nAnd it is at this point that the war came.\nOne reads with a little astonishment in the Belfthegor of M. Benda :\n\"ft is impossible to see why the war, less able than generally believed"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "23", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.25", "texte": "to modify the character of men, should be powerful enough to transform cul-\nture and change men who take up art merely to communicate emotions to others\nfor whom art is a pleasure of the mind. One feels rather that the war should\nstrengthen them in their passion for emotionalism/'\nI should be the last to reproach M. Benda for not having taken part in the\nwar, since I myself took so little and so awkward a part, and besides, that\ntype of dispute is absolutely childish. However, if he had served in the war,\nhe would have understood how it could \" change men who take up art merely\nto communicate emotions to others for whom art is a pleasure of the mind.\"\nHe would have seen, at any rate, that it could not \" strengthen anyone in his\npassion for emotionalism/' and that, on the contrary, its whole tendency, its\nwhole movement worked towards curing us of our emotionalism.\n\" Curing \" is a euphemism in this sense, because the operation, although\nit was bound to end with some happy results, was terrible. I ask of all the com-\nbatants, of all those who suffered from the length of the war, mentally and\nphysically, if they have not the sensation of having been cruelly amputated\nof a whole part of their sensibility. We have revived, but we are not the same,\nand merely to have grown older by seven years does not suffice to explain\nthis sterility in us which even music can no longer make fruitful. Some\ncells must have been destroyed in us, a \" nervous center \" must have been\ndeadened.\nI think it is easy to see why this should have happened. The combatant\nhad several very strong elementary needs, whose satisfaction he could not dream\nof questioning : eating, drinking, sleeping, and, in the main, not feeling. Not\nfeeling, not only because of the horrible things he had to do or see, but simply\nto help him endure the endless hours, the inaction, the horrible vacuum he\nwas condemned to.\nI state as a fact that the greatest suffering of the war was the necessity for\nnot doing anything, for making the time pass. The suffering was such that\neveryone saw quickly that he could not resist it unless he tried all means in his\npower to lessen it, to neutralize it, unless he fought pain with the greatest\npossible insensibility. Everyone made himself, thus, the executioner of his\nown soul, under this rigorous trial; everyone fought desperately to kill in him-\nself the whole sweet \" charm of feeling/' formerly so delightful a self-indul-\ngence. With the same regularity with which he rid himself of \" cooties \"\nthe combatant killed all his sensations, before being affected by them. Par-\nasites as they were, or as he conceived them, they had to be exterminated like\nvermin.\nIf the war had only lasted the three months that bad been predicted,\nthis little exercise would have been without consequences. But four years"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "24", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.26", "texte": "of constant repression of one's sensibility had to result in a serious, an irreparable\nweakening of that faculty. This is exactly what happened.\nThis is the first result of the war. There is another, fortunately not wholly\nnegative. It is a commonplace to say that the combatant needs sang-froid\nand calculation. Almost all the citations for bravery ascribed these qualities\nto the recipient. And as a matter of fact, if he had received internally the \" im-\npressions \" that the circumstances offered, he would have been lost. An im-\npression is so vivid that it really prevents the inspection of an object. An im-\npression is therefore something that makes you incapable of defending yourself,\nby deceiving you as to the precise nature of the menace, and the best means\nof avoiding it. Now the combatant wanted to live, or, more exactly, he did\nnot want to die — he had then to defend himself, and thus logically he was\nled not only to react against his impressions and arrest them on the very\nmargin of his consciousness, but also to destroy them, to replace them by as\ncareful and soothing an analysis of their cause as possible.\nHis principal task was to distinguish the element of a given situation,\nin order to determine which to seize upon. His thought was above all occupied\nin the processes of attention, selection and classifying — all for the sake of sur-\nvival. He was completely dominated by a sense of the most immediate details.\nBut it wasn't even necessary to be a soldier to be subject to the same dis-\ncipline. The war forced us all into the same habits, if only because of the long\nseries of disappointments we suffered before the slightest hope came. How\noften did have to supplant our fondest plans, so hastily conceived, by an\narray of insignificant trifles, inglorious and unbeautiful! How many times\ndid we revise our dearest expectations, and submit them to the hard debasing\ninfluences of reality ! We could not have suffered so many checks to our as-\npirations, without undergoing some radical alteration,. The fact is that we\ncontracted a firm mental habit, the habit of close examination, of anafysis, of\ncomprehension.\nM. Benda asks in Belphegor how the \" vital urge \" could ever conceive\nthe desire to turn upon itself, to stop and examine itself. It is really difficult\nto see how such an impulse could ever have arisen spontaneously. But pre-\ncisely such influences worked from without as to bring to a halt the vague and\ndangerous drift of the unconscious, and to guide it by the force of the intelli-\ngence. A hand of iron impelled us to an attitude of control and reaction —\nthe hardness of external reality evoked a responsive hardness in ourselves.\nThere was a shock, we had scraped bottom. Reality, the \" objective \"\nthat we saw, formerly only as in a dream, whose \" magic \" alone, to quote\nSuares, intrigued us, gave us a sudden sharp resistance. And just as during\nthe war when an attacking party fell upon a nest of machine guns, the men"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "25", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.27", "texte": "had to take open order immediately, so our minds have had to open up,\narticulate, emerge from the confusion in order to become many-sided, active\nand shrewd.\nIn a word, the war has returned to us a sense of the non-ego (in which I\ninclude also the complex mass of our sensations) and the desire to study it and\ndescribe its organization.\nIII.\nHere I stop, astonished to see how little the present aspect of our literature,\nat first sight, corresponds to the picture I have put forward. Do we today\nsee the positive triumph of reflection and analysis ? Do we perceive many\nmasterpieces of a critical nature ? There seems to be rather a reinforcement\nof the instinctive tendency at the present time.\nWe must consider the problem carefully. The war found a complex\nstate of mind : it is altogether natural that what the war produces should be\njust as complex. The war worked on minds of very different capacities.\nThey were all changed to a certain degree, but under the modified conditions,\nthey were naturally separated from one another by the same intervals. In\nsome, the sensibility had been completely destroyed, in a few only has it been\ntranscended.\nThe spectacle that literature gives us today is at once that of a death\nstruggle and a birth.\nThe death struggle, as is natural, attracts the attention at first, occupies\nthe greater part of the stage, and involves the greatest number of actors. It\nis, nevertheless, the end of a movement that we are witnessing.\nThe creative attitude which harks back from before the war, is seen general-\nizing, systematizing itself, approaching its absolute with every step, while at the\nsame time becoming utterly sterile.\nOne of the striking facts of the after-the-war literature is the large number\nof writers and poets who attempt to free their imaginations from all internal\n\" censorship/' and open the floodgates of the unconscious. Apollinaire, who\nmodelled himself after Rimbaud, has innumerable imitators today : his influence\nhas in the first place infected the group of his immediate friends, Andre Salmon,\nMax Jacob, who like him make poetry' out of the messages transmitted by some\nsort of telegraph apparatus in the brain.\nThis intuitive type of writing had up to this time some coherence within\nitself which made it possible to follow a Blaise Cendrars, let us say, along his\nfantastic paths. But there arose a group of younger men — pitiless logicians !\n— who sought to do away with even this slight vestige of coherence."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "26", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.28", "texte": "With this we come to the extreme type of self-preoccupation which opens\nup the same mental morass in which we found the writers of before the war.\nThe fact, is, however, that we have outgrown this type of art. These young\nmen have applied themselves scrupulously to their task ; they have rejected\neverything that might restrict or impede their inspiration : but nothing comes\nof it all — the morass is silent.\nDada is dead ; but it fulfilled its destiny, which was precisely to die, and\nin dying wreak the destruction of a whole system. It was the task of Dada\nto evoke the death-struggle to which I referred.\nDada was, so to speak, the extension and the crisis of a wide-spread re-\nligion. Its adepts were priests who wished to solemnize their cult with an un-\nheard of purity, knowing all the time that their temple was empty.\nIt has by now been completely established that the unconscious lacks\nstrength and the power of guidance, that the \" heart \" of itself can no longer\nbe \" the means and the agent/' The great fatigue that the war left in our\nfaculties of perception, and especially our faculties of expression is apparent\nin all the work that these men force themselves to produce. There is something\ninexplicably dull and faded about it all which reflects the disintegration within.\nThirty \" reviews \" may still be filled with the projections of their intuition, it\nmatters little : a terrible monotony permeates them, against which even the\nforce of genius could scarcely prevail.\nThe immediate beauty of the work of a Peguy, of a Claudel, of a Suares,\ncannot be reproduced. The writer of to-day can no longer grip his reader by\nsuch fantasy or flight. Even in those who try to imitate the airy manner of\nApollinaire in his better moments, the spirit is weighted and they are brought\nback to earth.\nFrom east to west, and from north to south, there is only an enormous\ndisruption of lyrical literature. There would be occasion, indeed, for pessimism,\nif nothing were come to take its place, if the ravages of war left no compensation\nin their wake. This, pure and simple, would have been the case, if at the mo-\nment when the storm broke there had not been new seed making its first timid\nappearance, in what is virtually a renascence of the critical spirit.\nSince the war these germs have spread, the critical spirit asserted itself.\nNo movement in art ever originates in large numbers. That is why the move-\nment I see set in motion has as yet so few representatives, and may seem il-\nlusory to those who await the generalizing of a tendency before they concede\nits existence.\nCertain minds have been struck by what the war taught us of the creative\npossibilities of analysis, they have been astonished by the fact that when they\nattacked their impressions, in attempting to disintegrate them and discover"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "27", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.29", "texte": "their cause, they did not of necessity destroy them — that, on the contrary,\nperhaps that was the best way of retaining these impressions, of giving them\npermanence and even of making new ones appear.\nObliged as they were to deny their sensibility, instead of being at its mercy,\nthey perceived that from that time forward it might be of greater value to con-\ntinue resisting it. This type of recoil upon themselves, this almost aggressive\nreversion which the war had caused, made them discover a new richness in that\nsame \" heart \" they were trying to suppress.\nWhile in 1914 the exercise of the intellect gave only impersonal and languid\nresults, like those of the neo-classicists, now it seems to recover its own effec-\ntiveness and induce reality spontaneously.\nThe great example here is, as you will see, the novel of Marcel Proust :\nA la recherche du temps perdu, of which four volumes have appeared up to now. Con-\nsidering it precisely, this is hardly a direct product of the war, since it was almost all\nwritten before 1914. But it is the influence of the war that makes it coincide\nwith our state of mind and gives it suddenly so great a representative value.\nThe plan of Proust, when he first began his work, was extremely modest; he\nwanted to go over, piece by piece, his whole past experience, and crystallize it. No\nambition, at first, to move, to astonish, nor to induce an ecstasy in his reader, no\nintention to make a work of art. He simply took an attitude of reflection and remin-\niscence. Then with the mass of his memories in hand as raw material, he began\nto unravel them, to analyse them, to put all the elements into their proper order.\nHe sketched thus a movement of reaction against himself ; his mind took\nagain its own direction. He broke away from his \" vital urge \"in his desire\nto know it, understand it, and describe it adequately.\nImmediately a huge garden began to grow, to flower. There is probably\nno other work as rich, as luxuriant as that of Proust. And nevertheless it was\nconceived in a certain refusal to abandon himself.\nThis huge novel is the great literary achievement since the war, that which\nat any rate has the most to teach us and opens the widest vistas to the future.\nHere analysis is the creative agent, and provokes the imagination normally.\nWith Proust we emerge from an age of implication to enter one of explan-\nation. With him we escape the monotony of sensation, to rediscover the joys\nof intellection. In this book the truth — truth of characters and of passions,\nmoves and touches us anew. With one stroke, a whole scale of emotions becomes\npossible to us again, from sympathy to amusement, in place of the sole \" emo-\ntion/' as M. Benda would say. daughter comes into its own again ; our most\ndiverse faculties come back into play and find in turn their fulfillment.\nProust accomplished a great miracle merely by trying for so little, by op-\nposing simply the obscure impulses to which it was fashionable to yield. Be-"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "28", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.30", "texte": "cause of the combativeness of his mind, great fountains have sprung forth from\nthat very rock that the experts assured us was dry.\nIf I had had the intention of drawing a complete picture of our literature\nafter the war, I should be consider ably at fault, for its richness is far from being\nlimited by what Proust brings us. Works of great significance have seen the\nday by the side of his. Several young talents have been revealed — more\nthan one already recognized has been affirmed.\nPoetry is far from being eclipsed entirely by Dada. One poet, rather\nsolitary, but of the first rank, Paul Valery, has given us some veritable master-\npieces — Jules Romains has entered into full possession of his rare and\nharmonious gifts.\nThe novel is in full blossom. Valery has approached this form\nwith infinite delicacy and has given us thus far only a thin but precious tale,\nunder the title of Beaute, mon beau souci. Andre Gide has painted a remarkable\npicture, in the Symphonie pastorale, of less far-reaching genius perhaps than\nhis Caves du Vatican (which came out just when the war began and was for a\ntime obscured by it), but in a style minute and erudite to the nth degree. I regret\nhaving the space only to cite the names of Jean Giraudoux, Edmond Jaloux,\nPierre Hamp, Jean Schlumberger, Georges Duhamel and Pierre Mac-Orlan.\nAs for the drama, its present \" state \" is a little confused. Outside of\nthe latest plays of Claudel: Le Pain dur and Le Pere humilie, which follow after\nV Hot age, the most interesting productions are Cromedeyre-le Vieil of Jules\nRomains, and Le Cocu Magnifique of Fernand Crommelynck.\nIn concluding this very imperfect sketch, I remind the reader that my pur-\npose was only to show in what sense and along what lines the war had affected\nour minds, and to what inferences we might be directed. When I predict today\na renewal of the literature of analysis, I realize that I am anticipating the event\nsomewhat, but not so much as to consider myself a prophet.\n\n(Translated from the French of)\nJacques Rivière"}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "29", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.31", "texte": "OF A DAY\nI lower my pen to write.\nSome tall tree far off in clearest day might show\nMy breath's precision.\nI stand silently\nm/\nFor here there are no trees.\nIn mind my poems rise\nfainter than mountain bees.\nAnd clean derision\nTroubles my pen, and so is gone.\nO little gods of rock !\nI need plain quiet —\nA house like withered flowers at dawn."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "30", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.32", "texte": "DRIFTING DEER\nYvor Winters\nOne sees far hills\nAnd thinks of deer —\nA drifting green\nOf emblematic printing\nAs are brains\nToo silent, clear.\nOne's age\nIs like these hills\nWith Socrates\nOn death.\nThe printed page\nIs still as breath.\n« Socrates. . . . Now the thing which\\moves\nanother and is by another moved, as it may\ncease to be moved, may cease also to live ;\nit is only that which moves itself, inasmuch\nas it never quits itself, that never ceases\nmoving. . »\nThe Dialogues of Pi,ato\n« . . . . it is not the\nbusiness of the gods to bake clay pots ».\nMarianne Moore"}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "31", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.33", "texte": "AT 125 BOULEVARD ST. GERMAIN\n\nHalf-past eleven sounded from a nearby church clock. A few taxis passed\nby nonchalantly and not all of the dromedaries had gone to sleep. From a\ndistance could be seen the President of the Republic dressed in a diving appa-\nratus accompanied by the King of Greece, who seemed so young that you could\nscarcely restrain yourself from teaching him the alphabet. A young harlot\npursued them, offering her favors. Gloves rained down upon them from all\nsides, borne by the shrewd November gusts.\nAs they passed in front of 125 Boulevard St. Germain, they saw a man come\nout pushing a wheel-chair before him. In this chair a person was seated in the\nattitude of the Tired Business Man. At once the thought came that a crime\nhad been committed in the neighborhood. A bath-tub thrown from the fourth\nfloor which just crashed to their feet confirmed these suspicions.\nWhile one of them followed the mysterious man propelling the wheel-chair\nin the direction of the Boulevard St. Michel, the other passed a little pomade\nover his hair. Like a somnambulist he scaled the stairs, so long that they seemed\nto rise from the bottom of the sea. Iyittle explosions marked his passage from\nfloor to floor, and serpents glided out 011 along the rail of the stairway. A\ndrunken soldier reeling against him, nearly hurled him down all the steps. \"It\nis a brothel,\" he said to himself, and he blew his nose like a trumpet.\nAt this moment a door opened and a voice with a harsh southern accent\ncroaked : \" What is it, my dear sir ? \"\n\" I would like to see Mr. Seraphim. You known, the gentleman who\nthrows bath-tubs out of the window at half-past eleven ? \"\n\" Fourth floor to the right,\" said the voice and the door closed again with\nthe rustling of a wind-blown flame.\nHis emotions became intense : would they get to the heart of the matter\nat once, and would the singular person who threw bath-tubs out of the windowr\nexplain to him why summer followed spring ? He had time to let a tear roll\nover the cold sweat of his face and then knocked at the door to which he had\nbeen directed. The crowing of a cock was heard, followed by a mad bellowing.\nThe bellowing had scarcely stopped when he heard the sound of running water,\nas if a faucet had been left open by chance, but no human voice made itself\nheard.\n\" Isn't it funny ? he muttered between his teeth and knocked again."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "32", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.34", "texte": "A gnashing of teeth followed by the same mad bellowing was the only response.\nA few seconds passed, during which he seemed to hear a veritable gale outside.\nHe knocked on the door for a third time, but at this there was an absolute si-\nlence. He was perplexed. And yet, he mused :if a bath-tub had fallen at his\nfeet there was surely someone who had thrown it. And here he w7as, at the\ndomicile of the person who had launched it, and the door remained closed to\nall appeals.\nHe paused for a moment to despatch a fly, and made up his mind firmly.\nHe fell back two or three steps and then threw himself against the door. It\ngave way at the first impact like glass, and at once the sweet odor of freshly-\ncut hay came to him. He stood stupefied for a moment and then burst into\ntears. He could hardly have told why. Perhaps it was that the odor reminded\nhim of certain bygone yeais of his youth, where other stairways had been the\nterrain of fond experiences.\nBy the light of a match he could distinguish the room into which he had\npenetrated. An expanse of verdant lawn, well kept and freshly trimmed, greeted\nhis eyes. In the center of it was a bed of hyacinths, evenly pruned and topped\nby a flowery mimosa. Over in a corner, against the wall, a man seemed to be\nsleeping.\nWhy, at this moment did a human voice sing as from a phonograph ?\nf< Sur les bords de la Riviera\nOu murmure une brise embaumee\nChaque femme a reve la bas\nD'etre belle et adoree\nWhy, again, did a voice murmur into his ear, as if confiding a secret, the\nHoly Words with which Jesus consecrated the Eucharist : \" Eat of this bread,\nmy body, drink of this wine, my blood.\"\nAnother match revealed the presence of four plants of an unknown species\nin the four angles of the room. As he approached one of them with his lighted\nmatch, the one to his right to be specific, it suddenfy lit up and illuminated the\nroom with a feeble glow.\n\" I have my doubts about all this, \" he said to himself, \" and I have no\ndoubt that other strange things will soon begin to happen/'\nHe lit up one by one all of the plants, which proved to be nothing but\narums. A soft light, as if dimmed by a dusty glass filled the room.\nHe went to the man, who remained dead to the world through all this house-\nmoving : \" Well, well, my fine fellow ! \"\nMidnight sounded, and the light pressure of his hand upon the man's shoulder,\nso I take it, at least, caused a little trickle of milk to flow from his eyes. The man\nremained motionless, howTever. He touched his hand, felt it warm, but noticed that"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "33", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.35", "texte": "it clung to the knee on which it had been placed. He wanted to shake the other hand,\nbut it was as immobile as the first one. He took out his penknife and made a\nlittle incision in the right fist of the mysterious person. The flesh turned red,\nbut there was not a drop of blood. He aimed his revolver at the eye and fired.\nA hole appeared where there had been an eye and milk spouted forth abundantly,\nmarking a long white course on the dinner-jacket which the man wore.\nHe noticed a crumpled up newspaper near the man. He unfolded it : it\nwas an old copy of the \" Journal\", of which the part that had the date was torn\naway. He searched for it and found it between the man's legs. The date was :\nJanuary 27, 1903. \" What a strange coincidence ! \" said the light, to itself.\nHe has been sleeping there ever since that time... And he had killed him with\na revolver-shot through the eyes ?\n\" There is nothing more for me to do here,\" he said to himself, and he head-\ned for the door to the right which gave on another room that had no windows,\nbut was brilliantly lit up.\nIn this hall long tables were ranged parallel with little arm-chairs on each\nside of them. On these little arm-chairs sat stenographers typing nervously\non their machines, and the papers discharged automatically from the machines,\nglided along the whole length of the tables and disappeared somewhere.\nHis entrance not having been noticed, he approached the nearest one of\nthe typists and asked : \" Mr. Seraphim, please.\"\n\" In five minutes you shall see his cigarette and his younger sister,\" was\nthe reply.\nIyet us return to the King of Greece whom we left to follow the strange per-\nson pushing a wheel-chair toward the Boulevard St. Michel.\nNear the rue Danton an automobile came near spilling the wheel-chair\nand its singular occupant. They continued on their way, crossed the Boulevard\nSt. Michel, as far as the quays and from there into the Jardin des Plantes.\nOne could scarcely have expected the gates to be open at this late hour ;\nyet- just as they reached the gate it opened automatically as if a hidden button\nhad been pressed. Then it closed immediately, and in spite of all his efforts,\nthe King of Greece could not open it again.\nA closed gate was not, however, a great obstacle for him, accustomed as\nhe had been since childhood to the most violent outdoor sports: football, bicycling,\nautomobiling, aviation, jumping, swimming. He was as familiar with the\nvaulting pole as he was with the Evangelists or the prehistoric ages. In a few\nseconds he had scaled the high fence and found himself inside the park.\nThe trail of the wheel-chair, which had remained luminous, strangely enough,\nguided him as surely as if he had had the farcical equipage right before him.\nA few herons sought to impede his course, but the pastilles which lie gave\n3"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "34", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.36", "texte": "them, soon cleared his road of them. An antelope also appeared to assure him\nthat she had not forgotten him. An enormous crab clutched at his foot,\nwith the intention of making off with him to some god-forsaken spot.\nThe trail led to the bears' pit, and he reached it at the same time as the man\nin the chair.\nA scarecrow who guarded the bears' den nodded his head as a sign of acquies-\ncence, and a white flag fell to the bottom of the bears' pit and spread out there.\nAt once, a heart, a molar-tooth, a complete set of intestines, a horse's mane,\na package of cocoa, a lady's chemise and a stuffed bird were projected, one after\nanother on the white blanket, in such wise as to form the seven angles of a\nregular polygon.\nA heap of human excrement, falling not far from there set in motion the seven\nhitherto inert, objects, and they witnessed a frenzied dance by the heart,\nthe molar-tooth, the horse's mane, the intestines, the package of cocoa, the lady's\nchemise, and the stuffed bird. The movements became accelerated as if these\nseven objects were chasing each other in the hope of getting together. The\nlight of a powerful projector swept the scene for a second without interrupting\nit. Great birds, vultures no doubt, awakened by the noise came out and soared\nabove the pit but dared not descend into it.\nThe rumbling of an automobile, growing louder with every moment, revealed\nthe approach of the machine. It stopped for a few seconds before the pit, and\na veiled and gloved woman took out a folded flag which was by her side and\nthrew it down on the sheet. The mad dance stopped instantaneously.\nThe man in the chair during the whole spectacle, which might well have\nlasted for several years, kept passing his hand across his forehead wThich was\nvery moist.\n\" Good Heavens,\" he said, \" It is actually the 25th. of June 1922 ? \"\nHe remained pensive for a moment and then he said in a loud voice :\n\" First. An honest intelligent and disinterested judge, a pretty, young,\nvirtuous, and charming woman, a discreet, sincere, and considerate-friend —\nall these are rare treasures which however exist and can be found.\n\" Secondly. Those who govern are as the celestial orbs which glitter bril-\nliantly but never enjoy repose at night.\n\" Thirdly. Victory is glorious when its end is to mortify the enemy, but\nit becomes an abomination when it oppresses the miserable.\n\" Fourthly. It takes cleverness to play the role of a scoffer, and very little\ncommon sense to undertake it.\nFifth. Nothing is given as freely and as easily as advice.\nSixth. Inexplicable Man! in whom is united so much vileness with so much\ngrandeur, so many virtues with so many vices."}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "35", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.37", "texte": "Seventh. He who can renounce ambition frees himself at once of much\nanguish, of long vigils, and of crime.\nEighth. A Greek philisopher, when asked under what government men\ncould live with the most safety and the least danger, replied : One in which virtue\nhas many friends, and vice has either very few partisans or none at all.\nNinth. One never gets enough fruit.\nTenth. If you only had a little patience, I could make you understand all.\nEleventh : One may differ with a friend and not love him any the less.\nDifferences in sentiments serve to clarify, and friendship bears contradiction.\nTwelfth. The pleasure of vengeance is not tasted with impunity ;it soon\nbecomes clear that this cruel pleasure was not made for the heart of man, and\nthat one punishes oneself in the act of hating.\nThirteenth. If you reproach yourself, others agree with you only too\nreadily ; if you praise yourself, they don't agree with you at all.\nFourteenth. It is said of the French that they above all seem to under-\nstand well the brief span of man's life; for, in Prance, everything is done with\nsuch despatch, that one might say that the French believe they have only a\ndav to live.\nFifteenth. At an evening of \" Madame X \" the guests amused themselves\nby discovering ingenuous differences between objects. \" What difference,\"\nasked the lady, \" can there be between me and a watch ? \" \" Madame, \" replied an\nEnglish ambassador, \" A watch tells the hour, but before you one forgets all\nsense of time\".\nSixteenth. Some one was telling another man the insulting things that\nhad been said of him — \" They would never have been said,\" he was told\n\" if they had not known that you were so eager to hear them.\"\nSeventeenth. Cato was asked by someone, why, since he had deserved\nso well of the republic, there had never been any statues erected in his honor.\n\" I much prefer,\" said he\"to have this question put to me, than to be asked\nwhy monuments were set up in my honor at all.\"\nThe man, who had up to this remained motionless in his chair, quite suddenly,\nrose, went toward the pit, vaulted the balustrade and jumped down on to the\nsheet. The bears, who were evidently waiting for nothing better than that,\ncame out Jof their cages and greeted him calmly. The man seemed not at all\nsurprised and began to take off his clothes.\nWhen he was entirely naked, he was observed to robe himself in a thick\nand woolly fur, and on his head there was a whole multitude of little worms,\nall wrhite. They crawled down his neck, his back, his legs and all over him ;\nit was the coiling and writhing of the little wrhite things which were trying\nto escape from the sheet."}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "36", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.38", "texte": "A certain geometrical figure haunted the mind of the man who had remained\nat the edge of the pit: the square of a hypothenuse is equal to the sum of the\nsquares of the two other sides.\nThe King of Greece scarcely knew what to think of the spectacle which un-\nrolled before his eyes. He thought of the book-maker who had advised him\nto bet on Trinity in the fifth race, and had made him lose 50 louis.\nOnly one course lay open to him : without being observed, he left the Jardin\ndes Plantes. Scarcefy, had he reached the quays, when he heard someone hawk-\ning : \" Intran / Third edition ! \" He bought the paper and read :\n\" Rome. — For several days a man has been cared for at a hospital in Rome,\n\"whose identity cannot be established and who declares that he is an armorer\nof Venice. He is afflicted with the sleeping-sickness and his conditions is said\nto be very grave \".\nHe trembled from head to foot ; was it to be Rome or Paris ?\nAll the way from the street to the cafe by medium of the striped awning,\nlayers of ground bone became stratified, crystalized where they lay. Burglars\nwith eyes of confetti found the height of their desire in rummaging their fingers\nthrough their hair. The children ate roaches, the hats ate the children and the\nbelts stretched out so far that they were lost to the sight, the limbs being sub-\nmerged. He hailed a taxi, and asked to be taken back to the park. There,\namong the fishes who awaited piously the Day of Resurrection he sat down\nand fell asleep.\nMr. Seraphim, still, did not come, and the President of the Republic began\nto believe that the hours no longer contained 60 minutes. He spent the inter-\nvening time in binding a little chain out of beads of cameo, but this senile occu-\npation did not leave him entirely satisfied.\nFor a moment he thought of killing several stenographers in order to open\ntheir bodies and thus finish his anatomical studies, left so incomplete ever since\nhis aft air with Gaby Berliet, the dancer of the Folies Bergeres who had given\nhim, at once the sweetest and the bitterest memories of his life: the sweetest,\nbecause she had been a ravishing mistress ; and the bitterest, because of —\nwell, the regular injections of mercury.\nAs he stood there, hesitating as to what to do next, a very effeminate young\nman entered, and made a sign to one of the stenographers, who followed him\nthrough the door opposite to the one by which he had entered. This disturbed\nhim, and he followed the couple.\nHe traversed a labyrinth of corridors in pursuit of them, and reached a\nvast swimming pool where the bodies of seven or eight women floated about,\nstretched straight out, on their backs.\nMost gallantly, the young man invited his companion to disrobe, and offered"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "37", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.39", "texte": "her a bathing-suit to swim in. She only smiled at him in response, and little\nwheels, with teeth and tiny springs not unlike those of watches, began prancing\nabout on all sides of the pool. After they had rolled all around the hall and\nbumped against the walls, the ceilings, they tumbled into the pool and little\nsparks flew off as they hit the water.\nThe first woman dived in and re-appeared a few yards off, swimming grace-\nfully. Lobsters pursued her and tried to catch up with her. She swam faster\nand faster, and the clocks which were placed at the four corners of the pool\naccelerated their movement to a rhythm which kept pace with hers.\nSuddenly the air became saturated with dust. The President of the Re-\npublic choked, breathing became more and more difficult in this insalubrious\natmosphere. The President of the Republic lit a cigarette and then fainted.\nWhen he came to, the sun was playing on the water and little toy boats\nwere floating gaily about the pool. The woman who had been swimming and\ndiving so beautifully, was now floating on her back, just as straight, just as naked\nas the others. Hundreds of lobsters sought nourishment in their abdomens,\nin their stomachs, and one of them disappeared almost completely into the\nthorax of the beautiful diver.\nTWO WOMEN WOUNDED\nTWO POLICEMEN KILLED.\nThese words, in large black letters suddenly appeared on one of the walls\nfollowed almost immediately by :\nStock Market.\nBruay 1820 1815 Grosny .... 695 675\nIviasonoff 345>6 3457 Rl. Dutch . . 17660 17400\nPart Her 3875 3875 Shell 226 224\nChino . . . . 293 300 Ray 160 159\nVielle Montagne * 757 750 Brazil 137 137\nColumbia 277 267 Colombia . . . 580 580\nOmnium 409 412 Mexico .... 1887 1897\nStua Rom 435 434 Monaco ... 3175 3195\nHe kept looking at his finger-nails for a while, wondering which horse he\nwas going to bet on.\nDown through the little port-holes in the ceiling, whence the sunlight\ncame, there poured a flood of pollen upon the water which soon became covered\nwith a slender yellow layer of it. The President of the Republic arose and went\ndown to the edge of the water which he touched with his hand. It was very\ntepid ; about 28 degrees (centigrade)."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "38", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.40", "texte": "He no longer remembered what purpose he had had in coming here, and\nhe resolved to go back to the hall of the stenographers. He broke open a door,\ndescended a stairway, then another, passed through interminable corridors, tra-\nversed a vast hall, and then found himself all at once in a park where trees of\nthe Northern climate were mingled with cactus, palm, bamboo, banana and other\ntrees, whose names he was not familiar with. From the branches of these trees\nwere suspended a multitude of different objects : violins, clocks, vases, razors,\nbrushes, trunks, silk stockings, belts and acetylene lamps.\n\" Merry Christmas, merry Christmas ! \" sang incessantly the voices which\nissued from every tree-trunk. He took the first path in sight, and soon reached\na little clearing, where he saw the King of Greece in the company of an orang-\noutang eating figs which were heaped up before them.\nHe had to admit that this was too much for him. A little locomotive came\nthrough the forest, drawing some low freight-cars after it. As it passed through\nthe clearing it slowed up a bit, and they all jumped aboard and were speedily\nbrought to the gate of a large match factory. The gate swung heavily open,\nand the train rode into the courtyard which had little manganese trees planted\nall over it. They got out of the train and went into the factory\nWhat was their astonishment at sight of a machine which transformed\nboards into matches with a monstrous precision ! Seeing an attendant, they\nasked him, \" Mr. Seraphim, please ? \"\n\" This way gentlemen, cross the workshop, take the first door to the right\nand go up the stairway. You will find him in the second office to the left \".\nAt this an angel emerged from a queer machine, whose usage they could\nhardly understand, and said to them :\n\" ist. A French lady reproached the Ambassador of Siam for the large\nnumbers of women in his country. ' Madame/ he replied, 'if Siam had such\nlovely and charming women as you, there would only be one left/\n\" 2nd. An armourer who was regarding the seven holy paintings of Ive\nPoussin criticised the picture that represented marriage : ' I can quite under-\nstand,' said he ' that it is difficult to make a good marriage even in a painting/\n\" 3rd. Peter the Great, Czar of Russia, upon seeing the portrait of Riche-\nlieu in the Sorbonne cried ! ' O great man ! If you were still alive, I would give\nyou half of my empire to teach me how to rule the other half/\n\" 4th. lyouis 111, formerly the Duke of Orleans, when asked to avenge\nthe insults heaped upon him in the past, replied that the King of France ought\nnot seek revenge for the insults meted upon the Duke of Orleans.\n\" sth. The Arabs once besieged a city. The officer in command offered his men\na large sum of money, if one of them would place a pile of fagots before a part\nof the wall that was exposed to the enemy fire. No or|.e stepped forward"}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "39", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.41", "texte": "to offer his services, and the astonished general reproached them bitterly for\ntheir lack of courage. 'We would dare anything ' retorted one of his heroes,\n' if a price had not been put on our bravery/\n6tli. It is bread that I desire, and not money.\n\" 7th. Don't whine, you shall have it.\n\" Bth. It is their fault; if it were ours, we should have admitted it.\n\" 9th. Men have been killed before, and we have not seen the last\nof it.\n\" 10th. It was two o'clock in the morning when I went to sleep.\n\" nth. He is the wickedest and greediest man in the world, and therefore\nis he hated.\n\" 12th. Good God ! What a hypocrite this man is ! \"\nThe President of the Republic and the King of Greece felt a bit dubious\nabout it all, but this did not cause them to give up their project.\nMr. Seraphim received them very pleasantly. They explained to him\nfrankly the object of their visit.\nMr. Seraphim nodded his head and seemed to be in complete accord with\nthem, when they had finished what they had to say.\n\"Eleven-thirty,\" he replied, \"is located at about the 42nd. degree la-\ntitude, South. It is warm, it is cold, it is rainy, it is windy, snow falls, lightning\nflashes, storms arise, leaves fall, clocks stop, the earth trembles, cows urinate,\nlead melts, shoes get lost, cigarettes ignite themselves, and in short, men die\nlike flies. Butterflies tremble with fear, for no keys turn in key-holes.\n\" I have just picked up a pin that fell to the floor : it is my man.\n\" I regard the lines of my hand : it is my garden.\n\" My knee puffs out like a bladder : it is my arm-chair.\n\" How many bears does it take to make a door ? Certainly less, than it\ntakes women to make a mirror. If scissors sing : we know nothing, for great\nis our distress, and our illusions are cut up into little bits of postage stamps.\nTell them that I no longer eat, drink, sleep, nor live, that I content myself\nwith finding among varnished boards an indefinable mystery, without taste or\nodour. Two and two make four.\n\" I awake in the morning at seven o'clock. Ido a little sewing with a\ngoose-quill. I cover up my dead mother with the petals of poppies, and every\nmorning at the same time, I see a little capsule come out of each of her fingers and\neach of her ears, burst soon after and give off the odor of lemon.\n\" There are 110 chairs, there are no bath-tubs. I drink, I sleep, I eat, I\nlive, and I assure you :\n\" That nothing is more pleasant to the mind than the light of truth.\n\" Crime is more daring than virtuousness."}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "40", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.42", "texte": "\" Anger is a movement of the soul, as impetuous as compassion is sweet;\nbut the one degrades man, as much as the other ennobles him.\n\" The art of living with others is as illusory as the Philosopher's Stone,\nor legal astrology.\n\" The simplicity of nature is more appealing than all the adornments of art.\n\" I have as much money as you have.\n\" She is very pretty.\n\" If you ever meet anywhere a woman, be she young or old, who talks\nto you of Napoleon 111, offer her a cigar and take her away to Spain to be cured.\n\" Gentlemen, your shirts hang downward, and your bodies follow suit.\nI can see your organs which are decorated with fringed butterflies. I have it\non good authority that you are hungry and I invite to partake of my modest\nrepast.\"\n\nBenjamin Péret\n(Translated by Matthew Josephson)"}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "41", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.43", "texte": "PERIPATETICS VI\nMatthew Josephson\nIt was but Sunday : sitting and walking and talking it is all\nthe same. We were all waiting for a lady. The sun the wind the\nrain were sitting and walking and talking.\nAll unsuspecting I was seated on the terrace and was left for a\nmoment by the unknown gentleman beside me (evil in motion) whose\ncane you know was left too . . . gingerly balanced against the bench —\nour bench for a moment when two minutes later what does the stick\ndo but slide down and strike me at the knee ? The evil that men do\nlives after them . . . the evil that men do after them . . . the evil that\nmen do after. I stalk about in a world of illhumour and illhumour\nstalks me. Make way! I am young-and-smiling.\nBut the taxi the beggar the horses the sailor the policeman the\nold man the coal man the octogenarian the flower lady ? Way !\nBlack soul shall I ever outlive the light stinging rebuff of that stick\nin that moment of warm delicious relaxation in front of my beer be-\nfore friend world ? . . . the quick cool rap that flicked my life away\nthat soured the beer that spoiled my stomach that twisted my\nfaith in you and the street and the afternoon."}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "42", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.44", "texte": "VEGETABLE CLASSIC\nTo H.G.\nMatthew Josephson\nIt is my view that Spinach\nmay be remarked upon for aggressiveness ;\none may well regard Tomatoes as uncouth but honest ;\nthat Lettuce is an indifferent diurnal matter;\nAsparagus not to be sneered at; Beets and Carrots\nperambulating hand in hand, — but of the Onion\nthat eminent vegetable ! — let it here be spoken of\nwith reverence, of its Protean and ever succulent manners of charm.\nAnd then these various herbs and plants\n(ranged upon the table) fell to a great row and quarrelling ;\nthe Onions-Beans-Tomatoes, etc. joining arms in loud controversy\nwith the Bettuce-Beets-Spinach faction, the latter crying out:\n\" It is true, that our master is a foul carniverous beast,\nthat from his mouth at night comes the stench of the flesh he has\ntorn with his teeth and consumed !\nIt is of little import to him, whether we are canned or fresh from the\nearth !\nHis wife is a vegetarian at heart, but she fears him ...\"\nIt was in broad mockery, then, the others retorted :\n\" Were it not for us, whence his violence and energy ?\nIt is well that he spurns you, Oh darlings of withered spinsters ;\nwe are as a boon to him, we are the blood and fire of his body ! \"\nAnd the plates and serving dishes were vibrant upon the table,\nclattering about with no little fear, what of all the clash and bitterness\namong their contents . . .\n\" My dear, I shall bring you a marvelous brown nut-bread, tomorrow,\ndark,- whole-wheat bread, with raisins and citrons and fat almonds\nin the heart of it! \""}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "43", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.45", "texte": "ANDRE; Dkrain\nWoodcut"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "44", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.46", "texte": "SIX CHARACTERS IN SEARCH OF AN AUTHOR\nACT III.\n\nWhen the curtain goes up again, it is seen that the stage hands have shifted\nthe bit of scenery used in the last part, and have rigged up instead at the back\nof the stage a drop with some trees and one or two wings. A portion of a fountain\nbasin is visible. The Mother is sitting on the Right with the two children by\nher side. The Son is on the same side, but away from the others. He seems\nbored, angry and full of shame. The Father and the Step-Daughter are also seated\ntowards the Right front. On the other side (Left) are the actors, much in the posi-\ntions they occupied before the curtain was lowered. Only the Manager is standing\nup in the middle of the stage, with his hand closed over his mouth in the act of\nmeditating.\nThe Manager (shaking his shoulders after a brief pause). Ah yes : the\nsecond act. Leave it to me, leave it all to me as we arranged, and you'll\nsee it'll go fine.\nThe Step-Daughter. Our entry into his house (indicates Father) in\nspite of him (indicates the Son).\nThe Manager (out of patience). Iyeave it to me, I tell you.\nThe Step-Daughter. Do let it be clear, at any rate, that it is in spite of\nmy wishes.\nThe Mother (from her corner, shaking her head). For all the good that's\ncome of it... .\nThe Step-Daughter (turning towards her quickly). It|jdoesn't matter.\nThe more harm done us, the more remorse for him.\nThe Manager (impatiently). I understand ! Good Heavens ! I under-\nstand. I'm taking it into account.\nThe Mother (supplicatingly). I beg you, Sir, to let it appear quite plain\nthat for conscience sake I did try in every way . . .\nThe Step-Daughter (interrupting indignantly and continuing for the Mo-\nther). ... to pacify me, to dissuade me from spiting him. (To Manager). Do\nas she wants ; satisfy her, because it is true. I enjoy it immensely. Anyhow,\nas you can see, the meeker she is, the more she tries to get at his heart, the\nmore distant and aloof does he become.\nThe Manager. Are we going to begin this second act or not ?\nThe Step-Daughter. I'm not going to talk an}' more now. But I"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "45", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.47", "texte": "must just tell you this : you can't have the whole action take place in the gar-\nden as you suggest. It isn't possible.\nThe Manager. Why not ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Because he (indicates the Son again) is always\nshut up alone in his room. And then there's all the part of that poor dazed-\nlooking boy there which takes place indoors.\nThe Manager. Maybe. On the other hand, you will understand we\ncan't change the scene three or four times in one act.\nThe Leading Man.\" They used to once.\nThe Manager. Yes, when the public was up to the level of that child there.\nThe Leading Lady. It makes the illusion easier.\nThe Father (irritated). The illusion ! For Heaven's sake, dont say il-\nlusion. Please don't use that word, which is particularly painful for us.\nThe Manager (astounded). And why if you please ?\nThe Father. It's painful, cruel, really cruel, and you ought to under-\nstand that.\nThe Manager. But why ? What ought we to say then ? The illusion\nI tell you Sir, which we've got to create for the audience . . .\nThe Leading Man. With our acting.\nThe Manager. The illusion of a reality.\nThe Father. I understand ; but you, perhaps, do not understand us.\nForgive me ! You see .. . here for you and your actors, the thing is only —\nand rightly so . . . a kind of game . . .\nThe Leading Lady (interrupting indignantly). A game! We're not\nchildren here, if you please. We are serious actors.\nThe Father. I don't deny it. What I mean is the game or play of\nyour art which has to give, as the gentleman says, a perfect illusion of reality.\nThe Manager. Precisely.\nThe Father. Now, if you consider the fact that we (indicates himself and\nthe other five Characters), as we are, have no other reality outside of this illusion . . .\nThe Manager (astonished, looking at his actors, who are also amazed).\nAnd what does that mean ?\nThe Father (after watching them for a moment with a wan smile). As I\nsay vSir. That which is a game of art for you is our sole reality. {Brief pause.\nHe goes a step or two nearer the Manager and adds) : But not only for us ; you\nknow, by the way. Just you think it over well. [Looks him in the eyes).\nCan you tell me who you are ?\nThe Manager (;perplexed, half smiling). What ? Who am I ? lam myself.\nThe Father. And if I were to tell you that that isn't true, because you\nare I."}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "46", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.48", "texte": "The Manager. I should say you were mad. {The actors laugh).\nThe Father. You're quite right to laugh : because we are all making\nbelieve here {to Manager). And you can, therefore, object that it's only for a\njoke that that gentleman there (indicates the Leading Man) who naturally\nis himself has to be me, who am on the contrary myself — this thing you see\nhere. You see I've caught you in a trap. (The actors laugh).\nThe Manager {annoyed). But we've had all this over once before. Do\nyou want to begin again ?\nThe Father. No, no. That wasn't my meaning. In fact, I should\nlike to request you to abandon this game of art {looking at the Leading Lady\nas if anticipating her) which you are accustomed to play here with your actors\nand to ask you seriously once again : who are you ?\nThe Manager {astonished and irritated, turning to his actors). If this fellow\nhere hasn't got a nerve ! A man who calls himself a character comes and asks\nme who I am !\nThe Father {with dignity, but not offended). A character, Sir, may always\nask a man who he is. Because a character has really a life of his own, marked\nwith his especial characteristics, for which reason he is always \" somebody\nBut a man — I'm not speaking of you now — may very well be \" nobody\nThe Manager. Yes, but you are asking these questions of me, the boss,\nthe manager. Do you understand ?\nThe Father. But only in order to know if you, as you really are now,\nsee yourself as you once were with all the illusions that were yours then, with\nall the things both inside and outside of you as they seemed to you — as they\nwere then indeed for you. Well, sir, if you think of all those illusions that mean\nnothing to you now, of all those things which don't even seem to you to exist\nany more, while once they were for you, don't you feel that — I won't say these\nboards — but the very earth under your feet in sinking away from you when\nyou reflect that in the same way this you as you feel today, all this present\nreality of yours is fated to seem a mere illusion to you tomorrow ?\nThe Manager {without having understood much, but astonished by the specious\nargument). Well! Well! And where does all this take us, anyway ?\nThe Father. Oh, nowhere. It's only to show you that if we {indicating\nthe Characters) have no other reality beyond the illusion, you too must not count\novermuch on your reality as you feel it today, since, like that of yesterday,\nit may prove an illusion for you tomorrow.\nThe Manager {determining to make fun of him). Ah, excellent ! Then\nyou'll be saying next that you with this comedy of yours that you brought\nhere to act are truer and more real than I am.\nThe Father (with the greatest seriousness). But of course ; without doubt."}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "47", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.49", "texte": "The Manager. Ah, really ?\nThe Father. Why, I thought you'd understood that from the beginning.\nThe Manager. More real than I ?\nThe Father. If your reality can change from one day to another .. .\nThe Manager. But everyone knows it can change. It is always changing,\nthe same as anyone else's.\nThe Father (with a cry). No, sir, not ours. here ! This is the\ndifference. Our reality doesn't change ; it can't change. It can't be other\nthan what it is, because it is already fixed for ever. It's terrible. Ours is an\nimmutable reality which should make you shudder when you approach us if\nyou are really conscious of the fact that your reality is a mere transitory and\nfleeting illusion, taking this form today and that tomorrow, according to the con-\nditions, according to your will, your sentiments, which in turn are controlled by\nan intellect that shows them to you today in one manner and tomorrow . . . who\nknows how ? Illusions of reality represented in this fatuous comedy of life that\nnever ends, nor can ever end, because if tomorrow it were to end . . . then\nwhy, all would be finished.\nThe Manager. Oh, for God's sake will you at least finish with this philoso-\nphizing and let us try and shape this comedy which you yourself have brought\nme here ? You argue and philosophize a bit too much, my dear Sir. You know,\nyou seem to me almost, almost .. . (Stops and looks him over from head to foot).\nAh, by the the way, I think you introduced yourself to me as a ... shall we say\n\" character, \" created by an author who did not afterwards care to make a drama\nof his own creations.\nThe Father. It is the simple truth, sir.\nThe Manager. Nonsense. Cut that out, please ! None of us believes\nit, because it isn't a thing, as you must recognize yourself, which one can believe\nseriously. If you want to know, it seems to me you are trying to imitate the\nmanner of a certain author whom I heartily detest — I warn you — although I\nhave unfortunately bound myself to put on one of his works. As a matter\nof fact, I was just starting to rehearse it, when you arrived. (Turning to the\nactors). And this is what we've gained. Out of the frying-pan into the fire.\nThe Father. I don't know to what author you may be alluding, but\nbelieve me I feel what I think, and I seem to be philosophizing only for those\nwho do not think what they feel, because they blind themselves with their own\nsentiment. I know that for many people this self-blinding seems much more\n\" human \", but the contrary is really true. For man never reasons so much\nand becomes so introspective as when he suffers, since he is anxious to get at\nthe cause of his sufferings, to learn who has produced them, and whether it is just\nor unjust that he should have to bear them. On the other hand, when he is"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "48", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.50", "texte": "happy, he takes his happiness as it comes and doesn't analyse it, just as if hap-\npiness were his right. The animals suffer without reasoning about their\nsufferings. But take the case of a man who suffers and begins to reason about\nit. Oh 110 !it can't be allowed. Let him suffer like an animal, and then —\nah yes, he is \" human \" [\n9\nThe Manager. Look here ! look here ! You're off again philosophiz-\ning worse than ever.\nThe Father. Because I suffer, sir. I'm not philosophizing ; I'm crying\naloud the reason of my sufferings.\nThe Manager [makes brusque movement as he is taken with a new idea).\nI should like to know if anyone has ever heard of a character who gets right\n.out of his part and perorates and speechifies like you do. Have you ever\nheard of a case ? I haven't.\nThe Father. You have never met such a case, sir, because authors, as\na rule, hide the labour of their creations. When the characters are really alive\nbefore their author, the latter does nothing but follow them in their action, in\ntheir words, in the situations which they suggest to him, and he has to will them\nthe way they will themselves, for there's trouble if he doesn't. When a character\nis born, he acquires at once such an independence even of his own author, that\nhe can be imagined by everybody even in many other situations where the au-\nthor never dreamed of placing him, and so he acquires for himself a meaning which\nthe author never thought of giving him.\nThe Manager. Yes, yes, I know this.\nThe Father. What is there then to marvel at in us ? Imagine such\na misfortune for characters as I have described to you : to be born of an author's\nfantasy, and be denied life by him, and then answer me if these characters left\nalive, and yet without life, weren't right in doing what they did do and are\ndoing now after they have attempted everything in their power to persuade him\nto give them their stage life. We've all tried him in turns, I, she (:indicating the\nStep-Daughter) and she (indicating the Mother)„\nThe Step-Daughter. It's .true. I too have sought to tempt him,\nmany, many times, when he has been sitting at his writing table, feeling a bit\nmelancholy, at the twilight hour. He would sit in his armchair too lazy to\nswitch on the light, and all the shadows that crept into his room were full of\nour presence coming to tempt him (as if she saw herself still there by the writing\ntable, and was annoyed by the presence of the actors). Oh, if you would only go\naway, go away and leave us alone — mother here with that son of hers — I with\nthat Child — that Boy there always alone — and then I with him (just hints\nat the Father) — and then I alone, alone ... in those shadows. (Makes a sudden\nmovement as if in the vision she has of herself illuminating those shadows she wanted"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "49", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.51", "texte": "to seize hold of herself). Ah! my life! my life! O, what scenes we\nproposed to him, and I tempted him more than any of the others !\nThe Father. Maybe. But perhaps it was your fault that he refused to\ngive us life, because you were too insistent, too troublesome.\nTiib Step-Daughter. Nonsense! Didn't he make me so himself ?\n(Goes close to the 'Manager to tell him as if in confidence). In my opinion he aban-\ndoned us in a fit of depression, and disgust for the ordinary theatre as the public\nknows it and likes it.\nThe Son. Exactly what it was, sir; exactly that.\nThe Father. Not at all! Don't believe it for a minute. Iyisten to me !\nYou'll be doing quite right to modify, as you suggest, the excesses both of this\ngirl here who wants to do too much, and of this young man who won't do any-\nthing at all.\nThe Son. No, nothing.\nThe Manager. You too get over the mark occasionally, my dear sir, if\nI may say so.\nThe Father. I? When? Where?\nThe Manager. Always. Continuously. Then there's this insistence of\nyours in trying to make us believe you are a character. And then too, you\nmust realty argue and philosophize less you know, much less.\nThe Father. Well, if you want to take away from me the possibility\nof representing the torment of my spirit which never gives me peace, you will\nbe suppressing me : that's all. Every true man, sir, who is a little above the\nlevel of the beasts and plants does not live for the sake of living, without knowing\nhow to live, but he lives so as to give a meaning and a value of his own to life.\nFor me this is everything. I cannot give up this just to represent a mere\nfact as she (indicating the Step-Daughter) wants. It's all well for her, since\nher \" vendetta \" lies in the \" fact \". I'm not going to do it. It destroys my\nraison d'etre.\nThe Manager. Your raison d'etre ! Oh we're going ahead fine! First\nshe starts off, and then you jump in. At this rate, we'll never finish.\nThe Father. Now, don't be offended ! Have it your own way, provided,\nhowever, that within the limits of the parts you assign us each one's sacrifice\nisn't too great.\nThe Manager. You've got to understand that you can't go on arguing at\nyour own pleasure. Drama is action, Sir, action and not confounded philosophy.\nThe Father. All right. I'll do just as much arguing and philosophizing\nas everybody does when he is considering his own torments.\nThe Manager. If the drama permits. But for Heaven's sake man, let's\nget along and come to the scene.\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "50", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.52", "texte": "The Step-Daughter. It seems to me we've got too much action with, our\ncoming into his (indicating Father) house. You said before you couldn't\nchange the scene every five minutes.\nThe Manager. Of course not. What we've got to do is to combine and\ngroup up all the facts in one simultaneous close-knit action. We can't have it as\nyou want, with your little brother wandering like a ghost from room to room, hiding\nbehind doors and meditating a project which — what did you say it did to him ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Consumes him Sir, wastes him away.\nThe Manager. Well, it may be. And then at the same time, you want\nthe little girl there, to be playing in the garden . . . one in the house, and the\nother in the garden : isn't that it ?\nThe Step-Daughter. Yes, in the sun, in the sun. That is my only pleasure\nto see her happy and careless in the garden after the misery and squalor of the\nhorrible room where we all four slept together. And I had to sleep with her —\nI, do you understand ? — with my contaminated body next to hers, with her\nfolding me fast in her loving little arms. In the garden, whenever she spied me,\nshe would run to take me by the hand. She didn't care for the big flowers,\nonly the little ones and she loved to show me them and pet me.\nThe Manager. Well then, we'll have it in the garden. Everything shall\nhappen in the garden, and we'll group the other scenes there. (Calls a stage\nhand). Here, a back-cloth with trees and something to do as a fountain basin.\n(Turning round to look at the back of the stage). Ah, you've fixed it up. Good!\n(to Step-Daughter). This is just to give an idea of course. The Boy, instead of\nhiding behind the doors will wander about here in the garden, hiding behind\nthe trees. But it's going to be rather difficult to find a child to do that scene\nwith you when she shows you the flowers. (Turning to the Youth). Come\nforward a little, will you please ? Let's try it now! Come along ! come along !\n(Then seeing him come shyly forward, full of fear and looking lost). It's a nice\nbusiness this lad here. What's the matter with him ? We'll have to give him\na word or two to say. (Goes close to him, puts a hand on his shoulders, and leads\nhim behind one of the trees). Come on ! come on ! Let me see you a little !\nHide here .. . yes, like that. Try and show your head just a little as if you\nwere looking for someone .. . (Goes back to observe the effect, when the Boy at\nonce goes through the action). Excellent! fine! to Step-Daughter). Sup-\npose the little girl there were to surprise him as he looks round and run\nover to him, so we could give him a word or two to say ?\nThe Step-Daughter. It's useless to hope he will speak as long as that\nfellow there is here ~ . (Indicates the Son). You must send him away first.\nThe Son (jumping up). Delighted ! delighted ! I don't ask for anything\nbetter. (Begins to move away?)."}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "51", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.53", "texte": "The Manager (at once stopping him). No ! No ! where are you going,\nWait a bit!\n(The Mother gets up alarmed and terrified at the thought that he is really about\nto go away. Instinctively, she lifts her arms to prevent him, without, however, leaving\nher seat).\nThe Son (to Manager who stops him). I've got nothing to do with this\naffair. Iyet me go please ! Iyet me go !\nThe Manager. What do you mean by saying you've got nothing to do\nwith this ?\nThe Step-Daughter (calmly, with irony). Don't bother to stop him ;\nhe won't go away. ,\nThe Father. He has to act the terrible scene in the garden with his mother.\nThe Son (suddenly resolute and with dignity). I shall act nothing at all.\nI've said so from the very beginning. (To the Manager). me go !\nThe Step-Daughter (going over the Manager). Allow me ? (Puts down\nthe Manager s arm which is restraining the Son). Well, go away then, if you want\nto ! (The Son looks at her with contempt and hatred. She laughs and says)\nYou see, he can't, he can't go away. He is obliged to stay here, indissolubly\nbound to the chain. If I who fly off when that happens which has to happen\nbecause I can't bear him — if I am still here and support that face and expression\nof his, you can well imagine that he is unable to move. He has to remain here,\nhas to stop with that nice father of his and that mother whose only son he\nis. (Turning to the Mother). Come on, mother, come along ! (Turning to Manager\nto indicate her). You see, she was getting up to keep him back. (To the Mother,\nbeckoning her with her hand). Come on! come on! (Then to Manager). You\ncan imagine how little she wants to show these actors of yours what she really\nfeels, but so eager is she to get near him that .. . there you see, she is willing\nto act her part (and in fact, the Mother approaches him, and as soon as the Step-\nDaughter has finished speaking, opens her arms to signify that she consents).\nThe Son (suddenly). No ! no ! If I can't go away, then I'll stop here,\nbut I repeat : I act nothing.\nThe Father (to Manager excitedly). You can force him, Sir.\nThe Son. Nobody can force me.\nThe Father. I can.\nThe Step-Daughter. Wait a minute, wait. . . First of all, tne baby\nhas to go to the fountain . . . (Runs to take the Child and leads her to the fountain).\nThe Manager. Yes, yes of course ; that's it. Both at the same time.\n(The second Lady Lead and the Juvenile Lead at this point separate themselves\nfrom the group of actors. One watches the Mother attentively; the other moves\nabout studying the movements and manner of the Son whom he will have to act)."}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "52", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.54", "texte": "The Son (to Manager). What do you mean by both at the same time ?\nIt isn't right. There was no scene between me and her. {Indicates the Mother).\nAsk her how it was !\nThe Mother. Yes, it's true. I had come into his room .. .\nThe Son. Into my room, do you understand ? Nothing to do with the\ngarden.\nThe Manager. It doesn't matter. Haven't I told you we've got to group\nthe action ?\nThe Son (observing the Juvenile Lead studying him). What do you want?\nThe Juvenile IyEad. Nothing. I was just looking at you.\nThe Son (turning towards the second Lady Lead). Ah ! she's at it too.\nTo re-act her part (indicating the Mother).\nThe Manager. Kxactly. And it seems to me that you ought to be grate-\nful to them for their interest.\nThe Son. Yes, but haven't you yet perceived that it isn't possible to live\nin front of a mirror which not only freezes us with the image of ourselves, but\nthrows our likeness back at us with a horrible grimace ?\nThe Father. That is true, absolutely true. You must see that.\nThe Manager (to second Lady Lead and Juvenile Lead). He's right.\nMove away from them !\nThe Son. Do as you like ! I'm out of this.\nThe Manager. Be quiet you, will you, and let me hear your mother !\n(To Mother). You were saying you had entered .. .\nThe Mother. Yes, into his room, because I couldn't stand it any longer.\nI went to empty my heart to him of all the anguish that tortures me . . .\nBut as soon as he saw me come in .. .\nThe Son. Nothing happened. There was no scene. I went away ; that's\nall, I don't care for scenes.\nThe Mother. It's true, true. That's how it was.\nThe Manager. Well now, we've got to do this bit between you and him.\nIt's indispensable.\nThe Mother. I'm ready .. . when you are ready. If you could only\nfind a chance for me to tell him what I feel here in my heart.\nThe Father (going to Son in a great rage). You'll do this for your mother,\nfor your mother, do you understand ?\nThe Son (quite determined). I do nothing.\nThe Father (taking hold of him and shaking him). For God's sake do as\nI tell you ! Don't you hear your mother asking you for a favour ? Haven't\nyou even got the guts to be a son ?\nThe Son (taking hold of the Father). No ! No ! And for God's sake stop"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "53", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.55", "texte": "it, or else .. . (General agitatation. The Mother, frightened, tries to separate\nthem).\nThe Mother (pleading). Please! please!\nThe Father (not leaving hold of the Son). You've got to obey, do you\nhear.\nThe Son (almost crying from rage). What does it mean this madness you've\ngot ? (They separate). Have you no decency that you insist on showing every-\none our shame ? I won't do it. I won't. And I stand for the will of our\nauthor in this. He didn't want to put us on the stage after all.\nThe Manager. Man alive ! You came here.\nThe Son (indicating Father). He did. I didn't.\nThe Manager. Aren't you here now ?\nThe Son. It was his wish, and he dragged us along with him. He's told\nyou not only the things that did happen, but also things that have never hap-\npened at all.\nThe Manager. Well, tell me then what did You went out of\nyour room without saying a word ?\nThe Son. Without a word. So as to avoid a scene.\nThe Manager. And then what did udo ?\nThe Son. Nothing .. . walking in the garden .. . (hesitates for a moment\nwith expression of gloom).\nThe Manager (coming closer to him, interested by his extraordinary reserve).\nWell, well. . . walking in the garden .. .\nThe Son (exasperated). Why on earth do you insist ? It's horrible.\n(The Mother trembles, sobs and looks towards the fountain).\nThe Manager (slowly observing the glance and turning towards the Son with\nincreasing apprehension). The baby ?\nThe Son. There in the fountain .. .\nThe Father (pointing with tender pity to the Mother). She was following\nhim at the moment...\nThe Manager (to the Son anxiously). And then you .. ,\nThe Son. Iran over to her; I was jumping into drag her out when\nI saw something that froze my blood . . . the boy there standing stock still with\neyes like a madman's watching his little drowned sister, in the fountain (The\nStep-Daughter bends over the fountain to hide the Child. She sobs). Then .. .\n(A revolver shot rings out behind the trees where the Boy is hidden).\nThe Mother. (With a cry of terror runs over in that direction together with\nseveral of the actors amid general confusion).\nMy son ! my son (Then amid the cries and exclamations one hears her voice).\nHelp ! help !"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "54", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.56", "texte": "The Manager (pushing the actors aside while they lift up the Boy and cany\nhim off). Is lie really wounded ?\nSome Actors. He's dead ! dead !\nOther Actors. No, no, it's only make believe, it's only pretence.\nThe Father (with a terrible cry). Pretence ? Reality sir, reality!\nThe Manager. Pretence ? Reality ?To hell with it all! Never in mv\n•/\nlife has such a thing happened to me. I've lost a whole day over these people,\na whole day !\nCurtain\n\nLuigi Pirandello\n(Translated By Edward Storer)"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "55", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.57", "texte": "HULA-HULA\nWilliam Carlos Williams\nI should like to come upon\nsome of the girls from\n\" Tangerine \"\ndoing their stunt\nnaked\nin their hair\non Brighton Beach\none of these fine mornings\nthat the horned sun\nmight laugh\nand I see him\nfresh from the seas\nshake his broad shoulders"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "56", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.58", "texte": "André Derain\nWoodcut"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "57", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.59", "texte": "AT THE DOORS\n\n(A word of introduction. This story forms a connecting link in the chain of stories\nabout the Splendid Face of the Revolution. And it is a story that tells about the snow\nof yesteryear melted under the fence).\nSo likewise ye, when ye shall\nsee all these things knozv that it\nis near, even at the doors.\n(vSt. Matthew, 24, 33)\nI.\nSome years ago the merchant's wife Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina had a pump-\ning station built at the foot of Sibirna Mountain. The station was nicknamed\nafter its owner, Olga Nicolayevna. No water was being pumped any more but\nthe whistle still blew regularly at 8 o'clock in the morning, and at 2 and 4 in\nthe afternoon. Whenever the morning whistle blew at the foot of the mountain,\nIvan Petrovitch Bekesh, who lived at the other end of the city, would wake\nup, and, filled with an inexpressible sadness in his half drowsy state, would\nbegin to weave dreams about the beauty of human life and the splendor of human\nspring. Ivan Petrovitch had once passed two days on the Volga, and the\nwhistle of Olga Nicolayevna seemed to him exactly like that of \" Caucasus Mer-\ncury\". Who, indeed, does not know the sweet melancholy of the Volga in spring\nand the longing its cool, red mornings inspire to embrace the whole world ?\nIvan Petrovitch would get up, drink his classical carrot-tea, and go to work at\nthe Finance Section. The life of Ivan Petrovitch was dull.\nOlga Nicolayevna stood at the foot of the mountain, and on the moun-\ntain itself, beyond the ramparts, near the Kremlin Gates, was the building for-\nmerly known as the Social now as the Communist Club. At the 2 o'clock whistle,\nDoctor Audrey Andreyevitch Veralsky dropped in for lunch. In the old days,\nthe bar tender wrould call his boy before the doctor's arrival arid say : \" Hey,\nkid, make it fresh.\" And the boy would use his tongue to refreshen the\ncaviar sandwiches which he handed the doctor together with a glass of vodka*\nNow the doctor was served an empty glass which he would fill from a specia\nvial, always kept in his vest pocket. But as ever before, when lunch was over'\nthe doctor would shout through the window and across the street : \" Ilya>\nfetch the carriage,\" and drive forth to his patients.\nChristmas.\nOwing to the holiday, the whistle of Olga Nicolayevna did not blow at 4.\nThe real Olga Nicolayevna, Mrs. Jmukhina had died from terror two years pre-\nviously when her furs and smoked geese were requisitioned. Hand-written\nposters hung on the walls of the club, And the bar tender knew that the orches-"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "58", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.60", "texte": "tra of the Cavalry Division would play on Christmas night at the ball of the\nVoyenkom (i) to celebrate his wife's birthday, and that on New Year's eve\n(old style) the Voyenspetz (2) of the Division would arrange an out of town\npicnic. On Christmas Eve everybody went to the Church of St. John the Baptist\nto meet the new Church warden, the Commander of the Division, comrade\nTanatar. Comrade Tanatar, a handsome Caticasian, dressed in a leather jacket\nand boots, was selling candles and passing around the plate.\nThe entire population was busy killing poultry, exchanging shirts for\nbutter, baking pies with beetroot instead of sugar. A week before the holi-\ndays, all drug stores in the city were cleaned empty.\nFrost and storm.\nIn the deadstill brick house of Doctor Veralsky, on the Sibirna Mountain,\nonly two rooms were fit for habitation. All the others were extremely cold\nand frost-covered. On the first day and night Olga, the doctor's daughter,\n%\nsat watching the weather outside. The frost was playing with its cold diamonds ;\nthe sky was an intense blue, and the moon seemed lost in it. Morning came\nyellow and wax-like. The sun was yellow like wax, yellow like the face of a\ncorpse. The barometer fell to 32. Ilya said the birds were falling frozen to\nthe ground. In the evening some one called up to say that a snow-storm was\ncoming from the Uial. It soon came sweeping along, dancing, howling, groaning,\nshrieking above the fields and the city, around the Sibirna Mountain, and in\nthe empty parlor. The only place in the house where one could support the\nweather was the corner near the stove. Olga Veralskaya saw now the revolution\nas a snow-storm and the people in it as mere snow-flakes. It seemed to Olga\nthat the snow-storm had killed her. Dressed in a fur coat and top boots, she\nsat huddled near the stove, tired of thinking, tired of reading.\nNevertheless, with the storm raging outside, she sat reading the diary of\nIvan Petrovitch Bekesh.\nFive image-lamps burned before Olga Veralskaya. The couch stood facing\nthe stove and was all cluttered with fur-coats. The tiles of the stove shone\ndimly. And behind tjie wall the wind was blowing in the empty rooms.\nJuly 11, 1913.\nAt the ball of Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina.\nHaving cleaned our faces of the make-up, we went there together with Volyns-\nkaya. We found the party in full swing. The old and middle-aged occupied two\nrooms ; our own company chose one far from indiscreet eyes. Samuel Tanatar\nsat beside me and Volynskaya opposite me. No sooner had I drunk the first glass\n(1) Voyenny Kommissar (Military Commissary)\n(2) Voyenny Specialist (Military Specialist)."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "59", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.61", "texte": "of vodka than V olynskaya came prof erring advice : \" Don I drink too much.\" She\nhad promised to spend the evening with me and allow me to accompany her home\nif I did not get drunk. Before half an hour was over everything was topsy-turvy.\nSome one shouted: \" Wine! \" Some one burst out singing. A roar went up.\nPlates began flying... My organism refused to drink any more. I began to feel\ntipsy. In order not to become completely drunk, I said to Volynskaya : \" Well,\nwho is going to see you home Tanatar or I?\" She was just then sitting beside him,\nand they were preparing to go home together. \"I do not really know \" she said\nand added: \" But you are already tipsy, Vania \". \" Alright \" I answered and went\ninto the next room where I found Doctor Veralsky, the father of my beloved Olga.\nAs soon as he saw me he made me sit down and silently treated me to a glass of some\nstrong drink. I drank it to spite Volynskaya, and at once became dead drunk.\nMy friends took me into the garden, gave me some soda water to drink, and went\naway. I sat there for a while, crying over my sorry state and thinking of Olga\nVeralskaya, the only woman I truly loved. Why, for Heaven's sake, did I ever ,\ndrink so much and spoil my whole evening — and spoil everything ? I did not\nremain alone for long. Volynskaya came, sat down beside me, put her arms around\nme and began preaching morality : \" One must not drink so much.\" In full\npossession of my wits I answered: t( lam not to blame, it is all Samuel's fault.\nI heard you arranging to go home together. And now lam far too drunk to do\nwhat we intended .\" She pressed close to me and embraced me. I was kissing\nher hands repeating : \" Forgive me, forgive me,\" and begged her not to leave\nme, adding: \" I know that this is the last time I see you.\" At these words I tried\nto break away from her and Tanatar (the latter had been present all this time).\nShe sought to hold me back, but I escaped. Tanatar caught me and made me sit\ndown beside her again. She took me into her arms and said : \" Vania, if you\nonly love me, you won't commit suicide,\" and clinging passionately to me she press-\ned her lips to mine and remained motionless. Oh, how much pity there was in this\nkiss, how much despair, frenzy, passion, how much unselfish love ! Minutes pass-\ned, each an eternity and each rich in memories {of Olga Veralskaya). Yes...\nthat kiss gave me the illusion of happiness ; mere illusion, it is true, but still of\nhappiness. When Volynskaya left (she went to dance) I noticed Tanatar and drove\nhim from me shouting: \" Rascal, scamp, you shattered my happiness ! \" I even\nbegan to cry. \" I won't have anything to do with you.\" Tanatar washed my head\nand gave me some soda- <water to drink. I felt sick. The boys tried to put me to\nbed, but no, by Heck ! I would not have anybody except Volynskaya. She helped\nme to reach the bed (/ could not walk alone) and it'as on the point of leaving when\n/ detained her and sang:\n\" Please don't go away, please stay with me,\nI feel so happy, so light-hearted, \""}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "60", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.62", "texte": "There she stood before me. I saw her splendid sensual body, her thick golden\nhair (ithe chignon) her snow white teeth framed with red voluptuous lips — and\nfelt an electric current shoot through me... Yes, happiness was so near, so near\n[Tanatar got it)... Oh happiness!\"\nJuly 12, 1913.\nWoke up at one in the afternoon and the first man I-saw, right in front of\nme, was Vassia Fedoroff. He slept in a curious position; his head was on\nthe pillow and his entire body on the dirty floor. We looked into the mirror and\n— Good Lord, what a sight ! My clothes were all crumpled, spewed over in various\nparts, and covered with feathers from top to bottom. Having performed the morn-\ning ritual, we went into the garden. We met Tanatar coming from the other end\nwhere he had probably been sleeping. He looked a terrible sight. On the front,\nhis clothes bore everywhere traces of vomiting ; on the back they were thickly covered\nwith dirt, as if he had been dragged by his feet over the ground. After Tanatar,\nwe met the girls coming from the pavilion where they had been sleeping. Soon\neverybody was present and Heavens, we did laugh ! The lunatic Fedoroff was the\nfirst to speak. Hardly able to stand on his feet, he had sneaked into the pavilion\njust as the girls were turning in after the ball. He bade them all good night, then\nseizing somebody's dress, jacket, and hat, he put them on and took to dancing. A\nyoung chap, scarcely known to anyone, had spent the entire evening with the hostess\nOlga Nicolayevna Jmukhina in a carriage outside, where they had supper and wine,\nspiced abundantly with frequent kissing and smutty talk. Then the girls told their\nversion of the story. They Had scarcely undressed when Sammy Tanatar broke\nin dead drunk announcing his intention of sleeping with them. The girls, of course,\nall got frightened and hid under the blankets. All their exhortations and prayers\nfor him to leave the pavilion were of no avail. Then, disregarding all rules of de-\ncency, the girls jumped out of b'ed and threw him out of the pavilion by main force.\nImmediately after Tanatar's departure came the lunatic Fedoroff, but everybody\nonly laughed at him because he was nice and behaved more decently than Tanatar.\nHappiness. Happiness and laughter.\nA lialf forgotten nursery tale is revived in some corner of her mind. If\nyou plunge a sharp knife into the funnel of whirling snow you will kill the grand-\ndaughter of the snow-storm — the snow-flake. A drop of her cold white\nblood will fall on the ground and this blood will bring happiness — happiness.\nIf one could only believe this tale, go out into the snow-storm — waylay the\nsnow-flake dancing carelessly its round dance — and attain happiness —\nBut what if one believes in nothing ?\nHappiness. Happiness."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "61", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.63", "texte": "And Olga Veralskaya knew : she was that snow-flake ; she had been killed.\nThe storm was blowing, sweeping onward, howling, raging. The fur coats\nwere lying on the couch. The five image lamps were burning, the tile was shining\ndimly. Doctor Veralsky was heard snoring. The diary had fallen in her lap ;\ntears were falling in her lap. Tears for him. Her head had fallen in her hands.\nBut what if one believes in nothing ? What if they had killed her like a\nsnow-flake ? No, not they — he had killed her. The story of Olga Veralska-\nya's life was simple : high school, college, the Red Front, where one could neither\nunderstand nor condemn, then he . . . A dark military hut, the smell of horses,\na dim lantern on the wall, a horse's head, black eyebrows, black eyes, red lips —\npain, pain, horror, horror, horror, disgust. That was all.\nThe diary had fallen in her lap ; tears were falling in her lap. The image\nlamps were burning. Her eyes were lanterns in an autumn rain. Anxiety. Pain.\nDoctor Andrey Andreyeviteh Veralsky, dressed in a fur coat and felt\nboots, came out of his room yawning, and got near the stove.\n\" Olenka, I've brought some mutton. Shall we treat ourselves to some\nmutton roast or use it for soup ? Tell Ilya about it.\"\n\" Father, what did Olga Nicolayevna Jmukhina die from ? \"\n\" She died from a shock. Got frightened when her house was searched.\nThey found her dead under her bed. Why do you ask that ?\n\" What was she like ? \"\n\" What sort a person you mean ? Well, rather depraved but kind-hearted\nWon't tell, then, Ilya about the meat ?\nDoctor Andrey Andreyeviteh yawned sweetly.\nII.\nOn Christmas Eve a special messenger called at certain houses and deli-\nvered the following confidential note :\nv \" and gentlemen :\no If you wish to have the following goods :\n84j | Sugar, refined 1000 rbls per lb.\n\"8 * Sugar, pulverized 800 » » »\n0 $ Mutton 450 »_ » »\nd Pork 700 » )> »\n•H tO O\n1* | S Meat, Tcherkask 225 » » »\nS0 a 8 Meat, Russian 100 » » »\n— you will please state the quantity desired to our messenger who will call\nat 6 p. m. (old time) and the specified goods will be promptly delivered to you.\nNo deposit is required. We trust your honesty.\nYour Friends.\""}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "62", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.64", "texte": "Christmas Eve.\nA big bright star was to rise on Christmas Eve to unite all men — but no\nstar could yet be seen. The mother of Doctor P'ederoff was busy making pies\nand was happy because a Christmas star would rise in the evening, because\nthere would be pelmenis (i) in the house, and, for once, no potatoes at all, and,\nabove all, because Vassia was her only son — her all. And there would be\nnapkins, and a table cloth, and kerosene oil, and sweets, and pelmenis — the\nbest pelmenis in the city.\nJoy mixed with deepest sorrow — was the mother's; sorrow mixed with\nkeenest joy — was the son's. The Doctor chopped wood and heated the stove\nfor his mother, and his heart was overflowing with a fervent tenderness, with a\nfervent love for his mother. His mamma, his mammy, troubled and happy at\nthe same time, was fussing around the pelmenis, sweets, and the mutton pie.\nOn Christmas Night a ball was given at the Voyenkom's. There was an\norchestra, waiters, geese, pork, cognac, cavalry, jjonka (i), cakes, pies, candy\ntableaux vwants, games of forfeit, charades, flying post, speeches. It was a joint\nmeeting of the third element, i.e. the Intelligentzia, and the representatives of\nthe Communist Party.\nBut nothing special was happening on Christmas at the house of Ivan\nPetrovitch Bekesh, for if some people could and did find various provisions\nin the starving city, Bekesh was completely helpless. Together with his wife,\nmother, god-mother, and child he was forced to live on potatoes which, although\nincluding all his rations up to July, were in just sufficient to end the\nstarving family's days by certain death in spring.\nEarly on Christmas Eve Doctor Fedoroff and the writer lakov Kamynin\nstepped into see Ivan Petrovich Bekesh. In the blue twilight they came,\nwalking in the crisp snow along many side-streets. Skirting the fields they came\nthrough the suburbs and past houses buried in snow to the roof. They found\nIvan Petrovitch playing vingt-et-un with his wife, mother, and god-mother.\nHe took his guests into his study containing a double-bed, a Japanese fan, and\na table with postal cards arranged in symetric order. Kamynin who nearly\nreached up to the ceiling, sat down without removing his hat. Ivan Petrovitch\nknew why the writer and the doctor had come. Still he said :\n\" Well, how did you blow in ? It's quite an age since I saw you.\"\n\" On foot \" answered Kamynin, \" Yes.\"\n\" Ha, ha, ha,\" Bekesh snickered \"of course.\"\n\" Have a smoke ; the makhorka (2) is quite strong : how are you getting on ?\n(1) A sort of meat pie.\n(2) A cheap tobacco."}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "63", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.65", "texte": "a Hm... poor business. We live and eat, though, truth to tell, there is\nprecious little to eat/'\nSilence. Smoke.\n\" We came to see you about the \"\n\" Oh, I see, about the diary. All right, I have not changed my mind,\nbut... \"\n\" Then agree to sell it ? \"\n\" I have not changed my mind, but, really, of what use is it to you ? Amuse-\nment, I suppose.\n\" I need it \" said Karnynin and drew the smoke.\n\" It is for Olga Veralskaya, for my dear Olenka \" — Doctor FederofE was\nthinking with acute pain.\n\" Yes, I suppose, as material for your writing.\"\n\" That's it, I need it as material.\"\n\" But allow me to ask, lakov Sergeyevitch, what you found interesting\n• • j >}\nin it.\n\" Well, know... Quite a lot, yes.\"\n\" Are you going to write a novel around it ? \"\n\" Well, Ido not know. Perhaps.\"\nThey remained silent.\n\" How about the diary ? \"\n\" I am afraid I can not give it to you at this price.\"\n\" What price ? \"\n\" The one agreed upon. I am selling it to you only because you are a writer.\nI would not sell it to any one else.\"\n\" But nobody else would buy it except as wrapping paper.\"\n\" You are right. You are absolutely right. Remember, however, that I\nput all my soul into it, all my life.\"\n\" May be.\"\n\" And you want it for a thousand roubles ! \"\nDoctor Fedoroff looked at the trembling hands of Ivan Petrovich Bekesh\nand at his pale forehead. Ivan Petrovitch sat unnaturally erect, fidgeting as\nif he were on strings. And in the movements of his body, in the sweat on his\nforehead there was something loathsome, something cringing, calculating. lakov\nKamynin, who had written fifteen books, and who looked like another Don\nQuixote, sat there with his bony legs spread wide apart, with his hat on, smoking\nwearily, speaking slowly and also wearify. \" Olenka, Olenka, dearest, precious \"\nthought Fedoroff and his heart was filled with love and pain.\n\" Show me the diary, anyway.\"\nIvan Petrovitch turned to get up, then remained in his place."}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "64", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.66", "texte": "f< Upon my word, lakov Sergeyevitch, Ido not know where it is. Parts of it\nare in the lumber room and you have other parts. I,et us speak of something else/'\n\" Nonsense ; let us have done with that first/'\n\" One moment : I am going to look for it.\"\nIvan Petrovitch got under the table and took out a bundle of copy books.\n\" How disgusting all this. Very disgusting. And what if one believes in\nnothing \" — thought Doctor Pedoroff and turned his glance away. Kamynin\nrolled up another cigarette and began to undo the bundle.\n\" Have another smoke ! The makhorka is quite strong... Well, how much,\nthen ?\n\" There is some of my poetry here, too.\"\n\" All right, how much do you want for the whole thing ? \"\n\" Oh, you want to know the price ? Upon my word I did not intend selling\nit. I really do not know.\"\n\" What human wretchedness \" thought Doctor Fedoroff. \" And what if\none believes in nothing ? Olga Veralskaya believes in nothing, and yet her comb\nis sewn up carefully with cotton so that no one may notice it is broken. And\nmother, mammy dear, is busy making pelmenis in the city. And all for him, for Doc-\ntor Fedoroff. But the diary is for Olga Veralskaya.\" Then the Doctor said aloud :\n\" Listen, it is getting late. I have a headache. Hurry up with that\nbusiness.\"\nIvan Petrovitch was watching Kamynin turn the pages, and suddenly his\nface brightened.\n\" All right, I accept your offer ; only, please, leave me this copy book. It\nis quite small; it contains the story of my love for Olga Veralskaya. Her own\nnotes on the margin are a precious memory for me. My first love. It is nothing\nto you. But to me her notes are most important. She wrote them in pencil.\nLeave them here.\"\n\" Yes, I can leave them,\" said Kamynin.\n\" No, no, take them too,\" said the doctor with emotion.\n\" Leave them, doctor, \" said Kamynin ; \" it's a trifle.\"\n\" Vassia, you are the friend of my childhood days, leave them with me \" —\npleaded Bekesh.\n\" All right, it's all the same to me, all the same. Still lam very sorry \" —\nsaid Doctor Fedoroff. \" All right.\"\n\"My soul. And so cheap ! \" — this from Bekesh.\nAnd again the two walked silently through side streets, in the deep snow,\nin the blue twilight. Only the red light in the West had now gone out, and the\ntwilight was driving the starry Christmas nails into the firmament. A beautiful\nwoman was coming towards them. She was wrapped in a shawl and two pails"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "65", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.67", "texte": "were hanging from a beam across her shoulders. Ivan Sergeyevitch looked\nintently at her and stopped, spreading his legs wide apart — which made him\nlook like Don Quixote and a pair of scissors at the same time. Then he said :\n\" Have a smoke... There is beauty even in pain. What a beautiful woman.\nYes... and do you know, I've got three poods (i) of cod-liver oil and potatoes,\nand I can go on living and cultivating beauty for two years. I must write a\nbook. I have written fifteen books already and each about a different woman.\nMy wife, I think, is living with Tanatar. What does Olga Veralskaya really\nrepresent ? She is very beautiful. What a beautiful woman — the one with\npails ! \"\n\" It is the wife of Bekesh \" — said Fedoroff.\n\" Maybe. But Bekesh is already selling his diary and I have still plenty\nof cod-liver oil.\"\n\" lakov Sergeyevitch, are you not afraid ? \"\n\" I am, but I must write the book.\" — Kamynin added that he had beside\npotatoes and cod-liver oil also some denatured alcohol. Then the two separated.\n\" Kamynins wife was absent. Keeping his hat and coat on, Kamynin\nfound an old sword, peeled some potatoes with it and cooked them. He was\ncrouching on the floor, and as he went into his work his mouth twisted con-\nvulsively to one side. He drank some denatured alcohol, some cod-liver\noil, and soon fell asleep. His face now bore a calm and bright expression, though\nhis lips were still nervousl}7 contracted.\nAnd Doctor Fedoroff had pelmenis. There were also pies, napkins, a big\nlamp, and his mother was fussing about and repeating :\n\" Eat, Vassenka, eat, my darling, have some more, my boy.\"\nThe food was nice, but there were not enough pelmenis to appease his hunger.\nAnd his mother had been too busy to do her hair up for Christmas or to remove\nher old apron.\nBut all over the earth people were celebrating the holiday when Satan cast his\nspell over the earth for the last time before the coming of spring, sunlight, and joy.\nA note was brought to Doctor Fedoroff.\n\" The Soviet of the Workers' and Peasants' Deputies of the village Popovka\nCertificate\nThis is to certify that the refugee from Popovka, citizen Anton lusofat\nPanashtchiuk wants to be vaccinated against catching the cholera on his jour-\nney. His mother, who is in the city, wishes the same.\nFor the County Soviet\nPresident I. Ptitzyn.\n(i) Pood — forty Russian pounds.\n5"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "66", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.68", "texte": "III.\nAt Christmas people usually dress in their best clothes, go visiting their\nfriends, retire at four in the morning, make merry, organize soirees, five o'clock\nteas, balls, make love and feel reborn as it were, though in reality they remain\nthe same ; they suffer exactly as they did before or dodge suffering — also as\nthey used to do. On this particular Christmas day everybody went to the Com-\nmunist Club. All day long comrade Tanatar was driving through the city in\nhis troika (i) giving rides to every girl he knew.\nAnd all night long Tanatar, the handsome Caucasian, Tanatar, lay like a\nhuge tired cat before the holy images in the empty house of his father. The\nimage lamps were burning in front of him, the silver of the ikons was shining\ndimly. Comrade Tanatar lay there crouching as if ready to leap, and his eyes,\ndeep-set under the eyebrows, intense black spots on his dark thin face, seemed\nfrenzied with the yellow reflection from the image-lamps. His wife, pale and white,\nappeared on the threshold and said noiselessly :\n\" Get up, Samuel.\" And Tanatar pressed more closely to the floor in mad-\ndening agonizing fear. Once, at the front beyond the Volga, Tanatar stepped\naccidentally on a black lizard. Its bowels leaked out, its eyes started from\nits head ;if Tanatar's wife had seen that lizard then, she would have noticed\nthat Samuel's eyes on this Christmas night were exactly like the eyes of the li-\nzard on that day in the steppe.\n\" Get up, Samuel/' His wife, all white, was wandering that night through\nthe dark rooms. She passed to the kitchen where the hilarious orderlies were\nplaying treeleestneek (2). In the corridor one could distinguish by the light of\nthe smoking night lamps, saddles, swords, rifles, uniforms, shoulder straps all\nthrown together in great disorder. It smelled of horse sweat.\n\" Get up, Samuel.\"\nThe snow-storm was raging outside — the storm which told Olga the stoiy\nof little Grandchild snow-flake. It must indeed have been a witch's spell. It\nwas almost impossible to move about that night. The wind swept down from\nthe roofs, made somersaults, whirled in a fury, blew from the devastated fields.\nThe snow was heaving like a sea-wave. Instead of walking one was almost\nforced to crawl through the snowy dimness, the shrieking, groaning, howling\nwhirlwind, the white obscurity, the white deadly song. A.nd on this night\nthree people were hovering about the house of Andrea Veralsky on the Sibirna\nMountain. Tanatar left his house, and felt at once as if the white witch the snow-\nstorm had sunk her icy hands into his neck. Tanatar drew his head in and his\n(1) Team of three horses.\n(2) Trefoil, a game of cards."}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "67", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.69", "texte": "birdlike face with its aquiline nose stuck out prominently. And again it seemed\nthat the man, like some beast, was ready for a leap. Up to his waist in the snow\nTanatar ploughed through it, crossing side-streets, turning corners, until he\nfinally reached the invisible house of the Veralskys. Nothing could be seen\ntwo steps ahead. The storm was sweeping down from the mountains and\nthe steppes, flying at the houses with a strident cry. Some one came right\nupon him.\nThe tempest almost drowned the words :\n\" Who is there ? \"\n\" The Commander of the Cavalry Division — is this Doctor Fedoroff ? \" —\nTanatar shrunk still further into himself, and Fedoroff did not know whether\nthe cry that followed was the voice of Tanatar, the howling of the tempest,\nor the work of his own feverish brain :\n\"He is watching Olga Veralskaya. Olga is mine, I won't give her up.\nIyook out for Tanatar — Doctor ! He will kill you/'\nThey separated but met again, frightened, and having met, noticed a third\nperson. It was a white woman leaning against a fence. And when they had\npassed her, Tanatar bent over Fedoroff and whispered in his ear :\n\" That is my wife. My wife. Green sickness. She follows me every-\nwhere ; she knows everything but is silent, always silent. Bloodless. Doctor\nFedoroff, Vassia, what an empty existence ! Vassia, there is nothing worth\nliving for. lam no better than a beast, uncultured, ignorant. And my wife,\nalways silent, but knowing everything. She says that we must love man ;\nwe must love the worst examples of man — even Ivan Petrovitch Bekesh.\nWe have forgotten man.\"\nThey crossed two side-streets, and met Bekesh. Ivan Petrovitch was stand-\ning near a curbstone on which he had hurriedly placed a package. Having\nrecognized them as friends, he shouted gaily :\n\" You certainly frightened me. I have ruined myself to buy some bread\nfor Christmas. lam carrying it in the dark so that nobody will take it away\nfrom me.\"\nIn this snow-storm everybody came to the house of lakov Kamynin the\nwriter. The guests drank tea out of soup plates, peeled potatoes with an old\nsword, sent for vodka, and played chemin defer amid the shrieking of the storm,\nthe clatter of plates, and outbursts of laughter. All through the night and the\nfollowing day, the writer lakov Kamynin and the voyenospetz Tanatar remained\nstanding at the old round table ; they could not play otherwise. Oil-lamps\nwere burning till the morning. The table was cluttered with cards, thousand-\n\\\nlouble notes, glasses, plates, potatoes, tobacco. Tanatar's orderly went\ntwice to ask Tanatar's wife, all pale and white, for regimental cash. Others,"}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "68", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.70", "texte": "having left the table, lay down on the sofa, to get np after an hour's nap and re-\nsume playing. The women left the room at daybreak and came back at noon.\nThe room seemed like the faces of the players, haggard and drawn ; the air\nwas dense with smoke and charged with alcohol. The mind, exhausted with\nextreme concentration, wandered absently over the round table, the carpet-\ncovered and dust-smelling sofa. The mind of the writer lakov Kamynin was\na dense gray like the smoke-filled room ; and black, pitch black was the mind\nof the voyenospetz Tanatar. Doctor Fedoroff had gone to bed long before and\nwas now speaking in his sleep. Kamynin was probably right when he said\nto the newcomers :\n\" Have a smoke. Cards, you know, are the only miracle in the world.\nMust be. That is why they are worth several sleepless nights. A miracle !\nWho does not dream of it ? Queen of Spades, King of Trumps, and Nine —\nthe unique miracle. And beauty. And woman — another miracle/'\nKamynin, while playing, was writing at the same time mechanically on his\ncalendar.\n\" The miracle of days.\"\nThe women came in the afternoon, after some hours of sleep. They cooked\npotatoes for the men. Kamynin's wife, however, Irina peeled potatoes not for\nher husband, nor for anyone else but Tanatar. Kamynin himself, hardly able\nto stand on his thin legs, was also peeling potatoes, while his eyes looked some-\nwhere far beyond. And Irina came and put her head not on her husband's\nshoulder but on Tanatar's.\n\" Have you lost ? \" — she asked in a low voice.\n\" Lost everything.\" And Tanatar smiled naively \" Regimental cash.\"\n\" Much ? \"\n\" Two hundred.\"\n\" Thousands ? \"\n\" Yes.\"\n\" Who got them ? \"\n\" Can't recall. lakov, I think. Anyhow, it has been all spent on vodka.\"\n\" Come to my room, I shall put you to bed.\"\n\" All right, put me to bed. \" And Tanatar smiled naively and helplessly.\n\" Is it still snowing outside ? \"\n\" No, the storm is past.\"\nNobody had ever seen Assyrian women, but everybody was certain they\nmust have looked like Irina. Cup-like breasts, almond-shaped eyes, hair\nlike that of the stony Ariman, stiff horse hair hanging in plaits 011 her bosom,\nface and body almost square, almost stone-like and yet mobile like those of\na circus woman. Irina had, in fact, once been a circus rider in Odessa."}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "69", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.71", "texte": "The men finished drinking, crowded into the corners like flies on an autumn\nday and, keeping their military and ftir coats on, went to sleep. The women\nwere preparing the costumes for the evening masquerade. In the kitchen,\nthe orderlies of the voyenospetz took a hand now at playing cards. Kamynin\nremained sitting at the table, 'where the game had been going 011. He was\nwriting in his calendar and drinking wiiat was still left in the glasses. The\nadjutant, Prince Trubetzkoy sat beside him. They spoke to each other list-\nlessly. Before 1917, the prince was owner of property extending over several\nstreets in Moscow as well as of some estates in the Government of Moscow,\nTambov, Veronej and Poltava. Kamynin himself had owned a whole town in the\nWest of Russia, and his former forests, wood-mills, mines, and factories were\nscattered through several Governments, he himself could not tell exactly where.\n\" Let us send for another bottle of cognac, Prince, \" said Kamynin lazily.\n\" It would be best to take a bath now and have some white wine with\nstrawberries \" — answered the prince.\n\" Fresh strawberries. Yes. A good idea. But you know, when lam play-\ning cards and drinking champagne, fresh fruit is all right to begin with, but after\nawhile it's ham and cabbage I must have/'\nKamynin went on writing figures then repeated lazily :\n\" Let us send for another bottle of cognac, prince\n\" After all, the cognac is not better than home-made brew.\"\n\" Let us send for home-made brew then.\"\n\" With red pepper and filet. We have plenty of bread.\"\n\" WTell, there is no bread left, but that's nothing, we can have raw meat,\nPrince.\"\nKamynin wrote down the last figures, looked at his calendar a long time,\nthen stood up, his thin legs wide apart and his hands under his arm pits.\nTanatar, pale and with half-closed extinguished eyes, was lying in Irina's\nroom, on the sofa, covered with a plaid and resting his head in Irina's lap.\nKamynin and Fedoroff came into the room together with the twilight. Kamynin\nmade an effort to keep his balance and said :\n\" Have a smoke, Tanatar. Ira, I must write a book. A green forest,\na birch forest, is cut down to be made into paper. Everything for a book.\nFor beauty. For Beauty. Ira, you are living with Tanatar and I need another\nwoman — for my book. Let us discuss the subject. Good and evil, truth\nand untruth — that is all nonsense. Beauty is the thing. We must solve\nall questions in a very simple way. I mean to ask Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya\nto be my wife.\"\nTwilight was descending. The window pane turned frosty blue. The\nchurch bells were ringing. Nobody moved. Nobody said a single word."}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "70", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.72", "texte": "\" Olga Audreyevna Veralskaya ! I must set it down very simply before\nher. For the sake of beauty, for the sake of the book. It is all very simple/'\nTwilight. Gray, blue twilight. Shadows were creeping into the corners.\nThe face of Irina was the face of an Assyrian woman.\n\" Ira, we still have some cod-liver oil, we 'Shall have enough for all three\nof us.\"\n\" Tell us something about yourself, lakov.\"\n\" Well; life is nothing : beauty is all. Beauty and miracles. X,et us\nquit life.\"\n\"Do invite Olga, lakov, we shall drink together sometime. Imagine —\ntwo tipsy women ! \"\nGray twilight. Tanatar suddenly bounded up like a rubber ball.\n\" Hey, a troika, vodka, Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya... All here !\"\nThe orderlies drove up the Division troika harnessed to a sledge. Tanatar\nfussed about the room putting on a driver's suit. Then he took Irina into his\narms and began to shout incomprehensible words : \" Anara — tai — ra ! \"\nTanatar took the driver's seat; Kamynin and P'edoroff sat down in the\nsledge.\n\" Get up ! \"\nThe horses sent the silver dust flying ; the sledge was creaking, the bells\njingling. The house of Veralsky on the Sibirna Mountain looked as dark and\ngloomy as ever. Fedoroff stayed with the horses. Kamynin and Tanatar\nwent into the house. Tanatar remained in the cold parlor while Kamynin went\ninto Olga Veralskaya's room. And when Kamynin came out of her room he\nstumbled upon something in the dark and noticed Tanatar crouching on the\nfloor as if ready to jump like a black cat, and whispering (did Kamynin hear\nthe whisper ?) :\n\" Miracles happen ; miracles do happen. Don't play with secrets Olga.\nDon't.\"\nThat evening Comrade Tanatar drove madly through the city, giving\neverybody a ride in his troika ; Irina, the girls, tipsy Kamynin, tipsy Trubet-\nzkoy, the various voyenospetzs.\nThen came the masquerade ball at the Communist Club.\nOlga Andreyevna Veralskaya had sewn up her comb very carefully so that\nno one might notice it was broken, but Olga Andreyevna did not come to the\nball. The military orchestra thundered valses, Hungarian dances, mazurkas.\nThe voyenospetzs, particularly those of the cavalry regiments had come with their\nspurs and swords and were the heroes of the occasion. The ladies were masked\nas Nights, Springs (in paper flowers), Birch Trees, lyittle Russians (with beads\nfrom the Christmas trees), Tyrol Peasants, Cucumbers, and Dominoes. And"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "71", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.73", "texte": "because the baths of the city had not been heated and the perfumes had all\nbeen shipped to the villages by speculators, the air was thick with the smell\nof powder, tobacco, and the specific odor of the women's sweat. The voyenos-\npetzs clicked their heels and danced, inclining their heads to one side. Be-\ntween dances they went to the refreshment room to drink tea. Since 110 ladies\nwere present there, all sorts of anecdotes were being recounted.\n\" Maria Ivanovna told me yesterday that she would be dressed as Night\nand her sister Claudia as Cucumber. Well, I met Maria Ivanovna tonight\nand noticed beside her a Cupid. I thought this was Claudia and said : ' Why\nare you not a Cucumber ? 1 The Cupid burst out laughing and called me im-\npertinent. \"\n\" That's nothing, but one fairy has a ribbon... \"\nThe orchestra struck up — the Hiawatha. A girl dressed in a cheap suit\nwas waiting anxiously for some dancer to come along and invite her. Her little\nsister was in the way. Small, thin, with red hands, with a pale little face, in\na shabby dress and mended stockings, the little girl looked at everybody with\na frank and friendly glance of her pure bright eyes, laughed sweetly, and spoke\nsweetfy to her sister. JBut her sister answered reluctantly in monosyllables\nand looked back at her with anger. The little girl laughed and was happy.\nThen a post-office employee invited the sister and they went to dance. Doctor\nFedoroff watched the little girl closely.\nShe remained alone. She was sad and frightened, and she began to wander\nover the room, looking anxiously about her. The smile disappeared from her\nface. She looked fixedly ahead. Doctor Fedoroff probably did not notice\nthat he said aloud :\n\" There is still time ; it will come one day. Later. No. No.\"\nDoctor Fedoroff came towards the little girl and extended his hands.\n\" Don't be sad, please, don't. Let us go and dance. Let us go and have\nsome tea. Don't be sad. Come.\"\nThe little girl ran away from the stranger straight into the crowd of coup-\nles dancing the Hiawatha. She burst out crying bitterly, loudly. Doctor\nFedoroff threw himself on the table where tickets and home-made candies were\nbeing sold, and also began to cry, hiding his wet face in his hands and in the\nticket books.\n'■ Water was brought to Doctor Fedoroff. People gathered around him.\nThe Hiawatha stopped. Tanatar was most attentive and tender. And as\nhe was putting the Doctor into the sledge, the little girl came out with her sister\nand the post-office employee. Nearly lifting the little girl by her hand, her\nsister repeated angrily :\n\" Idiot, idiot, cry-baby ! \""}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "72", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.74", "texte": "When she saw Doctor Fedoroff, she whispered angrily to the post-office\nemployee :\n\" That one, too, — impertinent ! \"\nIV.\nOn New Year's Eve tlie voyenospetzs of the Division arranged a party in\nKamynin's former country villa now become Soviet property. The house, over\na century old, had been heated several days in succession but it was still cold\nand damp. And as this house had once been plundered, no lamps were now\nto be found and torches had to be used instead. On the gallery, in the white\nhall, the orchestra was playing in the dark, without notes and very badly out\nof tune. Some people came in the morning in order to spend the day in the\ncountry, to go out skiing or take a walk. Others arrived direct for supper. There\nis a special category of girls whose sole occupation is amusement. Plenty of\nthem were present that evening. A company of ski-runners gathered on the\nedge of the forest around a little bright fir-tree. They lighted two candles on\nit, danced around it, and burned it up. The night came, deep and silent, bring-\ning a myriad stars and lighting up a myriad icicles which also shone like stars.\nSupper was served in the stripped parlor lighted by torches. The company\nin uniforms, fur coats and hats sang, ate and drank. The orchestra played loudly,\nbut nobody danced. After supper everybody took to drinking again. A\ngreat surprise was then staged. The writer Kamynin, the former owner of\nthe house, opened, with his own key, a secret cupboard with wine. Some of\nthe wine had become sour, some of the cognac and vodka had lost its flavor,\nbut everybody drank, shouted hurrah, sang \" You'll be buried when you die \"\nand \" Gaudeamus\". Though half evaporated, there was still enough wine, cog-\nnac, and vodka left to carry on a cavalry attack. Everybody was merry. Some\ngirls got on the fire-place and from there onto the shoulders of the voyenospetzs\nwho were supposed to represent fiery steeds. This was called a cavalry attack.\nThe cavalcade rushed screaming through the dark rooms. In the sitting room\nsomebody started the game of Chemin defer. One could already hear whispers\nand screams coming from the dark rooms. Far from the sitting room the or-\nchestra went on playing. Tobacco smoke filled the sitting room where new\ncavalry detachments were constantly forming. The torches were smoking.\nKamynin found a book on the window. It was the New Testament. Standing\nnear a torch, his legs spread wide apart, Kamynin opened it at random and read\naloud :\n\" But he that is an hireling and not the shepherd whose own the sheep are,\nseeth the wolf coming and leaveth the sheep and fleeth, and the wolf catcheth them"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.75", "texte": "and scatter eth the sheep ; the hireling fleeth because he is an hireling and careth\nnot for the sheep.\"\nOne of the young girls fell from the lire-place and screamed. Somebody said :\n\" Va-banque.\"\nTanatar came near Kamynin and said in a low voice :\n\" Read something for me.\"\nThe telephone rang piercingly in the deserted rooms of Olga Veralskaya\n(the yellow desert) and the voice of Samuel Tanatar was heard across the wire\n\" Forgive me, Olga. Forgive me. I am so weary, so lonely. Forgive\nme. Forgive me everything. I shall expiate my sins. We have not long to live.\nWe are doomed. Forgive me. My ugliness here is perhaps, but a yearning\nfor other, more beautiful regions. I am speaking with the blood of my heart.\"\nAnd Olga answered in a low voice :\nm\n\" Yes, I forgive you. I do. I forgive you everything. Nothing has hap-\npened.\" Just as Tanatar was calling up Olga Veralskaya the whistle of Olga\nNicolayevna blew at the foot of the mountain, and at that moment Andrey\nAndreyevitch Veralsky probably shouted through the window of the Club: \" Ilya,\nfetch the carriage /' One of the girls fell from the fire-place and screamed. Some-\nbodysaid: \"Va-banque.\" Tanatar came near Kamynin and said in a low voice :\n\" Read something for me.\"\n\" All right. Something from Matthew :\n32. — Now learn a parable of the fig-tree : when his branch is yet tender\nand putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh :\n33. — So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things know that it is near,\neven at the doors. \"\nKamynin, completely drunk, finished and almost lost his balance. Ta-\nnatar looked at him fixedly.\n\" Shall I read for you now ? \"\n\" All right, read for me.\"\n\"I do not need the book, I know it by heart. This is also from Matthew :\nLet the dead bury the dead. Chapter VIII. Let the dead...\nTanatar turned abruptly and left the room. The lavatory was spoiled\nand the men had to go to the back porch. Tanatar followed tliem. The moon\nwas hanging low above the horizon. Dogs were barking in the village. Tru-\nbetzkoy put two fingers in his mouth and was sticking his head into the snow.\nAnother voyenospetz was lying on the snow to cool off. Two others were still\nsmoking. Tanatar walked down a couple of steps and stopped.\n\" The imbeciles have dirtied everything.\"\nHe took out the Nolan revolver, A low shot rang out, but Tanatar himself\nprobably did not hear it."}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.76", "texte": "The orchestra played funeral marches and the Internationale. Only one\nwoman followed the red coffin of comrade Tanatar. It was his sad, thin, pale\nwife — his wife who knew everything.\nNight. Darkness. Snow. Stars. Silence. On the edge of the forest,\nnear the rigid pine trees, little fir trees stood wrapped in snow and bent to the\nground. One of them had been burned down and was still smoking. Silence.\nImmobility. The stars shone brightly and there were myriads of them. One\nstar fell down. Silence. . The hours passed. Suddenly something began to\nmove in the field, and a lone snow-flake came whirling among the fir trees. An-\nother followed and they both vanished. In the North somebody was pulling a\ndark mitten over the stars. Snow-flakes fell again — one, two, five. Two\nof them met, got entangled, whispered something to each other, merged in one\n«h\nand died. The forest answered the call of the snow-flakes. It sent up a piercing\ncry, and the fir trees bent their heads in a stately minuet. The trees cracked\nand began to drop old branches to the ground. And again there was silence.\nAnd again the snow-flakes came whirling — one, two, a hundred were born and\ndied. The fir trees bent their heads in a new minuet. A shouting, a ringing,\na howling was heard. The dark heavenly glove began to scatter grains over\nthe earth. Snow-flakes got entangled. They found the space too narrow and\ndashed across the fields. Myriads of them.\nAnd the storm was on. The dead snow-flakes, born by the snow-storm and\nflying for thousands of miles over field, forest, river, and city, moaned, laughed,\nshouted, wept in their mortal agony.\nThis snow-storm had not been announced. It came from beyond the Volga\nand was going in the direction of Yeletz, Kursk, Sumy, Poltava.\nDoctor Andrey Andreyevitch Veralsky did not go to see his patients in the\nstorm and was reading Mayne Reid all day. Dressed in his fur coat, cap, and\nboots, he came out for lunch at three. He ate shtchee (i) made of sour cabbage\nand mutton. He looked silently at Olga and said gloomily :\n\" Iyife is hard nowadays Olga. You have had a rest. You might be looking\nfor something to do — teaching, perhaps. The holidays are over. You ought\nto work. You would not feel so lonesome, then. Have some mutton.\"\nA word about Ivan Petrovitch Bekesh.\nIvan Petrovitch came to the writer Kamynin, spoke about the diary, and\nfinished by saying that the price he had asked for it was far too low and ought\ntherefore to be raised or the diary returned to him. Kamynin answered that\nhe had bought the diary not for himself, but for Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya,\n(i) A kind of soup."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.77", "texte": "Olga Andreyevna Veralskaya met Kamynin on tlie following morning in the\nlabor bureau. A young girl with sheepish black eyes and hips like the back\nof a sledge was being registered before them,\n\" What is your profession ? \" — asked the woman clerk.\n\" I am a political emigrant \" — answered the girl. \" Before 1917, I lived\nwithin the pale (2). My name is Sofia Pindrik.\"\n\" I see.\"\nIt was Kamynin's turn.\n\" Your profession ? — asked the clerk.\n\" A writer.\"\nAnd the woman clerk wrote down in the corresponding register : \" Clerk.\"\n(2) Territory Jews are allowed to settle.\n\nBoris Pilniak\n(Translated By Louis Lozowick)"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.78", "texte": "André Derain\nWoodcut"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.79", "texte": "LES NOCES DE CLYTE\nJohn Crawford\nWhile it was light,\nhe was attended by a virgin\ncrisp as green lettuce.\nHer kisses left rings\nof coolness\non his cheeks.\nShe had slipped away\nbetween the buildings of the city ;\nthe windows still shining\nwhere she had loved her image.\nAround the corner\nnight waited\ndrugs dripping from her fingers...\n\nTHE WOODPECKER\nCorrado Govoni\n(Translated by E.S.)\nWho is that doctor down\nthere mid the flowering hemp,\nputting his ear in turn\nto all the trees ?\nThat steady hammering seems\nthe work of a crazy carpenter,\nall the day furiously\nnailing up coffins,\nalone there,\nmid the hemp and the stubble.\nEvery now and again he\nstops and flies madly away,\nbursting out into a\nhorrible eerie laugh."}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.80", "texte": "RUSSIAN BERLIN\n\nGerman Berlin is astir.\nIsadora Duncan came from Russia, flying in an aeroplane.\nBut Russian Berlin is in even greater commotion.\nFor Isadora Duncan did not come empty-handed ; she brought some pre-\ncious freight along, to wit :\nA poet,\nAnd a husband —\nAll the same person, to be sure, the famous Russian Imaginist-peasant\nbard, Sergey Yessenin.\nIsadora Duncan and Sergey Yessenin will stay in Berlin for a time, take a\nflying trip to Paris and London, and in October depart for America where\na well known concert bureau has engaged them to tour the country. The bu-\nreau is reliable. Their success is assured.\nTo return to Berlin, however. The first thing for the couple to do was\nnaturally, to visit the Russian \" House of Art \" (Dom Isskusstva), an insti-\ntution where all great, near-great and would-be-great foregather without dis-\ntinction of race, religion or previous condition of servitude, where talk and\nsoda water flow in an unending stream ; where theories and tobacco are consumed\nin alarming quantities (both meeting the same fate).\nEverybody turned out for the festive occasion. The meeting was opened\nuncommonly early, to be precise : at half past ten P. M. which is not to say\nthat Yessenin was there. He let the audience wait. The audience did. Iyong\nbut not in vain. For as the midnight bell rang (he choose the psychological\nmoment), Yessenin appeared arm in arm with Isadora Duncan. The windows\nshook. It was no tempest without; it was a thunderous applause within. En-\nthusiasm was boundless. No wonder some young chap forgot himself (which\nwas not so bad) forgot the fact that the \" House of Art \" was non-political\n(which was far worse) and shouted :\n\" Vive rinternationale.\" (He meant the organization of course).\nIsadora Duncan who did not know the rule of the House took up the cry :\n\" Chantez la \" she said (she meant the song, of course).\n\" Down with the International! \" broke in a white guard officer (he meant\nboth, of course).\nAnd then the fun began. The Whites (rather black) and the Reds (ra-\nther pink) were each determined to fight out the battle to the bitter end. It\nwas the liveliest meeting in the history of this staid and lukewarm institution.\nThings went so far that Yessenin's fellow Imaginist, the fine Circassian poet"}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.81", "texte": "Kussikov,who had smelt powder in his Red Army days, wtanted neither more nor\nless than to shoot the white guard officer, \" like a puppy \" as he eloquently put it.\nYessenin himself who had seen enough scandal in his Imaginist Club at\nMoscow to suffice half a dozen other men a long lifetime, would not be dis-\ncomfitted by a little incident like that. Anyhow, the Whites were completely\nrouted and the International rang out, quite naturally, out of tune and with\noverlapping stanzas, but none the less full-lunged and enthusiastic.\nThen Yessenin got up on a chair and read.\nOnly Russians can read thus and only one of them, Yessenin. Words\nthat pounce upon you, pummel you, lash you, cut into your flesh, daze 3^ou.\nIt is the peasant revolution million-voiced that speaks through the verse\nof Yessenin, the revolution with all its excesses and contradictions. A dualism\ncan be traced through all his work. The poet who at one moment declares\nhimself so harmless as not to touch a hare, is ready, at the next, to stick\nsomebody with a knife. The poet so humble as to tip his hat to the cow on\nthe sign of the city butcher .shop, is sufficiently daring to reform God himself.\nTender and coarse almost in the same breath :\n\" Good night ! \" \" Good night to you all.\"\n\" The scythe of evening rang out upon the glass of dusk.\nSomehow I feel like to-night.\nFrom my window to take a — on the moon.\"\n(Confession of a Scamp)\nThe down-trodden are not sufficiently sophisticated, not sufficiently schooled\nn the hypocricies of civilization to mince their words or check their instincts.\nThey have an inestiguishable love for animal existence. That is why they are\nready to take bitter revenge for past wrongs, defend stubbornly present pri-\nvileges, and stake all for future freedoms.\nYessenin understands the downtrodden. If he is to be believed, only\nprostitutes and bandits can understand him. Calling Nietzsche to witness,\nthis might be a compliment to those who appreciate the poetry of Yessenin,\nthough they have not the good luck to be prostitutes or bandits. Doubtless\nthey possess the requisite qualifications potentially, but they most have escaped\ntheir fate through mere accident (explanation of which may be found in Freud\n— or in Marx). In this respect they are not unlike Yessenin himself :\nIf I were not a poet, I would surely be a crook and thief/'\n(In the Land of Rogues)\nDuring the unprecedented upheaval in Russia, events have been moving\nat a giddy speed. The poetry of Yessenin moves synchronously with the speed\nof events. He piles novel image upon image ; he creates a new mythology ;\nhe invents new rhythms. The revolutionary trend will never quite be the same\nagain. But it has already been arrested, rendered concrete and lasting in the\npoetry of Yessenin\n\nL.L.\n\nPyRNESTO Fratoni, Gerente responsabile.\nPrinted in Italy by a I,'UniverseHe » Tmprimerie Polyglotte —~ Roma,"}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "[80]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.82", "texte": "THE LEY OF\n7R a 112 d or or\nIn Six Cantos\nby\nTHE COMTE de EAUTREAMONT\n[ Isidore Ducasse: 1850 -70 ]\nTranslated, from the French by JOHN RODKER\nwith 3 Plates after Odii(on Redon\nand with the Introduction by REMY de GOURMOJS/7\nand a new one by the translator.\nAn Edition limited to 1,000 numbered Copies,\nof which 100 Copies will be 011 large paper, specially\nbound, and with plates in duplicate.\nThis book is practically unknown in English-speaking coun-\ntries and very little in France. Its infernal grandeur, monstrous\nand tortured pride and touching puerility, reach a sublime height\nfound only in Wm. Blake. It is impossible in a note, to give any\nidea of the magnificence of its aspirations. Remy de Gourmont\nsays of it : ' This book will remain unique and from now on belongs\nto that list of works which, to the exclusion of all classicism, forms\nthe limited library and only possible reading of those whose ill made\nspirits will not lend themselves to the less rare joys of the common-\nplace and of conventional morality.'\nThis book, Demy Bvo. on hand made paper and of about 350\npages with prefaces will be privately printed on his own press by\nthe translator and should be ready in October 1922. Application for\ncopies price £2, (large paper £3), to be made in advance to : —\nJohn Rodker 4a Took's Court, Chancery Lane London E.C.4\nSubscribers may rest assured that the production will be a\nworthy one, and that it will receive the care and attention which\ncharacterised the Ovid Press of which most of the publications\nissued 1919-20 are now out of print."}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "[81]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.83", "texte": "Pa rf u m PARI S „\nc The new COTY creation\n-V > *\no»v , - >.\nCr/ie fascination of —the\nvivid fcersorialitij 112 thei\ncitxf couvaqe—it breathies\nits inches ctihcthie allure irz the,\nexqjtilsite pe-jfttrne PAR.I S,,\nthe veritable, spirit essence of\"\nHs. the city CJ\n\"PARIS,,\nESSENCE\nTOILET WATER\nFACE POWDER\nCOMPACT\nSACHET\nQleuj ( 7t4- fjftfth d/Ivenue\ntyTlontreal 14- Phillips Scjuare"}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.84", "texte": "I—-— '\nI —I\nI—l-*—l\nea\n3\nDREIC\no\nI—l- —\nJ\nI — I ~;—r\n~—l ~T— I —i—l\n560 U\nvenue\ncinew tfJork,\nr=\ni^±zz=t=!=±TT=lM\nE=3\ni 1\nI—— I\ni '\ni—— i—— I\nr=n\ni— i — i\nl-r-l—r-l\nz;\nIIIIIIUIUHiailBHHII«i:«V t\nm\nIT\nJ.\nm\ns\niiiltiP-\nXVIth Ce\nI\nnlur\nw\n■J\nET\newe\nCasket\nbeio\nngi\nto the\nde^enddmfi\n§sl\nSS,\nm\nnsrw\nS"}, {"page_pdf": 85, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192208-01.1.85", "texte": "'Lfje §reaf\nOconocfasf\nSmasher of idols, deflater of balloons, pricker of bubbles, destroyer of\nillusions, and constant, implacable fighter of shams of all kinds, THE SMART\nSET is the great iconoclast among magazines.\nAnd because it is equally fearless in publishing what is good regardless\nof popular \" taste\" or author's obscurity, and because it publishes nothing\nthat is not good, it has gathered an audience that is remarkable alike for\nits sophistication and its intellectual brilliance.\nEvery appreciative reader of BROOM should read THE SMART SET\nregularly also. In many like BROOM, it is in many other ways the natural\ncomplement of BROOM. The two magazines together furnish an intellectual\ndiet that contains the proper proportions of proteins, vitamines and other\nproperties essential to perfect intellectual and spiritual nourishment.\nAs a matter of fact, the foregoing paragraphs might well have been omit-\nted, as they are all contained in the plain statement that Henry L. Mencken\nand George Jean Nathan are the editors of THE SMART SET and regular\ncontributors to it. The literary and dramatic criticisms of these gentlemen\nneed no comment here ; but it may be well to state that \" Repetition Gene-\nrale which appears in each issue and which is a joint contribution, contains\nsome of the most remarkable writing of the day, writing which will delight\nyour soul.\nGentle reader of BROOM, fill in the coupon below NOW, while it is in\nyour mind. You'll be thankful all your life.\nTHE SMART SET, 25 West 45th St., New York.\nFor the enclosed Four Dollars send me THE SMART SET for 12 months; and\nsend me copy of book checked below as a premium free with the subscription.\nthe; critic and the; drama,\nBy George Jean Nathan.\nTHE GIRI<S, by Edna Ferber\nCHEKHOV'S NOTEBOOK"}]}