{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_sha256": "ac242a4ee29eae01db07151712928187f9ed8d903b0b7db3b5b2aea865242f25", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/01_01/bmtnaap_1923-01_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaap/issues/1923/01_01/bmtnaap_1923-01_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[72]", "page_fin": "[72]", "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.2", "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": "[72]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1217, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2032, "texte": "Page\nJoke — Holling A. Clancy 73\nMy dear Mrs. Wurtelbach — Kenneth Burke 74\nStadium Concert — Charles Galwey 79\nKarintha — Jean Toomer 83\nM\\ ya Art — George Sacken 86\nThe House of Conover — Robert A. Sanborn 89\nPursuit — Matthew Josephson 105\nNigger — Margaret Evans 108\nThe Destruction of Tenochtitlan — William Carlos Williams 112\nMorning — Kay Boyle 121\nFugitives — Charles Galwey 123\nCircle — Elsa von Freitag-Loringhoven 128\nThe High Hat — Louis Gilmore 129\nWear — Gertrude Stein 130\nThe Springs of Guilty Song — Hart Crane 131\nHymen — Marianne Moore 133\nPascin's America — Malcolm Cowley 136\nPoems.- Marianne Moore, T. S. Eliot — M. J 138\nReproductions\nCover Design (Woodcut) — Gontcharova\nMaya Architecture and Sculpture, facing pages 88, 89, 104, 105, 120, 121, 128, 129\nMaya Motifs and Designs, throughout."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "73", "page_fin": "73", "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Joke....", "titre_sommaire": "Joke....", "signature_source": "Holling Allison Clancy", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 422, "texte": "JOKE\nHolling Allison Clancy\nSilver knives,\nLanced on long winds\nHave killed the grass-bloom;\nA blue-chinned mountain\nStrokes his shag-beard ....\nThe dog is dead,\nAnd dry-rots over the rafters\nThat rib up through cracked roof-mud . . . .\nOne Penitente whipped too long\nOn the up-hill, and ripping fibre-thorns\nSawed him from life ....\nCrow-egg has pipped\nIn a far pine's fur\nDad crow flaps home\nWith a fat, fresh horse-eye!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "74", "page_fin": "78", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 8, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "My Dear Mrs. Wurtelbach", "titre_sommaire": "My Dear Mrs. Wurtelbach", "signature_source": "Kenneth Burke", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2178, "texte": "MY DEAR MRS. WURTELBACH\n\nI.\nWhat if he had known Wurtelbach since the days when they had\na tent in the back yard and played Old Maid if it rained? It was in the\ncompany of Wurtelbach that he had bought his first beer. Furthermore,\nhe had roomed with Wurtelbach at the university. But as to Mrs. Wurtel-\nbach, he had taken her limp hand and been assigned to a chair once, and\nanother time he had been informed that her husband often spoke of him.\nAs a consequence, the letter was written thus:\nMy dear Mrs. Wurtelbach:\nHow can I express my sympathy with you and little Dorothy over the loss of\nhusband and fatherl I heard the terrible news this morning for the first time, and since\nthen I have felt the need more and more strongly of writing a few words, however much\nthey fail of conveying my deep condolence. At such times one is painfully aware of\njust how cruel fate can be, and how we are all called upon to bear our load of suffering.\nBut surely it must be some consolation to you in your sorrow to realize that there are\nso many who knew and loved your husband. And then again, you must strive to\nremember that he himself would wish those whom he left behind to be as happy as\npossible.\nMy mother asks me to assure you in her behalf how greatly she, also, enters in\nwith you in your affliction.\nWurtelbach dead! Wurtelbach pig-stewed . . . dead. Wurtelbach\naddressing the Chamber of Commerce with that artificial seriousness of\nhis . . . dead. Wurtelbach sneezing . . . dead. All the little untied ends\nof Wurtelbach's experiences had just stopped being there to tie. In some\ncloset or other the baggy trousers were hanging which Wurtelbach was\ngoing to put on next Sunday morning. His wife and child were no doubt\ncrying in Sewickley.\nCharles did not cringe at sending the letter, any more than he had\ncringed at eating breakfast. If it had been Charles who had died, Wurtel-\nbach would have sent a similar letter to his mother; indeed, somewhere\nin the letter he might even have situated Charles comfortably in Heaven\nand hinted that it is selfish of us to grieve the loss of one who has been\nGalled Home. Charles realized that he could write it, and mail it, while the"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2125, "texte": "fact of Wurtelbach's death would remain on his hands in exactly the\nsame way.\nThe time he and Wurtelbach had . . . dead. Like lead, in bed, his\ndull, dull head (pause) . . . dead (one, two, three) . . . dead. \"Hello . . .\nyes . . . oh, hello, Alice. I hoped you'd call. Yes, I got home all right . . .\ndead . . . rather late, of course, but I had a good night.\" Now, concerning\nthis matter of the Chicago Awto-Lite Company, why not write them and\ntell them to forward the photographs in any case, and if we found that\nwe could not run the illustrations, we could either return them forthwith\nor hold them for a future article our editors might get up on accessories.\nHanging up there lop-sided in the closet, all ready for next Sunday. The\npump stopped; it's all over when that convulsion stops down there under\nthe ribs.\nOnce, with a sudden freezing, Charles understood that he had lost\ndear old Wurtelbach.\nII.\nFirst Esther had stepped over the log, and then Miss Anderson had\nstepped over the log, and then Myrtle and Wurtelbach had stepped over\nthe log, and then, after a long interval, Anne had stepped over the log . . .\nand then . . . over the log . . . the log ... log .. . Then they were all\ngone. They had all gone ahead, leaving the log behind them, and fresh\nrips in the ferns growing out of the rotten leaves. Wurtelbach had avoided\nthe cow-flops, as well as the eyes of the girls. What if he were to eat\na cow-flop; Christ, what a stir! The girls' legs carried them up, up the\nhill; Wurtelbach considered the masterful working of these mechanisms.\nEsther was a kid; that's why she was first. Or more accurately, Esther\nwas still a colt. Esther went on up the hill, without the least suspicion\nof the night Wurtelbach wanted to eat her. Esther was as useless as\na sparrow. Her unhappy body was without significance. Wurtelbach agreed\nwith a certain guilty awkwardness while she talked of climbing Hawkbill\nand yelling across to Chestnut Ridge. He was willing to drop, behind.\nMyrtle, gentlemen, was Queenly. With all her bones comfortably\nburied beneath a half-inch cushion of warm flesh, Myrtle could take up\n1*"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2323, "texte": "as much of your time as she cared to by talking deliberately. Myrtle\ncould bathe in spring water without suffering; but the irrefutable fact re-\nmained that there was frequently a strong odor which came from Myrtle's\narmpits.\nThe general picnic spirit continued. They would be at Buckeye Spring\nin fifteen minutes. Oh, look, the columbines were still perfect! And\nthey had seeded in the valley two weeks ago! The bull! The bull! . . .\nWurtelbach promptly advanced, while the girls crawled back under the\nbarbed wire nervously. The brute kicked up clods of grass and dirt over\nhis swaying rump. Wurtelbach collected rocks with an inward emphasis.\nThen he began throwing, until one rock hit the bull on a protruding shoulder\nbone. The bull retreated back among the trees, vibrating and sending little\npebbles rolling down the hill. Wurtelbach continued to throw, thus assuring\nsafe conduct for his women.\nThen came half a mile of tangle, where the trail was nearly lost,\nuntil it broke into full view of the mountains. They rolled away blue-black,\nlike the faithful backs of elephants. From across the valley they got the\nbroadside of Craggy. Every one waited for Anne, and when she arrived\nshe was chagrined at being waited for. You could plunge words deep into\nAnne. Some little half-uttered sentence with the man-and-woman about\nit . . . you could let it drop and feel sure that it would be picked up. Anne\nwas like a deep pool: you could throw in a pebble . . . there would be\na little ripple . . . and then the pebble would lie there. When Anne went\ninto her room at night and shut the door, you felt that it was being shut\nwith sullenness. Anne was not good-looking; it was generally agreed that\nshe would never marry.\nWhen they reached the Flats, Wurtelbach sneaked away to observe\nthe ridges. Thirty-seven could be seen from here on a clear day. Wurtel-\nbach counted twelve before he thought to close his eyes. When he opened\nthem again, he picked one little white roof five miles down the valley. Then\nhe sailed from here to there in a bee-line, and among the ridges. The thin,\ndead air made him feel the pulse-beat in his ears. Two months after\nthis Wurtelbach was dead.\nIII.\nFor a few notes the band chugged in unison, and then it broke away\nagain, all the little parts flying off independently. That was jazz. The"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2441, "texte": "piccolo wabbled on a three-bar spree; the violin tumbled down three\noctaves. The pianist bounced alternately from bass to high treble. (No use;\neverybody just ate.) The trombone saw its chance, and drawled blurtingly.\nThe trap-drummer let loose all over, drums, bells, bones, cymbals. For\na while each player ran his own little circle around the melody, existed by\nhimself, felt recklessly assertive. (Five hundred crab meat salads were\nremoved simultaneously, and five hundred roasted second joints of capon\nwere brought in their place.) The band stopped to change the score, and\nthere would have been dead silence if every one were not hearing his\nown jaws.\nAfter the nuts had been passed around, however, and breadcrumbs had\nbeen brushed secretly from the knees to the floor, and the cigars were\nlighted tentatively, one dealer from Buffalo, seated at table 36, offered\na joke about a very stupid and very typical Englishman. This Englishman,\nwhile visiting his American cousin in California, being greatly impressed\nby the extended cultivation which was going on, had asked. \"But bah\nJoove, ah say, what do you do with all this produce?\" And the American\nhad answered. ffOh, we can what we can, and what we can't can, we can.\"\nNow the Englishman was inordinately tickled with this, but later, while\ntrying to repeat it back home, he blundered with characteristic stupidity,\nffoh, we can what we cawn, and what we cawn't can we put up in tins.\"\nTable 36 laughed the fitting amount, and a dealer from a small town\noutside of Buffalo told one about a rather fast woman; and what is more,\nhe followed it with one about a woman's parts.\nTable 36 was now in a pleasant frame of mind, and when the band\njazzed again, everybody joined in the chorus. The two men came out —\nfairies probably — and sang something or other. The five hundred gentlemen\nassembled did not listen. The two fairies melted away, and forty women\nappeared, which explains why certain tables were upset in the yowling\nrush toward the centre of the floor. Yaaing, these babies stood up on\nladders, and oscillated the jelly of their breasts.\nFor an hour, then, this tingling meat was examined. And when it\nleft, the president of the All-American Corporation gave a speech:\n\"Gentlemen ... As I look over this glad assemblage ... of more\nthan five hundred . . . this evening ... it takes me back nine years to\nthe first annual banquet held under the auspices of the Ail-American"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2250, "texte": "Corporation Stop to consider, gentlemen, what really tremenjous\nstrides the All-American has made in these nine short years. . . . Transport\nyourself back to those uncertain days when our organization was making\nits first struggle for existence If I remember correctly, there were\njust . . . one . . . two, there were exactly fourteen dealers present at the\nfirst annual banquet of the All-American Corporation.\n\"How little we expected then, when Mr. Hemmingway talked of\nmoving his little hub factory to a larger city, that nine years from that day\nwe should have . . . not one headquarters in a large city . . . not two . . .\nbut representatives distributed over the length and breadth of the en-tire\nworld! Little did we think at that time that civilization would develop\nsuch an insatiable hunger for our commodity.\n\"Little did we think, I say. But that statement is unjust; for even\nat that early date the faith of the founder of our organization never wavered.\nFor Mr. Hemmingway was a man of vision, a prophet, a seer. He could\nforetell, where we could not, what a great demand was to be created in\nthe world for his invention. And today, thanks to the vision of that un-\ndaunted genius . . THE WORLD IS WITHOUT A TOY. Romance,\nrealism, the inquisition, the City of God, geo-centricity . . . they have left\nus nothing . . . nothing but a wobbly art trying to hit us on the head\nwith a club. Is there some life beyond the mucous membrane? Is there\nsome significance beyond a little suburban home? As an adolescent, I car-\nried vague possibilities in my groins; and now there is nothing left but to\nlook at people. Christ, they have even burned out our pessimism!\nAh! to have gotten up in the night, and to have noticed the door\nopen and the light lit. And to have passed down the corridor ... and\nnothing . . . nothing ... to have returned, unchanged.\nWhat are we to do with the growing trees? And Mrs. Buckhorn\nyelling down the dumb-waiter shaft? Let me rise above ... let me main-\ntain ... let me affirm . . . There is the epigram, and there is the epic . . .\nand I have squeezed big theoretical tears. If there is one pure joy left with\nus, it is to pass a tight jobby.\nDavid, my little man, sling your pebble at the universe.\n\nKenneth Burke"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "79", "page_fin": "82", "image_debut": 9, "image_fin": 12, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Stadium Concert", "titre_sommaire": "Stadium Concert", "signature_source": "Charles Galwey", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.9", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 654, "texte": "STADIUM CONCERT\n\nWelter of loveliness\nAnd cash net sixty days\ndo it now.\nSplendors —\nAnd futilities earning dollars —\nThe crowd\nThe individual\nNew York.\nStone seats in tiers\n(Damn my back!)\nA semi-circle of brown Doric\nJowled by cigar box tenements\nBlatant brick of Hebrew Orphan Asylum\nA many peaked rubble of bastard college\nParodying Oxford and cathedrals\nWith six windows that slit mild light.\nStraight scream of electric arcs.\nAn orange flame mutters waveringly upward in\nthe dim east city\nBelow the dusty bastions of a park.\nThe focus, a belly of sounding board, a stage,\nFat bass fiddles, iron desk.\nTables, lonely, barren, bereft of genial foams."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.10", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 782, "texte": "The central ten thousand huddle\nA self-drilled mob school.\nSome leech has let the blood\nOf outward loveable gayeties.\nGirl stenographers \"going with\" their men.\nJew and Christian.\nClerks salesmen buyers teachers\nDwellers in hot perforations of vertical\nRows of eyes that stare inanely\nVertiginous identity.\nExalted, beautiful, the Seventh Symphony,\nThe sure reconcilers, brass, wood, strings,\nHigh a woman's voice\nFlatterers\nInto an escape\nTo emotions soft red, purple, rhythmic,\nShading away constricted monotony\nOf cloaks suits hair nets hats stocks bonds\nschoolrooms\nDry-goods advertising.\nAlone\nTwo\nWhere at the semi-circle ends\nIndividuals vanquish the crowd.\nThe woman, crouched head over knees\nBig hatted,\nHer mystery\nPoignant where the sounds\nAnnounce themselves in shadows."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "81", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.11", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 789, "texte": "The man, tiers under her\nUnmoving, straw hatted,\nCommon cryptic solitary.\nINTERMISSION\nProgram list of guarantors,\nVaguely existent rich, the powerful ones,\nGivers of spiritualities out of dollars.\nFINAL ENCORE\nShowery clapping dispersed.\nA concert neatly fitted into the rut\nTHE BOSS orders them back\nTo clean bed rooms porcelain efficient kitchens\nStrap clutching subway stench, screaming ffL\"\nSadistic slavery and return.\nOr a walk by the park benches\nPrescient the Phallic obscene\nDay hidden —\nCackling inuendoes boys hug girls —\nThey write their world in the scrawls of privies,\nDust bare grass\nElectric glamor of tree boughs.\nHuge naked breast of water\nSaturated lead by sewers —\nRed and green glow of little boats in swarm —\nIn it are sunk the stars.\nAll obsessing electric capitals"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "82", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.12", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 521, "texte": "Warner's Sugar\nAnd on the Palisade cliff\nSurf Bathing\nMoon silvered coin edge of ragged cloud\nA chuckle streaking straight overhead.\nThe busses totter spilling the jammed shadows\nCloaca and Beethoven\nPutridity of a monster gas tank gray —\nNausea of sliding automobiles and hunger of\ntheir eyes\nHunting, yellow —\nFetid heat of August with fecundity at play.\nIllusion winged beauty —\nA million strangled deaths of trapped souls.\nThe crypts of loneliness,\nThe dreams and immundicities of the crowd.\nNew York.\n\nCharles Galwey"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "83", "page_fin": "85", "image_debut": 13, "image_fin": 15, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Karintha", "titre_sommaire": "Karintha", "signature_source": "Jean Toomer", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "83", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.13", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1698, "texte": "KARINTHA\n\n(To be read, accompanied by the\nhumming of a Negro folk-song)\nHer skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon,\nO can't you see it, O can't you see it,\nHer skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon\n. . . When the sun goes down.\nMen had always wanted her, this Karintha, even as a child,\nKarintha carrying beauty, perfect as dusk when the sun goes\ndown. Old men rode her hobby-horse upon their knees. Young\nmen danced with her at frolics when they should have been dan-\ncing with their grown-up girls. God grant us youth, secretly\nprayed the old men. The younger fellows counted the time to\npass before she would be old enough to mate with them. This\ninterest of the male, that wishes to ripen a growing thing too\nsoon, could mean no good to her.\nKarintha, at twelve, was a wild flash that told the other folks\njust what it was to live. At sunset, when there was no wind,\nand the pinesmoke from over by the saw-mill hugged the earth,\nand you couldn't see more than a few feet in front, her sudden\ndarting past you was a bit of vivid color, like a black bird that\nflashes in the light. With the other children one could hear,\nsome distance away, their feet flopping in the two inch dust.\nKarintha's running was a whir. It had the sound of the red dust\nthat sometimes makes a spiral in the road. At dusk, during the\nhush just after the mill had closed down, and before any of the\nwomen had started their supper-getting-ready songs, her voice,\nWgh-pitched, shrill, would put one's ears to itching. But no one\never thought to make her stop because of it. She stoned the\ncows, and beat her dog, and fought the other children . . . Even\nthe preacher, who caught her at mischief, told himself that she"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.14", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1795, "texte": "was as innocently lovely as a November cotton-flower. Already,\nrumors were out about her. Homes in Georgia are most often built\non the two-room plan. In one, you cook and eat, in the other\nis where you sit and sleep, and where love goes on. Karintha\nhad seen or heard, perhaps she had felt her parents loving. One\ncould but imitate one's parents, for to follow them was the way\nof God. She played home' with a small boy who was not afraid\nto do her bidding. That started the whole thing. Old men could\n110 longer ride her hobby-horse upon their knees. But young\nmen counted faster.\nHer skin is like dusk,\nO can't you see it,\nHer skin is like dusk\nWhen the sun goes down.\nKarintha is a woman. She who carries beauty, perfect as\ndusk when the sun goes down. She has been married many\ntimes. Old men remind her that a few years back they rode her\nhobby-horse upon their knees. Karintha smiles, and indulges\nthem when she is in the mood for it. She has contempt for them.\nKarintha is a woman. Young men run stills to make her money.\nYoung men gamble to make her money. Young men go to the\nlarge cities and run on the road. Young men go away to college.\nThey all want to bring her money. These are the young men who\nthought that all they had to do was to count time. But Karintha\nis a woman, and she has had a child. A child fell out of her\nwomb onto a bed of pine-needles in the forest. Pine-needles are\nsmooth and sweet. They are elastic to the feet of rabbits . . .\nA saw-mill was nearby. Its pyramidal saw-dust pile smouldered.\nIt is a year before one completely burns. Meanwhile, the smoke\ncurls up and hangs in odd wraiths about the forest, curls up, and\nspreads itself out over the valley. Weeks after Karintha returned\nhome, the smoke was so heavy you tasted it in water. Someone\nmade a song:"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.15", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 536, "texte": "Smoke is on the hills. Rise up.\nSmoke is on the hills, O rise\nAnd take my soul away.\nKarintlia is a woman. Men do not know that the soul of her\nwas a growing thing ripened too soon. They will bring their\nmoney; they will die not having found it out . . . Karintha at\ntwenty, carrying beauty, perfect as dusk when the sun goes down.\nKarintha . . .\nHer skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon,\nO can't you see it, O can't you see it,\nHer skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon\n. . . When the sun goes down.\nGoes down . . .\n\nJean Toomer"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "86", "page_fin": "88", "image_debut": 16, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Maya Art", "titre_sommaire": "Maya Art", "signature_source": "George Sacken", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.16", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2344, "texte": "MAYA ART\n\nThere is in the American Museum of Natural History,\na room devoted to Maya art. No one can pass through\nthis room without being powerfully affected, either\npleasantly or unpleasantly. One is disturbed, perhaps\nrepelled by the vivid forms that fill the room, and one\nwonders why these works and the people who created\nthem are so little known. For the room is charged with\nthe spirit of a strong race. We feel distinctly the presence\nof a remarkable temperament, highly sophisticated yet\nessentially barbaric.\nA rectangular column, some twenty feet high, covered with tortuous\nornaments, towers to the ceiling. Near the top there is a human mask of\nheroic size startlingly like a Buddha, but frigid with cruelty. This stela\ndominates the room. It is as mysterious and as exalted as the Grotto Gods\nof Tuan Huang.\nThere are smaller columns and many altars, some regular and others\nirregular in shape, each covered with a maze of abstract and apparently\nunorganized forms. The variety of these forms is prodigious — geometrical\nelements, coarse grotesque figures and intricate arabesques — each virile and\nexpressive. Seldom is abstract ornament so articulate. These forms are\nvaried, combined, and elaborated in the deliberate search for plastic sensation.\nPlastic sensation is the aesthetic emotion created by form. Architecture\nis perhaps the purest and most profound plastic expression. The relation\nbetween the horizontal and the vertical, the mode of the arch, are the\nindices of a race's temperament. They express its dominating character-\n* The Maya Indians occupied the peninsula of Yucatan, Central America, and the contiguous\nmainland westward to the Pacific coast. In the sixteenth century the Spaniards, marching north\nfrom Peru to Mexico, found their ruined cities inhabited by an alien and inferior race\nof Indians. The Mayas themselves were extinct. Little is known of their history, for\nany documents that might have told of their habits and ideas were destroyed by over\nzealous Spanish priests. Two beautifully illustrated, but otherwise unimportant manuscripts\nexist. Not even an exact date is known, but ethnologists agree that the Maya era was\napproximately from 200 B ... to 1300 A. D. and that their best works were wrought in\nthe fourth and fifth centuries when the Aztecs and Incas were little more than savages."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.17", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1386, "texte": "istics. Painting with its more fragile and flexible means, its privilege of\nrealism, reveals the more intimate and personal poetry of a people. Maya\nart lies somewhere between these, neither as grand as architecture nor as\nsensitive as painting — an f'intimate architecture\" perhaps. Even their\nrealistic sculpture —- Ghac Mool, the Singing Girl, — are formal\nand aloof, semi - architectural. But they and all, even the smallest\nforms, have the plastic purity and force of architecture in a relative degree.\nThey are never, however regular or conventional, mere decoration. They\nare as vital as alphabets or symbolic figures.\nIt is the particular genius of the Mayas that these virile and insistent\nforms do not destroy the surface or mass they cover. Guiriga altar —\nand the facade at Labna — are striking examples of this power. In\nthe former the very shapelessness of the stone is crystallized by the writhing\nforms. The Guiriga altar is as expressive today as five centuries ago. What\nmeaningless masses the realistic sculpture of today will be when its senti-\nmental significance is forgotten.\nThe facade at Labna is an amazingly skillful orchestration of forms.\nThe broad horizontal band across the center is counterpoint to the vertical\nelements above and below, preventing them from dominating and thereby\ndestroying the surface. This band casts a black shadow where it projects"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.18", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 756, "texte": "over the lower part of the wall. Directly above this shadow is a strip per-\nfectly free of ornament creating a brilliant, incisive contrast such as no\nother means could achieve. The dominating zig-zag serpent motif is tem-\npered by the quieter motifs above and below it. This skillful opposition\nof vivid and of quiet forms, of horizontal and of vertical elements, produces\nan exquisite harmony — vivid but not crude, of utmost variety but\nabsolute unity.\nAll Maya works display this creative intelligence, and conscious use\nof definite aesthetic principles. Today, when a new order of artists is\ntrying to rescue art from the morass of misused realism and to bring direction\nto an inchoate aesthetic Maya art particularly recommends itself.\n\nGeorge Sacken"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "Stone Figure", "titre_sommaire": "Stone Figure", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 12, "texte": "Stone Figure"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "Palenque", "titre_sommaire": "Palenque", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.19", "debut_caractere": 14, "fin_caractere_exclue": 33, "texte": "Stone Head\nPalenque"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 20, "image_fin": 20, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "Copan", "titre_sommaire": "Copan", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.20", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 11, "texte": "Stela\nCopan"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "89", "page_fin": "104", "image_debut": 21, "image_fin": 36, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "The House of Conover", "titre_sommaire": "The House of Conover", "signature_source": "Robert Alden Sanborn", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "89", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.21", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2341, "texte": "2\n\nTHE HOUSE OF CONOVER\n\nThere was consternation in the house of Price Conover. It was not\nmingled with grief, nor with sympathy; it was pure consternation which\ncontains the same elements as fear but in different proportions, and under\nthe influence of this emotion some of the guests began to pack their bags\nfor departure to the city. The conduct of these few, for a certain embarrassed\ndecorum restrained the greater number, recoiled upon their heads in the\nform of petulant comment, so that they sullenly stayed out the day only to\nmake a weak gesture of defiance to the prevailing opinion by tiptoeing out\nduring the night to catch the early morning train which took the farmer's\nmilk into New York. In the overheated car, where gas-lamps mingled\nsickly yellow rays with the grey frosty dawn, they relaxed, grumbling to\none another their relief as the train took them farther and farther from\nthe shrill ravings and terrified screams of young Price Conover jr., whose\nwedding at St. Peter's at high noon a certain unknown boot-legger had\nunwittingly prevented.\nThe groom-to-be was not popular with his father's guests. They had\ncome to the three day party with the same impersonal alacrity with which\nthey would have followed a stranger up an alley had he crooked a finger,\nwinked one eye, and lightly patted his hip-pocket. The difference was that\neverything in the elder Conover's cellar had been sealed in the days when\nthe government bond meant something.\nFor three days the lights were never switched off, night or day. The\nmen, all hardy veterans of many a battle with the brains of Kentucky and\nthe brawn of Scotland, drank until they fell about the billiard and poker\ntables, and slept where they fell. Later in the day they stumbled up to beds,\nor were dragged there by servants who, callous as they were, grew sick of\nthe job; but no one ever thought or cared to press a button that would\nquench the blazing lights. In the dining room the radiance was strained\nthrough grey strata of cigar smoke; in the bedrooms the lamps heated the\nstale air while men slept like the dead. By night the country folk on their\nway home from town pointed to the yellow edges of light along the margins\nol the heavy window draperies, and made moral observations on the ways\nof the rich; by day the house appeared deserted except as pasty-faced,"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "90", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.22", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2449, "texte": "heavy-eyed men in evening dress came out for moments to shiver silently\nand spout foggy breaths on the crisp air.\nBut on the fourth day the lights went out and curtains were raised,\nand the weather being sunny and more moderate, more men came forth\nto blink in the pale sunshine and to whisper uncomfortably under the faintly\nstirring trees. While from a room on the second floor came the jangling\nyells of a boy afraid to die.\nThis was a Tuesday. The first train, number seventeen, due at nine-\nthirty but actually arriving at about ten, brought two distinguished medical\nmen from New York. Number twenty eight, due at one o'clock, brought\nthree more. Both trains were met by Price Conover's mouse-colored\nlimousine with the blue trimmings, and the footman in his dark blue livery\nand silver buttons bowed the grave doctors into the car and into the presence\nof the senior Conover and his friend, Hillyard.\nAll but one of the five most famous specialists in New York were\ndriven back to the depot in the grey limousine to catch the late afternoon\ntrain for the city. They presented the non-committal appearance of closed\ndrawers swollen by wet weather, and gave up no secrets to the scrutiny and\ncocked ears of the curious townsfolk who observed them. The elder\nConover did not escort them. In his high-posted, oak-pannelled library,\nwith beads of sweat rolling down his sagging cheeks he battled for one\nword of hope with the remaining physician.\n\"I tell you it's impossible!\" he shouted, leaning over the massive\nmahogany desk with two stubby hands pressed upon the gleaming surface,\nthe fumes from his distorted mouth puffing into the delicate face of the\nphysician who was seated in the desk chair \"Every bottle in my vault was\nsealed in bond. It was bought and stored away before boot-legging was\nan infant industry. Price and I have emptied cases of the stuff and never\nfound one selfrespecting headache in the lot. Why, the Conover constitution\nis as famous in the liquor trade as the paper my ancestor signed a hundred\nyears and more ago.\"\nAnd then, as though caught in a panic of fear that his bravado would\ncheck the only voice that could speak the hope he craved, he choked on a sob,\nand went on in a pitiful croak:\n\"Say, doctor, you can't sit there and tell me that Price — that Price\nis going to —\"\nThe austere silence of the room lined with books in a perfect state\nof preservation was hardly broken but merely etched by the dry voice"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "91", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.23", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2479, "texte": "2 *\n\nof the man who raised his eyebrows quizzically as he looked up into the\ngoggled eyes of the father, and said:\n\"I will give you, Mr. Gonover, my candid opinion. Barring a miracle\nyour son will not live through another night.\"\n\"Haven't I told you that it is impossible?\" retorted Gonover in a\nrasping tone.\nThe great Keene scanned, not without a flicker of sympathy, the\ntwitching face of the other, as he replied gently:\n\"Your whiskey may be all that you claim for it, sir. I do not doubt\nbut that you are an excellent judge of brands. And that being my assump-\ntion, Mr. Conover, I will let you pass upon the evidence in the case. I warn\nyou not to taste it; that would not be prudent nor necessary.\"\nAnd so saying he drew from his pocket a pint flask bound in shabby\nleather, unscrewed the tarnished silver top, and passed it to the man who\nconfronted him. The latter took the suspicious-looking article, his eyes\nfixed challengingly on the impassive witness, and then with a puzzled glance\nat the flask he sniffed of the contents.\n\"Where the Hell did you get this?\" he exploded. And before the\nanswer came, he continued: \"It's poison! Good God, I'd feed such stuff\nto the rats that steal my cheese! You don't tell me that my son —\"\n\"Your son, Mr. Gonover,\" Keene interrupted, courteously offering his\nhand for the return of the exhibit, \"belongs to another generation whose\nbrain-cells do not react to the suave virtues that please your old-fashioned\ntaste. Thus the bootlegger. His underground laboratories produce the more\npotent qualities demanded by the youth of today. I found this flask between\nthe mattress and the springs of your son's bed. His valet, I think, took\nme for an agent of the government and expected an informer's fee. You\nsee,\" he resumed, weighing the flask in his hand, swishing audibly the scant\nlablespoonful that remained in it,\"I put a few questions to some of your\nguests after my first examination of your son, and learned that some time\nafter midnight you refused your son the key to your vaults. The story\nI hear is that he opened one of your precious bottles by breaking the neck\non a radiator, spilling a good deal of its contents on the rug. Upon your\nrefusal to hand him the key he struck you, and then, — well, you know\nwhat happened. He was carried to his room. It required the combined\nservices of several servants and guests, the latter were too drunk to assist\nmaterially. What happened in his room at a later hour, when he came to"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "92", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.24", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2424, "texte": "and raved for more whiskey has not been divulged. I imagine your guests\nwho returned to New York early this morning could supply most of the\nmissing details. Some of them Mr. Conover, were well paid for coming\nhere. The stuff in this flask, vile as it is, comes high.\"\nA change had come over Price Conover while the doctor was talking,\nand in an absent way turning the flask in his hands, a change that the\nmatter-of-fact physician was aware of only when he looked up at the\nconclusion of his remarks. Conover was standing very erect and in his\nlittle red-rimmed eyes was flame. The look that he gave the doctor drew\nthe latter from his chair with a faintly defensive elevation of the eyebrows\nas though he prepared himself to receive an affront.\n\"What is your fee for this visit?\"\nThat tone in Conover's voice was one well known and dreaded by the\nmen who under his furious authority fought with stone and steel and timber\nin the mighty battles whose monuments dotted lower New York and formed\nthe wall that was visible far out to sea.\n'fOf course, Mr. Conover,\" the suave voice replied, losing nothing of\nits gracious smoothness, T shall remain to do what I can to make the\nlast hours easier.\"\nConover's formidable glare fell upon him. The crash of it resounded\nin the doctor's sensitive imagination. Conover snatched a flat square book\nout of the litter of papers, opened it violently, and scrawled upon one of\nits pages. A jagged strip of paper flapped in his stubby hand. Keene took\nthe check and bowed.\nRelating the incident afterward at dinner in his club, he confessed\nthat as he walked by the squat bulk of Conover he, the eminent scientist,\nfelt a strange uneasiness and a contempt for the part he had played.\n\"How could I have imagined in that man, apparently all fleshy appetite,\nso vast a paternal feeling? The wonder to me was not that one wild] boy\nwas dying but that any one of the lot was alive after those three days\nof bestial drunkenness. What could one death matter in that house? But\nit did, tremendously, and I felt it as I turned my back on Conover.\"\nWhat the great physician did not know, because he did not turn to\nlook back as he left the room, was that as the door closed softly Price\nConover groped his way to the desk chair and crashed into it, for the\nmoment as sick and limp as any young mother whose baby strangled with\nthe croup. And there he sat, his huge head resting heavily on the hands"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "93", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.25", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2395, "texte": "that sprawled upon the desk, when again the door opened and Mrs. Conover\nentered.\nA tall grenadier of a woman, the plumes in her hat arching over like\nthe top boughs of an elm tree, she peered into the deepening dusk of the\nroom for a moment before turning loose a volley of words whose heat was\nsomewhat converted to pleasant uses by the spicy richness of her deep\ncontralto.\n\"Price, are you there?\"\nAnd receiving, after an impatient pause, but a low hostile grunt, she\ncontinued in her customary manner of indulgent scolding:\n\"What is this they tell me of the boy? What have you all been up\nto while I have been working like a dog up town getting the house ready\nfor the wedding breakfast? A man's drinking himself silly just before he\nsettles down to a regular life may be according to masculine custom though\nI don't pretend to understand why, but you're his father and you owe\nsome consideration to me. I told you to have him sobered up twenty four\nhours before the ceremony, and here you've let him develop a fine case of\ntremens with only one night to straighten him out in. I've been up and\ndown stairs for three days, running a small army of servants, answering the\nphone at least ten times an hour, and here you cook up a nasty scandal\nfor me to wade into when I get home!\"\nThe snapping on of the desk lamp struck a period into Maud Conover's\ntirade. Her first impression of the face that was lifted into the circle of\nlight chilled the full ruddy stream in her veins. She came forward and\nleaned her tall abundant figure over the desk. What she saw was a mass\nof sagging flesh without human expression except for the glint of some\nmad red fire in the little bloodshot eyes. It was this fire that made her\nsuddenly go cold all over.\n\"Why, Price, you old fool,\" she presently resumed in padded tones,\n\"I never saw you so upset over a little matter of tremens. Why, bless you,\nhe's had them before, and I suppose he'll have them again so long as the\nammunition lasts unless his wife is a better mother to him than I have been.\"\nIn the interval, muffled by the thick walls between them and the room\nabove, came a hollow cry, and the image the sound evoked was that of\na starving wolf alone in the bitter night. Maud Conover stiffened and her\neyes roved frightfully to the ceiling as though she would penetrate its\ndensity. Then with a movement, that was not perceptibly broken into stages"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.26", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2471, "texte": "of progress she had turned and was out of the room and her steps could\nbe heard charging up the stairs.\nHer husband clambered awkwardly to his feet and went out into the\nhall. A few of the guests who conventionally remained, partly not to miss\na single sordid detail of the story that would he received with such a relish by\nthe other buzzards of their set, turned their pasty faces to their host. One\ncame toward him. This was Hillyard, his partner and friend. But before\nthe latter could utter the word of consolation that was indicated by the\nexpression in his eyes, a door above was opened and the cries of Mrs. Conover\narose proclaiming her terror.\nThe effect on her husband was precisely what Hillyard had seen many\ntimes when a shaking foreman burst into the construction shed bearing some\ntragic report. Conover squared his ponderous shoulders with the movement\nof a swimmer breasting the surf; his two fists formed themselves into for-\nmidable mallets. Although none of the apathetic guests stood within six\nfeet of him they gave ground instantly and Hillyard's friendly hand was\nthrown aside.\nffYou're all against me!\" snarled Conover, venting even upon his friend\nthe vehemence of his words, \"All my life I have stood alone. I have won\nmy battles single-handed. This is the first danger I have ever faced when\nI felt the need of some one with the guts to stand up beside me and swap\nblows with death, and there's not one of you who can put up his hands.\nI turned the doctors out because they'd no fight in them. If you were not\nmy guests I'd turn you out after them. So I'm going myself. Stand out of\nthe way, Hillyard!\"\nA silence fell upon them all, even upon Mrs. Conover who was poised\nat the head of the stairs. The guests exhibited the foolish dismay of an\naudience which has unexpectedly been dragged into participation in a drama\nwithin a drama.\nHillyard who had taken a position between Conover and the outside\ndoor voiced the general deprecation of the charge launched against them.\nConover's answer was to wrap himself in his fur-lined coat, crowd a soft\nhat down over his eyes, and then to face his friend with a determination\nominous of instant action. Hillyard knew his partner too well not to prepare\nhimself to move out of the path, but as he shifted his feet he asked:\n\"Where are you going, Price?\"\nConover's eyes narrowed. \"I'm going to look for a man who believes\nthe boy has got a chance. I don't care if he is a doctor or a butcher. If he's"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.27", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2114, "texte": "a human being whose blood runs warm, and he'll give me his fist and say,\n'take this, it's yours, Conover,' I'll hand my case to him and trust him to\nfight it out with me. Your eyes are telling me I'm a crazy fool, Hillyard.\nIf the boy dies I shall be. And I leave you one more word: if you see me\ncoming back alone with my head down, you'd better all get out by the\nback door.\"\nWith these words Conover did not linger even for his wife who now\ncame hurrying down the stairs.\n\"Don't go, Price!\" she sobbed, \"Dont leave me alone with him.\"\n\"I'm staying with you, Maud,\" said Hillyard, \"I'll help you.\"\nHe met her at the foot of the stairs as the door crashed behind Conover,\nand his arms were all that kept her from falling face forward on the floor.\nDr. Talbot, the one local physician, had just come in from a fifteen\nmile excursion up into the hills. He was now stretched out in the low\nrocker, his coat off and vest unbuttoned, his red hands resting on the smooth\nwalnut arms. His generous mouth sagged restfully having been all day\ntightly compressed in resistance to the stinging snow which had begun to\nfall that noon. The open door of the air-tight stove exhaled a blissful\nstream of heated air and the good doctor puffed gratefully from his tired\nlungs. The bustling feet and hands of his wife in the next room were\nproducing sounds that heralded the hearty supper that his being comfortably\ncraved, the experience of twenty three years assuring him that it would be\npromptly served.\nf'Don't you want the lamp lit, Sam? Your paper's come,\" she called\nto him with her customary eagerness to translate every human condition\ninto terms of action,\nffNo hurry, Alice, it's nice enough as it is. My eyes are tired from\nthe snow,\" he rejoined lazily.\nBut while he drawled reply her pattering steps were heard going down\nthe hall and presently the front door was opened. Long enough to stimulate\nhis blood unpleasantly, causing him to wrinkle his brow and to stir in his\nchair, the door stood open, letting in a cold stream of air. Then it shut\nslowly and Alice entering spread the paper on a chair before the fire."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "96", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.28", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2447, "texte": "\"It's damp from the snow. It's going to turn to rain, I guess,\" she\nobserved. For an instant she stood before him as though weighing\nexpedients for quickening his being. If he had been a pillow she would\nhave snatched him up and thumped him into shape. But relinquishing\nthis fantastic whim she sighed, saying:\n\"There was someone stopping at the gate, Sam. It looked like\nMr. Conover. His shape ain't the kind you can mistake even in this light.\nYou don't suppose he was thinking of asking you to look at his son, do you?\"\n\"I hope not. I'm not bidding for Conover's trade. Not that I wouldn't\ngo if he asked me. But he won't. He had three or four big specialists down\nfrom New York today and pitched them all out, I hear. He's a rough one.\"\nHis wife sniffed. \"I should say he was. Still I think he might have\nasked you. Of course I shouldn't want you to go. It would be against the\nLord's will to help save that boy from the consequences of his sin. I expect\nhis father paid those city doctors a sight of money.\"\nffl guess he did,\" replied her husband.\n\"Well, I'll have supper ready in a minute.\" She was halfway to the\nhall when she paused to say over her shoulder, \"They ran those tramps\nover the town line, didn't they?\"\n\"Huh?\" Talbot ejaculated out of a thick doze. \"Oh, yes, the wobblies.\nYes, I thought it was kind of tough, they weren't doing any particular harm.\"\n\"Harm!\" Mrs. Talbot turned and stood righteously rigid, \"if you\ndon't call preaching to young folks to turn against the gov'ment and preten-\nding to cure sick folks, harm, then you got no business to be on the school\ncommittee, Sam Talbot. Sarah Cole says this 'Brother Simon' is as dirty\nas a pig. She says you could smell them all.\"\n\"Yes, I saw him,\" the doctor yawned, \"Ben Higbie told him he'd give\nhim a comb and a cake of soap if he'd take the rheumatism out of his little\ntoe.\" Sam laughed gently. \"But the fellow made a good answer. He told\nBen that was the right spirit, to give the thing he needed most. It's funny,\nthough. He laid his hands on Annie Marks and her mother said she stopped\ncoughing right away. That was one on me because I couldn't do it with\nmedicine. I'd like to see more of the man. If the selectmen hadn't been\nso much in a hurry I'd have asked him up to dinner. He looked as if he\nwanted a square meal.\"\n\"I guess you wouldn't do nothing of the kind,\" retorted his wife,\n\"you're too easy with that sort, Sam. Dinner! not while I cook your meals,"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "97", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.29", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1935, "texte": "you wouldn't. I wonder where they'll go to now. It's a pretty mean night.\nWell, land's sake, you must be nearly starving. I'll put the supper on in just\na minute.\"\nThere was no further sound but the bustling of distant feet and the\nrustle of settling coals. Sam Talbot's breathing rasped like a rusty saw on\na frosty morning.\nPeters, the garage man, possessed a voice as resonant as an elephant's\ntrumpet. His little office was on the sidewalk at the front of his garage.\nThe drawn shade was a deep orange from the light inside. Even through\nthe closed and frostpainted window you could hear his every word as you\npassed by.\n\"Never made a bit of a fuss,\" he was saying, \"listened to Timmy stutter\nthe warrant and went off dragging their cart. The fellow they call 'Brother\nSimon' stayed inside, never even peeked out as they went off down the road.\nOnly two had overcoats.\"\nBen Higbie's voice was shrill and carried almost as clearly through\nthe glass as Peters'.\n\"Did you hear what I said to the fakir? Said if they could cure\nConover's son of drinking whiskey they could make a barrel of money.\nWa'nt that a good tip? This 'Simon' never cracked a smile. Said what\nthe Lord wanted him to do He would send to him.\"\nThere was a flat silence in place of the laughter that Ben Higbie\nseemed to expect for presently he continued and in his tone was a trace\nof asperity.\n\"Cured Annie Marks,\" he snarled, \"mother claimed she had consump-\ntion. But I happen to know she caught cold two months ago lying out in\nthe snow with 'Nigger' Blake'.\" He paused and this time some one laughed\nfoolishly. \"I'll bet a dollar she'll be coughing harder than ever in the\nmorning.\"\nThe jangle of voices died away on the ears of a squatty person bundled\nin a huge fur-lined coat as he crunched off over the frozen snow.\nIt was as Mrs. Talbot had predicted. At about ten o'clock that night\nthere could be no doubt that the moisture stinging one's cheeks was no"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "98", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.30", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2719, "texte": "longer snowflakes but the drops of a cold rain. But after being out a certain\ntime one's face became numb and then one minded less whether snow or\nrain was falling, especially when one had some grave matter to think about.\nClose into town the road was wide and here the ruts crossed and criss-crossed\nas the farm wagons had diverged from the rural roads, while farther out\ninto the country the road was narrow and there were just two deep wheel\ntracks. Added to this fact that the night was unrelieved by moon or star\nand that the scattered houses stood too far back to shed a portion of their\ninner glow upon the way, there was enough to discourage one from ven-\nturing on the shortest errand from the house, even so far as to the barn\nor woodshed.\nThe town line crossed the road nearly four miles from the Conover\nmansion. Had there been an actual line it would have been blotted out by\nthe waste increment of snow, and it was only in an effort to regain his\nbalance that Price Conover stumbled upon the small granite post — lettered\n\"W\" on one side and \"N\" on the other — which was swollen into a white\nhump by the roadside. He shook the wet snow from his sleeves, and some-\nwhat to his surprise checking the oaths that bubbled to his lips, looked\nanxiously about him. At first he saw nothing but the unbroken gloom and\nthen some distance off to his right he made out a faint orange reflection\non the slope. To this evidence of the nearness of what he sought was\npresently added the companionable click of a typewriter. His imagination\nthus assisted he imaged the dark outline of a barn faintly projected on the\nsky. Dragging his feet out of the half-frozen snow he set off in the direction\nfrom which the sounds came.\nFour men by their grave absorption in secretarial labors had created\nin one corner of the abandoned barn the aspect and atmosphere of a business\noffice. A lantern with a yellowed glass chimney hung on a nail over their\nheads and tinged with a fiction of warmth their hollowed cheeks. Their\nsolemnity was that of starved children feebly asserting their given right to\nplay who, however unequal the adverse odds, yet radiate in some esoteric\nmanner a quiet glow of happiness indicative of faith. So deeply engaged\nwere these men that Conover's shuffling steps attracted no attention, and\nthe dozen or more others who lay crumpled in the moulding hay slept on.\n\"Today 'Brother Simon' preached to a group of men working on the\nroad and a few children on their way to school. The Master picked up one\nof the children and held him on His shoulder, saying, 'You and I know where\nto find God, don't we, kiddie?' The child smiled and fingered the brass\nring in the Master's ear. The Master gave it to him.\""}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "99", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.31", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2360, "texte": "The one who stroked the typewriter glanced up. \"What do you think\nabout our going through Newtown in the morning, Tom?\"\nThe other levelled an accusing look from his black eyes upon the man\nat the machine. \"You mean, fßed', that you're afraid they'll make good\ntheir threat? This jail business is getting on your nerves, isn't it?\"\nHis companion observed a patient silence and lowered his head in\nsubmission to perpetual misunderstanding. \"It's not for myself, Tom, and\nyou know it,\"he replied doggedly.\n\"Well, the Master has no fear. He's got us out of jails before just by\nletting His light shine. Prison walls are His dish.\"\nA muffled exclamation from the hay startled the four men. They shot\npointed glances toward the open door and saw the black bulk of a stranger\nwhose unsteady movements had led him to prod one of the sleepers with\nhis foot. Something in the massive stolidity of the man conveyed authority,\nand the man called \"Red\" rose to his slender height and curved his arm\ndefensively about the carriage of the typewriter. His stronger brother ad-\nvanced a step thrusting out his lean jaw menacingty, while one of the two\nothers flung a sweeping glance over the sleepers as though he thought of\nrallying the little army; the fourth man ranged himself beside Tom. For\na moment there was tense silence; on one side it was the panting desperation\nof the hunted, on the other the unspoken appeal of a statue in which was\nkindled the spark of a desire to become human. Then Gonover coughed\nand cleared his throat.\n\"I came to see —\" he croaked, and coughed again. A violent shudder\nshook his pompous frame. \"I came from Winsted. I walked. I heard that\n— I came about a boy —\"\nA rustle of relief passed from one to the other of the four, and a soft\nconfusion of clicking sounds stirred the raw air of the barn as \"Red\" dropped\nback upon his box letting his open palm fall upon the keys of the machine.\nFrom one corner of Tom's mouth a pained smile started and ran jaggedly\nup to the other corner.\n\"That's a fine coat you're wearing,\" he said, \"It cost, I guess, about\n1200 dollars. I used to take that kind out of the stores and get away with\nit. You don't need us.\"\nConover dropped his eyes and scanned the broad thick collar as though\nhe saw it for the first time. With the back of his hand he wiped away the\nfringe of ice that hung from his eyelashes."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "100", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.32", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2132, "texte": "\"You don't mean —\" he said, looking up into Tom's forbidding black\neyes, \"that —?\"\n\"My meaning,\" pursued Tom relentlessly, \"is in the eighteenth chapter\nof St. Luke, twenty-second verse. When you've licked that up you've got\nthe first lesson of your education. fSell all that thou hast, and distribute\nunto the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.' You and your\nkind have run us out of town after town and given us no shelter but your\njails. It's up to you to suffer the way we have.\"\nThe man, \"Red\", had crept close to his leader's side and now laid\na hand upon his ragged sleeve. The look that Tom flashed upon his gentler\nfellow carried rebuke, but \"Red\" did not flinch.\n\"Look at him, Tom. Don't you see he's cold and wretched? The man\nhas come a long way on foot, Tom, and he isn't used to this kind of\nweather as we are. He's done his bit, surely. Perhaps if the Master just\ntouched him —\"\nThe words appeared to touch a spot in Tom that he strove to guard\nfor he turned upon his friend with a hot flush of anger that warmed\nhis wasted cheeks. \"He isn't worthy, 'Red', to have the Master waked for\nhim. You go back to your typewriter!\"\nBut it was Tom's look that wavered to one side after a brief period\nin which the two men challenged one another and \"Red\" stepping into the\ndusk that lay about the small circle of lantern light presently returned\nbearing a small armful of hay. This he heaped upon the floor beside\nGonover, saying:\n\"You'll find some warmth in that, sir, if you wrap it about you. You'll\nhave to wait a moment. I won't be long,\" and he went quickly out of\nthe barn.\nTom, muttering dissent, took the box vacated by his companion, while\nthe other two looked down at his face with curious expressions of sympathy.\nGonover remained standing, his face partly turned to the black space of the\nnight outlined by the doorway. Then he looked again to the seated figure\nof his inquisitor.\n\"You don't believe what I say?\" he asked.\n\"I don't believe any man that has no belief in him,\" replied Tom\nsullenly. \"Why didn't you take the chance you had down in Winsted?\nAfraid of what the town would say, weren't you?\""}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "101", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.33", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2220, "texte": "\"The town? Hell!\" growled Conover, with an outburst of his habitual\ncontempt for his fellow man, \"No! I don't know a soul in it. I don't\nknow what goes on there. I live in my own house and mind my business.\nI guess,\" he went 011 more humbly, \"I'm as homeless and disliked in that\ntown as you are.\"\nThe other's chin was brought up with a jerk and his cold eyes ran\nthrough Conover like the freezing dampness of the night.\n\"So you're the man, are you?\" he said, \"I know you now. Some smart\nfool put us on to you, the man who feeds his son strong drink. Well, you've\ncome to the wrong doctor.\"\n\"We all make mistakes,\" began Conover weakly but stopped, feeling\nthat no answer was coming from the man whose face was turned away as\nthough denying the temptation of his softer impulses. Conover shifted his\nfeet so that he faced the door but failing in the courage to bear his problem\nalone into the night he wheeled and raised his clenched fists above his head.\n\"If the man you call your 'Master' isn't twice the man you are then\nI've come for nothing!\" he roared and ramped like a goaded bull, \"I don't\nask him for a thing but to give me his fist, and — Say, do you fellows let\nthis man speak for the lot of you?\" And his little red eyes roved from one\nto the other of the dim figures settled in the straw, some of whom were\nnow awake and blinking drowsily.\n\"Aw, go lie down with yourself! You're drunk,\" grumbled one from\nout the dusk.\nIt was \"Red\" who stilled the tempest of passion that possessed the\ndesperate man. \"He'll see you, sir,\" he whispered, \"He wasn't asleep, He\nwas praying, and He heard you, sir, and asked if you would come to Him.\"\nThe little cart stood out in the yard, its wheels frozen into the thicken-\ning crust. In the tipsy light of the lantern that swung in \"Red's\" hand the\ncart appeared like some useless thing deserted by its owner years ago.\nConover, overstrained more by the high tension of a mind unused to\nimaginative adventure than by the physical fatigue of his excursion, felt\na rising quiver of irritability, and heard the voice of his practical self pro-\nclaiming him a fool. Almost in disgust his sullen eyes surveyed the pre-\nposterous cart canting away from him on the rough hillside."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "102", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.34", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2409, "texte": "'He's a little peculiar this time of night,\" said \"Red\" softly, as they\nhalted at the foot of the steps that ran up from the ground to the level\nof the cart floor. He might have been referring to some caged animal\nof rare breed, except that a note of tenderness in his voice implied that it\nwas a poor sick child who was within the cramped interior.\n\"It is His time for calling up the power for His day's work and\nordinarily we wouldn't think of bothering Him. It's not that He's asleep.\nWe don't think He often sleeps. He likes to have one of us stay up with\nHim outside, all night long, listening. Sometimes He wants to talk. Other\ntimes He never makes a sound. I hope you'll be patient, sir, if you have\nto wait for what you want.\"\nfrOh, let me go in and have it over,\" Conover interrupted harshly,\nsetting one foot on the lower step and putting forth one hand in resistance\nto any protest that his guide might have made. But the other only stepped\nrespectfully to one side as Conover's weight upon the step cracked with\na sharp report the ice that bound one wheel.\nThe first sensation he experienced as he felt his way inside and\ncrouched near the door was of the astonishing warmth in the place. The\nunexpectedness of this sensation startled him nor could he distinguish any\ngleam of fire that would account for it. As the light from the lantern wavered\noff toward the barn and the dead weight of the night shut down upon him\nGonover had need to muster all his courage to keep from crying out his fear.\nA door of steel had silently been shut and locked between him and the\nfreedom of the cold earth, and about him stretched the infinite territory of\nthe unknown, and, to his mind, the ever unknowable. Only a brute tenacity\nof courage sustained him and a habit of sticking to his course no matter\nwhat the odds against him.\nAnd as he persisted in his vigil the fear subsided. The grateful warmth\nloosened the fluid substance in the frozen channels of memory and suddenly\nhe thought of his son and welcomed the thought that seemed to have returned\nfrom a long journey. Then together with this memory his mind leaped\nforward in long waves of speculation into the future where there were\nshining stars that became worlds of hope as progress brought them nearer.\nSoon Conover had forgotten that he was waiting for anything in parti-\ncular. He forgot that there was a future distinct from the present and even"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "103", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.35", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2246, "texte": "that the past was past. This did not seem at all remarkable but natural.\nIt was natural too that the wall of darkness expanded tremendously and\nbroke and that it was a morning in spring, a curved blue morning, and\nthat the earth was a sphere within a sphere of light. The earth was his\nson and he was the light running up and down the years of his son's life\nlike a child playing on a flight of stairs. Then the light fled with a sigh\nand hid in the dark corner of a room and spoke to him.\nThe sound of the voice split Price Gonover evenly into two parts. One\npart stood upright but ashamed and trembling; the other part crouched\nand braced itself to fight. The latter was himself, that he knew; the other\nhe did not know. Over in the dark corner lay Price, his son. The upright\nself tried to cross the step or two between them but the crouching one\ndragged at the ankles of the other and held him back. There was some\none with Price who soothed him with measured words.\nThe words also had a strength that steadied the upright self of the\nfather until like a childlike thing he dared to take a step. As he went\nforward that crouching thing behind him gave up the struggle and, as though\ndiscouraged, slipped out of the cramped space, down to the frozen ground,\nand off into the night. Again he felt the crust break beneath his feet. He\nslid and stumbled in a rut. The branches of the trees grew sharp and black\nagainst the paling sky.\nBut the upright self of the man, now straight and tall, stood looking\ndown upon the face of his son and upon the composed features of the youth\nplayed the light that had fled into the corner with a sigh. The light shone\nfrom the eyes of a man who said: \"Except ye see signs and wonders, ye\nwill not believe.\"\nThen these eyes were turned up to the shamed face of the father\nand the worn face of the man they called \"The Master\" became young\nwith tenderness.\nffGo thy way, thy son liveth.\" And it was with these words in his\nears that the door of his house was opened, and Hillyard said: ffl thought\nthat you were not alone, Price, and I know that you walked with your\nhead up.\"\nThe raw whiskey warmed his blood and cleared the confusion in his\nbrain. The logs blazing on the hearth became real things to him. The"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "104", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.36", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2372, "texte": "face of his wife was real to him as she looked, frowning anxiously over\nthe edge of her glass, and smiled a strained smile as his eyes met hers.\n\"It's all right, Price,\" she said, nodding her head, and under his\nsombre gaze the fear ebbed from her eyes, and she caught her breath with\na sob. The stuff in his glass suddenly filled him with a sick distaste.\n\"Where the Hell did I get this?\" he growled, looking down on the\nbrown fluid that seemed to him to gleam mockingly back at him.\nMaud laughed shrilly. Her laugh had a thinness in unexpected con-\ntrast to her rich speaking voice.\n\"Don't you know your own brand? Well, that's pretty good. If I\nwere you, Price, I'd get to bed. Here, some of you boys help him upstairs\nand off with his clothes. Look at that coat, will you, all ice when he came\nin and now it's dripping water by the bucketfull.\"\nGonover's comment was to pick up his glass and fling it into the fire.\nThere was a muffled crash, a hiss that was like a cat spitting, and in the\nheart of the roaring logs sprang a transparent blue flame. Conover staggered\nto his feet and glowered upon them all.\n\"What are you all sitting there grinning at me for? Why don't you\ntell me what I want to know? Where's my son?\"\nThere was a panicky movement amongst the pallid guests and the\nsudden stir disclosed another man who sat slouched in a morris chair\nwhich was drawn close beside the fire. A suggestion of youth dwelt some-\nwhere in him but his face was soft and swollen like Gonover's and his\nflesh sagged. As the firelight struck upon it, he started spasmodically and\nhis eyes opened on the massive bulk of Price Gonover who tiptoed toward\nhim. The latter came to an abrupt halt as the dulled eyes of the other\nfixed upon him. The young man laughed.\n\"Oh, so it's you, Dad. You're not going to hit me as hard as you\ndid night before last, are you? Say, you didn't think I drank any of that\nbootleg? That was Henry's flask. Honest, I never touched a drop of the\nstuff. It must have been the punch you landed on me that put me out.\nWhat do you say we shake, Dad?\"\nPrice Conover, the elder, sneered.\n\"I suppose I didn't tramp about ten miles in the snow last night,\neither; and talk rot with a bunch of crazy fanatics up there in the woods?\nWell, some one can get me another glass, and fill it, and we'll see who\ncan get the drunkest before noon.\"\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 37, "image_fin": 37, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Quirigua", "titre_sommaire": "Quirigua", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.37", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 25, "texte": "Altar, West Side\nQuirigua"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 38, "image_fin": 38, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Labna", "titre_sommaire": "Labna", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.38", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 38, "texte": "Palace: East Wing of Upper Range\nLabna"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "105", "page_fin": "107", "image_debut": 39, "image_fin": 41, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Pursuit", "titre_sommaire": "Pursuit", "signature_source": "Matthew Josephson", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "105", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.39", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1105, "texte": "PURSUIT\n\n\"O-hi! O-hel tous mes ennemis sorit deroutes\ntoutes les cigales et les petits millepieds\ns'en vont s'enfuient en chantant\nvers le bout de I'arc en del dans les champs \"\nI.\nI sang in the morning, having arisen, a song-bird, from my dream-\nless sleep amid the shadows of the abyss. The low sun full\nin the face set me off at a burning flight.\nI searched for her throughout the town, scanned all faces, sent\nemissaries everywhere. No one found her. No one knew her.\nHappiness lay firmly on my brows. I scarcely knew her. In the\nend she came to my table and, holding my hand, she said:\n— I have not slept all night. I have not slept all night, my friend,\nsaid she. Says he:\n— You have not slept, he says. Says he: you have not slept?\nHe says. Says he.\nII.\nLooking up between her two deadly arms I saw the mountains\nfloundering lustily around the valley.\n— I have never been able to endure the mountains embrace each\nother, I cried. The mist steamed up from their green arm-pits.\n— I shall never be alone. I am the white foam of the long cataract\nwhich from beginning to end is not the color of water."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "106", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.40", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1050, "texte": "Forgive me. This gesture of my hands was to crush yesterday\nthe bald head of the man which is the prow of a ship with\nwarts upon it. But from his ears the anchor falls twice about\nhis nose and it all leans forward with an incorrigible momen-\ntum.\nIII.\nHe followed me up the stairs and turned\nand stared,\ngave me a jellied smile from his wide\nmouth;\nand as I passed the door he rolled his eyes,\nhe flung an invitation from his pencilled\neyes —\nDefamation! Indecorum! Iniquitous\nReprehensible Mr. Excrement!\nwhile I looked pensively down and by his\nAlpine costume sawT the bare and\ndimpled knees peeping out.\nHa-ha, he shrilly. Ho-ho, I roared him\nback.\nRibald libidinous lickerish Mr. Excrement!\nIt was at nightfall, my dear, a blood red evening, how I shudder\nat the horror of that dusk: the swallows flew screaming over\nthe roofs and the bats in and out so quick and low I shut my\neyes standing in the window of the old tower.\nIV.\nO Valkyries we are tumbling and trundling red-handedly along\nthe river on our way to the Pelleponesian Wars I suppose."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "107", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.41", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 661, "texte": "Little stop-at-every-eorner locomotive when o when have I\never deposed that I was subject to vertigo have I ever denied\nmy love of motion for its own sake as for instance the visible\nwind in the wheat fields?\nO wheels that do not turn. O wheels in the brain cease to turn.\nWhy don't they hurry I shall simply shriek to sit so stead-\nfastly before an inert landscape.\nO whizzing dynamo set spinning the vast wheelbelts of this world\nthe long rods in flight down the cool oiled cylinders.\nO heart O Vesuvius.\nO destroying speed of descent and escape.\nO sun omnipotent motor drive with infinite velocity the solar orbs\nin accelerated dispersion.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "108", "page_fin": "111", "image_debut": 42, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "Nigger", "titre_sommaire": "Nigger", "signature_source": "Margaret Evans", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "108", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.42", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1958, "texte": "NIGGER\n\nSunday is God's day in Whitcomb, Indiana. The summer sun slaps\nheat upon it, presses down broad sheets of heat to lie on the flat fields of\ngoldening grain which fringe it. But Whitcomb, nerveless and tired, lies\non the prairie like a thing relaxed, empty of troubles for a time under the\nsky of God and in his presence. A rhythmic silence, rising from its quietness,\nsoftly accents its mood of peace. Peace wraps Whitcomb and those who\nlive there, and draws them to a union with the peace of God.\nWayne Street lies resting in Whitcomb. Like a pavement flooring\na streak of sky, it stretches through Whitcomb between two rows of homes\nand shops: incurious, passive, glaringly white, it lies relaxed and silent.\nFour stores, out of the four blocks of shops which line it, are open on\nSunday; these are the three Drug Stores, and the fourth is Frank's Smoke\nHouse.\nInside Frank's Smoke House, up in the front around the soft drinks\nfountain, some men are standing in a ragged spread of tobacco smoke. The\nsmoke is a screen which shields an anger: anger like an impersonal force;\nanger maintaining the peace of Whitcomb; dynamic anger whirring; twisting\nthe current it generates from one mind to another in the torn smoke.\nCash Zeik, white-jacketed behind the fountain: \"Damn that nigger!\nDid you see him, Frame, when he asked for them cigarettes? I'm dinged\nif I'll wait on a nigger!\"\nFrame turned his gaze slowly from the window fronting Wayne\nStreet, and focused it on Cash Zeik. \"What's the nigger doing in our town?\"\nHis question drew a group of animated answers to it.\nffHe come in last evening, and Tomy Stevens seen him in the Restau-\nrant. Tomy rented him the room above the tailor shop. Tomy'd go to\nhell for the price of a drink.\"\n\"He told Tomy he was an expert mechanic and had worked in a garage\nin Chicago. Tomy says he went over to Jim's early this morning. Reckon\nhe wants to get a job there.\"\n\"But Jim'ud already went to Sunday school.\""}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.43", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2267, "texte": "\"He's one of them fresh niggers; he's got a look on 'im that makes\nyou want to get at 'im. .. . Dressed like a dude and thinks he's as\ngood as a white man.\"\nFrame leaned against the marble counter and looked leisurely at the\nmen who had answered him. He drawled his words; they came out flat\nand heavy and fell through the smoke. \"Well, we'll not have no niggers\nm this town. This is a town for white people, and nobody'll stand for\nhaving a nigger here. The place for niggers is down South where they\nbelong; ain't got no right coming up here and trying to mix in.\"\n,fI seen in a paper last week how they advertised for a lynching\nsomewhere in Georgia. They ain't so wild for 'em down there. Niggers\nought to have sense enough to go back to Africa where they belong.\"\nReminiscence took over the thoughts of two or three in the group.\n\"Say, Cash, do you remember that good-looking nigger girl that Andrews\nbrought with 'em for a nurse when they come up from Nashville to visit\nher father?\"\nGash Zeik, behind the fountain, grinned crookedly and winked. \"Say!\nShe was a peach! Helen Henry and the rest of her bunch brought her in\nhere for a Buffalo Sundae, and that nigger girl was the best looking one\nin the crowd. That was the first time I seen her.\" His sentence stopped\nitself with laughter. \"Oh, well, she was a girl, and she wasn't much of\na nigger, either; she was more than half white.\"\nThe words sank into short silence, while purpose entered the mood\nof the group: so strong it seemed to be a person itself, and stood, unseen\nbut unconsciously felt, in a corner near the soft drinks fountain. It stood,\nstaring quietly out into Wayne Street. . .\nThe sun strikes impotent on Whitcomb; tumbles limp on screens of\nleaves, which filter it gently through to fall in little dots and slashes on\nupper Wayne Street. Doors softly bang; girls softly move; from com-\nfortable porches hums the murmur of blended voices talking. Life swings\nslowly in rhythm with the leisurely peace of God.\nDown upper Wayne Street a man is walking. Like a pebble dropped\nin windless water, he moves, the center of ripples, down Wayne Street.\nLittle silent spreading ripples move out from his steps to silence the hum\nof the porches: and as he tramples on slices of sun down the sidewalk,"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "110", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.44", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1963, "texte": "a throng of disembodied stares come out from the houses to join him and\ngo along beside his consciousness.\nEyes clouded on a sultry present, he hurried down W'ayne Street.\nThe people he passed stared scornfully at the tall Negro, tailored, bronzed,\nwith sensitive mouth and rounded chin and eyes which carried a thought.\nIt stood back in his eyes and watched them; through the cloud of his\nfeelings it shaped itself full and hinted that color does not detrimentally\nstain the mind of a man.\nThe light from the Smoke House pushed through the windows to\nlighten a little the wet blackness of Wayne Street.\n\"Who'd of thought we'd have a rain after a day as fine as this?\nIt'll be bad for the wheat if it keeps on this hard.\" Frame leaned against\nthe marble counter and reasoned leisurely within the mold that held his\nthought.\nThe pungent odor of drying cloth numbed sense in the minds of\nthe men.\nGash Zeik, working with the fountain taps, looked up to ask: \"Nigger\nstill in town?\"\n\"Tomy said he seen him in the Restaurant at supper time.\"\n\"Say, is Jim going to give him a job?\"\nBill Henry said he thought maybe he would. He sort of kicks at\nthe idea of having a nigger around, but he's short on men since that\nWilliams quit.\"\n\"They ain't five decent men in town'll stand for it, if Bill knows\nwhat he's talking about and Jim gives him a job.\" Gash Zeik speeded the\ndynamo and the current flowed faster from mind to mind.\nFrame turned his gaze from the soaked blackness of Wayne Street\nand focused it on a memory he held. \"Remember that nigger they had in\nMilo three years back? The nigger come along with a circus and the town\nlooked good to him so he thought he'd stay. And a lot of men got together\nand wrote him a note saying he'd better beat it. And the poor fish took\nit over to Pete Grawton's Lunch Room and asked Pete did he think they\nmeant it; and Pete says yes. He was one of the ones that wrote it. But\nthe nigger tried to stay anyhow.\"\n\"Damned nigger!\""}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.45", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1142, "texte": "ffA crowd of 'em pulled him out a bed that night and dragged him\ndown to the river in his night shirt. And tarred him and stuck him onto\na pole and jounced him over the river with some ropes till he fell in.\nA nigger's like a cat—you can't kill 'em. This one run away from Milo\nin his night shirt.\"\nThe men laughed as though they saw him running. . . Then rigid\nsilence stiffened the room.\nffl seen the nigger going upstairs to his room about eight.\" Someone\nstuck words into stillness.\nFrame livened and loudened the pondering silence. \"We'll not have\nno niggers in this town! This is a town for white people and we'll not\nhave no niggers herel\"\nAnger whirring, destructive flowing, twisted the words in the smoke.\nFore-thinking, intending, it guided Frame out on to Wayne Street. Light\noutlined him there for an instant while the group shaped itself in the light-\npricked blackness. Purpose—so strong it seemed to be a person itself—came\nout to head the crowd, and they went purposefully away.\nWayne Street, after the heavy rain, lay incurious, passive, shining\nblack, stuck straight through the night that darkens Whitcomb.\n\nMargaret Evans"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "112", "page_fin": "120", "image_debut": 46, "image_fin": 54, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "Symposium : The Destruction of Tenochtitlan", "titre_sommaire": "Symposium : The Destruction of Tenochtitlan", "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": 46, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.46", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2286, "texte": "SYMPOSIUM\nTHE DESTRUCTION OF TENOCHTITLAN\n\nUpon the orchidean beauty of the new world the old rushed inevitably\nto revenge itself after the Italian's return. Such things occur in secret.\nThough men may be possessed by beauty while they work that is all they\nknow of it or of their own terrible hands; they do not fathom the forces\nwhich carry them. Spain cannot be blamed for the crassness of the\ndiscoverers. They moved out across the seas stirred by instincts, ancient\nbeyond thought as the depths they were crossing, which they obeyed under\nthe names of King or Christ or whatever it might be, while they watched\nthe recreative New unfolding itself miraculously before them, before them,\ndeafened and blinded. Steering beyond familiar horizons they were driven to\nseek perhaps self-justification for victorious wars against Arab and Moor; but\nthese things are the surface only. At the back, as it remains, it was the\nevil of the whole world; it was the perennial disappointment which follows,\nlike smoke, the bursting of ideas. It was the spirit of malice which underlies\nmen's lives and against which nothing offers resistance. And bitter as the\nthought may be that Tenochtitlan, the barbaric city, its people, its genius\nwherever found should have been crushed out because of the awkward\nnames men give their emptiness, yet it was no man's fault. It was the\nforce of the pack whom the dead drive. Cortez was neither malicious,\nstupid nor blind but a conqueror like other conquerors. Courageous almost\nbeyond precedent, tactful, resourceful in misfortune, he was a man of genius\nsuperbly suited to his task. What his hand touched went down in spite\nof him. He was one among the rest. Velasquez, the Cuban Governor\nwho sent him out, traitorously attacked him from the rear a week after-\nward. His own captains would have deserted him, so hard was he to\nfollow. But the entire enterprise lived for many years on the verge of\nbeing allowed to languish, ruin to succeed destruction, because of the\nfortuitous anger which blossomed so naively, so mysteriously in Fonseca,\nBishop of Burgos, President of the Council of the Indies. This the man,\nCortez' most powerful enemy, already so notorious for the spiteful male-\nvolence with which he thwarted the views of Columbus — a logic clearer"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.47", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2828, "texte": "had there been two Fonsecas instead of the one. After a rough voyage\nfrom Cuba, across the gulf, Gortez landed his small force safely before\nwhat is now Vera Cruz, near the native city of Cempoal. There lest his\nmen should desert him in view of the hardships which lay ahead, he had\nhis vessels beached, under pretext of their being no longer seaworthy, and\ndestroyed them.\nMontezuma immediately sent gifts, at the same time begging the\nSpaniard not to risk coming up into the back country: a gold necklace\nof seven pieces, set with many gems like small rubies, a hundred and\neighty-three emeralds and ten fine pearls, and hung with twenty seven\nlittle bells of gold. — Two wheels, one of gold like the sun and the other\nof silver with the image of the moon upon it, made of plates of those\nmetals, twenty-eight hands in circumference, with figures of animals and\nother things in bas relief, finished with great skill and ingenuity. — A\nheadpiece of wood and gold, adorned with gems, from which hung twenty\nfive little bells of gold and on it, instead of plume, a green bird with eyes,\nbeak and feet of gold. — Several shoes of the skin of deer, sewed with\ngold thread, the soles of which were made of blue and white stones of\na brilliant appearance. — A shield of wood and leather, with little bells\nhanging to it and covered with plates of gold, in the middle of which was\ncut the image of the god of war between four heads of a lion, a tiger, an\neagle and an owl represented alive with their hair and feathers. — Twenty\nfour curious and beautiful shields of gold, of feathers and very small pearls,\nand four of feathers and silver only. — Four fishes, two ducks and some\nother birds of molten gold. — A large mirror adorned with gold and many\nsmall. — Mitres and crowns of feathers and gold ornamented with\npearls and gems. — Several large plumes of beautiful feathers, fretted with\ngold and small pearls. — Several fans of gold and silver mixed together;\nothers of feathers only, of different forms and sizes. — A variety of cotton\nmantles, some all white, others chequered with white and black, or red,\ngreen, yellow and blue; on the outside rough like shaggy cloth and within\ndestitute of color and nap. — A number of underwaistcoats, handkerchiefs,\ncounterpanes, tapestries and carpets of cotton, the workmanship superior\nto the materials of which they were composed. — And books made of\ntablets with a smooth surface for writing which being joined might be\nfolded together or stretched out to a considerable length, \"the characters\ninscribed thereon resembling nothing so much as Egyptian hieroglyphics.\"\n— But Cortez was unwilling to turn back; rather these things whetted'\nhis appetite for the adventure. Without more ado he sent letters to his\nking advising him that having come to these lands to conquer them, in the"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.48", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2812, "texte": "royal name and that of the true church, he would forthwith proceed to take\nMontezuma, dead or alive, unless he should accept the faith and acknow-\nledge himself a subject to the Spanish throne.\nThe advance was like any similar military enterprise: it accomplished\nits purpose. Surmounting every difficulty Cortez went his way into the\ncountry past the quiet cempoalan maizefields, past the smoking summit\nof Popocatepetl until, after weeks of labor, he arrived upon the great lakes\nand the small cities in them adjoining Tenochtitlan itself. Montezuma\nseeing that there was nothing else for it, sent envoys accompanied by three\nhundred warriors, who met the Spaniard advancing on the lake road and\nthere welcomed him to the district with great ceremony and show of\nfriendliness. Noticeable among them was one young man of magnificent\nappearance who descended from his litter and walked to meet the Conqueror\nwhile his followers ran before him, picking up stones and other small\nobstructions which lay in his path. Cortez now passed over his first\ncauseway into one of the lesser lake cities, built of well-hewn stone sheer\nfrom the water. He was overcome with wonder. The houses were so\nexcellently put together, so well decorated with cloths and carven wood,\nso embellished with metalwork and other marks of a beautiful civilisation;\nthe people were so gracious; there were such gardens, such trees, such\nconservatories of flowers that nothing like it had ever been seen or imagined.\nAt the house where the Conqueror was entertained that day and night he\nespecially noted a pool built of stone into the clear waters of which stone\nsteps descended while round it were paven paths lined with sweet-smelling\nshrubs and plants and trees of all sorts. Also he noted the well stocked\nkitchen garden. The following day at noon he arrived at the end of\nhis journey.\nThere it lay! a city as large as Cordova or Seville, entirely within the\nlake two miles from the mainland: Tenochtitlan. Four avenues or entrances\nled to it all formed of artificial causeways. Along the most easterly of these,\nconstructed of great beams perfectly hewn and fitted together, and measuring\ntwo spears-lengths in width, the Christian advanced. Running in at one\nside of the city and out at the other this avenue constituted at the same\ntime its principal street. As Cortez drew nearer he saw, right and left,\nmagnificent houses and temples, close to the walls of which, each side,\nmoved parallel rows of priests in black robes and between them, supported\nby two attendants, Montezuma, on foot, down the center of the roadway.\nCortez stepped forward but the attendants interceded. The Emperor then\nadvanced alone and with great simpleness of manner placed a golden chain\nabout the Christian's neck. Then taking him by the hand, and the whole"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.49", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2883, "texte": "procession following, he conducted him to the quarters which had been\nchosen for the visitors, a great building close to the royal palaces in the\ncenter of the city. Everything had been prepared in advance: all the\nmaterial needs together with rich gifts, as before: precious metals, gems,\nmale and female apparel of remarkable elegance, ornamental hangings for\nbed-chambers, tapestries for halls and temples, counterpanes composed of\nfeathers interwoven with cotton and many beautiful and curious artifices\nffof so costly and unusual workmanship that considering their novelty\nand wonderful beauty no price could be set on them.\" Here in this large\nbuilding whose great hall was to serve the Spaniards for barracks from\nthat time until the end, Montezuma and Gortez found themselves seated\nat last face to face. Montezuma spoke: They have told you that I possess\nhouses with walls of gold and many other such things and that I am\na god or make myself one. The houses you see are of stone and lime and\nearth. — Then opening his robe: You see that I am composed of flesh\nand bone like yourselves and that I am mortal and palpable to the touch. —\nTo this smiling sally, so full of gentleness and amused irony, Cortez could\nreply nothing save to demand that the man declare himself a subject of the\nSpanish King forthwith and that, furthermore, he should then and there\nannounce publicly his allegiance to the new power. — Whatever the Aztec\nmight have felt during the weeks of Cortez' slow advance upon his capital\nfrom the seashore, nothing at the present moment seemed to disturb his\naristocratic reserve. He had thought and he had made up his mind.\nWithout semblance of anger, fear or impatience; without humility or protest\nbut with the force bred of a determination to face at any cost a situation\nfast going beyond his control, he spoke again. He explained that his people\nwere not the aborigines of the land but that they had emigrated there in\ntimes past and ended by accepting the Spanish Monarch as his rightful\nand hereditary master. After due announcements and explanations had\nbeen made to the people Gortez became the acknowledged regent, in the\nname of Castille and the true church, for all that country.\nStreets, public squares, markets, temples, palaces, the city spread its\ndark life upon the earth of a new world, rooted there, sensitive to its\nrichest beauty, but so completely removed from those foreign contacts\nwhich harden and protect, that at the very breath of conquest it vanished.\nThe whole world of its unique associations sank back into the ground to\nbe reenkindled, never. Never, at least, save in spirit; a spirit mysterious,\nconstructive, independant, puissant with natural wealth, light if it may be\nas feathers, a spirit lost in that soil. Scarcely an element in the city's\nincredible organization but evidenced an intellectual vigor full of resource"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.50", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2881, "texte": "and delicacy which had given it distinction. Half land and half water the\nstreets were navigated by canoes and bridged at the intersections by\nstructures of great timbers over which ten horses could go abreast. For\nwater supply a masonry pipe, two paces broad and five feet high, ran\nfrom the mainland over one of the great causeways, carrying excellent\ndrinking water. There were two such aqueducts, side by side, each to be\nused alternately while the other was cleaning. There were public squares,\nand one of great size surrounded by porticos where daily sixty thousand\nsouls engaged in buying and selling under the supervision of twelve central\nmagistrates and numbers of inspectors. Here f'everything which the world\naffords\" was offered for purchase, from the personal services of laborers\nand porters to the last refinements of bijouterie; gold, silver, lead, brass,\ncopper, tin; wrought and unwrought stone, bricks burnt and unburnt,\ntimber hewn and unhewn, of different sorts; game of every variety, fowls,\nquails, partridges, wild ducks, parrots, pigeons, reed-birds, sparrows, eagles,\nhawks, owls, likewise the skins of some birds of prey with their feathers,\nhead, beak and claws; rabbits, hares, deer and little dogs, wThich they\nraised for eating; wood and coals in abundance and brasiers of earthenware\nfor burning coals; mats of various kinds; all kinds of green vegetables,\nespecially onions, leeks, watercresses, nasturtium, sorrel, artichokes and\ngolden thistle; fruits, fish, honey, grain—either whole, in the form of flour\nor baked into loaves; different kinds of cotton thread of all colors; jars,\njugs, pots and an endless variety of vessels, all made of fine clay, most\nof them glazed and painted; eggs, cakes, pates of birds and fish; wine\nfrom the maguey; finally everything that could be found throughout the\nwhole country was sold there, each kind of merchandise in a separate street\nor quarter of the market assigned to it exclusively and thus the best order\nwas preserved. There was an herb street, there were shops where they\nshaved and washed the head, and restaurateurs who furnished food and\ndrink at a price.\nLarge numbers of temples existed throughout the great city but for\ngrandeur and excellence of architectural detail one far surpassed the rest.\nForty towers, lofty and well built, rose from within its sacred precinct,\nthe largest of which, constructed of hewn stone remarkably hard in texture,\nhad fifty steps leading to its main body. A mass higher than the cathedral\nof Seville. Three halls of wonderful extent and height, adorned with figures\nsculptured in wood and stone, contained the principal idols. And from\nthese, through very small doors, opened the chapels, to which no light was\nadmitted, nor any person except the priests, and not all of them. Decorated\nwith curious imagery in stone, the woodwork carved in relief and painted"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.51", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2904, "texte": "with figures of monsters and other things, unpaved, darkened and blood-\nstained, it was in these chapels that the religious practices which so shocked\nthe Christian were performed. Here it was that the tribe's deep feeling for\na reality that stems back into the permanence of remote origins had its\nfirmhold. It was the earthward thrust of their logic; blood and earth; the\nrealization of their primal and continuous identity with the ground itself,\nwhere everything is fixed in darkness. The priests in black robes, tribal\nmen, never cutting or combing the hair; the instinctive exclusion of\nwomen from all places of worship; the debarring of priests from\nfemale society: it was a ceremonial acknowledgment of the deep sexless\nurge of life itself, the hungry animal, underlying all other power; the\nmysterious secret of existence whose cruel beauty they, the living, inherited\nfrom the dead. The same for their sculpture. It is the mystery of the\npast which monsters, grotesques, beasts combined with the human, truly\nsignify; gentle animal associations distorted by the invasions of night; and\nnot a debased instinct whose reliance is necessarily upon oppression and\nfear. The earth is black and it is there: only art advances. The figures of\nthe idols themselves were of extra-human size and composed, significantly,\nof a paste of seeds and leguminous plants, commonly used for food, ground\nand mixed together and kneaded with human blood, the whole when\ncompleted being consecrated with a bath of blood from the heart of a living\nvictim. The chief of these idols Gortez precipitated from their pedestals\nand cast down the temple steps; an act of extraordinary daring; at the\nsame time purifying the chapels and setting up in them images of Our Lady\nand the saints. Such a stroke could not fail to have proved of the most\nserious consequence to all had not Montezuma again displayed his tact,\nself control and remarkable grasp of the changing situation. The new\nstate of affairs was accepted, human sacrifice was abolished and the orderly\nsignificance of the events taking place was publicly made evident. In\nperson, together with many of the principal citizens, he, Montezuma,\nassisted at the final purification of the chapels. Whether or not this be\nevidence on the Aztec's part of weakness or the deepest forbearance, surely\nnothing like it for quiet flexibility of temper and retained dignity has ever\nbeen recorded. Perhaps by a sudden, daring stroke this man might have\nrid himself of the intestine enemy who was each day, each week striking\ndeeper at the nation's life. Perhaps fear had unmanned him. Perhaps\nwhat we call forbearance was no more than the timidity which is an\noverwhelming agony of heart inspired by the sight of a resistless force\naimed at our destruction. Still, if this be so, Montezuma has left no trace\nof cowardice upon the records. But weakling or genius, about the suave"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.52", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2950, "texte": "personality of this barbaric chieftain the liveliest, most airily expansive\nmoods of the race did flower, just as the black permanence of tribal under-\nstanding stood rooted in the priesthood. Perhaps it was a conscious know-\nledge of this that inspired and moved Montezuma in the present action.\nSurely no other prince has lived, or will ever live, in such state as did\nthis American cacique. The whole waking aspirations of his people, opposed\nto and completing their religious sense, seemed to come off in him and\nin him alone: the drive upward, toward the sun and the stars. He was\nthe very person of their ornate dreams, so delicate, so prismatically colorful,\nso full of tinkling sounds and rhythms, so tireless of invention. Never was\nsuch a surface lifted above the isolate blackness of such profound savagery.\nIt is delightful to know that Montezuma changed his clothes four times\na day, donning four different suits, entirely new, which he never wore\nagain; that at meals he was served in a great cleans wept chamber on mats\nupon the floor, his food being kept warm in chafing dishes containing live\ncoals; that at meals he sat upon a small cushion \"curiously wrought of\nleather.\" But nowhere in his state was the stark power of beauty, the\nrefined and the barbaric, so exquisitely expressed as in his smaller palaces\nand places of amusement. \"What can be more wonderful than that a\nbarbarous monarch, as he is, should have every object in his domain imitated\nin gold, silver, precious stones and feathers; the gold and silver being\nwrought so naturally as not to be surpassed by any smith in the world;\nthe stone work executed with such perfection that it is difficult to conceive\nwhat instruments could have been used, and the feather work superior to\nthe finest productions in wax and embroidery.\" \"There is one palace,\ninferior to the rest, attached to which is a beautiful garden with balconies\nextending over it supported by marble columns and having a floor formed\nof jasper elegantly inlaid. Belonging to it are ten pools, in which are kept\nthe different species of water birds found in the country, all domesticated:\nfor the sea birds there are pools of salt water and for the river birds, fresh\nwater. Each species being supplied with the food natural to it when wild.\nOver the pools are corridors and galleries, to which Montezuma resorts,\nand from which he can look out and amuse himself with the sight of the\nbirds there.\" \"In an apartment of the same palace there are men, women\nand children whose faces, bodies, hair, eyebrows and eyelashes were white\nfrom birth.\" \"The Emperor has another very beautiful palace, with a large\ncourtyard, paved with handsome flags in the style of a chessboard. There\nare cages about nine feet in height and six paces square, each of which\nis half covered with a roof of tiles, and the other half has over it a wooden\ngrate, skillfully made. Every cage contains a bird of prey, of all species.\""}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.53", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2885, "texte": "\"In the same palace there are several large halls on the ground floor, filled\nwith immense cages built of heavy pieces of timber, well put together, in\nwhich are kept lions, wolves, foxes and a great variety of other animals\nof the cat kind.\" \"The care of these animals and birds is assigned to three\nhundred men.\" Daily the Emperor's wine cellar and larder were open\nto all who wished to eat and drink. His meals were served by three or four\nhundred youths who brought on an infinite variety of dishes; indeed\nwhenever he dined or supped, the table was loaded with every kind of fish,\nflesh, fruits and vegetables which the country afforded. Both at the\nbeginning and end of every meal they furnished water for the hands, and\nthe napkins used on these occasions were never employed a second time.\nAnd then the end: Gortez had demanded gold from the first. To\nsatisfy him, small groups of two Spaniards and two Indians, bearing the\nproper credentials, had been despatched about the Aztec's domain, to\ndistances in some cases of several hundred miles, that the tribute be\ncollected. On one of these forays the two Christians were killed. Gortez\nimmediately seized the person of Montezuma, together with his daughters\nand sons, imprisoning them in the garrison-fortress. From that time on\nit was merely a matter of detail and of time as to what form the final\ncatastrophe would take. Events shifted back and forth until in May, seven\nmonths after the Spaniards' first entrance to the city, the people laid siege\nto the intolerable intruders, determined to have done with them. In answer\nto shouts from outside, Montezuma, a prisoner within, had appeared on\nthe ramparts of the besieged fortress whence he implored his people to give\nover their attacks. In reply he was struck on the head by a stone which\nkilled him. Only the horse and the ordnance saved the Christians on that\nmemorable retreat across the great causeway. Fighting madly to escape\nwith some remnant of his forces through the masses of the enemy, and to\nretain at the same time his prisoners and treasure, Cortez lost everything.\nThe children of Montezuma, the gold, everything perished over the\nsides of the breached and beleaguered avenue across the lake down which\nihe Spaniards retreated, foot by foot, with swarms of Indians flinging\nthemselves continually upon them. They escaped. Some months later they\nreturned and continued the destruction, this time deliberately and with\ncalculated malintention. Tenochtitlan surrounded, the water supply cut off,\nthe augmented Spanish forces began to burrow forward and after weeks\nof desperate effort they succeeded in their plans. It was the horses the Indians\nfeared most. At one time they had Cortez in their very hands only to have\nthem cut off at the wrists by his followers. But nothing could bemuse\nthem now. They knew now what it all meant and they opposed themselves"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.54", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1790, "texte": "to the intruder inflexibly and without murmur until the end. Neither the\noverwhelming means used against them, their desertion by friends of the\nnearby tribes, the lack of water, starvation nor attempts to inspire them with\nfear, made the slightest impression. To every advance made inviting them\nto parley they had but the one answer: no! Gortez, dejected, seeing that\nit would be necessary to exterminate them before he could succeed in taking\nthe city and dreading the horror of such a course, decided with reluctance,\nin order to impress them, to burn the noble edifices in the great square which\nhad served Montezuma for aviarys. \"It grieved me much but it grieved\nthe enemy more.\" Each day he heard mass and returned to the city to\nrenew the attack upon the now nearly starved inhabitants who had retreated\nto the market quarter and there still held out. At one time during a success-\nful sally the Indians had killed two of the Spanish horses and in great spirits\nhad sent the severed heads by messengers in canoes to the surrounding\ntribes for them to come to the rescue, but none dared. Most had already\njoined the Christian in his irresistible purpose. But Guatemotzin, the young\nnephew of Montezuma, would not give in. Women and children reduced\nto the last extremity by hunger and privation were wandering dazed about\nthe streets when the Spaniards had made their final charge. But Guate-\nmotzin, taken captive from a boat in an effort to get to the mainland, still\nmaintained his pride and integrity of spirit. He had done all that he could\nand he was beaten. Placing his hand upon the hilt of Cortez* dagger he\nasked the Spaniard to draw it and plunge it into his heart. Cortez refused.\nLater the Conqueror tried to rebuild the city. Viva quien vence!\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c025", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c025", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 55, "image_fin": 55, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Kabah", "titre_sommaire": "Kabah", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.55", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 52, "texte": "Portion of the Facade Showing Simplified Masks\nKabah"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c026", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c026", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 56, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "Uxmal", "titre_sommaire": "Uxmal", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.56", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 25, "texte": "Sealed Portal Vault\nUxmal"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c027", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c027", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "121", "page_fin": "122", "image_debut": 57, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "Morning", "titre_sommaire": "Morning", "signature_source": "Kay Boyle", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.57", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 905, "texte": "MORNING\n\nMorning creeps in across his hair. The pallid fingers\nOf an old nun stroking a forehead.\nMorning curves and lingers\nOn the pillow, white as someone dead,\nOn blue even shadows where his head lay sleeping.\nHis eyes are new at daybreak,\nThe smooth wings of a new moth moving in sunlight\nOn full locust blossom. Eyes\nThat can be dull, old, sightwise,\nThings used too often, a long headache\nHolding no great promise. I say:\n\"The wind is blowing the gold curtain — see!\"\nI feel untarnished. The unembittered way\nA mood of laughter splashes, free.\nI am afraid\nThat I am loving things with pain:\nBlue mountains on the window-sill, the shade\nBurnt gold behind the gold hung curtain.\nThere is nothing quite so near\nAs eyes. I say:\n\"We have waited every year\nFor this when we awaken. Every day\nWill then hereafter be a repetition. Gold growing\nCopper as the mornings spread;\nA farmer sowing\nCorn, blood-red,"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.58", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 441, "texte": "In new-ploughed fields . . His eyes lift,\nShattering beauty on the naked floor;\nOnce more\nI remember things I bore of pain.\nAlways my life in his hand\nIn the sunlight, in the long hair of rain.\nI must rise . . . and not understand.\nHear footsteps across the sky, lightly, of someone running.\nI must sing, make breakfast without surprise,\nAs someone who sees danger coming,\nAnd cannot move,\nAnd lifts a hand to cover both his eyes.\n\nKay Boyle"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c029", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c029", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "123", "page_fin": "127", "image_debut": 59, "image_fin": 63, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.20", "titre_corps": "Fugitives", "titre_sommaire": "Fugitives", "signature_source": "Charles Galwey", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.59", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1479, "texte": "FUGITIVES\n\nThe vulgarized sea persists the symbol of futility confronted\nwith ironies.\nThe January German ship to Spain and Italy carried globe-\ntrotters. They tried to return home by escaping from it.\nThe old man and the old woman had money, which they\nused in running away from death. No cruelty in life had told\nthem the ugliness of old age running away.\nTheir youth had disbelieved in death. Old age was quaint-\nness color in vigorous pictures. Sometimes they shuddered —\nin pity of themselves. They then called this grief.\nDeath was real now.\nFrailness of the old woman, careful erectness of many years,\nshe trembled but marched to the captain's table, proud, gently\ndefiant. Intricacy shimmering perforations and scrolls of white\nlace partly under a shawl Roman violence in zones purple scarlet\ngreen over indrawing shrink of shoulders, copper shield from\nEgyptian tomb pinching too large folds to projections of bones\nbrittle — sequence of each night laces shawls strange jewels\npallid pleading wrinkles deep eyes sunk back to girlhood simple\nwords sophisticated travel the aptness of appraising idle steamer\nchairs not unkindly fastened to her \"Queen of Sheba\".\nNext at the table the old man \"Disraeli\". Elaboration of\nflowing tailoring close to the little body collars languid droop\ngreat black tie below prescience parchment of skin summoned\nfrom 1850 Drury Lane Grisi Bulwer Lytton young Victoria coni-\ncalness of swathed heavily dotted women punctiliousness of sen-\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.60", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1751, "texte": "timental men. Dye of drooping mustache over remaining canine\nteeth yellow. Red veins in eyes of flat bright light ochre at corners.\nPutrescence clutched at him and sent his courageous heart to\nrefuge in a pose a grotesque worldliness and innocent mischief.\nThe steamer rapidly repelled the meaningless deep threat\nof waves.\nA blindness imminence inexorable went on in it somewhere\nthe end of the two old people's flight.\nBlizzard sifting New York liberty statue shroud snow warmer\ndays sun Azores unexpectedly arose slowly sank down to tropic\nhaze the cataract wisps spilled from cliffs.\nBlue.\nThe Queen of Sheba bore irridescence faint coquetry remi-\nniscent light perfume insinuating. Woman's old age loses tragedy\nonly in vileness. Otherwise time unreckoned forgotten in child-\nbirth inconsequential whether realized or implicit yield latency\nof guessed glory to the old after impossibilities of many years.\nHer ship comrade, the old man she hated.\nReversion to feminine lure intensified fragility.\nYears do not exist for the old.\nThe captain had a red beard. Paunch beer bloated. Slit\nblue eyes remorselessly looked down table. Teutonic purulence\nand grossness of the gesture obliterating; the jest of death. He\nroared Rabelais.\nThe flat breasted bride and sales manager husband from cock-\nsure west and immensities forges automobiles hams advertising\nthey brought an efficient god awarding the immortality of youth\nalso of vulgarity.\nOpposite to captain the chief engineer integration of con-\ntempt no waver in steel face more than in steel glasses. He shone\nexactness aloofness caste polished engine mimicked gestures of\na man.\nThe cardinal returning to Rome touched all with a queer\nred flame. Woman's delicacy long hands nerves muscles raised."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.61", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1693, "texte": "Sensitive graciousness and unmoving courteous calm of certain\ntruth in dogma liturgy robes.\nThe priest commented the feminine sublimated over centuries\nages.\nSuperb sterility proud exalted birth significant above irre-\nlevant death.\nUnder heave of rust, black and red paint, splitting to upward\ncurves of foam seas coming to the steel wedge vibrating a forward\nplunge depths of maggot nest poverty swarmed up to sunlight.\nThe swarm held at the impassable barrier, the first cabin deck\nhouse under the high white bridge. Round ports of the house\nupon scarlet green purple of campagna smeared into filth. Or at\nnight from glitter silver napery white comfort gay flowers disks\nof black skies sifting inwards scraping of a cheap violin and waver\nof Sicilian Neapolitan song.\nThe cabin passengers liked hints of lower existence.\nThe old man and woman heard through the ports soft\ncrashes of seas a lulling implication of permanence poignant\nthrough treachery and falseness. A reminder of their money\nhelped to secure grasp of privilege and refuge from an indis-\ncriminate imminence.\nThey were safe from the irony of the poor too crowded in\nproximity for flight.\nUnheeding the impassable barrier white teeth dusky gaiety\nof Italy the laugh of a son returning with old parents from Coca\nCola bananas shiny apples oranges peanuts under glare of waver-\ning tin lamp and rattle of the ffL\". A showman at the center of\na careless universe shot into the voyage the reminder lurking in\na symbolic sea.\nThe boy's laugh stiffened to a grin and the old emigrants wept.\nInsufficiency of incandescent bulbs. The cardinal monsignore\nlace gold IHS a canvascovered coffin squared out on the main deck\nfrom shadows."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "126", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.62", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1709, "texte": "The captain impervious his silence holding Teutonic sneer at\nthe lewdness of death.\nA priest read Latin prayers, arches of the Vulgate sounded\nthrough Italianate accents.\nTawny close spun wrinkles of emigrant and old wife drew\ninto grimaces less grief than confidence, content. A scarlet car-\ndinal a monsignor nasal intoning unintelligible prayer a swift\nsudden glide through the open square port depths more depths\nslow descent the launching of the box they made a festival.\nDisraeli and the Queen of Sheba watched in the pale glare.\nIrony slid close they felt the chill and smiled.\nAndalusian dawn gleamed less tenuous than rose petal upon\ncloud piles purple heavy weightier than black.\nGibraltar drew to dimness snow of New York blues of seas\nAzores routine shipboard confused them made all timeless.\nAlgeciras, hills of violets clustering a perfume, shouts of dri-\nvers urging red and yellow ribbanded donkeys to white town.\nSilence.\nStopped beat of engineer's mysterious creatures hidden below\ncalm after endless break of seas.\nAnother German ship bulked in fluent tremble and the dawn\ninversions purple and rose in the bay.\nFlanked against its black, a lighter swung a derrick to an\nopen square port, the ropes caught a gray painted box, it loomed\nout into the sparkle, sun and sea.\nA quarrel and revolver shot in steerage from Italy. The Regio\nCommissario was returning home.\nThe lighter went to the other ship. The cardinal awaited with\nmonsignore the derrick's sullen lift of the gray box hung in air.\nThe captain's beard flamed from the bridge. The engineer was\nsteel. Disraeli and the Queen of Sheba stared quietly. Even yet\nthey could flee.\nArms linked comfortably the sales manager and his wife."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "127", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.63", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 434, "texte": "Lingering miles of alignment of cork woods, women in violet\ntwilight finding tortuous ways with fire burning sticks glare fading\nof moorish castles on granite cliffs, at last the steamer was shut out.\nIllusion lovableness calm certainty reiterated through ages\nSpain yet a persistence of figures seen from a canvas fenced com-\npanion way.\nFlight, unheeded ironies.\nWeird wrought gargoyles of the sea watching immobile.\n\nCharles Galwey"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c031", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c031", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "128", "page_fin": "128", "image_debut": 64, "image_fin": 64, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.21", "titre_corps": "Circle", "titre_sommaire": "Circle", "signature_source": "Elsa von Freitag-Loringhoven", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "128", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.64", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 164, "texte": "CIRCLE\nElsa von Freitag-Loringhoven\nWhere youth?\nNo find her.\nInstead\nFind\nWhat grew\nMyself.\nLonging?\nDeath hilarity\nSphinx\nInexorable.\nBehind\nSerpent\nI wait\nRound."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c033", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c033", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 65, "image_fin": 65, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.22", "titre_corps": "Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico", "titre_sommaire": "Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.65", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 52, "texte": "Terra Cotta Figurines\nHonduras, Guatemala and Mexico"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c034", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c034", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 66, "image_fin": 66, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.23", "titre_corps": "Stone Relief", "titre_sommaire": "Stone Relief", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.66", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 12, "texte": "Stone Relief"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c035", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c035", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "129", "page_fin": "129", "image_debut": 67, "image_fin": 67, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.24", "titre_corps": "The High Hat", "titre_sommaire": "The High Hat", "signature_source": "Louis Gilmore", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.67", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 190, "texte": "THE HIGH HAT\nLouis Gilmore\nThe tulips\nStick out their tongues\nAt me\nThey utter\nRed exclamations\nAs I pass\nI am indifferent\nI regard them\nIncuriously\nYet I hear\nVery well\nWhat they are saying"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c037", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c037", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "130", "page_fin": "130", "image_debut": 68, "image_fin": 68, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.25", "titre_corps": "Wear", "titre_sommaire": "Wear", "signature_source": "Gertrude Stein", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.68", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1343, "texte": "WEAR\nGertrude Stein\nNo not that and peculiarly, if you push the reason of being\nmiddle sized into the extreme little piece and you select actual\nendeavor, if you select actual endeavor, if you select, actual en-\ndeavor, the notion of religion, the notion of religion and peculiarly\nnotice and peculiarly notice restless walk, if you peculiarly notice\nrestless walk, if you peculiarly notice restless walk waiting, if\nyou sanction meaning, if you represent recognized meadow pieces,\nif you furnish kites and horses, if you regulate traffic, if you\nmention other causes, all this does prejudice one against respon-\nsibility and lectures, and lessons, it further notices mistakes.\nPoisons, Poisons are the means, minds are the means, old\nsuns are the means, besides are the means. It is nugatory.\nFishes. Fishes are the means.\nDid the war make you dash right in.\nOr series. I did not guess why the expected elongated angle\nmade a particular shadow speck. I expect it did.\nI asked them about wash. They said washing. I cannot\nthink that we can be unauthorized.\nShe went away and said that if I would not ask why there\nwas a weeding of plain little pulled dahlias, she would not offer\nto cook.\nHe used to borrow a bicycle.\nIt isn't of much account anyhow. It was an enormous in-\njustice. Excellent specimen. Reasonable readiness. All parti-\nculars."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c038", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c038", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "131", "page_fin": "132", "image_debut": 69, "image_fin": 70, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.26", "titre_corps": "The Springs of Guilty Song", "titre_sommaire": "The Springs of Guilty Song", "signature_source": "Hart Crane", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.69", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 779, "texte": "THE SPRINGS OF GUILTY SONG\n\nBrazen hypnotics glitter here;\nGlee shifts from foot to foot,\nMagnetic to their tremulo.\nThis crashing opera bouffe,\nBlest excursion! this ricochet\nFrom roof to roof —\nKnow, Olympians, we are breathless\nWhile nigger cupids scour the stars!\nA thousand light shrugs balance us\nThrough snarling hails of melody.\nWhite shadows slip across the floor\nSplayed like cards from a loose hand\nRhythmic ellipses lead into canters\nUntil somewhere a rooster banters.\nGreet naively — yet intrepidly\nNew soothings, new amazements\nThat cornets introduce at every turn\nAnd you may fall downstairs with me\nWith perfect grace and equanimity:\nOr, plaintively scud past shores\nWhere, by strange harmonic laws\nAll relatives, serene and cool,\nSit rocked in patent arm chairs."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.70", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 549, "texte": "O, I have known metallic paradises\nWhere cuckoos clucked to finches\nAbove the deft catastrophes of drums;\nWhile titters hailed the groans of death\nBeneath gyrating awnings I have seen\nThe incunabula of the divine grotesque.\nThis music has a reassuring way.\nThe siren of the springs of guilty song —\nLet us take her on the incandescent wax\nStriated with nuances, nervosities\nThat we are heir to: she is still so young.\nWe cannot frown upon her as she smiles,\nDipping here in this cultivated storm\nAmong slim skaters of the gardened skies.\n\nHart Crane"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c040", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c040", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "133", "page_fin": "135", "image_debut": 71, "image_fin": 73, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.27", "titre_corps": "Hymen", "titre_sommaire": "Hymen", "signature_source": "Marianne Moore", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "133", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.71", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1651, "texte": "HYMEN\n\nDr. Mahaffy says in his essay ffThe Principles of the Art of Con-\nversation,\" that artificiality is an evidence of some kind of dishonesty. Un-\ndoubtedly respect for the essence of a thing makes expression simple and\nin reading the present collection of poems by H. D., the hasty mind is\nabashed by the measure of intention and the exacting sincerity which prevail\nfrom the beginning to the end of the volume. Mr. Glenway Wescott praises\nthe sternness of H. D.'s translations. \"No race of men ever subsisted on\nsweet rhetorical distinction,\" he says and in her work, it is life denuded\nof subterfuge—it is the clean violence of truth that we have. Only as one\nisolates portions of the work, does one perceive the magic and compressed\nenergy of the author's imagination, actuality in such lines as the following,\nbeing lost in the sense of spectacle:\n\"dark islands in a sea\nof grey olive or wild white olive\ncut with the sudden cypress shafts;\"\nfingers \"wrought of iron\nto wrest from earth\nsecrets; strong to protect,\nstrong to keep back the winter.\"\nOne recognizes here, the artist—the mind which creates what it needs\nfor its own subsistence and propitiates nothing, willing—indeed wishing to\nseem to find its only counterpart in the elements; yet in this case as in the\ncase of any true artist, reserve is a concomitant of intense feeling, not the\ncause of it. In H. D.'s work, there is not so much reserve as insistence\nupon certain qualities; nature in its acute aspects is to her, a symbol of\nfreedom. A liking for surf for instance, makes the contemplation of still\nwater seem like loathing as in Swinburne when one recalls his comparison"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.72", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2049, "texte": "of Ghilde Harold and Don Juan: \"They are like lake water and sea water;\nthe one is yielding, fluent, invariable: the other has in it a life and pulse,\na sting and swell, which touch and excite the nerves like fire or like music;\nthe ripple flags and falls in loose lazy lines, the foam flies wide of any mark,\nand the breakers collapse here and there in sudden ruin and violent failure.\nBut the violence and weakness of the sea are preferable to the smooth sound\nand equable security of a lake.\"\nIn the following lines as in H. D.'s work throughout, wiry diction,\naccurate observation and a homogeneous colour sense are joint phases of\nunequivocal faithfulness to fact:\n\"Though Sparta enter Athens,\nThebes wreck Sparta,\neach changes as water,\nsalt, rising to wreak terror\nand fall back;\"\n\"a broken rock\nclatters across the steep shelf\nof the mountain slope,\nsudden and swift\nand breaks as it clatters down\ninto the hollow breach\nof the dried water course.\"\nColour and careful detail may arrest without commanding, but here—\nphysical beauty emends other beauties and H. D.'s concept of colour makes\nit hard to disassociate ideas from the pageant that we have of objects and\nhues—Egyptian gold and silver work, a harmonious, tempera-like procession\nof dyes and craftsmanship—of these \"flecks of amber on the dolphin's back,\"\n\"white cedar and black cedar,\" \"the shore burned with a lizard blue,\"\n\"the light shadow print cast through the petals of the yellow iris flower,\"\nin\"the paved parapet\" on which \"you will step carefully from amber\nstones to onyx.\" In this instinctive ritual of beauty, at once old and modern,\none is reminded of the supernatural yellows of China—of an aesthetic con-\nsciousness which values simultaneously, ivory and the chiselled ivory of\nspeech, finding \"in the hardness of jade, the firmness of the intelligence; in\nits sound with the peculiarity of ceasing abruptly, the emblem of music,\nin the sharpness of its angles, justice; in its splendour, the sky and in its\nsubstance, the earth.\" \"Beauty is set apart,\" H. D. says:"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.73", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1804, "texte": "\"Beauty is cast by the sea\na barren rock,\nbeauty is set about\nwith wrecks of ships,\nupon our coast, death keeps\nthe shallows—death waits\nclutching toward us\nfrom the deeps.\"\nIn the bleakness as in the opulence of \"The Islands'1 from which the\nabove lines are token, one remembers Ezekiel's Tyre, \"a barren rock, a place\nfor the spreading of nets in the midst of the sea—\" the Tyre which comman-\nded with her wares, \"emeralds, purple and broidered work, fine linen, coral\nand rubies, horses, war-horses, wine and white wool, bright iron, cassia\nand calamus, precious cloths for riding, horns of ivory and ebony, wares in\nwrappings of blue and broidered work and in chests of rich apparel bound\nwith cords and made of cedar—replenished and made very glorious in the\nheart of the seas.\"\nTalk of weapons and the tendency to match one's intellectual and\nemotional vigour with the violence of nature, give a martial, an apparently\nmasculine tone to such writing as H. D.'s, the more so that women are re-\ngarded as belonging necessarily to either of two classes—that of the in-\ntellectual free lance or that of the eternally sleeping beauty, effortless yet\neffective in the indestructible limestone keep of domesticity. Woman tends\nunconsciously to be the aesthetic norm of intellectual home life and pre-\neminently in the case of H. D., we have the intellectual, social woman, non-\npublic and \"feminine.\" There is, however, a connection between weapons\nand beauty. Cowardice and beauty are at swords' points and in H. D.'s\nwork, suggested by the absence of subterfuge, cowardice and the ambition to\ndominate by brute force, we have heroics which do not confuse trans-\ncendence with domination and which in their indestructibleness, are the\ncore of tranquillity and of intellectual equilibrium.\n\nMarianne Moore"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c041", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c041", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "136", "page_fin": "137", "image_debut": 74, "image_fin": 75, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.28", "titre_corps": "Pascin's America", "titre_sommaire": "Pascin's America", "signature_source": "Malcolm Cowley", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "136", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.74", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2302, "texte": "COMMENT\nPASCIN'S AMERICA\n\nAfterwards Pascin travelled in America. He might have descended\nfrom the boat into an adventure story by Jack London, with miners, red-\nskins and sentimental businessmen. He might have descended into another\nlegend, current formerly in Paris, of a country which manufactures every-\nthing in bulk and exports, in bulk, tourists and cocktails. He might have\ndisembarked in any of a hundred legends and, after making a necessary\ncompromise with fact, have kept the legend for himself. As a matter of\nfact he landed in Florida and painted pictures of lazy niggers playing cards\nover the sands.\nHe travelled West, not into the pages of Zane Grey but into Texas.\nLater in New York he saw a ghetto which was not created by Waldo Frank\nand excursion steamers which nobody created. Arriving in Boston by a new\nFall River Line and at 9 :03 on the second day of the police strike. Every-\nwhere he sketched.\nHe did not paint the wheels or skyscrapers one might expect of\na modern artist; he painted people. He painted them in groups as a rule,\nbut his interest in a group was the individuals which composed it; in other\nwords he was neither futurist nor unanimist but human. His method was\npartly a choice of the significant gesture, so that he expressed authority\nby the angle of a rifle and race by the position of an eyeball. Partly his\nmethod was a savant distortion by which, having chosen the essential\ncharacteristics of his subject, he magnified them boldly. One name for\nthis is caricature, I suppose; another is history.\nThe people he drew, if caricatured, are four-square and three-dimen-\nsional. Their implications are social, economic, personal, for into his work\nPascin puts all his experience, all his knowledge, and not a circumscribed\nportion labelled Aesthetics. Drawing is not his second or fifth language;\nit is his only language; he uses it to express everything he has seen, with\nthe result that his portfolio of watercolours forms a whole world and\na New World; it is Pascin's America.\nBefore Walt Whitman America hardly existed; to him we owe the\npioneers, the open spaces, in general the poetry of square miles. Bret Harte\ncreated California and Twain the Mississippi. Woodrow Wilson, Chaplin,\nthe James brothers; each created a separate America, an America which"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.75", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2613, "texte": "frightened pleasantly or amused us, a Godrighteous America for which we\nfortunately did not die. America is a conception which must be renewed\neach morning with the papers. It is not one conception but a million which\nchange daily, which melt daily into one another. Pascin's America is more\ninteresting, perhaps more durable than the rest, because more colourful,\nmore vulgar, and more plastic.\nIt is an America peopled by none of the characters with which Famous\nPlayers and Realart have made us familiar. There are no cowboys; no\narrowcollar lads or prettily-pouting debutantes. There is a single travelling\nsalesman, but caught in an unexpected attitude; he enters the washroom\nof a Pullman with collar and tie draped over his brown derby; he would\nhardly make copy for Rupert Hughes When Pascin borrows he\nturns to the authors of ragtime lyrics. He draws a black Petronius waiting\nfor the taxi which will bear him to the Darktown Strutters' Ball. He draws\nthe guests of That Yiddish Wedding Jubilee and, naked under kimonas,\nthe parlour-house whores, maybe the very ones who stole from loving\nFrankie her man that did her wrong.\nPascin paints the Irish in Boston and not in the West; Jews in New\nYork and not in Florida; Florida niggers and Mexicans in Texas; every-\nwhere races and professions that are socially declassed, socially unembar-\nrassed; perhaps he finds them the best commentary on a civilization.\nPascin paints a team of burros; behind him the mountains south of\nthe Rio Grande, gigantically looming, and an old Mexican driver with his\nhead overtopping the mountains. Never will he return O never to his\nhappy revolutions Pascin paints stevedores over a game of craps.\nA hand reaches out for the bones; it is maybe the spirit of gambling\nsymbolized, but it remains a skinny nigger hand He paints two\nmilitiamen during the Boston police strike: chest elevated, eyes looking\nforward, gun sloping at an angle of 45°, erect shoulders that bear the whole\nauthority of the State A sad-faced Irishman in the Bronx Express;\nbehind him a pasted copy of the Subway Sun with a portrait of the late\nTheodore P. Shonts Coney Island wriggles with bathers; the sea\nis hidden or it would swallow them all; women wear bathing suits who\nshouldn't and their breasts loom like Anthony's Nose over the Hudson. . . . .\nAnd Mrs. Sadkowich; typical of Pascin's heroines there is Rebecca Sadko-\nwich on her week-end party; she gnaws at a leg of chicken while her\nstraw-hatted sons crowd round her and the boat moves slowly up the\nriver to the tune of Bright Eyes and towards an unattained Bear Mountain.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c042", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c042", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "138", "page_fin": "[140]", "image_debut": 76, "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.29", "titre_corps": "Poems: Marianne Moore", "titre_sommaire": "Poems: Marianne Moore", "signature_source": "M. J.", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.76", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2087, "texte": "POEMS: MARIANNE MOORE\n\nLet us admit to begin with that the great shortcoming of American\nwomen is their brutality, their coarseness, as seen in manners, gowns,\nhabits, books, dew-daws. American women, for the most part are shock-\ningly beautiful, but all dress alike, repeat dreadful old saws from variety\nshows, chew gum, and lack humility while lacking originality. Their\nstandard-fabricated souls have been set to lyrics by such poetesses as\nSara Teasdale and Edna Millay. These people, whether they go horseback\nriding or play tennis or wear low-heeled shoes have no shame and have\nno pride.\nAmy Lowell and Gertrude Stein are arch-types who bustle through\nthe multitude. One is silent and embarassed before Amy Lowell: she was\nthe nymph of many a rosy American youth for long years. The din of\nGertrude Stein's barbarous chants rises relentlessly: one may succeed in\nbeing indifferent to it with taut muscles.\nThere is, otherwise, Marianne Moore, a rebuke to our heedless\nwomanhood: the humility that goes with knowledge — the pride that goes\nwith sensibility. Emotion in her is calcined to a thin ash. Poetry assumes\nthe air of unaffected conversation, of quiet altercation. There is no sob,\nno throwing back of the hair with disheveled hands. There is great mystery\nand great tranquillity. The mysticism of Lewis Car oil:\n\"... .deeper than the sea\nwhen it proffers flattery in exchange for hemp,\nrye, flax, horses, platinum, timber and fur.\"\nBut she is too difficult to quote. Best in a long poem about fish or\nelephants or disagreeable cousins, where motion is so subjectively visioned\nthat it becomes significantly distorted. Indeed the refinement which she\npractises is almost oppressive — as she pauses before a conclusion from\nsome observation and relates it more slowly and definitely so that its sugges-\ntions widen out like ripples in a dark pool — or as she wraps herself in\na torment of words:\n\"Feed me also, River God,\nlest by diminished vitality and ablated\nvigilance, I become food for crocodiles —\"\nor as she \"quotes\" some commonplace phrase of the man in the street."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.77", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2061, "texte": "The declamatory tone falls into the purest traditions of the English\nlanguage. The genius of that language is evoked most formidably in\nsustained passages of Tamerlane the Great, Antony and Cleopatra, and\nParadise Lost, albeit with the clanking of an armor that is fallen into\ndesuetude. This, too, is an age of declaimers; our great rhetoricians intone\ntheir manifold prophecies from balloon, fence, screen, or incandescent sign,\nwith an informed ardour. The oracle of Marianne Moore, however, is not\nsubsidized, and adopts more varied tones again; her discontentments, her\nfainter heresies and criticisms lead to no great matter; yet, to us they are\nas poignant as the futile sword-brandishing of a Tamerlane. Swaying\ndesperately in the wind she complains:\nffls your town Nineveh? .. .\nIs it Nineveh\nand are you Jonah\nin the sweltering east wind of your wishes?\nI, myself have stood\nthere by the aquarium, looking\nat the Statue of Liberty.\"\nHer \"superiority\", as some have called it, comes of her humility before\nbrute life, her knowledge that, for example, \"this hat lying at the corner\nof this table is more important than the Washington Monument!\" Thus her\nmusic may tinkle up from thin glass or gather the formidable rhythms of\na pachyderm in flight; it matters little. Her personality unfolds and unravels,\nher face becomes more distinct and unforgettable in the wide blur of com-\nposite American faces.\nThe making public property of a group of Eliot poems in the November\nDial, is a considerable event, an occasion for curiosity and mingled hope\nand fear. For a poet who deliberately adopted a minor tone, Mr. Eliot\nhas had a subtle and farspread influence. Let it be said that this later\ngroup of poems justifies the almost reluctant repect for him on the part\nof the younger American and English writers. For, he does move forward,\nthough modestly, from the mood of Prufrock to new terrain, in The Waste-\nland. One is immediately conscious of a more aggressive lyricism, and\nto the baffled inhibited pride of the earlier poems are added certain vulgar"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "[140]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.78", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2069, "texte": "reverberations from the streets. \"A game of Chess\" and \"What the Thunder\nSaid\" help to round out, for us, an evasive personality which loves futile\ngestures as much as it does polished verses. Mr. Eliot is very quotable;\nthe last poem escapes, or rather eludes, upon a note of rebellious fantasy:\n\"Da\nDayadhvam: I have heard the key\nTurn in the door and turn once only.\"\nwhose manner and spirit is delicious. And Mr. Eliot retires in an in-\nscrutable (shall we say?) mask of Italian, French, Sanskrit and nonsense\nsyllables.\nThe iambic pentameter is rather of Webster and Jonson, than of\nShakespeare; i.e., the lines are embroidered and pompous, the images are\nviolent or bantering. Yet his prosody and diction are strikingly in accord\nwith our own tempo, save that there is the familiar (and sorely imitated)\nair of cynical resignation, of inexplicable hurt, which is remembered\nperhaps as the dominant trait of Mr. Eliot. From the very first line, \"April\nis the cruelest month,\" to the ultimate evasion of the concluding lines\nof the last poem we have the troubled strain of Prufrock again. This is the\nNew-England Mr. Eliot who has embraced English culture and good-\nmanners, who swims reverently the London fog. He is reiterating this\nmood when he writes:\n\"What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?\nThe hot water at ten.\nAnd if it rains, a closed car at four.\nAnd we shall play a game of chess,\nPressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.\"\nOne would not hold such lines against a less gifted craftsman. There\nare so few poets whom we expect not to repeat themselves! But I fear that\nit is precisely in his most facile moments that he has appealed most and\nbeen most echoed. His real distinction, his indubitable mastery of a style,\nhave been more difficult to assail, however removed he may be from the\nless grateful climate of modern America.\nGrateful acknowledgment is made to Dr. H. J. Spinden of the Peabody\nMuseum, from whose excellent book on Maya art most of the illustrations\nused in this issue of BROOM have been reproduced.\n\nM. J."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c043", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c043", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.30", "titre_corps": "... and America where there", "titre_sommaire": "... and America where there", "signature_source": "Marianne Moore", "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=bmtnaap192301-01.1.84", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 419, "texte": "MARIANNE MOORE.\n\"... and America where there\nis the little ramshackle victoria in the south, where cigars are smoked on the\nstreet in the north; where there are no proofreaders, no silkworms, no digressions;\nthe wild man's land; grass-less, links-less, language-less country —\nin which letters are written\nnot in Spanish, not in Greek, not in Latin, not in shorthand\nbut in plain American which cats and dogs can read!\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c045", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c045", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[141]", "page_fin": "[141]", "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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.31", "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": 79, "page_imprimee": "[141]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.79", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1112, "texte": "LES ECRITS NOUVEAUX\ncom i t e de D irection\nEdmond Jaloux, Valery Larbaud, Andre Germain,\nPhilippe Soupault\npublieront pendant l'anne 1923\nDOU2E ETUDES CRITIQUES\nAndre Gide, par la Comtesse\nde Noailles\nPaul Valery, par la Comtesse\nde Noailles\nHenry James, par J. E. Blanche\nJean Giraudoux, par Edmond Jaloux\nThomas Hardy, par Edmond Jaloux\nBerenson, par Charles Du Bos\nEdmond Jaloux, par Robert de Traz\nGabriel Miro, par Valery Larbaud\nPerez de Ayala, par Valery Larbaud\nThomas Mann, par Felix Berteaux\nValery Larbaud, par Marcel Ray\nMaurice Barres, par Henri\nde Montherlant\nProust, par Paul Morand\nLE NUMERO: TROIS FRANCS\n• t\nAbonnement\npour la France 30 francs\npour les autres pays 36 francs\nREDACTION, ADMINISTRATION ET PUBLICITE\n100 rue du Faubourg St. Honore\nPARIS\nDES NOUVELLES DE\nA. de Chateaubriant\nT checov\nBounine\nAragon\nMorand\nDrieu la Rochelle\nHenri de Montherlant\nMarcel Chaminade\nJean Richard-Bloch\nBernard Fay\nMax Jacob\nFrangois Mauriac\nDES POEMES DE\nla Comtesse de Noailles, Paul Valery,\nLeon Paul Fargue, Valery Larbaud,\nBlaise Cendrars, Pierre Reverdy, Max\nJacob, Paul Eluard, Philippe Soupault"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c046", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c046", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 80, "image_fin": 80, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.32", "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": 80, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 777, "texte": "A subcription to THE DRAMA\nbrings you a year's acquaintance with all that is best in the theatre.\nIt keeps you posted on current developments and gives you a\nglance into the future.\nTHE DRAMA has much to offer during the coming year many\neffective one-act plays for reading or acting, regular reviews of\nthe New York and Chicago productions of significance, news of\nthe London, Paris, German and Russian theatres, trenchant discussion\nof the trend of the theatre in America.\nyearly subcription to THE DRAMA entitles the subscriber to a\nfull membership in the Drama League of America, and to the many\nbenefits which may be derived from this association.\nOne Year's Subscription for $ d\nfiue months trictt subscription for $ 1\nThe Drama Corporation / 59 E. Van Buren St., Chicago"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c047", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c047", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 80, "image_fin": 80, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.33", "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": 80, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 779, "fin_caractere_exclue": 994, "texte": "MODERN\nREVIEW\nMiction — (poetry — Criticism\nA modern magazine printing nothing,\nhowever, that is radical or clever.\nPublished quarterly at Winchester Mass.\n25 c Per Copy at Bookstands\n$ 1.00 The year by subscription"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c048", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c048", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 80, "image_fin": 80, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.34", "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": 80, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 996, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1388, "texte": "THE GREATEST\nTHE BIGGEST\nTHE BEST\nHundreds of people found to their keen\ndisappointment that back numbers of some\nissues of BROOM last year were not pro-\ncurable for love or money, having been\nentirely exhausted by the Belated demand.\nBookstand readers, occasional or pro-\nspective readers are sagely warned to\nSUBSCRIBE BEFOREHAND (at $ 5 a year) Address\nBROOM, 3 East Ninth Street, New York"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c049", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c049", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 80, "image_fin": 80, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.35", "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": 80, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.80", "debut_caractere": 1390, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1997, "texte": "S 4 N\nMONTHLY PUBLICATION\nOF THE S 4 N SOCIETY\nTo promote open-minded consideration\nof all theories and practices of art and\nto combat influences hostile to such\nconsideration.\nAMONG ITS CONTRIBUTORS\nE. E. Cummings\nKenneth Burke\nDavid Greenhood\nMax Robin\nLoring Andrews\nGorham B. Munson\nReginald Marsh\nTom Chubb\nRoger Sessions\nDaniel Dourouze\nJohn Peale Bishop\nWilliam Rose Ben6t\nStephen Vincent Ben6t\nGrace Hazard Conkling\nHarold Vinal\nOliver Jenkins\nRobert Withington\nPhilip Gray\nRichard Bassett\nJosephine Chandler\nAnnual Dues (or Subscription): $ 3\nAddress NORMAN FITTS, Editor\nNORTHAMPTON, MASS., U.S.A."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c050", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c050", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 81, "image_fin": 81, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.2.36", "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": 81, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.81", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1769, "texte": "AGAINST THE FAUX BON\nTHE DIAL\nis a magazine of the creative and the critical arts which\nneither publishes nor praises that very bad substitute for\nfine work, the faux bon.\nThe faux bon always looks a little bit better than good\nenough, but only a little bit. It has all the pretensions of\ncreative integrity and none of its power. It is Rostand\ninstead of Shakespeare, Schoenberg instead of Scriabine\nand the well-groomed, literary impostor instead of the\nspontaneous creator of lasting, artistic values. It is the\ntriumph of technique over genius.\nThe faux bon compromises with the semipopular high-\nbrow standards of good form and good taste. The Dial\nmakes no such compromise. Its only prejudice is in fa-\nvour of clear thinking in criticism, and the fine expression\nof fine things in creative work. It has never rejected a\nmanuscript because the author's name was unknown or\ntaken one, because the author is famous.\nThe Dial is each month an authoritative record of what\nthe creative intelligence of the world is doing. It is liberal\nin letters. It offers the writers and artists of America com-\nplete independence from the limitations otherwise imposed\nupon publication of their work.\nSPECIAL OFFER:\nTHE DIAL for 1 year $5.00\nTHE DIAL for 1 year and one of\nthe following books $ 5.50\nBABBITT\nby Sinclair Lewis\nTHE JUDGE\nby Rebecca West\nTHE WASTE LAND\nby T. S. Eliot\nAARON'S ROD\nby D. H. Lawrence\nMARIA CHAPDELAINE\nby Louis Hemon\nTHE ENORMOUS ROOM\nby E. E. Cummings\nCIVILIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES\nby thirty well known American writers\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13 th Street New York City\nGentlemen: You may enter my name\nfor a year's subscription to THE DIAL\nbeginning with the number.\nName\nAddress\nBook\n□ I enclose $ 5.50. □ I will remit\n$ 5.50 on receipt of your bill."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c051", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c051", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.37", "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": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.82", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1775, "texte": "TJZake 'Beauty our i'Handmaiden\nou can buy beautiful things with money and place\nthem in an environment that robs them of their\nmagic.\nMoney is the tool of beauty, not its master. To create beauty\none must have a knowledge of its laws and how to use them.\nWhat we call \"good taste\" is a recognition of these laws, in-\nstinctive or acquired.\nThe Arts & Decoration Practical Home Study Course in In-\nterior Decoration gives you in a simple, direct and fascinating\nway the laws which govern the making of a beautiful room\nor a beautiful house, and plain, practical directions showing\nthe procedure step by step.\nThe course consists of twenty-four semi-monthly lessons\nwhich cover every phase, artistic and practical, of the ab-\nsorbing subject. It is essential to a cultural education, a\nnecessity to those who desire to beautify their homes, and it\nhas an economic justification in that each lesson can save\nthe total cost of the course.\nPerhaps the greatest benefit derived from it, in satisfaction,\nis the capacity to create a home environment that commands\nartistic appreciation from authorities and at the same time\nexpresses one's own individuality, whose spirit reflects the\npossessor.\nThe directors of the course are HAROLD DONALDSON\nEBERLEIN and NANCY V. Mc CLELLAND. The advisory\nBoard, including WILLIAM EMERSON, Director of the Ar-\nchitectural School, Massachusetts Institute of Technology;\nHUGER ELLIOTT, Principal of the School, Pennsylvania\nMuseum and School of Industrial Arts, Philadelphia; WHIT-\nNEY WARREN, New York, architect of the Grand Central\nTerminal; RICHARD F. BACH, curator of Industrial Art,\nMetropolitan Museum of Art, New York.\nWe shall be glad to send you an illustrated booklet on request.\nHrts & Dccoration\n50 (Cleft 47 tb Street\nJVew York City"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaap-1923-01-01-c052", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaap_1923-01_01#c052", "volume": "bmtnaap_1923-01_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": 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=bmtnaap192301-01.2.38", "titre_corps": "[Publicité]", "titre_sommaire": "[Publicité]", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.83", "debut_caractere": 0, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2249, "texte": "Js Tbrootn too Conservative ?\nA maiden-lady of advanced age wrote us from the Middle West that the Indian animal\nsculptures which appeared in the September issue of BROOM were \"old stuff.\"\nA Philadelph la bank-director revoked his subscription on the grounds that the work\nof a noted American poetess was unfit to be read by his daughter, aged sixteen.\nStill another encouraging comment from the deserts of New Mexico reads: \"I find BROOM\nthe best medium for keeping abreast of artistic developments in America and Europe.\"\n\"Where the critics disagree —\" said Wilde, \"the artist is in accord with himself.\" And\nBROOM has set itself the task of bringing the new work of living artists in America\nand Europe to the intelligent reading public of America. (Nor has BROOM ever\nunderestimated the taste of that public.) Thus each number of BROOM is a\ndeparture, a fresh adventure winning new plunder for its readers.\nIn the FEBRUARY issue there will be published:\nA short nove\\,'transformations, by Richard Huelsenbeck,a work whose extraordi-\nnary fantasy and humor recall the qualities of German folk-tales of the Middle Ages.\nDrawings by the too little known masters, Paul Klee and George Gross, which,\nsuggesting much the same qualities, have an intensely modern consciousness.\nTwo drawings by inmates of a lunatic asylum which possess plastic and\nimaginative value far in advance of their more normal contemporaries.\nThe Kid, a story by Vsevolod Ivanov, a new Russian writer, who draws\nan amazing picture of present-day Russia, with primitive power and simplicity.\nRed Eric, by William Carlos Williams, the second of a series of histo-\nrical studies — history as it was certainly never written nor sung!\nAnd distinctive American prose and poetry by Carleton Beals, Malcolm\nCowley, John Crawford, Evelyn Scott, William Gamaliel Shepherd, Paul\nEldridge, and others.\nTherefore the heavy demand for backnumbers of BROOM, which entirely exhausted\nseveral issues last year, has been not at all surprising. Bookstand readers are warned\nto assure themselves of an unbroken series of 1923 BROOMS by\nSUBSCRIBING NOW\n$ 5 for One Year's Subscription\nFor America, address BROOM, 3 East Ninth Street, New York.\nFor Europe, address BROOM, 5 Schicklerstrasse, Berlin."}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[72]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.2", "texte": "broom\nAn International Magazine of the Arts Published by Harold A. Loeb.\nEditor, Harold A. Loeb. Associate Editor, Matthew Josephson. American Editor, Lola Ridge.\nAssociate Art Editor, Ladislas Medgyes.\nJANUARY, 1922\nPUBLISHED MONTHLY\nVOL. 4, NO. 2\nThe Editor of Broom will be pleased to consider mss. submitted to him, but all mss. must\nbe accompanied by a self-addressed, stamped envelope. The Editor cannot hold himself respon-\nsible for loss of mss. in transit.\nMss. from Europe should be sent to the Berlin 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, 2/6 d the copy, and one pound five shillings\nfor a year's subscription.\nThe contents of this issue are protected by copyright, January, 1922. Infringement of same\nwill 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. Schicklerstrasse 5, Berlin, Germany\nNew York Office, Three East Ninth Street.\n\nPage\nJoke — Holling A. Clancy 73\nMy dear Mrs. Wurtelbach — Kenneth Burke 74\nStadium Concert — Charles Galwey 79\nKarintha — Jean Toomer 83\nM\\ ya Art — George Sacken 86\nThe House of Conover — Robert A. Sanborn 89\nPursuit — Matthew Josephson 105\nNigger — Margaret Evans 108\nThe Destruction of Tenochtitlan — William Carlos Williams 112\nMorning — Kay Boyle 121\nFugitives — Charles Galwey 123\nCircle — Elsa von Freitag-Loringhoven 128\nThe High Hat — Louis Gilmore 129\nWear — Gertrude Stein 130\nThe Springs of Guilty Song — Hart Crane 131\nHymen — Marianne Moore 133\nPascin's America — Malcolm Cowley 136\nPoems.- Marianne Moore, T. S. Eliot — M. J 138\nReproductions\nCover Design (Woodcut) — Gontcharova\nMaya Architecture and Sculpture, facing pages 88, 89, 104, 105, 120, 121, 128, 129\nMaya Motifs and Designs, throughout."}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "73", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.3", "texte": "JOKE\nHolling Allison Clancy\nSilver knives,\nLanced on long winds\nHave killed the grass-bloom;\nA blue-chinned mountain\nStrokes his shag-beard ....\nThe dog is dead,\nAnd dry-rots over the rafters\nThat rib up through cracked roof-mud . . . .\nOne Penitente whipped too long\nOn the up-hill, and ripping fibre-thorns\nSawed him from life ....\nCrow-egg has pipped\nIn a far pine's fur\nDad crow flaps home\nWith a fat, fresh horse-eye!"}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "74", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.4", "texte": "MY DEAR MRS. WURTELBACH\n\nI.\nWhat if he had known Wurtelbach since the days when they had\na tent in the back yard and played Old Maid if it rained? It was in the\ncompany of Wurtelbach that he had bought his first beer. Furthermore,\nhe had roomed with Wurtelbach at the university. But as to Mrs. Wurtel-\nbach, he had taken her limp hand and been assigned to a chair once, and\nanother time he had been informed that her husband often spoke of him.\nAs a consequence, the letter was written thus:\nMy dear Mrs. Wurtelbach:\nHow can I express my sympathy with you and little Dorothy over the loss of\nhusband and fatherl I heard the terrible news this morning for the first time, and since\nthen I have felt the need more and more strongly of writing a few words, however much\nthey fail of conveying my deep condolence. At such times one is painfully aware of\njust how cruel fate can be, and how we are all called upon to bear our load of suffering.\nBut surely it must be some consolation to you in your sorrow to realize that there are\nso many who knew and loved your husband. And then again, you must strive to\nremember that he himself would wish those whom he left behind to be as happy as\npossible.\nMy mother asks me to assure you in her behalf how greatly she, also, enters in\nwith you in your affliction.\nWurtelbach dead! Wurtelbach pig-stewed . . . dead. Wurtelbach\naddressing the Chamber of Commerce with that artificial seriousness of\nhis . . . dead. Wurtelbach sneezing . . . dead. All the little untied ends\nof Wurtelbach's experiences had just stopped being there to tie. In some\ncloset or other the baggy trousers were hanging which Wurtelbach was\ngoing to put on next Sunday morning. His wife and child were no doubt\ncrying in Sewickley.\nCharles did not cringe at sending the letter, any more than he had\ncringed at eating breakfast. If it had been Charles who had died, Wurtel-\nbach would have sent a similar letter to his mother; indeed, somewhere\nin the letter he might even have situated Charles comfortably in Heaven\nand hinted that it is selfish of us to grieve the loss of one who has been\nGalled Home. Charles realized that he could write it, and mail it, while the"}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "75", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.5", "texte": "fact of Wurtelbach's death would remain on his hands in exactly the\nsame way.\nThe time he and Wurtelbach had . . . dead. Like lead, in bed, his\ndull, dull head (pause) . . . dead (one, two, three) . . . dead. \"Hello . . .\nyes . . . oh, hello, Alice. I hoped you'd call. Yes, I got home all right . . .\ndead . . . rather late, of course, but I had a good night.\" Now, concerning\nthis matter of the Chicago Awto-Lite Company, why not write them and\ntell them to forward the photographs in any case, and if we found that\nwe could not run the illustrations, we could either return them forthwith\nor hold them for a future article our editors might get up on accessories.\nHanging up there lop-sided in the closet, all ready for next Sunday. The\npump stopped; it's all over when that convulsion stops down there under\nthe ribs.\nOnce, with a sudden freezing, Charles understood that he had lost\ndear old Wurtelbach.\nII.\nFirst Esther had stepped over the log, and then Miss Anderson had\nstepped over the log, and then Myrtle and Wurtelbach had stepped over\nthe log, and then, after a long interval, Anne had stepped over the log . . .\nand then . . . over the log . . . the log ... log .. . Then they were all\ngone. They had all gone ahead, leaving the log behind them, and fresh\nrips in the ferns growing out of the rotten leaves. Wurtelbach had avoided\nthe cow-flops, as well as the eyes of the girls. What if he were to eat\na cow-flop; Christ, what a stir! The girls' legs carried them up, up the\nhill; Wurtelbach considered the masterful working of these mechanisms.\nEsther was a kid; that's why she was first. Or more accurately, Esther\nwas still a colt. Esther went on up the hill, without the least suspicion\nof the night Wurtelbach wanted to eat her. Esther was as useless as\na sparrow. Her unhappy body was without significance. Wurtelbach agreed\nwith a certain guilty awkwardness while she talked of climbing Hawkbill\nand yelling across to Chestnut Ridge. He was willing to drop, behind.\nMyrtle, gentlemen, was Queenly. With all her bones comfortably\nburied beneath a half-inch cushion of warm flesh, Myrtle could take up\n1*"}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "76", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.6", "texte": "as much of your time as she cared to by talking deliberately. Myrtle\ncould bathe in spring water without suffering; but the irrefutable fact re-\nmained that there was frequently a strong odor which came from Myrtle's\narmpits.\nThe general picnic spirit continued. They would be at Buckeye Spring\nin fifteen minutes. Oh, look, the columbines were still perfect! And\nthey had seeded in the valley two weeks ago! The bull! The bull! . . .\nWurtelbach promptly advanced, while the girls crawled back under the\nbarbed wire nervously. The brute kicked up clods of grass and dirt over\nhis swaying rump. Wurtelbach collected rocks with an inward emphasis.\nThen he began throwing, until one rock hit the bull on a protruding shoulder\nbone. The bull retreated back among the trees, vibrating and sending little\npebbles rolling down the hill. Wurtelbach continued to throw, thus assuring\nsafe conduct for his women.\nThen came half a mile of tangle, where the trail was nearly lost,\nuntil it broke into full view of the mountains. They rolled away blue-black,\nlike the faithful backs of elephants. From across the valley they got the\nbroadside of Craggy. Every one waited for Anne, and when she arrived\nshe was chagrined at being waited for. You could plunge words deep into\nAnne. Some little half-uttered sentence with the man-and-woman about\nit . . . you could let it drop and feel sure that it would be picked up. Anne\nwas like a deep pool: you could throw in a pebble . . . there would be\na little ripple . . . and then the pebble would lie there. When Anne went\ninto her room at night and shut the door, you felt that it was being shut\nwith sullenness. Anne was not good-looking; it was generally agreed that\nshe would never marry.\nWhen they reached the Flats, Wurtelbach sneaked away to observe\nthe ridges. Thirty-seven could be seen from here on a clear day. Wurtel-\nbach counted twelve before he thought to close his eyes. When he opened\nthem again, he picked one little white roof five miles down the valley. Then\nhe sailed from here to there in a bee-line, and among the ridges. The thin,\ndead air made him feel the pulse-beat in his ears. Two months after\nthis Wurtelbach was dead.\nIII.\nFor a few notes the band chugged in unison, and then it broke away\nagain, all the little parts flying off independently. That was jazz. The"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "77", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.7", "texte": "piccolo wabbled on a three-bar spree; the violin tumbled down three\noctaves. The pianist bounced alternately from bass to high treble. (No use;\neverybody just ate.) The trombone saw its chance, and drawled blurtingly.\nThe trap-drummer let loose all over, drums, bells, bones, cymbals. For\na while each player ran his own little circle around the melody, existed by\nhimself, felt recklessly assertive. (Five hundred crab meat salads were\nremoved simultaneously, and five hundred roasted second joints of capon\nwere brought in their place.) The band stopped to change the score, and\nthere would have been dead silence if every one were not hearing his\nown jaws.\nAfter the nuts had been passed around, however, and breadcrumbs had\nbeen brushed secretly from the knees to the floor, and the cigars were\nlighted tentatively, one dealer from Buffalo, seated at table 36, offered\na joke about a very stupid and very typical Englishman. This Englishman,\nwhile visiting his American cousin in California, being greatly impressed\nby the extended cultivation which was going on, had asked. \"But bah\nJoove, ah say, what do you do with all this produce?\" And the American\nhad answered. ffOh, we can what we can, and what we can't can, we can.\"\nNow the Englishman was inordinately tickled with this, but later, while\ntrying to repeat it back home, he blundered with characteristic stupidity,\nffoh, we can what we cawn, and what we cawn't can we put up in tins.\"\nTable 36 laughed the fitting amount, and a dealer from a small town\noutside of Buffalo told one about a rather fast woman; and what is more,\nhe followed it with one about a woman's parts.\nTable 36 was now in a pleasant frame of mind, and when the band\njazzed again, everybody joined in the chorus. The two men came out —\nfairies probably — and sang something or other. The five hundred gentlemen\nassembled did not listen. The two fairies melted away, and forty women\nappeared, which explains why certain tables were upset in the yowling\nrush toward the centre of the floor. Yaaing, these babies stood up on\nladders, and oscillated the jelly of their breasts.\nFor an hour, then, this tingling meat was examined. And when it\nleft, the president of the All-American Corporation gave a speech:\n\"Gentlemen ... As I look over this glad assemblage ... of more\nthan five hundred . . . this evening ... it takes me back nine years to\nthe first annual banquet held under the auspices of the Ail-American"}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "78", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.8", "texte": "Corporation Stop to consider, gentlemen, what really tremenjous\nstrides the All-American has made in these nine short years. . . . Transport\nyourself back to those uncertain days when our organization was making\nits first struggle for existence If I remember correctly, there were\njust . . . one . . . two, there were exactly fourteen dealers present at the\nfirst annual banquet of the All-American Corporation.\n\"How little we expected then, when Mr. Hemmingway talked of\nmoving his little hub factory to a larger city, that nine years from that day\nwe should have . . . not one headquarters in a large city . . . not two . . .\nbut representatives distributed over the length and breadth of the en-tire\nworld! Little did we think at that time that civilization would develop\nsuch an insatiable hunger for our commodity.\n\"Little did we think, I say. But that statement is unjust; for even\nat that early date the faith of the founder of our organization never wavered.\nFor Mr. Hemmingway was a man of vision, a prophet, a seer. He could\nforetell, where we could not, what a great demand was to be created in\nthe world for his invention. And today, thanks to the vision of that un-\ndaunted genius . . THE WORLD IS WITHOUT A TOY. Romance,\nrealism, the inquisition, the City of God, geo-centricity . . . they have left\nus nothing . . . nothing but a wobbly art trying to hit us on the head\nwith a club. Is there some life beyond the mucous membrane? Is there\nsome significance beyond a little suburban home? As an adolescent, I car-\nried vague possibilities in my groins; and now there is nothing left but to\nlook at people. Christ, they have even burned out our pessimism!\nAh! to have gotten up in the night, and to have noticed the door\nopen and the light lit. And to have passed down the corridor ... and\nnothing . . . nothing ... to have returned, unchanged.\nWhat are we to do with the growing trees? And Mrs. Buckhorn\nyelling down the dumb-waiter shaft? Let me rise above ... let me main-\ntain ... let me affirm . . . There is the epigram, and there is the epic . . .\nand I have squeezed big theoretical tears. If there is one pure joy left with\nus, it is to pass a tight jobby.\nDavid, my little man, sling your pebble at the universe.\n\nKenneth Burke"}, {"page_pdf": 9, "page_imprimee": "79", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.9", "texte": "STADIUM CONCERT\n\nWelter of loveliness\nAnd cash net sixty days\ndo it now.\nSplendors —\nAnd futilities earning dollars —\nThe crowd\nThe individual\nNew York.\nStone seats in tiers\n(Damn my back!)\nA semi-circle of brown Doric\nJowled by cigar box tenements\nBlatant brick of Hebrew Orphan Asylum\nA many peaked rubble of bastard college\nParodying Oxford and cathedrals\nWith six windows that slit mild light.\nStraight scream of electric arcs.\nAn orange flame mutters waveringly upward in\nthe dim east city\nBelow the dusty bastions of a park.\nThe focus, a belly of sounding board, a stage,\nFat bass fiddles, iron desk.\nTables, lonely, barren, bereft of genial foams."}, {"page_pdf": 10, "page_imprimee": "80", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.10", "texte": "The central ten thousand huddle\nA self-drilled mob school.\nSome leech has let the blood\nOf outward loveable gayeties.\nGirl stenographers \"going with\" their men.\nJew and Christian.\nClerks salesmen buyers teachers\nDwellers in hot perforations of vertical\nRows of eyes that stare inanely\nVertiginous identity.\nExalted, beautiful, the Seventh Symphony,\nThe sure reconcilers, brass, wood, strings,\nHigh a woman's voice\nFlatterers\nInto an escape\nTo emotions soft red, purple, rhythmic,\nShading away constricted monotony\nOf cloaks suits hair nets hats stocks bonds\nschoolrooms\nDry-goods advertising.\nAlone\nTwo\nWhere at the semi-circle ends\nIndividuals vanquish the crowd.\nThe woman, crouched head over knees\nBig hatted,\nHer mystery\nPoignant where the sounds\nAnnounce themselves in shadows."}, {"page_pdf": 11, "page_imprimee": "81", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.11", "texte": "The man, tiers under her\nUnmoving, straw hatted,\nCommon cryptic solitary.\nINTERMISSION\nProgram list of guarantors,\nVaguely existent rich, the powerful ones,\nGivers of spiritualities out of dollars.\nFINAL ENCORE\nShowery clapping dispersed.\nA concert neatly fitted into the rut\nTHE BOSS orders them back\nTo clean bed rooms porcelain efficient kitchens\nStrap clutching subway stench, screaming ffL\"\nSadistic slavery and return.\nOr a walk by the park benches\nPrescient the Phallic obscene\nDay hidden —\nCackling inuendoes boys hug girls —\nThey write their world in the scrawls of privies,\nDust bare grass\nElectric glamor of tree boughs.\nHuge naked breast of water\nSaturated lead by sewers —\nRed and green glow of little boats in swarm —\nIn it are sunk the stars.\nAll obsessing electric capitals"}, {"page_pdf": 12, "page_imprimee": "82", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.12", "texte": "Warner's Sugar\nAnd on the Palisade cliff\nSurf Bathing\nMoon silvered coin edge of ragged cloud\nA chuckle streaking straight overhead.\nThe busses totter spilling the jammed shadows\nCloaca and Beethoven\nPutridity of a monster gas tank gray —\nNausea of sliding automobiles and hunger of\ntheir eyes\nHunting, yellow —\nFetid heat of August with fecundity at play.\nIllusion winged beauty —\nA million strangled deaths of trapped souls.\nThe crypts of loneliness,\nThe dreams and immundicities of the crowd.\nNew York.\n\nCharles Galwey"}, {"page_pdf": 13, "page_imprimee": "83", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.13", "texte": "KARINTHA\n\n(To be read, accompanied by the\nhumming of a Negro folk-song)\nHer skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon,\nO can't you see it, O can't you see it,\nHer skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon\n. . . When the sun goes down.\nMen had always wanted her, this Karintha, even as a child,\nKarintha carrying beauty, perfect as dusk when the sun goes\ndown. Old men rode her hobby-horse upon their knees. Young\nmen danced with her at frolics when they should have been dan-\ncing with their grown-up girls. God grant us youth, secretly\nprayed the old men. The younger fellows counted the time to\npass before she would be old enough to mate with them. This\ninterest of the male, that wishes to ripen a growing thing too\nsoon, could mean no good to her.\nKarintha, at twelve, was a wild flash that told the other folks\njust what it was to live. At sunset, when there was no wind,\nand the pinesmoke from over by the saw-mill hugged the earth,\nand you couldn't see more than a few feet in front, her sudden\ndarting past you was a bit of vivid color, like a black bird that\nflashes in the light. With the other children one could hear,\nsome distance away, their feet flopping in the two inch dust.\nKarintha's running was a whir. It had the sound of the red dust\nthat sometimes makes a spiral in the road. At dusk, during the\nhush just after the mill had closed down, and before any of the\nwomen had started their supper-getting-ready songs, her voice,\nWgh-pitched, shrill, would put one's ears to itching. But no one\never thought to make her stop because of it. She stoned the\ncows, and beat her dog, and fought the other children . . . Even\nthe preacher, who caught her at mischief, told himself that she"}, {"page_pdf": 14, "page_imprimee": "84", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.14", "texte": "was as innocently lovely as a November cotton-flower. Already,\nrumors were out about her. Homes in Georgia are most often built\non the two-room plan. In one, you cook and eat, in the other\nis where you sit and sleep, and where love goes on. Karintha\nhad seen or heard, perhaps she had felt her parents loving. One\ncould but imitate one's parents, for to follow them was the way\nof God. She played home' with a small boy who was not afraid\nto do her bidding. That started the whole thing. Old men could\n110 longer ride her hobby-horse upon their knees. But young\nmen counted faster.\nHer skin is like dusk,\nO can't you see it,\nHer skin is like dusk\nWhen the sun goes down.\nKarintha is a woman. She who carries beauty, perfect as\ndusk when the sun goes down. She has been married many\ntimes. Old men remind her that a few years back they rode her\nhobby-horse upon their knees. Karintha smiles, and indulges\nthem when she is in the mood for it. She has contempt for them.\nKarintha is a woman. Young men run stills to make her money.\nYoung men gamble to make her money. Young men go to the\nlarge cities and run on the road. Young men go away to college.\nThey all want to bring her money. These are the young men who\nthought that all they had to do was to count time. But Karintha\nis a woman, and she has had a child. A child fell out of her\nwomb onto a bed of pine-needles in the forest. Pine-needles are\nsmooth and sweet. They are elastic to the feet of rabbits . . .\nA saw-mill was nearby. Its pyramidal saw-dust pile smouldered.\nIt is a year before one completely burns. Meanwhile, the smoke\ncurls up and hangs in odd wraiths about the forest, curls up, and\nspreads itself out over the valley. Weeks after Karintha returned\nhome, the smoke was so heavy you tasted it in water. Someone\nmade a song:"}, {"page_pdf": 15, "page_imprimee": "85", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.15", "texte": "Smoke is on the hills. Rise up.\nSmoke is on the hills, O rise\nAnd take my soul away.\nKarintlia is a woman. Men do not know that the soul of her\nwas a growing thing ripened too soon. They will bring their\nmoney; they will die not having found it out . . . Karintha at\ntwenty, carrying beauty, perfect as dusk when the sun goes down.\nKarintha . . .\nHer skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon,\nO can't you see it, O can't you see it,\nHer skin is like dusk on the eastern horizon\n. . . When the sun goes down.\nGoes down . . .\n\nJean Toomer"}, {"page_pdf": 16, "page_imprimee": "86", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.16", "texte": "MAYA ART\n\nThere is in the American Museum of Natural History,\na room devoted to Maya art. No one can pass through\nthis room without being powerfully affected, either\npleasantly or unpleasantly. One is disturbed, perhaps\nrepelled by the vivid forms that fill the room, and one\nwonders why these works and the people who created\nthem are so little known. For the room is charged with\nthe spirit of a strong race. We feel distinctly the presence\nof a remarkable temperament, highly sophisticated yet\nessentially barbaric.\nA rectangular column, some twenty feet high, covered with tortuous\nornaments, towers to the ceiling. Near the top there is a human mask of\nheroic size startlingly like a Buddha, but frigid with cruelty. This stela\ndominates the room. It is as mysterious and as exalted as the Grotto Gods\nof Tuan Huang.\nThere are smaller columns and many altars, some regular and others\nirregular in shape, each covered with a maze of abstract and apparently\nunorganized forms. The variety of these forms is prodigious — geometrical\nelements, coarse grotesque figures and intricate arabesques — each virile and\nexpressive. Seldom is abstract ornament so articulate. These forms are\nvaried, combined, and elaborated in the deliberate search for plastic sensation.\nPlastic sensation is the aesthetic emotion created by form. Architecture\nis perhaps the purest and most profound plastic expression. The relation\nbetween the horizontal and the vertical, the mode of the arch, are the\nindices of a race's temperament. They express its dominating character-\n* The Maya Indians occupied the peninsula of Yucatan, Central America, and the contiguous\nmainland westward to the Pacific coast. In the sixteenth century the Spaniards, marching north\nfrom Peru to Mexico, found their ruined cities inhabited by an alien and inferior race\nof Indians. The Mayas themselves were extinct. Little is known of their history, for\nany documents that might have told of their habits and ideas were destroyed by over\nzealous Spanish priests. Two beautifully illustrated, but otherwise unimportant manuscripts\nexist. Not even an exact date is known, but ethnologists agree that the Maya era was\napproximately from 200 B ... to 1300 A. D. and that their best works were wrought in\nthe fourth and fifth centuries when the Aztecs and Incas were little more than savages."}, {"page_pdf": 17, "page_imprimee": "87", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.17", "texte": "istics. Painting with its more fragile and flexible means, its privilege of\nrealism, reveals the more intimate and personal poetry of a people. Maya\nart lies somewhere between these, neither as grand as architecture nor as\nsensitive as painting — an f'intimate architecture\" perhaps. Even their\nrealistic sculpture —- Ghac Mool, the Singing Girl, — are formal\nand aloof, semi - architectural. But they and all, even the smallest\nforms, have the plastic purity and force of architecture in a relative degree.\nThey are never, however regular or conventional, mere decoration. They\nare as vital as alphabets or symbolic figures.\nIt is the particular genius of the Mayas that these virile and insistent\nforms do not destroy the surface or mass they cover. Guiriga altar —\nand the facade at Labna — are striking examples of this power. In\nthe former the very shapelessness of the stone is crystallized by the writhing\nforms. The Guiriga altar is as expressive today as five centuries ago. What\nmeaningless masses the realistic sculpture of today will be when its senti-\nmental significance is forgotten.\nThe facade at Labna is an amazingly skillful orchestration of forms.\nThe broad horizontal band across the center is counterpoint to the vertical\nelements above and below, preventing them from dominating and thereby\ndestroying the surface. This band casts a black shadow where it projects"}, {"page_pdf": 18, "page_imprimee": "88", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.18", "texte": "over the lower part of the wall. Directly above this shadow is a strip per-\nfectly free of ornament creating a brilliant, incisive contrast such as no\nother means could achieve. The dominating zig-zag serpent motif is tem-\npered by the quieter motifs above and below it. This skillful opposition\nof vivid and of quiet forms, of horizontal and of vertical elements, produces\nan exquisite harmony — vivid but not crude, of utmost variety but\nabsolute unity.\nAll Maya works display this creative intelligence, and conscious use\nof definite aesthetic principles. Today, when a new order of artists is\ntrying to rescue art from the morass of misused realism and to bring direction\nto an inchoate aesthetic Maya art particularly recommends itself.\n\nGeorge Sacken"}, {"page_pdf": 19, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.19", "texte": "Stone Figure\n\nStone Head\nPalenque"}, {"page_pdf": 20, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.20", "texte": "Stela\nCopan"}, {"page_pdf": 21, "page_imprimee": "89", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.21", "texte": "2\n\nTHE HOUSE OF CONOVER\n\nThere was consternation in the house of Price Conover. It was not\nmingled with grief, nor with sympathy; it was pure consternation which\ncontains the same elements as fear but in different proportions, and under\nthe influence of this emotion some of the guests began to pack their bags\nfor departure to the city. The conduct of these few, for a certain embarrassed\ndecorum restrained the greater number, recoiled upon their heads in the\nform of petulant comment, so that they sullenly stayed out the day only to\nmake a weak gesture of defiance to the prevailing opinion by tiptoeing out\nduring the night to catch the early morning train which took the farmer's\nmilk into New York. In the overheated car, where gas-lamps mingled\nsickly yellow rays with the grey frosty dawn, they relaxed, grumbling to\none another their relief as the train took them farther and farther from\nthe shrill ravings and terrified screams of young Price Conover jr., whose\nwedding at St. Peter's at high noon a certain unknown boot-legger had\nunwittingly prevented.\nThe groom-to-be was not popular with his father's guests. They had\ncome to the three day party with the same impersonal alacrity with which\nthey would have followed a stranger up an alley had he crooked a finger,\nwinked one eye, and lightly patted his hip-pocket. The difference was that\neverything in the elder Conover's cellar had been sealed in the days when\nthe government bond meant something.\nFor three days the lights were never switched off, night or day. The\nmen, all hardy veterans of many a battle with the brains of Kentucky and\nthe brawn of Scotland, drank until they fell about the billiard and poker\ntables, and slept where they fell. Later in the day they stumbled up to beds,\nor were dragged there by servants who, callous as they were, grew sick of\nthe job; but no one ever thought or cared to press a button that would\nquench the blazing lights. In the dining room the radiance was strained\nthrough grey strata of cigar smoke; in the bedrooms the lamps heated the\nstale air while men slept like the dead. By night the country folk on their\nway home from town pointed to the yellow edges of light along the margins\nol the heavy window draperies, and made moral observations on the ways\nof the rich; by day the house appeared deserted except as pasty-faced,"}, {"page_pdf": 22, "page_imprimee": "90", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.22", "texte": "heavy-eyed men in evening dress came out for moments to shiver silently\nand spout foggy breaths on the crisp air.\nBut on the fourth day the lights went out and curtains were raised,\nand the weather being sunny and more moderate, more men came forth\nto blink in the pale sunshine and to whisper uncomfortably under the faintly\nstirring trees. While from a room on the second floor came the jangling\nyells of a boy afraid to die.\nThis was a Tuesday. The first train, number seventeen, due at nine-\nthirty but actually arriving at about ten, brought two distinguished medical\nmen from New York. Number twenty eight, due at one o'clock, brought\nthree more. Both trains were met by Price Conover's mouse-colored\nlimousine with the blue trimmings, and the footman in his dark blue livery\nand silver buttons bowed the grave doctors into the car and into the presence\nof the senior Conover and his friend, Hillyard.\nAll but one of the five most famous specialists in New York were\ndriven back to the depot in the grey limousine to catch the late afternoon\ntrain for the city. They presented the non-committal appearance of closed\ndrawers swollen by wet weather, and gave up no secrets to the scrutiny and\ncocked ears of the curious townsfolk who observed them. The elder\nConover did not escort them. In his high-posted, oak-pannelled library,\nwith beads of sweat rolling down his sagging cheeks he battled for one\nword of hope with the remaining physician.\n\"I tell you it's impossible!\" he shouted, leaning over the massive\nmahogany desk with two stubby hands pressed upon the gleaming surface,\nthe fumes from his distorted mouth puffing into the delicate face of the\nphysician who was seated in the desk chair \"Every bottle in my vault was\nsealed in bond. It was bought and stored away before boot-legging was\nan infant industry. Price and I have emptied cases of the stuff and never\nfound one selfrespecting headache in the lot. Why, the Conover constitution\nis as famous in the liquor trade as the paper my ancestor signed a hundred\nyears and more ago.\"\nAnd then, as though caught in a panic of fear that his bravado would\ncheck the only voice that could speak the hope he craved, he choked on a sob,\nand went on in a pitiful croak:\n\"Say, doctor, you can't sit there and tell me that Price — that Price\nis going to —\"\nThe austere silence of the room lined with books in a perfect state\nof preservation was hardly broken but merely etched by the dry voice"}, {"page_pdf": 23, "page_imprimee": "91", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.23", "texte": "2 *\n\nof the man who raised his eyebrows quizzically as he looked up into the\ngoggled eyes of the father, and said:\n\"I will give you, Mr. Gonover, my candid opinion. Barring a miracle\nyour son will not live through another night.\"\n\"Haven't I told you that it is impossible?\" retorted Gonover in a\nrasping tone.\nThe great Keene scanned, not without a flicker of sympathy, the\ntwitching face of the other, as he replied gently:\n\"Your whiskey may be all that you claim for it, sir. I do not doubt\nbut that you are an excellent judge of brands. And that being my assump-\ntion, Mr. Conover, I will let you pass upon the evidence in the case. I warn\nyou not to taste it; that would not be prudent nor necessary.\"\nAnd so saying he drew from his pocket a pint flask bound in shabby\nleather, unscrewed the tarnished silver top, and passed it to the man who\nconfronted him. The latter took the suspicious-looking article, his eyes\nfixed challengingly on the impassive witness, and then with a puzzled glance\nat the flask he sniffed of the contents.\n\"Where the Hell did you get this?\" he exploded. And before the\nanswer came, he continued: \"It's poison! Good God, I'd feed such stuff\nto the rats that steal my cheese! You don't tell me that my son —\"\n\"Your son, Mr. Gonover,\" Keene interrupted, courteously offering his\nhand for the return of the exhibit, \"belongs to another generation whose\nbrain-cells do not react to the suave virtues that please your old-fashioned\ntaste. Thus the bootlegger. His underground laboratories produce the more\npotent qualities demanded by the youth of today. I found this flask between\nthe mattress and the springs of your son's bed. His valet, I think, took\nme for an agent of the government and expected an informer's fee. You\nsee,\" he resumed, weighing the flask in his hand, swishing audibly the scant\nlablespoonful that remained in it,\"I put a few questions to some of your\nguests after my first examination of your son, and learned that some time\nafter midnight you refused your son the key to your vaults. The story\nI hear is that he opened one of your precious bottles by breaking the neck\non a radiator, spilling a good deal of its contents on the rug. Upon your\nrefusal to hand him the key he struck you, and then, — well, you know\nwhat happened. He was carried to his room. It required the combined\nservices of several servants and guests, the latter were too drunk to assist\nmaterially. What happened in his room at a later hour, when he came to"}, {"page_pdf": 24, "page_imprimee": "92", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.24", "texte": "and raved for more whiskey has not been divulged. I imagine your guests\nwho returned to New York early this morning could supply most of the\nmissing details. Some of them Mr. Conover, were well paid for coming\nhere. The stuff in this flask, vile as it is, comes high.\"\nA change had come over Price Conover while the doctor was talking,\nand in an absent way turning the flask in his hands, a change that the\nmatter-of-fact physician was aware of only when he looked up at the\nconclusion of his remarks. Conover was standing very erect and in his\nlittle red-rimmed eyes was flame. The look that he gave the doctor drew\nthe latter from his chair with a faintly defensive elevation of the eyebrows\nas though he prepared himself to receive an affront.\n\"What is your fee for this visit?\"\nThat tone in Conover's voice was one well known and dreaded by the\nmen who under his furious authority fought with stone and steel and timber\nin the mighty battles whose monuments dotted lower New York and formed\nthe wall that was visible far out to sea.\n'fOf course, Mr. Conover,\" the suave voice replied, losing nothing of\nits gracious smoothness, T shall remain to do what I can to make the\nlast hours easier.\"\nConover's formidable glare fell upon him. The crash of it resounded\nin the doctor's sensitive imagination. Conover snatched a flat square book\nout of the litter of papers, opened it violently, and scrawled upon one of\nits pages. A jagged strip of paper flapped in his stubby hand. Keene took\nthe check and bowed.\nRelating the incident afterward at dinner in his club, he confessed\nthat as he walked by the squat bulk of Conover he, the eminent scientist,\nfelt a strange uneasiness and a contempt for the part he had played.\n\"How could I have imagined in that man, apparently all fleshy appetite,\nso vast a paternal feeling? The wonder to me was not that one wild] boy\nwas dying but that any one of the lot was alive after those three days\nof bestial drunkenness. What could one death matter in that house? But\nit did, tremendously, and I felt it as I turned my back on Conover.\"\nWhat the great physician did not know, because he did not turn to\nlook back as he left the room, was that as the door closed softly Price\nConover groped his way to the desk chair and crashed into it, for the\nmoment as sick and limp as any young mother whose baby strangled with\nthe croup. And there he sat, his huge head resting heavily on the hands"}, {"page_pdf": 25, "page_imprimee": "93", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.25", "texte": "that sprawled upon the desk, when again the door opened and Mrs. Conover\nentered.\nA tall grenadier of a woman, the plumes in her hat arching over like\nthe top boughs of an elm tree, she peered into the deepening dusk of the\nroom for a moment before turning loose a volley of words whose heat was\nsomewhat converted to pleasant uses by the spicy richness of her deep\ncontralto.\n\"Price, are you there?\"\nAnd receiving, after an impatient pause, but a low hostile grunt, she\ncontinued in her customary manner of indulgent scolding:\n\"What is this they tell me of the boy? What have you all been up\nto while I have been working like a dog up town getting the house ready\nfor the wedding breakfast? A man's drinking himself silly just before he\nsettles down to a regular life may be according to masculine custom though\nI don't pretend to understand why, but you're his father and you owe\nsome consideration to me. I told you to have him sobered up twenty four\nhours before the ceremony, and here you've let him develop a fine case of\ntremens with only one night to straighten him out in. I've been up and\ndown stairs for three days, running a small army of servants, answering the\nphone at least ten times an hour, and here you cook up a nasty scandal\nfor me to wade into when I get home!\"\nThe snapping on of the desk lamp struck a period into Maud Conover's\ntirade. Her first impression of the face that was lifted into the circle of\nlight chilled the full ruddy stream in her veins. She came forward and\nleaned her tall abundant figure over the desk. What she saw was a mass\nof sagging flesh without human expression except for the glint of some\nmad red fire in the little bloodshot eyes. It was this fire that made her\nsuddenly go cold all over.\n\"Why, Price, you old fool,\" she presently resumed in padded tones,\n\"I never saw you so upset over a little matter of tremens. Why, bless you,\nhe's had them before, and I suppose he'll have them again so long as the\nammunition lasts unless his wife is a better mother to him than I have been.\"\nIn the interval, muffled by the thick walls between them and the room\nabove, came a hollow cry, and the image the sound evoked was that of\na starving wolf alone in the bitter night. Maud Conover stiffened and her\neyes roved frightfully to the ceiling as though she would penetrate its\ndensity. Then with a movement, that was not perceptibly broken into stages"}, {"page_pdf": 26, "page_imprimee": "94", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.26", "texte": "of progress she had turned and was out of the room and her steps could\nbe heard charging up the stairs.\nHer husband clambered awkwardly to his feet and went out into the\nhall. A few of the guests who conventionally remained, partly not to miss\na single sordid detail of the story that would he received with such a relish by\nthe other buzzards of their set, turned their pasty faces to their host. One\ncame toward him. This was Hillyard, his partner and friend. But before\nthe latter could utter the word of consolation that was indicated by the\nexpression in his eyes, a door above was opened and the cries of Mrs. Conover\narose proclaiming her terror.\nThe effect on her husband was precisely what Hillyard had seen many\ntimes when a shaking foreman burst into the construction shed bearing some\ntragic report. Conover squared his ponderous shoulders with the movement\nof a swimmer breasting the surf; his two fists formed themselves into for-\nmidable mallets. Although none of the apathetic guests stood within six\nfeet of him they gave ground instantly and Hillyard's friendly hand was\nthrown aside.\nffYou're all against me!\" snarled Conover, venting even upon his friend\nthe vehemence of his words, \"All my life I have stood alone. I have won\nmy battles single-handed. This is the first danger I have ever faced when\nI felt the need of some one with the guts to stand up beside me and swap\nblows with death, and there's not one of you who can put up his hands.\nI turned the doctors out because they'd no fight in them. If you were not\nmy guests I'd turn you out after them. So I'm going myself. Stand out of\nthe way, Hillyard!\"\nA silence fell upon them all, even upon Mrs. Conover who was poised\nat the head of the stairs. The guests exhibited the foolish dismay of an\naudience which has unexpectedly been dragged into participation in a drama\nwithin a drama.\nHillyard who had taken a position between Conover and the outside\ndoor voiced the general deprecation of the charge launched against them.\nConover's answer was to wrap himself in his fur-lined coat, crowd a soft\nhat down over his eyes, and then to face his friend with a determination\nominous of instant action. Hillyard knew his partner too well not to prepare\nhimself to move out of the path, but as he shifted his feet he asked:\n\"Where are you going, Price?\"\nConover's eyes narrowed. \"I'm going to look for a man who believes\nthe boy has got a chance. I don't care if he is a doctor or a butcher. If he's"}, {"page_pdf": 27, "page_imprimee": "95", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.27", "texte": "a human being whose blood runs warm, and he'll give me his fist and say,\n'take this, it's yours, Conover,' I'll hand my case to him and trust him to\nfight it out with me. Your eyes are telling me I'm a crazy fool, Hillyard.\nIf the boy dies I shall be. And I leave you one more word: if you see me\ncoming back alone with my head down, you'd better all get out by the\nback door.\"\nWith these words Conover did not linger even for his wife who now\ncame hurrying down the stairs.\n\"Don't go, Price!\" she sobbed, \"Dont leave me alone with him.\"\n\"I'm staying with you, Maud,\" said Hillyard, \"I'll help you.\"\nHe met her at the foot of the stairs as the door crashed behind Conover,\nand his arms were all that kept her from falling face forward on the floor.\nDr. Talbot, the one local physician, had just come in from a fifteen\nmile excursion up into the hills. He was now stretched out in the low\nrocker, his coat off and vest unbuttoned, his red hands resting on the smooth\nwalnut arms. His generous mouth sagged restfully having been all day\ntightly compressed in resistance to the stinging snow which had begun to\nfall that noon. The open door of the air-tight stove exhaled a blissful\nstream of heated air and the good doctor puffed gratefully from his tired\nlungs. The bustling feet and hands of his wife in the next room were\nproducing sounds that heralded the hearty supper that his being comfortably\ncraved, the experience of twenty three years assuring him that it would be\npromptly served.\nf'Don't you want the lamp lit, Sam? Your paper's come,\" she called\nto him with her customary eagerness to translate every human condition\ninto terms of action,\nffNo hurry, Alice, it's nice enough as it is. My eyes are tired from\nthe snow,\" he rejoined lazily.\nBut while he drawled reply her pattering steps were heard going down\nthe hall and presently the front door was opened. Long enough to stimulate\nhis blood unpleasantly, causing him to wrinkle his brow and to stir in his\nchair, the door stood open, letting in a cold stream of air. Then it shut\nslowly and Alice entering spread the paper on a chair before the fire."}, {"page_pdf": 28, "page_imprimee": "96", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.28", "texte": "\"It's damp from the snow. It's going to turn to rain, I guess,\" she\nobserved. For an instant she stood before him as though weighing\nexpedients for quickening his being. If he had been a pillow she would\nhave snatched him up and thumped him into shape. But relinquishing\nthis fantastic whim she sighed, saying:\n\"There was someone stopping at the gate, Sam. It looked like\nMr. Conover. His shape ain't the kind you can mistake even in this light.\nYou don't suppose he was thinking of asking you to look at his son, do you?\"\n\"I hope not. I'm not bidding for Conover's trade. Not that I wouldn't\ngo if he asked me. But he won't. He had three or four big specialists down\nfrom New York today and pitched them all out, I hear. He's a rough one.\"\nHis wife sniffed. \"I should say he was. Still I think he might have\nasked you. Of course I shouldn't want you to go. It would be against the\nLord's will to help save that boy from the consequences of his sin. I expect\nhis father paid those city doctors a sight of money.\"\nffl guess he did,\" replied her husband.\n\"Well, I'll have supper ready in a minute.\" She was halfway to the\nhall when she paused to say over her shoulder, \"They ran those tramps\nover the town line, didn't they?\"\n\"Huh?\" Talbot ejaculated out of a thick doze. \"Oh, yes, the wobblies.\nYes, I thought it was kind of tough, they weren't doing any particular harm.\"\n\"Harm!\" Mrs. Talbot turned and stood righteously rigid, \"if you\ndon't call preaching to young folks to turn against the gov'ment and preten-\nding to cure sick folks, harm, then you got no business to be on the school\ncommittee, Sam Talbot. Sarah Cole says this 'Brother Simon' is as dirty\nas a pig. She says you could smell them all.\"\n\"Yes, I saw him,\" the doctor yawned, \"Ben Higbie told him he'd give\nhim a comb and a cake of soap if he'd take the rheumatism out of his little\ntoe.\" Sam laughed gently. \"But the fellow made a good answer. He told\nBen that was the right spirit, to give the thing he needed most. It's funny,\nthough. He laid his hands on Annie Marks and her mother said she stopped\ncoughing right away. That was one on me because I couldn't do it with\nmedicine. I'd like to see more of the man. If the selectmen hadn't been\nso much in a hurry I'd have asked him up to dinner. He looked as if he\nwanted a square meal.\"\n\"I guess you wouldn't do nothing of the kind,\" retorted his wife,\n\"you're too easy with that sort, Sam. Dinner! not while I cook your meals,"}, {"page_pdf": 29, "page_imprimee": "97", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.29", "texte": "you wouldn't. I wonder where they'll go to now. It's a pretty mean night.\nWell, land's sake, you must be nearly starving. I'll put the supper on in just\na minute.\"\nThere was no further sound but the bustling of distant feet and the\nrustle of settling coals. Sam Talbot's breathing rasped like a rusty saw on\na frosty morning.\nPeters, the garage man, possessed a voice as resonant as an elephant's\ntrumpet. His little office was on the sidewalk at the front of his garage.\nThe drawn shade was a deep orange from the light inside. Even through\nthe closed and frostpainted window you could hear his every word as you\npassed by.\n\"Never made a bit of a fuss,\" he was saying, \"listened to Timmy stutter\nthe warrant and went off dragging their cart. The fellow they call 'Brother\nSimon' stayed inside, never even peeked out as they went off down the road.\nOnly two had overcoats.\"\nBen Higbie's voice was shrill and carried almost as clearly through\nthe glass as Peters'.\n\"Did you hear what I said to the fakir? Said if they could cure\nConover's son of drinking whiskey they could make a barrel of money.\nWa'nt that a good tip? This 'Simon' never cracked a smile. Said what\nthe Lord wanted him to do He would send to him.\"\nThere was a flat silence in place of the laughter that Ben Higbie\nseemed to expect for presently he continued and in his tone was a trace\nof asperity.\n\"Cured Annie Marks,\" he snarled, \"mother claimed she had consump-\ntion. But I happen to know she caught cold two months ago lying out in\nthe snow with 'Nigger' Blake'.\" He paused and this time some one laughed\nfoolishly. \"I'll bet a dollar she'll be coughing harder than ever in the\nmorning.\"\nThe jangle of voices died away on the ears of a squatty person bundled\nin a huge fur-lined coat as he crunched off over the frozen snow.\nIt was as Mrs. Talbot had predicted. At about ten o'clock that night\nthere could be no doubt that the moisture stinging one's cheeks was no"}, {"page_pdf": 30, "page_imprimee": "98", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.30", "texte": "longer snowflakes but the drops of a cold rain. But after being out a certain\ntime one's face became numb and then one minded less whether snow or\nrain was falling, especially when one had some grave matter to think about.\nClose into town the road was wide and here the ruts crossed and criss-crossed\nas the farm wagons had diverged from the rural roads, while farther out\ninto the country the road was narrow and there were just two deep wheel\ntracks. Added to this fact that the night was unrelieved by moon or star\nand that the scattered houses stood too far back to shed a portion of their\ninner glow upon the way, there was enough to discourage one from ven-\nturing on the shortest errand from the house, even so far as to the barn\nor woodshed.\nThe town line crossed the road nearly four miles from the Conover\nmansion. Had there been an actual line it would have been blotted out by\nthe waste increment of snow, and it was only in an effort to regain his\nbalance that Price Conover stumbled upon the small granite post — lettered\n\"W\" on one side and \"N\" on the other — which was swollen into a white\nhump by the roadside. He shook the wet snow from his sleeves, and some-\nwhat to his surprise checking the oaths that bubbled to his lips, looked\nanxiously about him. At first he saw nothing but the unbroken gloom and\nthen some distance off to his right he made out a faint orange reflection\non the slope. To this evidence of the nearness of what he sought was\npresently added the companionable click of a typewriter. His imagination\nthus assisted he imaged the dark outline of a barn faintly projected on the\nsky. Dragging his feet out of the half-frozen snow he set off in the direction\nfrom which the sounds came.\nFour men by their grave absorption in secretarial labors had created\nin one corner of the abandoned barn the aspect and atmosphere of a business\noffice. A lantern with a yellowed glass chimney hung on a nail over their\nheads and tinged with a fiction of warmth their hollowed cheeks. Their\nsolemnity was that of starved children feebly asserting their given right to\nplay who, however unequal the adverse odds, yet radiate in some esoteric\nmanner a quiet glow of happiness indicative of faith. So deeply engaged\nwere these men that Conover's shuffling steps attracted no attention, and\nthe dozen or more others who lay crumpled in the moulding hay slept on.\n\"Today 'Brother Simon' preached to a group of men working on the\nroad and a few children on their way to school. The Master picked up one\nof the children and held him on His shoulder, saying, 'You and I know where\nto find God, don't we, kiddie?' The child smiled and fingered the brass\nring in the Master's ear. The Master gave it to him.\""}, {"page_pdf": 31, "page_imprimee": "99", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.31", "texte": "The one who stroked the typewriter glanced up. \"What do you think\nabout our going through Newtown in the morning, Tom?\"\nThe other levelled an accusing look from his black eyes upon the man\nat the machine. \"You mean, fßed', that you're afraid they'll make good\ntheir threat? This jail business is getting on your nerves, isn't it?\"\nHis companion observed a patient silence and lowered his head in\nsubmission to perpetual misunderstanding. \"It's not for myself, Tom, and\nyou know it,\"he replied doggedly.\n\"Well, the Master has no fear. He's got us out of jails before just by\nletting His light shine. Prison walls are His dish.\"\nA muffled exclamation from the hay startled the four men. They shot\npointed glances toward the open door and saw the black bulk of a stranger\nwhose unsteady movements had led him to prod one of the sleepers with\nhis foot. Something in the massive stolidity of the man conveyed authority,\nand the man called \"Red\" rose to his slender height and curved his arm\ndefensively about the carriage of the typewriter. His stronger brother ad-\nvanced a step thrusting out his lean jaw menacingty, while one of the two\nothers flung a sweeping glance over the sleepers as though he thought of\nrallying the little army; the fourth man ranged himself beside Tom. For\na moment there was tense silence; on one side it was the panting desperation\nof the hunted, on the other the unspoken appeal of a statue in which was\nkindled the spark of a desire to become human. Then Gonover coughed\nand cleared his throat.\n\"I came to see —\" he croaked, and coughed again. A violent shudder\nshook his pompous frame. \"I came from Winsted. I walked. I heard that\n— I came about a boy —\"\nA rustle of relief passed from one to the other of the four, and a soft\nconfusion of clicking sounds stirred the raw air of the barn as \"Red\" dropped\nback upon his box letting his open palm fall upon the keys of the machine.\nFrom one corner of Tom's mouth a pained smile started and ran jaggedly\nup to the other corner.\n\"That's a fine coat you're wearing,\" he said, \"It cost, I guess, about\n1200 dollars. I used to take that kind out of the stores and get away with\nit. You don't need us.\"\nConover dropped his eyes and scanned the broad thick collar as though\nhe saw it for the first time. With the back of his hand he wiped away the\nfringe of ice that hung from his eyelashes."}, {"page_pdf": 32, "page_imprimee": "100", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.32", "texte": "\"You don't mean —\" he said, looking up into Tom's forbidding black\neyes, \"that —?\"\n\"My meaning,\" pursued Tom relentlessly, \"is in the eighteenth chapter\nof St. Luke, twenty-second verse. When you've licked that up you've got\nthe first lesson of your education. fSell all that thou hast, and distribute\nunto the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.' You and your\nkind have run us out of town after town and given us no shelter but your\njails. It's up to you to suffer the way we have.\"\nThe man, \"Red\", had crept close to his leader's side and now laid\na hand upon his ragged sleeve. The look that Tom flashed upon his gentler\nfellow carried rebuke, but \"Red\" did not flinch.\n\"Look at him, Tom. Don't you see he's cold and wretched? The man\nhas come a long way on foot, Tom, and he isn't used to this kind of\nweather as we are. He's done his bit, surely. Perhaps if the Master just\ntouched him —\"\nThe words appeared to touch a spot in Tom that he strove to guard\nfor he turned upon his friend with a hot flush of anger that warmed\nhis wasted cheeks. \"He isn't worthy, 'Red', to have the Master waked for\nhim. You go back to your typewriter!\"\nBut it was Tom's look that wavered to one side after a brief period\nin which the two men challenged one another and \"Red\" stepping into the\ndusk that lay about the small circle of lantern light presently returned\nbearing a small armful of hay. This he heaped upon the floor beside\nGonover, saying:\n\"You'll find some warmth in that, sir, if you wrap it about you. You'll\nhave to wait a moment. I won't be long,\" and he went quickly out of\nthe barn.\nTom, muttering dissent, took the box vacated by his companion, while\nthe other two looked down at his face with curious expressions of sympathy.\nGonover remained standing, his face partly turned to the black space of the\nnight outlined by the doorway. Then he looked again to the seated figure\nof his inquisitor.\n\"You don't believe what I say?\" he asked.\n\"I don't believe any man that has no belief in him,\" replied Tom\nsullenly. \"Why didn't you take the chance you had down in Winsted?\nAfraid of what the town would say, weren't you?\""}, {"page_pdf": 33, "page_imprimee": "101", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.33", "texte": "\"The town? Hell!\" growled Conover, with an outburst of his habitual\ncontempt for his fellow man, \"No! I don't know a soul in it. I don't\nknow what goes on there. I live in my own house and mind my business.\nI guess,\" he went 011 more humbly, \"I'm as homeless and disliked in that\ntown as you are.\"\nThe other's chin was brought up with a jerk and his cold eyes ran\nthrough Conover like the freezing dampness of the night.\n\"So you're the man, are you?\" he said, \"I know you now. Some smart\nfool put us on to you, the man who feeds his son strong drink. Well, you've\ncome to the wrong doctor.\"\n\"We all make mistakes,\" began Conover weakly but stopped, feeling\nthat no answer was coming from the man whose face was turned away as\nthough denying the temptation of his softer impulses. Conover shifted his\nfeet so that he faced the door but failing in the courage to bear his problem\nalone into the night he wheeled and raised his clenched fists above his head.\n\"If the man you call your 'Master' isn't twice the man you are then\nI've come for nothing!\" he roared and ramped like a goaded bull, \"I don't\nask him for a thing but to give me his fist, and — Say, do you fellows let\nthis man speak for the lot of you?\" And his little red eyes roved from one\nto the other of the dim figures settled in the straw, some of whom were\nnow awake and blinking drowsily.\n\"Aw, go lie down with yourself! You're drunk,\" grumbled one from\nout the dusk.\nIt was \"Red\" who stilled the tempest of passion that possessed the\ndesperate man. \"He'll see you, sir,\" he whispered, \"He wasn't asleep, He\nwas praying, and He heard you, sir, and asked if you would come to Him.\"\nThe little cart stood out in the yard, its wheels frozen into the thicken-\ning crust. In the tipsy light of the lantern that swung in \"Red's\" hand the\ncart appeared like some useless thing deserted by its owner years ago.\nConover, overstrained more by the high tension of a mind unused to\nimaginative adventure than by the physical fatigue of his excursion, felt\na rising quiver of irritability, and heard the voice of his practical self pro-\nclaiming him a fool. Almost in disgust his sullen eyes surveyed the pre-\nposterous cart canting away from him on the rough hillside."}, {"page_pdf": 34, "page_imprimee": "102", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.34", "texte": "'He's a little peculiar this time of night,\" said \"Red\" softly, as they\nhalted at the foot of the steps that ran up from the ground to the level\nof the cart floor. He might have been referring to some caged animal\nof rare breed, except that a note of tenderness in his voice implied that it\nwas a poor sick child who was within the cramped interior.\n\"It is His time for calling up the power for His day's work and\nordinarily we wouldn't think of bothering Him. It's not that He's asleep.\nWe don't think He often sleeps. He likes to have one of us stay up with\nHim outside, all night long, listening. Sometimes He wants to talk. Other\ntimes He never makes a sound. I hope you'll be patient, sir, if you have\nto wait for what you want.\"\nfrOh, let me go in and have it over,\" Conover interrupted harshly,\nsetting one foot on the lower step and putting forth one hand in resistance\nto any protest that his guide might have made. But the other only stepped\nrespectfully to one side as Conover's weight upon the step cracked with\na sharp report the ice that bound one wheel.\nThe first sensation he experienced as he felt his way inside and\ncrouched near the door was of the astonishing warmth in the place. The\nunexpectedness of this sensation startled him nor could he distinguish any\ngleam of fire that would account for it. As the light from the lantern wavered\noff toward the barn and the dead weight of the night shut down upon him\nGonover had need to muster all his courage to keep from crying out his fear.\nA door of steel had silently been shut and locked between him and the\nfreedom of the cold earth, and about him stretched the infinite territory of\nthe unknown, and, to his mind, the ever unknowable. Only a brute tenacity\nof courage sustained him and a habit of sticking to his course no matter\nwhat the odds against him.\nAnd as he persisted in his vigil the fear subsided. The grateful warmth\nloosened the fluid substance in the frozen channels of memory and suddenly\nhe thought of his son and welcomed the thought that seemed to have returned\nfrom a long journey. Then together with this memory his mind leaped\nforward in long waves of speculation into the future where there were\nshining stars that became worlds of hope as progress brought them nearer.\nSoon Conover had forgotten that he was waiting for anything in parti-\ncular. He forgot that there was a future distinct from the present and even"}, {"page_pdf": 35, "page_imprimee": "103", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.35", "texte": "that the past was past. This did not seem at all remarkable but natural.\nIt was natural too that the wall of darkness expanded tremendously and\nbroke and that it was a morning in spring, a curved blue morning, and\nthat the earth was a sphere within a sphere of light. The earth was his\nson and he was the light running up and down the years of his son's life\nlike a child playing on a flight of stairs. Then the light fled with a sigh\nand hid in the dark corner of a room and spoke to him.\nThe sound of the voice split Price Gonover evenly into two parts. One\npart stood upright but ashamed and trembling; the other part crouched\nand braced itself to fight. The latter was himself, that he knew; the other\nhe did not know. Over in the dark corner lay Price, his son. The upright\nself tried to cross the step or two between them but the crouching one\ndragged at the ankles of the other and held him back. There was some\none with Price who soothed him with measured words.\nThe words also had a strength that steadied the upright self of the\nfather until like a childlike thing he dared to take a step. As he went\nforward that crouching thing behind him gave up the struggle and, as though\ndiscouraged, slipped out of the cramped space, down to the frozen ground,\nand off into the night. Again he felt the crust break beneath his feet. He\nslid and stumbled in a rut. The branches of the trees grew sharp and black\nagainst the paling sky.\nBut the upright self of the man, now straight and tall, stood looking\ndown upon the face of his son and upon the composed features of the youth\nplayed the light that had fled into the corner with a sigh. The light shone\nfrom the eyes of a man who said: \"Except ye see signs and wonders, ye\nwill not believe.\"\nThen these eyes were turned up to the shamed face of the father\nand the worn face of the man they called \"The Master\" became young\nwith tenderness.\nffGo thy way, thy son liveth.\" And it was with these words in his\nears that the door of his house was opened, and Hillyard said: ffl thought\nthat you were not alone, Price, and I know that you walked with your\nhead up.\"\nThe raw whiskey warmed his blood and cleared the confusion in his\nbrain. The logs blazing on the hearth became real things to him. The"}, {"page_pdf": 36, "page_imprimee": "104", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.36", "texte": "face of his wife was real to him as she looked, frowning anxiously over\nthe edge of her glass, and smiled a strained smile as his eyes met hers.\n\"It's all right, Price,\" she said, nodding her head, and under his\nsombre gaze the fear ebbed from her eyes, and she caught her breath with\na sob. The stuff in his glass suddenly filled him with a sick distaste.\n\"Where the Hell did I get this?\" he growled, looking down on the\nbrown fluid that seemed to him to gleam mockingly back at him.\nMaud laughed shrilly. Her laugh had a thinness in unexpected con-\ntrast to her rich speaking voice.\n\"Don't you know your own brand? Well, that's pretty good. If I\nwere you, Price, I'd get to bed. Here, some of you boys help him upstairs\nand off with his clothes. Look at that coat, will you, all ice when he came\nin and now it's dripping water by the bucketfull.\"\nGonover's comment was to pick up his glass and fling it into the fire.\nThere was a muffled crash, a hiss that was like a cat spitting, and in the\nheart of the roaring logs sprang a transparent blue flame. Conover staggered\nto his feet and glowered upon them all.\n\"What are you all sitting there grinning at me for? Why don't you\ntell me what I want to know? Where's my son?\"\nThere was a panicky movement amongst the pallid guests and the\nsudden stir disclosed another man who sat slouched in a morris chair\nwhich was drawn close beside the fire. A suggestion of youth dwelt some-\nwhere in him but his face was soft and swollen like Gonover's and his\nflesh sagged. As the firelight struck upon it, he started spasmodically and\nhis eyes opened on the massive bulk of Price Gonover who tiptoed toward\nhim. The latter came to an abrupt halt as the dulled eyes of the other\nfixed upon him. The young man laughed.\n\"Oh, so it's you, Dad. You're not going to hit me as hard as you\ndid night before last, are you? Say, you didn't think I drank any of that\nbootleg? That was Henry's flask. Honest, I never touched a drop of the\nstuff. It must have been the punch you landed on me that put me out.\nWhat do you say we shake, Dad?\"\nPrice Conover, the elder, sneered.\n\"I suppose I didn't tramp about ten miles in the snow last night,\neither; and talk rot with a bunch of crazy fanatics up there in the woods?\nWell, some one can get me another glass, and fill it, and we'll see who\ncan get the drunkest before noon.\"\n\nRobert Alden Sanborn"}, {"page_pdf": 37, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.37", "texte": "Altar, West Side\nQuirigua"}, {"page_pdf": 38, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.38", "texte": "Palace: East Wing of Upper Range\nLabna"}, {"page_pdf": 39, "page_imprimee": "105", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.39", "texte": "PURSUIT\n\n\"O-hi! O-hel tous mes ennemis sorit deroutes\ntoutes les cigales et les petits millepieds\ns'en vont s'enfuient en chantant\nvers le bout de I'arc en del dans les champs \"\nI.\nI sang in the morning, having arisen, a song-bird, from my dream-\nless sleep amid the shadows of the abyss. The low sun full\nin the face set me off at a burning flight.\nI searched for her throughout the town, scanned all faces, sent\nemissaries everywhere. No one found her. No one knew her.\nHappiness lay firmly on my brows. I scarcely knew her. In the\nend she came to my table and, holding my hand, she said:\n— I have not slept all night. I have not slept all night, my friend,\nsaid she. Says he:\n— You have not slept, he says. Says he: you have not slept?\nHe says. Says he.\nII.\nLooking up between her two deadly arms I saw the mountains\nfloundering lustily around the valley.\n— I have never been able to endure the mountains embrace each\nother, I cried. The mist steamed up from their green arm-pits.\n— I shall never be alone. I am the white foam of the long cataract\nwhich from beginning to end is not the color of water."}, {"page_pdf": 40, "page_imprimee": "106", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.40", "texte": "Forgive me. This gesture of my hands was to crush yesterday\nthe bald head of the man which is the prow of a ship with\nwarts upon it. But from his ears the anchor falls twice about\nhis nose and it all leans forward with an incorrigible momen-\ntum.\nIII.\nHe followed me up the stairs and turned\nand stared,\ngave me a jellied smile from his wide\nmouth;\nand as I passed the door he rolled his eyes,\nhe flung an invitation from his pencilled\neyes —\nDefamation! Indecorum! Iniquitous\nReprehensible Mr. Excrement!\nwhile I looked pensively down and by his\nAlpine costume sawT the bare and\ndimpled knees peeping out.\nHa-ha, he shrilly. Ho-ho, I roared him\nback.\nRibald libidinous lickerish Mr. Excrement!\nIt was at nightfall, my dear, a blood red evening, how I shudder\nat the horror of that dusk: the swallows flew screaming over\nthe roofs and the bats in and out so quick and low I shut my\neyes standing in the window of the old tower.\nIV.\nO Valkyries we are tumbling and trundling red-handedly along\nthe river on our way to the Pelleponesian Wars I suppose."}, {"page_pdf": 41, "page_imprimee": "107", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.41", "texte": "Little stop-at-every-eorner locomotive when o when have I\never deposed that I was subject to vertigo have I ever denied\nmy love of motion for its own sake as for instance the visible\nwind in the wheat fields?\nO wheels that do not turn. O wheels in the brain cease to turn.\nWhy don't they hurry I shall simply shriek to sit so stead-\nfastly before an inert landscape.\nO whizzing dynamo set spinning the vast wheelbelts of this world\nthe long rods in flight down the cool oiled cylinders.\nO heart O Vesuvius.\nO destroying speed of descent and escape.\nO sun omnipotent motor drive with infinite velocity the solar orbs\nin accelerated dispersion.\n\nMatthew Josephson"}, {"page_pdf": 42, "page_imprimee": "108", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.42", "texte": "NIGGER\n\nSunday is God's day in Whitcomb, Indiana. The summer sun slaps\nheat upon it, presses down broad sheets of heat to lie on the flat fields of\ngoldening grain which fringe it. But Whitcomb, nerveless and tired, lies\non the prairie like a thing relaxed, empty of troubles for a time under the\nsky of God and in his presence. A rhythmic silence, rising from its quietness,\nsoftly accents its mood of peace. Peace wraps Whitcomb and those who\nlive there, and draws them to a union with the peace of God.\nWayne Street lies resting in Whitcomb. Like a pavement flooring\na streak of sky, it stretches through Whitcomb between two rows of homes\nand shops: incurious, passive, glaringly white, it lies relaxed and silent.\nFour stores, out of the four blocks of shops which line it, are open on\nSunday; these are the three Drug Stores, and the fourth is Frank's Smoke\nHouse.\nInside Frank's Smoke House, up in the front around the soft drinks\nfountain, some men are standing in a ragged spread of tobacco smoke. The\nsmoke is a screen which shields an anger: anger like an impersonal force;\nanger maintaining the peace of Whitcomb; dynamic anger whirring; twisting\nthe current it generates from one mind to another in the torn smoke.\nCash Zeik, white-jacketed behind the fountain: \"Damn that nigger!\nDid you see him, Frame, when he asked for them cigarettes? I'm dinged\nif I'll wait on a nigger!\"\nFrame turned his gaze slowly from the window fronting Wayne\nStreet, and focused it on Cash Zeik. \"What's the nigger doing in our town?\"\nHis question drew a group of animated answers to it.\nffHe come in last evening, and Tomy Stevens seen him in the Restau-\nrant. Tomy rented him the room above the tailor shop. Tomy'd go to\nhell for the price of a drink.\"\n\"He told Tomy he was an expert mechanic and had worked in a garage\nin Chicago. Tomy says he went over to Jim's early this morning. Reckon\nhe wants to get a job there.\"\n\"But Jim'ud already went to Sunday school.\""}, {"page_pdf": 43, "page_imprimee": "109", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.43", "texte": "\"He's one of them fresh niggers; he's got a look on 'im that makes\nyou want to get at 'im. .. . Dressed like a dude and thinks he's as\ngood as a white man.\"\nFrame leaned against the marble counter and looked leisurely at the\nmen who had answered him. He drawled his words; they came out flat\nand heavy and fell through the smoke. \"Well, we'll not have no niggers\nm this town. This is a town for white people, and nobody'll stand for\nhaving a nigger here. The place for niggers is down South where they\nbelong; ain't got no right coming up here and trying to mix in.\"\n,fI seen in a paper last week how they advertised for a lynching\nsomewhere in Georgia. They ain't so wild for 'em down there. Niggers\nought to have sense enough to go back to Africa where they belong.\"\nReminiscence took over the thoughts of two or three in the group.\n\"Say, Cash, do you remember that good-looking nigger girl that Andrews\nbrought with 'em for a nurse when they come up from Nashville to visit\nher father?\"\nGash Zeik, behind the fountain, grinned crookedly and winked. \"Say!\nShe was a peach! Helen Henry and the rest of her bunch brought her in\nhere for a Buffalo Sundae, and that nigger girl was the best looking one\nin the crowd. That was the first time I seen her.\" His sentence stopped\nitself with laughter. \"Oh, well, she was a girl, and she wasn't much of\na nigger, either; she was more than half white.\"\nThe words sank into short silence, while purpose entered the mood\nof the group: so strong it seemed to be a person itself, and stood, unseen\nbut unconsciously felt, in a corner near the soft drinks fountain. It stood,\nstaring quietly out into Wayne Street. . .\nThe sun strikes impotent on Whitcomb; tumbles limp on screens of\nleaves, which filter it gently through to fall in little dots and slashes on\nupper Wayne Street. Doors softly bang; girls softly move; from com-\nfortable porches hums the murmur of blended voices talking. Life swings\nslowly in rhythm with the leisurely peace of God.\nDown upper Wayne Street a man is walking. Like a pebble dropped\nin windless water, he moves, the center of ripples, down Wayne Street.\nLittle silent spreading ripples move out from his steps to silence the hum\nof the porches: and as he tramples on slices of sun down the sidewalk,"}, {"page_pdf": 44, "page_imprimee": "110", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.44", "texte": "a throng of disembodied stares come out from the houses to join him and\ngo along beside his consciousness.\nEyes clouded on a sultry present, he hurried down W'ayne Street.\nThe people he passed stared scornfully at the tall Negro, tailored, bronzed,\nwith sensitive mouth and rounded chin and eyes which carried a thought.\nIt stood back in his eyes and watched them; through the cloud of his\nfeelings it shaped itself full and hinted that color does not detrimentally\nstain the mind of a man.\nThe light from the Smoke House pushed through the windows to\nlighten a little the wet blackness of Wayne Street.\n\"Who'd of thought we'd have a rain after a day as fine as this?\nIt'll be bad for the wheat if it keeps on this hard.\" Frame leaned against\nthe marble counter and reasoned leisurely within the mold that held his\nthought.\nThe pungent odor of drying cloth numbed sense in the minds of\nthe men.\nGash Zeik, working with the fountain taps, looked up to ask: \"Nigger\nstill in town?\"\n\"Tomy said he seen him in the Restaurant at supper time.\"\n\"Say, is Jim going to give him a job?\"\nBill Henry said he thought maybe he would. He sort of kicks at\nthe idea of having a nigger around, but he's short on men since that\nWilliams quit.\"\n\"They ain't five decent men in town'll stand for it, if Bill knows\nwhat he's talking about and Jim gives him a job.\" Gash Zeik speeded the\ndynamo and the current flowed faster from mind to mind.\nFrame turned his gaze from the soaked blackness of Wayne Street\nand focused it on a memory he held. \"Remember that nigger they had in\nMilo three years back? The nigger come along with a circus and the town\nlooked good to him so he thought he'd stay. And a lot of men got together\nand wrote him a note saying he'd better beat it. And the poor fish took\nit over to Pete Grawton's Lunch Room and asked Pete did he think they\nmeant it; and Pete says yes. He was one of the ones that wrote it. But\nthe nigger tried to stay anyhow.\"\n\"Damned nigger!\""}, {"page_pdf": 45, "page_imprimee": "111", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.45", "texte": "ffA crowd of 'em pulled him out a bed that night and dragged him\ndown to the river in his night shirt. And tarred him and stuck him onto\na pole and jounced him over the river with some ropes till he fell in.\nA nigger's like a cat—you can't kill 'em. This one run away from Milo\nin his night shirt.\"\nThe men laughed as though they saw him running. . . Then rigid\nsilence stiffened the room.\nffl seen the nigger going upstairs to his room about eight.\" Someone\nstuck words into stillness.\nFrame livened and loudened the pondering silence. \"We'll not have\nno niggers in this town! This is a town for white people and we'll not\nhave no niggers herel\"\nAnger whirring, destructive flowing, twisted the words in the smoke.\nFore-thinking, intending, it guided Frame out on to Wayne Street. Light\noutlined him there for an instant while the group shaped itself in the light-\npricked blackness. Purpose—so strong it seemed to be a person itself—came\nout to head the crowd, and they went purposefully away.\nWayne Street, after the heavy rain, lay incurious, passive, shining\nblack, stuck straight through the night that darkens Whitcomb.\n\nMargaret Evans"}, {"page_pdf": 46, "page_imprimee": "112", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.46", "texte": "SYMPOSIUM\nTHE DESTRUCTION OF TENOCHTITLAN\n\nUpon the orchidean beauty of the new world the old rushed inevitably\nto revenge itself after the Italian's return. Such things occur in secret.\nThough men may be possessed by beauty while they work that is all they\nknow of it or of their own terrible hands; they do not fathom the forces\nwhich carry them. Spain cannot be blamed for the crassness of the\ndiscoverers. They moved out across the seas stirred by instincts, ancient\nbeyond thought as the depths they were crossing, which they obeyed under\nthe names of King or Christ or whatever it might be, while they watched\nthe recreative New unfolding itself miraculously before them, before them,\ndeafened and blinded. Steering beyond familiar horizons they were driven to\nseek perhaps self-justification for victorious wars against Arab and Moor; but\nthese things are the surface only. At the back, as it remains, it was the\nevil of the whole world; it was the perennial disappointment which follows,\nlike smoke, the bursting of ideas. It was the spirit of malice which underlies\nmen's lives and against which nothing offers resistance. And bitter as the\nthought may be that Tenochtitlan, the barbaric city, its people, its genius\nwherever found should have been crushed out because of the awkward\nnames men give their emptiness, yet it was no man's fault. It was the\nforce of the pack whom the dead drive. Cortez was neither malicious,\nstupid nor blind but a conqueror like other conquerors. Courageous almost\nbeyond precedent, tactful, resourceful in misfortune, he was a man of genius\nsuperbly suited to his task. What his hand touched went down in spite\nof him. He was one among the rest. Velasquez, the Cuban Governor\nwho sent him out, traitorously attacked him from the rear a week after-\nward. His own captains would have deserted him, so hard was he to\nfollow. But the entire enterprise lived for many years on the verge of\nbeing allowed to languish, ruin to succeed destruction, because of the\nfortuitous anger which blossomed so naively, so mysteriously in Fonseca,\nBishop of Burgos, President of the Council of the Indies. This the man,\nCortez' most powerful enemy, already so notorious for the spiteful male-\nvolence with which he thwarted the views of Columbus — a logic clearer"}, {"page_pdf": 47, "page_imprimee": "113", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.47", "texte": "had there been two Fonsecas instead of the one. After a rough voyage\nfrom Cuba, across the gulf, Gortez landed his small force safely before\nwhat is now Vera Cruz, near the native city of Cempoal. There lest his\nmen should desert him in view of the hardships which lay ahead, he had\nhis vessels beached, under pretext of their being no longer seaworthy, and\ndestroyed them.\nMontezuma immediately sent gifts, at the same time begging the\nSpaniard not to risk coming up into the back country: a gold necklace\nof seven pieces, set with many gems like small rubies, a hundred and\neighty-three emeralds and ten fine pearls, and hung with twenty seven\nlittle bells of gold. — Two wheels, one of gold like the sun and the other\nof silver with the image of the moon upon it, made of plates of those\nmetals, twenty-eight hands in circumference, with figures of animals and\nother things in bas relief, finished with great skill and ingenuity. — A\nheadpiece of wood and gold, adorned with gems, from which hung twenty\nfive little bells of gold and on it, instead of plume, a green bird with eyes,\nbeak and feet of gold. — Several shoes of the skin of deer, sewed with\ngold thread, the soles of which were made of blue and white stones of\na brilliant appearance. — A shield of wood and leather, with little bells\nhanging to it and covered with plates of gold, in the middle of which was\ncut the image of the god of war between four heads of a lion, a tiger, an\neagle and an owl represented alive with their hair and feathers. — Twenty\nfour curious and beautiful shields of gold, of feathers and very small pearls,\nand four of feathers and silver only. — Four fishes, two ducks and some\nother birds of molten gold. — A large mirror adorned with gold and many\nsmall. — Mitres and crowns of feathers and gold ornamented with\npearls and gems. — Several large plumes of beautiful feathers, fretted with\ngold and small pearls. — Several fans of gold and silver mixed together;\nothers of feathers only, of different forms and sizes. — A variety of cotton\nmantles, some all white, others chequered with white and black, or red,\ngreen, yellow and blue; on the outside rough like shaggy cloth and within\ndestitute of color and nap. — A number of underwaistcoats, handkerchiefs,\ncounterpanes, tapestries and carpets of cotton, the workmanship superior\nto the materials of which they were composed. — And books made of\ntablets with a smooth surface for writing which being joined might be\nfolded together or stretched out to a considerable length, \"the characters\ninscribed thereon resembling nothing so much as Egyptian hieroglyphics.\"\n— But Cortez was unwilling to turn back; rather these things whetted'\nhis appetite for the adventure. Without more ado he sent letters to his\nking advising him that having come to these lands to conquer them, in the"}, {"page_pdf": 48, "page_imprimee": "114", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.48", "texte": "royal name and that of the true church, he would forthwith proceed to take\nMontezuma, dead or alive, unless he should accept the faith and acknow-\nledge himself a subject to the Spanish throne.\nThe advance was like any similar military enterprise: it accomplished\nits purpose. Surmounting every difficulty Cortez went his way into the\ncountry past the quiet cempoalan maizefields, past the smoking summit\nof Popocatepetl until, after weeks of labor, he arrived upon the great lakes\nand the small cities in them adjoining Tenochtitlan itself. Montezuma\nseeing that there was nothing else for it, sent envoys accompanied by three\nhundred warriors, who met the Spaniard advancing on the lake road and\nthere welcomed him to the district with great ceremony and show of\nfriendliness. Noticeable among them was one young man of magnificent\nappearance who descended from his litter and walked to meet the Conqueror\nwhile his followers ran before him, picking up stones and other small\nobstructions which lay in his path. Cortez now passed over his first\ncauseway into one of the lesser lake cities, built of well-hewn stone sheer\nfrom the water. He was overcome with wonder. The houses were so\nexcellently put together, so well decorated with cloths and carven wood,\nso embellished with metalwork and other marks of a beautiful civilisation;\nthe people were so gracious; there were such gardens, such trees, such\nconservatories of flowers that nothing like it had ever been seen or imagined.\nAt the house where the Conqueror was entertained that day and night he\nespecially noted a pool built of stone into the clear waters of which stone\nsteps descended while round it were paven paths lined with sweet-smelling\nshrubs and plants and trees of all sorts. Also he noted the well stocked\nkitchen garden. The following day at noon he arrived at the end of\nhis journey.\nThere it lay! a city as large as Cordova or Seville, entirely within the\nlake two miles from the mainland: Tenochtitlan. Four avenues or entrances\nled to it all formed of artificial causeways. Along the most easterly of these,\nconstructed of great beams perfectly hewn and fitted together, and measuring\ntwo spears-lengths in width, the Christian advanced. Running in at one\nside of the city and out at the other this avenue constituted at the same\ntime its principal street. As Cortez drew nearer he saw, right and left,\nmagnificent houses and temples, close to the walls of which, each side,\nmoved parallel rows of priests in black robes and between them, supported\nby two attendants, Montezuma, on foot, down the center of the roadway.\nCortez stepped forward but the attendants interceded. The Emperor then\nadvanced alone and with great simpleness of manner placed a golden chain\nabout the Christian's neck. Then taking him by the hand, and the whole"}, {"page_pdf": 49, "page_imprimee": "115", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.49", "texte": "procession following, he conducted him to the quarters which had been\nchosen for the visitors, a great building close to the royal palaces in the\ncenter of the city. Everything had been prepared in advance: all the\nmaterial needs together with rich gifts, as before: precious metals, gems,\nmale and female apparel of remarkable elegance, ornamental hangings for\nbed-chambers, tapestries for halls and temples, counterpanes composed of\nfeathers interwoven with cotton and many beautiful and curious artifices\nffof so costly and unusual workmanship that considering their novelty\nand wonderful beauty no price could be set on them.\" Here in this large\nbuilding whose great hall was to serve the Spaniards for barracks from\nthat time until the end, Montezuma and Gortez found themselves seated\nat last face to face. Montezuma spoke: They have told you that I possess\nhouses with walls of gold and many other such things and that I am\na god or make myself one. The houses you see are of stone and lime and\nearth. — Then opening his robe: You see that I am composed of flesh\nand bone like yourselves and that I am mortal and palpable to the touch. —\nTo this smiling sally, so full of gentleness and amused irony, Cortez could\nreply nothing save to demand that the man declare himself a subject of the\nSpanish King forthwith and that, furthermore, he should then and there\nannounce publicly his allegiance to the new power. — Whatever the Aztec\nmight have felt during the weeks of Cortez' slow advance upon his capital\nfrom the seashore, nothing at the present moment seemed to disturb his\naristocratic reserve. He had thought and he had made up his mind.\nWithout semblance of anger, fear or impatience; without humility or protest\nbut with the force bred of a determination to face at any cost a situation\nfast going beyond his control, he spoke again. He explained that his people\nwere not the aborigines of the land but that they had emigrated there in\ntimes past and ended by accepting the Spanish Monarch as his rightful\nand hereditary master. After due announcements and explanations had\nbeen made to the people Gortez became the acknowledged regent, in the\nname of Castille and the true church, for all that country.\nStreets, public squares, markets, temples, palaces, the city spread its\ndark life upon the earth of a new world, rooted there, sensitive to its\nrichest beauty, but so completely removed from those foreign contacts\nwhich harden and protect, that at the very breath of conquest it vanished.\nThe whole world of its unique associations sank back into the ground to\nbe reenkindled, never. Never, at least, save in spirit; a spirit mysterious,\nconstructive, independant, puissant with natural wealth, light if it may be\nas feathers, a spirit lost in that soil. Scarcely an element in the city's\nincredible organization but evidenced an intellectual vigor full of resource"}, {"page_pdf": 50, "page_imprimee": "116", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.50", "texte": "and delicacy which had given it distinction. Half land and half water the\nstreets were navigated by canoes and bridged at the intersections by\nstructures of great timbers over which ten horses could go abreast. For\nwater supply a masonry pipe, two paces broad and five feet high, ran\nfrom the mainland over one of the great causeways, carrying excellent\ndrinking water. There were two such aqueducts, side by side, each to be\nused alternately while the other was cleaning. There were public squares,\nand one of great size surrounded by porticos where daily sixty thousand\nsouls engaged in buying and selling under the supervision of twelve central\nmagistrates and numbers of inspectors. Here f'everything which the world\naffords\" was offered for purchase, from the personal services of laborers\nand porters to the last refinements of bijouterie; gold, silver, lead, brass,\ncopper, tin; wrought and unwrought stone, bricks burnt and unburnt,\ntimber hewn and unhewn, of different sorts; game of every variety, fowls,\nquails, partridges, wild ducks, parrots, pigeons, reed-birds, sparrows, eagles,\nhawks, owls, likewise the skins of some birds of prey with their feathers,\nhead, beak and claws; rabbits, hares, deer and little dogs, wThich they\nraised for eating; wood and coals in abundance and brasiers of earthenware\nfor burning coals; mats of various kinds; all kinds of green vegetables,\nespecially onions, leeks, watercresses, nasturtium, sorrel, artichokes and\ngolden thistle; fruits, fish, honey, grain—either whole, in the form of flour\nor baked into loaves; different kinds of cotton thread of all colors; jars,\njugs, pots and an endless variety of vessels, all made of fine clay, most\nof them glazed and painted; eggs, cakes, pates of birds and fish; wine\nfrom the maguey; finally everything that could be found throughout the\nwhole country was sold there, each kind of merchandise in a separate street\nor quarter of the market assigned to it exclusively and thus the best order\nwas preserved. There was an herb street, there were shops where they\nshaved and washed the head, and restaurateurs who furnished food and\ndrink at a price.\nLarge numbers of temples existed throughout the great city but for\ngrandeur and excellence of architectural detail one far surpassed the rest.\nForty towers, lofty and well built, rose from within its sacred precinct,\nthe largest of which, constructed of hewn stone remarkably hard in texture,\nhad fifty steps leading to its main body. A mass higher than the cathedral\nof Seville. Three halls of wonderful extent and height, adorned with figures\nsculptured in wood and stone, contained the principal idols. And from\nthese, through very small doors, opened the chapels, to which no light was\nadmitted, nor any person except the priests, and not all of them. Decorated\nwith curious imagery in stone, the woodwork carved in relief and painted"}, {"page_pdf": 51, "page_imprimee": "117", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.51", "texte": "with figures of monsters and other things, unpaved, darkened and blood-\nstained, it was in these chapels that the religious practices which so shocked\nthe Christian were performed. Here it was that the tribe's deep feeling for\na reality that stems back into the permanence of remote origins had its\nfirmhold. It was the earthward thrust of their logic; blood and earth; the\nrealization of their primal and continuous identity with the ground itself,\nwhere everything is fixed in darkness. The priests in black robes, tribal\nmen, never cutting or combing the hair; the instinctive exclusion of\nwomen from all places of worship; the debarring of priests from\nfemale society: it was a ceremonial acknowledgment of the deep sexless\nurge of life itself, the hungry animal, underlying all other power; the\nmysterious secret of existence whose cruel beauty they, the living, inherited\nfrom the dead. The same for their sculpture. It is the mystery of the\npast which monsters, grotesques, beasts combined with the human, truly\nsignify; gentle animal associations distorted by the invasions of night; and\nnot a debased instinct whose reliance is necessarily upon oppression and\nfear. The earth is black and it is there: only art advances. The figures of\nthe idols themselves were of extra-human size and composed, significantly,\nof a paste of seeds and leguminous plants, commonly used for food, ground\nand mixed together and kneaded with human blood, the whole when\ncompleted being consecrated with a bath of blood from the heart of a living\nvictim. The chief of these idols Gortez precipitated from their pedestals\nand cast down the temple steps; an act of extraordinary daring; at the\nsame time purifying the chapels and setting up in them images of Our Lady\nand the saints. Such a stroke could not fail to have proved of the most\nserious consequence to all had not Montezuma again displayed his tact,\nself control and remarkable grasp of the changing situation. The new\nstate of affairs was accepted, human sacrifice was abolished and the orderly\nsignificance of the events taking place was publicly made evident. In\nperson, together with many of the principal citizens, he, Montezuma,\nassisted at the final purification of the chapels. Whether or not this be\nevidence on the Aztec's part of weakness or the deepest forbearance, surely\nnothing like it for quiet flexibility of temper and retained dignity has ever\nbeen recorded. Perhaps by a sudden, daring stroke this man might have\nrid himself of the intestine enemy who was each day, each week striking\ndeeper at the nation's life. Perhaps fear had unmanned him. Perhaps\nwhat we call forbearance was no more than the timidity which is an\noverwhelming agony of heart inspired by the sight of a resistless force\naimed at our destruction. Still, if this be so, Montezuma has left no trace\nof cowardice upon the records. But weakling or genius, about the suave"}, {"page_pdf": 52, "page_imprimee": "118", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.52", "texte": "personality of this barbaric chieftain the liveliest, most airily expansive\nmoods of the race did flower, just as the black permanence of tribal under-\nstanding stood rooted in the priesthood. Perhaps it was a conscious know-\nledge of this that inspired and moved Montezuma in the present action.\nSurely no other prince has lived, or will ever live, in such state as did\nthis American cacique. The whole waking aspirations of his people, opposed\nto and completing their religious sense, seemed to come off in him and\nin him alone: the drive upward, toward the sun and the stars. He was\nthe very person of their ornate dreams, so delicate, so prismatically colorful,\nso full of tinkling sounds and rhythms, so tireless of invention. Never was\nsuch a surface lifted above the isolate blackness of such profound savagery.\nIt is delightful to know that Montezuma changed his clothes four times\na day, donning four different suits, entirely new, which he never wore\nagain; that at meals he was served in a great cleans wept chamber on mats\nupon the floor, his food being kept warm in chafing dishes containing live\ncoals; that at meals he sat upon a small cushion \"curiously wrought of\nleather.\" But nowhere in his state was the stark power of beauty, the\nrefined and the barbaric, so exquisitely expressed as in his smaller palaces\nand places of amusement. \"What can be more wonderful than that a\nbarbarous monarch, as he is, should have every object in his domain imitated\nin gold, silver, precious stones and feathers; the gold and silver being\nwrought so naturally as not to be surpassed by any smith in the world;\nthe stone work executed with such perfection that it is difficult to conceive\nwhat instruments could have been used, and the feather work superior to\nthe finest productions in wax and embroidery.\" \"There is one palace,\ninferior to the rest, attached to which is a beautiful garden with balconies\nextending over it supported by marble columns and having a floor formed\nof jasper elegantly inlaid. Belonging to it are ten pools, in which are kept\nthe different species of water birds found in the country, all domesticated:\nfor the sea birds there are pools of salt water and for the river birds, fresh\nwater. Each species being supplied with the food natural to it when wild.\nOver the pools are corridors and galleries, to which Montezuma resorts,\nand from which he can look out and amuse himself with the sight of the\nbirds there.\" \"In an apartment of the same palace there are men, women\nand children whose faces, bodies, hair, eyebrows and eyelashes were white\nfrom birth.\" \"The Emperor has another very beautiful palace, with a large\ncourtyard, paved with handsome flags in the style of a chessboard. There\nare cages about nine feet in height and six paces square, each of which\nis half covered with a roof of tiles, and the other half has over it a wooden\ngrate, skillfully made. Every cage contains a bird of prey, of all species.\""}, {"page_pdf": 53, "page_imprimee": "119", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.53", "texte": "\"In the same palace there are several large halls on the ground floor, filled\nwith immense cages built of heavy pieces of timber, well put together, in\nwhich are kept lions, wolves, foxes and a great variety of other animals\nof the cat kind.\" \"The care of these animals and birds is assigned to three\nhundred men.\" Daily the Emperor's wine cellar and larder were open\nto all who wished to eat and drink. His meals were served by three or four\nhundred youths who brought on an infinite variety of dishes; indeed\nwhenever he dined or supped, the table was loaded with every kind of fish,\nflesh, fruits and vegetables which the country afforded. Both at the\nbeginning and end of every meal they furnished water for the hands, and\nthe napkins used on these occasions were never employed a second time.\nAnd then the end: Gortez had demanded gold from the first. To\nsatisfy him, small groups of two Spaniards and two Indians, bearing the\nproper credentials, had been despatched about the Aztec's domain, to\ndistances in some cases of several hundred miles, that the tribute be\ncollected. On one of these forays the two Christians were killed. Gortez\nimmediately seized the person of Montezuma, together with his daughters\nand sons, imprisoning them in the garrison-fortress. From that time on\nit was merely a matter of detail and of time as to what form the final\ncatastrophe would take. Events shifted back and forth until in May, seven\nmonths after the Spaniards' first entrance to the city, the people laid siege\nto the intolerable intruders, determined to have done with them. In answer\nto shouts from outside, Montezuma, a prisoner within, had appeared on\nthe ramparts of the besieged fortress whence he implored his people to give\nover their attacks. In reply he was struck on the head by a stone which\nkilled him. Only the horse and the ordnance saved the Christians on that\nmemorable retreat across the great causeway. Fighting madly to escape\nwith some remnant of his forces through the masses of the enemy, and to\nretain at the same time his prisoners and treasure, Cortez lost everything.\nThe children of Montezuma, the gold, everything perished over the\nsides of the breached and beleaguered avenue across the lake down which\nihe Spaniards retreated, foot by foot, with swarms of Indians flinging\nthemselves continually upon them. They escaped. Some months later they\nreturned and continued the destruction, this time deliberately and with\ncalculated malintention. Tenochtitlan surrounded, the water supply cut off,\nthe augmented Spanish forces began to burrow forward and after weeks\nof desperate effort they succeeded in their plans. It was the horses the Indians\nfeared most. At one time they had Cortez in their very hands only to have\nthem cut off at the wrists by his followers. But nothing could bemuse\nthem now. They knew now what it all meant and they opposed themselves"}, {"page_pdf": 54, "page_imprimee": "120", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.54", "texte": "to the intruder inflexibly and without murmur until the end. Neither the\noverwhelming means used against them, their desertion by friends of the\nnearby tribes, the lack of water, starvation nor attempts to inspire them with\nfear, made the slightest impression. To every advance made inviting them\nto parley they had but the one answer: no! Gortez, dejected, seeing that\nit would be necessary to exterminate them before he could succeed in taking\nthe city and dreading the horror of such a course, decided with reluctance,\nin order to impress them, to burn the noble edifices in the great square which\nhad served Montezuma for aviarys. \"It grieved me much but it grieved\nthe enemy more.\" Each day he heard mass and returned to the city to\nrenew the attack upon the now nearly starved inhabitants who had retreated\nto the market quarter and there still held out. At one time during a success-\nful sally the Indians had killed two of the Spanish horses and in great spirits\nhad sent the severed heads by messengers in canoes to the surrounding\ntribes for them to come to the rescue, but none dared. Most had already\njoined the Christian in his irresistible purpose. But Guatemotzin, the young\nnephew of Montezuma, would not give in. Women and children reduced\nto the last extremity by hunger and privation were wandering dazed about\nthe streets when the Spaniards had made their final charge. But Guate-\nmotzin, taken captive from a boat in an effort to get to the mainland, still\nmaintained his pride and integrity of spirit. He had done all that he could\nand he was beaten. Placing his hand upon the hilt of Cortez* dagger he\nasked the Spaniard to draw it and plunge it into his heart. Cortez refused.\nLater the Conqueror tried to rebuild the city. Viva quien vence!\n\nWilliam Carlos Williams"}, {"page_pdf": 55, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.55", "texte": "Portion of the Facade Showing Simplified Masks\nKabah"}, {"page_pdf": 56, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.56", "texte": "Sealed Portal Vault\nUxmal"}, {"page_pdf": 57, "page_imprimee": "121", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.57", "texte": "MORNING\n\nMorning creeps in across his hair. The pallid fingers\nOf an old nun stroking a forehead.\nMorning curves and lingers\nOn the pillow, white as someone dead,\nOn blue even shadows where his head lay sleeping.\nHis eyes are new at daybreak,\nThe smooth wings of a new moth moving in sunlight\nOn full locust blossom. Eyes\nThat can be dull, old, sightwise,\nThings used too often, a long headache\nHolding no great promise. I say:\n\"The wind is blowing the gold curtain — see!\"\nI feel untarnished. The unembittered way\nA mood of laughter splashes, free.\nI am afraid\nThat I am loving things with pain:\nBlue mountains on the window-sill, the shade\nBurnt gold behind the gold hung curtain.\nThere is nothing quite so near\nAs eyes. I say:\n\"We have waited every year\nFor this when we awaken. Every day\nWill then hereafter be a repetition. Gold growing\nCopper as the mornings spread;\nA farmer sowing\nCorn, blood-red,"}, {"page_pdf": 58, "page_imprimee": "122", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.58", "texte": "In new-ploughed fields . . His eyes lift,\nShattering beauty on the naked floor;\nOnce more\nI remember things I bore of pain.\nAlways my life in his hand\nIn the sunlight, in the long hair of rain.\nI must rise . . . and not understand.\nHear footsteps across the sky, lightly, of someone running.\nI must sing, make breakfast without surprise,\nAs someone who sees danger coming,\nAnd cannot move,\nAnd lifts a hand to cover both his eyes.\n\nKay Boyle"}, {"page_pdf": 59, "page_imprimee": "123", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.59", "texte": "FUGITIVES\n\nThe vulgarized sea persists the symbol of futility confronted\nwith ironies.\nThe January German ship to Spain and Italy carried globe-\ntrotters. They tried to return home by escaping from it.\nThe old man and the old woman had money, which they\nused in running away from death. No cruelty in life had told\nthem the ugliness of old age running away.\nTheir youth had disbelieved in death. Old age was quaint-\nness color in vigorous pictures. Sometimes they shuddered —\nin pity of themselves. They then called this grief.\nDeath was real now.\nFrailness of the old woman, careful erectness of many years,\nshe trembled but marched to the captain's table, proud, gently\ndefiant. Intricacy shimmering perforations and scrolls of white\nlace partly under a shawl Roman violence in zones purple scarlet\ngreen over indrawing shrink of shoulders, copper shield from\nEgyptian tomb pinching too large folds to projections of bones\nbrittle — sequence of each night laces shawls strange jewels\npallid pleading wrinkles deep eyes sunk back to girlhood simple\nwords sophisticated travel the aptness of appraising idle steamer\nchairs not unkindly fastened to her \"Queen of Sheba\".\nNext at the table the old man \"Disraeli\". Elaboration of\nflowing tailoring close to the little body collars languid droop\ngreat black tie below prescience parchment of skin summoned\nfrom 1850 Drury Lane Grisi Bulwer Lytton young Victoria coni-\ncalness of swathed heavily dotted women punctiliousness of sen-\n4"}, {"page_pdf": 60, "page_imprimee": "124", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.60", "texte": "timental men. Dye of drooping mustache over remaining canine\nteeth yellow. Red veins in eyes of flat bright light ochre at corners.\nPutrescence clutched at him and sent his courageous heart to\nrefuge in a pose a grotesque worldliness and innocent mischief.\nThe steamer rapidly repelled the meaningless deep threat\nof waves.\nA blindness imminence inexorable went on in it somewhere\nthe end of the two old people's flight.\nBlizzard sifting New York liberty statue shroud snow warmer\ndays sun Azores unexpectedly arose slowly sank down to tropic\nhaze the cataract wisps spilled from cliffs.\nBlue.\nThe Queen of Sheba bore irridescence faint coquetry remi-\nniscent light perfume insinuating. Woman's old age loses tragedy\nonly in vileness. Otherwise time unreckoned forgotten in child-\nbirth inconsequential whether realized or implicit yield latency\nof guessed glory to the old after impossibilities of many years.\nHer ship comrade, the old man she hated.\nReversion to feminine lure intensified fragility.\nYears do not exist for the old.\nThe captain had a red beard. Paunch beer bloated. Slit\nblue eyes remorselessly looked down table. Teutonic purulence\nand grossness of the gesture obliterating; the jest of death. He\nroared Rabelais.\nThe flat breasted bride and sales manager husband from cock-\nsure west and immensities forges automobiles hams advertising\nthey brought an efficient god awarding the immortality of youth\nalso of vulgarity.\nOpposite to captain the chief engineer integration of con-\ntempt no waver in steel face more than in steel glasses. He shone\nexactness aloofness caste polished engine mimicked gestures of\na man.\nThe cardinal returning to Rome touched all with a queer\nred flame. Woman's delicacy long hands nerves muscles raised."}, {"page_pdf": 61, "page_imprimee": "125", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.61", "texte": "Sensitive graciousness and unmoving courteous calm of certain\ntruth in dogma liturgy robes.\nThe priest commented the feminine sublimated over centuries\nages.\nSuperb sterility proud exalted birth significant above irre-\nlevant death.\nUnder heave of rust, black and red paint, splitting to upward\ncurves of foam seas coming to the steel wedge vibrating a forward\nplunge depths of maggot nest poverty swarmed up to sunlight.\nThe swarm held at the impassable barrier, the first cabin deck\nhouse under the high white bridge. Round ports of the house\nupon scarlet green purple of campagna smeared into filth. Or at\nnight from glitter silver napery white comfort gay flowers disks\nof black skies sifting inwards scraping of a cheap violin and waver\nof Sicilian Neapolitan song.\nThe cabin passengers liked hints of lower existence.\nThe old man and woman heard through the ports soft\ncrashes of seas a lulling implication of permanence poignant\nthrough treachery and falseness. A reminder of their money\nhelped to secure grasp of privilege and refuge from an indis-\ncriminate imminence.\nThey were safe from the irony of the poor too crowded in\nproximity for flight.\nUnheeding the impassable barrier white teeth dusky gaiety\nof Italy the laugh of a son returning with old parents from Coca\nCola bananas shiny apples oranges peanuts under glare of waver-\ning tin lamp and rattle of the ffL\". A showman at the center of\na careless universe shot into the voyage the reminder lurking in\na symbolic sea.\nThe boy's laugh stiffened to a grin and the old emigrants wept.\nInsufficiency of incandescent bulbs. The cardinal monsignore\nlace gold IHS a canvascovered coffin squared out on the main deck\nfrom shadows."}, {"page_pdf": 62, "page_imprimee": "126", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.62", "texte": "The captain impervious his silence holding Teutonic sneer at\nthe lewdness of death.\nA priest read Latin prayers, arches of the Vulgate sounded\nthrough Italianate accents.\nTawny close spun wrinkles of emigrant and old wife drew\ninto grimaces less grief than confidence, content. A scarlet car-\ndinal a monsignor nasal intoning unintelligible prayer a swift\nsudden glide through the open square port depths more depths\nslow descent the launching of the box they made a festival.\nDisraeli and the Queen of Sheba watched in the pale glare.\nIrony slid close they felt the chill and smiled.\nAndalusian dawn gleamed less tenuous than rose petal upon\ncloud piles purple heavy weightier than black.\nGibraltar drew to dimness snow of New York blues of seas\nAzores routine shipboard confused them made all timeless.\nAlgeciras, hills of violets clustering a perfume, shouts of dri-\nvers urging red and yellow ribbanded donkeys to white town.\nSilence.\nStopped beat of engineer's mysterious creatures hidden below\ncalm after endless break of seas.\nAnother German ship bulked in fluent tremble and the dawn\ninversions purple and rose in the bay.\nFlanked against its black, a lighter swung a derrick to an\nopen square port, the ropes caught a gray painted box, it loomed\nout into the sparkle, sun and sea.\nA quarrel and revolver shot in steerage from Italy. The Regio\nCommissario was returning home.\nThe lighter went to the other ship. The cardinal awaited with\nmonsignore the derrick's sullen lift of the gray box hung in air.\nThe captain's beard flamed from the bridge. The engineer was\nsteel. Disraeli and the Queen of Sheba stared quietly. Even yet\nthey could flee.\nArms linked comfortably the sales manager and his wife."}, {"page_pdf": 63, "page_imprimee": "127", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.63", "texte": "Lingering miles of alignment of cork woods, women in violet\ntwilight finding tortuous ways with fire burning sticks glare fading\nof moorish castles on granite cliffs, at last the steamer was shut out.\nIllusion lovableness calm certainty reiterated through ages\nSpain yet a persistence of figures seen from a canvas fenced com-\npanion way.\nFlight, unheeded ironies.\nWeird wrought gargoyles of the sea watching immobile.\n\nCharles Galwey"}, {"page_pdf": 64, "page_imprimee": "128", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.64", "texte": "CIRCLE\nElsa von Freitag-Loringhoven\nWhere youth?\nNo find her.\nInstead\nFind\nWhat grew\nMyself.\nLonging?\nDeath hilarity\nSphinx\nInexorable.\nBehind\nSerpent\nI wait\nRound."}, {"page_pdf": 65, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.65", "texte": "Terra Cotta Figurines\nHonduras, Guatemala and Mexico"}, {"page_pdf": 66, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.66", "texte": "Stone Relief"}, {"page_pdf": 67, "page_imprimee": "129", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.67", "texte": "THE HIGH HAT\nLouis Gilmore\nThe tulips\nStick out their tongues\nAt me\nThey utter\nRed exclamations\nAs I pass\nI am indifferent\nI regard them\nIncuriously\nYet I hear\nVery well\nWhat they are saying"}, {"page_pdf": 68, "page_imprimee": "130", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.68", "texte": "WEAR\nGertrude Stein\nNo not that and peculiarly, if you push the reason of being\nmiddle sized into the extreme little piece and you select actual\nendeavor, if you select actual endeavor, if you select, actual en-\ndeavor, the notion of religion, the notion of religion and peculiarly\nnotice and peculiarly notice restless walk, if you peculiarly notice\nrestless walk, if you peculiarly notice restless walk waiting, if\nyou sanction meaning, if you represent recognized meadow pieces,\nif you furnish kites and horses, if you regulate traffic, if you\nmention other causes, all this does prejudice one against respon-\nsibility and lectures, and lessons, it further notices mistakes.\nPoisons, Poisons are the means, minds are the means, old\nsuns are the means, besides are the means. It is nugatory.\nFishes. Fishes are the means.\nDid the war make you dash right in.\nOr series. I did not guess why the expected elongated angle\nmade a particular shadow speck. I expect it did.\nI asked them about wash. They said washing. I cannot\nthink that we can be unauthorized.\nShe went away and said that if I would not ask why there\nwas a weeding of plain little pulled dahlias, she would not offer\nto cook.\nHe used to borrow a bicycle.\nIt isn't of much account anyhow. It was an enormous in-\njustice. Excellent specimen. Reasonable readiness. All parti-\nculars."}, {"page_pdf": 69, "page_imprimee": "131", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.69", "texte": "THE SPRINGS OF GUILTY SONG\n\nBrazen hypnotics glitter here;\nGlee shifts from foot to foot,\nMagnetic to their tremulo.\nThis crashing opera bouffe,\nBlest excursion! this ricochet\nFrom roof to roof —\nKnow, Olympians, we are breathless\nWhile nigger cupids scour the stars!\nA thousand light shrugs balance us\nThrough snarling hails of melody.\nWhite shadows slip across the floor\nSplayed like cards from a loose hand\nRhythmic ellipses lead into canters\nUntil somewhere a rooster banters.\nGreet naively — yet intrepidly\nNew soothings, new amazements\nThat cornets introduce at every turn\nAnd you may fall downstairs with me\nWith perfect grace and equanimity:\nOr, plaintively scud past shores\nWhere, by strange harmonic laws\nAll relatives, serene and cool,\nSit rocked in patent arm chairs."}, {"page_pdf": 70, "page_imprimee": "132", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.70", "texte": "O, I have known metallic paradises\nWhere cuckoos clucked to finches\nAbove the deft catastrophes of drums;\nWhile titters hailed the groans of death\nBeneath gyrating awnings I have seen\nThe incunabula of the divine grotesque.\nThis music has a reassuring way.\nThe siren of the springs of guilty song —\nLet us take her on the incandescent wax\nStriated with nuances, nervosities\nThat we are heir to: she is still so young.\nWe cannot frown upon her as she smiles,\nDipping here in this cultivated storm\nAmong slim skaters of the gardened skies.\n\nHart Crane"}, {"page_pdf": 71, "page_imprimee": "133", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.71", "texte": "HYMEN\n\nDr. Mahaffy says in his essay ffThe Principles of the Art of Con-\nversation,\" that artificiality is an evidence of some kind of dishonesty. Un-\ndoubtedly respect for the essence of a thing makes expression simple and\nin reading the present collection of poems by H. D., the hasty mind is\nabashed by the measure of intention and the exacting sincerity which prevail\nfrom the beginning to the end of the volume. Mr. Glenway Wescott praises\nthe sternness of H. D.'s translations. \"No race of men ever subsisted on\nsweet rhetorical distinction,\" he says and in her work, it is life denuded\nof subterfuge—it is the clean violence of truth that we have. Only as one\nisolates portions of the work, does one perceive the magic and compressed\nenergy of the author's imagination, actuality in such lines as the following,\nbeing lost in the sense of spectacle:\n\"dark islands in a sea\nof grey olive or wild white olive\ncut with the sudden cypress shafts;\"\nfingers \"wrought of iron\nto wrest from earth\nsecrets; strong to protect,\nstrong to keep back the winter.\"\nOne recognizes here, the artist—the mind which creates what it needs\nfor its own subsistence and propitiates nothing, willing—indeed wishing to\nseem to find its only counterpart in the elements; yet in this case as in the\ncase of any true artist, reserve is a concomitant of intense feeling, not the\ncause of it. In H. D.'s work, there is not so much reserve as insistence\nupon certain qualities; nature in its acute aspects is to her, a symbol of\nfreedom. A liking for surf for instance, makes the contemplation of still\nwater seem like loathing as in Swinburne when one recalls his comparison\n\n* Hymen, by H. D. (Henry Holt & Co., N. Y.)"}, {"page_pdf": 72, "page_imprimee": "134", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.72", "texte": "of Ghilde Harold and Don Juan: \"They are like lake water and sea water;\nthe one is yielding, fluent, invariable: the other has in it a life and pulse,\na sting and swell, which touch and excite the nerves like fire or like music;\nthe ripple flags and falls in loose lazy lines, the foam flies wide of any mark,\nand the breakers collapse here and there in sudden ruin and violent failure.\nBut the violence and weakness of the sea are preferable to the smooth sound\nand equable security of a lake.\"\nIn the following lines as in H. D.'s work throughout, wiry diction,\naccurate observation and a homogeneous colour sense are joint phases of\nunequivocal faithfulness to fact:\n\"Though Sparta enter Athens,\nThebes wreck Sparta,\neach changes as water,\nsalt, rising to wreak terror\nand fall back;\"\n\"a broken rock\nclatters across the steep shelf\nof the mountain slope,\nsudden and swift\nand breaks as it clatters down\ninto the hollow breach\nof the dried water course.\"\nColour and careful detail may arrest without commanding, but here—\nphysical beauty emends other beauties and H. D.'s concept of colour makes\nit hard to disassociate ideas from the pageant that we have of objects and\nhues—Egyptian gold and silver work, a harmonious, tempera-like procession\nof dyes and craftsmanship—of these \"flecks of amber on the dolphin's back,\"\n\"white cedar and black cedar,\" \"the shore burned with a lizard blue,\"\n\"the light shadow print cast through the petals of the yellow iris flower,\"\nin\"the paved parapet\" on which \"you will step carefully from amber\nstones to onyx.\" In this instinctive ritual of beauty, at once old and modern,\none is reminded of the supernatural yellows of China—of an aesthetic con-\nsciousness which values simultaneously, ivory and the chiselled ivory of\nspeech, finding \"in the hardness of jade, the firmness of the intelligence; in\nits sound with the peculiarity of ceasing abruptly, the emblem of music,\nin the sharpness of its angles, justice; in its splendour, the sky and in its\nsubstance, the earth.\" \"Beauty is set apart,\" H. D. says:"}, {"page_pdf": 73, "page_imprimee": "135", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.73", "texte": "\"Beauty is cast by the sea\na barren rock,\nbeauty is set about\nwith wrecks of ships,\nupon our coast, death keeps\nthe shallows—death waits\nclutching toward us\nfrom the deeps.\"\nIn the bleakness as in the opulence of \"The Islands'1 from which the\nabove lines are token, one remembers Ezekiel's Tyre, \"a barren rock, a place\nfor the spreading of nets in the midst of the sea—\" the Tyre which comman-\nded with her wares, \"emeralds, purple and broidered work, fine linen, coral\nand rubies, horses, war-horses, wine and white wool, bright iron, cassia\nand calamus, precious cloths for riding, horns of ivory and ebony, wares in\nwrappings of blue and broidered work and in chests of rich apparel bound\nwith cords and made of cedar—replenished and made very glorious in the\nheart of the seas.\"\nTalk of weapons and the tendency to match one's intellectual and\nemotional vigour with the violence of nature, give a martial, an apparently\nmasculine tone to such writing as H. D.'s, the more so that women are re-\ngarded as belonging necessarily to either of two classes—that of the in-\ntellectual free lance or that of the eternally sleeping beauty, effortless yet\neffective in the indestructible limestone keep of domesticity. Woman tends\nunconsciously to be the aesthetic norm of intellectual home life and pre-\neminently in the case of H. D., we have the intellectual, social woman, non-\npublic and \"feminine.\" There is, however, a connection between weapons\nand beauty. Cowardice and beauty are at swords' points and in H. D.'s\nwork, suggested by the absence of subterfuge, cowardice and the ambition to\ndominate by brute force, we have heroics which do not confuse trans-\ncendence with domination and which in their indestructibleness, are the\ncore of tranquillity and of intellectual equilibrium.\n\nMarianne Moore"}, {"page_pdf": 74, "page_imprimee": "136", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.74", "texte": "COMMENT\nPASCIN'S AMERICA\n\nAfterwards Pascin travelled in America. He might have descended\nfrom the boat into an adventure story by Jack London, with miners, red-\nskins and sentimental businessmen. He might have descended into another\nlegend, current formerly in Paris, of a country which manufactures every-\nthing in bulk and exports, in bulk, tourists and cocktails. He might have\ndisembarked in any of a hundred legends and, after making a necessary\ncompromise with fact, have kept the legend for himself. As a matter of\nfact he landed in Florida and painted pictures of lazy niggers playing cards\nover the sands.\nHe travelled West, not into the pages of Zane Grey but into Texas.\nLater in New York he saw a ghetto which was not created by Waldo Frank\nand excursion steamers which nobody created. Arriving in Boston by a new\nFall River Line and at 9 :03 on the second day of the police strike. Every-\nwhere he sketched.\nHe did not paint the wheels or skyscrapers one might expect of\na modern artist; he painted people. He painted them in groups as a rule,\nbut his interest in a group was the individuals which composed it; in other\nwords he was neither futurist nor unanimist but human. His method was\npartly a choice of the significant gesture, so that he expressed authority\nby the angle of a rifle and race by the position of an eyeball. Partly his\nmethod was a savant distortion by which, having chosen the essential\ncharacteristics of his subject, he magnified them boldly. One name for\nthis is caricature, I suppose; another is history.\nThe people he drew, if caricatured, are four-square and three-dimen-\nsional. Their implications are social, economic, personal, for into his work\nPascin puts all his experience, all his knowledge, and not a circumscribed\nportion labelled Aesthetics. Drawing is not his second or fifth language;\nit is his only language; he uses it to express everything he has seen, with\nthe result that his portfolio of watercolours forms a whole world and\na New World; it is Pascin's America.\nBefore Walt Whitman America hardly existed; to him we owe the\npioneers, the open spaces, in general the poetry of square miles. Bret Harte\ncreated California and Twain the Mississippi. Woodrow Wilson, Chaplin,\nthe James brothers; each created a separate America, an America which"}, {"page_pdf": 75, "page_imprimee": "137", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.75", "texte": "frightened pleasantly or amused us, a Godrighteous America for which we\nfortunately did not die. America is a conception which must be renewed\neach morning with the papers. It is not one conception but a million which\nchange daily, which melt daily into one another. Pascin's America is more\ninteresting, perhaps more durable than the rest, because more colourful,\nmore vulgar, and more plastic.\nIt is an America peopled by none of the characters with which Famous\nPlayers and Realart have made us familiar. There are no cowboys; no\narrowcollar lads or prettily-pouting debutantes. There is a single travelling\nsalesman, but caught in an unexpected attitude; he enters the washroom\nof a Pullman with collar and tie draped over his brown derby; he would\nhardly make copy for Rupert Hughes When Pascin borrows he\nturns to the authors of ragtime lyrics. He draws a black Petronius waiting\nfor the taxi which will bear him to the Darktown Strutters' Ball. He draws\nthe guests of That Yiddish Wedding Jubilee and, naked under kimonas,\nthe parlour-house whores, maybe the very ones who stole from loving\nFrankie her man that did her wrong.\nPascin paints the Irish in Boston and not in the West; Jews in New\nYork and not in Florida; Florida niggers and Mexicans in Texas; every-\nwhere races and professions that are socially declassed, socially unembar-\nrassed; perhaps he finds them the best commentary on a civilization.\nPascin paints a team of burros; behind him the mountains south of\nthe Rio Grande, gigantically looming, and an old Mexican driver with his\nhead overtopping the mountains. Never will he return O never to his\nhappy revolutions Pascin paints stevedores over a game of craps.\nA hand reaches out for the bones; it is maybe the spirit of gambling\nsymbolized, but it remains a skinny nigger hand He paints two\nmilitiamen during the Boston police strike: chest elevated, eyes looking\nforward, gun sloping at an angle of 45°, erect shoulders that bear the whole\nauthority of the State A sad-faced Irishman in the Bronx Express;\nbehind him a pasted copy of the Subway Sun with a portrait of the late\nTheodore P. Shonts Coney Island wriggles with bathers; the sea\nis hidden or it would swallow them all; women wear bathing suits who\nshouldn't and their breasts loom like Anthony's Nose over the Hudson. . . . .\nAnd Mrs. Sadkowich; typical of Pascin's heroines there is Rebecca Sadko-\nwich on her week-end party; she gnaws at a leg of chicken while her\nstraw-hatted sons crowd round her and the boat moves slowly up the\nriver to the tune of Bright Eyes and towards an unattained Bear Mountain.\n\nMalcolm Cowley"}, {"page_pdf": 76, "page_imprimee": "138", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.76", "texte": "POEMS: MARIANNE MOORE\n\nLet us admit to begin with that the great shortcoming of American\nwomen is their brutality, their coarseness, as seen in manners, gowns,\nhabits, books, dew-daws. American women, for the most part are shock-\ningly beautiful, but all dress alike, repeat dreadful old saws from variety\nshows, chew gum, and lack humility while lacking originality. Their\nstandard-fabricated souls have been set to lyrics by such poetesses as\nSara Teasdale and Edna Millay. These people, whether they go horseback\nriding or play tennis or wear low-heeled shoes have no shame and have\nno pride.\nAmy Lowell and Gertrude Stein are arch-types who bustle through\nthe multitude. One is silent and embarassed before Amy Lowell: she was\nthe nymph of many a rosy American youth for long years. The din of\nGertrude Stein's barbarous chants rises relentlessly: one may succeed in\nbeing indifferent to it with taut muscles.\nThere is, otherwise, Marianne Moore, a rebuke to our heedless\nwomanhood: the humility that goes with knowledge — the pride that goes\nwith sensibility. Emotion in her is calcined to a thin ash. Poetry assumes\nthe air of unaffected conversation, of quiet altercation. There is no sob,\nno throwing back of the hair with disheveled hands. There is great mystery\nand great tranquillity. The mysticism of Lewis Car oil:\n\"... .deeper than the sea\nwhen it proffers flattery in exchange for hemp,\nrye, flax, horses, platinum, timber and fur.\"\nBut she is too difficult to quote. Best in a long poem about fish or\nelephants or disagreeable cousins, where motion is so subjectively visioned\nthat it becomes significantly distorted. Indeed the refinement which she\npractises is almost oppressive — as she pauses before a conclusion from\nsome observation and relates it more slowly and definitely so that its sugges-\ntions widen out like ripples in a dark pool — or as she wraps herself in\na torment of words:\n\"Feed me also, River God,\nlest by diminished vitality and ablated\nvigilance, I become food for crocodiles —\"\nor as she \"quotes\" some commonplace phrase of the man in the street.\n\n* Poems, by Marianne Moore, Egoist Press, London."}, {"page_pdf": 77, "page_imprimee": "139", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.77", "texte": "The declamatory tone falls into the purest traditions of the English\nlanguage. The genius of that language is evoked most formidably in\nsustained passages of Tamerlane the Great, Antony and Cleopatra, and\nParadise Lost, albeit with the clanking of an armor that is fallen into\ndesuetude. This, too, is an age of declaimers; our great rhetoricians intone\ntheir manifold prophecies from balloon, fence, screen, or incandescent sign,\nwith an informed ardour. The oracle of Marianne Moore, however, is not\nsubsidized, and adopts more varied tones again; her discontentments, her\nfainter heresies and criticisms lead to no great matter; yet, to us they are\nas poignant as the futile sword-brandishing of a Tamerlane. Swaying\ndesperately in the wind she complains:\nffls your town Nineveh? .. .\nIs it Nineveh\nand are you Jonah\nin the sweltering east wind of your wishes?\nI, myself have stood\nthere by the aquarium, looking\nat the Statue of Liberty.\"\nHer \"superiority\", as some have called it, comes of her humility before\nbrute life, her knowledge that, for example, \"this hat lying at the corner\nof this table is more important than the Washington Monument!\" Thus her\nmusic may tinkle up from thin glass or gather the formidable rhythms of\na pachyderm in flight; it matters little. Her personality unfolds and unravels,\nher face becomes more distinct and unforgettable in the wide blur of com-\nposite American faces.\nThe making public property of a group of Eliot poems in the November\nDial, is a considerable event, an occasion for curiosity and mingled hope\nand fear. For a poet who deliberately adopted a minor tone, Mr. Eliot\nhas had a subtle and farspread influence. Let it be said that this later\ngroup of poems justifies the almost reluctant repect for him on the part\nof the younger American and English writers. For, he does move forward,\nthough modestly, from the mood of Prufrock to new terrain, in The Waste-\nland. One is immediately conscious of a more aggressive lyricism, and\nto the baffled inhibited pride of the earlier poems are added certain vulgar"}, {"page_pdf": 78, "page_imprimee": "[140]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.78", "texte": "reverberations from the streets. \"A game of Chess\" and \"What the Thunder\nSaid\" help to round out, for us, an evasive personality which loves futile\ngestures as much as it does polished verses. Mr. Eliot is very quotable;\nthe last poem escapes, or rather eludes, upon a note of rebellious fantasy:\n\"Da\nDayadhvam: I have heard the key\nTurn in the door and turn once only.\"\nwhose manner and spirit is delicious. And Mr. Eliot retires in an in-\nscrutable (shall we say?) mask of Italian, French, Sanskrit and nonsense\nsyllables.\nThe iambic pentameter is rather of Webster and Jonson, than of\nShakespeare; i.e., the lines are embroidered and pompous, the images are\nviolent or bantering. Yet his prosody and diction are strikingly in accord\nwith our own tempo, save that there is the familiar (and sorely imitated)\nair of cynical resignation, of inexplicable hurt, which is remembered\nperhaps as the dominant trait of Mr. Eliot. From the very first line, \"April\nis the cruelest month,\" to the ultimate evasion of the concluding lines\nof the last poem we have the troubled strain of Prufrock again. This is the\nNew-England Mr. Eliot who has embraced English culture and good-\nmanners, who swims reverently the London fog. He is reiterating this\nmood when he writes:\n\"What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?\nThe hot water at ten.\nAnd if it rains, a closed car at four.\nAnd we shall play a game of chess,\nPressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.\"\nOne would not hold such lines against a less gifted craftsman. There\nare so few poets whom we expect not to repeat themselves! But I fear that\nit is precisely in his most facile moments that he has appealed most and\nbeen most echoed. His real distinction, his indubitable mastery of a style,\nhave been more difficult to assail, however removed he may be from the\nless grateful climate of modern America.\nGrateful acknowledgment is made to Dr. H. J. Spinden of the Peabody\nMuseum, from whose excellent book on Maya art most of the illustrations\nused in this issue of BROOM have been reproduced.\n\nM. J.\n\nPrinted by Rich„ Labisch & Co., Graphisclie Kunstanstalt G. m. b. H., Berlin (Germany)"}, {"page_pdf": 79, "page_imprimee": "[141]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.79", "texte": "LES ECRITS NOUVEAUX\ncom i t e de D irection\nEdmond Jaloux, Valery Larbaud, Andre Germain,\nPhilippe Soupault\npublieront pendant l'anne 1923\nDOU2E ETUDES CRITIQUES\nAndre Gide, par la Comtesse\nde Noailles\nPaul Valery, par la Comtesse\nde Noailles\nHenry James, par J. E. Blanche\nJean Giraudoux, par Edmond Jaloux\nThomas Hardy, par Edmond Jaloux\nBerenson, par Charles Du Bos\nEdmond Jaloux, par Robert de Traz\nGabriel Miro, par Valery Larbaud\nPerez de Ayala, par Valery Larbaud\nThomas Mann, par Felix Berteaux\nValery Larbaud, par Marcel Ray\nMaurice Barres, par Henri\nde Montherlant\nProust, par Paul Morand\nLE NUMERO: TROIS FRANCS\n• t\nAbonnement\npour la France 30 francs\npour les autres pays 36 francs\nREDACTION, ADMINISTRATION ET PUBLICITE\n100 rue du Faubourg St. Honore\nPARIS\nDES NOUVELLES DE\nA. de Chateaubriant\nT checov\nBounine\nAragon\nMorand\nDrieu la Rochelle\nHenri de Montherlant\nMarcel Chaminade\nJean Richard-Bloch\nBernard Fay\nMax Jacob\nFrangois Mauriac\nDES POEMES DE\nla Comtesse de Noailles, Paul Valery,\nLeon Paul Fargue, Valery Larbaud,\nBlaise Cendrars, Pierre Reverdy, Max\nJacob, Paul Eluard, Philippe Soupault"}, {"page_pdf": 80, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.80", "texte": "A subcription to THE DRAMA\nbrings you a year's acquaintance with all that is best in the theatre.\nIt keeps you posted on current developments and gives you a\nglance into the future.\nTHE DRAMA has much to offer during the coming year many\neffective one-act plays for reading or acting, regular reviews of\nthe New York and Chicago productions of significance, news of\nthe London, Paris, German and Russian theatres, trenchant discussion\nof the trend of the theatre in America.\nyearly subcription to THE DRAMA entitles the subscriber to a\nfull membership in the Drama League of America, and to the many\nbenefits which may be derived from this association.\nOne Year's Subscription for $ d\nfiue months trictt subscription for $ 1\nThe Drama Corporation / 59 E. Van Buren St., Chicago\n\nMODERN\nREVIEW\nMiction — (poetry — Criticism\nA modern magazine printing nothing,\nhowever, that is radical or clever.\nPublished quarterly at Winchester Mass.\n25 c Per Copy at Bookstands\n$ 1.00 The year by subscription\n\nTHE GREATEST\nTHE BIGGEST\nTHE BEST\nHundreds of people found to their keen\ndisappointment that back numbers of some\nissues of BROOM last year were not pro-\ncurable for love or money, having been\nentirely exhausted by the Belated demand.\nBookstand readers, occasional or pro-\nspective readers are sagely warned to\nSUBSCRIBE BEFOREHAND (at $ 5 a year) Address\nBROOM, 3 East Ninth Street, New York\n\nS 4 N\nMONTHLY PUBLICATION\nOF THE S 4 N SOCIETY\nTo promote open-minded consideration\nof all theories and practices of art and\nto combat influences hostile to such\nconsideration.\nAMONG ITS CONTRIBUTORS\nE. E. Cummings\nKenneth Burke\nDavid Greenhood\nMax Robin\nLoring Andrews\nGorham B. Munson\nReginald Marsh\nTom Chubb\nRoger Sessions\nDaniel Dourouze\nJohn Peale Bishop\nWilliam Rose Ben6t\nStephen Vincent Ben6t\nGrace Hazard Conkling\nHarold Vinal\nOliver Jenkins\nRobert Withington\nPhilip Gray\nRichard Bassett\nJosephine Chandler\nAnnual Dues (or Subscription): $ 3\nAddress NORMAN FITTS, Editor\nNORTHAMPTON, MASS., U.S.A."}, {"page_pdf": 81, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.81", "texte": "AGAINST THE FAUX BON\nTHE DIAL\nis a magazine of the creative and the critical arts which\nneither publishes nor praises that very bad substitute for\nfine work, the faux bon.\nThe faux bon always looks a little bit better than good\nenough, but only a little bit. It has all the pretensions of\ncreative integrity and none of its power. It is Rostand\ninstead of Shakespeare, Schoenberg instead of Scriabine\nand the well-groomed, literary impostor instead of the\nspontaneous creator of lasting, artistic values. It is the\ntriumph of technique over genius.\nThe faux bon compromises with the semipopular high-\nbrow standards of good form and good taste. The Dial\nmakes no such compromise. Its only prejudice is in fa-\nvour of clear thinking in criticism, and the fine expression\nof fine things in creative work. It has never rejected a\nmanuscript because the author's name was unknown or\ntaken one, because the author is famous.\nThe Dial is each month an authoritative record of what\nthe creative intelligence of the world is doing. It is liberal\nin letters. It offers the writers and artists of America com-\nplete independence from the limitations otherwise imposed\nupon publication of their work.\nSPECIAL OFFER:\nTHE DIAL for 1 year $5.00\nTHE DIAL for 1 year and one of\nthe following books $ 5.50\nBABBITT\nby Sinclair Lewis\nTHE JUDGE\nby Rebecca West\nTHE WASTE LAND\nby T. S. Eliot\nAARON'S ROD\nby D. H. Lawrence\nMARIA CHAPDELAINE\nby Louis Hemon\nTHE ENORMOUS ROOM\nby E. E. Cummings\nCIVILIZATION IN THE UNITED STATES\nby thirty well known American writers\nTHE DIAL\n152 West 13 th Street New York City\nGentlemen: You may enter my name\nfor a year's subscription to THE DIAL\nbeginning with the number.\nName\nAddress\nBook\n□ I enclose $ 5.50. □ I will remit\n$ 5.50 on receipt of your bill."}, {"page_pdf": 82, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.82", "texte": "TJZake 'Beauty our i'Handmaiden\nou can buy beautiful things with money and place\nthem in an environment that robs them of their\nmagic.\nMoney is the tool of beauty, not its master. To create beauty\none must have a knowledge of its laws and how to use them.\nWhat we call \"good taste\" is a recognition of these laws, in-\nstinctive or acquired.\nThe Arts & Decoration Practical Home Study Course in In-\nterior Decoration gives you in a simple, direct and fascinating\nway the laws which govern the making of a beautiful room\nor a beautiful house, and plain, practical directions showing\nthe procedure step by step.\nThe course consists of twenty-four semi-monthly lessons\nwhich cover every phase, artistic and practical, of the ab-\nsorbing subject. It is essential to a cultural education, a\nnecessity to those who desire to beautify their homes, and it\nhas an economic justification in that each lesson can save\nthe total cost of the course.\nPerhaps the greatest benefit derived from it, in satisfaction,\nis the capacity to create a home environment that commands\nartistic appreciation from authorities and at the same time\nexpresses one's own individuality, whose spirit reflects the\npossessor.\nThe directors of the course are HAROLD DONALDSON\nEBERLEIN and NANCY V. Mc CLELLAND. The advisory\nBoard, including WILLIAM EMERSON, Director of the Ar-\nchitectural School, Massachusetts Institute of Technology;\nHUGER ELLIOTT, Principal of the School, Pennsylvania\nMuseum and School of Industrial Arts, Philadelphia; WHIT-\nNEY WARREN, New York, architect of the Grand Central\nTerminal; RICHARD F. BACH, curator of Industrial Art,\nMetropolitan Museum of Art, New York.\nWe shall be glad to send you an illustrated booklet on request.\nHrts & Dccoration\n50 (Cleft 47 tb Street\nJVew York City"}, {"page_pdf": 83, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.83", "texte": "Js Tbrootn too Conservative ?\nA maiden-lady of advanced age wrote us from the Middle West that the Indian animal\nsculptures which appeared in the September issue of BROOM were \"old stuff.\"\nA Philadelph la bank-director revoked his subscription on the grounds that the work\nof a noted American poetess was unfit to be read by his daughter, aged sixteen.\nStill another encouraging comment from the deserts of New Mexico reads: \"I find BROOM\nthe best medium for keeping abreast of artistic developments in America and Europe.\"\n\"Where the critics disagree —\" said Wilde, \"the artist is in accord with himself.\" And\nBROOM has set itself the task of bringing the new work of living artists in America\nand Europe to the intelligent reading public of America. (Nor has BROOM ever\nunderestimated the taste of that public.) Thus each number of BROOM is a\ndeparture, a fresh adventure winning new plunder for its readers.\nIn the FEBRUARY issue there will be published:\nA short nove\\,'transformations, by Richard Huelsenbeck,a work whose extraordi-\nnary fantasy and humor recall the qualities of German folk-tales of the Middle Ages.\nDrawings by the too little known masters, Paul Klee and George Gross, which,\nsuggesting much the same qualities, have an intensely modern consciousness.\nTwo drawings by inmates of a lunatic asylum which possess plastic and\nimaginative value far in advance of their more normal contemporaries.\nThe Kid, a story by Vsevolod Ivanov, a new Russian writer, who draws\nan amazing picture of present-day Russia, with primitive power and simplicity.\nRed Eric, by William Carlos Williams, the second of a series of histo-\nrical studies — history as it was certainly never written nor sung!\nAnd distinctive American prose and poetry by Carleton Beals, Malcolm\nCowley, John Crawford, Evelyn Scott, William Gamaliel Shepherd, Paul\nEldridge, and others.\nTherefore the heavy demand for backnumbers of BROOM, which entirely exhausted\nseveral issues last year, has been not at all surprising. Bookstand readers are warned\nto assure themselves of an unbroken series of 1923 BROOMS by\nSUBSCRIBING NOW\n$ 5 for One Year's Subscription\nFor America, address BROOM, 3 East Ninth Street, New York.\nFor Europe, address BROOM, 5 Schicklerstrasse, Berlin."}, {"page_pdf": 84, "page_imprimee": "n. p.", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaap192301-01.1.84", "texte": "MARIANNE MOORE.\n\"... and America where there\nis the little ramshackle victoria in the south, where cigars are smoked on the\nstreet in the north; where there are no proofreaders, no silkworms, no digressions;\nthe wild man's land; grass-less, links-less, language-less country —\nin which letters are written\nnot in Spanish, not in Greek, not in Latin, not in shorthand\nbut in plain American which cats and dogs can read!\""}]}