{"numero_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_sha256": "a89ad3acaa0997151096d356d2fa23808a4ee010cd005c453c02c1f06166230a", "source_tei": "https://github.com/Princeton-CDH/bluemountain-transcriptions/blob/main/periodicals/bmtnaaq/issues/1916/11/15_01/bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01.tei.xml", "source_mets": "https://github.com/pulibrary/BlueMountain/blob/main/metadata/periodicals/bmtnaaq/issues/1916/11/15_01/bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01.mets.xml", "url_numero": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01", "articles": [{"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c001", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c001", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "couv. 1", "page_fin": "couv. 1", "image_debut": 1, "image_fin": 1, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.1", "titre_corps": "ARE YOU YOUR BROTHER'S HANGMAN?", "titre_sommaire": "ARE YOU YOUR BROTHER'S HANGMAN?", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "couv. 1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.1", "debut_caractere": 39, "fin_caractere_exclue": 70, "texte": "ARE YOU YOUR BROTHER'S HANGMAN?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c002", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c002", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[1196]", "page_fin": "[1196]", "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.2", "titre_corps": "\"\"J\"IHERE1HERE is no chapel on the day", "titre_sommaire": "\"\"J\"IHERE1HERE is no chapel on the day", "signature_source": "Oscar Wilde", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[1196]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 107, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1279, "texte": "Oscar Wilde.\n\"\"J\"IHERE1HERE is no chapel on the day\nOn which they hang a man:\nThe Chaplain's heart is far too sick,\nOr his face is far too wan,\nOr there is that written in his eyes\nWhich none should look upon.\nSo they kept us close till nigh on noon,\nAnd then they rang the bell,\nAnd the IVarders with their jingling keys\nOpened each listening cell,\nAnd down the iron stair we tramped,\nEach from his separate Hell.\nOut into God's sweet air we went\nBut not in wonted way,\nFor this man's face was white with fear,\nAnd that man's face was gray,\nAnd I never saw sad men who looked\nSo wistfully at the day.\nI never saw sad men who looked\nWith such a wistful eye\nUpon that little tent of blue\nWe prisoners called the sky,\nAnd at every careless cloud that passed\nIn happy freedom by.\nBut there were those amongst us all\nWho walked with downcast head,\nAnd knew that, had each got his due,\nThey should have died instead:\nHe had but killed a thing that lived,\nWhilst they had killed the dead.\nFor he who sins a second time\nWakes a dead soul to pain,\nAnd draws it from its spotted shroud,\nAnd makes it bleed again,\nAnd makes it bleed great gouts of blood,\nAnd makes it bleed in vain!"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c003", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c003", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "[1196]", "page_fin": "1197", "image_debut": 2, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.3", "titre_corps": "Are You Your Brother's Hangman?", "titre_sommaire": "Are You Your Brother's Hangman?", "signature_source": "Guido Bruno", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[1196]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.2", "debut_caractere": 1281, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4842, "texte": "Are You Your Brother's Hangman?\n\nJN Murderers' Row, in the cell of the doomed, a man\nis awaiting his death.\nDeath that will be inflicted upon him by the hangman,\nas representative of the people. He has stained his hands\nwith the blood of someone he has killed. Life for life!\nSo the man must die.\nHe is sitting there in his cell, watched day and night\nby his guards, deprived of sunshine and of air, deprived\nof love and of pity: a dangerous beast, successfully caged,\nto be done away with that the people may be protected\nfrom him.\nThe formalities of the law are fulfilled. He has been\ntried and convicted. The day of his execution is set. He\nsits there in his cell counting the days and the hours of\nhis life.\nHe eats and he drinks. He sleeps and he thinks of his\nhangman.\nConstantly he must think of his hangman and of that\nlast service his fellowmen have in store for him.\nThe guards talk to him and he answers. He even\nsmiles: he is expected to be kind and repentant. A chap-\nlain comes and talks to him of Christ and he accepts\nChrist in his heart. The doomed man accepts Christ\nwhile he cannot but wonder what else Christ can have in\ncommon with jailers and hangmen and chaplains, but\nthat He, too, was killed by them two thousand years ago\nas he himself will be in a few days or in a few hours.\nChrist, the fellow-sufferer, becomes dear to him.\nHe is sitting there in his cell and no one cares about his\nheart. The Jury has found him guilty. The judge has\nacted according to the written laws. Who cares for the\nremorse in his heart, for his regrets, for his desires to blot\nout the past, to do better in the future? Who cares that\nhe knows in his heart that he was innocent of the crime?\nWho cares for his prayers, for his good thoughts, for his\nsincerity, for hopes killed and for horrors arisen. Who\nJends an ear to the trembling voice that sounds meekly\nfrom out the prison walls, begging for a chance, for just\none more chance?\nBegging whom for a chance?\nHis judge! His jury! His wardens, his hangman.\nAnd the judge is elected by you. To represent you,\nand to pass judgment for you upon your fellowmen. And\nthe jury is chosen from among you to render a verdict of\npeople upon one of the people. And the guards are\npaid by you to take care of him whom you consider dan-\ngerous to the welfare of man. And the hangman walks\nin as the supreme representative of you and of me, and\nof millions of fellowmen to take in cold blood the life of\nhim who has forfeited it to you.\nAnxiously you buy edition after edition of newspapers\nwhich bring you accounts of the doomed man's last hours.\nWith horror you enjoy the terrible ceremonies of justice\nthat transform murder into a sacrosanct function of the\nstate.\nDo you not hear the voice of that doomed man whcv\npleadeth with you for another chance, who pleadeth\nthrough the ears of judge and jury and of guards and of\nthe hangman you have set over him?\nOUR modern age has abolished everything cruel to the\neye, gruesome to the soul and labor unwelcome to\nthe hands.\nBut suppose that electricity had not reached its present\ndevelopment, that the millions of inhabitants of New\nYork were scattered all over the country and that New\nYork still had its open market-place with public execu-\ntions. Suppose the hangman were not an official of the\ngovernment but were chosen in each case from among\nfellow-townsmen.\nThe choice would fall upon you one day.\nAnd you would have to swing the sharp sword, you\nwould have to decapitate the condemned man with your\nown hands.\nOr you would have to stand high upon the gallows,"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 17, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2759, "texte": "you would have to place the rope around the culprit's\npeck and it would have to be you who must open the\ntrap-door under his feet.\nWould you give him another chance? If for no other\nreason in order to avoid your own horrible experience?\nLION, a wildly roaring, blood-thirsty lion, angry\nfrom his long captivity, escapes in the circus.\nTrained men, men who know how to meet such an emer-\ngency, are set upon his trail. The lion has wounded\nrome people, has slain some people before he is re-cap-\ntured. And now he is lying again in his cage, his terrible\npaws tied with cutting ropes, his eyes closed, his tongue\nhangs red from his muzzle. His body is heaving and his\nhead turns desperate and tired towards his jailer who\nenters the cage. What will the lion-tamer do with this\nbeast that has caused the death of innocent people, that\nhas wounded and disabled others? Will he shoot it?\nNo. A lion is too dear to be shot.\nHe will walk close to the lion. He will put his steady,\nfirm hand,, the hand that tied the knots of the ropes, upon\nhis victim's head. The lion will open its eyes. It will\nscrutinize the face leaning over its helpless body. It will\nlook deep into its jailer's eyes. And then and there, the\njailer will have won the truest friend in this animal or\na hateful, blood-thirsty enemy.\nIf he is the right sort of a lion-tamer kindness will be\nin his heart, pity in his actions. His voice will quiet the\nlion, the raving beast. He will loosen the painful grip\nof the ropes. And gradually, from day today, he will\ngrant more and more freedom to the lion and soon the\nanimal will feel quite happy again in the captivity of its\ncage.\nThe law does not request the death of the lion as long\nas there is a proper place to keep it locked up, a place\nthat would yield guaranty to the people that this lion will\nnot again be a menace to human society.\nDO not we too have proper and secure places for our\nprisoners? Places where they can be separated for-\never and ever from contact with human society? Do we\nlack lion-tamers who have kind eyes in addition to their\nfirm grip ?\nThe doomed men in Murderers' Row are sending a\nplea to you, yes, to you, the individual, a plea for another\nchance.\nIf the life and death of men were in your hands, would\nyou really take it?\nWould you deny them the new chance that has so very\noften been given to you ?\nYour vote sends men into the Legislature to make laws\nfor you. These men could introduce a bill that would\nabolish capital punishment in the State of New York.\nThere is not one in a thousand who would deny his fel-\nlowman a chance to live.\nIsn't it about time to manifest the spirit of our twenti-\neth century America by doing away with this gruesome\ninheritance of barbaric ages?\n\nGuido Bruno."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c004", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c004", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1197", "page_fin": "1197", "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.4", "titre_corps": "People are only half as good and only half as bad asi", "titre_sommaire": "People are only half as good and only half as bad asi", "signature_source": "—Knigge", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 2761, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2851, "texte": "—Knigge\nPeople are only half as good and only half as bad asi\nothers generally paint them."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c005", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c005", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1197", "page_fin": "1197", "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.5", "titre_corps": "Songs of Life and Death", "titre_sommaire": "Songs of Life and Death", "signature_source": "Rainer Maria Rilke", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 2853, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5326, "texte": "Songs of Life and Death\nBy Rainer Maria Rilke\nIV.\nOne sits around and waits. Waiting until\nsomeone sings. But all are so tired. The red light is\nheavy. It lies upon the dusty shoes. It crawls up to the knees.\nIt looks into the clasped hands. It has no wings. The faces\nare dark. Still the eyes of the little Frenchman are lighted for\na short time with a peculiar light. He has kissed a little rose,\nand now it can wither a little longer on his breast. He, Von\nLangenau, has seen it because he cannot sleep. He thinks:\n\"I have no rose, none.\"\nThen he sings. It is a sad old song as at home the girls sing\nupon the fields, in autumn when the harvest approaches its\nend.\nV.\nQJAYS the little Frenchman: \"You are very young, sir?\"\nAnd he, Von Langenau, half-sadly, half-impatiently, re-\nturns: \"Eighteen.\" Then both are silent. A little later the\nFrenchman asks: \"You to have left a bride at home?\"\n\"Did you?\" Von .Langenau returns the question.\n\"She is blonde as you are.\"\nBoth are silent again until the German cries: \"Why the\ndevil then are you sitting on your horse's back, riding through\nthis poisoned country against the Turkish dogs?\"\nThe Frenchman laughs. \"In order to return.\"\nAnd he, Von Langenau, becomes very sad.\nAnd he thinks of the blonde girl with whom he used to play.\nWild plays. And he wishes to go home for a few seconds only,\nonly for so long as it takes to say: \"Magdalena—forgive me\neverything.\" How? why? .... he thinks. And he is\nso far away, so very far away.\nVI.\nQNCE upon a morning a man arrives on horseback, and then,\ntwo more, and four, and ten: big heavy cavalrymen. Later\nthousands: the Army. The hour of parting arrives.\n\"A happy return to you, Marquis! \"\n\"May the blessed Virgin take care of you, Von Langenau!\"\nParting seems hard. They have become friends, brothers.\nThey know so much about each other; they would like to ex-\nchange some more confidences. They hesitate. Hurry, haste,\nand beating of hoofs is around them. The Marquis takes off\nhis big, heavy riding glove. He brings forth the little rose and\ntakes one of its petals. An offering of the sacrament.\n\"This will protect you, farewell.\"\nHe, Von Langenau, is surprised. His eyes follow the French-\nman vanishing on the horizon. He puts the stranger's rose\npetal in his breast-pocket. It heaves up and down on the\nwaves of his heart.\nA trumpet call! He rides to his troop, they fall in with the\narmy. He smiles sadly: A stranger's sweetheart is protecting\nhim.\nEditor's translation."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c006", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c006", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1197", "page_fin": "1198", "image_debut": 3, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.6", "titre_corps": "Hunger", "titre_sommaire": "Hunger", "signature_source": "Pages from a Diary of Hans Friedrich, a German Journalist ; Author of several books", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.3", "debut_caractere": 5328, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6452, "texte": "Hunger\nPages from a Diary of Hans Friedrich, a German Journalist\nand Author of several books\nNov., 1915.\n[ AM one of the most superfluous of men during these times of\nwar. Even the last Reserve Commission refused my\nservices. Very well. I never had military ambitions. Who-\never has read my books, \"The Dream of Life,\" and\"The\nHappiness of a Child\" would never suspect in me a desire to\nbe a soldier. And after the war Germany will again need\nheads as badly as it needs hands now. Heads that can retain\nwith their brains what our troops gain, with blood and with\narms. But it is hard today, harder than ever to keep one's\nhead cool and prepared for the future mobilization. What\ngood can a writer do behind the lines? The newspapers re-\nceive a sufficient amount of letters from the field, the maga-\nzines are swamped with photographs from trenches and battle\nlines. WorUs concerning these times are shallow. To come\nto conclusions is not possible so long as everything remains in\nthis unsettled state. But we must live. We must live and\nretain for ourselves our impressions and we must wait. . . .\nWait ever and ever. . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 35, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4941, "texte": "Nov. 18, 1915.\nI went today to the Press Association and received a subsidy\nof twenty marks. How hard it is for one who can work to\naccept alms. No matter what you call it, this money given us\nunder all sorts of names is alms.\nTwenty marks. . . .! It itches in my fingers. It seems\nso very much money if one is accustomed to carry only a few\npennies in one's pocketbook. If only I did not have to pay out\nmost of it! I do need some coal and wood. I have frozen\nbitterly in my cold room during the past weeks. To go to the\ncafe and sit in its warmth and read papers will be impossible\nfor me for quite awhile.\nFor the thirty pfennigs I would have to leave there I can\nbuy myself a supper. One always needs so much in order to\nsustain life. And what sort of life is this? That one does\nnot starve is the only pleasant feature. But always near star-\nvation, very near starvation. Never with the hunger quite\nappeased and always freezing in one's rooms. Especially on\ndays like today, with the sun shining again and warm outside,\none feels it more than ever.\nNov. 23, 1915.\nOne would like to recall every hour spent in previous times\nmerrily and in spending money: travelling in society, at the\nbar, or drinking wine with girls. Yes. . . . girls! They\nhave become wholly uninteresting; love has become a mere\nplay. The world now is rough and does not bother about the\nsmaller things. And what should we do with girls? We can't\ngive them anything any more and so they have become untrue\nto us. We are the superfluous people. At present they are\ncrazy over our field-gray soldiers.\nI stood today in front of a candy shop. I have never liked\nsweetmeats very much. But today I did not seem to be able\nto tear myself away from that shop window. I studied the\nprices as if I expected to be a salesman in the shop. There\nwere chocolate bars for five pfennig apiece. I viewed them\nfor a long time. Finally I left the place. I have to be very\nsaving. Two rolls, war bread, mean more to me than one\nchocolate bar. The bread has to remain dry. I haven't seen\nbutter for months. And one has been accustomed to a better\nlife. Life without sweets is hard even if one does not starve\nbut remains steadily upon the verge of starvation.\nI have never been a heavy eater but now the stomach is first\nconsideration. It seems to feel its importance. Our souls ap-\npear to be in a sort of a twilight sleep, dozing, waiting for\npeace. Our stomachs are at work, we learn to enjoy what we\ntook for granted only a year ago. We have become simple\nMilk is a luxury. Bread, dry bread, something delicious.\nSausages, which we never would have thought of eating, taste\ndelightful to us. And if we could pay the price we would eat\nthree times as much as we can afford. Everything is change-\nable today, even our most despotic and most spoiled tastes!\nNov. 25, 1915.\nToday, again, I stopped in front of that candy shop. The\nchocolate bars were irresistible. I was weak. I did not even\ntry to resist. I bought one. . . . Just one, but it was so\nlittle, so very little for a supper. Two war rolls are more.\nI went to bed hungry.\nI am very often hungry now. It is something I never have\nknown in previous years. I always used to leave something\nover on my plate. Now my plates are clean. I hardly need\nto wash them. Of course I have to do all my own work. I\nam washing my own dishes and my own clothes. But every-\nthing goes swiftly, especially the dishwashing. The fates are\nkind. Maybe this is the reason for my having so little to put\non the plates. My tea contains water so plentifully that even\nseven cups would not hurt the weakest heart.\nIt seems to me that I really never experienced a real winter.\nFreezing—hunger. One does not need a rich vocabulary to\npictur such a situation. They repeat themselves again and\nagain like a nerve-racking rhythm: freezing—hunger. Else-\nwhere: blood—flames—terror. Where we are it is cold, some-\nwhere else it is hot.\nHow rough our times are! And still—we love them. I\nmeditate. Is it true? Do we really love them? Here: amidst\nour cold walls, empty because we sold or pawned everything\nof value—\nHere: opposite this rag of paper, proof sheets that we never\nwould have thought of using to write down our thoughts and\nthe children of our brains. . . . Here with our hands upon\na cold, worn oilcloth that makes writing difficult while our\nstomach revolts with its music of hunger! ....\nYes—we do love them. Our times are greater than we are.\nFinally it has arrived that which we have longed for during\nthe last decade while sitting and talking around our coffee\ntables, while reading our inflaming books. These times are\ncruel and destructive. But they are promising, too, promising\na new generation. Not a generation to be our posterity. We\nourselves are this generation. We are being purified, hammered\nupon, hammered by steel in flames, in frost through hunger. . . .\nExactly as everyone of us needs it."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c007", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c007", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1198", "page_fin": "1198", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.7", "titre_corps": "Drawing by Clara Tice.", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing by Clara Tice.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 4943, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4965, "texte": "Drawing by Clara Tice."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c008", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c008", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1198", "page_fin": "1198", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.8", "titre_corps": "A Foolish Youth", "titre_sommaire": "A Foolish Youth", "signature_source": "After the German of Hans Holzschuher by Guido Bruno", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 4967, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6293, "texte": "A Foolish Youth\n(After the German of Hans Holzschuher by Guido Bruno.)\nYOUNG man, who understood that it was very bad to\nhave several love affairs at the same time, went to a sage\nand asked him:\n\"Is it permitted that one love several women or should one\nbestow all his love upon one?\"\nWithout hesitation the sage answered: \"Most assuredly\nthere is only one real love which one must give in all its\nabundance to the one woman loved above all others.\"\n\"How is it then,\" asked the youth, \"that they tell of you\nthat you were one of the wildest in your young years?\"\nThe sage did not seem embarrassed; he smiled and covered\nhis eyes with his hands and spoke gently: \"Go to Abdallah,\nto the merchant, and observe what he is doing.\"\nThe young man did as the sage advised him.\nAbdallah was in his store weighing gold on scales; he\nassayed it upon a stone, deliberating carefully upon its genu-\nineness, and then he compared it painstakingly with other gold.\nThis he did for hours.\nThe youth observed everything diligently, went back to the\nsage and told him what he had seen.\n\"And do you know now,\" asked the sage, \"the answer to\nyour question?\"\nThe young man remained silent. The sage viewed him with\nsad eyes and turned away.\nThe youth returned home, married soon after and became\none of the most unhappy husbands in his community."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c009", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c009", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1198", "page_fin": "1198", "image_debut": 4, "image_fin": 4, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.9", "titre_corps": "Sooner or later all races must learn that their", "titre_sommaire": "Sooner or later all races must learn that their", "signature_source": "FRANK HARRIS", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.4", "debut_caractere": 6295, "fin_caractere_exclue": 6872, "texte": "FRANK HARRIS\nSooner or later all races must learn that their artists—-\nthe singers and painters and seers, the priests of the True,\nthe Beautiful and the Good—are the rarest and most valua-\nble of the Sons of Men. By the very nature of their high\ncalling, they can expect no reward from their contempor-\naries; their appeal is to the future; their duty to set the\ncourse and chart the unattempted seas. More than decent\nprovision for their needs, these soldiers of the ideal will not\nexpect; but that should be given them by the State and such\nhonor to boot as may be possible."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c010", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c010", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1199", "page_fin": "1199", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.10", "titre_corps": "London Prose and New York Prose", "titre_sommaire": "London Prose and New York Prose", "signature_source": "Alexander Harvey in his \"Bang", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1410, "texte": "London Prose and New York Prose\nAlexander Harvey in his \"Bang.\"\n'J'HE obvious truth is that the English language has always\nled a somewhat precarious existence in England. It has\nflourished most in this country, where it is taught with devo-\ntion and written with ease. Notwithstanding its origin, the\nEnglish tongue is essentially un-English, and is the secret of\nits diffusion throughout the globe. The French language is too\nFrench to be used readily by those who are not French.\nThose who have had opportunities of comparing the prose\nwritten in London now with the prose written in New York\nnow need not be told that style flourishes to-day in America\nwhereas in England it seems to decay. Popular literature in\nGreat Britain is defaced from the standpoint of style by a ten-\ndency to the use of Americanisms—Americanisms that are\noutworn here. Britons will sometimes protest against Ameri-\ncanisms and use a frightful Americanism while doing so.\nIt behooves the young American writer, then, to beware of\nthe prose written in London to-day. He will find very little in\nthat prose to serve him as a model for imitation. Let the\nyoung American beware, likewise, of the various unreadable\nbooks on the art of writing which come from British Dryas-\ndusts with imposing titles. You may put Bottom the Weaver\ninto Jesus College and call him Sir Nick if you like, yet all he\ncan do there is bray."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c011", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c011", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1199", "page_fin": "1199", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.11", "titre_corps": "Edgar Allen Poe About British Criticism", "titre_sommaire": "Edgar Allen Poe About British Criticism", "signature_source": "Marginalia: Nationality in American Letters", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 1412, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2342, "texte": "Edgar Allen Poe About British\nCriticism\nMarginalia: Nationality in American Letters.\n'jpHERE is not a more disgusting spectacle under the sun than\nour subserviency to British criticism. It is disgusting,\nfirst, because it is truckling, servile, pusillanimous—secondly,\nbecause of its gross irrationality. We know the British to bear\nus little but ill will; we know that in no case do they utter\nunbiassed opinions of American books; we know that in the\nfew instances in which our writers have been treated with\ncommon decency in England, these writers have either openly\npaid homage to English institutions, or have had lurking at the\nbottom of their hearts a secret principle at war with Demo-\ncracy: we know all this, and yet, day after day, submit our\nnecks to the degrading yoke of the crudest opinion that eman-\nates from the fatherland. Now if we must have nationality,\nlet it be a nationality that will throw off this yoke."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c012", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c012", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1199", "page_fin": "1199", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.12", "titre_corps": "Gathering the Slain", "titre_sommaire": "Gathering the Slain", "signature_source": "H. Thompson Rich", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 2344, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2661, "texte": "Gathering the Slain\nH. Thompson Rich.\nTHEY are gathering the slain,\nTonight;\nAnd none of them can laugh, and none can sleep.\nThey are shedding tears again,\nTonight—\nThe salt, cold tears that soldier-men can weep.\nThey are gathering the slain,\nStill and stark upon the plain\nThey are adding up the awful gain.\nTonight."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c013", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c013", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1199", "page_fin": "1199", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.13", "titre_corps": "Ideals", "titre_sommaire": "Ideals", "signature_source": "Tom Sleeper", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 2663, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3142, "texte": "Ideals\nTom Sleeper\n'J'HERE is my Ideals, bruised and broken on the battlefield of\nexperience. All of them—there is not one left—choked\nand withered by the poisonous gases of Reality.\nSee them—they are funny, truly.\nFaith in mankind ; faith in God—friendship—woman—and\nthe rest. The silly show!\nYet somehow, I feel there must be one that has escaped—\none that I do not comprehend. How else could my heart sing\nwith the poppies nodding in the sunlight as I go about mv\ndaily tasks?"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c014", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c014", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1199", "page_fin": "1199", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.14", "titre_corps": "Drawing by Aubrey Beardsley.", "titre_sommaire": "Drawing by Aubrey Beardsley.", "signature_source": "", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 3144, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3172, "texte": "Drawing by Aubrey Beardsley."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c015", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c015", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1199", "page_fin": "1199", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.15", "titre_corps": "A Matter of Destiny", "titre_sommaire": "A Matter of Destiny", "signature_source": "James Waldo Fawcett", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 3174, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3569, "texte": "A Matter of Destiny\nJames Waldo Fawcett.\n\\yHEN Jesus returned to Heaven from his sojourn on earth,\nhe came to his Father with sad and troubled eyes.\n\"Father,\" he said, \"I have a favor to ask of you.\"\n\"Yes,\" said God, kindly.\n\"I want you to keep me out of literature,\" said Jesus.\nAnd God thought for a long time; then he shook his head.\n\"I cannot do that, my Son,\" he sighed. \"It is impossible.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c016", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c016", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1199", "page_fin": "1199", "image_debut": 5, "image_fin": 5, "pages_selon": "pagination imprimée relevée dans le METS Blue Mountain (ORDERLABEL) ; [n] = page sans folio restituée", "url_article": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.16", "titre_corps": "STOOD on a rock looking down on the grass beneath me.", "titre_sommaire": "STOOD on a rock looking down on the grass beneath me.", "signature_source": "Marjorie Mawr", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.5", "debut_caractere": 3571, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4607, "texte": "Marjorie Mawr.\nSTOOD on a rock looking down on the grass beneath me.\nHere and there little bits of red spoke brilliantly from\nthe green. I said to myself, 4<l must get closer to those radiant\nbits. I must pick some, and take them to my room.\"\nSo I got down from the rocks and went through the grass\ntill I came to a bush that held some of the beautiful leaves. I\npicked a twig on which hung three. Two of them were green,\nbut the third was red—so red that it looked like the blood of\nthe nightingale that died on the thorn.\nI left the grass, the sky, the rocks and came home clasping\nthe twig tightly in my hand. I placed it in a little water glass;\nit was all the vase I had, and then I went out to my day's\nwork.\nIn the evening I returned. In the glass stood the twig with\nthe green leaves fresh as before, but the red, the beautiful red\nwas gone, and a dull brown leaf was in its place. In my bare\nlittle room there was no place for passion—only the cold, cold\ngreen remained, and the brown that I knew not but that\nmatched my walls."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c017", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c017", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1200", "page_fin": "1200", "image_debut": 6, "image_fin": 6, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.17", "titre_corps": "Memories ....", "titre_sommaire": "Memories ....", "signature_source": "Guido Bruno", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "1200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 16, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5354, "texte": "Memories ....\nGuido Bruno.\nJF only memories would vanish forever! If the past would\nremain past! If we could erase the past from our mental\nlife; if this archive of pictures and impressions did not exist\nin our skull.\nBut they do come back, again and again. Like the personi-\nfied monitors of everything perishable that was, and that will\nbe forever, even though we buried it in the most obscure corner\nof our thoughts, under the cobwebs of our self-deceiving con-\nsciousness. Like a thick, massive stone wall memories stand\nbetween ourselves and our life. Like a river they broaden\nthemselves—like a river over which we cannot build bridges;\nwhat was just now in reach of our hands they take with them\nto the banks on the far away other side; it looks over to us\nlike unreachable clouds.\nAs uninvited guests they appear, without knocking; without\nawaiting our \"come in\" they open the door brusquely. . . .\nAnd here they are. We have to offer them a chair. We have\nto smile hospitably and friendly, because we know that they\ntake at their pleasure, that they will stay as long as they please\nto.\nOften it is the gesture of a hand, often again a smile, that\ntransforms the features just now so dear to us into some other\nface, that brings us a message from long forgotten days. Often\nit is a cadence of a voice that we have heard somewhere, some-\ntime ago, and that exhumes for us something buried long ago.\nIt is not regret, it is not a feeling of being sorry. It is not a\nlonging for something that was. It is not the wish that it might\nbe again. . . .\nIt is a tombstone and a grave mound. We know all of a\nsudden: deep down there in the brown crumbling earth reposes\na piece of life that we have lived once, and that gave us\nhappiness and sadness, joy and sorrow, exaltation and con-\ntempt. It is buried. We have buried it; but it remained some-\nwhere in this world. It lives its own life. Separated from\nus.\nWe do not pilgrimage there with flowers and with wreaths\nor with tear-wet eyes.\nBut in quiet hours, or in the excitement of passionate emo-\ntions we do feel that it exists. We sense the odor of the\ngrasses that are growing there or we feel the stinging thorn\ngrowing rank around it. The grave opens itself for fractions\nof seconds. And we see, we feel, we hear; the most sensitive\nends of our nerves drink lustfully the well-known odors, and\nthe finest senses of our finger tips feel, feel that our.body trem-\nbles and that men and worlds collapse into nothing. . . .\nCollapse: Before this life that we have buried. A life that\nwas once a part of our own selves and that lives and lives\nand exists .... and returns ever and ever and again. . . .!\nOur memories.\nIT was on an evening in March. Fresh-fallen snow spread\nitself like a layer of white sugar upon the gray and dirty\nconglomeration of ice and refuse of the street. Slowly we ap-\nproached our house. We lived in a quiet street. Trees had\nbeen planted along the sidewalks; every house had its little\ngarden and even now, in the nakedness of winter, they looked\nwell cared for.\nWe had been out together all afternoon and we were quiet\nand happy. She walked beside me in her brown suit and often\nI glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, proudly and\nhappily.\nWe harmonized in our views of life. We had the same\nideals. We had the same ambitions. We had no other desire\nbut to be happy.\nBetween the two highest buttons of her coat she had thrust\na few flowers. I had given them to her. In those days I gave\nher flowers daily, blue forgetmenots, green mignonettes or white\nnarcissus. The first fresh-picked violets had just arrived in\nthe florists' shops and I had brought her a big bunch of the\nblue sweetly fragrant flowers.\nWe were near the housedoor. She took off her gloves. She\nalways did everything too soon or she did not do it at all.\nBut she had strong beautiful hands and I followed her self-\nconscious movements. She opened her coat. She held out the\nflowers in her hand and looked at them questioningly. They\nwere withered. Their heavy little heads hung wearily from\nthe weak stems. She threw them away upon a heap of snow.\nAnd there they lay, like helpless chilly children.\nShe ascended the stairs to our house and beckoned to me\nmerrily with both hands. It was so promisingly warm inside\nand so cold upon the street in the twilight after black darkness\nhad won the victory over the last sun rays of a happy after-\nnoon.\nWhy now arose that impenetrable wall? And why did she\nseem so far away, the beloved figure in front of the open house-\ndoor?. . . .\nI saw a tall slim girl with blue eyes. Roses were in her\nhands, pale withered roses, that she had worn for a long time\nat her girdle, and for which she had changed as many morn-\nings water in their vases; sadly she held them in her hands.\nShe kissed the poor dead petals. She wrapped them tenderly\nin tissue paper. She tied the fragile package with a blue\nribbon and laid it in a big box upon letters and other ribbon-\ntied packages. O, God, O, God! . That was all that\nI could think, and I felt hot blood in my cheeks.\nMemories . Brutal, uninvited memories.\nThe grave stood open for the fraction of a second.\n\"I am coming, dearest,\" I answered the girl in brown, and\nhurried up the steps.\nIn the warm vestibule I kissed her before we entered the\nroom where the fire in the grate glistened and crackled."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c018", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c018", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1200", "page_fin": "1200", "image_debut": 6, "image_fin": 6, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.18", "titre_corps": "\"Billets-doux\"", "titre_sommaire": "\"Billets-doux\"", "signature_source": "Doris Lester", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "1200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 5356, "fin_caractere_exclue": 5610, "texte": "\"Billets-doux\"\nDoris Lester.\nJ HAVE a little nanny goat, who found some of my notes,\nLove missives tied with ribbon, quite digestible to goats;\nBut since she ate my letters, I have changed her name 'tis true;\nFrom \"Innocent Irene\" to \"Sophisticated Sue.\""}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c019", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c019", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1200", "page_fin": "1201", "image_debut": 6, "image_fin": 7, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.19", "titre_corps": "From the Sublime to the Ridiculous", "titre_sommaire": "From the Sublime to the Ridiculous", "signature_source": "Anton Tchekov ; Translated by Guido Bruno", "controle": "bornes données par la structure logique METS/ALTO de Blue Mountain (blocs ALTO de chaque constituant)", "pages": [{"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "1200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.6", "debut_caractere": 5612, "fin_caractere_exclue": 8077, "texte": "From the Sublime to the Ridiculous\nBy Anton Tchekov\n\npiRST-LIEUTENANT MIGUJEW stopped suddenly and\nsighed very deeply as on his evening walk he reached a\ntelegraph pole. On this very same spot Agnes, his former\nchambermaid, had caught up with him a week ago as he was\nreturning from a walk, had accosted him violently and her\nparting words still rung in his ear:\n\"You just wait!—l will show you what it means to seduce\ninnocent girls! I will throw the child before your door. . . .\nI will go into the courts. . . . I'll tell your wife all about\nit. . . .\" and then she had demanded that he deposit to her\nname in the bank five thousand rubles. Migujew thought of\nall this again, sighed deeply and was sincerly sorry that he\nhad permitted the weakness of a moment to burden him with\nsuch worries.\nAfter he had reached his house, Migujew seated himself on\nthe porch and rested. It was ten o'clock and the moon peeped\nbashfully through the heavy clouds that covered the heavens.\nThe street and the alleys round the houses were deserted. The\nolder generation of inhabitants were about to retire and the\nyoung people had walked out to the woods. Migujew fumbled\nin his pockets for matches to light a cigarette and his elbow hit\nagainst something soft; uninterestedly he looked in its direction\nand suddenly he was seized by a fright as if he had discovered\na snake at his feet. On the porch, propped up against the\ndoor, lay a bundle. Something oblong seemed to be wrapped\nup in a coverlet of some sort. The one end of the bundle was\nopen and the lieutenant felt something warm and damp as he\ntouched it with his hand. Awestricken he rose and looked\naround like a prisoner who anticipates escaping his guards.\n\"She has done it then!\" he murmured through his teeth, and\nclenched his fists angrily. \"Here it lies. . . . here lies the sin!\nOh, God in Heaven!\"\nFright, anger and shame made him rigid. . . . What was he\nto do now? What would his wife say when she learned the\ntruth? And what his fellow officers? His Excellency surely\nwould pat his shoulders, burst out into laughter and say: \"I\ncongratulate. . . . Ha! ha! ha!—old ages does not protect. . . .\nSome little devil! Our Migujew!\"\nThe whole suburb would guess his secret and the respectable\nmatrons would forbid him their houses. . . .\nThe window to the house stood open and one could hear\ndistinctly Anna Philippowna, Migujew's wife, arranging the\ntable for dinner; in the yard, just back of the door, Jermolai,"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "1201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.7", "debut_caractere": 474, "fin_caractere_exclue": 8483, "texte": "the houseman, was playing some monotonous melody upon his\nbalalajka. . . . The child need only to awaken and to scream\nand the secret would be betrayed. Migujew felt a never before\nknown desire to hurry. . . .\n\"Quickly, quickly\". ... he murmured, \"I must act immedi-\nately while no one knows. ... I will carry it somewhere and\nlay it upon somebody's doorsteps. . . .\"\nMigujew picked up the bundle and carried it with slow steps\nin order not to create curiosity in some passersby. . . .\n\"A darn uncomfortable situation!\" he thought and did his\nbest to look indifferent. \"A First Lieutenant marching through\nthe streets with a child upon his arm! My God! if someone\nsees me and guesses the truth I am lost. . . . Here, upon this\nporch I will lay it. . . . No, the windows are open, someone\nmight see. . . . Where, oh where, can I get rid of it. . . .\naha! I'll take it to the house of Melkin, the merchant. . . .\nHe is rich and has a good heart; perhaps he will even be\nglad to adopt the child and to raise it.\"\nAnd Migujew decided to take the child down to Melkin's\nhouse, notwithstanding the fact that it was far away on the\nbanks of the river.\n\"If it only does not start to scream, or unwrap in the bundle,\"\nthought the lieutenant. \"Yes, one might well say: 'God be-\nstows high gifts upon his very own while they sleep! Here\nI am now carrying a real live human being upon my arm\nlike a young pup. A living human, with a soul, with feelings.\nIf for instance, Melkin will raise the child, it may become in\ndue time an honest citizen of this country. ... It will, per-\nhaps become a professor, or an artist. . . . Or a general,\nwho knows? Today everything is possible! I am carrying\nit in my arms like a bundle of rags, and in thirty or forty\nyears I may have to stand attention before him!' ....\nMigujew passed a narrow deserted side street. The dark\ntrees stretched their branches like shadows towards heaven\nand suddenly he felt that he was undertaking something grue-\nsome, even criminal.\n\"How vulgar this all is!\" he mused. \"So vulgar that I\ncannot think of anything that would be more despicable. . . .\nwhy do we throw such an unhappy baby from one doorstep\nto another? Is he responsible for his own birth? Did he\nwrong us? Beasts that we are. . . . We amuse ourselves and\nthe children have to suffer for it. One needs only to consider\nthe whole affair! I caused this whole unhappy business and\nthe poor little baby will have to suffer for it his whole life. . . .\nI'll put it at Melkin's door, Melkin will send it to the Found-\nling Asylum; everything is hard there and done according to\nregulations: no love, no tenderness. . . . Later they will put\nit to a cobbler to learn a trade. ... It will learn to drink\nand to swear, it will probably experience starvation. . . . To\na cobbler they will put it: the son of a First Lieutenant, with\nnoble blood in his veins. . . . After all, he is my own flesh\nand blood. . . .\"\nMigujew stepped out of the shadows of the trees into the\nmoonshine of the road. He opened the bundle and looked at\nthe baby.\n\"He is asleep\"; he whispered. \"Look at the boy, he has\nthe nose of an eagle, he looks like his father. . . . He sleeps\nand he does not know that his father is looking at him. . . .\nYes, a drama, my dear boy, a drama. ... I beg your pardon,\nbut what else can I do ... . forgive me. But it seems to be\nfate. . . .\"\nThe Lieutenant blinked his eyes and felt his cheeks wet with\ntears. He wrapped up the child again and continued on his\nway. All the way until he reached Melkin's house he occupied\nhimself with social questions and tried to subdue the conscience\nthat gripped his heart.\n\"If I were a decent, honest man,\"he thought, \"I would spit\nat public opinion. I would take the baby to Anna Phillipowna,\nI would throw myself at her feet and I would say: 'Forgive\nme! I have sinned. Do anything you wish to me, but don't\nlet us throw this innocent child on the street! We ourselves\nhave no children. Let us adopt this one, and let raise it!' She\nis a good woman and she would not deny me this wish. . . .\nHe pictured to himself how he would sit in his own living\nroom, reading the paper in the evening while a little boy with\nan eagle's nose would play on the floor would play with the\ncord of his dressing-gown; at the same time he saw the laugh-\ning faces of his fellow officers, and heard the loud satirical\nlaughter of His Excellency.\nBut in his soul, next to a torturing conscience, he felt some-\nthing warm, something tender, something sad. . . .\nThe Lieutenant placed the baby very carefully upon the\nfirst step leading to the porch and again he felt something wet\nstreaming down his cheeks. . . .\n\"Forgive me, boy, forgive me, I am an old criminal,\" he\nmurmured. . . . He stepped back and all at once he turned on\nhis heels and said very decidedly:\n\"Well, I don't give a damn! I spit at everybody and every-\nthing. Let people say whatever they want to. I'll take him\nanyhow!\"\nMigujew took up the baby again and hurried back.\n\"Let them talk,\" he thought, \"I'll throw myself upon my knees\nand I'll say: 'Anna Phillipowna!' She is good and kindhearted,\nand she will understand everything. ... If it is a boy, we will\ncall him Vladimir, and if it is a girl, her name shall be Anna.\nAnd one will have at least a solace in one's old age. . . .\"\nAnd he really did as he decided to do. . . . Crying, almost\nout of his senses with fright and shame, filled with hopes and\nan unexplainable happiness, he entered his own house, went\nto his wife, and threw himself upon his knees before her. . . .\n\"Anna Phillipowna,\" he said sobbing, and laying the child\nat her feet. \"Do not judge me. ... I have sinned. .. .\nThis is my child. You perhaps remember Agnes who was our\nchambermaid. .. . The devil himself must have led us astray.\"\nAnd senseless, full of shame and painful doubts, without\nwaiting for an answer, he arose and ran out into the open air,\nlike one who has received a severe bodily punishment.\n\"I will stay out here until she calls me,\" he thought, \"it will\ntake her sometime to regain her composure and to make up her\nmind.\"\nJermolai, the houseman, passed him, looked at him and\nshrugged his shoulders. After a few minutes had lapsed he\npassed him again and again shrugged his shoulders. . . .\n\"Quite a funny story,\" he murmured smiling. \"There was\na woman here a short time ago, Your Excellency, Martha, the\nwasherwoman, such a fool! She put her child somewhere here\nupon the veranda. And while she was sitting with me in my\nroom, someone took the child and carried it away. What a\nfunny story!\"\n\"What? What was that you said?\" roared Migujew.\nJermolai, who misinterpreted the angry outburst of his mas-\nter, sighed deeply and said:\n\"I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, but right now, at this\ntime of the year in the hot summer months, one feels so lone-\nsome here in the suburbs. . . .\"\nHe looked affrightedly at the countenance of his master that\nexpressed rage and astonishment.\n\"Of course all this is very improper,\" tie continued, \"but\nwhat can a poor servant do? Your Excellency has forbidden\nus to let strange women enter the house or the servants' quar-\nters, but if there are not any in one's own household. . . .\nYes, as long as we had Agnes, I would not permit a strange\nwoman inside the yard ; because one had her. But now, while\nwe are without a chambermaid, one has to take whatever comes\nalong. . . . As long as Agnes was here, such improper things\ncould never happen because Agnes herself was. . . .\"\n\"Go to the devil, you beast!\" sounded Migujew's excited\nvoice. He arose hastily and went back to his rooms.\nAnna Phillipowna was still seated upon the same spot, and\nastonished and hurt, had not taken her tear-wet eyes from- the\ninfant. . . . '\n\"Well, well. . . .\" said Migujew, pale as a wall trying hard\nto smile, \"of course all this was a joke. . . . You must know\nthat it cannot be my child. It belongs to Martha the washer-\nwoman. Yes, I was joking. . . .call the houseman and let\nhim take it away. . . .\"\n\nTranslated by Guido Bruno."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c020", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c020", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1202", "page_fin": "1202", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.20", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 295, "fin_caractere_exclue": 1178, "texte": "Bernard Shaw, the sincerest and most brutally frank\ncritic of English letters, wrote after reading Frank\nHarris' OSCAR WILDE'S LIFE AND CONFESSIONS\na profuse letter of appreciation to Frank Harris, and\nput his own reminiscences of Oscar Wilde, a story of\nthe length of thirty thousand words, at the author's\ndisposal.\nBernard Shaw closes his letter to Frank Harris:\nThis biography of yours has wiped out all other bio-\ngraphies.\nFrank Harris has only a very few copies left of the\ntwo editions of his book.\nBook collectors and admirers of Oscar Wilde realized\nquickly the significance of the work and this book,\nonce out of print, will be counted among the priceless\ndreams of a book-lover.\nWrite for a prospectus and you may yet have a\nchance to buy it for the publisher's original price of\nten or twenty dollars respectively.\nBRUNO'S WEEKLY, Inc.\nNo. 10 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c021", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c021", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1202", "page_fin": "1202", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.21", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 1180, "fin_caractere_exclue": 2628, "texte": "Opposed to Birth Control\nWOMAN of about thirty who looked fifty, mother of five\nchildren, who helped support the family by working in a\nfactory day in and day out, was asked by a social worker who\nhad administered some relic to her newly born baby:\n\"Mrs. Smith, I have known you for five years and you have\na baby every year. You are always in danger of dying in\nchildbirth and the physicians have told you so. Do not you\nfind life under these conditions rather hard? Don't you think\nthat you should separate from your husband for awhile in\norder to avoid similar conditions in the future?\"\nMrs. Smith answered: \"My dear lady, I just love to have\na baby. And I enjoy it more from year to year. I look for-\nward eagerly to each childbirth. Those eight days I can stay\nin bed and rest and do not need to go to work seem like heaven\nto me.\"\nAt THE NEW ROMA RESTAURANT of health where\nyou eat first class and quality of Italian and American cook-\ning at moderate prices, a la Carte, run by the well known\nPETER ROMA, nothing will be neglected with the be£lt\nattention to everybody. Everything is brand new and sani-\ntary. Dancing every Saturday and Sunday. Grand Hall for\nBanquets, Weddings, etc.\nP. ROMA, Manager\n87-89 Macdougal St., cor. Bleecker St., first floor\nTelephone Spring 1324\n—^-■■■■ ■■■■— .hum ■■■!! ! j I 111 I | HIIIIIIWIBimWIIII^WW—ll—!!■ ■ lIIIMI I II 111l I!! Ill■■■ ■■TWIT\"TH\nReaders of Bruno's Weekly\nare asked\nto become Subscribers"}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c022", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c022", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1202", "page_fin": "1202", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.22", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 2630, "fin_caractere_exclue": 3040, "texte": "Bruno Chap Books.\nTwenty-eight booklets containing the most interesting work of the most unique writers of the past twenty-\nfive years.\nPrices ranging from fifteen cents to fifty cents.\nWrite for catalgoue and send one-cent stamp. It contains the story of Bruno's Garrett from a public grave\ndigger's tool house to the exhibition gallery of modern artists' work.\nBruno's Weekly, 10 Fifth Avenue, New York City."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c023", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c023", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1202", "page_fin": "1202", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.23", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 3042, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4058, "texte": "OSCAR WILDE'S\nImpressions of America\nedited with an introduction by Stuart Mason.\nOne of the original 500 copies printed.\nThis book, written by Oscar Wilde upon his return from\nthat memorable lecture tour through America, contains\nsome of the finest characterizations of America, as Wilde\nsaw it. He hits mercilessly and he praises effusively. In\nthe appendix is an interesting collection of newspaper\ninterviews with Wilde.\nIt is a rare Wilde item, published by one of Wilde's oldest\nfriends and his bibliographer.\nOnly a few copies left which will be sent to those whose orders\nreach us at first for $1.00 postpaid.\nSCHULTE'S BOOK STORE\n132 E. 23rd Street\nNew York\nTHE ONLY PRIVATE SCHOOL IN OUR VILLAGE\nMiss Cornelia Kingsland Barstow will re-open her school at\nTwenty-seven West Eleventh Street, on Thursday, October\n12th, for children between five and fourteen years of age.\nFIVE TEACHERS—Manual and Art Work—FRENCH.\nThere prevails a delightful atmosphere of the school-room\nin a private home.\nRates reasonable."}]}, {"article_id": "bm-bmtnaaq-1916-11-15-01-c024", "article_bluemountain": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01#c024", "volume": "bmtnaaq_1916-11-15_01", "ocr_source": "OCR Blue Mountain (ALTO), transcription TEI : lignes lb/@facs", "texte_sans_correction": true, "page_debut": "1202", "page_fin": "1202", "image_debut": 8, "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=bmtnaaq19161115-01.2.24", "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": 8, "page_imprimee": "1202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.8", "debut_caractere": 4060, "fin_caractere_exclue": 4892, "texte": "14 Stories by Maupassant,\nFor 35 cents postpaid\nStories of the Tragedy and Comedy of Life, with\nan introduction by Paul Bourget. Prettily printed in\nlarge type on superior paper, with illustrations in\ncolor by Clare Victor Dwiggins. 16mo, stiff dark\ngreen paper cover, rough edges. (196 pages.) New\nYork, M. Walter Dunne, 1914. (Pub. 50 cents.)\nComprises the following short stories: The False\nGems; Was it a Dream?; Simon's Paper; In the Moon-\nlight; The Old Maid; The Lancer's Wife; The Sequel\nto a Divorce; The Englishwoman; Sentiment; The\nFishermen; In his Sweetheart's Livery; Bertha; Dis-\ncovery; and A Message of Love.\nCONDOR'S BOOK STORE\n366 Fifth Ave.\nWrite for interesting catalogue of books.\nR. EDERHEIMER\nPRINT CABINET\n366 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK\nOriginal Drawings by Old Masters\nALL APPRECIATIVE VISITORS CORDIALLY INVITED"}]}], "pages_ocr_originales": [{"page_pdf": 1, "page_imprimee": "couv. 1", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.1", "texte": "B E E L\nTen Cents\nNovember 15th, 1916\n\nARE YOU YOUR BROTHER'S HANGMAN?"}, {"page_pdf": 2, "page_imprimee": "[1196]", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.2", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\nEdited by Guido Bruno\nNo. 22.\nNOVEMBER 15th, MCMXVI\nVol. 11l\nCopyright 1916 by Guido Bruno\n\nOscar Wilde.\n\"\"J\"IHERE1HERE is no chapel on the day\nOn which they hang a man:\nThe Chaplain's heart is far too sick,\nOr his face is far too wan,\nOr there is that written in his eyes\nWhich none should look upon.\nSo they kept us close till nigh on noon,\nAnd then they rang the bell,\nAnd the IVarders with their jingling keys\nOpened each listening cell,\nAnd down the iron stair we tramped,\nEach from his separate Hell.\nOut into God's sweet air we went\nBut not in wonted way,\nFor this man's face was white with fear,\nAnd that man's face was gray,\nAnd I never saw sad men who looked\nSo wistfully at the day.\nI never saw sad men who looked\nWith such a wistful eye\nUpon that little tent of blue\nWe prisoners called the sky,\nAnd at every careless cloud that passed\nIn happy freedom by.\nBut there were those amongst us all\nWho walked with downcast head,\nAnd knew that, had each got his due,\nThey should have died instead:\nHe had but killed a thing that lived,\nWhilst they had killed the dead.\nFor he who sins a second time\nWakes a dead soul to pain,\nAnd draws it from its spotted shroud,\nAnd makes it bleed again,\nAnd makes it bleed great gouts of blood,\nAnd makes it bleed in vain!\n\nAre You Your Brother's Hangman?\n\nJN Murderers' Row, in the cell of the doomed, a man\nis awaiting his death.\nDeath that will be inflicted upon him by the hangman,\nas representative of the people. He has stained his hands\nwith the blood of someone he has killed. Life for life!\nSo the man must die.\nHe is sitting there in his cell, watched day and night\nby his guards, deprived of sunshine and of air, deprived\nof love and of pity: a dangerous beast, successfully caged,\nto be done away with that the people may be protected\nfrom him.\nThe formalities of the law are fulfilled. He has been\ntried and convicted. The day of his execution is set. He\nsits there in his cell counting the days and the hours of\nhis life.\nHe eats and he drinks. He sleeps and he thinks of his\nhangman.\nConstantly he must think of his hangman and of that\nlast service his fellowmen have in store for him.\nThe guards talk to him and he answers. He even\nsmiles: he is expected to be kind and repentant. A chap-\nlain comes and talks to him of Christ and he accepts\nChrist in his heart. The doomed man accepts Christ\nwhile he cannot but wonder what else Christ can have in\ncommon with jailers and hangmen and chaplains, but\nthat He, too, was killed by them two thousand years ago\nas he himself will be in a few days or in a few hours.\nChrist, the fellow-sufferer, becomes dear to him.\nHe is sitting there in his cell and no one cares about his\nheart. The Jury has found him guilty. The judge has\nacted according to the written laws. Who cares for the\nremorse in his heart, for his regrets, for his desires to blot\nout the past, to do better in the future? Who cares that\nhe knows in his heart that he was innocent of the crime?\nWho cares for his prayers, for his good thoughts, for his\nsincerity, for hopes killed and for horrors arisen. Who\nJends an ear to the trembling voice that sounds meekly\nfrom out the prison walls, begging for a chance, for just\none more chance?\nBegging whom for a chance?\nHis judge! His jury! His wardens, his hangman.\nAnd the judge is elected by you. To represent you,\nand to pass judgment for you upon your fellowmen. And\nthe jury is chosen from among you to render a verdict of\npeople upon one of the people. And the guards are\npaid by you to take care of him whom you consider dan-\ngerous to the welfare of man. And the hangman walks\nin as the supreme representative of you and of me, and\nof millions of fellowmen to take in cold blood the life of\nhim who has forfeited it to you.\nAnxiously you buy edition after edition of newspapers\nwhich bring you accounts of the doomed man's last hours.\nWith horror you enjoy the terrible ceremonies of justice\nthat transform murder into a sacrosanct function of the\nstate.\nDo you not hear the voice of that doomed man whcv\npleadeth with you for another chance, who pleadeth\nthrough the ears of judge and jury and of guards and of\nthe hangman you have set over him?\nOUR modern age has abolished everything cruel to the\neye, gruesome to the soul and labor unwelcome to\nthe hands.\nBut suppose that electricity had not reached its present\ndevelopment, that the millions of inhabitants of New\nYork were scattered all over the country and that New\nYork still had its open market-place with public execu-\ntions. Suppose the hangman were not an official of the\ngovernment but were chosen in each case from among\nfellow-townsmen.\nThe choice would fall upon you one day.\nAnd you would have to swing the sharp sword, you\nwould have to decapitate the condemned man with your\nown hands.\nOr you would have to stand high upon the gallows,"}, {"page_pdf": 3, "page_imprimee": "1197", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.3", "texte": "BRUNO'Sj WEEKLY\n\nyou would have to place the rope around the culprit's\npeck and it would have to be you who must open the\ntrap-door under his feet.\nWould you give him another chance? If for no other\nreason in order to avoid your own horrible experience?\nLION, a wildly roaring, blood-thirsty lion, angry\nfrom his long captivity, escapes in the circus.\nTrained men, men who know how to meet such an emer-\ngency, are set upon his trail. The lion has wounded\nrome people, has slain some people before he is re-cap-\ntured. And now he is lying again in his cage, his terrible\npaws tied with cutting ropes, his eyes closed, his tongue\nhangs red from his muzzle. His body is heaving and his\nhead turns desperate and tired towards his jailer who\nenters the cage. What will the lion-tamer do with this\nbeast that has caused the death of innocent people, that\nhas wounded and disabled others? Will he shoot it?\nNo. A lion is too dear to be shot.\nHe will walk close to the lion. He will put his steady,\nfirm hand,, the hand that tied the knots of the ropes, upon\nhis victim's head. The lion will open its eyes. It will\nscrutinize the face leaning over its helpless body. It will\nlook deep into its jailer's eyes. And then and there, the\njailer will have won the truest friend in this animal or\na hateful, blood-thirsty enemy.\nIf he is the right sort of a lion-tamer kindness will be\nin his heart, pity in his actions. His voice will quiet the\nlion, the raving beast. He will loosen the painful grip\nof the ropes. And gradually, from day today, he will\ngrant more and more freedom to the lion and soon the\nanimal will feel quite happy again in the captivity of its\ncage.\nThe law does not request the death of the lion as long\nas there is a proper place to keep it locked up, a place\nthat would yield guaranty to the people that this lion will\nnot again be a menace to human society.\nDO not we too have proper and secure places for our\nprisoners? Places where they can be separated for-\never and ever from contact with human society? Do we\nlack lion-tamers who have kind eyes in addition to their\nfirm grip ?\nThe doomed men in Murderers' Row are sending a\nplea to you, yes, to you, the individual, a plea for another\nchance.\nIf the life and death of men were in your hands, would\nyou really take it?\nWould you deny them the new chance that has so very\noften been given to you ?\nYour vote sends men into the Legislature to make laws\nfor you. These men could introduce a bill that would\nabolish capital punishment in the State of New York.\nThere is not one in a thousand who would deny his fel-\nlowman a chance to live.\nIsn't it about time to manifest the spirit of our twenti-\neth century America by doing away with this gruesome\ninheritance of barbaric ages?\n\nGuido Bruno.\n\n—Knigge\nPeople are only half as good and only half as bad asi\nothers generally paint them.\n\nSongs of Life and Death\nBy Rainer Maria Rilke\nIV.\nOne sits around and waits. Waiting until\nsomeone sings. But all are so tired. The red light is\nheavy. It lies upon the dusty shoes. It crawls up to the knees.\nIt looks into the clasped hands. It has no wings. The faces\nare dark. Still the eyes of the little Frenchman are lighted for\na short time with a peculiar light. He has kissed a little rose,\nand now it can wither a little longer on his breast. He, Von\nLangenau, has seen it because he cannot sleep. He thinks:\n\"I have no rose, none.\"\nThen he sings. It is a sad old song as at home the girls sing\nupon the fields, in autumn when the harvest approaches its\nend.\nV.\nQJAYS the little Frenchman: \"You are very young, sir?\"\nAnd he, Von Langenau, half-sadly, half-impatiently, re-\nturns: \"Eighteen.\" Then both are silent. A little later the\nFrenchman asks: \"You to have left a bride at home?\"\n\"Did you?\" Von .Langenau returns the question.\n\"She is blonde as you are.\"\nBoth are silent again until the German cries: \"Why the\ndevil then are you sitting on your horse's back, riding through\nthis poisoned country against the Turkish dogs?\"\nThe Frenchman laughs. \"In order to return.\"\nAnd he, Von Langenau, becomes very sad.\nAnd he thinks of the blonde girl with whom he used to play.\nWild plays. And he wishes to go home for a few seconds only,\nonly for so long as it takes to say: \"Magdalena—forgive me\neverything.\" How? why? .... he thinks. And he is\nso far away, so very far away.\nVI.\nQNCE upon a morning a man arrives on horseback, and then,\ntwo more, and four, and ten: big heavy cavalrymen. Later\nthousands: the Army. The hour of parting arrives.\n\"A happy return to you, Marquis! \"\n\"May the blessed Virgin take care of you, Von Langenau!\"\nParting seems hard. They have become friends, brothers.\nThey know so much about each other; they would like to ex-\nchange some more confidences. They hesitate. Hurry, haste,\nand beating of hoofs is around them. The Marquis takes off\nhis big, heavy riding glove. He brings forth the little rose and\ntakes one of its petals. An offering of the sacrament.\n\"This will protect you, farewell.\"\nHe, Von Langenau, is surprised. His eyes follow the French-\nman vanishing on the horizon. He puts the stranger's rose\npetal in his breast-pocket. It heaves up and down on the\nwaves of his heart.\nA trumpet call! He rides to his troop, they fall in with the\narmy. He smiles sadly: A stranger's sweetheart is protecting\nhim.\nEditor's translation.\n\nHunger\nPages from a Diary of Hans Friedrich, a German Journalist\nand Author of several books\nNov., 1915.\n[ AM one of the most superfluous of men during these times of\nwar. Even the last Reserve Commission refused my\nservices. Very well. I never had military ambitions. Who-\never has read my books, \"The Dream of Life,\" and\"The\nHappiness of a Child\" would never suspect in me a desire to\nbe a soldier. And after the war Germany will again need\nheads as badly as it needs hands now. Heads that can retain\nwith their brains what our troops gain, with blood and with\narms. But it is hard today, harder than ever to keep one's\nhead cool and prepared for the future mobilization. What\ngood can a writer do behind the lines? The newspapers re-\nceive a sufficient amount of letters from the field, the maga-\nzines are swamped with photographs from trenches and battle\nlines. WorUs concerning these times are shallow. To come\nto conclusions is not possible so long as everything remains in\nthis unsettled state. But we must live. We must live and\nretain for ourselves our impressions and we must wait. . . .\nWait ever and ever. . . ."}, {"page_pdf": 4, "page_imprimee": "1198", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.4", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n(To be continued.)\n\nNov. 18, 1915.\nI went today to the Press Association and received a subsidy\nof twenty marks. How hard it is for one who can work to\naccept alms. No matter what you call it, this money given us\nunder all sorts of names is alms.\nTwenty marks. . . .! It itches in my fingers. It seems\nso very much money if one is accustomed to carry only a few\npennies in one's pocketbook. If only I did not have to pay out\nmost of it! I do need some coal and wood. I have frozen\nbitterly in my cold room during the past weeks. To go to the\ncafe and sit in its warmth and read papers will be impossible\nfor me for quite awhile.\nFor the thirty pfennigs I would have to leave there I can\nbuy myself a supper. One always needs so much in order to\nsustain life. And what sort of life is this? That one does\nnot starve is the only pleasant feature. But always near star-\nvation, very near starvation. Never with the hunger quite\nappeased and always freezing in one's rooms. Especially on\ndays like today, with the sun shining again and warm outside,\none feels it more than ever.\nNov. 23, 1915.\nOne would like to recall every hour spent in previous times\nmerrily and in spending money: travelling in society, at the\nbar, or drinking wine with girls. Yes. . . . girls! They\nhave become wholly uninteresting; love has become a mere\nplay. The world now is rough and does not bother about the\nsmaller things. And what should we do with girls? We can't\ngive them anything any more and so they have become untrue\nto us. We are the superfluous people. At present they are\ncrazy over our field-gray soldiers.\nI stood today in front of a candy shop. I have never liked\nsweetmeats very much. But today I did not seem to be able\nto tear myself away from that shop window. I studied the\nprices as if I expected to be a salesman in the shop. There\nwere chocolate bars for five pfennig apiece. I viewed them\nfor a long time. Finally I left the place. I have to be very\nsaving. Two rolls, war bread, mean more to me than one\nchocolate bar. The bread has to remain dry. I haven't seen\nbutter for months. And one has been accustomed to a better\nlife. Life without sweets is hard even if one does not starve\nbut remains steadily upon the verge of starvation.\nI have never been a heavy eater but now the stomach is first\nconsideration. It seems to feel its importance. Our souls ap-\npear to be in a sort of a twilight sleep, dozing, waiting for\npeace. Our stomachs are at work, we learn to enjoy what we\ntook for granted only a year ago. We have become simple\nMilk is a luxury. Bread, dry bread, something delicious.\nSausages, which we never would have thought of eating, taste\ndelightful to us. And if we could pay the price we would eat\nthree times as much as we can afford. Everything is change-\nable today, even our most despotic and most spoiled tastes!\nNov. 25, 1915.\nToday, again, I stopped in front of that candy shop. The\nchocolate bars were irresistible. I was weak. I did not even\ntry to resist. I bought one. . . . Just one, but it was so\nlittle, so very little for a supper. Two war rolls are more.\nI went to bed hungry.\nI am very often hungry now. It is something I never have\nknown in previous years. I always used to leave something\nover on my plate. Now my plates are clean. I hardly need\nto wash them. Of course I have to do all my own work. I\nam washing my own dishes and my own clothes. But every-\nthing goes swiftly, especially the dishwashing. The fates are\nkind. Maybe this is the reason for my having so little to put\non the plates. My tea contains water so plentifully that even\nseven cups would not hurt the weakest heart.\nIt seems to me that I really never experienced a real winter.\nFreezing—hunger. One does not need a rich vocabulary to\npictur such a situation. They repeat themselves again and\nagain like a nerve-racking rhythm: freezing—hunger. Else-\nwhere: blood—flames—terror. Where we are it is cold, some-\nwhere else it is hot.\nHow rough our times are! And still—we love them. I\nmeditate. Is it true? Do we really love them? Here: amidst\nour cold walls, empty because we sold or pawned everything\nof value—\nHere: opposite this rag of paper, proof sheets that we never\nwould have thought of using to write down our thoughts and\nthe children of our brains. . . . Here with our hands upon\na cold, worn oilcloth that makes writing difficult while our\nstomach revolts with its music of hunger! ....\nYes—we do love them. Our times are greater than we are.\nFinally it has arrived that which we have longed for during\nthe last decade while sitting and talking around our coffee\ntables, while reading our inflaming books. These times are\ncruel and destructive. But they are promising, too, promising\na new generation. Not a generation to be our posterity. We\nourselves are this generation. We are being purified, hammered\nupon, hammered by steel in flames, in frost through hunger. . . .\nExactly as everyone of us needs it.\n\nDrawing by Clara Tice.\n\nA Foolish Youth\n(After the German of Hans Holzschuher by Guido Bruno.)\nYOUNG man, who understood that it was very bad to\nhave several love affairs at the same time, went to a sage\nand asked him:\n\"Is it permitted that one love several women or should one\nbestow all his love upon one?\"\nWithout hesitation the sage answered: \"Most assuredly\nthere is only one real love which one must give in all its\nabundance to the one woman loved above all others.\"\n\"How is it then,\" asked the youth, \"that they tell of you\nthat you were one of the wildest in your young years?\"\nThe sage did not seem embarrassed; he smiled and covered\nhis eyes with his hands and spoke gently: \"Go to Abdallah,\nto the merchant, and observe what he is doing.\"\nThe young man did as the sage advised him.\nAbdallah was in his store weighing gold on scales; he\nassayed it upon a stone, deliberating carefully upon its genu-\nineness, and then he compared it painstakingly with other gold.\nThis he did for hours.\nThe youth observed everything diligently, went back to the\nsage and told him what he had seen.\n\"And do you know now,\" asked the sage, \"the answer to\nyour question?\"\nThe young man remained silent. The sage viewed him with\nsad eyes and turned away.\nThe youth returned home, married soon after and became\none of the most unhappy husbands in his community.\n\nFRANK HARRIS\nSooner or later all races must learn that their artists—-\nthe singers and painters and seers, the priests of the True,\nthe Beautiful and the Good—are the rarest and most valua-\nble of the Sons of Men. By the very nature of their high\ncalling, they can expect no reward from their contempor-\naries; their appeal is to the future; their duty to set the\ncourse and chart the unattempted seas. More than decent\nprovision for their needs, these soldiers of the ideal will not\nexpect; but that should be given them by the State and such\nhonor to boot as may be possible."}, {"page_pdf": 5, "page_imprimee": "1199", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.5", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nLondon Prose and New York Prose\nAlexander Harvey in his \"Bang.\"\n'J'HE obvious truth is that the English language has always\nled a somewhat precarious existence in England. It has\nflourished most in this country, where it is taught with devo-\ntion and written with ease. Notwithstanding its origin, the\nEnglish tongue is essentially un-English, and is the secret of\nits diffusion throughout the globe. The French language is too\nFrench to be used readily by those who are not French.\nThose who have had opportunities of comparing the prose\nwritten in London now with the prose written in New York\nnow need not be told that style flourishes to-day in America\nwhereas in England it seems to decay. Popular literature in\nGreat Britain is defaced from the standpoint of style by a ten-\ndency to the use of Americanisms—Americanisms that are\noutworn here. Britons will sometimes protest against Ameri-\ncanisms and use a frightful Americanism while doing so.\nIt behooves the young American writer, then, to beware of\nthe prose written in London to-day. He will find very little in\nthat prose to serve him as a model for imitation. Let the\nyoung American beware, likewise, of the various unreadable\nbooks on the art of writing which come from British Dryas-\ndusts with imposing titles. You may put Bottom the Weaver\ninto Jesus College and call him Sir Nick if you like, yet all he\ncan do there is bray.\n\nEdgar Allen Poe About British\nCriticism\nMarginalia: Nationality in American Letters.\n'jpHERE is not a more disgusting spectacle under the sun than\nour subserviency to British criticism. It is disgusting,\nfirst, because it is truckling, servile, pusillanimous—secondly,\nbecause of its gross irrationality. We know the British to bear\nus little but ill will; we know that in no case do they utter\nunbiassed opinions of American books; we know that in the\nfew instances in which our writers have been treated with\ncommon decency in England, these writers have either openly\npaid homage to English institutions, or have had lurking at the\nbottom of their hearts a secret principle at war with Demo-\ncracy: we know all this, and yet, day after day, submit our\nnecks to the degrading yoke of the crudest opinion that eman-\nates from the fatherland. Now if we must have nationality,\nlet it be a nationality that will throw off this yoke.\n\nGathering the Slain\nH. Thompson Rich.\nTHEY are gathering the slain,\nTonight;\nAnd none of them can laugh, and none can sleep.\nThey are shedding tears again,\nTonight—\nThe salt, cold tears that soldier-men can weep.\nThey are gathering the slain,\nStill and stark upon the plain\nThey are adding up the awful gain.\nTonight.\n\nIdeals\nTom Sleeper\n'J'HERE is my Ideals, bruised and broken on the battlefield of\nexperience. All of them—there is not one left—choked\nand withered by the poisonous gases of Reality.\nSee them—they are funny, truly.\nFaith in mankind ; faith in God—friendship—woman—and\nthe rest. The silly show!\nYet somehow, I feel there must be one that has escaped—\none that I do not comprehend. How else could my heart sing\nwith the poppies nodding in the sunlight as I go about mv\ndaily tasks?\n\nDrawing by Aubrey Beardsley.\n\nA Matter of Destiny\nJames Waldo Fawcett.\n\\yHEN Jesus returned to Heaven from his sojourn on earth,\nhe came to his Father with sad and troubled eyes.\n\"Father,\" he said, \"I have a favor to ask of you.\"\n\"Yes,\" said God, kindly.\n\"I want you to keep me out of literature,\" said Jesus.\nAnd God thought for a long time; then he shook his head.\n\"I cannot do that, my Son,\" he sighed. \"It is impossible.\"\n\nMarjorie Mawr.\nSTOOD on a rock looking down on the grass beneath me.\nHere and there little bits of red spoke brilliantly from\nthe green. I said to myself, 4<l must get closer to those radiant\nbits. I must pick some, and take them to my room.\"\nSo I got down from the rocks and went through the grass\ntill I came to a bush that held some of the beautiful leaves. I\npicked a twig on which hung three. Two of them were green,\nbut the third was red—so red that it looked like the blood of\nthe nightingale that died on the thorn.\nI left the grass, the sky, the rocks and came home clasping\nthe twig tightly in my hand. I placed it in a little water glass;\nit was all the vase I had, and then I went out to my day's\nwork.\nIn the evening I returned. In the glass stood the twig with\nthe green leaves fresh as before, but the red, the beautiful red\nwas gone, and a dull brown leaf was in its place. In my bare\nlittle room there was no place for passion—only the cold, cold\ngreen remained, and the brown that I knew not but that\nmatched my walls."}, {"page_pdf": 6, "page_imprimee": "1200", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.6", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\n\nMemories ....\nGuido Bruno.\nJF only memories would vanish forever! If the past would\nremain past! If we could erase the past from our mental\nlife; if this archive of pictures and impressions did not exist\nin our skull.\nBut they do come back, again and again. Like the personi-\nfied monitors of everything perishable that was, and that will\nbe forever, even though we buried it in the most obscure corner\nof our thoughts, under the cobwebs of our self-deceiving con-\nsciousness. Like a thick, massive stone wall memories stand\nbetween ourselves and our life. Like a river they broaden\nthemselves—like a river over which we cannot build bridges;\nwhat was just now in reach of our hands they take with them\nto the banks on the far away other side; it looks over to us\nlike unreachable clouds.\nAs uninvited guests they appear, without knocking; without\nawaiting our \"come in\" they open the door brusquely. . . .\nAnd here they are. We have to offer them a chair. We have\nto smile hospitably and friendly, because we know that they\ntake at their pleasure, that they will stay as long as they please\nto.\nOften it is the gesture of a hand, often again a smile, that\ntransforms the features just now so dear to us into some other\nface, that brings us a message from long forgotten days. Often\nit is a cadence of a voice that we have heard somewhere, some-\ntime ago, and that exhumes for us something buried long ago.\nIt is not regret, it is not a feeling of being sorry. It is not a\nlonging for something that was. It is not the wish that it might\nbe again. . . .\nIt is a tombstone and a grave mound. We know all of a\nsudden: deep down there in the brown crumbling earth reposes\na piece of life that we have lived once, and that gave us\nhappiness and sadness, joy and sorrow, exaltation and con-\ntempt. It is buried. We have buried it; but it remained some-\nwhere in this world. It lives its own life. Separated from\nus.\nWe do not pilgrimage there with flowers and with wreaths\nor with tear-wet eyes.\nBut in quiet hours, or in the excitement of passionate emo-\ntions we do feel that it exists. We sense the odor of the\ngrasses that are growing there or we feel the stinging thorn\ngrowing rank around it. The grave opens itself for fractions\nof seconds. And we see, we feel, we hear; the most sensitive\nends of our nerves drink lustfully the well-known odors, and\nthe finest senses of our finger tips feel, feel that our.body trem-\nbles and that men and worlds collapse into nothing. . . .\nCollapse: Before this life that we have buried. A life that\nwas once a part of our own selves and that lives and lives\nand exists .... and returns ever and ever and again. . . .!\nOur memories.\nIT was on an evening in March. Fresh-fallen snow spread\nitself like a layer of white sugar upon the gray and dirty\nconglomeration of ice and refuse of the street. Slowly we ap-\nproached our house. We lived in a quiet street. Trees had\nbeen planted along the sidewalks; every house had its little\ngarden and even now, in the nakedness of winter, they looked\nwell cared for.\nWe had been out together all afternoon and we were quiet\nand happy. She walked beside me in her brown suit and often\nI glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, proudly and\nhappily.\nWe harmonized in our views of life. We had the same\nideals. We had the same ambitions. We had no other desire\nbut to be happy.\nBetween the two highest buttons of her coat she had thrust\na few flowers. I had given them to her. In those days I gave\nher flowers daily, blue forgetmenots, green mignonettes or white\nnarcissus. The first fresh-picked violets had just arrived in\nthe florists' shops and I had brought her a big bunch of the\nblue sweetly fragrant flowers.\nWe were near the housedoor. She took off her gloves. She\nalways did everything too soon or she did not do it at all.\nBut she had strong beautiful hands and I followed her self-\nconscious movements. She opened her coat. She held out the\nflowers in her hand and looked at them questioningly. They\nwere withered. Their heavy little heads hung wearily from\nthe weak stems. She threw them away upon a heap of snow.\nAnd there they lay, like helpless chilly children.\nShe ascended the stairs to our house and beckoned to me\nmerrily with both hands. It was so promisingly warm inside\nand so cold upon the street in the twilight after black darkness\nhad won the victory over the last sun rays of a happy after-\nnoon.\nWhy now arose that impenetrable wall? And why did she\nseem so far away, the beloved figure in front of the open house-\ndoor?. . . .\nI saw a tall slim girl with blue eyes. Roses were in her\nhands, pale withered roses, that she had worn for a long time\nat her girdle, and for which she had changed as many morn-\nings water in their vases; sadly she held them in her hands.\nShe kissed the poor dead petals. She wrapped them tenderly\nin tissue paper. She tied the fragile package with a blue\nribbon and laid it in a big box upon letters and other ribbon-\ntied packages. O, God, O, God! . That was all that\nI could think, and I felt hot blood in my cheeks.\nMemories . Brutal, uninvited memories.\nThe grave stood open for the fraction of a second.\n\"I am coming, dearest,\" I answered the girl in brown, and\nhurried up the steps.\nIn the warm vestibule I kissed her before we entered the\nroom where the fire in the grate glistened and crackled.\n\n\"Billets-doux\"\nDoris Lester.\nJ HAVE a little nanny goat, who found some of my notes,\nLove missives tied with ribbon, quite digestible to goats;\nBut since she ate my letters, I have changed her name 'tis true;\nFrom \"Innocent Irene\" to \"Sophisticated Sue.\"\n\nFrom the Sublime to the Ridiculous\nBy Anton Tchekov\n\npiRST-LIEUTENANT MIGUJEW stopped suddenly and\nsighed very deeply as on his evening walk he reached a\ntelegraph pole. On this very same spot Agnes, his former\nchambermaid, had caught up with him a week ago as he was\nreturning from a walk, had accosted him violently and her\nparting words still rung in his ear:\n\"You just wait!—l will show you what it means to seduce\ninnocent girls! I will throw the child before your door. . . .\nI will go into the courts. . . . I'll tell your wife all about\nit. . . .\" and then she had demanded that he deposit to her\nname in the bank five thousand rubles. Migujew thought of\nall this again, sighed deeply and was sincerly sorry that he\nhad permitted the weakness of a moment to burden him with\nsuch worries.\nAfter he had reached his house, Migujew seated himself on\nthe porch and rested. It was ten o'clock and the moon peeped\nbashfully through the heavy clouds that covered the heavens.\nThe street and the alleys round the houses were deserted. The\nolder generation of inhabitants were about to retire and the\nyoung people had walked out to the woods. Migujew fumbled\nin his pockets for matches to light a cigarette and his elbow hit\nagainst something soft; uninterestedly he looked in its direction\nand suddenly he was seized by a fright as if he had discovered\na snake at his feet. On the porch, propped up against the\ndoor, lay a bundle. Something oblong seemed to be wrapped\nup in a coverlet of some sort. The one end of the bundle was\nopen and the lieutenant felt something warm and damp as he\ntouched it with his hand. Awestricken he rose and looked\naround like a prisoner who anticipates escaping his guards.\n\"She has done it then!\" he murmured through his teeth, and\nclenched his fists angrily. \"Here it lies. . . . here lies the sin!\nOh, God in Heaven!\"\nFright, anger and shame made him rigid. . . . What was he\nto do now? What would his wife say when she learned the\ntruth? And what his fellow officers? His Excellency surely\nwould pat his shoulders, burst out into laughter and say: \"I\ncongratulate. . . . Ha! ha! ha!—old ages does not protect. . . .\nSome little devil! Our Migujew!\"\nThe whole suburb would guess his secret and the respectable\nmatrons would forbid him their houses. . . .\nThe window to the house stood open and one could hear\ndistinctly Anna Philippowna, Migujew's wife, arranging the\ntable for dinner; in the yard, just back of the door, Jermolai,"}, {"page_pdf": 7, "page_imprimee": "1201", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.7", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\nOscar Cesare, the foremost cartoonist of the United States, and longtime resident of Greenwich Village, expresses in\na series of characteristic cartoons, that will appear in next week's issue of Bruno's Weekly, his opinion of Greenwich Vil-\nlage as it is today: a creation of real estate agents, keepers of Coney Island show booths, and of men and women who\nmanifest their genius through their long and their bobbed hair respectively.\nDon't miss this issue.\n\nthe houseman, was playing some monotonous melody upon his\nbalalajka. . . . The child need only to awaken and to scream\nand the secret would be betrayed. Migujew felt a never before\nknown desire to hurry. . . .\n\"Quickly, quickly\". ... he murmured, \"I must act immedi-\nately while no one knows. ... I will carry it somewhere and\nlay it upon somebody's doorsteps. . . .\"\nMigujew picked up the bundle and carried it with slow steps\nin order not to create curiosity in some passersby. . . .\n\"A darn uncomfortable situation!\" he thought and did his\nbest to look indifferent. \"A First Lieutenant marching through\nthe streets with a child upon his arm! My God! if someone\nsees me and guesses the truth I am lost. . . . Here, upon this\nporch I will lay it. . . . No, the windows are open, someone\nmight see. . . . Where, oh where, can I get rid of it. . . .\naha! I'll take it to the house of Melkin, the merchant. . . .\nHe is rich and has a good heart; perhaps he will even be\nglad to adopt the child and to raise it.\"\nAnd Migujew decided to take the child down to Melkin's\nhouse, notwithstanding the fact that it was far away on the\nbanks of the river.\n\"If it only does not start to scream, or unwrap in the bundle,\"\nthought the lieutenant. \"Yes, one might well say: 'God be-\nstows high gifts upon his very own while they sleep! Here\nI am now carrying a real live human being upon my arm\nlike a young pup. A living human, with a soul, with feelings.\nIf for instance, Melkin will raise the child, it may become in\ndue time an honest citizen of this country. ... It will, per-\nhaps become a professor, or an artist. . . . Or a general,\nwho knows? Today everything is possible! I am carrying\nit in my arms like a bundle of rags, and in thirty or forty\nyears I may have to stand attention before him!' ....\nMigujew passed a narrow deserted side street. The dark\ntrees stretched their branches like shadows towards heaven\nand suddenly he felt that he was undertaking something grue-\nsome, even criminal.\n\"How vulgar this all is!\" he mused. \"So vulgar that I\ncannot think of anything that would be more despicable. . . .\nwhy do we throw such an unhappy baby from one doorstep\nto another? Is he responsible for his own birth? Did he\nwrong us? Beasts that we are. . . . We amuse ourselves and\nthe children have to suffer for it. One needs only to consider\nthe whole affair! I caused this whole unhappy business and\nthe poor little baby will have to suffer for it his whole life. . . .\nI'll put it at Melkin's door, Melkin will send it to the Found-\nling Asylum; everything is hard there and done according to\nregulations: no love, no tenderness. . . . Later they will put\nit to a cobbler to learn a trade. ... It will learn to drink\nand to swear, it will probably experience starvation. . . . To\na cobbler they will put it: the son of a First Lieutenant, with\nnoble blood in his veins. . . . After all, he is my own flesh\nand blood. . . .\"\nMigujew stepped out of the shadows of the trees into the\nmoonshine of the road. He opened the bundle and looked at\nthe baby.\n\"He is asleep\"; he whispered. \"Look at the boy, he has\nthe nose of an eagle, he looks like his father. . . . He sleeps\nand he does not know that his father is looking at him. . . .\nYes, a drama, my dear boy, a drama. ... I beg your pardon,\nbut what else can I do ... . forgive me. But it seems to be\nfate. . . .\"\nThe Lieutenant blinked his eyes and felt his cheeks wet with\ntears. He wrapped up the child again and continued on his\nway. All the way until he reached Melkin's house he occupied\nhimself with social questions and tried to subdue the conscience\nthat gripped his heart.\n\"If I were a decent, honest man,\"he thought, \"I would spit\nat public opinion. I would take the baby to Anna Phillipowna,\nI would throw myself at her feet and I would say: 'Forgive\nme! I have sinned. Do anything you wish to me, but don't\nlet us throw this innocent child on the street! We ourselves\nhave no children. Let us adopt this one, and let raise it!' She\nis a good woman and she would not deny me this wish. . . .\nHe pictured to himself how he would sit in his own living\nroom, reading the paper in the evening while a little boy with\nan eagle's nose would play on the floor would play with the\ncord of his dressing-gown; at the same time he saw the laugh-\ning faces of his fellow officers, and heard the loud satirical\nlaughter of His Excellency.\nBut in his soul, next to a torturing conscience, he felt some-\nthing warm, something tender, something sad. . . .\nThe Lieutenant placed the baby very carefully upon the\nfirst step leading to the porch and again he felt something wet\nstreaming down his cheeks. . . .\n\"Forgive me, boy, forgive me, I am an old criminal,\" he\nmurmured. . . . He stepped back and all at once he turned on\nhis heels and said very decidedly:\n\"Well, I don't give a damn! I spit at everybody and every-\nthing. Let people say whatever they want to. I'll take him\nanyhow!\"\nMigujew took up the baby again and hurried back.\n\"Let them talk,\" he thought, \"I'll throw myself upon my knees\nand I'll say: 'Anna Phillipowna!' She is good and kindhearted,\nand she will understand everything. ... If it is a boy, we will\ncall him Vladimir, and if it is a girl, her name shall be Anna.\nAnd one will have at least a solace in one's old age. . . .\"\nAnd he really did as he decided to do. . . . Crying, almost\nout of his senses with fright and shame, filled with hopes and\nan unexplainable happiness, he entered his own house, went\nto his wife, and threw himself upon his knees before her. . . .\n\"Anna Phillipowna,\" he said sobbing, and laying the child\nat her feet. \"Do not judge me. ... I have sinned. .. .\nThis is my child. You perhaps remember Agnes who was our\nchambermaid. .. . The devil himself must have led us astray.\"\nAnd senseless, full of shame and painful doubts, without\nwaiting for an answer, he arose and ran out into the open air,\nlike one who has received a severe bodily punishment.\n\"I will stay out here until she calls me,\" he thought, \"it will\ntake her sometime to regain her composure and to make up her\nmind.\"\nJermolai, the houseman, passed him, looked at him and\nshrugged his shoulders. After a few minutes had lapsed he\npassed him again and again shrugged his shoulders. . . .\n\"Quite a funny story,\" he murmured smiling. \"There was\na woman here a short time ago, Your Excellency, Martha, the\nwasherwoman, such a fool! She put her child somewhere here\nupon the veranda. And while she was sitting with me in my\nroom, someone took the child and carried it away. What a\nfunny story!\"\n\"What? What was that you said?\" roared Migujew.\nJermolai, who misinterpreted the angry outburst of his mas-\nter, sighed deeply and said:\n\"I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, but right now, at this\ntime of the year in the hot summer months, one feels so lone-\nsome here in the suburbs. . . .\"\nHe looked affrightedly at the countenance of his master that\nexpressed rage and astonishment.\n\"Of course all this is very improper,\" tie continued, \"but\nwhat can a poor servant do? Your Excellency has forbidden\nus to let strange women enter the house or the servants' quar-\nters, but if there are not any in one's own household. . . .\nYes, as long as we had Agnes, I would not permit a strange\nwoman inside the yard ; because one had her. But now, while\nwe are without a chambermaid, one has to take whatever comes\nalong. . . . As long as Agnes was here, such improper things\ncould never happen because Agnes herself was. . . .\"\n\"Go to the devil, you beast!\" sounded Migujew's excited\nvoice. He arose hastily and went back to his rooms.\nAnna Phillipowna was still seated upon the same spot, and\nastonished and hurt, had not taken her tear-wet eyes from- the\ninfant. . . . '\n\"Well, well. . . .\" said Migujew, pale as a wall trying hard\nto smile, \"of course all this was a joke. . . . You must know\nthat it cannot be my child. It belongs to Martha the washer-\nwoman. Yes, I was joking. . . .call the houseman and let\nhim take it away. . . .\"\n\nTranslated by Guido Bruno."}, {"page_pdf": 8, "page_imprimee": "1202", "url_page": "https://bluemountain.princeton.edu/bluemtn/?a=d&d=bmtnaaq19161115-01.1.8", "texte": "BRUNO'S WEEKLY\nBruno's Weekly, published weekly by Bruno's Weekly, Inc., at No. 10 Fifth Avenue, New York City. Edited\nand written by Guido Bruno. Subscription $2 a year.\nEntered as second class matter at the Post Office of New York, N. Y., October 14th, 1915, under the Act\nof March 3d, 1897.\n\nBernard Shaw, the sincerest and most brutally frank\ncritic of English letters, wrote after reading Frank\nHarris' OSCAR WILDE'S LIFE AND CONFESSIONS\na profuse letter of appreciation to Frank Harris, and\nput his own reminiscences of Oscar Wilde, a story of\nthe length of thirty thousand words, at the author's\ndisposal.\nBernard Shaw closes his letter to Frank Harris:\nThis biography of yours has wiped out all other bio-\ngraphies.\nFrank Harris has only a very few copies left of the\ntwo editions of his book.\nBook collectors and admirers of Oscar Wilde realized\nquickly the significance of the work and this book,\nonce out of print, will be counted among the priceless\ndreams of a book-lover.\nWrite for a prospectus and you may yet have a\nchance to buy it for the publisher's original price of\nten or twenty dollars respectively.\nBRUNO'S WEEKLY, Inc.\nNo. 10 Fifth Ave., New York, N. Y.\n\nOpposed to Birth Control\nWOMAN of about thirty who looked fifty, mother of five\nchildren, who helped support the family by working in a\nfactory day in and day out, was asked by a social worker who\nhad administered some relic to her newly born baby:\n\"Mrs. Smith, I have known you for five years and you have\na baby every year. You are always in danger of dying in\nchildbirth and the physicians have told you so. Do not you\nfind life under these conditions rather hard? Don't you think\nthat you should separate from your husband for awhile in\norder to avoid similar conditions in the future?\"\nMrs. Smith answered: \"My dear lady, I just love to have\na baby. And I enjoy it more from year to year. I look for-\nward eagerly to each childbirth. Those eight days I can stay\nin bed and rest and do not need to go to work seem like heaven\nto me.\"\nAt THE NEW ROMA RESTAURANT of health where\nyou eat first class and quality of Italian and American cook-\ning at moderate prices, a la Carte, run by the well known\nPETER ROMA, nothing will be neglected with the be£lt\nattention to everybody. Everything is brand new and sani-\ntary. Dancing every Saturday and Sunday. Grand Hall for\nBanquets, Weddings, etc.\nP. ROMA, Manager\n87-89 Macdougal St., cor. Bleecker St., first floor\nTelephone Spring 1324\n—^-■■■■ ■■■■— .hum ■■■!! ! j I 111 I | HIIIIIIWIBimWIIII^WW—ll—!!■ ■ lIIIMI I II 111l I!! Ill■■■ ■■TWIT\"TH\nReaders of Bruno's Weekly\nare asked\nto become Subscribers\n\nBruno Chap Books.\nTwenty-eight booklets containing the most interesting work of the most unique writers of the past twenty-\nfive years.\nPrices ranging from fifteen cents to fifty cents.\nWrite for catalgoue and send one-cent stamp. It contains the story of Bruno's Garrett from a public grave\ndigger's tool house to the exhibition gallery of modern artists' work.\nBruno's Weekly, 10 Fifth Avenue, New York City.\n\nOSCAR WILDE'S\nImpressions of America\nedited with an introduction by Stuart Mason.\nOne of the original 500 copies printed.\nThis book, written by Oscar Wilde upon his return from\nthat memorable lecture tour through America, contains\nsome of the finest characterizations of America, as Wilde\nsaw it. He hits mercilessly and he praises effusively. In\nthe appendix is an interesting collection of newspaper\ninterviews with Wilde.\nIt is a rare Wilde item, published by one of Wilde's oldest\nfriends and his bibliographer.\nOnly a few copies left which will be sent to those whose orders\nreach us at first for $1.00 postpaid.\nSCHULTE'S BOOK STORE\n132 E. 23rd Street\nNew York\nTHE ONLY PRIVATE SCHOOL IN OUR VILLAGE\nMiss Cornelia Kingsland Barstow will re-open her school at\nTwenty-seven West Eleventh Street, on Thursday, October\n12th, for children between five and fourteen years of age.\nFIVE TEACHERS—Manual and Art Work—FRENCH.\nThere prevails a delightful atmosphere of the school-room\nin a private home.\nRates reasonable.\n\n14 Stories by Maupassant,\nFor 35 cents postpaid\nStories of the Tragedy and Comedy of Life, with\nan introduction by Paul Bourget. Prettily printed in\nlarge type on superior paper, with illustrations in\ncolor by Clare Victor Dwiggins. 16mo, stiff dark\ngreen paper cover, rough edges. (196 pages.) New\nYork, M. Walter Dunne, 1914. (Pub. 50 cents.)\nComprises the following short stories: The False\nGems; Was it a Dream?; Simon's Paper; In the Moon-\nlight; The Old Maid; The Lancer's Wife; The Sequel\nto a Divorce; The Englishwoman; Sentiment; The\nFishermen; In his Sweetheart's Livery; Bertha; Dis-\ncovery; and A Message of Love.\nCONDOR'S BOOK STORE\n366 Fifth Ave.\nWrite for interesting catalogue of books.\nR. EDERHEIMER\nPRINT CABINET\n366 FIFTH AVE., NEW YORK\nOriginal Drawings by Old Masters\nALL APPRECIATIVE VISITORS CORDIALLY INVITED"}]}