Coraddi

miiicis

Editorial

The artist, momentarily worlting apart from the
society which has in one way or the other given him
all his ideas and inspiration, is a rarity. There has
never been a preponderance of people working in the
fine arts field, for the artist is a forerunner of his
time, and in general populations are not composed
of individuals concerned with the poetic truth of the
future or even with the present. This is, however,
the primary concern of the artist who finds that it
is necessary for him to state his interpretations of
these truths.

This is the basic reason for the scanty number
of artists on this campus. It is not the fault of stu-
dent government, sports events or courses in home
management. If the artist is present, and if these
are hinderances to him, he simply turns aside from
these particular elements. Even if they seem mun-
dane, uninteresting and uninspiring to him they are
still not responsible for the lack of creative work.

If the artist can not turn aside from them he is
free to struggle with them to arrive at his statement.
If he can do neither of these things he is not an
artist.

Coraddi wishes to act as a helper in this struggle
for it is not always an easy one. The magazine
wishes to reflect the best artistic efforts available
from students. It does not, under any circumstances,
wish to set itself up as an unobtainable "ivory
tower". The writers and artists who contributed and
whose work is not presented in this issue were
turned down for no other reason than they simply
did not meet the standards required to best re-
flect, but in many cases they were not far away.
Coraddi wishes to nourish and care for these rising
standards. Only when they have been raised can
the truth be stated, and the artist prove that he is
a "singing creature".

A. D.

Spring Issue
1959

CORADDI

editor
Ann Dearsley

literary editor
Heather Ross

art editor
Ann Duncan

literary staff
Nancy Rufty
Heather MacDonald
Linda Sanders
Hilda Kenner
Kay Wallace

a)i staff'

Suzanne Carter

Marnie Singletary

GWEN Neiman

Roberta Byrd

Carol Culbreth

Jo Harris

business manager
Reita Matheson

circulation manager
Christina Bennett

The Woman's College

o
of the

University of North Carolina

Greensboro. North Carolina

COf^TE^TS

Prose

The \\^olf, translation by Evelyn Matheson 4

The Fir Tree, anahsis by Margaret Underwood 8

poetry

The \\'ar Cloud, Heather Ross 3

A Legacy, Heather Ross 7

Termixlts, Becky HoM^ard 9

Le Professeur de Geographie, Heather MacDonald 10

art

The Sa^-s' Grass, An?? Dearsley 2

Kneeling Figure, Ami Duncan 5

To P., Marnie Singletary 6

DRA^\'IXG, Susie Winstead 9

Dr.\a\ing, Ann Home 10

Trillium, Suzanne Carter 12

Editorial

Co\er— The Coppice, Suzanne Carter lithograph

The War Cloud

What is war?

It is one of those afternoons upstairs,

With boxes and banks and shelves,

Full of browning, smiled-up yesterselves ;

It sits in the rocking chair

With blue eyes,

Full of vacant sky,

A doll left out in the rain.

A long afternoon of boxes,

Stairstepping through dust peels,

Frames of faces and dislocated promise places,

We folded fingers and eyelash comers ;

And in all the bee-bruised bliss

Of deepening summer.

Not one of us heard the stealth

Of big trees in the forest.

Not until one of them,

Full of leaves and nests and hummingbird unquietness,

Hovered short

Before the window of wedding,

The hasty talisman threading.

And fell.

We hung the raincoats in a closet,

And put the pigbank on a shelf

With pinkness and dust

Nimble above its ear;

Then moved the rocking chair

Beneath a window.

War drops fall quietly

On our grasses

With such a charming silence

Of clover sweets and small thorns

That we forget

The afternoon of memory net.

Rocking to sleep

In the jealous, laughing lightning

Of children and tears.

Waiting, nervous.

Until the big sky clears.

Then we will go out in the yard.

Sniffing the wet, summer shine

Of clean colored branches and birds.

Flicker rain beads on our toes

And whistle Jack-be-nimble

Through a nose.

What is war?

It is a big rain.

And afternoons of window waiting

For an openness.

Heather Ross

The Wolf— Herman Hesse

Translated from the German by

EVELYN MATHESON

Never before had there been such an uncomfort-
ably cold and long winter in the French mountains.
For weeks the air was clear, sharp, and cold. By
day, under the dazzling blue skies, the wide, sloping
snowf ields lay dead-white and endless, and at night,
the small, clear moon passed lightly over them, a
grim frost moon vdth a yellow glare, whose strong
light became blue and heavy on the snow and looked
like Frost personified. People avoided all roads and
especially the high ones ; they sat inactive and com-
plaining in their village huts, of which the little
windows, red with fainting light were smoky dull
next to the blue moonlight and soon appeared to go
out.

This was a difficult time for the animals of the
region. The smaller ones froze to death in great num-
bers, the birds also were killed by the frost and their
haggard corpses fell as prey for the hawks and
wolves. But these too suffered terribly from cold and
hunger. Only a few wolf-families lived here and
their want drove them to stronger union. During the
day, they went out individually. Here and there one
wandered over the snow, thin, hungry and vigilant,
as silent and timid as a ghost. His lanky shadow
glided close to him over the snowy surface. Sensing,
he lifted his pointed nose in the wind and let out
a dry, continually tormenting cry. But in the eve-
nings they move out completely and penetrated
around the village with their hoarse howling. There
the cattle and poultry were well-guarded, and behind
the solid window shutters lay rifles in firing posi-
tion. Only seldom, however, did a small prey fall to
them, a dog perhaps, and two of the pack had al-
ready been shot dead.

The frost still held on. Often the wolves lay
quietly and brooded together, each warming the
other and listening uneasily in the dead solitude
outside, until one, tortured by fierce hunger pangs,
sprang up suddenly with horrible roaring. Then all
the others turned their noses toward him and broke
out together in a terrible howl, threatening and com-
plaining.

Finally a smaller part of the pack decided to
wander away. Early in the morning they left their
holes, congregated and sniffed excitedly and fear-
fully in the frost-clear air. Then they trotted away,
swiftly and uniformly. The ones who stayed behind
looked at them with wide, glassy eyes, and trotted
up behind only a few dozen steps away, stood still,
irresolute and perplexed, and slowly returned to
their empty holes.

The emigrants separated from each other at
noon. Thre of them started east, toward the Swiss
Jura, the others pushed further south. The three
were beautiful, strong animals, but dreadfully ema-
ciated. Their drawn in bright bellies were as narrow
as straps, their ribs protruded pitifully from their
breasts, their mouths were dry and their eyes wide
and filled with despair. The three who came far into

the Jura, on the second day, captured a ram, on the
third, a dog and a foal were pursued from all di-
rections by furious land folk. Their fear and aver-
sion for the unusual intruder spread throughout
the small villages and towns of the region. The
post sleighs were armed, no one went from one vil-
lage to another without a gun. In the strange area,
after such good fortune, the three animals felt at the
same time both timid and self-assured. They became
foolhardy as ever they had at home, and in broad
daylight, they broke into the stable at a dairy farm.
The roar from the cows, the cracking of the wooden
stalls, the trampling of hoofs and the hot panting
breaths filled the narrow warm room. Some men
came between them this time. There had been of-
fered a reward for the wolves which doubled the
courage of the farmers, and they killed two of
them, the one, with a rifle shot through the neck,
the other was slain with an axe. The third escaped
and ran for so long that he fell half dead in the
snow He was the youngest and most beautiful of
the wolves, a proud animal of powerful strength and
supple form. For a long time he lay panting. Blood-
red circles whirled in front of his eyes; now and
then, he expelled a hissing painful groan. An axe
which was thrown had hit him in the back. But he
recovered and could get up again. Not until now did
he see how far he had run. There were no men or
houses anywhere to be seen. Densely before him lay
an enormous snow-covered mountain. It was the
Chasseral. He decided to go around it. Thirst was
torturing him, and he ate a small bit from the hard
frozen crust of the snow's surface.

On the other side of the mountain he came at
once upon a village. It was almost evening. He
waited in a thick pine forest. Then he slinked care-
fully around the garden wall, following the smell
from the warm stables. No one was in the streets.
Shyly and greedily he winked as he marched between
the houses. Then a shot fell. He threw his head in the
air and had started to run, when a second shot fired.
He was hit. His whitish undercoat was stained with
blood that trickled down in thick, viscous drops. Yet
with great bounds, he succeeded in escaping and in
reaching the other side of the mountain forest. Lis-
tening, he waited there for a moment, and heard
voices and steps from both sides. Fearful, he looked
up the mountain. It was steep, covered with trees
and would be difficult to climb. Nonetheless, he had
no choice. With panting breath he climbed up the
steep mountain side, while below a confusion of
curses, orders and lantern light moved along the
mountain. Trembling, the wounded wolf climbed
through the half-dark pine forest, while from his
side the brown blood trickled slowly down.

The cold had yielded. The westerly sky was
misty and seemed to give a promise of snowfall.

Finally the exhausted wolf reached the heights.
He was now in a large, lightly inclining snowfield,
near Mont Crosin, high over the village from which
he had escaped. He did not feel his hunger, but a

dull, throbbing pain from the wound. A faint, sick
barking sound came from his drooping mouth, his
heart beat, heavy and painful, and he felt the Hand
of Death like an unspeakably heavy burden pressing
upon him. A broad-branched pine tree, standing
alone, lured him over ; there he sat down and stared
gloomily into the snowy night. Half an hour passed.
Then a dim red light fell on the snow, soft and
strange. The wolf raised himself up, gi-oaning, and
turned his beautiful head toward the light. It was
the moon which was rising in the southeast, huge
and blood red, and was slowly climbing higher into
the dark sky. For many weeks now it had never been
so red and large. Sadly the eyes of the dying animal
hung in the dim disk-shaped moon, and again a weak
howl, like a death rattle, painful and toneless,
sounded in the night.

Then there came lights and footsteps. Farmers
in thick coats, hunters and young men in fur caps
with heavy, awkward boots tramped through the
snow. Cheers resounded. They had discovered the
dying wolf, fired two shots at him, both of which
missed. Then they saw that he already lay in death
and they fell upon him with canes and cudgels. He
could no longer feel it.

They dragged him, with his limbs broken, back
to St. Immer. They laughed, they bragged, they
celebrated with whiskey and coffee, they sang, they
cursed. No one noticed the beauty of the snow-cov-
ered forest, not even the splendor of the tableland,
not even the red moon, which hang over the Chas-
seral and whose dim light was reflected on their
rifle barrels, on the snow crystals, and on the broken
eyes of the slain wolf.

Ann Duncan

Kneeling Figure.

Drawing

Marnie Singletary

Lithograph

A Legacy

Come now, old ones,

Let us join hands in a squai'e.

The tavern of winds is a good place

To begin the noise of our going.

I've had mv share of those casual curiosities,

The think, "toad blink

Of afterdinner,

Conestogas and Benjamin,

Kites and keys,

Nights in windy apple trees.

And a slender, reaching ribbon snake

Of inching, pinching Chance-to-take.

Now, the blood falls among the warm adobe ruins.

And I would like to watch the ocean.

Stuffed on the bread of years,

Shortening and unlevened,

I grew and gave with the country.

Stretched myself upon it

Like a rug before the fire.

Red hypnosis leapt along my fertile vision,

And all the hour short, I felt those tugging

Mittened fingers behind my ears,

And still the tickle lingers.

I am drunk ; good, hard, homemade and hammocked drunk.

Laugh it down.

That's wine for a draughty heart.

The land brews bubbles in old stump kettles.

And lets me lick the rim.

Yes, I've had my share.

Put loves and wars in candlebooks

For you to burn

Late some night when God returns.

Even now, the sun grown stout.

Fun-bullets slice the air,

Adam sits on a dare.

And Eves go out.

So, take off your boots, old ones;

Give the devil a dancing damn and find the fiddler a coin.

Time and wine

Plant deep behind

Those seeds of beggar's loin.

Heather Ross

A Critical Analysis of
Hans Christian Andersen

The Fir Tree

One sometimes wonders why fairy tales and
myths, among other art forms, are shared with
children. Perhaps it is because they are so well en-
joyed by the adults who x-ead them. Or again, per-
haps it is because the child's world is a special kind
of world, the "blessed Creatures" behold "the light
and whence it flows" in a different way from our
adult worlds of mind and time, category and space,
and rationale. For to Adam and the little child, the
world is like himself. There is no distinction between
other and me ; if I see and smell and feel and say, the
Serpent and the Fir Tree do, also. The living world
and I are one. Thus, in the fairy world of the story
of mankind, the ridiculous and the incongruous only
assert the absurdity of our lives— and desires.

Hans Christian Andersen's story is probably as
old as human experience. Indeed, it is concerned with
the very basis of human consciousness — the constant
restlessness of unf ullf illment ; the ever surging for
the next moment, the next experience, the golden
age. The never satisfaction of the conscious mind
is felt and described by man, but it is perhaps only
in death that "as if" or "when" are either real or
unreal, and not the vague urge to be whole and full-
filled. It mav be that only in the depth of desire that
man exists "^fullv— that we "are" when we desire
most passionately "to be". At any rate, it may also
be only during a few rare moments crowning ram-
pant desire that one is content in his present "be-
ing".

"The Fir Tree" is a small epic of the restlessness
of the human spirit as it seeks constantly its whole-
ness and unity, the knowledge of its fullness. Almost
every sentence in "The Fir Tree" should be discussed
in regard to its significance within the unity of the
whole tale. However, several passages which are
especially significant for the meaning of this "tree
of life," will be discussed here.

We meet the fir tree in the typical world of the
young child. Even the first sentence is striking be-
cause of its unassuming quality. "Out in the forest
stood a pretty little fir tree". One enters the story
like the mature person who is quite casually, per-
haps somewhat paternally, speaking of a familiar
child. "Next door there once was a little child." The
child-tree is placed in the security of place, sunlight,
air and comrades. There was even a desirable variety
of environment, "pines as well as firs." Much of a
child's experience is in immediate perception; like-
wise, growth is one of the strongest immediate ex-
periences of youth. So the little tree, like little chil-
dren, was so eager to grow up physically. It is not
yet even at the point of distinguishing its immediate
surroundings, for it "took no notice of the peasant
children". To the little child "other" objects are not
noticed or appreciated. They should be here because
they are here. The little fir tree did not notice dif-
ferences until much later — until there were "chil-
dren" and he was "older". But for now, the little fir
tree, like a small child, hated those older folk who
fondled his ringlets and condescendingly said "How
pretty and small you are!"

Immediately we are able to accept the symbolic
quality of the tree, because it assumes physical,
human attributes. First there comes that marvelous
"joint", the woody sinews that, like yardstick meas-
ures on the kitchen wall, proclaim a record of
growth. The joint is a physical landmark, a part of
the little tree's desire for birthdays! There is also
the delightful instance of the little tree's first taste
of physical power, when he suddenly realizes his
relative strength over his playmate, and the hare
must go around.

But then the little tree is initiated into the dark
mysteries of the adult world. At the height of child-
hood, he had just shouted: "Oh! to grow, to grow
and become old. That's the only fine thing in the
world." One feels that the next event is almost like a
ceremonial puberty rite. The woodcutters come, like
old savages, to the forest depths, and "felled" a
few of the largest trees. And like an annual ritual,
those came who were "largest" and "well grown",
and they "shuddered with fear" for the tribal cir-
cumcision meant that suddenly Adam was denuded
— he was without leaves. The tree has "eaten" of
life, and begins to "know" that he is "naked, long,
and slender" because "their branches were cut off."
With strange feelings, and new awareness of bodily
changes, the little tree began to ask more questions
and compiled his knowledge with that of his peers,
the birds. And the stork avoids a detailed discussion
of the fate of trees, because "It would take too long
to explain all that". And then in the love play of
youth, he was kissed and wept upon and yet "did
not understand that". He did not know all — only
the vague terror of what might be, now that he had
begun to question the world and his destiny.

However, there were those strange and lovely
young trees that were plucked in their youth, but
in the same manner disappeared, retaining the glory
of their branches. And they, the fir tree would later
understand, were like young eunuchs who at first
would joy in the splendor of the royal court, but
later would realize that they had sacrificed their
seed, and in impotence and disillusion, would realize
that they have only served as useful decorations.

But the sparrows eagerly relate their incomplete
observations of the fate of the tree in its glory. Un-
fortunately, they, too, have seen nobility from afar,
and only know the lovely time of "gilt apples", honey
cakes and playthings — the time of the "incompar-
able" event. And in response the little tree cries
poignantly of all the unrest of the human body and
mind : "There must be something grander, some-
thing grander still to come, but what? Oh, I'm suf-
fering, I'm longing!" But yet he says "I don't know
myself what is the matter with me!" And failing
to enjoy the beauty of the present moment, the
time of "grandeur" comes; the human marrow of
the little tree is cut, and the great delusion is ini-
tiated.

Ironically, in the grand manner of the noble trav-
eler, it is carried by servants. Then there is that
continued on p. 11

8

Terminus

The pines in bending toss
Their cones upon the soil
And scatter guardless seeds
Whose terminus is birth.

By worthy feet of strength
That rush along their paths
Without a halt, the cones
Are flicked aside or smashed.

Becky Haywaed

Le Professeur de Geographic

M. Henri Marquis

Ph.D. Paris

in his

continental

air

of

savoir faire

struts

into class

takes his seat

and talks smugly of

Lisbon and

Alsace

He knows all the

big

places

Heather MacDonald

10

marvelous passage which shows so well the ra-
tionalizations and emotional vacillations of one who
perceives himself elevated. "And the fir tree was put
into a great tub filled with sand (and as an after-
thought) "but no one could see that it was a tub"
. . . (And in further self enjoyment) it also "stood
on a large many-colored carpet." Basking in its
glory, it is trimmed with, among other things, that
fated symbol of discord, golden apples. These are
only instruments of delusion for the tree. They will
be like the images of real people — dolls — that em-
phasize the absolute falsity of the situation.

Perhaps an amusing and quite human touch is
the fact that in the midst of all its desires for more
and more power, glory, and experience, and the little
tree expresses a desire to be seen by the folks from
home : "I wonder if trees will come out of the forest
to look at me? Will the sparrows fly against the
panes?" And then, enjoying this exalted position,
and desiring continued security, he says, "Shall I
grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and
winter?" The tree misinterprets all the glory around
it, and thinks that the children dance and sing at
its feet because of its own special glory. Actually
they were wild with his appearance — not him. The
fir tree's contribution to the holiday eve had been
"what was required of it." In other words, this was
entirely functional. Yet there still runs throughout
this the same haunting refrain that points to the
most significant point in the story — the desire for
tomorrow, assumed to be a time when there would
be more time, more stories, more splendor and less
trembling.

Then is a rather nice little drama with the mice.
The mice think of a heaven of all sorts of cheeses
and hams. The mice at least know what they want.
Whether one dances on tallow candles or streets
paved with gold, they at least have visualized their
desires. They have a definite conception of the
heaven they desire. Now, the only heaven the little
tree can describe is the past, for he can never fore-
see the future. He waits, but he knows not what
he wants.

"And then it told all about its youth." Now
we are sure that the little tree is growing old, and
there is almost a wistful sigh as it recounts its life,
but protest hopefully "I'm not old at all." And then
there is truly the most tragic statement of all. "I'm
in my very best years." The tragedy is that he
doesn't actually believe this. He doesn't realize that
he has uttered the greatest tragedy on earth — I
am here — waiting, aching for the vague spring — un-
aware that the best years are reaUy now — unaware
of the meaning and importance of the very words,
"I am, now."

And then appear the symbols of those wretched
people who lack imagination. Because the tree's tale
was not of the things in which they delighted, the
rats thought, like uneducated grandmothers look-
ing at Picasso, that the story was really not pretty
at all. And the mice who had warmly responded to

the lovely tale, decided that their evaluation of it
must change if the great rats had expressed such
disapproval.

"I did not think how happy I was," said the
tree, regretfully. But it is not until the next state-
ment that the tree begins to perceive the real nature
of things. This time he sees how the minutes just
passed were also unrecognized, but very good. "It
was very nice when they sat round me, the merry
little mice (like the earlier hare), and listened when
I spoke to them. Now that's past too. But I shall
(emphasis mine) remember to be pleased when
they take me out." The little tree has even now
picked the very time in which he will be satisfied.
But the servant reappears to aid in the removal of
the tree in ironical contrast to the former grand
entrance.

Hope is revived and the tree feels that life is be-
ginning again. Suddenly the tree "forgot to look at
itself" as it feels the impact of nature, which it
had ignored in its youth. Too late, in unknowing, ab-
solute impotence, the tree finally declares "Now I
shall live". Yet this is still expressed in future tense.
Never yet has the tree said: "Now I am living.

Yet there is the wish, after he hears that he is
old and ugly, to return to the past. If one does not
retreat to dreams of the future, he can always de-
sire the warmth of the past. So the little tree shouts
from the Precious Present: "Past! Past!" "Had I
but rejoiced when I could have done so! Past! Past!"
Ironically it thinks of the tale of Humpty Dumpty
— a tale of hope, which has not been fulfilled for the
tree.

And in a huge and horrible cremation the ti-ee is
burned. Like the nonchalant ploughman as Icarus
falls into the water, the innocent boys played on in
the Garden. Now the youngest child had the star
on his breast and the tree watches this as a lame
old father chances upon his young son playing bat-
tle games, his young breast shielded with his
father's purple heart of years ago.

The last sentence in the story is truly the most
magnificent. The story of the little tree meets with
our compassion because it is our story. "Now that
was past, and the story is past, too. Past! Past! And
that's the way with all stories." One suddenly real-
izes that he has experienced, in the reading of the
story, the same sensation that Andersen emphasized
with the little fir tree, representing human life. The
reader or the listener, like the ti-agedy of the fairy
tale, avidly followed the story through to its climax.
The tree never met its climax, but constantly was
discontent with life in the present. There was only
that strange ache for something in the future. Now
we feel that in Andersen's art, we, as readers, have
been engaged in the very problem of our lives.
Through the story we have psychologically experi-
enced the constant search for the other and the
beyond, curiosity for the "point", the "solution", the
"climax" — and when we reach the other, and the
beyond, we, like the tree, will only be Past! Past!

Margaret Underwood

11

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