Skip to main content

Full text of "Four Quarters"

See other formats 


f 


our 


IJnarters 


The  Care  and  Prevention  of  Playwrights 


. 

By  Walter  Kerr 

•  Page    3 

9i 

Rest  Camp,  a  story 
By  Claude  F.  Koch 

•  Page     6 

The  Two  Faces  of  Fiction 

W 
pS 

By  John  F.  McGlynn 

•  Page  13 

IS 

Brief  Candle,  a  poem 

s 

By  Claude  F.  Koch 

•  Page  17 

i 

Two  Poems 

By  Leo  Brady 

•  Page  18 

1 

The  Sign,  a  story 

^^^ 

« 

« 

^ 

>% 
^ 

By  Edward  Garry 

To  Death,  a  poem 
By  Brother  Adelbert 

Is  There  a  Doctor  in  the  House? 

•  Page  20 

•  Page  28 

1 

By  Dan  Rodden 

•  Page  29 

0^ 

november  f ifteenth. 

1951 

VI 

s 

s 

vol.  I9  no.  1  • 

fifty 

cents 

The  AREA  OF  LITERATURE  of  La  Salle  College  announces  .  .  . 

four  quarters 

a  literary  magazine  published  quarterly  during  the  academic  year, 

•  aimed  at  focusing  the  practice  and  appreciation  of 
writing  in  the  Catholic  tradition  .  .  . 

•  aimed  more   particularly   at   fixing  a   channel   of 
expression  for  Faculty,  Alumni,  and  Students  of  La 
Salle  College,  the  Brothers  of  the  Christian  Schools, 
and  selected  outside  contributors  .  .  . 

The  Editors  accordingly  offer  the  pages  of  FOUR  QUARTERS  as  a  common 
ground  for  the  creative,  critical,  or  scholarly  writer  and  the  alert  and  reflective 
reader.  They  promise  that  each  manuscript  submitted  will  receive  careful  con- 
sideration, and,  realizing  that  creative  growth  is  dependent  on  sustained 
interest,  they   welcome   the   attention   and   comments   of  their   subscribers. 


EDITOR— Austin  J.  App 

ASSOCIATE  EDITOR— Brother  E.  Patrick,  F.S.C. 
MANAGING  EDITOR— Daniel  J.  Rodden 
BUSINESS  MANAGER— Brother  G.  Robert.  F.S.C. 

CIRCULATION  MANAGER— Joseph  A.  Browne.  Jr. 

EDITORIAL  ASSOCIATES— Claude  F.  Koch.  Chairman 
Brother  E.  Clementian.  F.S.C.        Howard  L.  Hannum 
Robert  L.  Dean  Joseph  F.  Hosey 

Ugo  Donini  John  F.  McGlynn 

John  A.  Guischard  E.  Russell  Naughton 


Manuscripts  and  other  correspondence  should  be  addressed  to  The  Editor,  FOUR 
QUARTERS,  La  Salle  College,  Philadelphia  41,  Pa.  Manuscripts  should  be  typed  double- 
spaced  and  should  be  accompanied  by  a  stamped,  self-addressed  envelope. 


Con  tributers 

WALTER  KERR,  for  a  number  of  years  a  member  of  tbe  drama 
faculty  of  the  CatKoIic  University  of  America,  wKere  bis  classes  in  play- 
writing  and  drama  theory  became  well  known,  is  presently  guest  drama 
critic  of  the  l^ejv  York  Herald-Trihune,  drama  editor  of  Commonweal, 
and  a  contributing  editor  of  Theatre  Arts  Monthly.  As  a  playwright,  he 
has  frequently  been  represented  on  Broadw^ay,  most  recently  by  the  success- 
ful musical  revue  Touch  and  Go,  written  in  collaboration  with  his  wife. 
Jean  Kerr.  Mr.  Kerr  is  represented  in  this  first  issue  of  FOUR  QUARTERS 
by  the  provocative  article,  "The  Care  and  Prevention  of  Playwrights." 

LEO  BI^ADY,  whose  verse  appears  in  this  issue,  is  at  present  Assistant 
Professor  of  Speech  and  Drama  at  the  Cathohc  University  of  America. 
A  frequent  contributor  to  poetry  magazines,  Mr.  Brady  is  the  author  of  a 
novel.  The  Edge  of  Doom,  and  of  several  plays,  one  of  which.  Count  Me  In, 
written  in  collaboration  with  Walter  Kerr,  w^as  produced  professionally. 

JOSEPH  MINTZER,  who  contributed  the  typographic  cover  design 
for  this  and  the  year's  subsequent  issues  of  FOUR  QUARTERS,  is  a 
member  of  the  Art  Directors  of  America,  the  Scarab  Club  of  Detroit, 
former  president  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Art  Guild  of  Detroit,  and  has 
exhibited  his  paintings  under  the  auspices  of  the  Michigan  Water  Color 
Society. 

BROTHER  ADELBERT  is  a  former  Assistant  Professor  of  English 
at  La  Salle  College.  At  present  he  is  studying  for  his  doctorate  in 
Medieval  Literature  at  the  Catholic  University  of  America. 

CLAUDE  F.  KOCH,  JOHN  F.  McGLYNN,  EDWARD  GARRY, 
and  DAN  RODDEN  are  members  of  the  faculty  of  La  Salle  College. 


The  Care  and  Prevention 
of  Playivrights 

By  Walter  Kerr 

THOSE  or  us  wKo  teacK  playwriting  sometimes  wonder  why  one  of 
our  young  student  playwrigKts  may  spend  tKree  or  four  years  with  us 
in  the  universities  without  producing  anything  w^e  can  honestly  consider 
stageworthy,  and  then  go  out  into  the  wide,  uncuhivated  world  and  within 
a  year  turn  out  a  mature  and  even  commercial  work.  We  were  so  well 
equipped  to  help  him,  we  had  all  those  courses,  we  gave  him  so  much 
of  our  precious  personal  time,  and  we  offered  him  an  intellectual  environ- 
ment in  which  a  man  should  have  been  able  to  grow.  The  year  after 
leaving  us  he  spent  mostly  in  bars  and  on  beaches.  To  our  chagrin,  the 
bars  and  the  beaches  produced  the  work  of  art. 

Chagrined  but  unbowed,  we  are  still  determined  to  help  him.  and 
we  try  to  entice  him  back  to  our  own,  and  superior,  environment.  Lately 
the  universities  have  been  offering  residences  to  young  playwrights.  Come 
back,  we  say.  Come  out  of  the  potholes  and  into  the  light,  and  let  us  help 
you  write  better  plays.  The  chances  are  about  a  thousand  to  one,  if  the 
playwright  does  come  back,  that  he  will  again  embarrass  us  by  producing 
the  unproduceable.     And  the  longer  he  stays,  the  worse  he  will  get. 

I  am  not  suggesting  that  we  cannot  be  of  use  to  the  beginning  writer; 
we  can,  and  we  have  been.  But  there  are  certain  limitations  to  our  use- 
fulness, and  I  think  it  is  wise  to  face  them.  It  is  also  necessary  to  make 
the  playwright  face  them,  so  that  he  does  not  suffer  at  the  hands  of  men 
honestly  trying  to  help,  and  so  that  he  does  not  paralyze  himself  with 
misapprehensions  about  his  trade. 

The  fundamental  virtue  of  the  university  as  an  aid  to  playwrights 
is  that  it  is  a  repository  of  historical  and  technical  knowledge  about  the 
craft  and  that,  as  a  result  of  years  of  study  and  synthesis,  it  can  offer  a 
quick  resume  of  traditional  structural  principle.  The  neophyte  had  best 
be  exposed  to  all  this.     It  will  save  him  time. 

The  fundamental  vice  of  the  university  as  a  home  for  playwrights  is 
that  it  is  an  essentially  rational  environment,  devoted  to  logic,  theory, 
and  the  study  of  principle.  The  playwright's  gift,  like  that  of  other  artists, 
is  not  primarily  rational,  but  intuitive.  This  means,  roughly,  that  he  has 
an  instinctive  capacity  for  sudden  and  direct  contact  with  realityz—flashes 
of  insight  which  are  not  the  result  of  rational  construction  in  a  vacuum,  but 
come  from  immediate  intimacy  with  nature  itself.  NVhat  he  receives  are 
concrete  images,  not  abstractions  or  equations,  and  universities  are 
notorious  hotbeds  of  abstraction  and  equation. 

There  is  a  certain  estrangement,  and  perhaps  even  a  clash,  between 
the  rational  and  intuitive  methods  of  the  intellect.     F.  S.  C.  Northrop 


4  Four  Quarters 

empKasizes  this  in  The  Meeting  of  East  and  ^Vest  wken  he  points  out  that 
the  rationally  arrived-at  knowledge  of  the  wave-IengtK  for  blue  will  do 
nothing  at  all  to  convey  to  a  man  born  blind  the  actual  experience  of 
blueness.  Now  the  playwright  is  concerned  with  blueness— for  him,  blue- 
ness  means  the  living  reality  of  an  action— and  all  the  abstract  equations 
he  learns  for  climax,  crisis,  direct  and  indirect  characterization  will  not 
convey  to  him  or  to  his  audience  this  living  reality.  The  danger  he  faces 
in  a  university,  where  the  search  for  equations  is  after  all  the  principal 
business,  is  that  he  will  be  drawn  into  the  fascination  of  the  formula. 
He  may  come  to  believe  that  the  equation  is  the  living  reality  or  a  perfectly 
good  substitute  for  it.  Writing  hard,  he  will  produce  plays  as  lifeless  as 
they  are  mathematically  irreproachable.  Or,  sensing  his  own  failure,  he 
will  turn  into  what  he  is  now  really  equipped  to  be^-a  critic. 

I  suppose  all  of  this  sounds  a  little  intangible  and  overwrought.  But 
those  of  us  who  teach  playwriting  have  had  it  happen  repeatedly  to  us, 
or  to  our  students,  in  one  way  or  another.  We  may  have  told  them, 
perhaps  in  a  course  in  drama  theory  or  history,  that  tragedy  is  our  most 
profound  dramatic  form,  and  that  all  or  virtually  all  of  our  great  tragedies 
are  in  verse.  What  we  said  was  demonstrably  true.  But  it  did  not 
justify  the  rash  of  verse  tragedies  which  broke  out  in  playwriting  class 
some  short  time  later.  Young  writers  are  an  ambitious  and  elevated  lot. 
Give  them  a  principle  about  tragedy  or  about  anything  else,  and  they 
are  going  to  attack  their  work  as  though  the  principle  came  first.  The 
chance  that  any  one  of  these  plays  was  inspired  by  an  immediate  and 
tragic  intuition  of  life  is,  I  think,  rare.  And  unless  we  really  do  point  out 
that  a  perfectly  sound  critical  principle  is  no  guide  whatever  to  the 
personal  talent  of  an  individual  man,  we  may  condemn  that  man  to  five  or 
six  years  of  laboriously  perfecting  a  form  for  which  he  has  no  perceptive 
capacity. 

Or  there  is  my  own  experience  of  guiding  a  student  through  a  series  of 
exercises  which  were  calculated  to  teach  her  a  good  deal  about  play 
structure.  She  seemed  to  learn  the  structure  all  right,  but  to  be  without 
any  particular  talent.  One  day  when  my  back  was  turned,  and  my  glaring 
formal  eye  not  directed  toward  her,  she  forgot  about  the  whole  thing  and 
wrote  a  play.  It  was  so  good  I  had  to  produce  it  immediately  in  the 
university  theatre;  it  w^as  later  optioned  for  New  York.  She  is  still  profuse 
about  how^  much  she  learned  from  me.  but  I  learned  more  from  her.  I 
learned  that  I  could  teach  a  lot  of  principle  but  that  a  genuine  playwright 
is  a  terribly  unprincipled  person. 

Again,  a  young  man  comes  to  us  seeking  admission,  w^ith  a  dozen 
assorted  manuscripts  under  his  arm.  Here,  obviously,  is  a  very  fertile 
fellow.  At  the  end  of  a  year  with  us,  w^e  find  he  has  not  even  put  pencil 
to  paper.  Is  it  possible  that  we  have  somehow  paralyzed  him?  On  several 
such  occasions  I  have  asked  the  student  for  an  explanation  and  I  have 
several  times  been  answered  as  follows:  "Oh,  I  couldn't  possibly  have 
wasted  my  time  writing  anything.     Every  lecture  you  gave  taught  me  so 


The  Care  and  Prevention  of  Playwrights  5 

mucn  that  I  didn't  want  to  be  making  mistakes  on  paper  that  might  be 
prevented  by  the  very  next  lecture."  Students  have  been  known  to  go 
on  for  years  this  way.  I  thought  for  awhile  of  remodehng  my  classroom 
to  include  ear-plugs  and  a  bar. 

It  is  not  just  a  matter  of  wasting  time  in  the  classroom,  or  even  of 
paralyzing  a  given  student  for  a  few^  years  thereafter.  Carried  to  its  full 
extension,  the  emphasis  on  theory  and  principle  can  destroy  the  output  of 
an  entire  culture.  Something  hke  this  happened  in  Renaissance  Italy. 
Clearly,  there  was  a  fine  dramatic  and  theatrical  instinct  here,  bursting 
to  be  heard.  It  made  itself  heard  with  tremendous  vitality  in  the  com- 
meaia  dellarte.  But  the  more  talented  and  literate  men  who  might  have 
given  Italy  a  literary  comedy  or  even  a  tragic  form  were  caught  in  the 
throes  of  classic  theory.  Slavishly  they  adhered  to  the  rules  of  the  academi- 
cians, and  in  the  process  went  creatively  sterile.  Holding  themselves 
superior  to  the  commedia,  with  its  formless  and  vulgar  aping  of  the 
common  life,  they  destroyed  their  intuitive  gifts  by  their  determined 
rationality. 

Obviously  we  have  got  to  teach  what  we  know  about  theory  and 
mathematical  technique.  But  we  have  got  to  teach  it  for  what  it  is'—a  kit 
of  small  tools,  an  assembly  of  shortcuts—and  never  pretend  that  it  is  the 
heart  of  the  w^ork.  The  student  should  know  that  what  he  is  learning  will 
serve  as  a  sort  of  handy  reference  guide,  once  he  has  absorbed  and  then 
forgotten  it.  Since  no  intuitively  perceived  image  will  ever  come  w^ith  all 
its  shoelaces  perfectly  tied,  it  is  wise  to  know  how^  to  tie  them  up.  But 
there  should  be  no  undue  emphasis  on  the  act  of  tying.  It  should  be  "a 
casual  habit  w^hich  distracts  not  at  all  from  the  pursuit  of  the  image 
proper.  We  must  encourage  the  student  to  form  such  habits  quickly  and 
never  again  give  them  thought,  so  that  his  mind  may  be  free  to  make 
contact  with  an  unmanipulated  reality. 

The  trouble  with  his  remaining  in  a  university  after  the  habits  have 
been  formed  is  that  he  continues  to  give  thought  to  the  processes.  He 
thinks,  talks,  and  theorizes  process  far  into  the  night.  Even  if  he  is 
advanced  to  the  point  of  recognizing  the  difference  between  process  and 
perception,  he  thinks,  talks,  and  theorizes  about  that.  It  is  a  world  of 
theory,  in  which  one  first  establishes  the  formula  and  then  attempts  to 
fill  it.  For  the  artist  this  is  putting  the  cart  before  the  horse  and,  like  all 
horses  caught  in  the  situation,  he  is  brought  to  a  standstill.  The  case 
of  John  Lyly  is  much  to  the  point:  the  University  Wits,  of  which  he  was 
one,  became  wits  when  they  left  the  universities  for  the  life  of  London. 
Lyly,  clinging  to  an  intellectual  environment  and  disdaining  to  compete 
with  the  bear-baiting  pits,  chained  himself  to  an  everlasting  repetition  of 
his  first  intellectual  conceits.     Better  the  bars  and  the  beaches. 

Our  job  in  the  universities  is  to  teach  the  traditional  short-cuts  and 
to  turn  them  into  half-forgotten  habits.  To  make  clear  to  the  writer 
that  they  are  not  half  so  important  as  his  own  most  casual  glance.  And 
to  get  rid  of  him  as  quickly  as  possible. 


Rest  Camp 

By  Qaude  F.  Koch 

REST  CAMP  is  tKe  winner  of  tKe  first  annual  Catholic  Press  Association  SHort  Story 
Award.  Tlie  story,  which  appears  for  the  first  time  in  FOUR  QUARTERS,  was 
adjudged    test    by    a    board    composed    of    editors    of    leading    Cathofic    pubhcations. 


\\r*  KiPi 
VWf 

^    o 


KIPPER'S  going  asKore  in 
an  Kour,  Rubber." 
Over  by  tKe  rail  the  clumpy 
little  figure  started,  turned!,  and  split 
unshaven  cheeks  in  an  indecisive 
smile. 

"That'll  be  great,  eh.  Commander, 
eh?"  On  his  damp  collar,  cross  and 
heutenant's  bars  were  dull  and  awry. 
The  heutenant  commander  nodded 
condescendingly  and  waved  himself 
away,  and  the  priest  leaned  his  belly 
against  the  rail  again,  contemplating 
with  dull-eyed  fatigue  the  unloading 
operations  in  the  Noumean  dusk. 
His  khaki  clothes  draped  hmply  over 
the  framie  that  awkwardly  slouched, 
bereft  of  the  weight  that  earned  him 
his  nickname— a  pale,  grimy,  fever- 
ridden  httle  man  small  on  the  trans- 
port's forward  well-deck. 

That  earned  him  his  nickname. 
The  Reverend  Wilham  Ball,  Roman 
Cathohc  chaplain  to  the  501st  Con- 
struction Battahon,  rubbed  soft, 
padded  fingers  over  his  cracked  hps. 
On  the  wharf  below,  behind  which 
ghnted  the  dissembhng  sun  in  its 
setting  across  the  red  tin  roofs  of  the 
palm-sheltered  town,  pugnacious 
green  trucks  of  a  Marine  convoy 
were  already  loading  the  advance 
party  of  the  Sea  Bee  Battalion.— his 
battalion,  his  disdainful  flock.  .  .  . 
And  later,  the  drinkin'  padre,  old 
Rubber  Ball  himself,  hail  fellow,  the 
good  guy  among  his  peers  would 
step  down  to  the  commander's  jeep 


and  another  round  of  drinks  at  this 
damn  rest  camp  wherever-it-was 
Saint  Louis. 

But  the  Solomon  Islands  were  be- 
hind. Father  Ball  looked  down  at 
his  slight  fingers  clutching  white  the 
ship's  rail  and  expelled  his  breath 
with  a  grating  sigh.  The  quonset 
hut  was  behind,  the  screened  mess 
("officers  only"),  the  beer  (out  be- 
yond the  screening  in  the  Tulagi 
twilight  bent  and  dejected  figures  of 
elderly  men  clanked  messgear  in  the 
long  lines^-some  looked  in  and  saw 
him,  and  saw  the  skipper,  and  the 
tables,  and  the  icebox),  and  now  the 
rest  camp  in  this  New  Caledonian 
security.  The  advance  party  was 
loaded,  angular  figures  of  men  joy- 
ous on  the  planked  seats  lining  the 
sides  of  the  six-bys^aughing,  and 
boisterous  joking.  .  .  .  Then  one 
looked  up  at  him  and  ceased  his  good 
humor,  or  so  the  priest  thought. 

Father  Ball  turned  away  from  the 
rail,  and  padded  his  awkward  knock- 
kneed  waddle  toward  his  cabin  in 
officers'  country. 

It  was  dark  as  the  jeep  followed 
the  main  convoy  through  the  town, 
but  the  priest  in  his  seat  behind  the 
commander  and  beside  his  exec 
shivered  at  the  piercing  whiteness  of 
headlights.  Light  for  the  first  time 
at  night  for  six  months.  Light  that 
cut  across  the  paving  as  the  trucks 
mounted  to  the  hills  and  thrust  still 


Rest  Camp 


glowing  Kouses  into  relief.  They 
were  silent  as  tKe  hushed  witness 
of  conventional  hfe  took  shape  in 
the  headhghts,  as  the  faint  music  of 
lavender  or  stranger  scents  hung  in 
the  coohng  air.  Like  the  httle  towns 
in  the  late  springs  at  home.  Like, 
thought  Father  Ball,  the  road  to  my 
first  curacy.  The  same  lonehness 
and  uncertainty  and  weakness  that 
filled  him  then  assailed  him  again, 
and  he  said: 

"Well,  Skipper,  civihzation  at 
last,  eh?" 

"Right-o,  Padre.  Here's  where 
you  fill  out  again.  They  say,"  the 
Commander  turned  around  with  a 
grin,  "they  say  that  the  god-damned- 
est officers'  club  in  the  Pacific  is 
right  here  at  the  Hotel  du  Paci- 
fique  ..." 

"Lead  me  to  it,  "  the  exec  yipped 
his  shrill  delight. 

Father  Ball  nodded  absently. 

It  was  a  strange  returning,  he 
thought.  Six  months  baked  in  green, 
or  scraping  sodden  cots  in  total 
blackness:  every  sound  familiar, 
weighted  and  understood.  Now^  to 
learn  to  hear  again  the  isolated,  half- 
recalled,  and  fearless  sounds  of  a 
community;  to  see  after  green-blind- 
ness the  wealth  of  a  spectrum^ 
freed  of  the  tyranny  of  green.  Freed 
of  all  familiars,  except  the  self,  he 
thought.  The  little-fat-man-priest- 
in-his-spare-time.  lover  of  Number 
One.  An  abrupt  curve,  arrowing  the 
headlights  out  across  angular  nae- 
ouli  trees,  sliding  along  wire  mesh 
fencing  and  plowing  shadows  across 
the  tilled  earth,  threw  him  against 
the  exec. 

"Hold    it.    Rubber!  "      The    priest 


shrank  at  the  nickname.  He  was 
silent. 

"But  are  the  French  lasses 
friendly?  "  Ball  could  not  see  his 
commanding  officer's  teeth^-but  they 
would  be  unveiled  fully  in  the  dusk, 
caught  in  a  moment  by  the  clean 
light  approaching  upgrade. 

'  Now^,  here,  here,"  he  bantered, 
"remember  your  chaplain  ..."  A 
bark  of  laughter,  and  the  little  priest 
nodded  his  head  with  a  weak  smile 
in  the  darkness.    It  was  so  easy. 

But  to  begin  again  maybe  here. 
Or  fifteen  minutes  ago  with  the 
convoy  ana  the  singing  men  blast- 
ing through  the  gate  of  the  long, 
deserted  wharf  ^twisting  the  streets 
of  the  tojjun  fragrant  u^ith  memories 
aching  to  bum  away  the  months  just 
past,  swinging  the  twisted  palms  and 
the  relaxed  streets,  and  swinging  the 
jeep  like  the  tail  of  a  long  dog  be- 
hind. To  begin  again  with  that  be- 
ginning-^but  pxst  to  find  the  moment 
of  decision,  and  cast  away  the  para- 
site of  body  that  when  and  God 
knows  how  became  the  host  and  rode 
the  spirit  out  to  something  infinitely 
small  and  lost.    Or  to  begin  now? 

"What  the  hell  did  you  say. 
Padre?" 

"I  said  the  men  sound  happy  ..." 
Father  Ball  clenched  his  hands  on 
his  lap  and  closed  his  ears  to  a  reply. 

And  all  the  hushed  ride  through 
the  Noumean  night  journeyed  the 
priest  further  into  the  past/— beyond 
all  memories,  of  his  failure  as  a  chap- 
lain, along  the  wide  roads  above  the 
lights  that  emphasized  the  pall  of 
valleys  below,  back  to  old  illusions. 
But  then  they  were  at  Camp  Saint 
Louis,  and  while  the  Skipper  tugged 
at  a  case  of  luke-warm  beer  and  the 


Four  Quarters 


priest  watcKeJ  Kim  with  desire  and 
cKagrin.  the  Marine  Captain  wKo 
was  Camp  Commander  bobbed  into 
tKe  tent  and  banded  bim  tbe  notice 
for  bis  morning  Masses  at  Camp 
Bailey. 

"And  wbere  is  Camp  Bailey,  eb?" 
Ball  sbpped  tbe  notice  into  bis  sag- 
ging Icbaki  sbirt  and  grabbed  eagerly 
for  tbe  tin  of  beer. 

"Across  tbe  way,  Cbaplain.  And 
watcb  yourself,"  tbe  Marine  Officer 
grinned  in  tbe  candlehgbt,  "it's  a 
Raider  camp  and  one  of  tbe  outfits 
is  beading  Nortb  soon;  tbey  need  a 
Catbobc  cbaplain  ..." 

"Not  for  me;  not  for  me."  be 
bfted  tbe  can  to  bis  bps  witb  a 
jerky  movement  and  drank  avidly, 
"I  wouldn't  go  back  tbere  for  tbe 
Pope  bimself.  " 

II. 

Tbe  bell  was  a  pattern  in  bis 
consciousness  long  before  be  awak- 
ened. Back  and  fortb,  tbe  notes 
caugbt  pure  bke  vs^ater  in  a  silver 
pool,  stirring  a  dream  witb  ecboes 
of  tbe  seminary  lawn  created  anew 
eacb  morning  for  tbe  cassocked  boys, 
tbe  ripples  widening  to  drag  witbin 
tbe  dream  tbe  room  wbere  once  be, 
a  bttle  boy,  still  sleeps  and  late  for 
Mass.  .  .  .  But  be  awakened  to  tbe 
instant  morning:  outside  tbe  tent 
tbe  paper-peeling  bark  of  a  naeouli, 
and  tbe  belling  across  tbe  startled 
valley.  Tbe  priest  buncbed  to  bis 
feet,  clattering  a  beer  can  across  tbe 
tent  flooring.  No  movement  in  tbe 
tw^o  remaining  bunks.  Tbe  first 
nigbt's  party  bad  done  its  work. 
His  wristwatcb  blurred  to  tbe  bour, 
and  be  remembered  bis  Mass  at  tbe 
Raider  camp. 


But  wben  be  bad  dressed  and 
trimmed  bis  beard,  and*— 'clearing  tbe 
still  sleeping  camp^returned  tbe  dis- 
interested greeting  of  a  sentry,  tbe 
bell  distracting  from  some  memory 
down  tbe  valley  drew  bim,  sbuffling 
and  vulnerable,  down  a  trail  be- 
tween kauri. 

Tbere  was  a  moment  of  hesita- 
tion at  a  wide  dirt  road,  untravelled 
in  tbe  early  morning;  if  tbere  w^ere 
signs,  be  did  not  see  tbem— -tbe  bells 
clipped  ecboes  from  bills  be  could 
not  see  beyond  tbe  thickened 
growths  of  palm  and  kauri  and  wry 
naeouli;  and  so  be  took  tbe  wrong 
trail,  continuing  on  the  road  deeper 
into  the  trees  dow^n  tbe  valley. 

Then  tbey  ceased  their  calling  and 
be  paused,  suddenly  breathless.  Up 
and  down  the  trail  was  tbe  silent 
morning,  and  the  light  held  in  tbe 
moisture  of  fronds.  Wben  he  moved 
again,  bewildered,  be  heard  bis  foot- 
steps and  was  uneasy.  Lifting  bis 
feet  carefully,  be  tugged  at  tbe  cross 
on  his  collar  and  searched  through 
the  texture  of  fronds  settled  over- 
head for  tbe  sky^-seeking  movement 
of  clouds,  of  birds. 

And  wben  the  bells  pealed  forth 
again^arring,  it  seemed,  from  tbe 
trees  into  which  he  had  been  star- 
ing, he  bit  his  lip  and  quickened  bis 
steps. 

The  mission  was  there  suddenly, 
unexpectedly  at  the  turn  of  tbe  trail: 
a  whitewashed  mass  on  a  rise,  its 
spire  directing  his  eyes  to  tbe  laven- 
der and  green  mountains  against 
which  it  ordered  its  whiteness.  Then 
be  knew^  be  bad  been  climbing,  for, 
looking  off  to  his  left,  along  the 
fringe    of   woodland    stretched    out- 


Rest  Camp 


buildings  latticed  like  cloisters  and 
irregular  patches  of  farmland  slop- 
ing to  a  blue  marsb. 

III. 

Tbe  two  nuns  were  so  still  be  bad 
not  noticed  tbem.  Tbey  were  up 
to  bis  rigbt,  by  a  tumbbng  stone 
wall  below  tbe  cburcb  level,  tbeir 
babits  tbe  dusty  grey  of  stone.  Tbey 
stood  in  repose,  facing  bim. 

He  raised  bis  band  and  smiled, 
and  one  nodded  ber  bead  so  sligbtly 
be  besitated  to  advance.  Tbe  stones, 
tumbled  to  tbeir  feet,  deepened  tbeir 
silence  to  tbe  silence  of  statues  in 
tbe  grottoes  of  tbe  seminary  wbere 
tbe  bells  tolled.  Here  now,  tbe  bells 
were  silent,  be  realized.  Tbe  sky  a 
settled  blue  tbat  backed  tbe  spire; 
tbe  spire  and  tbe  mission  cburcb 
arcbing  beyond  tbe  stone  wall;  tbe 
grey  wall  tbat  backed  tbe  grey  nuns 
^-and  only  be  stood  alone  and  out 
of  it. 

"Sister,"  be  besitated  again-— ad- 
dressing tbe  nun  wbo  bad  nodded 
to  bim,  "Sister,  I'm  a  Catbolic  priest, 
and  I'm  afraid  I'm  lost  .  .  .  ' 

He  watcbed  tbe  nun  incline  to- 
ward ber  companion,  wbisper,  and 
tben  move  witb  robes  dissolving  into 
morning  toward  bim  down  tbe  grade. 
Her  companion  remained  still,  bands 
folded  before  ber  in  ber  long  grey 
sleeves. 

Tbe  nun  confronting  bim,  ber  eyes 
fixed  witb  respect  on  tbe  ground  at 
bis  feet— be  saw  tbe  bone  structure 
sharpened  beneatb  tbe  yellow  skin 
and  thought  of  the  decaying  year 
and  a  fragile  leaf  come  to  rest. 

"I  speak  English,  Father,"  she 
said— and  in  ber  voice  he  beard  tbe 
disturbing  calm  of  the  bells,   "this 


is  tbe  mission  of  Saint  Louis.  " 

"Tben  I  have  taken  tbe  wrong 
road.  Tbe  Marine  camp— the  raider 
camp— Bailey— where  is  it.   Sister?' 

Behind  her  tbe  other  nun  took  a 
faltering  step  forward. 

"I  am  sorry,  I  do  not  know.  Father. 
I  have  just  arrived  myself."  The 
grey  robe  fell  back  from  her  arm, 
and  Father  Ball  looked  quickly  away 
from  the  limb,  severed  at  the  wrist. 
"Tbe  Cure  up  there,  be  will  tell 
you  .  .  . 

The  church  again  on  the  rise.  He 
hesitated;  to  step  beyond  her  was 
to  enter  the  intolerable  regularity  of 
tbe  circle  of  sky,  mountain,  church, 
and  wall. 

"Father,"    ber    voice    was    timid. 

"You  have  just  come  back?" 

««v      " 
les. 

"The  Solomon  Islands?  It  was 
most  difficult  there,  was  it  not? 

But  to  stay  was  to  be  involved  in 
this.  Down  tbe  fragile  and  delicately 
ordered  fields,  tilled  in  grey-green 
shimmering  levels  to  the  marsh,  he 
saw  himself  walking,  in  his  mind  s 
eye,  witb  honor.  Tbe  degrading 
personal  recollections  of  the  islands 
were  as  unreal  as  the  islands  them- 
selves, here  wbere  tbe  nun's  calm 
voice  was  thunder  stirring  memories. 

"Yes,  Sister,  "  who  in  this  timeless 
place  could  contradict?  "at  times,  it 
was  very  difficult."  (Out  in  tbe 
Tulagi  twilight,  again  and  again  tbe 
men  averted  their  eyes  from  tbe 
priest  in  tbe  screened  enclosure^-- 
yes,  dijficult.) 

With  a  quick,  shy  glance  at  her 
face  in  its  wasted  repose,  be  ges- 
tured farewell  and  entered  tbe  cita- 
del of  wall  and  church  and  bill.  She 
moved  soundlessly  aside  and  stepped 


lO 


Four  Quarters 


to  the  wall,  extending  tKe  ruined  ann 
to  her  companion. 

The  church  smelled  of  springs  of 
damp,  and  termites  had  eaten  at 
carved  statues  in  the  indefinite  sha- 
dow. Father  Ball  genuflected  to- 
v^^ard  the  vague  repository,  and  with- 
drew^. The  nuns  no  longer  stood  by 
the  stone  wall,  the  valley  and  the 
marsh  drew  him,  and  as  he  followed 
the  stone  wall  downward  he  felt 
relief  from  that  disturbing  solitude. 

If,  he  said.  7  say  my  Mass  this 
morning,  ana  resolve^^hecause  I've 
done  no  wrong:  loneliness  is  not  a 
sin,  and  if  1  was  occasionally  com- 
fortable, 1  needed  it  more  than  most 
men,  who  .  .  .  His  voice  fell  suddenly 
upon  his  own  ears,  and  he  halted 
and  looked  around  at  the  fields 
M^here  nobody  moved.  He  was  at 
the  marsh,  and  as  he  searched  up- 
wards again  at  the  white  spire,  he 
saw  the  grey  nuns,  immobile,  watch- 
ing him. 

"Anyhow^,"  he  spolce  softly  across 
the  mile  of  intervening  hill  to  them, 
'with  God's  help  I  will  not  go  back 
there,  I'm  lost  if  I  go  back  there,  and 
here  I  start  again  ..." 

As  though  they  heard  him,  the 
grey  forms  pirouetted  silently  and 
drifted  in  their  smallness  toward  the 
chapel,  entered,  and  yielded  deeper 
silence  to  him. 

IV. 

"Y'know,  Skipper,"  he  told  the 
commanding  officer  that  evening  as 
they  drove  toward  the  Hotel  du  Paci- 
fique,  "I  never  did  find  the  Raider 
camp^wandered  around  for  three 
hours  on  the  edge  of  that  marsh, 
finally  got  a  hop  back  to  camp^--and 
then,    eh,    discovered    that    Camp 


Bailey  was  right  across  the  road  from 
us.  " 

"Padre,  Padre— you  just  didn't 
want  to  go  to  the  trouble  of  saying 
that  Mass." 

Lanterns  bobbed  in  the  slight 
breeze  sweeping  in  across  He  Nou 
and  the  harbour  swaying  its  lighted 
shipping  in  the  evening  tide.  Lan- 
terns in  the  iron-railed  enclosure  of 
the  officers'  club  from  which  female 
voices  cut  across  the  heavy  chatter 
and  the  roll  of  the  slot  machines  .  .  . 
and  female  voices  seized  the  senses 
beyond  the  odor  of  stale  beer  .  .  , 
and  the  SP's  on  patrol  beside  the 
gate  and  the  morose  enlisted  drivers 
in  the  jeeps  were  unnoticed  in  the 
female  voices  that  usurped  the  night 
beneath  the  lanterns  .  .  . 

"God,  women!  "  said  the  exec,  and 
Father  Ball  trailed  them  into  the 
portico  beneath  the  lanterns. 

"And  female  voices,"  the  skipper 
was  saying,  "are  enough  to  make  you 
forget  your  sacred  office.  Padre." 
At  which  Father  Ball  smiled  mecha- 
nically and  wedged  his  way  to  the 
bar. 

"Well,  here  we  start  all  o—ver 
a— gain,  hey?  "  And  the  exec's  sing- 
song and  loud  releasing  laughter 
rang  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else  in 
the  little  priest's  mind.  His  hand 
over  the  damp  bar  halted  halfway 
to  a  glass  and  closed  in  an  ineffectual 
fist.  He  bowed  his  head  .  .  .  and 
the  grey  forms  pirouetted  silently  and 
drifted  in  their  smallness  toward  .  .  . 

"Yo.  Padre!  " 

The  lights  burst  in  the  shattering 
noise  and  the  Skipper's  teeth  were 
white  in  the  grin  that  promised  ac- 
ceptance and  enervated  dissent. 


Rest  Camp 


11 


"Are  you  just  back  from  tKe  is- 
lands, Chaplain?" 

TKe  sKot  was  comfortably  down, 
and  he  was  warm  and  secure  before 
he  turned  to  reply.  This  was  a  type 
he  had  seen  on  the  posters  in 
Chaplain's  School^— a  pursed  sensi- 
tive mouth,  and  a  thin  face  poised 
w^ith  considerate  expectation.  A  lone 
silver  bar  was  very  straight,  impec- 
cably balancing  the  cross. 

"Yes,  Chaplain,"  he  said.  "I'm 
Father  Ball,  with  the  501st  Sea 
Bees." 

"You  came  in  yesterday  then.  I'm 
Slade.  Presbyterian  chaplain  at  the 
Raider  camp  across  from  Saint 
Louis  ..." 

"I  got  lost  hunting  your  camp 
yesterday.  "  Ball  waved  two  whis- 
key-straights from  the  corporal  be- 
hind the  bar. 

"I  know,"  Slade  laughed  defer- 
entially. "Say,  let's  sit  down  and 
talk  a  while.  I  haven't  been  up  yet, 
you  know,  and  Id  like  to  hear  .  .  . 

The  priest  balanced  his  drink  and 
led  his  youthful  confrere  through 
the  thick  smoke  and  the  boisterous 
crowd,  out  past  the  slot  machines  to 
the  lanterned  patio  and  an  empty 
table  under  the  palms. 

"How  did  you  know?  " 

"What?  Oh,  that  you  were  lost? 
I  came  over  after  you— I'm  the  only 
chaplain  now  at  Bailey—and  I 
wanted  to  be  sure  you  got  there  for 
the  Catholic  men.  I  figured  you 
took  the  wrong  turning— to  the  Mis- 
sion, and  the  sisters  put  me  straight." 

"The  sisters?  " 

"Yes,  I  must  have  come  up  just 
behind  you.  One  is  blind,  you  know 
—but  the  other  said  you  had  wan- 
dered down  to  the  marsh,  and  that 


you  were  quiet  and  seemed  ill.     She 
was  quite  concerned.  " 

"That  was  good  of  her,  eh?  But 
why  should  she  think  I  was  ill?  " 

The  young  man  shrugged  in  his 
narrow  shoulders,  and  tilted  his  head 
sympathetically:  "But  you  do  look 
all  in,  you  knov^'.  It  must  have 
been  pretty  tough  up  there  ..." 

Ball  blinked  at  him  and  dropped 
his  eyes  quickly  to  his  drink.  The 
lanterns  danced  their  wan  light 
across  his  soft  fingers  cupping  the 
glass;  he  moved  his  chunky  arm  into 
that  more  certain  light. 

"They're  wonderful,  those  nuns.  " 
Slade's  voice  rose  enthusiastically. 
"They  were  prisoners  of  the  Japs  on 
Bougainville,  you  know— evacuated 
by  an  American  sub  just  a  few  weeks 
ago— and  they  want  desperately  to 
go  back,  even  the  blind  one  ..." 

The  priest  shrank  within  himself 
and  was  silent. 

"The  one  lost  her  arm  up  there- 
she  spoke  great  admiration  for  you— 
you  must  have  suffered,  she  said."' 
Slade  reached  over  and  touched 
Balls  arm,  "So  I  invited  them  over 
to  your  Masses.— every  morning.  To 
hear  you  preach  on  Sunday  .  .  . 

"Every  day!  But  they  can"t  do 
that!"' 

"Ah,  but  they  can.  Father.  You 
see,  they're  just  back  here  to  rest  too, 
and  they  have  quite  a  lot  of  free- 
dom—like yourself." 

"But  you  say  they  want  to  go 
back,"  Father  Ball  ran  his  hand  nerv- 
ously through  his  hair.  "It'll  be 
v/orse^-much  w^orse  for  everyone,  the 
second  time.  It  is  bad  enough  the 
first  .  .  .A  man— anyone— goes  to 
pieces.  Why,  you  can  lose  your 
soul  ..." 


12 


Four  Quarters 


SlaJe  patted  his  hand  again,  "I 
know,  I  know,  Fatner.  The  nun 
said  it  must  have  been  terrible  for 
you  ..." 

"No,  no^  don't  mean  .  .  .  Oh 
but  you  don't  understand  ..." 

Over  the  chpped  sound  of  glasses 
there  was  a  scuffling  at  the  gate,  and 
when  Ball  turned  back  to  Slade  the 
man's  eyes,  soft  and  thoughtful,  were 
fixed  on  him. 

"Why  didn't  you  come  with  us. 
Father?  You're  right,  I  don't  under- 
stand—but you,  with  your  experience 
^-and  we  need  a  senior  chaplain,  and 
a  Catholic  ..." 

Ball  struggled  to  his  feet.  "Not 
for  the  Pope  himself,"  he  said.  "I 
need  a  drink." 

And  before  the  shocked  eyes  of 
the  younger  man,  he  pushed  his 
chair  clumsily  aside  and  waddled 
toward  the  bar. 

V. 

Though  the  bells  w^ere  a  dis- 
cordant clang  sphtting  with  a  knife 
of  ice  a  vast  pocket  of  pain,  he  did 
not  waken.  The  dream  recurred  end- 
lessly, and  he  watched  himself  grop- 
ing and  hopeless  to  pull  his  figure 
away  from  before  the  blurred  grey 
daubs  behind  which  the  fire  flared. 
Separated  from  them  by  the  Host 
quivering  in  his  hand  he  saw  their 
broken  faces  bow  away  in  a  blur, 
while  mumbled  to  a  trapped  con- 
clusion in  their  humihty  his  Mass 
disintegrated  to  a  bitter  taste  of  the 
night  in  his  mouth. 

See,  rather,  we  come  every  day, 
at  the  chapel  door  that  shifted  and 
dissolved  the  nuns'  faces  had  a  ter- 
rible brightness  of  what  lost  inno- 
cence?    Chaplain  Slade  is  sending 


the  jeep  .  .  . 

The  habit  fell  from  her  arm  across 
the  eyes  of  the  falhng  face. 

The  bells  silenced.    He  awakened. 

At  first  he  could  see  nothing. 

Grotesque  through  the  opened 
tent  flap  the  waiting  trees  were  still. 
A  guide  line  flapped  emptily  its  in- 
verted question,  noose-like  across  the 
slit  entrance.  At  the  foot  of  his  cot 
the  bulk  of  his  holster  suggested  cer- 
tainty. 

The  bells  dissected  his  thought. 

He  sank  back,  horrified. 

VI. 

On  the  third  day,  when  the  pro- 
fanely startled  exec  jerked  aside  the 
tent  flap  with  Ball's  change-of-sta- 
tion  orders  in  his  hand,  he  found  the 
priest  on  his  knees  beside  his  foot- 
locker,  carefully  stowing  tins  of  beer 
on  the  tray. 

Under  his  bunk,  T-shirts,  dunga- 
rees, and  shorts  lay  discarded. 

"By  God,  Rubber,"  he  shook  the 
papers  at  Ball.  "These  are  to  the 
Raider  Regiment!  Did  you  ask  for 
this?" 

The  chaplain  nodded,  and  avoided 
his  eyes. 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned  ..." 

"No,"  Father  Ball  said,  "no,  you 
won't.     But  I  will." 

Hidden,  down  the  valley  the  bells 
chimed  Angelus,  and  a  beer  can 
clattered  from  the  priest's  fumbling 
hand. 

He  stood  with  difficulty,  and 
padded  to  the  entrance  to  the  tent, 
the  indecisive  mouth  trembling,  the 
little  hands  groping  tow^ard  the  dull 
canvas  that  stretched  without  am- 
biguity in  the  sun. 


The  Two  Faces  of  Fiction 

By  John  F.  McGlynn 

IN  its  gradual  emergence  as  a  finisKed  literary  type  tKe  novel  has  been 
chiefly  nourished  by  two  tendencies  which,  when  fused  together,  have 
produced  some  of  the  finest  works  of  the  imagination,  but  which,  when 
opposed  or  in  separate  dominion,  have  spawned  at  best  the  ephemeral 
best-seller  or  the  sterile,  studied,  pampered  desideratum  of  this  or  that  cult 
of  the  avant  garde.  I  am  speaking  of  the  tendencies  towards  naturahsm 
and  towards  "romance,"  using  the  latter  term  in  the  sense  that  Hawthorne 
apphes  it  to  his  own  brand  of  fiction,  with  more  "latitude  both  as  to  .  .  . 
fashion  and  .  .  .  material"  than  the  realistic  novel  would  allow.  The 
strange  truth  is  that  both  tendencies  apparently  spring  from  the  same 
desire,  which  is  at  once  touchstone  and  method  of  the  art  of  fiction.  Henry 
James  hit  at  the  heart  of  the  thing  when  he  remarked: 

.  .  .  the  air  of  reality  (solidity  of  specification)  seems  to  me  to  be  the  supreme  virtue 
of  a  novel— the  merit  on  which  all  its  other  merits  .  .  .  helplessly  and  submissively 
depend.  If  it  be  not  there,  they  are  all  as  nothing,  and  if  these  be  there,  they  owe 
their  effect  to  the  success  with  which  the  author  has  produced  the  illusion  of  life. 

And  further  in  the  same  essay: 

Catching  the  very  note  and  trick,  the  strange  irregular  rhytlun  of  life,  that  is  the 
attempt  whose  strenuous  force  keeps  Fiction  upon  her  feet. 

To  catch  the  strange  irregular  rhythm  of  life:  how^  our  naturalist,  reading 
that,  fastens  on  the  word  irregular!  and  how  our  romancer  is  impelled  by 
the  word  strange!  The  naturalist  will  often  aim  at  presenting  a  broad, 
sprawling,  people-studded  panorama  in  which  the  real  protagonist  is 
environment,  in  which  the  characters  only  respond,  seldom  questioning, 
and  never  opposing  with  any  very  positive  strength.  Steinbeck  has  one 
of  his  characters  in  The  Grapes  of  Wraf?i  say:  "The  hell  with  it!  There 
ain't  no  sin  and  there  ain't  no  virtue.  There's  just  stuff  people  do.  It's 
all  part  of  the  same  thing.  And  some  of  the  things  folks  do  is  nice,  and 
some  ain't  so  nice,  but  that's  as  far  as  any  man  got  a  right  to  say.  "  This 
philosophy  of  determinism  seems  to  be  fundamental  in  such  disparate 
works  as  Nelson  Algren's  The  Man  W^if^i  the  Golden  Arm  and  James 
Jones*  From  Here  to  Eternity. 

It  does  not  require  a  very  sharp  eye  to  locate  in  the  background  of 
Algren's  book  the  awkward  shadow  of  Studs  Lonigan,  though  Algren 
surely  gains  something  over  Farrell  in  his  more  elegiac  mood.  Still,  it  is 
the  color  and  clamor  and  impersonal  appetite  of  the  Chicago  slum  setting 
of  the  novel,  rather  than  the  conflict  of  will  and  personal  appetite  of  any 
of  its  inhabitants,  that  determines  the  action.  The  lives  and  dreams  of 
Frankie  Machine  and  Zosh  and  Sparrow  and  Captain  Bednar  impinge 
one  on  the  other  with  the  violent  but  meaningless  importunity  of  billiard 
balls.    They  are  all  in  effect  derelicts,  and,  while  the  writer  compels  from 

15 


14  Four  Quarters 

us  a  fine  sympathy,  he  never  makes  their  plight  tragic,  only  pathetic.  More 
objectively  deterministic  is  From  Here  to  Eternity,  with  its  evocation  of  the 
pattern  of  military  hfe,  its  basic  contrast  of  enhsted  men  and  officers.  Like 
Algren's  novel,  but  to  a  greater  extent,  it  rehes  on  the  raw  power  of  shock 
treatment  and  I  suppose  no  valuable  criticism  of  it  will  come  until  the 
shock  wears  off. 

The  romancer  differs  from  the  naturahst  in  that  he  tries  to  capture  the 
overtones  of  hfe.  His  field  of  operations  is  often  small,  but  he  probes  more 
deeply,  trying  to  communicate  hfe's  rhythm  in  the  subtle  interplay  of  man's 
inner  hfe  and  external  environment.  Graham  Greene's  The  Heart  of  the 
Matter  is  this  kind  of  novel,  its  action  always  radiating  out  from,  always 
returning  to,  Scobie's  conflict.  It  is  a  tragic  action  in  that,  invested  with  a 
kind  of  cosmic  pity  and  ignorant  of  the  final  saving  grace  of  Grace  itself, 
Scobie  must  will  self-destruction.  He  is  too  strong  to  be  pathetic,  as 
Frankie  Machine  is  pathetic,  trapped  in  circumstance. 

Naturahsm  has  been  the  dominant  tendency  in  the  fiction  of  the 
present  century,  even  up  to  the  moment,  as  the  reclame  attendant  on 
Prom  Here  to  Eternity  makes  evident.  Certainly  among  the  causes  of  this 
dominance  is  the  impregnation  in  all  sectors  of  experience  of  the  method 
and  imphcations  of  scientific  psychology.  The  Freudian's  attack  on  the 
inviolabihty  of  personahty  is  reflected  in  the  novehst's  distrust  of  human 
dignity  and  his  reluctance  to  motivate  behaviour  in  any  but  the  most 
elementary  way.  Furthermore,  the  naturahstic  writer  tends  to  repeat  the 
therapeutic  technique  of  the  psychiatrist,  wherein  the  patient  is  encouraged 
to  bring  willy-nilly  to  the  surface  of  his  mind  any  and  all  ideas  as  they 
appear.  Still  further,  the  naturahstic  novehst  echoes  the  Freudian  accent 
on  sex  as  the  final,  infallible  skeleton  key  to  behaviour.  Granted,  sexual 
promiscuity  is  a  sign  of  vitality  and  hence  a  means  of  limning  character 
outline;  but  it  is  a  sign  of  undirected  or  uncontrolled  vitality,  and  possibly 
vitiates  more  than  it  reinforces. 

And  yet,  despite  the  success  of  Jones  and  Algren  and  John  Hersey 
(of  The  V^all,  not  Hiroshima)  and  Norman  Mailer,  there  seems  to  be  a 
powerful  movement  today  away  from  naturalism,  away  from  the  determinism 
of  morality  and  personality  in  which  it  is  grounded.  Philip  Rahv.  in  a 
remarkably  lucid  and  persuasive  essay,  characterizes  the  present  debility 
of  naturalism: 

WKat  was  once  a  means  of  treating  material  trutKfulIy  nas  been  turnea,  Inrougn  a 
long  process  of  depreciation,  into  a  mere  convention  of  truthfulness,  aevoid  of  any 
significant  or  even  clearly  definable  literary  purpose  or  design.  The  spirit  of  discovery 
fias  withdrawn  from  naturahsm;  it  has  now  become  the  common  denominator  of 
reahsm,  available  in  like  measure  to  the  producers  of  literature  and  to  the  producers 
of  kitsch. 

In  a  somewhat  different  spirit.  Miss  Caroline  Gordon  finds  Hemingway's 
compass  restricted  to  "a  narrow  range  of  experience  "  which  "in  our  crisis- 
ridden  world  is  inadequate.     We  can  hardly  believe  any  longer  in   the 


The  Two  Faces  of  Fiction  13 

Divinity  of  Man.     ^Ve  are  more  concerned  today  with  man  s  relation  to 

God." 

To  look  into  Hemingway's  latest  novel.  Across  the  River  and  into  the 
Trees  is  to  look  at  the  empty  husk  of  a  once  fine,  vigorous  talent.  The 
disillusionment  and  toughness  are  here  completely  synthetic.  Reality  has 
given  way  to  stereotype.  People  respond  to  stimuli—and  almost  exclu- 
sively conversational  stimuli  at  that—in  a  way  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
causes.  The  colonel  swings  from  gentleness  to  harshness  with  the  fluidity 
and  lack  of  resistance  of  a  stream  curving  past  rocks.  The  author's  purpose 
is  presumably  to  communicate  purposelessness,  to  voice  the  utter  meaning- 
lessness  of  human  values  in  our  society;  the  effect  is  only  to  divert  the 
characters  themselves  into  meaninglessness.  This  is  kitsch,  if  that  word 
puzzled  you'-^kitsch,  naked  and,  alas,  unashamed. 

Perhaps  the  most  singular  evidence  of  the  swing  away  from  naturalism 
in  our  fiction  is  the  wealth  of  symbolism  in  many  contemporary  novels. 
In  one  sense  naturalism  may  be  defined  by  its  desire  to  make  language  one- 
dimensional.  It  proceeds  on  the  basis  that  the  rhythm  of  life  is  best  recap- 
tured by  an  attention  not  to  symbols,  but  to  details.  Its  sacred  trinity 
of  procedure  goes  this  w^ay:  a)  specificity  of  detail;  b)  concentration  of 
detail;  c)  density  of  detail.  Its  practitioner  uses  symbols  as  much  as 
possible  only  as  the  scientist  uses  them,  as  static  controls  for  his  ideas. 
They  are  nothing  more  than  the  most  available  means  of  referring  to  some- 
thing else  and  are  thus  distinguished  from  the  romancer's  use  of  them  as 
the  very  quickening  impulse  of  his  art,  wherein  they  take  on  what  one  critic 
calls  "a  constantly  expanding  and  reverberating  meaning.' 

The  hero  of  From  Here  to  Eternity  happens  to  be  a  supreme  bugler. 
However,  his  mastery  of  this  instrument  seems  to  have  in  the  story  only 
the  function  of  accentuating  the  central  irony,  the  wasteful,  unnecessary 
death  of  the  good  soldier,  sacrificed  to  the  injustice  of  the  army  caste 
system.  One  can,  of  course,  impose  other  meanings;  for  example,  the 
contrast  of  Prewitt's  skill  with  the  bugle  and  with  his  fists  can  be  made 
to  symbolize  the  contrast  of  beauty  and  brutality  in  the  world,  with  the 
latter  ironically  most  in  demand.  But  such  interpretations  seem  to  be 
accidents  of  form  and  not  basic  to  the  writer's  intention.  Frankie  Machine 
of  Algren's  prize-winning  novel  is,  like  Prewitt,  a  virtuoso.  He  is  a  dealer 
in  a  gambling  house,  a  man  with  a  golden  arm,  and  his  skill  has  in  general 
the  same  relationship  to  the  narrative  pattern  as  Prewitt's.  It  is  true  he  is 
a  more  rootless  character  than  Prewitt,  so  that  his  end,  a  miserably  bungled 
suicide,  has  more  pity  than  irony  attached  to  it.  Not  with  a  bang  does  he 
go  out  but  with  "one  brief  strangled  whimpering.  " 

However,  to  turn  to  a  novel  v^ritten  in  the  other  tradition  is  some- 
times to  enter  a  whole  world  of  complicated,  interworking  symbols.  A 
singular  case  in  point  is  James  Agee's  The  Morning  Watch,  a  very  brief 
novel  published  early  in  1951.  The  story  concerns  the  efforts  of  a  boy 
of  twelve  to  participate  in  the  spirit  of  Good  Friday.     Fundamentally  it 


i6  Four  Quarters 

is  a  story  of  tKe  distractions  wKich  beset  Kim,  culminating  in  Kis  sneaking 
off  with  several  companions  to  a  swimming  hole  in  tKe  woods  nearby. 
Symbolically,  I  found  it  a  story  contrasting  tbe  emotional  effects  of  a 
sterile,  dead  dramatic  sKow^,  Christ's  Passion  and  Crucifixion  and  Resur- 
rectionr-witb  its  abstract  and  undefined  cruelties  and  mysteries,  and  tbe 
effects  of  Nature's  immediate  drama  of  life  and  deaths— with  its  cruelties 
and  mysteries  intensely  physical,  intensely  alive,  intensely  personal  to  the 
boy.  The  symbols  are  unavoidable  and  stark.  Thus,  in  his  walk  through 
the  woods  Richard  encounters  the  intact  shell  of  a  locust.  The  boy  is 
much  more  rapt  here  than  earlier,  praying  in  the  chapel  towards  "a  dry 
chalice,  an  empty  grail." 

TTial  whole  split  back.     Bet  it  doesn't  Kurt  any  worse  tKan  ikat  to  be  crucified. 

He  crossecl  himself. 

He  sure  did  hold  on  hard. 

He  tried  to  imagine  gripping  hard  enough  that  he  broke  his  back  wide  open  and 
piJIed  himself  out  of  each  leg  and  arm  and  finger  and  toe  so  cleanly  and  completely 
that  the  exact  shape  would  be  left  intact. 

Later,  after  his  stolen  plunge  in  the  forest  pool^which  itself  is  part 
of  the  complicated  symbolismr-'he  and  his  companions  come  across  a  snake 
which  has  just  emerged  from  its  last  year's  skin. 

In  every  wheaten  scale  and  in  all  his  barbaric  patterning  he  was  new  and  clear  as 
gems,  so  gallant  and  sporting  against  the  dun,  he  dazzled,  and  seeing  him,  Richard 
was  acutely  aware  how  sensitive,  proud  and  tired  he  must  be  in  his  whole  body,  for  it 
was  clear  that  he  had  just  struggled  out  of  his  old  skin  and  was  with  his  first  return 
of  strength,  venturing  his  new  one. 

The  association  that  this  image  has  w^ith  the  events  commemorated  and 
renewed  on  this  spiritual  day  of  days  is  expanded  by  all  that  follows: 
by  the  pride  that  drives  Richard  to  smash  in  the  snake's  head  despite  his 
adoration  and  fascination  and  fear  of  it,  by  his  realization  that  the  snake 
will  die  slowly,  will  linger  in  fact  till  sunset,  by  Hobe's  tossing  the  serpent 
among  the  hogs  which  "with  snarling  squeals,  scuffled  over  the  snake, 
tore  it  apart  at  its  middle  wound  and,  w^hile  the  two  portions  tingled  in  the 
muck,  gobbled  them  down." 

Unmistakable  in  this  novel,  and,  indeed,  in  a  whole  sector  of  con- 
temporary fiction  (look  to  novels  like  Frederick  Buechner's  A  Long  Day's 
Dying  and  Alfred  Hayes'  The  Girl  on  the  Yia  Flaminia),  is  a  lyricism 
which,  it  appears  to  me,  is  more  proper  to  poetry  than  to  fiction.  These 
writers  attempt  to  extend  unduly  the  modern  fictional  devices  of  the 
interior  monologue,  the  flashback,  etc.  Such  devices,  handled  with  care, 
serve  wonderfully  to  concentrate  the  action  of  the  story,  but  if  they  do  not 
concentrate  it  in  the  characters  and  in  such  a  way  that  the  characters  move 
more  substantially  in  their  own  material,  time-locked,  space-locked  back- 
ground, then  the  demands  of  some  other  art  than  fiction  are  being  served. 
Sometimes  in  Agee's  story  there  is  the  effect  that  the  boy  loses  his  separate 
identity,  which  gives  weight  to  the  objection  of  some  critics  that  these  are 


The  Two  Faces  of  Fiction  17 

not  the  sensibilities  or  a  boy  of  twelve^-an  objection  wbicb  on  tbe  surface 
might  appear  to  be  mere  carping. 

The  poet  at  the  level  of  apprehension  is  not  much  concerned  with  "the 
rhythm  of  ufe";  his  concern  is  his  intuitions  about  life.  He  imposes  his 
own  rhythm,  a  formular  one.  the  rhythm  of  his  medium,  poetry.  His  is 
even  a  suspensive  art  to  the  degree  that  he  progresses  by  splitting  apart 
the  emotion  from  the  experience  in  which  it  is  contained.  He  tends  to 
abstract  where  the  novelist  tends  to  only  sympathize.  The  novelist  can 
ill  afford  poetic  abstraction  and  still  preserve  that  correspondence  betw^een 
his  creation  and  the  pattern  of  life  as  we  know  it,  that  "solidity  of  specifica- 
tion" which  Henry  James  called  the  inspiration,  despair,  reward,  torment, 
and  delight  of  the  novelist.  He  can  ill  afford  to  let  symbols  become  their 
own  excuse  for  being  in  his  composition.  This  would  be  extreme  romancing, 
as  destructive  in  its  way  as  the  extremes  of  naturalism  in  theirs. 

The  conclusion  appears  to  me  unavoidable  that  the  writer  who  carries 
his  symbolism  too  far  creates  at  most  lifeless  parable;  equally  unavoidable, 
that  the  writer  who  concerns  himself  solely  with  swaths  of  fact  creates  only 
case  histories.  There  is  a  middle  channel  down  which  the  finest  novels 
sail:  such  recent  works  as  The  Gallery,  1984,  The  Heart  of  the  Matter,  The 
Track  of  the  Cat,  and  The  Brave  Bulls.  To  appreciate  them  is  to  appre- 
ciate a  truth  on  which  they  depend,  that  the  romancer,  if  his  work  would 
have  richness,  must  focus  his  vision  in  a  clear-eyed  perception  of  the 
solid  specifications  of  reality,  that  the  naturalist,  to  be  likewise  successful, 
must  grant  his  land-locked  gaze  the  mariner's  freedom,  who  steers  by  both 
reef  and  star. 

Hrief  Candie 

By  Claude  F.  Koch 

The  children  dance  from  school:  behold,  their  sun 

Has  crossed  its  nadir  and  their  clock  is  stopped 

At  joy.    Their  spring  unwinds  its  hours. 

But  no  time  from  out  each  gay  face  lours. 

Their  year  is  always  noon,  and  no  alarum 

Dropped  from  all  the  calculating  world's  bell  towers 

Dare  second  harm  upon  these  sons  of  ours; 

No  tick  shall  irritate  the  minute  heart. 

And  daylight  saving  is  the  standard  watch 

Apart  from  us  they  keep.    Oh,  we  make  much 

Of  sun  and  time,  behold  these  sons  eclipsing  everyone 

In  brightness  like  the  sun. 

And,  unlike  time,  in  fun. 


Tivo  Poems 


Like  Olive  Plants 

Lilce  olive  plants,  tKe  Psalmist  says  my  children  are: 

Banked  round  about  the  table  in  a  ring. 

And  I  in  whose  untropical  asphalt  no  such  green  things  grow 

Am  puzzled.    I  think  of  them  as  roaring  hons  seeking  to  devour. 

They  share,  I  guess,  some  quahties  with  trees:  they're  strong. 

They  willow  with  the  wind,  they  sob  in  springs- 

Perhaps  for  different  reasons^- 

(I  have  never  had  a  tree  come  running  to  me  desolate). 

They're  thick  of  skin,  impervious  to  rain. 

They  sink  their  feet  delightfully  in  mud  and  seem  to  thrive 

And  only  God  can  know  how  far  their  subtle  roots  stretch  underground. 

But  I  cannot  see  in  them  the  comehness  of  trees: 

The  sweet  leanover,  leaf-dripping  lovehness,  the  sanguine  shade; 

I  see  the  stalk  only,  bitter  with  growth. 

And  am  harassed  by  husbandry. 

The  Psalmist  has,  however,  bigger  eyes 

And  visions  harvest  and  transfiguration: 

Blossom  and  flower  and  fruit'-- 

Fruit  of  the  womb  bearing  fruit  of  its  own  in  time 

And  going  gathered  and  resplendent  to  the  market. 


18 


By  Leo  Brady 


Donne^s  Distraction  Is  Not  Mine 

JoKn  Donne  complained  a  fly  glanced  tKrougK  Kis  prayers 

Diverting  him  from  God.     I  envy  Donne. 

Donne  the  divine  upon  his  wooden  knees 

Beside  the  altar  on  an  inert  summer  day 

Tracing  the  burr  and  drone  a  fly  makes 

Like  a  feather  in  the  ear,  while  huger  hosts 

With  wings  wait  in  the  dome  for  messages 

And  tap,  perhaps,  angelic  feet. 

For  Donne,  at  least. 
There  was  a  spell  that  could  be  broken: 
Impertinent  and  agile  fly  could  interrupt 
Some  supplication,  never  mind  how  tenuous. 
God  was  served  among  the  interstices 
Of  the  web  of  flight  this  buzzer  drew 
So  noisily  on  sanctuary  air.     My  plight  is  poorer. 
The  contemplation  of  a  fly  is  nearer  than  I  get 
To  a  consideration  of  the  heavenly  design. 

Include  me  in  your  orbit,  fly  predestinate. 
That  I  may  watch  God's  will  unfold 
In  your  minute  transparent  wings,  and  see 
You  grease  your  fragile  body  nervously 
Exactly  in  accordance  with  His  plan. 
Groan  in  the  capacious  vaults  of  my  pretense 
One  small  thin  sound  as  here  upon  my  knees 
I  contemplate  distraction  emptily. 


19 


The  Sign 

By  Edward  Garry 


ROCKBOUND  and  cold,  its 
great  length  commanding  tlie 
smooth,  traveled  terrain  up 
and  down  and  crosswise  for  many 
yards,  the  iron  cyclops  stretched  in 
the  cheerful  hght  and  w^elcomed 
warmth  of  the  middle  time.  When 
the  giant  creature  winked  its  emerald 
eye,  as  it  did  at  minute  intervals,  the 
impatient  throng  of  smaller  creatures 
surged  ahead  and  over,  showing  no 
fear  despite  the  nearness  of  numer- 
ous crouching,  wide-faced  monsters 
eagerly  threatening  their  safety.  For 
the  stern  cyclops  also  controlled  the 
dash  and  drag  of  the  monstrous 
things  and  encouraged  the  smaller 
beings  to  pooh-pooh  and  scorn  their 
menacing  speed  and  power. 

Out  of  the  motley  reaching  the 
other  side,  one  individual  in  black 
garments  separated  himself  from  his 
fellows  and  preferred  to  linger  on  the 
brink,  a  yard  above  and  away  from 
the  dark,  wide  speedbed.  He  stood 
watching  something,  another  indi- 
vidual like  himself,  a  man  also  cos- 
tumed in  black  clothes  topped  by  an 
endless  white  band  around  his  neck, 
a  taller  and  heavier  and  stranger 
man.  The  clothes  of  the  smaller 
man  were  not  unlike  those  of  his 
tall  counterpart,  except  for  the  collar, 
which  in  his  case  was  a  band  of 
white  like  the  usual  neckpiece  and 
not  turned  around,  and  his  cravat 
was  a  flat  piece  of  black  silk  that 
covered  the  total  front  of  his  shirt. 
At  a  short  remove  from  the  side 


of  the  brink,  the  taller  of  the  two 
men  stood  in  a  small  indentation 
away  from  the  swirling  mass  of  busy 
bodies  and  the  smell  and  touch  of 
the  monsters.  In  this  shelter  he 
leaned  easily  against  an  upright  post, 
his  head  inclined,  looking  like  a 
philosopher  musing  on  life  and  its 
affairs,  or  a  serious  student  reflecting 
on  his  own  problems,  unaware  that 
the  smaller  man  watched  him. 

The  smaller  man  kept  watching 
the  tall  man,  his  face  intent,  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  twitching,  his 
right  hand  going  up  occasionally  to 
the  back  of  his  head  and  neck,  won- 
dering and  amazed  at  what  he  saw. 

From  the  topmost  button  of  his 
form-fitting  double-breasted  over- 
coat, a  garment  of  extraordinary 
length  having  a  black  velvet  collar 
and  a  triangle  of  white  linen  barely 
visible  above  the  top  pocket,  the  tall 
man  let  hang  an  arresting  placard 
three  feet  square.  The  sign  carried 
on  its  surface  a  series  of  incredible 
markings  evidently  made  by  a  stout 
brush  that  had  been  dipped  in  scar- 
let red  and  coal  black  paints.  The 
man's  left  hand  held  the  edge  of  the 
lingular  sign,  making  sure  it 
wouldn't  turn  over  when  sudden 
gusts  of  wind  now  and  then  blew^ 
along  the  man-made  canyon.  The 
smaller  man  let  the  words  on  the 
sign  fall  sharply  and  deliberately 
upon  his  mental  stencil.  The  sign 
read: 


ao 


The  Sign 


ai 


Read  Your  Bible  J 

Hear  Me 

Bertie  Bible 

Richard  Waller 

Sunday   ll   P.M. 

Station  WABS 

Read  Your  Biblel 

Vibrating  lilce  an  alerted  ancbored 
organism,  tbe  smaller  man  reacbed 
into  tbe  side  of  bis  black  burberry 
and  took  out  a  small  book,  into 
wbicb  be  made  scratches  witb  a  tbin 
instrument  beld  in  bis  fist.  He 
caused  tbe  metal  tbing  to  glide 
rapidly  over  tbe  surface  of  tbe  paper 
getting  down  tbe  wording  of  tbe 
fascinating  sign,  as  tbougb  be  was 
obbged  to  copy  every  word  in  a  very 
sbort  time.  Periodically  be  would 
besitate  before  making  a  new  mark, 
as  tbougb  be  w^ere  debating  witb 
bimself  on  some  crucial  detail,  and 
tben  wTite  more  furiously  tban  be- 
fore. During  tbe  entire  time  of  writ- 
ing, be  managed  a  grin  on  bis  face. 

Before  tbe  smaller  man  bad  com- 
pleted bis  writing,  be  saw  witb  some 
alarm  tbat  tbe  tall  man  was  coming 
towards  bim,  burrying  as  tbougb  im- 
pelled by  an  invisible  force.  It  w^as 
too  late  for  tbe  small  man  to  turn 
and  go,  for  tbe  tall  man  bad  tbe 
jump  on  bim.  So  be  stood  wbere 
be  was  and  waited,  boping  tbat  tbeir 
meeting  would  be  brief,  and  tbat 
baving  said  something,  tbe  tall  man 
would  pass  on. 

Tbe  carefree  day  was  too  lazy 
witb  spring  for  anyone  to  enter  into 
controversy.  Tbe  fresb,  beavy  frag- 
rance of  byacintbs  and  carnations 
and  roses  and  jonquils  bung  in  tbe 


air  from  tbe  open-door  florist  sbop, 
and  tbe  seductive  odor  could  disarm 
tbe  most  redoubtable  Spartan  war- 
rior. So  tbe  smaller  man  waited, 
wondering,  boping  for  no  conflict, 
bis  bead  bent  and  band  still,  bis 
body  sbaky. 

He  was  conscious  of  tbe  large 
sboes  before  be  saw  tbe  face  of  tbe 
tall  man  in  tbe  long  overcoat,  and 
tbey  came  up  to  bim  as  black,  shape- 
less congress  gaiters,  witb  knobs  in 
tbe  leather  tbat  indicated  bunions 
and  crooked  toes.  Tbe  feet  were 
those  of  an  old  man  or  one  who  bad 
walked  thousands  of  miles.  But  the 
small  man  bad  no  time  to  reflect 
upon  what  the  shapeless  shoes  might 
mean,  because  a  ministerial,  disturb- 
ing voice  stabbed  bis  ear. 

"Friend,"  tbe  voice  said  in  exag- 
gerated tones,  "did  you  read  your 
Bible   this  morning?" 

The  small  man  froze;  be  couldn't 
speak;  be  couldn't  move  a  finger. 
He  could  only  look  at  tbe  derby  and 
its  jaunty  angle,  and  at  the  swarthy 
skin  of  tbe  lugubrious  face,  and  at 
tbe  two  cold,  distant  pools  of  dark- 
ness set  high  in  the  long  swarthy 
expanse.  He  could  discern  very 
clearly  tbe  magnified  bristles  tbat 
shot  out  from  tbe  man's  jowls  and 
chin  and  upper  lip,  as  though  be 
were  viewing  tbe  saturnine  face 
through  the  grotesquerie  of  a  mag- 
nifying glass.  But  the  distorted  face 
turned  from  bim  and  tbe  voice  came 
forth  again  from  some  place  in  the 
man's  interior,  a  stronger  sounding- 
board  now,  more  evangelical,  more 
sepulchral  in  tone,  and  as  be  spoke 
be  held  onto  bis  sign  so  tbat  all  who 
approached  rnight  read  and  all  who 
bad  ears  might  bear. 


22 


Four  Quarters 


"Folks,  did  you  read  your  Bible 
tnis  morning?  Everyone,  even  min- 
isters of  the  Gospel,  must  read  tKeir 
Bible  every  day;  it's  tbe  only  way 
to  worship  God.  " 

The  small  man  came  out  of  his 
seizure  and  turned  to  hurry  away. 
He  had  witnessed  sufficient  strange- 
ness for  one  day,  even  a  spring  day 
in  the  greatest  city  in  the  world,  and 
he  had  enough  to  think  about  for 
his  next  story.  His  thoughts  there- 
fore told  him  to  ffee,  to  run  before 
ithe  torrent,  the  flood,  the  in- 
scrutable powerful  thing  that  weak- 
ened his  insides  and  sent  a  metallic 
taste  high  up  to  his  mouth.  In  the 
region  behind  his  navel  a  noisy 
contraction  had  his  entrails,  and  the 
bones  in  his  legs  momentarily  turned 
to  chalk.  But  before  he  could  take 
his  second  step,  his  stride  was 
matched  by  the  step  of  the  tall  man, 
who  kept  shouldering  him  and 
throwing  his  weight  and  crowding 
him  as  they  both  stepped  along  the 
fancy  avenue,  moving  southward  to- 
wards the  great  white  library  that 
has  the  two  well-known  stone  lions. 

The  small  man  kept  his  look  fixed 
straight  ahead,  not  looking  fully 
right  or  left,  ignoring  his  partner-in- 
stride,  hoping  to  elude  him  and  fear- 
ful that  he  would  never  succeed.  To 
forget  the  demon  tearing  at  his  vitals, 
he  focused  his  attention  on  the 
passersby.  He  forced  his  face  to 
take  on  a  steady  wisp  of  a  smile  and 
made  his  mind  hook  onto  the  faces 
as  they  came  towards  him.  But  his 
hook  slid  on  the  smooth  faces,  never 
able  to  hold  onto  any  crevice  of 
recognition.  The  well-fed  faces  of 
men  in  business  grays  and  blues  and 
tans    were    not    for    his    memory's 


touch;  the  easy,  gentle,  slightly  var- 
nished magnets  with  the  bright  veily 
bonnets  registered  nothing  but  aloof- 
ness. Cool  and  distant  and  beauti- 
ful they  were,  like  the  gem  in  the 
Ethiop's  ear.     But  not  for  him. 

He  was  alone,  a  solitary  traveler 
on  much  traversed  land,  with  an 
enigma  nudging  him  whose  absurd 
sign  advertised  the  carrier's  audacity 
and  the  small  man's  unease. 

"Are  you  game?  " 

That  voice  again!  The  disturb- 
ance went  into  his  head  and  shot 
down  into  his  lovv^er  region,  and  for 
a  moment  he  double-stepped  and  lost 
his  stride. 

"Will  you  listen  to  me  on  Sun- 
day night?  " 

Now  the  bass  tones  jabbed  his 
brains,  turning  them  over,  although 
he  managed  to  regain  his  stride.  His 
brains  said  that  there  d  never  be  an- 
other Sunday  night.  From  Friday 
to  Sunday  is  an  age,  a  light-year. 

"Are  you  game?  I  said." 

The  strident  tones  were  jarring 
around  in  his  stabbed  head,  his 
punctured  interior,  his  echoing  soul. 
They  were  making  game  of  him. 
He  thought  he  might  be  saying  the 
crazy  words  himself. 

"Will  you  listen?" 

He  must  take  hold  of  this  madness 
and  form  words  that  will  make  sense 
and  bring  him  peace.  He  would  put 
those  strong  w^ords  in  line,  marshal- 
ing them  one  after  the  other  and 
make  them  fight  his  battle.  But  his 
mouth  refused  to  open,  his  sound 
box  was  paralyzed,  he  did  not  speak. 
He  could  blame  it  on  the  small  par- 
ticle of  gum  between  his  front  teeth, 
that  small  thing  acting  like  cement, 
keeping  his  teeth  together.     Words 


The  Sign 


35 


now  would  startle  nimself. 

If  he  could  just  blurt  out  any- 
tKing.  A  "Shut  up!"  A  wild  "Go 
to  hell!"  Anything  would  free  him 
from  the  sign,  the  interior  sign  and 
the  exterior  sign.  But  no  ejaculation 
came  out.    No  sound  came  forth. 

It  might  be  just  as  well,  for  the 
sign  would  stop  and  the  voice  would 
sound,  and  the  enigma  would  ex- 
ploit the  hesitation  on  his  part.  He 
didn't  want  to  hear  that  voice  again, 
that  disturbing  sound  and  the  rhe- 
torical question.  He  didn't  want  to 
see  that  sign  flaunted  again,  that 
obscene  display,  that  pitchman  and 
barker  technique. 

In  his  mind's  eye  he  could  see  the 
boisterous  thing.  Paint  from  it 
blinded  him,  the  red  stung  his  in- 
terior eyeballs,  the  blacic  muddied  his 
thinking.  He  moved  his  eyes  to  the 
right  without  moving  his  head  and 
placed  his  thoughts  on  the  fragile 
softnesses  in  the  window^,  the  deli- 
cate pinks  and  m^auves  and  orchids 
and  salmons,  making  his  mind  jump 
the  occasional  blacks.  The  sheer, 
diaphanous  things  with  the  fine 
workmanship  at  the  heels,  the  net- 
ting for  loveliness  and  mystery,  the 
things  that  give  unforgettable  form 
and  shape,  the  beige  and  tan  and 
flesh. 

These  vi^ere  harbingers  of  a  real 
world  that  made  sense  and  could  be 
understood,  a  world  that  might  help 
a  solitary  forget  his  flight  from  a 
miad  pursuer.  There  could  be  peace 
and  serenity  and  ease  and  no  fear 
in  such  a  world.  It  was  a  world  of 
consolation  and  music  and  softness 
and  shy  voices. 

And  in  the  other  windows  his 
turned   eyes   could   see   the   comple- 


ment to  that  in  the  other  windows, 
these  brighter,  dazzling,  stronger 
windows,  where  gems  and  circles 
and  bands  and  strings  and  v-shaped 
lines  gave  back  in  a  thousand  dif- 
ferent, despairing  ways  the  gold  and 
white  and  blue  of  the  sky  and  sun. 
This  world  also  could  make  sense, 
and  those  who  frequented  it;  and  he 
met  in  his  mind  furtive  inhabitants 
dwelling  in  the  small  segment  he 
had  known. 

Only  strangers  faced  him,  distant 
faces  passed  him  by  as  though  he 
did  not  exist,  complacent  faces 
looked  through  him  and  he  never 
felt  so  desperate.  He  had  a  hundred 
acquaintances  in  this  Bagdad,  this 
city  of  homes  on  cliffs,  but  the  dwell- 
ers were  oblivious  of  him. 

He  thought  he  was  free  of  his 
stalker. 

"What  are  you?' 

That  voice  hit  against  his  head. 
That  piercing  blow  again. 

"Jesus?' 

He  knew  he  had  to  escape  this 
darkling  occult  thing,  even  if  the 
ground  beneath  his  feet  w^ere  to 
open.  He  had  to  flee.  His  liaison 
with  a  barker,  a  mountebank,  a  fly- 
by-night  revolted  him.  He  was  in 
cahoots  with  fraud  and  the  banal. 
He  was  a  confederate  to  a  pitch- 
man.    It  must  not  be. 

The  big  blueness  struck  his  eye 
and  cleared  his  head.  He  couldn  t 
have  wished  for  a  better  beachhead 
to  get  out  of  his  sea  of  unease,  this 
sea  with  its  treacherous  quicksands 
and  whirlpools.  The  brightness  of 
the  shield  and  the  buttons  and  the 
face.     The  blue  of  the  eyes. 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  help  me, 
officer?"      Hold   it   there,   the   voice 


24 


Four  Quarters 


for  tlie  first  time,  Kold  it  even  and 
steady  and  low  and  cool,  now  tliat 
you're  out  of  tlie  w^aves.  Ignore  tKe 
off-center,  off-sound  cadences.  At 
ease,   you're   on   the   beacK. 

"Sure,  Father,  wnat  is  it?  ' 

Cool  again  now,  light  now  again, 
anything  now^,  anything  at  all,  it 
doesn't  have  to  be  real,  to  make 
sense,  to  be  exact,  to  be  your  need, 
as  long  as  you're  cool. 

"Where  can  I  get  a  train  for 
Brooklyn?"    That's  it,  now. 

"Why,  anywhere  along  here.  " 
The  blue  sheen  of  the  arm  went  up 
and  to  its  right  and  came  around  and 
back  and  rested  at  the  side. 

As  if  you  didn't  know  that,  as  if 
you  were  a  real  stranger,  as  though 
you  were  from  the  hinterlands;  and 
the  taller  man  sees  and  hears  and 
stands  and  holds  his  tongue  and  his 
sign  and  you  know  he's  making  that 
bold  front  to  impress,  to  keep  you 
under  his  eye.  You  must  get  him 
now.  To  speak  then,  hghtly  too, 
with  dignity.     It's  no  time  to  lose. 

Look  at  the  blueness.  "Can  you 
step  in  here  a  minute?  " 

"Sure,  Father." 

A  step,  and  his  step. 

"Is  he  annoying  you?" 

A  nod  of  the  head.  The  first  flush 
of  retaliation  followed  by  a  surge 
demanding  vindication,  the  passion- 
ate exhaust,  and  the  return  of 
strength.    No.     Stifle  the  low  thing! 

"He's  a  jerk.     I'll  fix  him.  " 

Steady  now  in  leaving,  no  run- 
ning, throw  off  the  shackles  and 
take  a  step  and  you'll  be  in  a  world 
you  understand.  To  the  right  then. 
A  glancing  blow  from  a  fusillade  of 
words,  a  staggering,  a  stop.  The 
stridency  again. 


"Folks,  did  you  read  your  Bible 
this  morning?  Everyone,  even 
policemen,  must  read  their  Bible 
every  day.  " 

A  flash  of  blueness  to  the  left. 
A  sound  as  decisive  as  a  gunshot. 

"Hey,  you!" 

The  sign  and  the  blackness  and 
the  derby  and  the  sw^arthiness  came 
round.  Another  conflict.  Small 
blueness  against  tall  blackness.  Bet- 
ter than  small  blackness  against  tall 
blackness.     Much  better. 

He  w^as  free  to  move  leisurely 
away,  free  to  ease  up.  free  to  look 
from  left  to  right.  He  could  move 
across  the  narrow  numbered  street 
and  then  turn  to  watch.  His  insides 
taut  still,  and  the  taste  not  yet  lifted 
from  his  teeth.  The  moisture  on 
his  broad  forehead  and  upper  lip 
and  below^  the  armpits  cooling  now 
under  the  aegis  of  the  breeze  along 
the  avenue.  The  soft  faces  and  their 
red  and  blue  and  dark  halos.  On 
some  the  varnish  had  cracked  and 
the  teeth  show,  regular,  white, 
strong.  The  sheen  from  long  hair  to 
shoulders.  The  smell  of  pipe  smoke 
and  Chanel  and  all-spice  and  Eng- 
lish lavender  and  the  gray  of  tweed 
and  the  salt-and-pepper  and  the 
gabardine  skirts  and  coats  in  pastel 
shades.  People  passed  and  repassed 
and  stopped  before  crossing.  All  his 
fellows. 

From  his  stand  he  could  see  the 
raised  finger  from  the  blue  sleeve 
and  it  went  up  and  down  in  deliber- 
ate rhythm.  He  saw  the  jaunty 
derby  leaning  over,  the  sign  swing- 
ing now,  a  plaything  of  the  breeze, 
dismay  on  swarthiness.  No  words 
came  to  him;  the  loose  lips  did  not 
move,  the  chin  was  not  working.     It 


The  Sign 


as 


loolced  lilce  tKe  end  of  tKe  drama  and 
so  he  turned  to  walk  towards  the 
hons. 

On  the  Forty-second  Street  side 
of  the  large  edifice,  the  steps  to  the 
entrance  were  busy  up  and  down 
and  he  took  his  time  in  chmhing 
them,  saving  what  vigor  he  had.  No 
cause  to  hurry  now,  he  knew,  no 
reason  to  move  fast,  no  need  for 
speed. 

At  the  top  of  the  first  flight  of 
steps  he  stopped  and  put  out  his 
foot  to  look  at  his  shoes  and  found 
that  the  laces  v/ere  loose  and  one 
completely  untied.  He  wondered 
how  that  came  about.  Now,  with 
congress  gaiters  there  were  no  laces 
to  come  untied. 

He  went  down  to  the  shoes  in  a 
slight  bend  that  gave  a  dirk  of  pain 
and  made  him  quickly  straighten 
up.  His  side  was  acting  up.  He 
bent  once  more,  this  time  slowly 
and  easily,  on  guard  for  the  slightest 
sign  of  stiffness  and  pain.  He  tied 
each  shoelace  slowly,  deliberately, 
his  fingers  more  clumsy  than  he  had 
ever  noticed  before.  His  whole  body 
felt  as  though  it  had  been  melted 
and  poured  into  his  clothes.  The 
back  of  his  undershirt  adhered  to 
his  skin. 

Now  he  could  stand  fully  erect 
and  move  up  the  remaining  flight 
to  the  dark  door  and  push  it  open. 
He  had  to  dodge  the  young  men  with 
uncombed  hair  and  short  coats  and 
armsful  of  books.  He  looked  at  their 
young,  eager  faces,  their  careless  ap- 
pearance. Someone  was  at  his  side, 
the  corner  of  his  eye  told  him  by 
the  blackness.  The  voice  came  forth 
controlled,  demanding.  "Brother, 
I  d  nke  a  word  with  you." 


He  turned  his  head  and  directly 
beheld  the  man,  tall  and  devoid  of 
the  hanging  placard.  He  didn't  say 
a  word  to  answer  him. 

I  know  you'll  give  it  to  me.  " 

The  tall  man  was  sure  of  himself, 
ahhough  subdued  in  tone.  His  sign 
was  now  rolled  up  and  he  held  it 
in  his  long  hairy  hand,  its  shape  now 
different  but  its  inherent  force  still 
a  sort  of  weapon. 

The  small  man  looked  away  from 
the  furled  thing,  unpleasant  symbol, 
and  from  the  tall  blackness,  and  he 
stared  across  the  busy  thoroughfare 
to  the  far  sidewalk,  where  the  sun 
fondled  the  gay  shapes  and  the 
virile  forms,  escorting  them  along 
the  bright  pathway  where  they 
moved  with  easy  cadence  and  care- 
free step. 

He  could  see  the  displays  in  the 
windows  of  the  mammoth  stores  that 
lined  the  street,  the  busy  rialto,  and 
the  suits  and  shirts  and  hats  and 
dresses  and  shoes  placed  in  the  exact 
position  to  catch  the  shopper's  eye. 
He  let  his  eyes  close  a  little  and 
found  the  yellows  and  reds  and  blues 
and  the  stripes  and  the  whiteness 
took  on  rococo  shapes  and  lines.  The 
whole  panorama  was  a  medley  of 
forms,  a  wild  array  of  color  and  dark 
stabs. 

He  looked  back  again  to  the 
ground  at  his  feet,  at  the  uncleaned 
steps  and  the  dizzy  pattern  from  the 
stamped-on  cigarettes  and  paper 
and  tinfoil  and  the  tiny  pools  of 
spittle. 

Without  saying  a  word,  the  small 
man  led  the  way  to  the  low  stone 
bench  that  was  on  the  right  as  one 
entered  the  building.  Down  here, 
a    flight   below    the    busy    entrance 


a6 


Four  Quarters 


they  would  be  out  of  the  library 
traffic.  The  smell  of  the  black  earth 
came  up  and  over  to  them,  damp  and 
pungent  and  redolent  of  leaves  long 
dead  and  their  wetness.  Here  the 
morning  sun  only  could  touch  the 
ground,  but  its  fugitive  glance  never 
had  a  chance  to  sweeten  the  soil. 

Boxwood  slowly  put  forth  its  shy 
greenness.  It  could  never  hope  to 
match  the  eagerness  of  the  trees  and 
bushes  and  the  blossomy  things  that 
thrived  in  the  brightness  of  the 
famous  avenue.  The  air  was  damp 
and  quiet,  and  the  presence  of  the 
two  in  black  gave  a  grimness  to  the 
setting. 

Their  silence  was  a  plodding 
thing,  full  of  the  heaviness  of  mys- 
tery and  ignorance.  In  another  mid- 
dle time  and  another  middle  age 
two  similar  figures  in  brown  or  white 
or  black  gowns  might  have  met  on 
stone  bench  before  a  temple  dedi- 
cated to  similar  pursuits,  but  they 
would  have  a  common  ground  for 
understanding  and  discussion.  The 
small  man  found  himself  brought  up 
short. 

"Why'd  you  do  it?" 

He  felt  the  prick  in  his  cuticle,  but 
he  kept  his  eyes  averted  so  that  he 
would  not  see  the  face  of  the  tall 
man,  preferring  to  watch  the  life  in 
the  sun  across  the  chasm,  desiring  to 
join  the  march  of  shapely  limbs  and 
well-shod  men,  never  tiring  of  look- 
ing at  the  swirling  coats  and  dresses, 
the  speeding  business,  the  walking 
city.  He  gave  no  thought  to  answer- 
ing the  question.  It  could  answer 
itself. 

"You  played  a  trick  on  a  col- 
league." He  resented  the  authori- 
tarian  tone,    pontifical    even    in    its 


rich  quality;  he  would  not  answer. 
He  could  not  get  his  mind  to  work 
and  form  words.  Effrontery  iced 
his  mental  faculties,  the  tall  man's 
effrontery. 

"We're  in  the  same  business  and 
should  be  one."  The  small  man 
wasn't  certain  what  w^as  meant  by 
the  word  business.  The  same  busi- 
ness? He  hoped  not,  he  could  see 
the  connotations  of  the  word,  the 
sordidness  of  extracting  money  from 
people  under  some  sort  of  compul- 
sion. He  could  hear  rattling  of  coins 
and  the  counting  of  change.  Allied 
words  marched  through  his  mind, 
words  that  spoke  of  the  street  and 
the  plaza  and  the  great  spectaculum, 
the  gate,  and  the  take,  and  the  cut, 
and  the  slice.  He  could  put  this 
tall  man  on  the  right  track. 

But  what  would  emerge?  An 
inane  discussion  on  religion?  Talk 
of  making  a  livelihood?  He  could 
see  the  men  at  the  newsstand  crying 
their  newspapers,  and  the  speedy 
trucks  rolling  along  that  carried  the 
heavy  bundles  to  throw  them  out  at 
corners.  Li  1  Abner  and  Dick  Tracy 
and  Baseball  Sports  in  The  Daily 
Record. 

He  could  counter  with  "Are  we? 
Or  putting  the  counter-attack  an- 
other way,  "What  makes  you  so 
sure?  "  And  about  being  one,  he 
thought  that  business  wasn't  the 
best  integrator;  neither  is  roguery, 
though  both  are  said  to  make  people 
thick.  But  he  could  only  think,  he 
couldn't  talk. 

"Don't  you  ever  talk,   friend?  ' 

He  looked  at  the  mouth  from 
where  the  words  came,  the  wide 
mouth,  handsome  and  cruel  and 
forceful.    The  mouth  of  a  showman. 


The  Sign 


37 


He  looked  away  from  tKe  dark  win- 
dow of  the  soul. 

"You  gave  that  cop  wrong  im- 
pressions. 

The  collar  of  the  small  man  moved 
up  his  neck  to  grab  the  short  hairs 
and  pull  at  them  and  make  him 
twitch  his  neck.  An  annoying  itch. 
His  collar  was  getting  small  and  his 
neck  too  tight.  He  opened  his  mouth 
again,  and  again  words  refused  to 
issue.  He  was  a  veritable  mute. 
Suppose  he  might  never  speak 
again! 

"Before  I  go  to  get  some  lunch, 
I'd  like  to  tell  you  something,  "  the 
tall  man  said  with  a  show  of  dis- 
pleasure and  contempt;  "you  ought 
to  know  yourself  like  I  do.  "  He 
waved  the  folded  sign  reprovingly 
at  the  small  man.  "That's  why  I 
carry  this  sign,  because  I  know  my- 
self; not  one  of  you  could  do  it." 

The  small  man  brought  his  right 
hand  up  slowly  and  put  it  to  his 
forehead;  and  the  big  blackness  got 
up  hurriedly.  He  spoke  as  he  rose. 
"No,  you  don't." 

Again  the  small  man  was  fascin- 
ated by  the  long  flow  of  the  coat 
and  the  tall  man's  quick  reflexes. 
He  knew  how  to  make  his  dramatic 
movements  count.  He  looked  down 
at  the  small  man,  who  still  sat  on  the 
white  bench.  "Friend,  I  have  to  eat 
and  it's  going  to  be  a  problem  today, 
unless  like  a  colleague  you'll  help 
me  out.     Not  much  money." 

He  stood  in  front  of  the  small  man 
swaying  with  an  easy  rhythm,  keep- 
ing slow  time  by  having  the  furled 
sign  go  back  and  forth  on  the  swivel 
of  his  hand,  a  metronome  in  largo 
time. 

"Brother,  can  you  spare  something. 


something  that  will  show  your  ap- 
preciation of  our  meeting  today?  ' 

The  small  man  looked  at  his  face. 
It  was  in  repose  and  could  have  been 
the  visage  of  a  Park  Avenue  clergy- 
man at  the  bedside  of  a  dying  patron. 
The  small  man's  eyes  were  quiz- 
zical, unbelieving.  He  looked  into 
the  tall  man's  eyes,  but  the  man 
never  flinched.  "I've  fifteen  cents. 
What  could  you  get  for  that?"  he 
said. 

He  stopped  moving  the  sign  and 
held  it  in  his  left  hand  like  a  drum 
major  holds  his  baton  when  he's  not 
swinging  it. 

The  small  man  felt  in  the  inside 
pocket  of  his  inner  coat,  still  watch- 
ing the  shoes  of  the  tall  man.  He 
took  out  a  large,  tooled-leather  dark 
brown  wallet  and  fingered  a  bill. 
The  tall  man's  eyes  went  large  at 
the  sight  of  the  expensive  wallet  and 
larger  still  at  the  bill.  The  tall  man 
looked  earnestly  towards  the  wallet, 
and  at  the  small  man,  and  at  the 
people  coming  up  and  down.  He 
put  out  his  hand  before  the  dollar 
was  free  of  the  leather  wallet. 

He  took  hold  of  the  bill  without 
saying  a  word  and  moved  to  descend 
the  steps,  with  more  hurry  than 
seemed  necessary.  Maybe  he  was 
hungrier  than  he  pretended.  It  was 
after  lunch  time. 

When  he  reached  the  sidewalk, 
he  unfurled  his  sign  and  hung  it 
again  in  its  familiar  place.  From  his 
pocket  he  brought  out  a  tiny  note- 
book and  took  it  in  his  right  hand. 
He  held  his  notebook  high.  The 
small  man  stood  to  watch  him,  to 
hear  him  again. 

"Folks,"  the  tall  man  cried  out  in 
his  loud  voice,  "did  you  read  your 


28 


Four  Quarters 


Bible  today?  Even  tlie  clergy  should 
read  their  Bible  every  day.  ' 

When  he  said  "clergy,  "  he  turned 
with  his  sign  so  that  he  could  look 
up  to  where  the  small  man  was 
standing. 

Neither  man  made  any  sign  that 
they  saw^  each  other.  As  the  tall 
man  walked  towards  Sixth  Avenue, 
the  man  at  the  bench  kept  his  at- 
tention on  him  until  he  could  no 
longer  see  him.  Then  he  w^alked 
slovi^Iy  up  the  remaining  steps  to 
the  hbrary  entrance.  Before  touch- 
ing the  door  to  go  in,  he  stopped. 


His  needs  were  physical  needs, 
but  not  food.  He  let  his  feet  turn, 
and  walked  dow^n.  He  couldn't 
spend  any  time  in  the  hbrary  this 
afternoon,  nor  did  he  wish  to  take 
a  walk  in  the  street,  or  in  the  park, 
or  along  the  river. 

Some  inner  voice  told  him  that  he 
would  never  feel  invigorated  until  he 
reached  his  own  apartment,  and 
could  take  off  his  black  clothes,  and 
stepped  under  the  shower.  That 
might  help  him,  would  be  a  sign 
that  the  world  he  knew  and  hved 
in  was  still  carrying  on. 


To  Beath 

(A  Valediction:  Forbidding  Mourning) 
By  Brother  Adelbert 


There  lie  the  smoking  fields,  the  gaunt  woods,  charred 
And  choked  with  demolition  where  the  hand 
Of  Fire  stripped  from  them  every  sheathing  band 
Of  glory,  leaving  skeletons  with  sard 
Smoke  rising  from  stalk  brash  and  seared  shard. 
And  then  He  said  to  me:  At  your  command 
Shall  these  stalks  live,  O  son  of  man,  and  stand 
Forth  clothed  with  leaves  and  fruit  for  your  regard? 
Only  the  Vine  remains,  with  long  root  deep 
Sunk  in  an  ocean  of  ash;  but  the  fruit  of  the  Vine, 
Touched,  tingles  the  brain  like  a  knife  on  the  teeth; 
Yet  the  pity  of  Fire  is  in  this,  to  make  me  keep 
Five  wits  at  arm's  length  while  I  drink  the  wine 
Lethal  to  Death,  for  whom  I  wove  this  wreath. 


The  Theater  in  Phiiadetphia 

Is  There  a  Doctor  in  the  House? 

By  Dan  Rodden 

THE  PLAYWRIGHT  KaJ  long  been  considered  tKe  primary  artist  of 
tKe  theater;  tKis  notion  has  apparently  been  supplanted.  The  play- 
doctor  is  now  your  man.  Or  rather  the  play-speciahst;  certainly  the 
playwright  is  still  a  doctor,  as  in  the  sense  of  constant  revision  he  always 
has  been,  but  he  is  a  general  practitioner.  In  emergencies^-and  in  an  age 
w^here  plays  cost  a  minimum  of  forty  thousand  dollars  to  produce,  every 
sniffle  is  an  emergency— 'he  calls  in  the  speciahst.  Or  if  he  does  not  see 
the  need,  and  prefers  to  depend  upon  his  own  back-country  skills  to  see 
the  patient  through  out-of-town  ailments  to  the  crisis  of  a  Broadway 
opening,  members  of  the  immediate  family—- the  producer  and  possibly 
the  important  backers'—are  apt  to  go  over  his  head  and  call  in  specialized 
assistance. 

The  idea  is  not  really  new.  In  years  past,  such  a  specialist  as  Dr. 
George  S.  Kaufman  M^as  frequently  consulted  in  doubtful  cases;  his  repute 
was  such  that  the  G.P.  was  inclined  to  welcome  his  professional  assistance. 
Drs.  Lindsay  and  Grouse  once  ministered  to  a  play  diseased,  called  Bodies 
in  the  Cellar;  it  recovered  and  lived  a  full  span  as  Arsenic  and  Old  Lace. 
(Dr.  Kesselring,  the  G.P.  on  that  case,  retired  for  a  number  of  years  there- 
after; he  had  diagnosed  his  patient  as  melodramatic,  whereas  specialists 
Lindsay  and  Grouse  had  more  correctly  seen  symptoms  of  comedy,  and 
had  so  treated.  Kesselring  achieved  a  certain  reputation,  however,  which 
persisted  until  he  was  so  unwise  as  to  enter  into  general  practice  again  last 
season  with  Four  Times  Twelve  Is  48,  whereupon  his  license  was  revoked.) 
Earliest  of  all  still  practicing.  Dr.  George  Abbott  is  a  specialist  noted  for 
dramatic  recoveries.     There  have  been  others. 

But  this  is  the  Age  of  Specialization,  and  the  past  few  seasons  have 
seen  a  logical  idea  carried  to  illogical  lengths.  Which  has  been  well 
demonstrated  by  the  current  try-out  season  in  Philadelphia,  especially  by 
its  first  play. 

BAGK  IN  THE  MID-THIRTIES,  a  relative  halcyon  period  when  we 
knew  the  empty  feeling  at  the  pit  of  our  stomach  was  only  hunger,  a 
imber,  bird-headed  man  and  a  sprightly,  red-headed  girl  danced  their 
way  into  the  heart  of  America  as  had  no  such  pair  since  Vernon  Castle 
crashed  his  plane,  and  Irene  married  a  McLaughlin  and  took  up  anti- 
vivisectionism.  Not  to  make  a  rebus  of  it,  the  two  in  question  were  Fred 
Astaire  and  Ginger  Rogers. 

Early  in  September,  Miss  Rogers  returned  to  the  stage  for  the  first 
time  in  twenty-one  years,  or  since  she  sang  "Embraceable  You  '  in  Girl 
Crazy.     Her  vehicle,  to  pervert  meanings,  was  Louis  Verneuil's  Love  and 

39 


50  Four  Quarters 

Let  Love,  and  opened  tKe  new  season  at  the  Forrest  Theater.  TKe  opening 
was  eagerly  awaited.  M.  Verneuil  had  had  considerable  luck  the  season 
before  with  Affairs  of  State,  and  those  who  assumed  it  was  nothing  more 
than  a  personal  triumph  for  Miss  Celeste  Holm  were  confounded  by  its 
continued  success  after  she  rehnquished  her  role  to  Miss  June  Havoc,  who 
is  no  place  hke  Holm.  The  combination  of  circumstances  seemed  to 
augur  well  for  a  good  night  of  comedy,  and  the  advance  sale  bespoke 
confidence  in  this  prediction.  It  was  the  chagrin  of  the  opening  night 
audience  to  discover  that  both  their  past  pets  had  let  them  down  badly. 
Verneuil  had  created,  or  more  likely  dusted  off,  an  obvious  and  humorless 
piece,  and  Miss  Rogers,  though  heaven  knows  no  jury  would  ever  convict 
her,  was  playing  quite  as  obviously  and  humorlessly. 

I  have  a  great  deal  of  admiration  for  the  charms  of  Mr.  Alfred  Lunt, 
and  his  phonetic  acrobatics  have  always  seemed  to  me  quite  effective  and 
amusing.  But  this  sort  of  play  (I  refer  here  to  the  suave,  unfunny  comedy 
of  the  sexes:  cf.  anything  recent  by  Noel  Coward  excepting  possibly  Blithe 
Spirit)  always  seems  to  tempt  the  leading  male  actors  into  a  vocal  imper- 
sonation of  Mr.  Lunt,  and  Miss  Rogers'  associates,  the  Messrs.  Paul 
McGrath  and  Tom  Helmore,  were  not  proof  against  this  temptation.  In 
view  of  the  lines  they  were  called  upon  to  speak,  you  couldn't  blame  either 
of  them  for  deciding  to  waive  a  legitimate  characterization  in  favor  of  the 
Lunt  technique.  But  I  did  feel  it  was  going  a  little  too  far  when  Miss 
Rogers  impersonated  him,  too. 

The  Philadelphia  reviewers  were  kindly  disposed  towards  the  venture, 
hence  avoided  discussion  of  the  play  and  Miss  Rogers'  performance,  rather 
concentrating  upon  how  handsomely  her  dress  designer  had  turned  her 
out.  How^ever,  this  did  not  quite  satisfy  the  producers,  perhaps  influenced 
to  doubt  by  the  fact  that  large  audiences,  trapped  into  this  prior  commit- 
ment, were  not  amused.  General  practitioner  Verneuil,  professing  not  to 
be  disturbed  about  the  condition,  issued  an  encouraging  bulletin  and 
several  Gallic  shrugs,  and  took  off  for  Florida,  thus  displaying  an  attitude 
which,  whether  we  continue  the  medical  analogy  or  revert  to  theater 
practice,  was  rather  unprofessional.  And  left  the  immediate  family  group 
to  frantic  thumbing  of  W^af  To  Do  Till  the  Doctor  Comes. 

Fortunately,  or  so  it  may  have  seemed  at  the  time,  help  was  at  hand; 
the  American  Medical  Association  was  having  its  annual  convention  at 
Atlantic  City,  and  it  was  but  an  hour's  fast  drive  to  the  bedside.  Recog- 
nizable in  the  second-night  crowd  by  their  lapel  insignia,  a  caduceus 
flanked  by  the  masques  of  comedy  and  tragedy,  the  play-physicians  were 
most  notably  represented  by  Drs.  John  van  Druten  and  Abe  Burrows. 
That  Dr.  van  Druten  is  the  eminent  heart  specialist,  ex-Harley  Street, 
whereas  Dr.  Burrows  is  the  famed  Brooklyn  belly  man,  would  seem  clear 
indication  that  the  patient  was  unable  to  say  where  it  hurt.  The  tw^o 
learned  gentlemen  made  a  cursory  investigation,  shook  their  heads  gravely. 


The  Theater  in  Philadelphia  31 

and  fled  the  case,  suggesting  only  that  the  New  England  climate  might 
help,  but  holding  out  no  hopes  for  an  eventual  cure. 

Daunted,  which  is  the  infrequently-used  opposite  of  nothing  daunted, 
the  producers  arranged  for  a  postponement  of  the  New  York  crisis,  and  a 
short  sojourn  in  Boston.  During  the  initial  period  in  the  Athens  of  the 
West  when  no  specialist  would  take  the  case,  the  patient  tried  home 
remedies:  it  was  reported  in  Variety,  a  medical  journal,  that  Miss  Rogers 
and  her  cohorts  were  making  up  their  own  lines  onstage,  as  a  commedia 
gesture  in  the  direction  of  doing  something.  This  theatrical  equivalent  of 
Hadacol  proving  ineffective,  the  producers  were  finally  able  to  prevail 
upon  Dr.  Sally  Benson,  noted  specialist  in  the  diseases  of  adolescence,  to 
take  over.  Despite  re-staging  assistance  from  Dr.  Bretaigne  Windust,  the 
two  weeks  in  Boston  seem  to  have  had  little  result;  when  the  patient  reached 
Manhattan,  the  Philadelphia  prognosis  was  justified. 

PAINT  YOUR  WAGON.     A  Musical  Play   by  Frederick  Loewe  and 

Alan  Jay  Lerner,  at  the  Shuhert  Theater. 

The  first  musical  this  fall.  Paint  Your  Wagon,  held  promise  because 
it  was  the  collaborative  effort  of  the  team  which  had  provided  the  felicitous 
Brigadoon.  In  this  instance,  Loewe  has  given  us  music  of  some  character, 
but  Lerner's  book^which,  as  a  guess,  has  been  cut  from  a  hundred  pages 
to  something  like  forty^--is  sentimental,  poorly  motivated,  and  simple- 
minded.  (Simple-mindedness  is  not  necessarily  a  vice  in  a  musical  play; 
here  it  is,  because  the  trappings  are  epic.)  The  performers  are  mostly  up 
to  the  demands  of  the  script  but^-unless  you  are  a  James  Barton  man, 
which  I  am  not^-they  never  rise  above  it.  One  of  the  songs,  "I  Dream  of 
Elisa,"  has  a  chance  to  become  what  is  known  as  a  standard,  unless  it  is 
defeated  by  Lerner's  obvious  and  saccharine  final  rime.  Incidentally,  the 
entire  company  was  thrown  into  an  absolute  panic  opening  night  by  the 
presence  in  the  audience  of  the  aforementioned  Dr.  Burrows;  it  turned  out 
he  was  there  purely  in  a  lay  capacity,  but  it  was  several  days  before  order 
was  restored.  Again,  comforting  Philadelphia  reviews  failed  to  reassure 
the  producers,  and  again  they  scheduled  further  out-of-town  treatment  in 
Boston.  (A  buxom  lady  was  heard  to  say,  in  the  Shubert  lobby  after  the 
show,  "I  liked  it  much  better  than  Oklahoma]"  I  think,  and  I  hope,  that 
she  is  the  same  lady  whom  I  overheard  make  the  same  remark  last  Spring, 
about  Flahooley.) 

FAITHFULLY  YOURS.  A  Comedy  fcy  L.  Bush-Fehete  and  Mary  Helen 
Fay,  based  on  a  play  by  Jean  Bernard  Luc,  at  the  Forrest  Theater. 
A  tiresome  and  trivial  item  about  a  wife  who  attends  a  performance  of 
Eliot's  Cocktail  Party  and  thereupon  suspects  her  husband  of  psychosis 
because  he  is  too  faithful,  this  is  a  play  where  the  initial  premise  is  so 
ridiculously  unacceptable  that  you  resent  it  every  time  you  laugh  there- 
after. Such  a  motivation  might  possibly  tee-off  a  domestic-type  radio 
half-hour,  or  a  fairly  amusing  eight-minute  revue  skit,  but  here  attenuation 


5  a  Four  Quarters 

proves  disastrous.  No  doctoring  M^as  even  attempted,  tKe  producer  ap- 
parently being  aware  that  he  had  caught  something  hice  the  common  cold, 
w^hich  would  last  about  two  weeks  whether  or  not  treated.  Again,  as  with 
Love  and  Let  Love,  you  had  to  restrain  your  impulse  to  burst  into  the 
theater  manager's  office  and  declaim,  loudly,  "This  is  the  Forrest's  prime 
evil!  " 

THE  NUMBER.  A  Play  By  Arthur  Carter,  at  the  Walnut  Street  Theater. 
This  melodrama  was  well-received  by  the  Philadelphia  critics,  who 
pronounced  it  well-made,  and  praised  the  playing.  What  doctoring  w^as 
necessary  was  accomphshed  by  its  director,  George  Abbott,  M.D.,  who 
removed  an  appendix  (the  leading  lady!)  and  ventured  other  mild  therapy. 
I  didn't  get  to  see  it.  For  some  unfair  reason,  I  don't  think  it  will  run  very 
long. 

TOP  BANANA.    A  Musical  Comedy  By  Hy  Craft  and  Johnny  Mercer, 

at  the  Shuhert  Theater. 

I  have  been  laughing  at  this  material  ever  since  I  can  remember,  and 
I  certainly  don't  intend  to  stop  now.  Top  Banana  has  a  poor  score  and  an 
unreasonable  plot,  which  turns  out  not  to  matter  in  the  least.  What  does 
matter  is  that  Phil  Silvers  gives  one  of  the  best-sustained  comic  perform- 
ances of  recent  memory  and  that  the  play  incorporates  every  successfully 
rowdy  bit  of  low^  comedy  business  since  the  first  Aristophanic  prat-fall. 
The  only  doctors  in  sight  were  the  Messrs.  Kronkhite  and  Quackenbush, 
who  slapped  the  patient  in  the  puss  with  a  custard  pie  and  beat  about  his 
head  with  an  inflated  bladder,  whereupon  the  three  went  skipping  merrily  off 
to  New  York.  I  have  no  respect  for  this  play  whatsoever,  and  I  certainly 
wish  I  had  money  in  it. 

BAREFOOT  IN  ATHENS.   A  Play  by  Maxwell  Anderson,  at  the  Locust 

Street  Theater. 

But  for  the  resourceful  and  accomplished  performance  of  Barry  Jones 
as  Socrates,  Maxwell  Anderson's  most  recent  testimonial  to  democracy 
would  be  a  piece  uncomfortably  mixed  in  tone.  As  it  is,  Mr.  Jones  makes 
the  play  succeed  as  comedy;  it  fails  as  the  drama  of  ideas  Anderson  says 
he  intended  it  to  be.  The  comedy  points  are  made  because  Jones  is  just 
the  Socrates  our  meagre  acquaintance  imagines:  constantly  questioning, 
ever-seeking,  humorous  when  serious  and  serious  when  humorous.  The 
ideas  fail  because  Anderson  again  belabors  an  already-convinced  audience 
with  the  already  accepted  symbol.  Democracy.  Shaw's  ideas,  or  Ibsen's, 
have  controversial  spark  enough  to  lend  an  extra-theatrical  excitement; 
Anderson's  are  platitudes.  (That  is,  they  are  unless  you  remember  Act  II, 
Scene  l  of  Joan  of  Lorraine,  where  he  unwisely  conceptualized  and  defined 
his  notion  of  democracy,  and  disqualified  himself  as  a  thinker.)  Obviously, 
no  play-doctor  would  be  called  up  by  Anderson;  his  plays  die,  when  they 
die,  unattended  and  in  the  odor  of  sanctity.