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Full text of "The Little review"

Ex lifcris Henrv S. Saunders 




VMiitman Collection p 



The Little Review 

Literature Drama Music Art 



MARGARET C. ANDERSON 

EDITOR 



MAY, 1917 
Editorial Ezra Pouna 

Eeldrop and Appleplex T. S. Eliot 

Pierrots (Jules Laforgue) John Hall 

Jodindranath Mawhwor's Occupation Ezra Pound 
Imaginary Letters, I. Wyndham Lewis 

Proses Coronales Morris Ward 

Announcement for June 
The Little Review Bookshop 
The Reader Critic 

Published Monthly 
MARGARET C ANDERSON. Publisher 
EZRA POUND, Foreign Editor 
3 1 West Fourteenth Street 
NEW YORK CITY 
15 Cents a copy $1.50 a Year 

Entered as second-class iDatt§r »( Postoffice, New York, N. Y. 



/^ARMEXTS created by Bertha Holley 
^^eive the wearer the distinction in color 
ana line of an artist's portrait. Their 
beauty is essential, there/ore permanent, 
and raises one fore7>er above the cojtfusion 
and extravagance of changing fashion. 
Moreover, each gartncnt fortns part of an 
ticcumulative, interchangeable 7uar(trobe 
which may be acquired at once or 
gradually, as a hooklover aicptires books, 
and when complete enables the possessor 
to meet every occasion with variety and 
crarm. 

BERTHA HOLLEY 

Twenty^ne East Forty-ninth Street 
Neiv York City 
Telephone: Plaza U96 



M^fsmtc^m^mi 



The Stradivarius of Pianos 



jtasim^l^mnlmffiit. 



313 5th Avenue 

New YorL 



The Little Review 

VOL. IV. MAY 1917 NO. I 

\ Editorial 

Ezra Pound 

' HAVE accepted the post of Foreign Editor of The Little 
Review: chiefly because: 

I. 

I wished a place where the current prose writings of James 
oyce, Wyndham Lewis, T. S. EHot, and myself might appear 
■egularly, promptly, and together, rather than irregularly, spor- 
idically, and after useless delays. 

My connection with The Little Reviezv does not imply a sev- 
jrance of my relations with Poetry for whicli I still remain 
F'oreign Correspondent, and in which my poems will continue to 
ippear until its guarantors revolt. 

I would say, however, in justification both of Poetry and 
nyself, that Poetry has never been "the instrument" of my 
'radicalism". I respect Miss Monroe for all that she has done 
for the support of American poetry, but in the conduct of her 
Tiagazine my voice and vote have always been the vote and 
\roice of a minority. 

I recognize that she, being "on the ground", may be much 
better fitted tQ understand the exigencies of magazine publish- 
ing in America, but Poetry has done numerous things to which I 
Could never have given my personal sanction, and which could 
not have occurred in any magazine which had constituted itself. 
my "instrument". Poetry has shown an unflagging courtesy to 
a lot of old fools and fogies whom I should have told to go to 
hell tout pleinement and bonnement. It has refrained from 
attacking a number of public nuisances : from implying that 
the personal charm of the late Mr. Gilder need not have been, 



The Little R eviezu 



of necessity, the sign manifest of a tremendous intellect ; fron 
heaping upon the high-school critics of America the contemp 
which they deserve. / 

There would have been a little of this contempt to spare f- i 
that elder generation of American magazines, founded by medi- 
ocrities with good intentions, continued by mediocrities without 
any intentions, and now "flourishing" under the command andf 
empery of the relicts, private-secretaries and ex-typists of the 
second regime. 

Had Poetry been in any sense my "instrument" I should 
years ago have pointed out certain defects of the elder Ameri- 
can writers. Had Poetry been my instrument I should never 
have permitted the deletion of certain fine EnglisJi words from 
poems where they rang well and soundly. Neither would I 
have felt it necessary tacitly to comply with the superstition 
that the Christian Religion is indispensable, or that it has always 
existed, or that its existence is ubiquitous, or irrevocable and 
eternal. 

I don't mind the Christian Religion, but I can not blind 
myself to the fact that Confucius was extremely intelligent. 
Organized religions have nearly always done more harm than 
good, and they have always constituted a danger. At any rate, 
respect to one or another of them has nothing to do with good 
letters. H any human activity is sacred it is the formulation of 
thought in clear speech for the use of humanity ; any falsifica- 
tion or evasion is evil. The codes of propriety are all local, 
parochial, transient ; a consideration of them, other than as 
subject matter, has no place in the arts. 

I can say these things quite distinctly and without in the 
least detracting from my praise of the spirited manner in whic 
Miss Monroe has conducted her paper. She is faced with th 
practical ])rol)lem of circulating a magazine in a certain ])ecuUar 
milieu, which thing being so I have nothing but praise for the 
way she has done it. But that magazine does not express my 
convictions. Attacks on it, grounded in such belief, and under- 



,5 



The Little Review 5 

\ 

taken in the magnanimous hope of depriving me of part of my 
sustenance, can not be expected to have more than a temporary 
success and that among ill-informed people. 

Blasts founded chiefly in the interest of the visual arts, is of 
necessity suspended. With Gaudier-Brzeska dead on the field 
of battle, with Mr. William Roberts, Mr. Wadsworth, Mr. 
Etchells, and Mr. Wyndham Lewis all occupied in various 
branches of the service, there is no new vorticist painting to 
write about. Such manuscript as Mr. Lewis has left with me, 
and such things as he is able to write in the brief leisure 
allowed an artillery officer, will appear in these pages. 

It is quite impossible that Blast should again appear until 
Mr. Lewis is free to give his full energy to it. 

In so far as it is possible, I should like The Little Revieiv to 
aid and abet The Egoist in its work. I do not think it can be 
too often pointed out that during the last four years The Egoist 
has published serially, in the face of no inconsiderable difficul- 
ties, the only translation of Remy de Gourmont's Chevaux de 
Diomedes; the best translation of Le Comte de Gabalis, Mr. 
Joyce's masterpiece A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, 
and is now publishing Mr. Lewis's novel Tarr. Even if they 
had published nothing else there would be no other current peri- 
odical which could challenge this record, but The Egoist has 
not stopped there ; they have in a most spirited manner carried 
out the publication in book form of the Portrait of the 
Artist, and are in the act of publishing Mr. Eliot's poems, 
under the title Mr. Prufrock and Observations. 

I see no reason for concealing my belief that the two novels, 
by Joyce and Lewis, and Mr. Eliot's poems are not only the 
most important contributions to English literature of the past 
three years, but that they are practically the only works of the 
time in which the creative element is present, which in any 
way show invention, or a progress beyond precedent work. The 
mass of our contemporaries, to say nothing of our debilitated 
elders, have gone on repeating themselves and each other. 



The Little Review 



i 

I ci 



Secondly, there are certain prevalent ideas to which 
not subscribe. I can not believe that the mere height of -^ 
Rocky Mountains will produce lofty poetry; we have had liti 
from Chimborazo, the Alps or the Andes. I can not belie\ 
that the mere geographical expanse of America will produce ( 
itself excellent writing. The desert of Sahara is almost equall 
vast. Neither can I look forward with longing to a time whc 
each village shall rejoice in a bad local poetaster making ba 
verse in the humdrum habitual way that the local architect pu 
up bad buildings. The arts are not the mediocre habit of mai 
kind. There is no common denominator between the little th; 
is good and the waste that is dull, mediocre. It may be plea 
ing to know that a cook is president of the local poetry sociel 
in Perigord. — there is no reason why a cook should not wri 
as well as a plowman, — but the combination of several activiti' 
is really irrelevant. The fact" remains that no good poetry h; 
come out of Perigord since the Albigensian crusade, anno domi 
twelve .hundred and nine. There being a local poetry socie 
has not helped to prevent this. 

The shell-fish grows its own shell, the genius creates its ow 
milieu. You, the public, can kill genius by actual physical sta 
vation, you may perhaps thwart or distort it. but you can 
no way create it. 

Because of this simple fact the patron is absolutely at tl 
mtercy of the artist, and the arti.st at the cost of some discor 
fort — personal, transient discomfort — is almost wholly free ( 
the patron, whether this latter be an individual, or the liydr 
headed detestable v.ulgus. 

There is no misanthropy in a thorough contempt for tl 
mob." There is no respect for mankind save in respect f< 
detached individuals. 



The Little R evi e zv 



Eeldrop and Appleplex 

T. S. Eliot 
I. 

EELDROP and Appleplex rented two small rooms in a dis- 
reputable part of town. Here they sometimes came at 
nightfall, here they sometimes slept, and after they had slept, 
they cooked oatmeal and departed in the morning for destina- 
tions unknown to each other. They sometimes slept, more often 
they talked, or looked out of the window. 

They had chosen the rooms and the neighborhood with great 
care. There are evil neighborhoods of noise and evil neighbor- 
hoods of silence, and Eeldrop and Appleplex preferred the lat- 
ter, as being the more evil. It was a shady street, its windows 
were heavily curtained ; and over it hung the cloud of a respec- 
tability which has something to conceal. Yet it had the advan- 
tage of more riotous neighborhoods near by, and Eeldrop and 
Appleplex commanded from their windows the entrance of a 
police station across the way. This alone possessed an irre- 
sistible appeal in their eyes. From time to time the silence of 
the street was broken ; whenever a malefactor was apprehended, 
a wave of excitement curled into the street and broke upon the 
doors of the police station. Then the inhabitants of the street 
would linger in dressing-gowns, upon their doorsteps : then 
alien visitors would linger in the street, in caps ; long after the 
centre of misery had been engulphed in his cell. Then Eeldrop 
and Appleplex would break off their discourse, and rush out to 
mingle with the mob. Each pursued his own line of enquiry. 
Appleplex, who had the gift of an extraordinary address with' 
the lower classes of both sexes, questioned the onlookers, and 
usually extracted full and inconsistent histories : Eeldrop pre- 
served a more passive demeanor, listened to the conversation of 
the people among themselves, registered in his mind their 
oaths, their redundance of phrase, their various manners of 
spitting, and the cries of the victim from the hall of justice 



The Little Reviezu 



i 



witliin. When the crowd dispersed, Eeldrop and Applcpl 
returned to their rooms: Appleplex entered the results of : 
inquiries into large note-books, filed according to the nature 
the case, from A (adultery) to Y (yeggmen). Eeldr 
smoked reflectively. It may be added that Eeldrop was a sc( 
tic, with a taste for mysticism, and Appleplex a materialist w 
a leaning toward scepticism; that Eeldrop was learned in the 
ogy, and that Appleplex studied the physical and biologi< 
sciences. 

There was a common motive which led Eeldrop and App 
plex thus to separate themselves from time to time, from t 
fields of their daily employments and their ordinarily soc 
activities. Both were endeavoring to escape not the commr 
place, respectable or even the domestic, but the too well pigec 
holed, too taken-for-granted, too highly systematized areas, ai 
— in the language of those whom they sought to avoid — tli 
wished "to apprehend the human soul in its concrete individ 
ality." 

"Why", said Eeldrop, "was that fat Spaniard, who sat at t 
table with us this evening, and listened to our conversati' 
with occasional curiosity, why was he himself for a moment ; 
object of interest to us? He wore his napkin tucked into 1' 
chin, he made unpleasant noises while eating, and while n 
eating, his way of crumbling bread between fat fingers mac 
me extremely nervous : he wore a waistcoat cafe au lait. ai 
black boots with brown tops. He was oppressively gross ai 
vulgar ; he belonged to a type, he could easily be classified 
any town of provincial Spain. Yet. under the circumstances- 
whoii we had been discussing marriage, and he suddenly leane 
forward and exclaimed: "I was married once myself" — 'W 
were able to detach him from his classification and regard hii 
for a moment as an unique being, a soul, however insignifican 
with a history of its own, once for all. It is these momeni 
which we prize, and which alone are revealing. For anv vit: 
truth is incapable of being applied to another case: the essen 



The Little R evi ezv 



ial is unique. Perhaps that is why it is so neglected: because 

is useless. What we learned about that Spaniard is incapable 
)f being applied to any other Spaniard, or even recalled in 
rvords. With the decline of orthodox theology and its admir- 
.{ible theory of the soul, the unique importance of events has 
vanished. A man is only important as he is classed. Hence 
here is no tragedy, or no appreciation of tragedy, which is the 
iame thing. We had been talking of young Bistwick, who 
hree months ago married his mother's housemaid and now is 
iware of the fact. Who appreciates the truth of the matter? 
Sfot the relatives, for they are only moved by affection, by 
egard for Bistwick's interests, and chiefly by their collective 
eeling of family disgrace. Not the generous minded and 
houghtful outsider, who regards it merely as evidence for the 
lecessity of divorce law reform. Bistwick is classed among the 
mhappily married. But what Bistwick feels when he wakes up 
n the morning, which is the great important fact, no detached 
)utsider conceives. The awful importance of the ruin of a life 

overlooked. Men are only allowed to be happy or miserable 
n classes. In Gopsum Street a man murders his mistress. The 
mportant fact is that for the man the act is eternal, and that 
or the brief space he has to live, he is already dead. He is 
ilready in a different world from ours. He has crossed the 
rontier. The important fact that something is done which can 
lot be undone — a possibility which none of us realize until we 
ace it ourselves. For the man's neighbors the important fact 

what the man killed her with? And at precisely what time? 
\nd who found the body? For the "enlightened public'' the 
ase is merely evidence for the Drink question, or Unemploy- 
nent, or some other category of things o be reformed. But 
he mediaeval world, insisting on the eternity of punishment, 
xpressed something nearer the truth. 

"What you say," replied Appleplex, "commands my meas- 
ured adherence. I should think, in the case of the Spaniard, 
md in the many other interesting cases which have come under 



lo T h e Little Review 



our attention at the door of the pohce station, what we grasp 
in that moment of pure observation on which we pride our- 
selves, is not alien to the principle of classification, but deeper. 
We could if we liked, make excellent comment ui^n the nature 
of provincial Spaniards, or of destitution (as misery is called 
by the philanthropists), or on homes for working girls. But 
such is not our intention. We aim at exi)eriencc in tlic par- 
ticular centres in which alone it is evil. " We avoid classifica- 
tion. We do not deny it. But when a man is classified soni< 
thing is lost. The majority of mankind live on paper currency: 
they use terms which are merely good for so much reality, 
they never see actual coinage." 

"I should go even further than that," said Eeldrop. "The 
majority not only have no language to express anything save 
generalized man; they are for the most part unaware of them- 
selves as anything but generalized men. They are first of all 
government officials, or pillars of the church, or trade union- 
ists, or poets, or unemployed ; this cataloguing is not only satis- 
facory to other people for practical purposes, it is sufficient to 
themselves for their 'life of the spirit.' Many are not quite 
real at any moment. When Wolstrip married, I am sure he 
said to himself: 'Now I am consummating the union of two 
of the best families in Philadelphia.' " 

"The question is," said Appleplex, "what is to be our philos- 
ophy. This must be settled at once. Mrs. Howexden recom- 
mends me to read Bergson. He writes very entertainingly on 
the structure of the eye of the frog." 

"Not at all," interrupted his friend. "Our philosophy is 
quite irrelevant. The essential is, that our philosophy should 
spring from our point of view and not return upon itself to 
explain our point of view. A philosophy about intuition is 
somewhat less likely to be intuitive than any other. We miist 
avoid having a platform." 

"But at least," said Appleplex, "we are . . ." 

"Individualists. No! ! nor anti-intellecfualists. These also 



The Little Review ii 



re labels. The 'individualist' is a member of a mob as fully 
•s any other man : and the mob of individualists is the most 
mpl easing, because it has the least character. Nietzsche was a 
nob-man, just as Bergson is an intellectualist. We cannot 
scape the label, but let it be one which carries no distinction, 
,nd arouses no self-consciousness. Sufficient that we should 
ind simple labels, and not further exploit them. I am, I con- 
ess to you, in private life, a bank-clerk. . . ." 

"And should, according to your own view, have a wife, three 
:hildren, and a vegetable garden in a suburb," said Appleplex. 

"Such is precisely the case," returned Eeldrop, "but I had 
lot thought it necessary to mention this biographical detail. As 
t is Saturday night, I shall return to my suburb. Tomorrow 
vill be spent in that garden. . . ." 

I shall pay my call on Mrs. Howexden," murmured Apple- 
►lex. 

(Next chapter in June number.) 



Pierrots 

Scene courte mais typique 

(After the "Pierrots" of Jules Laforgue.) 

John Hall 

(^our eyes ! Since I lost their incandescence 

^lat calm engulphs my jibs, 

The shudder of Vae soli gurgles beneath my ribs. 

fou should have seen me after the affray, 

rushed about in the most agitated way 
>ying: My God, My God, what will she say? 

vly soul's antennae are prey to such perturbations, 
kiVounded by your indirectness in these situations 
\nd your bundle of mundane complications. 



12 T h c Li 1 1 1 e R e vi ew 



Your eyes put me up to it. 

I thought: Yes, divine, these yes, but what exists 

Behind them? What's there? Her soul's an afifair for oculists. 

And 1 am sliced with loyal aesthetics. 
' Hate tremolos and national frenetics. 
In brief, violet is the ground tone of my phonetics. 

I am not "that chap there'' nor yet "The Superb." 
But my soul, the sort which harsh sounds disturb. 
Is, at bottom, distinguished and fresh as a March herb. 

My nerves still register the sounds of contra-bass', 
I can walk about without fidgeting when people pass. 
Without smirking into a pocket-looking-glass. 

Yes, I have rubbed shoulders and knocked oflf my chips 
Outside your set but, having kept faith in your eyes, 

You might pardon such slips. 

■ j 

Eh, make it up? — 

Soothings, confessions; | 

These new concessions 

Hurl me into such a mass of divergent impressions. 

{Exit.) 

Jodindranath Mawhwor's Occupation j 

Ezra Pound * 

THE soul of Jodindranath Mawhwor clove to the god of this] 
universe and he meditated the law of the Shastras. 
He was a man of moderate income inherited for the most 
part from his fathers, of whom there \yere sevevral, slightly 
augmented by his own rather desultory operations of commerce. I 



TheLittle Review 13 



.He had never made money by conquest and was inclined to 
regard this method of acquisition as antiquated; as belonging 
rather to the days of his favorite author than to our own. 

He had followed the advice of the Sutras, had become the 
Jiead of an house in the not unprosperous city of Migdalb, ni 
a quarter where dwelt a reasonable proportion of fairly honest 
and honourable people not unaverse to gossip and visits. His 
house was situated by a watercourse, in lieu of new fangled 
plumbing, and in this his custom was at one with that of the 
earliest Celts. It was divided in various chambers for various 
occupations, surrounded by a commodious garden, and pos- 
sessed of the two chief chambers, the "exterior'' and the "in- 
terior" (butt and ben). The interior was the place for his 
women, the exterior enhanced with rich perfumes, contained 
a bed, soft, luscious, and agreeable to the action of vision, 
covered with a cloth of unrivalled whiteness. It was a little 
humped in the middle, and surmounted with garlands and 
bundles of flowers, which were sometimes renewed in the morn- 
ing. Upon it were also a coverlet brightly embroidered and 
two cylindrical pillows, one at the head and the other placed at 
the foot. There was also a sort of sofa or bed for repose, at 
the head of which stood a case for unguents, and perfumes to 
be used during the night, and a stand for flowers and pots of 
cosmetic and other odoriferous substances, essences for per- 
fuming the breath, new cut slices of lemon peel and such things 
as were fitting. On the floor near the sofa rested a metal spit- 
toon, and a toilet case, and above it was a luth suspended from 
an elephant's tusk, uncut but banded with silver. There was 
also a drawing table, a bowl of perfume, a few books, and a 
garland of amaranths. Further ofif was a sort of round chair 
or tabouret, a chest containing a chess board, and a low table 
for dicing. In the outer apartment were cages for Jodindra- 
nath's birds. 'He had a great many too many. There were 
separate small rooms for spinning, and one for carving in wood 
and such like dilettantismes. In the garden was a sort of merry- 



14 T h c L i 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 



go-round of good rope, looking more or less like a May-poljE 
There was likewise a common see-saw or teeter, a green houst 
a sort of rock garden, and two not too comfortable benches. 

2. 

jodindranath rose in the morning and brushed his teeth, afte 
having performed other unavoidable duties as prescribed i 
the sutra, and he ai)plied to his body a not excessive, as he cor 
sidered it, amount of unguents and perfumes. He then blacV 
ened his eyebrows, drew faint lines under his eyes, put a fai 
deal of rouge on his lips, and regarded himself in a mirro 
Then having chewed a few betel leaves to perfume his breatl 
and munched another bonne-bouche of perfume, he set aboi 
his day's business. He was a creature of habit. That is 1 
say, he bathed, daily. And upon alternate days he anointed h 
person with oil, and on the third day he lamented that t^e mos^ 
substance employed by the earliest orthodox hindoos wias r 
longer obtainable. He had never been brought to regard soi 
with complaisance. His conscience was troubled, both as to tl 
religious and social bearing of this solidified grease. He suspec 
ed the presence of beef-suet, it was at best a parvenu and M* 
hametan substance. Every four days he shaved, ' that is 
say, he shaved his head and his visage, every five or ten da; 
he shaved all the rest of his hody. He meticulously remove 
the sweat from his arm-pits. He ate three meals daily; in tl 
morning, afternoon and at evening as is prescribed in tl 
Charayana. 

Immediately after breakfast he spent some time instructii 
his parrots in language. He then proceeded to cock-fights, qua 
fights and ram-fights ; from them to the classical plays, thou| 
their representations have sadly diminished. He slept son 
hours at mid-day. Then, as is befitting to the head of an hous 
he had himself arrayed in his ornaments and habiliment ai 
passed the afternoon in talk with his friends and acquaintanc 
The evening was given over to singing. Toward the end of 
Jodindranath. as the head of his house, retaining only one friei 



The Little R e vi ew 15 

in his company, sat waiting in the aforementioned perfumed 
and well arranged chamber. As the lady with whom he was at 
that time connected did no arrive on the instant, he considered 
sending a messenger to reproach her. The atmosphere grew 
uneasy. His friend Mohon fidgeted slightly. 

Then the lady arrived. Mohon, his friend, rose graciously 
bidding her welcome, spoke a few pleasant words and retired. 
Jodinranath remained. And for that day, the twenty fifth of 
August, 1916, this was his last occupation. In this respect the 
day resembled all others. 

This sort of thing has gone on for thirty five hundred years 
and there have been no disastrous consequences. 

3- 

As to Jodindranath's thoughts and acts after Mohon had left 
jhim, I can speak with no definite certainty. I know that my 
friend was deeply religious ; that he modeled his life on the 
Shatras and somewhat on the Sutra. To the Kama Sutra he 
had given minute attention. He was firmly convinced that one 
should not take one's pleasure with a woman who was a lunatic, 
or leperous, or too white, or too black, or who gave forth an 
unpleasant odor, or who lived an ascetic life, or whose husband 
was a man given to wrath and possessed of inordinate power. 
These points were to him a matter of grave religion. 

He considered that his friends .should be constant and that 
they should assist his designs. 

He considered it fitting that a citizen should enter into rela- 
tions with laundrymen, barbers, cowmen, florists, druggists, 
merchants of betel leaves, cab-drivers, and with the wives of 
all these. 

He had carefully considered the sizes and shapes and ancient 
categories of women ; to wit, those which should be classified 
as she-dog, she-horse, and she-elephant, according to their cubic 
volume. He agreed with the classic author who recommends 
men to choose women about their own size. 

The doctrine that love results either from continuous habit. 



i6 The Little Review 



from imagination, from faith, or from the perception of exterior 
objects, or from a mixture of some or all of these causes, gave 
him no difficulty. He accepted the old authors freely. 

We have left him with Lalunmokish seated upon the bed 
humped in the middle. I can but add that he had carefully 
considered the definitions laid down in the Sutra; kiss nominal, 
kiss palpitant, kiss contactic, tiie kiss of one lip and of two lips 
(preferring the latter), the kiss transferred, the kiss showing 
intention. Beyond this he had studied the various methods of 
scratching and tickling, and the nail pressures as follows : sonor- 
ous, half moon and circle, peacock-claw, and blue-lotus. 

He considered that the Sutra was too vague when it described j 
the Bengali women, saying that they have large nails, and thalf- 
the southern women have small nails, which may serve in 
divers manners for giving pleasure but give less grace to the 
hand. Biting he did not much approve. Nor was he very 
greatly impressed with the literary tastes of the public women in 
Paraliputra. He read books, but not a great many. He pre- 
ferred conversation which did not leave the main groove. He 
did not mind its being familiar. 

(For myself I can only profess the deepest respect for the 
women of Paraliputra, who have ever been the friends of brah- 
mins and of students and who have greatly supported the arts.) 

4- 

Upon the day following, as Jodindranath was retiring for hisjj 
mid-day repose, his son entered the perfumed apartment. Jod-| 
indra closed the book he had been reading. The boy was about] 
twelve years of age. Jodindra began to instruct him, but with- 
out indicating what remarks were his own and what derived 
from ancient authority. He said: — i 

"Flower of my life, lotus bud of the parent stem, you must 
preserve our line and keep fat our ancestral spirits lest they be 
found withered like bats, as is said in the Mahabharata. And 
for this purpose you will doubtless marry a virgin of your own J 
caste and acquire a legal posterity and a good reputation. Still 



The Little Revie IV 17 



the usage of women is not for one purpose only, for what pur- 
pose is the usage of women?" 

"The use of women," answered the boy, "is for generation 
and pleasure." 

"There is also a third use," said his father, "yet with certain 
women you must not mingle. Who are the prohibited women?" 

The boy answered, "We should not practise dalliance with the 
women of higher caste, or with those whom another has had for 
his pleasure, even though they are of our own caste. But the 
practise of dalliance with women of lower caste, and with 
women expelled from their own caste, and with public women, 
and with women who have been twice married is neither com- 
manded us nor forbidden." 

"With such women," said Jodindranath, "dalliance has no 
object save pleasure. But there are seasons in life when one 
should think broadly. There are circumstances when you should 
not merely parrot a text or think only as you have been told by 
your tutor. As in dalliance itself there is no text to be followed 
verbatim, for a man should trust in part to the whim of the 
moment and not govern himself wholly by rules, so in making 
your career and position, you should think of more things than 
generation and pleasure. 

"You need not say merely : 'The woman is willing' or 'She 
has been two times married, what harm can there be in this 
business?' These are mere thoughts of the senses, impractical 
fancies. But you have your life before you, and perchance a 
time will come when you may say, 'This woman has gained the 
heart of a very great husband, and rules him, and he is a friend 
of my enemy, if I can gain favor with her, she will persuade 
him to give up my enemy.' My son, you must manage your 
rudder. And again, if her husband have some evil design 
against you, she may divert him, or again you may say, 'If I 
gain her favor I may then make an end of her husband and we 
shall have all his great riches'. Or if you should fall into 
misfortune and say, 'A liaison with this woman is in no way 



i8 - TheLittleReview 

beset with danger, she will bring me a very large treasure, of 
which I am greatly in need considering my pestilent poverty 
and my inability to make a good living.' 

"Or again: 'This woman knows my weak joints, and if I ! 
refuse her she will blab them abroad and tarnish my reputa- 
tion. And she will set her husband against me.' 

"Or again : 'This woman's husband has violated my women, 
1 will give him his own with good interest.' 

"Or again: 'With this woman's aid I may kill the enemy of 
Raja, whom I have been ordered to kill, and she hides him.' 

"Or again: 'The woman I love is under this female's influ- 
ence, I will use one as the road to the other.' 

"Or: 'This woman will get me a rich wife whom I cannot 
get at without her.' No, my Blue Lotus, life is a serious mat- 
ter. You will not always have me to guide you. You must 
think of practical matters. Under such circumstances you 
should ally yourself with such women." 

Thus spoke Jodindra; but the council is very ancient and is 
mostly to be found in the Sutras. These books have been 
thought very holy. They contain chapters on pillules and 
philtres. 

When Jodindranath had finished this speech he sank back 
upon one of the cylindrical cushions. In a few moments his 
head bowed in slumber. This was the day for oil. The next 
day he shaved his whole body. His life is not unduly ruffled. 

Upon another day Jodindranath said to his son, "There are 
certain low women, people of ill repute, addicted to avarice. 
You should not converse with them at the street corners, lest 
your creditors see you." 

His son's life was not unduly ruffltd. 



T he Lit tl e Reviezv 19 



Imaginary Letters 

(Six Letters of William Bland Burn to his Wife) 
Wyndham Lewis 

Petrograd, January 7, 191 7. 

DEAR Lydia, 
Your amiable letter to hand. I am glad Yorke's cold 
is better. He has not a throat of iron — tout comme son 
pere. But I should not wrap it up — When he hears me in 
the house he always comes leaping in my direction; but the 
moment he sees me, he seem,'s to grow old and sober, rather 
ihan shy, and when he gets within about five yards of me, 
makes some innocently aggressive remark. I wish I could see 
him more. These long absences at the ends of the Earth pre- 
vent that. He thinks me a casual beggar I believe. 

I am glad you ask me those questions. "Why not be happy?" 
The chief use of a wife, after love, is to disgust you with your 
weaknesses, and to watch them constantly returning, by all sorts 
of bye-ways, to the attack. Or rather they seem to regard a 
wife as ideal "cover," and a first-rate avenue of return. You 
kick one out one day, and you find him the next skulking 
beneath your wife's petticoat waiting his chance. The conjugal 
skirt is a trap from which, any day you feel like hunting, you 
can return with a full bag. 

"Why not be happy?" That is, why not abandon the plane 
of exasperation and restlessness, and be content with the 
approximations and self-deceptions of the majority? Well, of 
course happiness of that sort is not within my grasp, if I wished 
it. But why expect from you a perpetual discipline? That dis- 
cipline is however, at least as easy for you as for me, if you 
think of it. The serenity and ease with which you accomplish 



20 T he Little Review 



the most gruesome self-restraints at first surprised me — until 1 
remembered that you did not take them seriously, like me, or 
suffer from their necessity. Not having a sense of values (very ; 
roughly a masculine corner) but only the complacency of an 
obedient mummer, you cover the harshest ground with Spartan 
face. It is only when you are left alone that you complain or 
question seriously. You forget a little the intricacies of our 
ceremonial dance, and find that worrying. Don't be offended at 
what I have been saying. You need not l)e ashamed of being 
calmly hypnotic. Yorke was older than you when he was born. 
We should all be mad if our mothers did not invigorate us with 
the airs of a twinkling, early and sweet world, and feed us 
with a remote "happiness." 

You want more ".happiness," though, for your child. Why? 
I would not be anything but what I am (unless I could find 
something "unhappier") and why should he, in the future, wish 
to be anything but wJiat I think he will become? There is an 
intoxication in the vistas of effort and self-castigation which 
cannot be bought with "happiness." Again you might say, 
"Why be so hard on this person or on that, and not accept him 
as a "good fellow/' or take him at the valuation of the world, 
and derive amusement and senti'mental satisfaction from him, 
Richards, Hepburn, Tom, Mrs. Fisher Wake etc., etc. They 
have all been "quarrelled with." That is, I have not been civil, 
and we do not see them'. But I have left you a Menu of equally 
amusing birds to while away life with. You would have quar- 
relled with the first lot in time and in due course on unreason- 
able grounds, if I had not forestalled you. T have merely done 
the job cleanly and reasonably. Clean is not the word, you 
argue, for this cold-blooded process. It is not veiled in the 
forms and frenzies of life, but indecently done before people 
shocked into attention. The intellect is cruel and repugnant. 
Dirty, that is. (Everything loathesome is related to dirt), 

I am attributing a line of argument to you and a tone, which 
your questions do not warrant. But T am taking them to their 



The Littl e Revi ew 21 



ultimate development. I must always do this, c'est men mal et 
mon gloire. 

Thousands of beautiful women have spent their lives in 
cloisters; there are millions of old maids. When I am with 
you I show a full, if not excessive, appreciation of your sex. 
You have a child. With a sort of lofty cunning you dote on my 
cleverness and improve your own. You would not be with me 
if you required anything much different from what you get. 
But still you deplore some of my notions and habits. I sus- 
pect my friend Villerant of having smiled at my naivete, and 
also suggested that in some things I was cracked and difficult. 

I will follow the line of argument that your questions imply : 
"Why not ease off a Httle?" You would say, "You will admit 
that it is uncomfortable to be at loggerheads with anybody. 
You flatter a person by taking .so much notice of him as to turn 
your back." 

(At this point I interject: "It is nevertheless more com- 
fortable for me, in the long run, to be rude than to be polite. 
It is a physical discomfort not to show, after a time, my feel- 
ings.) 

You continue : "Being so easily disgusted with people sug- 
gests a naive idealispi. We are all ridiculous, looked at prop- 
erly, by means of our little forked bodies. We are disgusting 
physically (except a few in their fluffy and velvety youth). So 
why carp, and glare, and sheer off? Take life, in the English- 
civilized way, as a joke; our funnybodies and their peculiar 
needs, our ambitions, greeds, as comic stunts of an evidently 
gentleman-creator, who is most unquestionably "a sport." 

At this point, my dear lady, I am going to stop you, and 
bring in the counter-flux ; release the over-mounting objections. 

First. I feel that we are obviously in the position of Ulys- 
ses' companions ; and there is nothing I resent more than people 
settling down to become what is sensible for a swine. I will 
still stalk about with my stumpy legs, and hold my snout high, 
however absurd it may be. We must get through this enchant- 



22 T h e Li t tl e R eview 

ment without too many memories of abasement. We most need, 
in the inner fact, changing back into men again! And I don't 
want the "happiness" of the swill-pail, but a perpetual restless- 
ness until the magic is over! I set out somewhere on a legen- 
dary expedition^ I do not date from Nineteen Two.= I do not 
feci like sniggering over our plight. I am permanently in a 
bad temper != (1 am not a "a sport.") 

So! So! So! 
Society, nTo.st people, have their little bit of beauty and 
energy which is a small compartment of life. The rest is the 
gentleman-animal, which ambles along, the end-in-itself= oh 
yes ! 

I do not like the gentleman-animal. He is a poor beast. 
His glory is to belong to a distinguished herd. He prefers to 
himself a Human Cliche of manners, catch-phrases, fashion- 
able slang, herd- voice (when he Baas the well-instructed can 
instantly tell that he comes from a 2'ery distinguished herd ; or 
from a quite good herd; or from a respectable herd; as the case 
may be. When he hears a similar Baa he pricks his ears up, and 
Baas more loudly and lispingly himself, to show his label and 
that he is there, he prefers a code which is, most of it, imbecile 
in its inductions, impracticable, and not holding water. Human 
weakness, human need — 'is the worse for a gloss. You do not 
agree? I have that feeling very strongly. 

But I have amplified too- much, and will return to what I 
wished immediately to say.= The best that most people can see 
is the amiable-comic, the comfortable, the advantages of the 
gentleman-animal. I, who see beauty and energ)' so much that 
they bulk and outweigh a thousand times these cowardly con- 
tentments and pis-allers, why should you expect me to admit 
society as anything but an organized poltrooney and forgetful- 
ness? The gentleman-animal has his points. And it is just 
when he is successful that we should dislike him most. For he 
is the most cunning eflfort of society to close its eyes and clog 



The Little Review 23 

its ears. He is the great sham reconcihation and justifying of 
ease. 

I must leave you at this, my dear woman, as I have to cor- 
rect proofs wanted to-morrow and twice written for.= In 
glancing through what I have written in this letter, I find things 
that, were I writing for any but a familiar ear, would require 
restating. There is an implication, for instance, that enthusi- 
astic herd-man could, if he would, produce some excellent ego 
in place of his social self, and that it is this immoral waste of 
fine material that I object to= whereas of course he is radically 
boring and obnoxious. He is a perfect metis, the gentleman- 
animal, having crossed consummately his human and inhuman 
qualities. I like to see things side by side, perfectly dual and 
unmixed. Neither side of a man is responsible for the other. 

But you know my ideas on these subjects and can dialogue 
for me as I have for you. 

I wish, Lydia, you were here, with your body rasping under 
mine now. We could beat out this argument to another tune. 

Send me more of Villerant's Aunt Sally's, or anybody else's, 
to bowl at. I like these immemorial phizzes stuck up within 
easy reach. I have bags full of cocoa-nuts ! 

As far as I can see I . shall be stopping over here at least 
another six weeks. The war continues! I was sorry to hear 
Grant had been blown up. It sounds like a practical joke. I 
hope Pampas will take care of himself.= Much occurs here of 
the strangest. The Russian factor is quite curious in this game. 
It is really, much more than the other countries, a theatre to 
itself, carrying on a play of quite a different description. Kiss 
Yorke for me. All love to yourself. 

Yours, William Bum. 
{Next letter of series will appear in June number.) 



24 T he Little R eview 



Prose Coronales 

Morris Ward 

To G. M. Chadwick 

"I the reed was a useless plant; for out of mc 
grow not figs nor apple nor grape-cluster ; but man 
consecrated me in the mysteries of Helicon, pierc- 
ing my frail lips and making me the channel of a 
narrow stream; and thenceforth whenever I sip 
the black drink, like one inspired I speak all words 
with this voiceless mouth." — From the Greek 
Anthology. Anonymous. 

I 
The New Daivn 

"You have slept long, oh heart! And you, my heart's dear 
comrade, whom men call Beauty — why have you awakened me 
once more and made my bed no longer roses but sharp thorns?"' 
— "Too many are yet asleep: they have slept overlong. You 
must awaken now and once more, in this golden dawning, sing 
to them and to this silence round about them out of your soul's 
rich pain, out of your body's weariness. Sing, then, sing!" — ■ 
"I will, dear my heart, my Beauty, I will! But oh, the silence, 
this silence !" 

II 
At Evening 

The lamp shines low in the silent room, and the lonely poet 
dreams of long- forgotten evenings. Putting aside the volume 
in my hand I caress the sumptuous fur of the cat asleep on my 
knees, crooning to myself the while an old old folk song. With- 
out, stretching far away into the horizon, the fields of golden 
wheat sway to and fro under the moon's full hght ; and on tiic 
screen of the window a single moth clings motionless, its fire- 



The Little Revie IV 25 



like eyes drinking long draughts of the light which it cannot 
reach.— Oh moth! why should you love so well the thing that 
seeks your death? ... 
An Invocation 

III 

You who love Beauty as the bee loves the flower, as the bird 
loves the air— ihail! You who lie awake at night dreaming of 
the Beauty that is in the world yet not of the world— all hail! 
You whose life is like a broken song trailing through the cease- 
less monotone of human things — hail and farewell! 

We were not long together, but haply neither will soon for- 
get. Almost we understood each other, and in all the world 
there is no word that touches life so quickly as "almost". And 
on that word we parted. 

Because you have not learned that Beauty never stops to 
kiss her chosen ones. You do not know that with her sweet, 
too-sweet and awful breath alone does she condemn them to 
journey forever from flower to flower by day, by night from 
star to star. Even as you journey, a frail, wondrous and 
ghostly bein'g, pouring forth your pain-mad melodies, broken 
melodies, ceaselessly yearning toward the verge of that perfec- 
tion ... ah ! and you would have me leap into those chill 
profundities, out of the world, out of your dear remembrance, 
out of the bright sun's warmth, forever! 

Hear me, passionate stricken one ! Hear me this once : then 
if you will forget me; if you can remember still. — For I have 
pondered on the rune of dreams and therein I have read : 

That Beauty is always in the search and in the seeker; it is 
a wandering and not a goal ; a wave and not the sea ; a flame 
and not the candle: 

It is that soul which is not man, nor woman, nor child, nor 
anything at all save one long shattered cry echoing down the 
galleries of stupendous night! 



26 TheLittleRevieiv 

It is this cry that I now send to you, vahant and wayward 

.one, my sister: i 

This, and once more, this: "Hail and farewell." 

IV 

The Lover's Lament 

Once in the waning of an autumn day, as I was reading 
to my beloved from a little book of verse, I came upon the 
lines: "They are not long, the days of wine and roses: out of 
a misty dream. . . ." But suddenly a flower-like hand cov- 
ered the page from my eyes and the moment of sweet gladness 
that was mine vanished like the saffron tints from the clouds 
beyond, as I felt her arms steal about my body and saw her 
mute poppy lips craving yet another kiss — vet another kiss. 

V 

Wanderers 

Dreaming one night of a triumphant journey along the 
Milky Way, traversing the Infinite from world to world as 
though on flaming cushions, I was awakened by a dull shuffling 
noise outside my door. I listened for a moment: "Ah, it is 
only the old blind woman across the hall, stumbling in the dark- 
ness on the way to her room." — And I went to sleep again, but 
my dream had gone forever. . . . 

VI 
The Accursed 

"Into the same river thou mayst not step twice!" Oh sage 
grim one, weaver at a sable loom, Heraclitus, — arise from your 
ashes and I will show you a woman so fair that looking on her 
you will love, and loving, nevermore plait your sombre nets of 
Change! — "Into the same river thou mayst not step twice!" — 
Not even if the river's name is Love? Answer me, spirit of 
desperation, ruthless passer-by: not even Love? — 'Silence, only 
silence, and the continual hasting of waters down to the . 
sea. ... I 

\ 

4 J 



The Little Revie IV 27 



VII 

Ennui 

I am tired of dancing and song, of pictures and the words 
that men ceaselessy utter without need. And of my own danc- 
ing and song, of my own visions and unavaiHng speech I am 
more tired still. — If so it might be, I would like to have a room 
at the top of a tower, far above the earth : a room consecrated 
to silence, where only the night could enter. And there I would 
sit forever by the window, receiving the benedictions of the 
stars, and watching in the moon's pale disc the reflections in 
lovers' eyes as they drank from one another at the sorrowful 
fountains of illusion. 

VIII 
The Rose- Jar 

Rose-jar, soft to the finger's touch, rose-jar like a maiden's 
breast, thou chance issue from the womb of Beauty — what 
coarse-mouthed potter turned thee on his wheel, shaping thee 
from the inert clay? And in what ancient garden bloomed the 
flowers now so dry within thy comely belly, now so very dry 
but oh so fragrant to the nostrils of the poet? — Rose-jar, soft 
to the finger's touch, rose- jar like a maiden's breast — and even 
thou some day will lie upon the earth and all thy loveliness and 
all thy perfume will return again unto the clay . . . unto 
the clay beneath swift brutal feet. ... 

IX 
Vesperal 

Clear-eyed evening, and thou, dark shadows, children of the 
m.oon, let us dance together a little while, and sing to one 
another antique melodies, compounded all of passion and youth 
and glad forgetfulness. — For soon the morning will come again 
out of the fateful East — the morning with all its sullen 
duties. . . . 



28 T h e L i 1 1 1 e R c V i c w 



Announcements for June 

The June issue will contain : 

Eight new poems by William Butler Yeats 

"An Anachronism at Chinon" by Ezra Pound 

The second iiistallment of "Imaginary Letters" by Wyndhai 

Lewis 
The second part of T. S. Eliot's "Eeklorp and Appleplex" 
James Joyce has written to say that he will be among tb 

early contributors. 
The next number will be increased to at least 44 pages. 

The Little Review Book Shop 

The Little Review Bookshop is now open. 

You may order any book you want from us and we have th 
facilities for delivering or mailing it to you at whatever tim 
yon specify. ^ i 

You may come in and look over our stock and take yourt 
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James Joyce's Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. $1.5 

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I 



( 



The Little R ev i e w 29 

The complete works of Anatole France. Per volume, $1.25 
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NOTE. — We have some interesting discussion for the Reader 
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leld over until the next issue. 




TPRP^ 



, TEA^UUNCHES 

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LITTLE REVIEW, and that the following is, to the best of her knowledge and belief, 
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WALTER HEARN, Notary Public. 
(My commission expires March 30th, 1918.) 




ECALL that golden day when you first read " Huck Finn ' 
' How your mother said, " For goodness' sake, stop laughing 
aloud over that book. You sound so silly." But you couldn't stop laughing. 

Today when you read "Huckleberry Finn" you will not laugh so much. You will chuckle 
often, but you will also want to weep. The deep humanity of it — the pathos, that you 
never saw, as a boy, will appeal to you now. You were too busy laughing to notice the 
limpid purity of the master's style. 



When Mark Twain first wrote " Huckleberry Finn " this land was swept with a gale 
of laughter. When he wrote " The Innocents Abroad " even Europe laughed at it itself. 

But one day there' appeared a new book from his pen, so spiritual, so true, so lofty that 
those who did not know him well were amazed. " Joan of Arc " was the work of a poet — 
a historian — a seer. Mark Twain was all of these. His was not the light laughter of a 
moment's fun, but the whimsical humor that made the tragedy of life more bearable. 



A Real American 

Mark Twain was a steamboat pilot. 
He was a searcher for gold in the far 
West. He was a printer. He worked 
bitterly hard. All this without a glim- 
mer of the great destiny that lay before 
him. Then, with the opening of the 
great wide West, his genius bloomed. 

His fame spread through the nation. 
It flew to the ends of the earth, until 
his work was translated into strange 
tongues. From then on, the path of 
fame lay straight to the high places. 
At the height of his fame he lost all 
his money. He was heavily in debt, 
but though 60 years old, he started 
afresh and paid every cent. It was the 
last heroic touch that drew him close 
to the hearts of his countrymen. 

The world has asked is there an Ameri- 
can literature? Mark Twain is the an- 
swer. He is the heart, the spirit of 
America. From his poor and struggling 
boyhood to his glorious, splendid old 
age, he remained as simple, as demo- 
cratic as the plainest of our forefathers. 

He was, of all Americans, the most Ameri- 
can. Free in soul, and dreaming of high 
things — brave in the face of trouble — and al- 
ways ready to laugh. That was Mark Twain. 

& BROTHERS, New York 



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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

A MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS 

MAKING NO COMPROMISE WITH THE PUBLIC TASTE 



Margaret C. Anderson 
Publisher 



JUNE. 1917 

Chinese Poems 

(translated from the Chinese of Li Po by Sas- 
aki and Maxwell Bodenheim) 
Push-Face jh. 

Improvisation Louis Cilmore 

Poems: Willinm Buthr Yeats 

The Wild Swans at Coole 

Presences 

Men Improve with the Years 

A Deep-Sworn Vow 

The Ct>!!ai--Bon« t)f a Hare 

Broken Dreams 

In Memory 
An Anachronism at Chinon Ezra Pound 

Imaginary Letters, IL Windham Lewis 

The Reader Critic 



MARGARET C. ANDERSON. Editor 

EZRA POUND. Foreign Editor 
31 W««t fourteenth Street 

NEW YORK CITY 

15 Cerjti a copy $1.50 a Year 

Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, New York, N. Y. 



Eugene Hutchinson 



FINE ARTS BUILDING, 



CHICAGO, ILI, 



The Stradivarius of Pianos 




313 FIFTH AVENUE 

NEW YORK 






The Little Review 

VOL. IV. JUNE 1917 NO. 2 

Chinese Poems 

Translated from the Chinese of Li Po by 
Sasaki and Maxwell Bodenheim 



Gently-Drunk Woman 

A breeze knelt upon the lotus-flowers 

And their odor filled a water-palace. 

I saw a king's daughter 

Upon the roof-garden of the water-palace. 

She was half-drunk and she danced, 

Her curling body killing her strength. 

She grimaced languidly. 

She smiled and drooped over the railing 

Around the white, jewel-silenced floor. 



Perfume — Remembrance 

When you stayed, my house was filled with flowers. 
When you left, all disappeared, except our bed. 
I wrapped your embroidered clothes about me, 
And could not sleep. 

The perfume of your clothes has stayed three years. 
It will always be with me. 
But you will never come back. 
While I think of you yellow leaves outside 
Are dropping, and white dew-drops moisten the moss 
beneath them. 



Copyright, 1917, by Margaret C. Anderson. 



The Little R ev i e 



w 



Drunk 

When we fill each other's cups with wine, 

Many mountain flowers bloom. 

One drink ; another ; and another — 

I am drunk ; I want to sleep, 

So you had better go. 

Come tomorrow morning, hugging your harp, 

For then, I shall have something to tell you. 



Mountain-Top Temple 

Night, and rest in the mountain-top temple. 
I lift my hands, and knock at the stars. 
I dare not talk loudly. 
For I fear to surprise the people in the sky. 



Push-Face 



I 

TT is a great thing to be living when an age passes. If you are 
* born in an age in which every impact of its expression is a 
pain, there is a beautiful poetic vengeance in being pennitted to 
watch that age destroy itself. 

What other age could have so ofifended ? Instead of pursuing 
the real business of life, which is to live, men have turned all 
their denials and repressions into the accumulation of unessential 
knowledge and the making of indiscriminate things. Other ages 
have taken out their repressions in religious frenzies, but this age 
has taken everything out in motion. It is an elementary fact of 
sex knowledge that rythmic motion is part of sex expression. 
Isn't it ironical and inmioral that those nations which have prided 
themselves most on their virtue, and have hugged tightest to 
themselves the puritanic ideal, are the ones that have gone mad- 
dest over motion ? America, being the most virtuous, obviously 
has the least sense of humor and has exceeded herself. From the 



The Little Review 



cradle to the turbine engine, from the rocking-chair to the spin- 
nings and whidings of a Coney Island, she has become a national 
mechanical perpetual whirling Dervish. 

The wheels became rollers which have rolled life out thin and 
flat. 

Then Art cried out with all her voices. In the last few years 
we have had a return to the beginnings of all the Arts. If there 
ever comes a time in the world when men will give their attention 
to the life of Art and understand its movement, they will find 
it alert and inevitable. Life would follow it trustingly if it were 
not for the intrusions and hindrances of men. The Thing had 
happened: Life had made its protest through Art. But this con- 
sciousness never reached the unendowed mind. It (the unen- 
dowed mind) forced Life to avenge itself by flying into war. 

II 

"I pray God," said President Wilson, "that the out- 
come of this struggle may be that every element of dif- 
ference amongst us will be obliterated — The spirit of 
this people is already united, and when suffering and 
sacrifice have completed this union, men will no longer 
speak of any lines either of race or association cutting 
athwart the great body of this nation." 

D UT the Anarchists, who are never agreeable or content in any 
'-' country, no matter how perfect, arranged a non-conscription 
meeting in a hall in Bronx Park the night before registration. 
So "united was the spirit of this people" that no one attended this 
non-conscription meeting except the 5,000 who crowded the hall 
and the 50,000 who stood outside in the streets for several hours. 
There were squads of the usual police and dozens of rough 
raw fellows in soldiers' uniforms to hold back the crowd and 
keep it in order, — a crowd that scarcely moved and seldom spoke 
except in low tones or in foreign languages ; a crowd too full 
for speech, because of this last numbing disappointment in Ameri- 
ca. The only demonstration it made was to applaud when an 
echo of the applause inside the hall reached it. Any attempt to 
get nearer the hall was met with clubs and the fists of soldiers in 
your face. Nasty little Fords with powerful search-lights raced 
up and down and about the hollow square. A huge auto truck 
hung with red lights acted as a mower at the edges. Word went 
about that it was mounted with a machine gun. 



T li e Little R e v i e zv 



As I was pushed about in the crowd I overheard always the 
same conversations: 

"Is she there"? 

"Over there where the Hght is"? 

"Yes, on the second floor." 

"Are there any people inside"? 
' "Oh it's full since seven o'clock." 

"Oh!?" 

"W^ill thev let her speak ?" 

"Who ? Her" ? 

Silence. 

"Will they get her, do you think"? 

"Will the police take her"? 

A thin pale Russian Jew, standing on a rock looking over the 
heads of the crowd, was spoken to by a stranger. "They'll get 
her tonight all right." The Russian looked over to the lighted 
windows of the hall and said in revolutionary voice : "She's a fine 
woman, Emma Goldman." 

Suddenly in the densest part of the crowd a woman's voice 
rang out: "Down with conscription! Down with the war!' 
Several other women took it up The police charged into the 
crowd. The crowd made a slight stand. The soldiers joined the 
police, and with raised clubs, teeth bared and snarling, they 
drove the crowd backward over itself, beating and pushing. 
Three times the crowd stood. Three times they were charged. 
Women were beaten down and run over. Men were clubbed 
in the face and escaped, staggering and bleeding. 

How much of this treatment will it take to obliterate every 
element of individuality amongst us? 



HI 

IN the same week the plutocrats and artists held an Alley Festa 
* for the Red Cross. At a cost of $10,000 they turned the stables 
of MacDougal Alley into a replica of an Italian street, draped 
it with much color, daubed it with much paint, hung it with many ■ 
lights. I hope there were pluts there; the artists we saw were ' 
not artists. You can easily pick out the pluts : they look like ] 
figures from the wax-works ; but the "artists" looked like Green- , 
wich Village. It was a bastard performance, a bastard street, \ 



The Little Review 



a bastard hilarity, bastard plutocrats and bastard artists, with 
bastard soldiers guarding the scene. 

Between the acts they all congregated in the Brevoort to have 
drinks. The pluts foregathered, — women in up-town clothes, 
looking like Mrs. Potter Palmer, with grey marcelled hair and 
broad stiff black hats, holding the hands and looking neuroti- 
cally into the eyes of young men who resembled bank clerks. 
Groups of artists came in, costumed like people fleeing from a 
fire. I believe they thought they were Neopolitans or something. 
They all settled clamourously at one table and fell amourously 
upon each other's necks. There was nothing personal, nothing 
unique, nothing imaginative about any of their costumes. One 
woman sat in the embrazure of a man's arm, sharing his chair 
with him. She had short hempy hair, she was dressed in street- 
gam.in clothes, she was at least forty, and her cheek bones were 
0% a line with her nostrils. No human head should be made 
that way; it's intolerable except in fish, frogs, or snakes. 

The greatest American dancer came in, followed by a little 
girl and a train of men — hummel-zug dritte classe. She had 
draped about her a green plush toga, thrown over her shoulder 
in a fat knot — not apple green, nor emerald green, nor sap green, 
I but a green and texture sacred to railroads. The only other 
perfect example I have seen of that color and texture was on the 
great chairs in the station at Mons. She was too-young-looking — 
a type much admired in my childhood when China dolls lived, 
with painted China hair undulating above pink and white China 
faces. When she looked up in conversation her profile made 
almost a flat line, the chin retiring into the neck as if it had no 
opinions on the subject, the eyes rolling up but no expression of 
the face moving up with them. Oh beautiful people, oh beauti- 
ful fete! 

The music and lights drew the children out of the slums back 
of Washington Square : fathers holding babies in their arms, and 
strings of little children trimming the edges of the sidewalks at a 
respectful distance around the back entrance, were pushed in 
the face and told to get out, to move on, by policemen and some 
more rough fellows in khaki — because .... this was a fete for hu- 
manity. And it's all right, this game of push-face: every one 
plays it. When you're little children you play it and call it push- 
face ; nations call it government ; the "people" are playing it now 
in Russia and call it revolution. 



The Little Review 



Improvisation 

Louis Gilmore 

Your hands are perfumes 

That haunt the yellow hangings 

Of a room. 

Your hands are melodies 
That rise and fall 
In silver basins. 

Your hands are silks 

That soothe the purple eyelids 

Of the sick. 

Your hands are ghosts 

That trouble the blue shadows 

Of a garden. 

Your hands are poppies 

For which my lips are hungry 

And athirst. 



The Little Review 



Poems 

William Butler Yeats 
The Wild Swans at Coole 

The trees are in their autumn beauty 

The woodland paths are dry 

Under the October twihght the water 

Mirrors a still sky 

Upon the brimming water among the stones 

Are nine and fifty swans. 

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me 

Since I first made my count. 

I saw, before I had well finished, 

All suddenly mount 

And scatter wheeling in great broken rings 

Upon their clamorous wings. 

But now they drift on the still water 

Mysterious, beautiful ; 

Among what rushes will they build; 

By what lake's edge or pool 

Delight men's eyes when I awake some day 

To find they have flown away? 

I have looked upon these brilliant creatures 

And now my heart is sore. 

All's changed since I, hearing at twilight 

The first time on this shore 

The bell-beat of their wings above my head, 

Trod with a lighter tread. 

Unwearied still, lover by lover, 

They paddle in the cold 

Companionable streams or climb the air ; 

Their hearts have not grown old, 

Passion or conquest, wander where they will. 

Attend upon them still. 

October, 1916. 



10 T h c L i t 1 1 c K c v i e w 



rresences 

This night has been so strange that it seemed 

As if the hair stood up on my liead. 

From going down of the sun I have dreamed 

That women laughing, or timid or wild, 

In rustle of lace or silken stuff, 

Climbed up my creaking stair. They had read 

All I have rhymed of that monstrous thing 

Returned and yet unrequited love. 

They stood in the door and stood between 

j\Iy great wood lecturn and the fire 

Till I could hear their hearts beating: 

One is a harlot, and one a child 

That never looked upon man with desire, 

And one, it may be, a queen. 

November, 191 5. 



Men Improve With the Years 

I am worn out with dreams ; 

A weather-worn, marble triton 

Among the streams : 

And all day long I look 

Upon this lady's beauty 

As though I had found in book 

A pictured beauty ; 

Pleased to have filled the eyes 

Or the discerning ears, 

Delighted to be but wise : 

For men improve with the years. 

And yet and yet 

Is this my dream or the truth? 

O would that we had met 

When I had my burning youth ; 

But I grow old among dreams, 

A weather-worn, marble triton 

Among the streams. 

July ig, 1916. 



TheLittleRevieiv 11 



A Deep Sworn Vow 

Others, because you did not keep 

That deep sworn vow, have been friends of mine, 

Yet always when I look death in the face, 

When I clamber to the heights of sleep, 

Or when I grow excited with wine. 

Suddenly I meet your face. 

October 17, 1915. 



The Collar-Bone of a Hare 

Would I could cast a sail on the water, 

Where many a king has gone 

And many a king's daughter, 

And alight at the com.ely trees and the lawn, 

The playing upon pipes and the dancing. 

And learn that the best thing is 

To change my loves while dancing 

And pay but a kiss for a kiss. 

I would find by the edge of that water 

The collar-bone of a hare 

Worn thin by the lapping of water ; 

And pierce it through with a gimlet and stare 

At the old bitter world where they marry in churches, 

And laugh, over the untroubled water. 

At all who marry in churches, 

Through the white thin bone of a hare. 

July 5, 191 5. 



Broken Dreams 

There is grey in your hair. 

Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath 

When you are passing ; 

But mabye some old gafifer mutters a blessing 

Because it was your prayer 



12 The Little Revie IV 



Recovered him upon tlie bed of death, 

But for your sake — that all heart's ache have known, 

And given to others all heart's ache, 

From meagre girlhoods putting on 

Burdensome beauty — but for your sake 

Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom, 

So great her portion in that peace you make 

By merely walking in a room. 

Your beauty can but leave among us 

Vague memories, nothing but memories. 

A young man when the old men are done talking 

Will say to an old man "tell me of that lady 

The poet stubborn with his passion sang us 

When age might well have chilled his blood." 

Vague memories, nothing but memories, 

But in the grave all all shall be renewed. 

The certainty that I shall see that lady 

Leaning or standing or walking. 

In the hrst loveliness of womanhood 

And with the fervour of my youthful eyes, 

Has set me muttering like a fool. 

You were more beautiful than any one 

And yet your body had a flaw : 

Your small hands were not beautiful. 

I am afraid that you will run 

And paddle to the wrist 

In that mysterious, always brimming lake 

Where those that have obeyed the holy law 

Paddle and are perfect : leave unchanged 

The hands that I have kissed 

For old sake's sake. 

The last stroke of midnight dies 

All day in the one chair 

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged 

In rambling talk with an image of air : 

Vague memories, nothing but memories. 

November, 191 5. 



TheLittleReview 13 

In Memory 

Five and twenty years have gone 

Since old William Pollexfen 

Laid his strong bones in death 

By his wife Elizabeth 

In the grey stone tomb he made ; 

And after twenty years they laid 

In that tomb, by him and her, 

His son George the astrologer 

And masons drove from miles away 

To scatter the acacia spray 

Upon a melancholy man 

Who had ended where his breath began. 

Many a son and daughter lies 

Far from the customary skies. 

The Mall, and Fades Grammar School, 

In London or in Liverpool, 

But where is laid the sailor John 

That so many lands had known, 

Quiet lands or unquiet seas 

Where the Indians trade or Japanese; 

He never found his rest ashore 

Moping for one voyage more : 

Where have they laid the sailor John? 

And yesterday the youngest son, 
A humorous unambitious man, 
Was buried near the astrologer; 
And are we now in the tenth year? 
Since he who had been contented long, 
A nobody in a great throng, 
Decided he would journey home, 
Now that his fiftieth year had come, 
And "Mr. Alfred" be again 
Upon the lips of common men 
Who carried in their memory 
His childhood and his family. 

At all these deathbeds women heard 
A visionary white sea bird 
Lamenting that a man should die, 
And with that cry I have raised my cry. 



14 T h e Li 1 1 1 e R e V i ew 

An Anachronism at Chinon 
Ezra Pound 

D EHIND them rose the hill with its grey octagon^ castle, to 
*^ the west a street zvith good houses, gardens occasionally en- 
closed and well to do, before them the slightly crooked lane, old 
worm-eaten fronts low and uneven, booths with their glass front- 
frames open, slid aside or hung back, the flaccid bottle-green of 
the panes reflecting odd lights from the provender and cheap 
crockery; a few peasant ivomen with baskets of eggs and of 
fowls, while just before them an old peasant with one hen in his 
basket alternately stroked its head and then smacked it to make it 
go dozvn under the strings. 

The couple leaned upon one of the tin tables in the moderately 
clear space by the inn, the elder, grey, with thick hair, square of 
forehead, square bearded, yet with a face showing curiously long 
and oval in spite of this quadrature ; in tlie eyes a sort of friendly, 
companionable melancholy, now intent, now with a certain blank- 
ness, like that of a child cruelly interrupted, or of an old man, 
surprised and self-conscious in some act too young for his years, 
the head from the neck to the crown in almost brutal contrast 
zvith the girth and great belly: the head of Don Quixote, and the 
corpus of Sancho Panza, animality mounting into the lines of 
the throat and lending energy to the intellect. 

His companion obznously an American student. 

Student : I came here in hopes of this meeting yet, since you are 

here at all, you must have changed many opinions. 

The Elder: Some. Which do you mean? 

Student: Since you are here, personal and persisting? 

Rabelais: All that I believed or believe you will find in De 

Senectute: "... .that being so active, so swift in thought; that 

treasures up in memory such multitudes and varieties of things 

past, and comes likewise upon new things .... can be of no 

mortal nature." 

Student : And yet I do not quite understand. Your outline is 

not always distinct. Your voice however is deep, clear and not 

squeaky. 

Rabelais: I was more interested in words than in my exterior. 

aspect, I am therefore vocal rather than spatial. 



T h e Lit tl e R eview 15 



Student: I came here in hopes of this meeting, yet I confess I 
can scarcely read you. I admire and close the book, as not in- 
frequently happens with "classics." 

Rabelais : I am the last person to censure you, and your admira- 
tion is perhaps due to a fault in your taste. I should have paid 
more heed to DeBellay, young Joachim. 
Student : You do not find him a prig ? 

Rabelais : I find no man a prig who takes serious thought for 
the language. 

Student : And your own ? Even Voltaire called it an amassment 
of ordure. 

Rabelais : And later changed his opinion. 

Stude'nt : Others have blamed your age, saying you had to half- 
bury your wisdom in filth to make it acceptable. 
Rabelais : And you would put this blame on my age ? And take 
the full blame for your writing? 
Student: My writing? 

Rabelais : Yes, a quatrain, without which I should scarcely have 
come here. 

Sweet C. . . . in h. . . spew up some. . . . 
(pardon me for intruding my own name at this point, but even 
Dante has done the like, with a remark that he found it unfitting) 
— to proceed then : 

some Rabelais 

To and and to define today 

In fitting fashion, and her monument 
Heap up to her in fadeless ex 

Student : My license in those lines is exceptional. 

Rabelais: And you have written on journalists, or rather an 

imaginary plaint of the journahsts: Where s , s. . . . and 

p on jews conspire, and editorial maggots .... about, we 

gather .... smeared bread, or drive a snout still deeper in the 
swim-brown of the mire. 

Where s , s and p on jews conspire, 

And editorial maggots .... about, 

We gather .... -smeared bread, or drive a snout 

Still deeper in the swim-brown of the mire. 

O .... O Ob b b.... 

O c. . . , O O 's attire 

Smeared with 



16 T li e L i 1 1 1 e K e V i e zv 



Really I can not continue, no printer would pass it. 

Student : Quite out of my usual 

Rabelais: There is still another on publishers, or rather on la 
vie litteraire, a sestina almost wholly in asterisks, and a short 
strophe on the American president. 
Student: Can you blame . . . 

Rabelais: I am scarcely eh 

Student: Beside, these are but a few scattered outbursts, you 
kept up your flow through whole volumes. 

Rabelais: You have spent six years in your college and univer- 
sity, and a few more in struggles with editors ; I had had thirty 
years in that sink of a cloister, is it likely that your disgusts 
would need such voluminous purging? Consider, when I was 
nine years of age they put me in that louse-breeding abomination. 
I was forty before I broke loose. 
Student: Why at that particular moment? 

Rabelais: They had taken away my books. Brother Amy got 
hold of a Virgil. We opened it, sortes, the first line: 
Hen, fnge crudeles terras, fuge litus avarum 
We read that line and departed. You may thank God your 
age is different. You may thank God your life has been differ- 
ent. Thirty years mewed up with monks ! After that can you 
blame me my style ? Have oyu any accurate gauge of stupidities ? 
Student: I have, as you admit, passed some years in my uni- 
versity. I have seen some opposition to learning. 
Rabelais: No one in your day has sworn to annihilate the cult 
of greek letters ; they have not separated you from your books ; 
they have not rung bells expressly to keep you from reading. 
Student : Bells ! later. There is a pasty-faced vicar in Kensing- 
ton who had his dam'd bells rung over my head for four consecu- 
tive winters, L'lle Sonnante transferred to the middle of Lon- 
don ! They have tried to smother the good ones with bad ones. 
Books I mean, God knows the chime was a musicless abomina- 
oion. They have smothered good books with bad ones. 
Rabelais: This will never fool a true poet; for the rest, it does 
not matter whether they drone masses or lectures. They observe 
their fasts with the intellect. Have they actually sequestered 
your books? 

Student: No. But I have a friend, of your order, a monk. 
They took away his book for two years. I admit they set him 
to hearing confessions; to going about in the world. It may 



TheLittleReview 17 



have broadened his outlook, or benefited his eyesight. I do not 
think it wholly irrational, though it must have been extremely 
annoying. 

Rabelais : Where was it ? 
Student: In Spain. 

Rabelais: You are driven south of the Pyrenees to find your 
confuting example. Would you find the like in this country? 
Student : I doubt it. The Orders are banished. 
Rabelais: Or in your own? 
Student : Never. 

Rabelais : And you were enraged with your university ? 
Student: I thought some of the customs quite stupid. 
Rabelais: Can you conceive a life so infernally and abysmally 
stupid that the air of an university was wine and excitement 
beside it? 

Student : You speak of a time when scholarship was new, when 
humanism had not given way to philology. We have no one like 
Henry Stephen, no one comparable to Helia Andrea. The role 
of your monastery is now assumed by the "institutions of learn- 
ing," the spirit of your class-room is found among a few scat- 
tered enthusiasts, men half ignorant in the present "scholarly" 
sense, but alive with the spirit of learning, avid of truth, avid 
of beauty, avid of strange and out of the way bits of knowledge. 
Do you like this scrap of Pratinas ? 
Rabelais (reads) 

'K[ioq i\xoq h Bpopito*; E[jlI SsI xsXaBelv 
E[it Bet xaxayetv 'Av opea saaaEJisvoy 
Mexa NatStov Ola ts xuxvov ayovxa 
ITotxtXoxTepov \xi\oq Tav aotSav... 

Student : The movement is interesting. I am "educated," I am 

considerably more than a "graduate." I confess that I can not 

translate it. 

Rabelais: What in God's name hav-e they taught you?!! 

Student: I hope they have taught me nothing. I managed to 

read many books despite their attempts at suppression, or rather 

perversion. 

Rabelais : I think you speak in a passion ; that you magnify petty 

annoyances. Since then, you have been in the world for some 

years, you have been able to move at your freedom. 

Student : I speak in no passion when I say that the whole aim, 

or at least the drive, of modern philology is to make a man 



18 The Little Review 

stupid ; to turn his mind from the fire of genius and smother him 
with things unessential. Germany has so stultified her savants 
that they have had no present perception, the men who should 
have perceived were all imbedded in "scholarship." And as for 
freedom, no man is free who has not the modicum of an income. 

If I had but fifty francs weekly 

Rabelais: Weekly? C J... . ! 

Student : You forget that the value of money has very consider- 
ably altered. 
Rabelais: Admitted. 
Sttident : Well ? 

Rabelais: Well, who has constrained you? The press in your 
day is free. 

Student: C J. . . . ! 

Rabelais: But the press in your day is free. 

Student : There is not a book goes to the press in my country, 

or in England, but a society of in one, or in the other a 

pie-headed ignorant printer paws over it to decide how much is 
indecent. 

Rabelais: But they print my works in translation. 
Student: Your work is a classic. They also print Trimalcio's 
Supper, and the tales of Suetonius, and red-headed virgins an- 
notate the writings of Martial, but let a novelist mention a privvy, 
or a poet the rear side of a woman, and the whole town reeks 
with an uproar. In England a scientific work was recently cen- 
sored. A great discovery was kept secret three years. For the 
rest, I do not speak of obscenity. Obscene books are sold in the 
rubber shops, they are doled out with quack medicines, societies 
for the Suppression of Vice go into all details, and thereby 
attain circulation. Masterpieces are decked out with lewd covers 
to entoil one part of the public, but let an unknown man write 
clear and clean realism ; let a poet use the speech of his prede- 
cessors, either being as antiseptic as the instruments of a surgeon, 
and out of the most debased and ignorant classes they choose 
him his sieve and his censor. 
Rabelais: But surely these things are avoidable? 
Student: The popular novelist, the teaser and tickler, casts 
what they call a veil, or caul, over his language. He pimps with 
suggestion. The printer sees only one word at a time, and tons 
of such books are passed yearly, the members of the Royal 
Automobile Club and of the Isthmian and Fly Fishers are not 
concerned with the question of morals. 



T h e Lit tl e R eview 19 



Rabelaiss You mistake me, I did not mean this sort of evasion, 
I did not mean that a man should ruin his writing or join the 
ranks of procurers. 
Student : Well ? 

Rabelais: Other means. There is what is called private printing. 
Student: I have had a printer refuse to print lines "in any 
form" private or public, perfectly innocent lines, lines refused 
thus in London, which appeared and caused no blush in Chicago; 
and vice-versa, lines refused in Chicago and printed by a fat- 
headed prude — Oh, most fat-headed — in London, a man who 
will have no ruffling of anyone's skirts, and who will not let 
you say that some children do not enjoy the proximity of their 
parents. 

Rabelais: At least you are free from theology. 
Student: If you pinch the old whore by the toes you will find 
a press clique against you ; you will come up against "boycott" ; 
people will rush into your publisher's office with threats. Have 

i^/ou ever heard of "the libraries?" 

mRabelais : I have heard the name, but not associated with strange 

rforms of blackmail. 

Student: I admit they do not affect serious writers. 
Rabelais: But you think your age as stupid as mine. 
Student: Humanity is a herd, eaten by perpetual follies. A 
few in each age escape, the rest remain savages, "That deyed the 
Arbia crimson." Were the shores of Gallipoli paler, that showed 
red to the airmen flying thousands of feet above them ? 
Rabelais : Airmen. Intercommunication is civilization. Your 
Hfe is full of convenience. 

Student : And men as stupid as ever. We have no one like 
Henry Stephen. Have you ever read Galdos' Dona Perfecta? 
In every country you will find such nests of provincials. Change 
but a few names and customs. Each Klein-Stadt has its local 
gods and will kill those who offend them. In one place it is 
religion, in another some crank theory of hygiene or morals, or 
even of prudery which takes no moral concern. 
Rabelais : Yet all peoples act the same way. The same so-called 
"vices" are everywhere present, unless your nation has invented 
some new ones. 

Student : Greed and hypocrisy, there is little novelty to be got 
out of either. At present there is a new tone, a new timbre of 
lying, a sort of habit, almost a faculty for refraining from con- 



20 The Little Review 



necting words with a fact. An inconception of their inter- 
relations. , 
Rabelais : Let us keep out of poHtics. 
Student: Damn it, have you ever met presbyterians ? 
Rabelais: You forget that I lived in the time of John Calvin. 
Student : Let us leave this and talk of your books. 
Rabelais: My book has the fault of most books, there are too 
many words in it. I was tainted with monkish habits, with the 
marasmus of allegory, of putting one thing for another: the 
clumsiest method of satire. I doubt if any modern will read me. 
Student: I knew a man read you for joy of the words, for the 
opulence of your vocabulary. 

Rabelais: Which would do him no good unless he could keep all 
the words on his tongue. Tell me, can you read them, they are 
often merely piled up in heaps. 

Student : I confess that I can not. I take a page and then stop. 
Rabelais : Allegory, all damnable allegory ! And can you read 
Brantome? 

Student: I can read a fair chunk of Brantome. The repetition 
is wearing. 

Rabelais: And you think your age is as stupid as mine? Even 
letters are better, a critical sense is developed. 
Student : We lack the old vigour. 

Rabelais: A phrase you have got from professors! Vigour was 
not lacking in Stendhal, I doubt if it is lacking in your day. And 
as for the world being as stupid, are. your friends tied to the 
stake, as was Etienne Dolet, with an "Ave" wrung out of him 
to get him strangled instead of roasted. Do you have to stand 
making professions like Bude ? ! ! 

Vivens vidensque gloria mea frui 

Volo: nihil juvat mortuum 

Quod vel diserte scripserit vel fecerit 

Animose. 

Student: What is that? 

Rabelais: Some verses of Dolet's. And are you starved like 
Desperiers, Bonaventura, and driven to suicide? 
Student: The last auto-da-fe was in 1759. The inquisition re- 
established in 1824. 

Rabelais: Spain again! I was speaking of . . . 
Student : Wq are not yet out of the wood. There is no end to 
this warfare. You talk of freedom. Have you heard of the 



The Little Review 21 

Hammersmith borough council, or the society to suppress all 
brothels in "Rangoon and other stations in Burmah?" If it is 
not creed it is morals. Your life and works would not be pos- 
sible nowadays. To put it mildly, you would be docked your 
professorship. 

Rabelais: I should find other forms of freedom. As for per- 
sonal morals : There are certain so-called "sins" of which no 
man ever repented. There are certain contraventions of hy- 
giene which always prove inconvenient. None but superstitious 
and ignorant people can ever confuse these two issues. And as 
hygiene is always changing; as it alters with our knowledge of 
physick, intelligent men will keep pace with it. There can be no 
permanent boundaries to morals. 

Student: The droits du seigneur were doubtless, at one time, 
religious. When ecclesiastics enjoyed them, they did so, in order 
to take the vengeance of the spirit-world upon their own 
shoulders, thereby shielding and sparing the husband. 
Rabelais: Indeed you are far past these things. Your age no 
longer accepts them. 

Student: My age is beset with cranks of all forms and sizes. 
They will not allow a man wine. They will not allow him 

changes of women. This glass 

Rabelais: There is still some in the last bottle. DeThou has 
paid it a compliment :" Aussi Bacchus .... 

Jusqu'en I'autre monde m'envoye Dequoi dissiper mon 
chagrin. 

Car de ma Maison paternelle II vient de faire un Cabaret 

Ou le plaisir se renouvelle Entre le blanc et el clairet. . . 

On n'y porte plus sa pensee Qu'aux douceurs d'un Vin 
f rais et net. 

Que si Pluton, que rien ne tente, Vouloit se payer de 

raison, 

Et permetre a mon Ombre errante De faire un tour 
a ma Maison ; 

Quelque prix que j'eu piisse attendre, Ce seroit mon 
premier souhait 

De la louer ou de la vendre. Pour I'usage que I'on en fait. 
Student: There are states where a man's tobacco is not safe 
from invasion. Bishops, novelists, decrepit and aged generals, 

purveyors of tales of detectives 

Rabdais : Have they ever interfered with your pleasures ? 
Student : Damn well let them try it ! ! ! 

Rabelais : I am afraid you would have been burned in my century. 
END OF THE FIRST DIALOGUE 



22 The Little Review 

Imaginary Letters 

(Six Letters of William Bland Burn to his Wife) 
Wyndham Lewis 

Petrograd, February, 1917. 
jyjY DEAR LYDIA: 

Once more to the charge= In your answer to my let- 
ter I feel the new touch of an independent attack. Yillerant 
comes in, but I feel this time that you have set your own dear 
person up for a rebuff. You have not sent me any Aunt Sally, 
but my Grecian wife. I will take two things and answer them.^ 
First, you object to my treatment of the Gentleman, because 
you sharply maintain, more or less, that I by no means object 
to being a gentleman myself. =On that point, my dear girl, you 
have not got me. For many purposes, on occasion I should not 
hesitate to emphasize the fact that I was not born in the gutter. 
If, for instance, I was applying for a post where such a qualifi- 
cation was necessary, Harrow would not be forgotten. The 
Gutter generally spoils a man's complexion in childhood. He 
grows up with sores around his mouth and a constantly dirty 
skin. His eyes, unless he has them well in hand, become wolf- 
ish and hard, etc. Who would not be better pleased that he was 
born on the sunny side of the wall? All that has nothing to 
do with my argument. Those things are in themselves nothing 
to linger round, although the opposite, squalor and meanness, 
it is more excusable to remember and lament. 

But in your last letter you reveal an idea that seems chiefly 
to have struck you, and which is at the bottom of your present 
obstinacy. In your letter of last month you kept it in the back- 
ground, or did not state it in so many words. 

(In once more reading through your present letter, I find you 
have not even stated it there. Kut I see, I believe, the notion 
that has found favour with you.) I will give you my opinion 
on it in the form of a criticism of an article I read yesterday in 
an English paper (one of those you sent me). 

A Russian war-novel is discussed. The writer of the article 
"does not care much for Russian books," he finds that "the 
Englishman begins where the Russian leaves oflF." The Russian 



T h e Lit tl e R ev i e w 23 

book seems to deal with the inner conflict of a Russian grocer 
on the outbreak of War. The Russian grocer is confused and 
annoyed. He asks what all this bloody trouble has to do with 
him — the small grocer. He cogitates on the causes of such up- 
heavals, and is not convinced that there is anything in them 
calling for his participation. But eventually he realizes that 
there is a great and moving abstraction called Russia=the old 
abstraction in fact, the old Pied Piper whistling his mournful 
airs, and waving towards a snow-bound horizon. And — le voild 
in khakir=or the Russian equivalent. At this point he becomes 
"noble," and of interest to the writer of the article — But there, 
alas, the book ends,= Now, (of course the writer of the article 
continues) zve in England do not do things in that way. We 
do not portray the boring and hardly respectable conflict. No 
Englishman (all Englishmen having the instincts of gentlemen) 
admits the possibility of such a conflict. We are accomplished 
beings, des hommes, on pliitot des gentlemen faits! We should 
begin with the English grocer already in khaki, quite calm, (he 
would probably be described as a little "grim" withal) in the 
midst of his military training on Salisbury Plain. A Kipling- 
esque picture of that : Revetting would come in, and bomb- 
throwing at night. He next would be in the trenches. The 
writer would show, without the cunning, hardly respectable, 
disguise of any art, ho\y the Balham grocer of to-day was the 
same soldier, really, that won at Waterloo^ You would not get 
a person or a fact, but a piece of patriotic propaganda (the 
writer of course being meanwhile a shrewd fellow, highly ap- 
proved and well-paid). 

Now glance at Tolstoi for a moment, that arch Russian bore, 
and at his book of Sebastopol sketches. He was an hereditary 
noble, and it is rather difficult to say that an hereditary noble is 
not a gentleman. But can the English journalist in his 'Jort 
interieur" admit that Tolstoi was a gentleman, all things con- 
sidered? These foreign "nobles" are a funny sort of gentle- 
men, anyway. For let us see how Tolstoi writes of the Russians 
at Sebastopol. = He arrives at the town of Sebastopol. He 
has read in the Moscow newspapers of the "heroic defenders 
of Sebastopol." His first impression is one of astonishment and 
disappointment of a sort. For there is nothing noticeably heroic 
about the demeanour of the soldiers working at the quays or 
walking in the streets. They are not even heroic by reason of 



24 The Little Revie 



zv 



the ineffable "cheeriness" of the British Tommy — (No jour- 
nalist would be tolerated for a moment who did not, once in 
every twenty lines, remark on this ineffable national heroism of 
humour. )=Tolstoi, that is, does not want to see heroes, but 
men under given conditions and, that is, sure enough, what he 
sees. He also, being an hereditary noble and so on, does not 
want to make his living. One more opportunity of truth and 
clearness! Next, when Tolstoi gets up to the bastions, he again 
sees no heroes with any ineffable national cachet. The "heroes" 
of his sketches and tales, in fact, stoop and scurry along behind 
parapets in lonely sectors, and when they see another man com- 
ing straighten themselves out, and clank their spurs. They kill 
people in nightmares, and pray pessimistically to their God. You 
cannot at the end apply any labels to them. Tolstoi's account 
of their sensations and genuine exploits would not strike terror 
in the heart of future enemies of the Russian race ; it is not an 
advertisement, or the ordinary mawkish bluff thrown over a 
reality. He had the sense to see human beings and not Rus- 
sians. And Russians are chiefly redoubtable, and admirable, be- 
cause of this capacity of impersonal seeing and feeling. Where 
they are least Russian in fact. 

The discriminating enemy in reading these sketches, would 
fear that more than he would any unreal or interested gush. 

There always remains the question as to whether, by gush 
and bluff and painting a pretty picture of a man, you cannot 
make him become that pictures and whether, politically, it may 
not be desirable to manufacture illusions of that description. 
But what have we got to do with politicians ? 

Again, I am not saying that Russians have not a national 
gush. Tolstoi himself indulges in it. Everybody indulges in 
such things. It is a question only of the scale of such indul- 
gence; of the absence per head in a population of the reverse. 

So then, what the paper-writer's point amounted to was that 
only gentlemen (or, sententiously, men) were worth writing 
about=:or only at the moment when a man becomes a "gentle-- 
man" is he interesting, worth noticing, or suitable for portrayal. 
We all, however, know the simple rules and manifestations of 
this ideal figure. There is not much left to say on the subject. 
Ah yes, but there is such and such a one's ineffable zvay of being 
a gentleman ! — 

In London you will meet few educated people who really are 



The Little Review 25 

willing or able to give Russian books their due. Dostoevsky is 
a sort of epileptic bore, Tolstoi a wrong-headed old altruistic 
bore, Gorky a Tramp-stunt bore, Turgenev, even, although in 
another category, in some way disappointing. — All Russian 
writers insist on discovering America, opening discussions on 
matters that our institutions, our position in society, our Franco- 
English intelligence preclude any consideration of. There is 
something permanently transcendental and disconcerting about 
the Slav infant, and he pours his words out and argues inter- 
minably, and is such an inveterate drunkard, — as though his 
natural powers of indecorum and earnestness were not already 
enough. 

What really could be said of the Russian is this= Shake- 
speare is evidently better than any Russian novelist, or more per- 
manently valuable. But the little Russian Grocer could rival 
Hamlet in vaccilation; or any Russian, Shakespeare, in his por- 
trayal of the machinery of the mind. Dostoievsky is not more 
dark and furiuos than Shakespeare's pessimistic figures, Lear, 
Macbeth, etc. But we are not Englishmen of Shakespeare's days. 

We are very pleased that in the time of Elizabeth such a 
national ornament existed. But Shakespeare would be an 
anachronism to-day. 

Dostoevsky and Co. were anachronisms as contemporaries of 
Tennyson and Napoleon III. Had they been embedded two 
centuries back in Sixteenth Century Russia, they would not be 
read, but would not cause annoyance and be called epileptic 
bores. Epilepsy would have been all right in those distances. — 
There is nothing devoue about epilepsy to-day, any more than 
there is about a King! 

I think I have been lucid, if rather long-winded=r 

How I look on these Christian Demi-Gods of the Steppes you 
know. I like them immensely. For a single brandyish whiff 
from one of Dostovesky's mouths, at some vivid angle of turpi- 
tude I would give all English literature back to Shelley's songs. 
Turgenev's Sportsman's Sketches enchant me. They are so 
sober, delicate and nonchalant; I can think of nothing like them. 
Gogol's Tchichikoff is back with Cervantes, Sterne and the 
others who have not any peers in these days. 

Today= the requirements of the little man, especially of this 
day, are a similar thing to the Russian, the Englishman, etc. 
We must disembarrass ourselves of this fetish or gush, as of 
that other. — I want to live with Shakespeare and Cervantes:= 























26 




The 


Lx 


ttle 


Review 








and I have 


gone 


to war 


for 


good 


with all 


things 


that 


would 


op- 



pose a return to those realities. 

I feel you, in my absence, becoming enmeshed in environing 
respectability and its amiable notions. I feel that this letter may 
require another fervour to drive home, or excuse, its own:= 
A coup de poing is the best method of enforcing an idea (or a 
shell) =the mouth is similarly a more satisfactory aperture than 
the ear for introducing a philosophy into another body. Yorke 
is the embody ment of my philosophy. I love Yorke in exactly 
the way that I love a character in Aloliere or Turgenev. Yorke 
is the only Ihnng thing except yourself, that I know or find alive 
to the same extent. 

I shall stick here a little longer, and see what comes of my 
new venture. There have been lots of delays and difficulties 
which I will recite to you when we meet. I can, I am afraid, 
say absolutely nothing definite about my return. But I will 
write to you in a few days and tell you more certainly. Mean- 
time, much love, my dear girl. I wish you were here with me. 
But on seeing how active the Germans are, it is out of the ques- 
tion your crossing the North Sea. 

I am looking forward to your next letter. Much love. 

Yours, W. B. Burn. 

{Next letter of series will appear in July number.) 

The Reader Critic 

From James Joyce 

James Joyce, Zurich, Switzerland: 

I am very glad to hear about the new plans for The L%U\ 
Review and that you have got together so many good writers 
contributors. I hope to send you something very soon — as soc 
in fact, as my health allows me to resume work. I am much bett^ 
however, though I am still under care of the doctor. I wish T^ 
Little Review every success. 

Approval 

Alice Groff, Philadelphia: 

Never has The Little Review pleased me, from cover to cover, 
as in the May numl)er. I cannot imagine finding any one to express 
me for myself, but Mr. Ezra Pound in his editorial comes the 
nearest possible to doing this, as far as he goes. 

What he says about the Christian religion is delicious in its 
gentle tolerance; about organized religions, is the last word; about 



I 



T h e Li 1 1 1 e R e V i e w 27 



"the formation of thought in clear speech for the use of humanity," 
a religion in itself. He utters my whole voice on "codes of propriety" 
in asserting that "they have no place in the arts." I would add 
"nor in life, other than as subject matter." 

His rallying cry to The Egoist stirs my egoist soul to its depth. 
Ever since I have known this journal I have felt it to be the finest, 
freest, frankest, bravest avenue of expression in English ever opened 
to the creative literary mind, in all its variety of faculty, without 
having the least bias or prejudice as to any one variety. That The 
Little Review should respond to this rallying cry would add a still deeper 
and stronger point to my already deep and strong interest in this brave 
little (?) magazine. 

Fear Not 

Mrs. O. D. J.: 

I have great faith in the artistic life of America and I don't 
think Ezra Pound's notions of it are very healthy. I sincerely hope 
the trend of it will not emulate the "smart" or dissipated literature 
which seems to please London and which can hardly come under the 
head of "good letters." America must not necessarily be content 
with jejune flows of words. Really the only half interesting articles 
that appeared in the May number were Eliot's and Pound's — the 
former because it was about as good as The Smart Set and the latter 
on account of auld lang syne. My harshness is really flattering be- 
cause it shows that I expect better things from the "cultured" 
English. 

[We will take this opportunity of answering all those who have 
verbally or in letters expressed the fear that The Little Review will 
entirely change its nature and be influenced in the future by its 
Foreign Editor. I do not want to be flippant, but indeed little faith 
is shown in us by all those who have known our struggle to be 
what we believe, and our financial struggle to be at all. Fear not, 
dear ones. We have learned to be penny wise; we will not be Pound 
foolish. We agree with Pound in the spirit; if we don't always agree 
with him in the letter be sure we will mention it. And Pound didn't 
slip up on us unaware. A mutual misery over the situation brought 
us together. 

And you, dear Mrs. O. D. J., what made you think that Ezra 
Pound and T. S. Eliot were "cultured" English? Because geese are 
white and float upon water they are not necessarily swans. Pound 
too seems to have enough faith in "good letters" to spare a little 
for America and share "cultured" English with her. Healthy? The 
unhealth is in the artistic life of America; and whatever the ailment, 
bitter and acid medicine seems necessary to cure it. America must 
not be content for a great while with the stuff produced here — 
jejune flows of words about popularizing art, home-town poets and 
great American novelists, and never-been-abroad painters. This 
seems to content it well enough now. 

But I congratulate you on being able to read The Smart Set as 
literature. Maybe the audience will after all produce the art. I 
wonder. . .] 



28 The Little Review 



A Poet's Opinion 

Maxwell Bodcnheim, New York: 

Ezra Pound writes in his editorial which headed your last number 
that "the two novels by Joyce and Lewis, and Mr. Eliot's poems, are 
not only the most important contributions to English literature of 
the past three years, but are practically the only works of the time 
in which the creative element is present, which in any way show 
invention, or a progress beyond precedent work." 

It is easy to make statements of this kind, but, having made them, 
a critic should tell us on what he bases his dictum. The trouble 
with criticism of art, today, is that it isn't criticism. The critic 
writes statements of untempered liking or disliking, and does not 
trouble to support them with detailed reasons. We are simply sup- 
posed to take the critic's word for the matter. I haven't sufficient 
belief in the infallibility of Ezra Pound's mind to require no substan- 
tion of his statements. I have several faults to find with his methods 
of criticising poetry. He's a bit too easily swayed by his personal 
emotions, in that regard. I happen to know that in an article of his, 
which appeared in Poetry, some time ago he omitted the name of a 
very good modern American poet, from the "American-Team" he 
was mentioning, merely because he has a personal dislike for that 
poet. 

He has also, too great a longing to separate poets into arbitrary 
teams, of best and worst. Poets are either black or white to him — 
never grey. 

In speaking of Harriet Monroe he says that she has conducted 
her magazine in a spirited manner, considering the fact that she is 
faced with the practical problem of circulating a magazine in a certain 
peculiar milieu. But he does not add that those are not the colors 
in which Miss Monroe, herself, comes forth. If she admitted that 
she was a practical woman, trying to print as much good poetry 
as she can, and still gain readers, there would only be the question 
of whether one believed that compromise is always the only method 
of assuring the existence of a magazine. But she refuses to admit 
that she is a serious compromiser. She stands upon a pedestal oj 
utter idealism. Mr. Pound did not mention this aspect. 

His claim that Eliot is the only really creative poet brought 
forth during recent times is absurd. H. D., Fletcher, Marianne MoorC; 
Williams, Michelson at his best. Carl Sandburg, and Wallace Stevens 
are certainly not inevitably below Eliot in quality of work. Eliot's 
work is utterly original, attains moments of elicate satire, and digs 
into the tangled inner dishonesties of men. But many of the poets 
I have mentioned are as good in their own way as Eliot is in his, 
in addition to their being just as original as he. I have not Mr. 
Pound's fondness for making lists, so I'm afraid I may have ommited 
the names of some American poets entitled to mention, even from 
my own limited view point. But I will say that at least the number 
of poets I have mentioned are fully the equals of Mr. Pound's 
nominee for supreme honors — T. S. Eliot. 



The Little Review 29 



[I get very tired of the talk about the establishment of two autocra- 
:ies of opinion, and the claim that since each is the opinion of a 
:apable brain each has therefore the right to serious artistic 
:onsideration. Now it is a fact that one particular kind of brain 
:an put forward this claim and establish its legitimate autocracy. It 
is the brain that functions aesthetically rather than emotionally. 
Most artists haven't this kind. Their work drains their aesthetic 
reserve — and they usually talk rot about art. There are thousands 
3f examples — such as Beethoven treasuring the worst poetry he 
:ould find. There are notable exceptions, such as Leonardo, such 
js Gaudier-Brzeska. Ezra Pound seems to have this kind of brain. 
[ am not familiar with all his judgments, but those I have r^ad 
[lave always been characterized by an aesthetic synthesis which 
neans that he can rightly be called a "critic." 

To this kind of brain things are black and white — which means 
jood or bad of their kind. If by grey you mean that a poet is 
ilmost good, then the critic will have to call him black, meaning that 
le is a bad poet. There is no middle ground. If by grey you mean 
■hat he is a grey poet doing good grey work, then the critic will call 
lim white, — meaning that he is a good poet. — M. C. A.] 



Complaint 



Vew York Subscribers: 

We have read the first installment of the much-advertised 
London stuflf and our comment is that unless "And..." and "The 
R.eader Critic" are restored, and at once, we withdraw our moral 
ind financial support. 

For the Ancheologist 

That great journal, The New Republic — I cannot say that great 
ontemporary journal: it is here with us in the flesh, but in the 
pirit it abides with the Bible, the Koran, the Books of Maroni, and 
ill great and ancient works of prophecy, truth and revelation — that 
jreat journal, mentioning even the least of us, spoke thus: "There 
vas The Little Review which began in high spirits, published some 
nteresting experiments and a few achievements, and in the course 
)f three years has sunk to pink covers with purple labels and an 
ssue ecstatically dedicated to Mary Garden.'" 

When these quaverings of senility reached us we were laid waste 
nd brought to silence. We knew not wiiether Isaiah or Hosea or 
ikiohamet had spoken. 

But now from the archives of The New Republic comes this 
ragment in the form of a rejection of some Chinese poetry: "Our 
:xpert on Chinese poetry does not think that these translations are 
. etc." We feel that we have come upon something of great 
nterest to archeologists and to all our readers who are excited over 
:he Mysteries of History. Is it possible that Li Po himself may 
« on the staff of The New Republic, now too old to create but 
till retained on its board of experts? 



30 T h c L i 1 1 1 c R c V i e ic 



Mary MacLane's Criticism 



Mary MacLane, Butte, Montana: 

"All 3'our bits of. criticism of my book are true — but didn't I say 
them first? Don't I say I have a conscience?" Don't I say it's an 
exasperating book — don't I say it's all incongruous? Don't I tacitly 
tell you fifty times it is not creative Ijut photographic? I call it a diary 
of human days: just that.' Not artist days nor poet days. Human 
days must include the teakettle, the smoking chimney and the word 
Refined. Refined is not my word at all. In my bright lexicon there's 
no such word. I use it because I am living human days and pel* 
force encountering such words now and again. Have you tl^ 
eourage, jh, to tell me I am too subtle, to sub-analytic, for yout 
I set apart the word Refined to show it's "their" word, not minfc 
Yet you solemnly take me to task for questioning the "refinement^ 
the "sincerity," of my mountain shower-bath emotions. I don^ 
question anything. I'm saying what "they" do: In "someway th< 
Lesbian" chapter I maintain I doubly prove, not "refute," my analytu 
freedom. The book being human days includes the domestic thing 
I live in a house and like it. I w-rite as a human being not as an 
artist. You can't get away from your tooth-brush. "Human days' 
includes satyrs and sisters looked at from exactly the same vantage— 
unless you're a Christian Endeavor. You write justly, jh, but wh\ 
label me with that "sexual"? I wrote also of my shoes: I contt»« 
buted also the theory of Shoes. 

[Dear "I Alary Maclane" : All you have to say about my "criti 
cism" of j^our book sounds just to me. Yes, j-ou said them first ant 
fifty times at least; that's why I mentioned them at all. I though' 
perhaps the reason you said them so often was because you hope( 
it otherwise. Perhaps j'ou are too "subtle," too "sub-analytic," toe 
educated for me. I am just a painter. While I know, from th« 
aching of the heart to the sickness of the stomach, what human day; 
must include, I haven't yet got to the point where I am willing tc 
believe that writing a book doesn't come under the same laws a; 
painting a picture, sculping, or making music. If subject is no 
transformed into design by some inevitable quality in the artist thei 
you have not made a book; you have merely helped to clutter uj 
the place. I may be narrow-minded but I can't quite see any art a: 
a common activity or a household dutj-, indulged in or performed a: 
an either nr or. "I will clean ofif the snow or paint a picture; ] 
will milk the cow or do a little modelling." I haven't been aboti" 
enough to have found it so in any families; nor have I read enough tc 
have found it so in many families, except perhaps the Da Vine 
family. 

. "Refined is not my word," you say. I think the book exonerate! 
you; but why your concern with it at all was my point, not m) 
criticism. 

As to the label "sexual," I meant shoes and all, — the whol« 
hereditary attitude, in your case intriguing because neurasthenic. 

Sorry: but I did not solemnly take 3'ou to task. One must evei 
criticize with joy. — jh.] 



T h e L i 1 1 1 e R e V i c w 31 



From "The Dial" 

"A quaint manifestation of editorial ethics crops out in the April 
issue of The Little Review. It is in connection with a . vers libre 
contest, this being the issue in which the awards are made. There 
was a regularly constituted board of judges — three people sufficiently 
competent and sufficiently well known in their field; but the editor 
has chosen to indulge in some disclosures as to the lack of un- 
animity amongst her aids and even in some pointed animadversions 
on their tastes and preferences. Of the first choice of one of 
them, she says: What is there in the "subtle depth of thought"? 
Almost every kind of person in the world has had this thought. 
And what is there in the treatment to make it poetry?' And the 
poem itself follows. Of the two chosen for prizes by another 
judge, she observes: 'These two poems are pretty awful' — and she 
prints them, with the authors' names, as before. The third judge 
plumped for a pair of others — 'provided Richard Aldington wrote 
them; otherwise not. . . If he wrote them they are authentic as well 
as lovely; but if he did not, so flagrant an imitation ought not to be 
encouraged.' A perfectly sound position to take. Here again the 
poems follow — and they are under a name not Aldington's. Query: 
has the judge, whose name is given too, exactly made a friend? 
Then comes, of course, a succession of poems approved by the 
editor but ignored by her helpers. . . If such a system spreads, 
the embarrassments and e^en perils of judgeship will grow. Here- 
after few may care to serve as judges, except under stipulations 
designed to afford some protection. And as for the poor poets 
themselves, such treatment should act to keep them out of 'contests' 
altogether." 



[Here is the old Dial showing them all up. So there is an 
American editorial association just like the American Medical Asso- 
ciation with all its crimonology of professional ethics! 

We thought that the idea of that verse libre contest (it wasn't our 
idea) was to stimulate interest in and more understanding of free 
verse, not to oflfer an operation for judges nor a fee for poets. 
Taking it simply as a free verse contest, the editor thought the only 
concern was with free verse. Since when has Art to do with ethics 
or with taste? If the poets and judges in the contest were as im- 
personal, direct, and sincere in their attitude toward poetry as the 
editor, the fussy anxiety of The Dial over their plight is needless. 
But of course if to serve poetry is to serve yourself there isn't much 
point to a contest except the money. On the other hand, if a con- 
test is to be run on the "tastes and preferences" or sensitiveness of 
the judges then it is clear that the neatest poem chosen by the 
touchiest judge should win, provided the poet who wrote it was 
also easily offended and needed the money badly. 

"And as for the poor poets" there should be something to keep 
them out of contests — and also out of any other literary activity. — jh.l 



32 T li c L i 1 1 1 c R e V i e zv 



You Do Us Too Much Honor 

Louis PutckUs, Cambridge, Mass: 

....Vou see it is a fact that your "art for art's sake" cannot 
exist without supporters: nothing is free from economic conditions 
which are the creators and destroyers of people's tendencies and 
deeds. 

Although I appreciate your surprising efforts, I must confess that 
I cannot yet agree with your dictum as to "the two most important 
radical organs of contemporary literature." Until you strike your 
roots deeper you cannot soar so high. As for me, I am in touch 
already with many other radical magazines in English and in other 
languages. Radicalism .does not consist in vers libre which mur- 
murs about green grass, soft kisses, clinging limbs, ecstasy and 
faintness, the surprises of passionate intercourse. There is too much 
of such senual poetry: Solomon long ago played the changes on 
that theme. Such poems come perilously near the emanations of 
diseased sexual appetites. There is neither life nor originality in 
them. When I read "green grass," I know that I am close upon 
"clinging limbs." Drink deeper of the Pierian fount; don't disturb 
the grasshoppers! 

I think that The Little Review must scatter more sensible seed 
in the future and throw away the tares. It will do better, I believe, 
to take for its province: Literature, Life, Science; all the fine arts 
are too much for its scope; each has its own organs. 

Still The Little Review is doing good. Long life to it and may 
it do better! 

[You see, we said that The Egoist and The Little Review are 
radical organs of contemporary literature. That's all: not economic, 
social, or religious. As we have stated a number of times: since 
all the arts are from the same source we are not getting out of our 
province or making our scope too wide by keeping to Art. Your 
advice about reducing to Literature, Life, Science, is a great com- 
pliment to our scope, but — well, for the present we can't take up 
such limited arfd special subjects as Life, or such obvious and un- 
taxing ones as Science. — jh.] 




The Little Review 33 



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99 



f P ECALL that golden day when you first read " Huck Finn "? 
"^'w rv How your mother said, " For goodness' sake, stop laughing 

aloud over that book. You sound so silly." But you couldn't stop laughing. 

Today when you read "Huckleberry Finn" you will not laugh so much. You will chuckle 
often, but you will also want to weep. The deep humanity o( it — the pathos, that you 
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limpid purity of the master's style. 



When Mark Twain first wrote " Huckleberry Finn" this land was swept with a gale 
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A Real American 

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Imaginary Letters, IIL 
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The Little Review 

VOL. IV. JULY 1917 NO. 3 

Imaginary Letters 

(Six Letters of William Bland Bum to his Wife) 

Wyndham Lewis 

The Code of a Herdsman 

(A set of rules sent by Benjamin Richard Wing to his young 
friend Philip Seddon inclosed with a letter. Under the above title 
now edited.) 

(1) Never maltreat your own intelligence with parables. It 
is a method of herd-hypnotism. Do not send yourself to sleep 
with the rhythm of the passes that you make.=As an example 
of herd-hypnotism, German literature is so virulently allegorized 
that the German really never knows whether he is a Kangaroo a 
Scythian, or his own sweet self .=You, however, are a Herdsman. 
That is surely Parable enough! 

(2) Do not admit cleverness, in any form, into your life. 
Observe the accomplishment of some people's signatures ! It is the 
herd-touch. 

(3) Exploit Stupidity. = Introduce a flatness, where it is re- 
quired into your commerce. Dull your eye as you fix it on a dull 
face.=Why do you think George Borrow used such idiotic cliches 
as "The beams of the descending luminary — ?" He was a great 
writer and knew what he was doing.=:Mock the herd perpetually 
with the grimance of its own garrulity or deadness. If it gets out 
of hand and stampedes towards you, leap on to the sea of mangy 
backs until the sea is still. That is: cast your mask aside, and 
spring above them. They cannot see or touch anything above 

Gjpyright, 1917, by Margaret C. Anderson. 



4 T h e L i t t I c R e V i e zv 

them : they have never realized that their backs — or rather their 
tops — exist ! They will think that you have vanished into 
Heaven. 

(4) As to language : eschew all cliches implying a herd person- 
ality. Never allow such terms as Top-Hole, Priceless, or Doggo to 
pass your lips. Go to the Dictionary if you want an epithet. If you 
feel eloquent, use that moment to produce a cliche of your own. 
Cherish your personal vocabulary, however small it is. Use your 
own epithet as though it were used by a whole nation, if people 
would have no good reason for otherwise accepting it. 

Examples of personal epithets. 

That man is abysmal. 

That is an abysmal book. 

It zvas prestigious ! [j^ , . ^i t- i 

Here comes that sinister bird! f Borrowed from the French. 

He is a sinister card. (Combination of French and 1890 Slang.) 

He has a great deal of sperm. 

I like a fellow with as much sperm as that. 

Borrow from all sides mannerisms of callings or classes to 
enrich your personal bastion of language. Borrow from the 
pulpit, from the clattering harangue of the auctioneer, the law- 
yer's technicality, the pomposity of politicians. =Borrow grunts 
from the fiisherman, solecisms from the inhabitant of Merioneth. 
="He is a preux, ah, yes-a-preux !" You can say — "ah- 
yes-a-preux" as though it were one word, accent on the *'yes." 

(5) In accusing yourself, stick to the Code of the Mountain. 
But crime is alien to a Herdsman's nature. 

(6) Yourself must be your Caste. 

(7) Cherish and develop, side by side, your six most constant 
indications of different personalities. You will then acquire the 
potentiality of six men. Leave your front door one day at B.: 
The next march down the street as E. A variety of clothes, 
hats especially, are of help in this wider dramatisation of your- 
self. Never fall into the vulgarity of being or assuming yourself 
to be one ego. Each trench must have another one behind it. 
Each single self — that you manage to be at any given time — must 
have five at least indifferent to it. You must have a power of 
indifference of five to one. All the greatest actions in the world 
have been five parts out of six impersonal in the impulse of their 
origin. To follow this principle you need only cultivate your 
memory. You will avoid being the blind man of any moment. 



The Little R e v i e iv 



B will see what is hidden to D.= (Who were Turgenev's "Six 
Unknown"? Himself.) 

(8) Never lie. You cannot be too fastidious about the 
truth. If you must lie, at least see that you lie so badly that it 
would not deceive a pea-hen. — The world is, however, full of 
pea-hens. 

(9) Spend some of your spare time every day in hunting your 
weaknesses, caught from commerce with the herd, as methodi- 
cally, solemnly and vindictively as a monkey his fleas. You will 
find yourself swarming with them while you are surrounded by 
humanity. But you must not bring them up on the mountain. = 
If you can get another man to assist you — one, that is, honest 
enough not to pass his own on to you — that is a good arrange- 
ment. 

(10) Do not play with political notions, aristocratisms or 
the reverse, for that is a compromise with the herd. Do not 
allow yourself to imagine "a fine herd though still a herd." 
There is no fine herd. The cattle that call themselves "gentle- 
men" you will observe to be a little cleaner. It is merely cun- 
ning and produced with a product called soap. But you will 
find no serious difference between them and those vast dismal 
herds they avoid. Some of them are very dangerous and treach- 
erous. =:Be on your guard with the small herd of gentlemen ! 

(11) You will meet with this pitfall: at moments, sur- 
rounded by the multitude of unsatisfactory replicas, you will 
grow confused by a similarity bringing them so near to us.= 
You will reason, where, from some points of view, the differ- 
ence is so slight, whether that delicate margin is of the immense 
importance that we hold it to be: tlie only thing of importance 
in fact.=That group of men talking by the fire in your club 
(you will still remain a member of your club), that party at the 
theatre, look good enough, you will say. Their skins are fresh, 
they are well-made, their manners are good. You must then 
consider what they really are. On closer inspection you knoWj 
from unpleasant experience, that they are nothing but limita- 
tions and vulgarities of the most irritating description. The 
devil Nature has painted these sepulchres pink, and covered them 
with a blasphemous Bond Street distinction. Matter that has 
not sufficient mind to permeate it grows, as you know, gangrenous 
and rotten. Animal high spirits, a little, but easily exhausted, 
goodness, is all that they can claim. 



The Little R e r i e zv 



What seduced you from your severity for a moment was the 
same thing as a dull woman's good-looks. =This is probably 
what- you will have in front of you.=On the other hand, every- 
where you will find a few people, who, although not a mountain 
people are not herd.=They may be herdsmen gone mad 
through contact with the herd, and strayed : or through inadequate 
energy for our task they may be found there: or they ma^ be a 
hybrid, or they may even be herdsmen temporarily bored 
with the mountain. (I have a pipe below myself sometimes.) 

There are numerous "other denominations." Treat them as 
brothers. Employ them, as opportunity offers, as auxiliaries in 
your duties. Their society and help will render your task less 
arduous. 

(12) As to women: wherever you can, substitute the society 
of men.=:Treat them kindly, for they suffer from the herd, 
although of it, and have many of the same contempts as yourself. 
They are a sort of bastard mountain people.^There must be 
somewhere a female mountain, a sort of mirage-mountain. I 
should like to visit it.=But women, and the processes for which 
they exist, are the arch conjuring trick : and they have the cheap 
mystery and a good deal of the slipperiness, of the conjuror. 
=: Sodomy should be avoided, as far as possible. It tends to 
add to the abominable confusion already existing. 

(13) Wherever you meet a shyness that comes out of soli- 
tude, (although all solitude is not anti-herd) naiveness, and a 
patent absence of contamination, the sweetness of mountain 
water, any of the signs of goodness, you must treat that as sacred, 
as portions of the mountain. 

However much you suffer for it, you must defend and exalt 
it. On the other hand, every child is not simple, and every 
woman is not weak.=In many cases to champion a female would 
be like springing to the rescue of a rhinoceros when you notice 
that it had been attacked by a flea. Chivalrous manners, s again, 
with many women are like tiptoeing into a shed where an ox 
is sleeping.^Some children, too, rival in nastiness their parents. 
But you have your orders in this matter. Indifference where 
there should be nothing but the ivhole eagerness or compunc- 
tion of your being, is the worst crime in the mountain's eyes. 

(14) Conquests have usually been divided from their an- 
titheses, and defeats from conquests, by some casual event. Had 
Moscow not possessed a governor ready to burn the Kremlin 



The Little R e v i e zv 



and the hundreds of palaces accumulated there, peace would have 
been signed by the Czar at Bonaparte's entrance. =Had the Lias- 
cans persevered for ten days against Cortes, the Aztecs would 
never have been troubled. Yet Montezuma was right to remain in- 
active, paralysed by prophecy. Napoleon was right when he felt 
that his star was at last a useless one. He had drained it of all 
its astonishing effulgence. =:The hair's breadth is only the virtuos- 
ity of Fate, guiding you along imaginary precipices. =And all the 
detail is make-believe, anyway. Watch your star soberly and 
without comment. Do not trouble about the paste-board cliffs ! 

(15) There are very stringent regulations about the herd 
keeping off the sides of the mountain. In fact your chief func- 
tion is to prevent their encroaching. Some, in moments of bore- 
dom or vindictiveness, are apt to rriake rushes for the higher 
regions. Their instinct always fortunately keeps them in crowds 
or bands, and their trespassing is soon noticed. Those traps and 
numerous devices you have seen on the edge of the plain are 
for use, of course, in the last resort. Do not apply them pre- 
maturely.=Not very many herdsmen lose their lives in dealing 
with the herds. 

(16) Contradict yourself. In order to live, you must remain 
broken up. 

(17) The teacher does not have to he, although he has to 
know: He is the mind imagining, not the executant. The ex- 
ecutant, the young, svelt, miraculous athelete, the strapping vir- 
tuoso, really has to give the illusion of a perfection. =Do not ex- 
pect me to keep in sufficiently good training to perform the feats 
I recommend. =1 usually remain up on the mountain. 

( 18) Above all this sad commerce with the herd, let something 
veritably remain "un peu sur la montagne." Always come down 
with masks and thick clothing to the valley where we work. 

Stagnant gasses from these Yahooesque and rotten herds are 
more dangerous often than -the wandering cylinders that emit 
them. See you are not caught in them without your mask.=But 
once returned to our adorable height, forget your sallow task: 
with great freedom indulge your love.=The terrible processions 
beneath are not of our making, and are without our pity. Our 
sacred hill is a volcanic heaven. But the result of its violence is 
peace. =:The unfortunate surge below, even, has moments of 
peace. 

(Next letter will appear in August number.) 



The Little R c z' i e IV 

Poems 

T. S. Eliot 
Le Directeur 

Malheur a la malheureuse Tamise ! 

Qui coule si pres du Spectateur. 

Le directeur 

Conservateur 

Du Spectateur 

Empeste la brise. 

Les actionnaires 

Reactionnaires 

Du Spectateur 

Conservateur 

Bras dessus bras dessous 

Font des tours . 

A pas de loup. 

Dans un egout 

Une petite fille 

En guenilles 

Camarde 

Regarde 

Le directeur 

Du Spectateur 

Conservateur 

Et creve d'amour. 



The Little Review 



Melange adultere de tout 

En Amerique, professeur; 

En Angleterre, journaliste ; 

C'est a grands pas et en sueur 

Que vous suivrez a peine ma piste. 

En Yorkshire, conf erencier ; 

A Londres, un peu banquier, 

Vous me paierez bien la tete. 

C'est a Paris que je me coiffe 

Casque noir de jemenfoutiste. 

En Allemagne, philosophe 

Surexcite par Emporheben 

Au grand air de Bergsteigleben ; 

J'erre toujours de-ci de-la 

A divers coups de tra la la 

De Damas jusqua Omaha. 

Je celebrai mon jour de fete 

Dans une oasis d'Afrique 

Vetu d'une peau de girafe. 

On montrera mon cenotaphe 

Aux cotes brulantes de Mozambique. 



Lune de Miel 

lis ont vu les Pays-Bas, ils rentrent a Terre Haute; 

Mais une riuit d'ete, les voici a Ravenne, 

A I'aise entre deux draps, chez deux centaines de punaises; 

La sueur aestivale, et une forte odeur de chienne. 

Ils restent sur le dos ecartant les genoux 

De quatre jambes molles tout gonflees de morsures. 

On releve le drap pour mieux egratigner. 

Moins d'une lieue d'ici est Saint Apollinaire 



10 T h c L i t t I c R e v i e w 

In Classe' basilique connue des amateurs 
De chapitaux d'acanthe que tournoie le vent. 

lis vont prendre le train de huit heures 

Prolonger leurs miseres de Padoue a Milan 

Ou se trouvent le Cene, et un restaurant pas cher. 

Lui pense aux pourboires, et redige son bilan. 

lis auront vu la Suisse et traverse la France 

Et Saint Apollinaire, raide et ascetique, 

\'ieille usine desaffectee de Dieu, tient encore 

Dans ses pierres ecroulantes la forme precise de Byzance. 

The Hippopotamus 

The broad backed hippopotamus 
Rests on his belly in the mud ; 
Although he seems so firm to us 
Yet he is merely flesh and blood. 

Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail, 
Susceptible to nervous shock; 
While the True Church can never fail 
For it is based upon a rock. 

The hippo's feeble steps may err 

In compassing material ends, 

While the True Church need never stir 

To gather in its dividends. 

The potamus can never reach 
The mango on the mango-tree-; 
But fruits of pomegranate and peach 
Refresh the Church from over sea. 



T h e L i t t I e R e V i e IV 11 



At mating time the hippo's voice 
Betrays inflexions hoarse and odd. 
But every week we hear rejoice 
The Church, at being one with God. 

The hippopotamus's day 

Is past in sleep ; at night he hunts ; 

God works in a mysterious way — 

The Church can sleep and feed at once. 

I saw the potamus take wing 
Ascending from the damp savannas, 
And quiring angels round him sing 
The praise of God, in loud hosannas. 

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean 
And him shall heavenly arms enfold, 
Among the saints he shall be seen 
Performing on a harp of gold. 

He shall be washed as white as snow. 
By all the martyr'd virgins kist, 
While the True Church remains below 
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist. 



12 T It c L i t t I c K 



I e 



Aux Etuves de Weisbaden 
A. D. 1451 

Ezra Pound 

rj^HEY entered between tivo fir trees. A path of irregular 
-i flat pentagonal stones led along betzveen shrubbery. Halting 
by the central court in a sort of narrow gallery, the large tank was 
below them, and in it some thirty or fort\ blond nere'ids for the 
most part well-muscled, zvith smooth flaxen hair and smooth 
faces — a generic resemblance. A slender brown zvench sat at one 
end listlessly dabbling her feet from the spring-board. Here the', 
zvater was deeper. 

The rest of them, all being clothed in zvhite linen shifts held\ 
up by one strap over the shoulder and reaching half way to the" 
knees, — tJie rest of them waded waist- and breast-deep in the 
shallozcer end of the pool, their shifts bellied up by the air, spread 
out like huge bobbing cauliflozvers. 

The whole tank was sunken beneath the level of the gardens, 
and paved and pannelled zvith marble, a rather cheap marble. To 
the left of the little gallery, zvhere the strangers had halted, an 
ample dozvager sat in a perfectly circular tub formed rather like 
the third of an hogshead, behind her a small hemicycle of yew* 
trees kept off any chance draught from the North. She likezvise 
wore a shift of white linen. On a plank before her, reaching 
from the left to the right side of her tank-hogshead, were a salver 
zvith a large piece of raw smoked ham, a fczv leeks, a tankard of 
darkish beer, a back-scratcher, the ham-knife. 

Before them, from some sheds, there arose a faint steam, the 
sound of grunts and squeals and an aroma of elderly bodies. From 
the opposite gallery a white-beared town-cfouncillor began to 
throw grapes to the ner'ids. 

Le Sieur de Maunsier: They have closed these places in Mar- 
seilles, causa flegitii, they were thought to be bad for our morals. 
Poggio : And are your morals improved ? 
Maunsier: Nein, bin nicht verbessert. 
Poggio: And are the morals of Marseilles any better? 
Maunsier: Not that I know of. Assignations are equally fre- 
quent ; the assignors less cleanly ; their health, I presume, none 



T he. Little. Rev iezv 13 



the better. The Church has always been dead set against wash- 
ing. St. Clement of Alexandria forbade all bathing by women. 
He made no exception. Baptism and the last oiling were enough, 
to his thinking. St. Augustine, more genial and human, took 
a bath to console himself for the death of his mother. I suspect 
that it was a hot one. Being clean is a pagan virtue, and no 
part of the light from Judaea. 

Poggio : Say rather a Roman, the Greek philosophers died, for 
the most part, of lice. Only the system of empire, plus a dilet- 
tantism in luxuries, could have brought mankind to the wash-tub. 
•The christians have made dirt a matter of morals : a son of 
God can have no need to be cleansed; a worm begotten 
in sin and foredoomed to eternal damnation in a bottle 
of the seven great stenches, would do ill to refine his nostrils and 
unfit himself for his future. For the elect and the rejected alike, 
washing is either noxious or useless — they must be transcendent 
at all costs. The rest of the world must be like them; they there- 
fore look after our morals. Yet this last term is wholly elastic. 
There is no system which has not been tried, wedlock or unwed- 
lock, a breeding on one mare or on many ; all with equal success, 
with equal flaws, crimes, and discomforts. 

Maunsier: I have heard there was no adultery found in Sparta. 
Poggio : There was no adultery among the Lacedaemonians be- 
cause they held all women in common. A rumour of Troy had 
reached the ears of Lycurgus : "So Lycurgus thought also there 
were many foolish vain joys and fancies, in the laws and orders 
of other nations, touching marriage : seeing they caused their 
bitches and mares to be lined and covered with the fairest dogs 
and goodliest stallions that might be gotten, praying and paying 
the maisters and owners of the same : and kept their wives not- 
withstanding shut up safe imder lock and key, for fear lest other 
than themselves might get them with child, although themselves 
were sickly, feeble-brained, extreme old." I think I quote rightly 
from Plutarch. The girls of Lacedaemon played naked before 
the young men, that their defects should be remedied rather than 
hidden. A man first went by stealth to his mistress, and this for 
a long space of time ; thus learning address and silence. For 
better breeding Lycurgus would not have children the property 
of any one man, but sought only that they should be born of the 
lustiest women, begotten of the most vigorous seed. 
Mawisier: Christianity would put an end to all that, yet I think 
there was some trace left in the lex Germanica, and in some of 



14 The Little Review 



our Provencal love customs ; for under the first a woman kept 
whatever man she Hked, so long as she fancied : the children being 
brought up by her brothers, being a part of the female family, 
cognati. The chivaleric system is smothered with mysticism, and 
is focussed all upon pleasure, but the habit of older folk-custom 
is at the base of its freedoms, its debates were on matters of 
modus. 

These girls look very well in their shifts. They confound 
the precepts of temperance. 
Poggio : I have walked and ridden through Europe, annoting, 
observing. I am interested in food and the animal. 

There was, before I left Rome, a black woman for sale in the 
market. Her breasts stuck out like great funnels, her shoulders 
were rounded like basins, her biceps was that of a wheel-wright; 
these upper portions of her, to say nothing of her flattened-in 
face, were disgusting and hideous but, she had a belly like Venus, 
from below the breasts to the crotch she was like a splendid Greek 
fragment. She came of a tropical meat-eating tribe. I observe 
that gramenivorous and fruit-eating races have shrunken arms 
and shoulders, narrow backs and weakly distended stomachs. 
Much beer enlarges the girth in old age, at a time when the form 
in any case, might have ceased to give pleasure. The men of this 
nubian tribe were not lovely; they were shaped rather like 
almonds: the curious roundness in the front aspect, a gradual 
sloping-ia toward the feet, a very great muscular power, a sil- 
houette not unlike that of an egg, or perhaps more like that of a 
tadpole. 

Civilized man grows more frog-like, his members become de- 
partmental. 

Maunsier: But fixed. Man falls into a set gamut of types. His 
thoughts also. The informed and the uninformed, the clodhoppei 
and the civilian are equally incapable of trusting an unwonted 
appearance. Last week I met an exception, and for that cause 
the matter is now in my mind, and I am, as they say "forming 
conclusions." The exception, an Englishman, had found a paro- 
chial beauty in Savoia, in the inn of a mountain town, a "local 
character" as he called her. He could not describe her features 
with any minute precision, but she wore, he remembered, a dress 
tied up with innumerable small bits of ribbon in long narrow bow- 
knots, limp, hanging like grass-blades caught in the middle. She 
came in to him as a sort of exhibit. He kissed her hand. She 



The Little Review 15 



sat by his bedside and conversed with him pleasantly. They 

were quite alone for some time. Nothing more happened. From 

something in his manner, I am inchned to believe him. He was 

convinced that nothing more ever did happen. 

Poggio : Men have a curious desire for uniformity. Bawdry and 

religion are all one before it. 

Maunsiers : They call it the road to salvation. 

Poggio : They ruin the shape of life for a dogmatic exterior. 

What dignity have we over the beasts, save to be once, and to be 

irreplaceable ! 

I myself am a rag-bag, a mass of sights and citations, but I 
will not beat down life for the sake of a model. 
Maunsier: Would you be "without an ideal?" 
Poggio : Is beauty an ideal like the rest? I confess I see the need 
of no other. When I read that from the breast of the Princess 
Hellene there was cast a cup of "white gold,'" the sculptor finding 
no better model ; and that this cup was long shown in the temple 
at Lyndos, which is in the island of Rhodes; or when I read, as 
I think is the textual order, first of the cup and then of its origin, 
there comes upon me a discontent with human imperfection. I 
am no longer left in the "slough of the senses," but am full 
of heroic life, for 'the instant. The sap mounts in the twigs of my 
being. 

The visions of the mystics give them like courage, it may be. 
Maunsier : My poor uncle, he will -talk of the slough of the senses 
and the "loathsome pit of contentment." His "ideas" are with 
other men's conduct. He seeks to set bounds to their actions. 

I cannot make out the mystics ; nor how far we may trust to our 
senses, and how far to sudden sights that come from within us, 
or at least seem to spring up within us : a mirage, an elf-music ; 
and how far we are prey to the written word. 
Poggio : I have seen many women in dreams, surpassing most 
mortal women, but I doubt if I have on their account been stirred 
to more thoughts of beauty, than I have had meditating upon that 
passage in latin, concerning the temple of Pallas at Lyndos audits 
memorial cup of white gold. I do not count myself among Plato's- 
disciples. 

Maunsier : And yet it is forced upon us that all these things breed 
their fanatics ; that even a style might become a religion and 
breed bigots as many, and pestilent. 
Poggio : Our blessing is to live in an age when some can hold a 



16 T h c Little Re v i c zu 

fair balance. It can not last ; many are half-drunk with freedom ; 
a greed for taxes at Rome will raise up envy, a cultivated court 
will disappear in the ensuing reaction. \\'e are fortunate to live in 
the wink, the eye of mankind is open ; for an instant, hardly more 
than an instant. Men are prized for being unique. I do not mean 
merely fantastic. That is to say there are a few of us who can 
prize a man for thinking, in himself, rather than for a passion to 
make others think with him. 

Perhaps you are right about style ; an established style could 
be as much a nuisance as any other establishment. Yet there 
must be a reputable normal. Tacitus is too crabbed. The rhetor- 
icians ruined the empire. Let us go on to our baths. 

Finis 



Three Nightpieces 

John Rodker 



TOWARD eight o'clock I begin to feel my pulses accelerating 
quietly. A little after, my heart begins to thump against its 
walls. I tremble all over, and leaving the room rapidly go out on 
the terrace of the house and look over the weald. 
There is a shadowiness of outline and the air is crisp. The sky 
in one corner is a pale nostalgic rose. The trees look like weeds 
and a bird flies up through them like a fish lazily rising. The 
hills really look like breasts : and each moment 1 look for the 
head of the Titan negress to rise with the moon in the lobe of her 
ear. 

I think of my youth and the intolerable legacy it left me. 
I think of the crazy scaffolding of my youth and wonder why I 
should be surprised that the superstructure should be crazy too, 
wavering to every breeze and threatening ever to come down about 
my ears. I think too of wrongs done to this one and that one, and 

"Oh, my God,'' I cry, "I did not know, I did not know," 

and my heart thumps louder in my breast and my pulses throb 
like a tide thundering and sucking at some crumbling jetty. 
I gulp deep breaths of air to steady myself, but it is of, no good. 
I think of her whom I love and futility overwhelms me: for this 
too will have its common end, and our orbits grow ever remoter. 



The Little Re vie IV 17 

And putting my head on my breast, faint and reminiscent — the 
smell from my armpits rises to my brain, and she stands before 
me vividly and the same smell comes from her ; but it is more 
heady and more musky and she looks at me with intolerable 
humility. 

And a minute after there is only the dark ; a hoot-owl's terrifying 
call and the queer yap that comes in reply ; the frogs that thud 
through the grass like uncertain feet ; the trees that talk to each 
other. 

And I would willingly let my life out gurgling and sticky, and 
sink without a bubble into its metallic opacity. 



II 

T HAD gone to bed quietly at my wife's side, kissing her casu- 
* ally as was my custom. I awoke about two in the morning 
with a start so sudden that it seemed I had been shot by a cannon 
out of the obscurity of sleep into the light of waking; at one 
moment I had been, as it were, gagged and bound by sleep ; and 
the next I was wide awake and could distinctly sense the demark- 
ing line between sleep and waking. And this demarking line 
was like a rope made of human hair such as one sees in exhibitions 
of indigenous Japanese products. 

In my ears still rang the after-waves of the shriek which had 
awakened me. The nerves governing my skin were still out of 
control as a result of the sudden fright, and portions of it con- 
tinued twitching for a long time after ; my scalp grew cold in 

patches and my hair stood on end In the dark I found myself 

trembling all over and bathed in a cold sweat And it was 

impossible to collect myself. My wife, I felt, was sitting up in 
bed and a minute afterward she began to weep quietly. 
I was still trembling and her quiet weeping made me more afraid. 
I was angry with her too, but could aot talk to her, I was so 
afraid. My voice, I knew, would have issued thin and quavering, 
and I was afraid of its hollow reverberations losing themselves 
uncertainly in the darkness. By the little light I saw her put her 
hands up to her head in despair. . . .as though still half asleep; 
and before I could stop her again the same piercing, incredibly 
terrifying shriek burst from her. Again I trembled all over, 
involuntarily gnashing my teeth and feeling my skin ripple like 
loathsome worms. 



18 T li c L i t t I c R c V i e 



"Stop," I cried, seizing her by tlie arms, "Stop," afraid to wake 
her, yet more afraid to hear again that appalhng shriek — and in a 
moment she was awake. .. .looking wildly round her, and the 
quiet weeping gave way to a wild and tempestuous sobbing. 
I was afraid of her, afraid to go on sleeping with her, lest she 
should again shriek in that wild and unearthly fashion; afraid 
to fall asleep again lest I should be awakened by that appalling 
shriek dinning in my ears and my body quivering vilely under the 
impossible sound. I clung to her: "What is it, tell me at least 
what it is," I said. 

For a time she would not tell me. Trembling all over with 
anguish and fear of I knew not what, I insisted. When at last 
she did tell me it was as though the world had suddenly been cut 
away from under my feet. Helplessly and weeping I clung to 
her, w'ith cold at my heart. That any human being could accuse 
another of devilry so sinister, so cold, so incredible even in dream, 
I had not conceived of. Loathing her, I clung the closer in my 
anguish and despair. 

Ill 

/^ NE night at supper I had eaten cucumber. Soon after I went 
^-^ to bed and on the first strokes of ten fell asleep. 
After sleeping for a long time I awoke into a dimly lit room. I 
still lay on the bed and after a moment a figure entered, and after, 
a few moments more, another, until in this fashion there were 
half a dozen people in the room. I could not distinguish who they 
were, and quietly and obscurely they moved round my bed. Now 
and then there was a hiss out of the corners of the room, or a 
chuckle in reply to some unheard obscenity. 
A heavy weight oppressed me as though I knew they menaced me 
in some obscure and dreadful way. I could not move. 
I could not move, and always the same obscure and dreadful 
procession encircled me and shadowy bodies pressed a little closer, 
then drew back again to join the sinister group. 
And though I saw nothing save their shadowy forn;s, I knew 
their eyes gleamed down at me : their faces were lecherous : their 
hands clawed ; and forever and through long ages they went round 
me in sinister procession. 

Suddenly. . . .and how I do not know, I had broken the bonds of 
of sleep and lay trembling in a cold sweat. Through my pro- 
tecting blankets the last strokes of ten were fading. 



T h e L i t t I e R e V i e w 19 



Improvisations 

Louis Gilmore 



I 

My thoughts are fish 
That dwell in a twilight 
Of green waters : 

They are silver fish 
That dart here and there 
Streaking the still water 
Of a pond. 

My thoughts are birds 
That have hung their nests 
Near the sun : 

They are yellow birds 

That drift on stretched wings 

Over a sea untroubled 

By a sail. "* 

My thoughts are beasts 
That crouch and wait 
In a black forest. 

My thoughts are apes 

That clamber through the tree-tops 

Towards the moon. 

II. 

In winter 
People intensify 
Their individuality 
In houses. 

In spring 

By the side of lakes 

Beneath trees 



20 T he Little Re v i c iv 



People walk 
Vaguely sentimental. 

In summer 

Lying upon the warm earth 

They hear the grass grow ; 

Or they become impersonal 

In a contemplation 

Of stars. 

In autumn 
People dispel 
The characteristic 
Melancholy of the season 
With a cup of tea. 



Ill 

Rare delight. 
That of hanging 
By one's tail 
Over a pond. 

Rare delight, 
That of seeing 
A green monkey 
In the sky. 

Rare delight, 
That of reaching up 
With one's paw 
To touch it. 

Rare delight. 
That of finding 
The strange one 
In the water. 

Rare delight. 
That of clasping 
The beloved 
In death. 



T h e L i t t I e R c V i e w 21 

Poet's Heart 

Maxwell Bodenheim 

The Mad Shepherd 
The Narcissus Peddler 
The Slender Nun 
The Wine Jar Maiden 
The Poet 

A great ivindozv of palest purple light. The loiver corner of the 
window is visible. A dark purple zvall frames the window, and 
narrow rectangles of the zvall, belozv and to the left of the zuindow- 
corner, are visible. Before the zvindozv corner is the portion of a 
pale pink floor. One tall thin white candle stands against the dark 
purple rectangle of zvall to the left of the windozv-corner. It bears 
a narrozv flame zvhich retnains stationary. Soft and clear light, 
pours in from the windozv-corner and dim shapes stand behind 
it. The Mad Shepherd appears from the left.. He holds a reed to 
his lips but does not blow into it. A long brozvn cloak drapes him: 
black sandals are on his feet. His black hair caresses his Shoul- 
ders; his face is young. He pauses, three-fourths of his body 
framed by the palest purple window-corner. 

The Mad Shepherd (addressing the palest purple windozv- 
corner) : 

I've lost a tune. It's a spirit-rose, and a reed-limbed boy ran 
before me and whisked it past my ears before I could seize him. 
Have you seen him, window clearer than the clashing light 
bubbles in a woman's eyes? {A pause). I sat on a rock in the 
midst of my sheep and smiled at the piping of my young soul, as 
it climbed a spirit-tree. Soon it would whirl joyously on the 
tip of the tree, and my heart would turn with it. Then the 
song brushed past me and made my head a burning feather 
dropping down. I stumbled after it, over the sun-dazed hills, 
and the reed-limbed boy would often stop, touch both of my 
eyes with the song-flower, and spring away. I saw him dance 
into this black palace. I followed, through high corridors, to 
you, palest purple window, towering over me like a silent mass 
of breath-clear souls. He has gone. Palest purple window, 
tell me where he is ? 

{There is a short silence. The Mad Shepherd stands despair- 
ingly fingering his reed. The Narcissus Peddler appears from the 
right. He is an old man, a huge basket of cut narcissus strapped 



22 T h e L i t t I e R 



e V I e zc 



to his back. His body is tall and slender; his face a bit yellovf, 
ivith a long silver-brown beard. His head is bare. He ivears a\ 
black velvet coat, pale yellow shirt, soft grey, loose trousers, and 
black sandals. He rests his basket upon the floor. The Mad Shep- 
herd takes a step toivard htm, zvearily). 
The Narcissus Peddler : 
A Voice walked into me, one day. How he found me, sleeping 
between two huge purple hills, 1 do not know. He said with a 
laugh that had ghosts of weeping in it that he knew a garden 
where narcissus flowers grew taller than myself. What was 
there to do? — my soul and I, we had to walk with him. He 
lead us to this palace, spinning the thread of a laugh behind 
him so that we could follow. But now he has gone, and there 
is no window — only a palest purple window. 
The Mad Shepherd: 

We can leap through this window, but it may be a trap. 
The Narcissus Peddler : 
Or a dream ? 

The Mad Shepherd: 

Perhaps this is a dream that is true — an endless dream. 
The Narcissus Peddler : 

Can that be death ? 
Mad Shepherd {pointing to the other s basket) : 

With death, you would have left your narcissus behind you, 
for fragrance itself. 
Peddler : 

If my life has melted to an endless dream, my chase is over. 
I shall sit here and my soul will become an endless thought of 
narcissus. 

(He seats himself beside his basket ; Shepherd stands despair- 
ingly; the Slender Nun appears from the right : She is stnall and 
her body like a thin drooping stem; she ivears the black dress of 
a nun but her child face is uncovered. Her feet are bare. She 
stops, standing a step away from the Peddler) 
The Slender Nun : 

I see a candle that is like an arm stiffened in prayer. (She 
pauses) Palest purple window, is my soul standing behind youi 
and spreading to light that gently thrusts me down? A flamed^-* 
losed angel lifted it from me. I ran after him. He seemed to 
touch you, window, like a vapor kiss dying upon pale purple silk. 
(a pause) Must I stand here always waiting for my soul like a 
flower petal pressed deep into the earth by passing feet? 



I 



The Little Revie IV 23 



The Shepherd: 

You have lost a soul and I a tune. Let me make you the tune 
and you make me your soul. You could sit with me on my 
f rock in the hills and make a soul of my reed — rippling and pip- 
ing of you, I might weave a new tune. 

The Nun: 

Can you give me a soul that will be Christ floating out in clear 
music? Only then I would go with you. 

Shepherd (sadly) : 

My music is like the wet, quick kiss of rain. It knows nothing 
of Christ. 

(A short silence) 

(The Wine jar maiden appears from the right. She is tall and 

pale brown; upon her head is a long pale green jar; her hair i^ 

black and spurts down. Her face is wide but delicately twisted. 

She wears a thin simple pale green gown, with a black girdle about 

her waist, one tasseled end hanging dozvn. She stops a little behind 

the Slender Nun, and lowers her wine-jar to the floor. The Nun 

turns and partly faces her. The Narcissus Peddler looks up from 

zvhere he has sat, in a reverie, beside his basket.) 

The Wine Jar Maiden : 

My heart was a wine jar stained with the roses of frail dreams 
and filled with wine that had turned to shaking mist. One day 
I felt it wrenched from me, and mist drops that flew from it, 
as it left, sank into my breast and made me shrink. I could 
not see the theif, but I followed the scent of my heart trailing 
behind him. It brought me here, but at this palest purple win- 
dow it died. Scent of my heart, have you spread over this huge 
"window, and must I stand forever looking upon you? 
( The Narcissus slowly rises and takes a stride toward the palest 

purple wifidoiv) 

The Narcissus Peddler : 

That dim shape behind the window — I believe it is a huge nar- 
cissus. I am a rainbow-smeared knave to stand here juggling 
the little golden balls of dreams. I shalt spring through the 
window. 

The Slender Nun: 

Take my hand when you spring. Perhaps this is God's forehead, 
and we shall melt into it, like billows of rain washing into a 
cliff. 

The Wine Jar Maiden : 

If I leap through this window, a cloak of my heart-scent may 
hang to me. I shall touch the cloak, now and then, and that 
shall be my life. 



24 7 // c L 1 t I I c R c V i 



The Mad Shepherd : 

1 must sit here, and whirl witli my young spirit. If I cannot 
knit together strands of music better than the tune 1 ran after, 
then 1 should not have chased it. 

{After a short silence the Narcissus Peddler and the Slender 
Nun, hand in hand, leap through the ivindozv-corner and vanish. 
The JVine Jar Maiden leaps after them, a moment later, and also 
disappears. The Mad Shepherd sits doii'n and blozvs little frag- 
ments of piping into his reed, long pauses scparaiing'thcm. As 
he does this, he looks up at the tvindoiv, his head motionless. The 
Narcissus Peddler, the Slender Nun and the JVine Jar Maiden 
appear from the left ivalking slozvly, in single file, as though in a 
trance. The Narcissus Peddler stands beside iiis basket, zvhich hc 
left behind him; the Wine Jar Maiden beside her jar, and the 
Slender Nun between them) 
The Mad Shepherd (looking up, astonished) : 
You return, like sleep-drooping poplar trees that have been 
given wings and after long journeyings fly back to their little 
blue-green hills. 
The Narcissus Peddler: 

After we sprang we found ourselves in a high corridor, whose 
air was like the breath of a dying maiden — the corridor we 
first walked down, before we came to this palest purple window. 
The Mad Shepherd {ivondcringly) : 
A dream with a strange, buried, quivering palace whose doors 
are closed. 

{The poet quietly appears from the right. He is dressed in a 
deep crimson robe, pale brown turban and black sandals; his head 
is bare. He surveys the others a moment, then toiiches the shoul- 
der of the JVine Jar Maiden. S)ic turns and stares at him. Vh^ 
others turn also) 
The Poet : 
You are all in my heart — a wide space with many buried, black 
palaces, huge pale-purple windows ; hills with rocks for mad 
shepherds, strolling flower venders, wine jar maidens dancing 
in high courtyards hushed with quilted star-light and sometimes 
a slender nun walking alone through the aisles of old reveries. 
I have woven you into a poem, and you were drawn on by me. 
But when my poems are made I take my people to a far-ofT 
garden in my heart. There we sit beneath one of the shining 
trees and talk. There I shall give you your soul, your heart, 
your song — and your huge narcissus flower. And out of them 
make other poems, perhaps? Come. 
(He leads them away) 



The L i t t I e R c v i e w 25 

Spectrum 

Emanuel Morgan 

Opus 96 

You are the Japan 

Where cherries ahvays blossom. 

With you there is no meantime. 

Your are the nightingale's twenty-four hours of song, 

The unbroken Parthenon, 

The everlasting purring of the sphynx. 

At the first footfall of an uncouth season, / 

You migrate with one wing-sweep 
To beauty. 



The Reader Critic 

Indiscriminate Illusions 

E. L. R., Bear Creek, Pa. : 

After reading your article "Push Face" in your June number I 
have torn the magazine to pieces and burned it in the fire. You may 
discontinue my subscription. 

[We have noticed with much amusement that whenever there 
is an article in the body of the magazine or a comment in the Reader 
Critic, no matter by whom signed, which seems "disgusting, ridiculous 
or immoral" to some struggling soul, in comes a letter addressed to 
Margaret Anderson, saying: "Your article, your comment." .... 
The only hope the editor can have out of so much generous accredit- 
is that some one sometime will write in giving her credit for Yeats's 
poems. — jh.'\ 

Critical Epilepsy 

/. E. P., White Plains, New York : 

Your magazine is rubbish, disappointingly insipid, heavily stupid. 
I fear it has gas on the stomach. Retract! Give us the unperverted, 
the natural, the "sincere." Our eyesight and pocket-books will not 



26 T h e L i t t I c R 



I c zv 



endure The Emptror'i Cloali (see H. C. Anderson). This vai)id 
trance pose, this vaporizing makes us wonder why you are attempt- 
ing to loop the loop. And again the "atmosphere" of your paper 
seems as well compassed as a spider's journey on the ceiling. We 
have the same feeling of wanting to help you both by poking you 
off with an umbrella. 

M. H ., La Grange, Illinois: 

Some of your stories and criticisms I am glad to have read. I 
remember tiie interesting (and instructive) criticism on our four 
pianists and a wonderful short story by Sherwood Anderson, — those 
two things and a Harold Bauer eulogy are about the only two things 
I can recall favorably. A story written to protest against the hanging 
of one of our worst criminials (as in the very first Little Reoiew 1 
received — I remember because it disgusted me), another story ridi- 
culing our part in the war (as in the last number), and other queer 
Emma Goldman sort of stories (in between these first and last 
copies) are way beyond me. 

Why should one be a Democrat or a Christian or a Militarist or 
a Mrs. Potter-Palmer or a push-face policeman to believe in our 
cause for entering the war. I wish every paper and magazine might 
help inspire the right sort of war enthusiasm. Many, a few years 
ago, believed in pe^ce at any price; but many minds have changed, 
including my own. If the real business of life is to live, we'll fight 
for the privilege so long as we can't rely on any other means of 
gaining that right. And we want at least a few more generations to 
live as well as our own. If there are various ideas of what "living" 
means I'm glad there are those who can never understand Emma Gold- 
man's theories. 

German women can't realize what "living" means if they feel 
obliged to get off the sidewalk to let pass a German officer. Do these 
men who are afraid to fight for their country know what living means 
— men who drink and smoke? Would they believe they stand less 
chance of recovery from sickness, less chance of resisting sickness, 
less chance of living very long, than the men who never touch alcohol 
or tobacco? (But this is not the point either, and men are reform- 
ing). 

Anyway I would rather give a dollar and a half to the Red Cross 
than subscribe for The Little Review. And also I'm not intellectual 
enough to enjoy it. 

[There is really nothing to be said to the above two letters: 
explanation up against what must be a matter of evolution. It 
would be necessary to give out sample copies for a year or so to 
prospective subscribers to insure satisfaction before we take their 
money. Since there are Hearst publications to give the public what 
it wants in literature and art, the cinematagraph to give it what it 
wants in drama, why should that public bother at all with The Litllt 
Reoiew? Especially when we state fairly that we are a magazine of 
the Arts, making no compromise with the public taste? — jh.] 



The Little Review 27 



Interest Begins at Home 

F. E. R., Chicago : 

I have just -read your June issue. Won't you ask Ezra Pound if 
he should mind making an effort to be interesting? 

[I ask you to make an effort to discover why he is so interesting.] 



"The World's Immense Wound" 

Why does Ezra Pound regard America -with, contempt? America 
is beneath it. 

I have just read Muriel Ciolkowska's review in The Egoist of 
Le Feu by Henri Barbusse. In that book M. Barbusse has a char- 
acter say: "One figure has risen above the war and will shine for 
the beauty and importance of his courage: Liebknecht." 

How this book ever passed the censor is' beyond me. To quote 
further: 

The future! The future! The future's duty will be to efface 
the present, to efface it even more than you think, to efface it as 
something abominable and shameful. And yet this present was 
necessary! Shame to military glory, shame to armies, shame to 
the soldier's trade which tranforms men in turn from stupid 
victims to ignoble executioners. 

A Feldwebel seated, leaning on the ripped-up planks of what 
was, there where we stand, a sentry-box. A little hole under 
one eye; a bayonet thrust has nailed him by his face to the boards. 
In front of him, also seated, with his elbows on his knees, his 
fists in his neck, a man shows a skull opened like a boiled egg. 
Near them, appalling sentinel, half a man is standing: 
a man cut, sliced in two from skull to loins, leaning upright 
against the bank of earth. The other half is missing of this 
species of human peg, whose eye hangs out, whose bluish entrails 
twist in spirals round his leg. 

"The whole book, from beginning to end," says Mme. Ciol- 
kowska, "is a fearless revelation, be the theme drowning in swamps, 
the storming-parties, the dressing-stations, starvation and thirst which 
drives men to drink their own urine:" 

Of the greatness and wealth of a country they make a devouring 
disease, a kind of cancer absorbing living forces, taking the whole 
place and crushing life and which, being contagious, ends either 
in the crisis of war or in the exhaustion and asphyxia of armed 
peace. Of how many crimes have they not made virtues by 
calling them national — with one word! They even deform 
truth. For eternal truth is substituted the national truth of each. 
So many peoples, so many truths, which twist and turn the truth. 
All those who keep up these children's disputes, so odiously 
ridiculous, scold each other, with: "It wasn't I who began, it 
was you." "No it wasn't I, it was you." "Begin if you dare." 



28 T h c L i t t I c R e V i c IV 



"Begin, you." Puerilities which keep the world's immense 
wound sore because those really interested do not take part in 
the discussion and the desire to make an end of it does not 
exist; all those who cannot or will not make peace on earth; 
all those who clutch, for some reason or other, to the old state 
of things, finding or inventing reasons for it, those are your 
enemies! 

Jn a word, the enemy is the past. The perpetrators of war are 
the traditionalists, steeped in the past . . . for whom an abuse 
has the power of law because it has been allowed to take root, 
who aspire to be guided by the dead and who insist on submitting 
the passionate, throbbing future and progress to the rule of ghosts 
and nursery fables. 

"Verily the criminals are those who echo, 'because it was, it 
must be.' " 

Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman have just been given 
a sentence of two years in prison, fines of ten-thousand dollars each, 
and deportation, for believing these same things! — M. C. A. 



Argument 

Louis Pntkelis, Cambridge, Mass.: 

I am thinking seriously on the subject of Art and 1 would like 
to have a clear exposition of your views and the reasons why they 
do not agree with mine. 

Having the relation of art to life and to society, as a question, 
seriously to heart, I would prefer a serious reply to a serious article 
rather than a flippant reply to chance remarks. I had hoped that 
discussions would arise among the Reader Critic that would interest 
a larger circle of readers and that would sift the question thoroughly. 

It seems to me that the last few numbers of The Litlle Review 
have been below your earlier standard — almost below zero. What 
sympathy can the majority of readers feel for the foreign editor, 
Ezra Pound, with his contemptuous invective against the "vulgus"^ 
The last letter of Wyndham Lewis, to be sure, has more food for 
thought, though it seems that the author's acquaintance with Russian 
literature is rather limited. I, could say more about that but I await 
the psychological moment. 

[To be very serious I had no idea that this department was 
ever flippant. I thought we had said so much about art values that 
we couldn't go on boring our audience forever with the same dis- 
cussions. And discussing Art isn't very profitable anyway. We're 
trying to show what it is. When you asked questions which seemed 
to me quite obvious, or at least seemed to show quite obviously 
that you didn't understand what we had said in clearing up those 
values, I knew no better way to point up our disagreement than by 
using what is known as "epithet" instead of going off into long serious 
discussions of matters that had already been "got across." 



The Little Review 29 



A contempt for the "vulgus" is the inevitable reaction of any 
man or woman who observes the antics of the "flies in the market- 
place." There's nothing supercilious about it. It's a fact that hu- 
manity is the most stupid and degraded thing on the planet — 
whether through its own fault or not is beside the point when you're 
weighing values. You're. not blaming humanity when you say that; 
it isn't interesting to blame: the interesting thing is to put the truth 
of it into a form that will endure. — M. C. A.] 

Note 

Banish 
Anne Knish, 
Set the dog on 
Emanuel Morgan. 

X. 

Quotation 

M. W., New York : 

Here are two extracts from Jean Laher's Le Breviare d'un Pantheist: 
their appearance in The Little Review should give a healthy jolt to many 
of your disdainful readers,— and many others will thank you silently 
from their innermost hearts for printing two of the most beautiful 
thoughts in any language. 

"Nous sommes evant la Nature comme Hamlet devant sa 
mere: nous la jugeons et nous la condamoons, et pourtant nous 
lui pardonnoos aussi, comme Hamlet a un moment pardonne, 
saisi de piete filiale ou seulement d'immense pitie humaine devant 
la vision, qui lui est sou dainement apparue, de tout le chaos des 
choses. Et nous, qui voulons ce qu'elle n'a pas voulu, et qui 
voulons plus et mieux que ce qu'elle a voulu,, nous aussi nous 
reconcilierons avec elle, pour tenter de reparer son mal, autant 
qu'il se peut reparer. Et quoiqu'elle fasse ou qu'elle ait fait, nous 
nous rapellerons qu'apres tout nous lui devons la vie, si nous lui 
devons la mort, la vie avec ses soufi'rances, ses angoisses, avec 
ses miseres et ses crimes, avec tous ses mensonges, avec tout 
son neant, mais aussi avec quelques splendeurs, quelques illumi- 
nations fugitives, et quelques tendresses caressantes, et le vague 
amour d'Ophelie, et ces sentiments de misericorde et de justice, 
qu'elle, inconsciente, ne connait pas, ou qu'elle ne connait que 
par nous, et qui en nous sont nes de notre rebellion contre elle." 

"En tout, je vois un rythme qui tend vers la beaute, mais quit 
trop rarement la prout; et la perception de ce rythme, plus ou 
moins apparent dans les choses, par instants, rassure et donne 
une jouissance infinie, a laquelle se vient meler cependant une 
certaine souflfrance ou melancolie, celle du besoin insatiss fait de la 
beaut^ parfaite en toutes choses." 



It is to the interest of every subscriber 
to The Little Revieiv to get us more sub- 
scribers at once, for the simple reason that 
we have plenty of excellent matter on hand 
waiting to be printed. The larger our 
subscription list the more we can give you 
each month. 

People to whom the May, June and 
July numbers have been sent at Mr. 
Pound's request will not receive August 
unless they subscribe. 



THE LITTLE REVIEW 

MARGARET C. ANDERSON. Editor 

EZRA POUND. London Editor 



THE LITTLE REVIEW ANNOUNCES THE FOLLOWING CON- 
TRIBUTIONS TO APPEAR DURING THE NEXT FOUR 
MONTHS: 

POEMS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS in August 
LETTERS by WYNDHAM LEWIS 
POEMS and DIALOGUES by T. S. ELIOT 
EDITORIALS and DIALOGUES by EZRA POUND 
MR. JAMES JOYCE will contribute to The Little Review as soon as cir- 
cumstances permit. Editorials in The Little Review will respect no vested 
interests, no publishers' interests, no aged magazines and reviews, nor staffs 
of the same. 



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ECALL that golden day when you first read " Huck Finn "? 
>• How your mother said, " For goodness' sake, stop laughing 
aloud over that book. You sound so silly." But you couldn't stop laughing. 

Today when you read "Huckleberry Finn" you will not laugh so much. You will chuckle 
often, but you will also want to weep. The deep humanity of it — the pathos, that you 
never saw, as a boy, will appeal to you now. You were too busy laughing to notice the 
limpid purity of the master's style. 

When Mark Twain first wrote " Huckleberry Finn " this land was swept with a gale 
of laughter. When he wrote " The Innocents Abroad " even Europe laughed at it itself. 

But one day there appeared a new book from his pen, so spiritual, so true, so lofty that 
those who did not know him well were amazed. " Joan of Arc " was the work of a poet — 
a historian — a seer. Mark Twain was all of these. His was not the light laughter of a 
moment's fun, but the whimsical humor that made the tragedy of life more bearable. 



A Real American 

Mark Twain was a steamboat pilot. 
He was a searcher for gold in the far 
West. He was a printer. He worked 
bitterly hard. A[[ this without a glim- 
mer of the great destiny that lay before 
him. Then, with the opening of the 
great wide West, his genius tsloomed. 

His fame spread through the nation. 
It flew to the ends of the earth, until 
his work was translated into strange 
tongues. From- then on, the path of 
fame lay straight to the high places. 
At the height of his fame he lost all 
his money. He was heavily in debt, 
but though 60 years old, he started 
afresh and paid every cent. It was the 
last heroic touch that drew him close 
to the hearts of his countrymen. 

The world has asked is there an .Ameri- 
can literature? Mark Twain is the an- 
swer. He is the heart, the spirit of 
America. From his poor and struggling 
boyhood to his glorious, splendid old 
age, he remained as simple, as demo- 
cratic as the plainest of our forefathers. 

He was, of all Americans, the most Ameri- 
can. Free in soul, and dreaming of high 
things — brave in the face of trouble — and al- 
ways ready to laugh. That was Mark Twain. 

HARPER & BROTHERS, New York 



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Because he asked it, Harpers have worked to make 
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Before the war we had a contract price for paper, 
so we could sell this set of Mark Twain at half price- 
Send the Coupon Without Money 

The hst of the edition is in sight. The /j p t 
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ent price. Get the 25 volumes X •'ranklrn Sq., K. I. 
now, while you can. Every 
American has got to have a ^ Send me, all charge 
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home. Get yours now / Twain's works in 25 
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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

WL. IV. AUGUST 1917 No. 4 

Seven Poems 

William Butler Yeats 



Upon a Dying Lady 

With the old kindness, the old distinguished grace 
She lies, her lovely piteous head amid dull red hair 
Propped upon pillows, rouge on the pallor of her face. 
She would not have us sad because she is lying there, 
And when she meets our gaze her eyes are laughter lit 
Her speech a wicked tale that we may vie with her 
Matching our broken-hearted wit against her wit, 
Thinking of saints and of Petronius Arbiter. 



Certain Artists Bring Her Dolls and Drawings 

Bring where our Beauty lies 

A new modelled doll, or drawing 

With a iriend's or an enemy's 

Features, or may be showing 

Her features when a tress 

Of dull red hair was flowing 

Over some silken dress 

Cut in the Turkish fashion. 

Or it may be like a boy's. 

We have given the world our passion 

We have naught for death but toys. 



The Little Review 



She Turns the Dolls' Faces to the Wall 

Because to-day is some religious festival 

They had a priest say Mass, and even the Japanese, 

Heel u.p and weight on toe, must face the wall 

— Pedant in passion, learned in old courtesies, 

Vehement and witty she had seemed — , the Venetian lad 

Who had seemed to glide to some intrigue in her red shoe.j 

Her domino, her panniered skirt copied from Longhi, 

The meditative critic, all are on their toes 

Even our Beautv with her Turkish trousers on. 



Because the priest must have like every dog his day 

Or keep us all awake w^ith baying at the moon. 

We and our dolls being but the world were best away. 



She is playing like a child 
And penance is the play, 
Fantastical and wild 
Because the end of day 
Shows her that someone soon 
Will come from the house, and say- 
Though play is but half done — 
"Come in and leave the play". 



She has not grown uncivil 

As narrow natures would 

And called the pleasures evil \ 

Happier days thought good; 

She knows herself a woman 



The Little Review 



No red and white of a face, 

Or rank, raised from a common 

Unreckonable race. 

And how should her heart fail her 

Or sickness break her will 

With her dead brother's valour 

For an example still. 



When her soul flies to the predestined dancing-place 
(I have no speech but symbol, the pagan speech I made 
Amid the dreams of youth) let her come face to face, 
While wondering still to be a shade, with Crania's shade, 
All but the perils of the woodland flight forgot, 
And that made her Dermuid dear, and some old cardinal 
Pacing with half-closed eyelids in a sunny spot 
vVho had murmured of Giorgione at his latest breath — 
]Aye and Achilles, Timor, Babar, Barhaim all 
bVhc lived in shameless joy and laughed into the face of Death. 



Her Friends Bring Her a Christmas Tree 

Pardon, great enemy, 
Without an angry thought 
, W^e've carried in our tree. 
And here and there have bought 
Till all the boughs are gay, 
And she may look from the 'bed 
On .pretty things that may 
Please a fantastic head. 
Give her a little grace 
What if a laughing eye 
Have looked into your face — 
It is about to die. 



The Little Review 



List of Books 

Comment by Ezra Pound 
Passages from the Letters of John Butler Yeats. 

Ciiala Press, Diindriim, Dublin. 12 shillings. 

rTNO begin with one of the more recent; 1 have ah'eady sent a 
LJLj longer review of John Yeat's letters to Poetry on the 
ground that this selection from them contains much valuable 
criticism of the art to which that periodical is "devoted". I 
again call attention to the book for its humanism, for its 
author's freedom from the disease of the age. It is good, for 
Aitierica in particular, that some even-minded critic, writing 
in detachment, without thought of publication, should have 
recorded his meditations. There can be no supposition that 
he hoped to start a social reform. Carlos Williams wrote a 
few years ago : 

"Nowhere the subtle, everywhere the electric". Quibblers 
at once began a wrangle about the subtlety of electricity. We 
can not massacre the ergoteur wholesale, but we might at 
least learn to ignore him ; to segregate him into such camps 
as the "New Statesman" and the "New Republic"; to leave 
him with his system of "graduated grunts" and his critical 
"apparatus", his picayune little slot-machine. 

John Yeats writes as a man who has refused to be stamp- 
eded ; he has not been melted into the crowd ; the "button- 
moulder" has not remade him. He praises solitude now and 
then, but he has not withdrawn himself into a pseudo-Tho- 
reauian wilderness, nor attempted romantesque Borroviana. 
Lest we "of this generation and decade" imagine that all 
things began with us, it is well to note that a man over seventy 
has freed himself from the effects of the "Great Exposition" 
and of Carlyle and W^ordswortli and Arnold — perhaps he never 
fell under the marasmus. 

T have met men even older than Mr. John Yeats, men whc 
remembered the writings of the French eigliteenth century 
Thev lir\H endured the drough, and kept a former age's rich- 
ness. When T sav "remembered the writings of the FrencB 



?a 



The Little Review 



eighteenth century," I mean that they had received the effect 
of these writings as it were at hrst hand, they had got it out of 
the air; there is a later set who took it up as a speciality, al- 
most a fanaticism ; they are different. Then there came the 
bad generation ; a generation of sticks. They are what we 
have liad to put up with. 



James Joyce's Novel, t/h- Egoist, London. 

B. IV. Hucbsch, New York. 

A PORTRAIT of the Artist us a Young Man was so well re- 
viewed in the April number of this paper that I might 
perhaps refrain from further comment. I have indeed little to 
add, but I would reaflirm all that I have yet said or written 
of the book, beginning in The Egoist, continuing in The 
Drama, etc. Joyce is the best prose writer of my decade. 
Wyndham Lewis's Tarr is the only contemporary novel that 
can compare with A Portrait; Tarr being more inventive, more 
volcanic, and "not so well written." And that last comparison 
is iperhaps vicious. It would be ridiculous to measure Dos- 
toevsky with the T-Square of Flaubert. Equally with Joyce 
and Lewis, the two men are so different, the two methods are 
so different that it is rash to attempt comparisons. Neither 
can I attem.pt to predict which will find the greater number 
of readers ; all the readers who matter will certainly read both 
of the books. 

As for Joyce, perhaps Jean de Bosschere will pardon me if 
I quote from a post card which he wrote me on beginning 
A Portrait. It was, naturally, not intended for publication, 
but it is interesting to see how a fine piece of English first 
strikes the critic from the continent. 

"Charles Louis Philippe n'a .pas fait mieux. Joyce le de- 
.passe par le style qui n'est plus le style. Cette nudite de tout 
ornement rhetorique, de toute forme idiomatique (malgre la 
plus stricte severite contre le detour ou I'esthetique) et beau- 
coup d'autres qualites fondamentales font de ce livre la plus 
serieuse oeuvre anglaise que j'aie lue. Les soixante premieres 
pages sont incomparables " 

The "most serious", or to translate it more colloquially : 
"It matters more than any other English book I have read". 



The Little Review 



De Bosschere has not yet published any criticism of Joyce, 
but he is not the only established critic who has written to me 
in praise of A Portrait.. Joyce has had a remarkable "press," 
but back of that and much more important is the fact that the 
critics have praised with conviction, a personal and vital con- 
viction. 

3 ; 

Certain Noble Plays of Japan. ' 

Cuala Press, Dublin. 12 shillings. 

Noh, or Accomplishment. 

Knopf, New York, $2.2^. Macmillan, London. 

THE earlier and limited edition of this wrok of Ernest Fe- 
nollosa contains four plays, with an introduction by 
W. B. Yeats. The larger edition contains fifteen plays and 
abridgements and all of Fenollosa's notes concerning the Jap- 
anese stage that I have yet been able to prepare for publica- 
tion. This Japanese stuff has not the solidity, the body, of 
Rihaku (Li Po). It is not so important as the Chinese work 
left by Fenollosa, but on the other hand it is infinitely better 
than Tagore and the back-wash from India. Motokiyo and 
the fourteenth-century Japanese poets are worth more than 
Kabir. Fenollosa has given us mor.e than Tagore has. Japan 
is not a Chinese decadence. Japan "went on with things'' after 
China had quit. And 'China "cjuit" fairly early: T'ang is the 
best of her poetry, and after Sung her art grows steadily 
weaker. 

It would be hard to prove tliat thq^lapanese does not attempt 
(in Jiis art, that is) to die in aromatic pain of the cherry blos- 
som ; but his delicacy is not always a weakness. His preoc- 
cupation with nuances may set one against him. Where a 
Cliinese poet shows a sort of rugged endurance, the Japanese 
dramatist ])resents a fine point of pimctilio. He is "roman- 
ticist" against the "classical" and poetic matter-of-factness of 
the Chinese writer. The sense of punctilio is, so far as T can 
make out, a Japanese characteristic, and a differentiating char- 
acteristic, and from it the Japanese poetry obtains a quality of 
its own. 



The Little Review 



The 'poetic sense, almost the sole thing which one can postu- 
late as underlying all great poetry and indispensible to it, is 
simply the sense of overwhelming emotional values. (For 
those who must have definitions : Poetry is a verbal statement 
of emotional values. A poem is an emotional value verbally 
stated.) In the face of this sense of emotional values there are 
no national borders. One can not consider Rihaku as a for- 
igner, one can only consider him human. One can not con- 
sider Odysseus, or Hamlet, or Kagekiyo as foreigners, one can 
only consider them human. 

At one point in the Noh (plays, namely in the climax of 
Kagekiyo we find a truly Homeric laughter, and I do not 
think the final passages of this play will greatly suffer by any 
comparison the reader will be able to make. If I had found 
nothing else in Fenollosa's notes I should have been well paid 
for the three years I have spent on them. 

If I dispraise Tagore now I can only say that I was among 
the first to praise him before he became a popular fad. The 
decadence of Tagore may be measured. His first translations 
were revised by W. B. Yeats ; later translations by Evelyn 
Underbill, facilis et perfacilis descensus, and now they say he 
has taken to writing in English, a language for which he has 
no special talent. If his first drafts contained such cliches as 
"sunshine in my soul", he was at least conscious at that time of 
his defects. Praise was rightly given to his first poems be- 
cause it was demonstrated and demonstrable that they were 
well done in Bengali, i. e. that they were written in a )precise 
and objective language, and in a metric full of interest and 
variety. The popular megaphone took up phrases made to de- 
fine the originals and applied them to the translations. Im- 
agine a criticism of Herrick and Campion applied to a French 
or German prose translation of these poets, however excellent 
as a translation in prose ! As the vulgarizer hates any form 
of literary excellence, he was well content with obscuring the 
real grounds for praise. The unimportant element, that which 
has made Tagore the prey of religiose nincompoops, might 
easily have passed without comment. However, it has ^proved 
the baccillus of decay. Sir Rabindranath having been raised 
in a country Vi^here the author need not defend himself against 
■blandishment. . . .1 mean the force of the babu press is scarcely 
enough to turn anyone's head or his judgement. . . .Sir Rabin- 



/ 1 



lo The Little Review 

dranath is not particularly culpable. His disciples may bear 
the blame as best they may ; along with his publishers. But no 
old established publishing house cares a damn about literature; 
and once Tagore had become a commercial property, they 
could scarcely be expected to care for his literary integrity. 

He might still wash and be clean ; that is to say there is still 
time for him to suppress about three fourths of the stuff he 
has published in English, and retain some sort of literary 
position. < 

Another mart who stands in peril is Edgar Masters. He did 
a good job in The Spoon River Anthology. What is good in 
it is good in common with like things in the Greek anthology, 
Villon and Crabbe : plus Masters's sense of real people. The 
work as a whole needs rewriting. The difference between a 
fine poem and a mediocre one is often only the fact that the 
good poet could force himself to rewrite. "No appearance af 
labour?" No, tit^re need be no appearance of labour. I have 
seen too many ea.rly drafts of known and accepted poems not 
to know the difference between a draft and the final work. 
Masters must go back and take the gobbetts of magazine cliche 
out of his later work ; he must spend more time on Spoon 
River if he wants his stuff" to last as (^rabbe's Borough has 
lasted. There is a great gulph between a "successful" book 
and a book that endures; that endures even a couple of cen- 
turies. 

T would not at any cost minimize what Edgar Masters lias 
done, but his fight is not yet over. 



The Interpretation of the Music of the XVIIth and 
XVII 1th Centuries, by Arnold Dolmetsch. 

Novella, London. W. H. Gray, New York. 

ARNOLD DOLiMETSC.IT.S book has been out lor some 
time. No intelligent musician would willingly remain 
without it. No intelligent musician is wholly without interest 
in the music of those two centuries. But this book is more than 
a technical guide to musicians. It is not merely "full of sugges- 
tion" for the thorough artist of any sort, but it shows a way 
whereby the musician and the "intelligent" can once more be 
brought into touch. If Dolmetsch could be persuaded to write 



The Little Review ii 



a shilling- manual for the instruction of children and of mis- 
taught elders it might save the world's ears much torture. 
Dolmetsch's initial move was to demonstrate that the music of 
the old instruments could not be given on the piano ; any more 
than you could give violin music on the piano. His next was 
to restore the old instruments to us. There is too much intel- 
ligence in him and his book adequately to be treated in a par- 
agraph. I am writing of him at greater length in The Egoist. 
His citations from Couperin show the existence of vers libre 
in early eighteenth-century music. I do not however care 
unduly to stir up the rather uninteresting discussion as to the 
archaeology of "free" verse. 



5 
Prufrock and Other Observations, by T. S. Eliot. 

The Egoist, London. One shilling. 

^HE book-buyer can not do better. 



T' 



Frost tinges the jasper terrace, 

A fine stork, a black stork sings in the heaven, 

Autumn is dee,p in the valley of Hako, 

The sad monkeys cry out in the midnight, ^ 

The mountain pathway is lonely. 

.... The red sun blots on the sky the 
line of the colour-drenched mountains. The 
flowers' rain in a gust; it is no racking storm 
that comes over this green moor, which is 
afloat, as it would seem, in these waves. 

Wonderful is the sleeve of the white 
clo*ud, whirling such snow here. 

— From "Noh", by Ernest Fenollosa and Ezra Pound. 
Pound. 



12 The Little Review 



Theatre Muet 

John Rodker 
Interior 

Black Curtain. 

In one corner the picture of a door. 

A man in black tights (so that only his face is seen and the 

outlines of his body divined) crosses the stage. 

•He ipasses through the door. 

We follow him because the curtain is raised. 

Black room. 

Again he crosses the stage and striking a match, lights a 

gas jet at his own height with great deliberation. 

Man goes off unseen. 

Three chairs become apparent. 

They are in a line — two kitchen chairs — 

once white — dirty. 

One — old — beautiful — 

highly polished. 

In the flickering light the three chairs grow 

unutterably mounful. 

II 

Hunger 

The Celestial Quire. 

The lambent sea-green flames that are the celestial quire 

burn shrilly, striving. . . . 

They describe the circle which is Kosmos, swirling shrilly. 

When they writhe it is outside three-dimensioned space. 

Forever they retufn in their orbits. 

Forever they return in their orbits. 

If they writhe at all, it is outside the three-diri'iensioned spaces. 

They do not touch each other. They do not clash with each 

other. 

Nor is there light in Space. 



The Little Review 13 



III 

A room. Sombre faces of i, 2, and 4 (women) in profile. 

Man (3) with back to audience. 

They are seated round a gas fire. 

Glow seen through legs and chair legs. 

A silent duel in progress between i and 3 seated diagonally. 

2 and 4, more or less neutral, obscure issue. 

Conversation clockwise (need not be materialised). 

1. "What shall it be then, Cerise?" 

2. "It was a lovely party." 

3. "Pouf" (lights a cigarette). 

4. Sighs (blow out smoke). 
Silence. 

Conversation resumed. Same things more or less. The man's 
back becomes inimical, hating i. His back muscles prepare 
to spring and so ripple to crouch. 

1 trembles, fearful. Tries to talk to show her nonchalance, 
fails. Her heart beats thud, thud, thud. 

2 and 4 neutral, disturb invmic waves. 

The man loses his tenseness. Obscurely he collects all his 
forces for a final overwhelming, but they dissipate among 2 
and 4 (neutral). 4 now becomes sympathetic to him and so 
drains more vitality, i stiffens, gathers, that 2 is her ally. 
Also 4 unconsciously. 

]\Ian rises to his feet. For a moment tries to gather vitality 
through firm feet and twitching fingers. 
His shoulders fall, he stumbles out. 
Three sighs of relief. 

Conversation : 

1. What shall it be? 

2. Such a lot of men ! 

Hours later : 

I in bed. Mass of shadow on white sheets. 

Cannot sleep, tosses about. 

Attack of nerves. 

One feels it has gone on for hours. 

She seeks relief. 



14 The Little Review 



IV 

To S. E. R. 

Man and Woman, face to face. Same height. Woman facing 
audience. 

Woman mad, breathing heavily, whites of eyes showing, strik- 
ing man in face, once., twice. 

His back is to audience. No muscle of it moves. (Inert — a 
crumbling block of salt). 

Her madness drops. His passivity makes her doubt his reality 
— then her own. 

In the uncertain pause, she is again assured of her reality. 
More blows, same effects. 
Tears blind her, she dashes them away. 
More blows, face distorted. 
Still same effects. 

The ubiquitous man, appearing and reappearing (real and 
phantom) before her strained eyes makes them water. 
She feels it a weakness — swallows. Another weakness. 
Stares dully at the figure before lier. 
Impotence realised — weeps. 

Weeps loudly and slobberingly and hopelessly like a whipped 
child. 

Weeps more loudly yet, more hopelessly : with distorted mus- 
cles, copious tears and lengthening and coarsening of upper 
lip. 

Such lack of control is intolerable. 
Members of the audience want to strike each other. 

A few women weep too, in identical pitch. 

It becomes a panic spreading suddenly. 

The men leave quickly, swallowing hard. . 

Audience ^"^ "^^" throws a brickbat at the inert f 

Intellectual ^^^^' ^^^^ another. 

and otherwise. S^['^'^^" *.^^ •''''"^- ^ 

When he smks stoned, expirmg — a yell of 

exultation rises from the men — long sighs 

of relief from the women. 

"A N T I C H R I S T" 



Outside the Theatre — weeping: fitful, intolerable — mounts 
from street to street and star to .star in festoons of distin« 
guished and unutterable melancholy. 



The Little Review 



15 



V 



I. 



Thick twilight. A long row of houses, several storeys high. 
All have area railings and steps leading up to the front door. 
One light in a top window a third of the way down the block. 
A drab yellow light also works through glass of street door. 
A woman walks (bent) on the pavement in front of these 
houses hovering undecidedly, evidently fearful. 
Then she draws herself together and climbs the steps leading 
to the lit door. 

She waits shuffling from foot to foot, seeming undecided — 
(she has rung the bell). 

The door opens a little, a wedge of light moves out and a dark 
figure appears for a moment breaking it. They talk for a few 
seconds, and both enter. The door shuts . A wedge of dark- 
ness passes across the lit panes. 
The light works out tranquilly again. 



.Stairs dimly lit, narrow, carpeted. The figure climbs, climbs, 
climbs — foreboding, distrust and fear at every point. 



A room — walls dark red ; small, stuffy, unbearable. 

The woman stands uneasily just inside the door — waiting. 

The room is full of impending tragedy. 

Influences are in the room and in the next room. 

Tragedy becomes apparent in the woman's ipose. 

She waits. 

Nothing happens. 

With dramatic suddenness, her body droops — she cringes. 

(Nothing, nothing, NOTHING happens). 

Curtain — A-ery quietly, like a sigh, so that it is some seconds 

before audience realises that play is over. 



i6 The Little Review 

Stark Realism 

This Little Pig Went to Market 

(A Search for the National Type) 

Ezra Pound 

THIS little American went to Vienna. He said it was 
I "Gawd's Own City". He knew all the bath-houses and 
dance halls. He was there for a week. He never forgot it — 
No, not even when he became a Captain in the Gt. American 
Navy and spent six months in Samoa. 

This little American went West — to the Middle-West, where 
he came from. He smoked cigars, for cigarettes are illegal 
in Indiana, that land where Lew Wallace died, that land of 
the literary tradition. He ate pie of all sorts, and read the 
daily papers — especially those of strong local interest. He 
despised European culture as an indiscriminate whole. 
Peace to his ashes. 

This little American went to the great city Manhattan. He 
made two and half dollars per week. He saw the sheeny girls 
on the East Side who lunch on two cents worth of bread and 
sausages, and dress with a flash on the remainder. He nearly 
died of it. Then he got a rise. He made fifteen dollars per week 
selling insurance. He wore a monocle with a tortoise-shell 
rim. He dressed up to "Bond St." No lord in The Row has 
surpassed him. 

He was a damn good fellow. 

This little American went to Oxford. He rented Oscar's late 
rooms. He talked about the nature of the Beautiful. He 
swam in the wake of Santyana. He had a great cut glass bowl 
full of lilies. He believed in Sin. His life was immaculate. 
He was the last convert to Catholicism. 

This little American had always heen adored — and quite silent. 
He was quite bashful. He rowed on his college crew. He had 
a bright .pink complexion. He was a dealer in bonds, hut. not 



The Little Review 17 



really wicked. He would walk into a mans' office and say : 
""Do you want any stock?, .eh. . . . eh . . I don't know anything 
about it. They say it's all right." Some people like that sort 
of thing; though it isn't the "ideal business man" as you read 
of him in Success and in Mr. Lorimer's papers. 

This little American had rotten luck ; he was educated — 
soundly and thoroughly educated. His mother always bought 
his underwear by the dozen, so that he should be thoroughly 
supplied. He went from bad to worse, and ended as a dish- 
washer; always sober and industrious; he began as paymaster 
in a copper mine. He made hollow tiles in Michigan. 
His end was judicious. 

This little American spoke through his nose, because he had 
catarrh or consum.ption. His scholastic merits were obvious. 
He studied Roumanian and Arumaic. He married a papal 
countess. 

Peace to his ashes. 

This little American .... l)ut who ever heard of a baby with 
seven toes. 

This story is over. 



V-e r s e s 

Iris Barry 
His Girl 

The bigger boys, gathered round the gates in the dusk, 

Watch her walk away with their teacher. 

They stop shouting, somewhat astonished 

That she should wait for him in the cold. 

They do not see very much in him themselves 

And stare, commiserating the stupidity of woman. 



The Little Review 



Widow 

Monica may well modulate her voice 
And ipose as a charming and sympathetic person. 
Everyone knows she has had two husbands 
And driven both to a lasting- great distance. 



At the Ministry 

September 1916 

Having received the last volume of a certain poet ' 

I look out of the office window — 

Coloured shirts: green, blue, red, grey: 

Men in coloured shirts moving heavy thjngs with deliberation 

Out there in the sun. 

The junior typist cries ecstatically 

On seeing the costly photogravure of the author, 

Clasping her hands and flushing. 

But I sit and look out at the irregular wandering shirts, 

At the men unloading projectiles 

And storing them in the dark sheds. 



The Black Fowl 

Black fowl, perching, 

I have seen nothing more beautiful than your plumbs. 

It should be pleasant to nestle luxuriously in that rich black. 

But there is no joy in the winking eye that watches me 

As you stand there perching. 



The Little Review 19 

At the Hotel 

While at table 

Or chatting" con\entionally in the drawing-room 

She eyes him. 

They are seen together everywhere 

Husband and wife. 

Nothing but her vigilance binds them. 

Her smoothness sickens him : 

She is not even successful. 

She may keep his body to her bed — 

It is easier than a scene and remonstrances. 

Towards dawn he turns, smiling, 
Dreaming of a girl on the hotel-staff. 
.(Already he has trifled with her in his heart). 



Towards the End 

Others might find inspiration and wide content 

In this mellow kitchen, the beams and washed walls, 

Flagged floor lit by the log-glow : 

But the beetles and mice appreciate it more than I. 

And my Mother is bored to death, 

(She keeps putting records on the gramaphone) 

Even grandfather eating his supper by the jumping light 

from the hearth 
Hardly seems to enjoy his food. 
Very patriarchal-benign he looks. ^ 
Somehow his shadow on the wall awes me in its grandeur 
As though he might not be here long, 
And the beetles and mice come into their own very shortly. 



20 T h e Lit tl e Rev iew 



What the Public Doesn't Want 

Margaret Anderson 

AMERICA is a confounding place. 
About four years ago I wanted to start a magazine. 
Two things in life -interest me more than other things: Art 
and good talk about Art. The Little Review was launched as an 
organ of those two interests. 

For three years, at irreglar intervals, it reflected my concern 
about various other matters. When I got incensed over the 
sufTferings of what is called the proletariat I preached pro- 
found platitudes about justice and freedom. I had always had 
the sense to know that all people can be put into two classes: 
the exceptional and the average. But when I decided that the 
only way to prevent the exceptional from being sacrificed to 
the average was for everybody to become anarchists, I 
preached the simple and beautiful but quite uninteresting 
tenents of anarchism. I have long given them up. I still grow 
violent with rage about the things that are "wrong", and 
probably always shall. But I know that anarchism won't help 
them. I have known good anarchists who are as dull as any 
other good laymen. And I have no interest in laymen. Only 
sensibility matters. 

I had always known that education doesn't produce sensi- 
bility, but I came to think that something could produce it. 
Now I know that nothing under the heavens will make anV 
one sensitive if he is not born that way. 

I had always known that people didn't want Art, but I im- 
agined that they would be glad to be made to want it. Now I 
know that they are "not merely indififerent to it : tliey hate it 
■malignantly". 

Therefore, to sum up: all these ideas were not interesting 
enough to have bothered about. 

But the curious thing about America is that while she 
thinks such insipid and ipleasant and harmless ideas are abom- 
inable and dangerous, she also thinks they are interesting! 

Any magazine that concerns itself with such ideas is sure 
to get an audience. Your audience will think that you are 
crazy or that you want a sensation, or, what is worse, tliat 
you are a sort of "Pollyanna" throwing sunshine and (>])tinii>m 



The Little Review 21 



into dark places in order to help the world. But it will be 
interested in reading you for one reason or another. 

And now ,after working through unbelievable aridness 
The Little Review has at last arrived at the place from which 
I wanted it to start. At last we are printing stuff which is 
creative and inventive, and, thank heaven, not purely local. 
The audience mentioned above, in the aggregate, resents it.We 
no longer interest that audience. The layman says that we are 
now given over to the bizarre and the "aesthetic" (that adjec- 
tive which in America means something vaguely inconsequen- 
tial, if not something shameless and immoral). People who 
like to "help" magazines with "artistic" leanings are not to be 
allured by Art. People who can't prove that they know any- 
thing about good letters dare to tell us that we don't know 
an3^thing about them. Editors who make it a point of honor 
to discover artistic value in the work of their contemporaries 
feel that we are meticulous and too "arty". And tee writers 
themselves are the most absurd. Maxwell Bodenheim writes 
that he "knows" Ezra Pound judges poetry on the basis of his 
personal dislikes. That is as necessarily untrue as anything 
can be. An}^ one who is unwilling to praise what seems to him 
.unworthy of praise, anyone whose interest in a poet's work 
abates when the work shows no signs of further progress — any 
such critic will come in for this kind of slander. Any such cri- 
tic will get himself talked about the way people love to talk in 
New York : if you try to discuss a man's work with them they 
say "that man is my enemy", or "that man is my friend". 
It's very puzzling : the}^ seem to think their remarks have 
something to do with literature. 

Another remarkable thing that happens in New York: if you 
walk upon the street with a sensitive and rare and dis- 
tinguished person you will find that he attracts more curious 
and resentful attention than the most badly-made, the most 
atrociously dressed, or the most grotesquely deformed human 
beings who surround him. 

But this is the attitude of all America. 

T have made several thoughtless statements about "Help us 
to make The Little Review a power", etc. I know that nothing 
on earth will do that except our own contents. They tell me 
that Henle}^ was a power in England with The National Ob- 
server when its. circulation had shrunk to eighty subscribers^. 
I should be willing to pursue dominion even to that point, but 



22 The Little Review 



it will probably not be necessary. Our circulation grows in 
spite of criticism and misunderstanding. 

You can help us to give you more each month by sub- 
scribing for your friends who are interested in a magazine 
which is not interested in the public taste. 



Orientale 

Louis Gilmore 

Wil't thou listen 

To the voices of peacocks; 

Or would'st thou prefer that the cats 

Perform a nocturnal serenade? 

This is no common 

Entertainment 

That I have prepared for thee, 

Indifferent one. 

The columns are smeared 
With 'fire-flies, 

And the glow-worms shed a light 
Among the dishes.... 

But first let the slaves 
Anoint thee with what 
Has lain a long while 
In the sun ; 

Or with this 
Thou perceive'st 
In a yellow 
Vial. 



The Little Review 23 



A. R. S.: 



The Reader Critic 

Oddities? 



I have found The Little Review excessively burdened with what 
you describe as "stuff in which the creative element is present". In- 
deed my impression is that it is devoted more to invention than to 
interpretation, and therein misses its calling as an agency of "Art". 
And a-s to quality, it is not my understanding that "Art" is necessarily, 
or usually, insipid or bizarre, as represented in your publication. 
These are times for men to be attending to more serious things than 
aesthetic oddi'.ies. 

[The above letter was written to us by one of the front citizens 

0/ a large city, on his club stationary, a men's club where old 

Betties gossip and criticize women's clothes. Yet he would say to 
men like Wyndham Lewis, and other of our contributors now in the 
trenches, that these are times for men to be attending to more seri- 
ous things than aesthetic oddities. 

- How smoothly he has set down the attitude of the great average 
mind toward Art. No, I cannot say average. Average implies varia- 
tion. It is the perfect contempt of the elderly gentleman art patron 
for the creative and the original. From long years of supporting 
museums oi art, the city beautiful plan, opera organizations, etc., he 
acquires the attitude of the affluent married man toward his wife: 
whatever is supported by him must necessarily be a thoroughly 
understood subject, and even if inferior, must be the interpreter of 
his life. — jh.] 

Radicalism and Conservatism 

M. L. K.: 

I am renewing my subscription to The Little Review, though I 
don't know just why. I don't understand you very well any more. 
I don't know whether I approve. You used to be very different. 
Sometimes you were great. Your own article "Life Itself" and Ben 
Hecht's "Dregs" I shall always remember. Yon used to show such 
fine sympathy for all kinds of social suffering. I cannot see how a 
magazine devoted only to what you call Art can have a very vital 
sliare in the solving of our present great problems. This is such a 



24 T li e Little Review 



splendid opportunity for your radicalism 



[Conservatism: to preserve the best. As a term of abuse, to 
preserve good and bad indiscriminately. 

r^adicalism: to get to the root of the matter. Usuallj'^ to eradi- 
cate good and bad indiscriminately. 

Besides they are terms tilth}' from contact with politics. — /'. E.] 

Too British 

V. //., Maine: 

I like the July number a lot. It's consistently good all through. 
The only thing 1 was disappointed in was the "Imaginary Letters". 
It's so damned British! It's very clever, there's no question — but 
to me at least it lacks beauty. The T. S. Eliot poems are in some- 
thing the same vein but much more mature, and awfully well writ- 
ten. I like the Ezra Pound very much — in fact everything else. 

[I can't .see why Lewis's Letter is any more cssenliaJly British than 
Nietzsche's "Flies in the Market Place". And since it is very good 
writing why hasn't it beauty? — M. C. A.] 



Reproach 

I am sorry about one thing, — you don't seem to be able to 

get rid of the propaganda. All the things Pound sends you are in 
a way propaganda. If not, what are they trying to do; just shock 
people? Eliot's poem about the Church is all right. That sort of 
thing ought to be said and he has said it so well that it will get 
over. But I think his "Lune de Miel" is disgusting, in one line simply 
impossible. I am terribly interested, but I do wish they would be a 
little more delicate. 

[1 am with you on the propaganda. Extermination seems simple 
and direct and lasting and the only solution to me. Shocking peo- 
ple I believe is a fever of extreme youth which cools very soon, 

as soon as caught almost. If one could only shock them to the 
foundations there might be some interest, but they are never shocked 
beyond where they arc always treml)ling anyway. Eliot is quite 
outside that kind of interest. 

We are known, in magazine lingo, as a class magazine. At first 
I was puzzled as to what that meant. But when a distinguishc i 



The Little Review 25 

foreigner, a man who might have competed with the Jodindranath of 
Ezra Pound's article, said that that article was a "matter for police 
suppression" I thought that he was probably the only person quali- 
fied to understand it. There is that class. And then there is the 
other class, — the one expressed by the gentleman who laughingly 
said: "There is a number of such backgrounds that should be so 
exploited". — jh.] 



War Art 

B. C, Kansas: 

The Little Review is the only magazine I have laid eyes on in 
months that hasn't had a word in it about this blasted war. How 
do you do it? 

[Perhaps it's because none of us considers this war a legitimate or 
an interesting subject for Art, not being the focal point of any funda- 
mental emotion for any of the peoples engaged in it. Revolutions 
and civil wars are different.. ..but that is a long story. There never 
has been a real revolution yet: peoples have revoluted but they have 
never seemed to hold on to what they have fought for. By the time 
the revolution gets to be history they are back behind where they 
started, staggering under the same kind of burdens . They are really 
hunch-backs, but they think that which bends their backs can be 
unloaded. And civil wars, whatever their pretext, seem always to 
be the fight of the self-righteoils uncultivated against the cultivated 
and the suave. 

I am not writing this as a '"scholar of history." I am just wander- 
ing on when I don't very much want to. »At least I do feel strongly 
that nine tenths of the stuff written is a rotten impertinence to be 
discouraged. Some reviewers call these efforts "deeply touching 
and of poignant appeal". Consider the morbid deadliness of the 
U-Boat and then this poem: — 

You are a U-Boat you. 
You're number 23, 
U-Boat you're after me 
U-Boat this is not war, 
U-Boat you make me sore. 

There are three stanzas supporting this chorus which are a matter 
of abnormal crime. And this is the effort of a woman educated in 
one of the best colleges in the country. — ///.] 



26 The Little Review 



To "jh" 

Israel Solon, New York: 

T see in your last issue: "After reading your article 'Push-Face' 
in your June number I have torn the magazine to pieces and burned 
it in the fire. You may discontinue my subscription". 

We would destroy you instead of falling upon his face for the 
one red moment you tendered him. What is one to say to this? 

Life would be hard to bear were it not that of this all life is 
made, by this all life destroyed. 

Louise Gebhard Conn, Seattle: 

...Mr. Pound's swashbuckling always sets me to crying, with 
my eye on the needy American public. "Encore! Encore!" lint I 
am not tenipted to reread him, except for the purpose of looking up 
in the dictionary the novel words he uses. However, since reading 
his Dialogue in^the June Little Review, I have reversed my opinion; 
for 1 shall read that excellent chat between the student and Ralielais 
twice as many times as 1 read an\^ one of John Davidson's "Tete-a- 
tPtes". 

I intended to interject cmite i)arenthetically before that no one 
who conscientiously reads the author of "Jodindranath Mawhvvor's 
Occupation" can fail to develop a vocabulary; and since the art of 
writing is the art of words, — that, given language, inevitably formal 
literature arises, — Mr. Pound is a high-pressure manufacturer of 
literature-matrix. 

Tlie May number was certainl}' an achievement, — the sort of 
thing we're hungry for; but we missed "//i". , ' 

Your Tush-Eace" is precisely to the point. Its weakest part 
is your satire on clothes and appearance. To seize upon the merely 
external, to ridicule a woman because of her age, is the easiest 
and thercfoie the most journalistic form of humor. 1 am certain 
that in time we shall come into a form of wit so potent that it will 
deal with character as you deal with double-chins and tunics. You 
yourself attain this penetrating force of satire when you throw up 
against the Ked-Cross activity the activity of the police in pushing 
back the little children from the slums beyond the Square. 

[You seem to me to be a bit confused in your critKrlsm oT my 
'"I'ush-Eace" article. "It's weakest part is your satire on clothes 
and appearance" — and later you are certain that we shall come into 
a form of wit so potent that it will deal with character as f dealf 
with double-chins and tunics (appearance and clothes). But I 



The Little Review 27 

feel certain that we shall never come into a time when the reader 
will be penetrating enough to recognize psychology from a mere deal- 
ing with "externals". 

The part you criticise was an attempt to strike through externals 
to suggest a psychology of anatomy, — a psychology founded on a 
theory that the definitive lines of the body take their intention 
from something more fundamental than will power. I have not 
read Dr. Adler's theory of the "fictitious goal". But I have learned 
from my study of the human body, in drawing from it, and from 
that eternal observation of it which becomes a tireless and al- 
most unconscious preoccupation of the p<iinter, — I have learned 
that it is possible for even the slightly intellijient to stamp his 
body with all the movement, bearing, and spirt of some cherished 
ideal or some protective colouring of himself which he wishes to 
present to the world. In great stress or in crises where th : entire 
will power is overthrown or engaged elsewhere the body, like the 
mind, assumes its true lines and presence. On the stage this is a 
very simple way of unmasking a character, — you will say, an obvious 
viiay. Then why may not the fictitious role be obvious to the 
painter, — not a matter of "mere externals" but a legitimate thing 
to seize upon as a subject for satire or what you choose? This 
class of people — those of the fictitious role — are really the richest 
inaterial for Art. It is only in cases where there is creative power 
back of the fictitious role that the thing itself uecomes an art: in 
poets, musicians, painters, etc., when the fictitious becomes a thing 
created, where with mind and body they have created a wholly 
new, unshakable, well-designed character from themselves. 

Byron, the unwanted, spiritless, club-footed child who created 
from this material a brilliant symbol of romantic manly beauty, 
'■flashing a flaming heart across Europe'". 

But all this is too interesting and immense to deal with in a 
paragraph. Sometime perhaps I will go into it at length. — y'/;.] 

The stag's voice has bent her heart toward sorrow, 

Sending the evening winds which she does not see. 

We cannot see the tip of 'the branch. 

The last leaf falls without witness. 

There is an awe in the shadow, 

And even the moon is quiet. 

With the love-grass tuKler the caves. 

— From "Noh", bv Ernest Fenollosa and Ecra Pound. 



THE ARTISTS' GUILD 

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For September: 

INFERIOR RELIGIONS, by WYNDHAM LEWIS 
L'HOMME MOYEN SENSUEL, by EZRA POUND 
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ECALL that golden day when you first read " Huck Finn "? 
>• How your mother said, " For goodness' sake, stop laughing 
aloud over that book. You sound so silly." But you couldn't stop laughing. 

Today when you read "Huckleberry Finn" you will not laugh so much. You will chuckle 
often, but you will also want to weep. The deep humanity of it — the pathos, that you 
never saw, as a boy, will appeal to you now. You were too busy laughing to notice the 
limpid puritv of the master's stvle. 

When Mark Twain first wrote ' Huckleberry Finn" this land was swept witli a gale 
of laughter. When he wrote " The Innocents .Abroad " even Europe laughed at it itself. 

But one day there appeared a new book from his pen, so spiritual, so true, so lofty that 
those who did not know him well were amazed. " Joan of .Arc " was the work of a poet — 
a historian — a seer. Mark Twain was all of these. His was not the light laughter of a 
moment's fun, but the whimsical humor that made the tragedy of life more bearable. 

A Real American 

Mark Twain was a steamboat pilot. 
He was a searcher for gold in the far 
West. He was a printer. He worked 
bitterly hard. .Ml this without a glim- 
mer of the great destiny that lay before 
him. Then, with the opening of the 
great wide West, his genius bloomed. 

His fame.spread through the nation. 
It flew to the ends of the earth, until 
his work was translated into strange 
tongues. From then on, the path of 
fame lay straight to the hi^h places, 
.^t the height of his fame he lost all 
his money. He was heavily in debt, 
but though 60 years old, he started 
afresh and paid every cent. It was the 
last heroic touch that drew him close 
to the hearts of his countrymen. 

The world has asked is there an .Ameri- 
can literature? Mark Twain is the an- 
•swer. He is the heart, the spirit of 
America. From his poor and struggling 
boyhood to his glorious, splendid old 
age. he remained as simple, as demo- 
cratic as the plainest of our forefathers. 

He was, uf all Americans, the must Ameri- 
can. Free in soul, and dreaming of high 
things — brave in the face of trouble — and al- 
ways ready to laugh. That was Mark Twain. 



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Because he asked it, Harpers have worked to make 
a perfect set at a reduced price. 

Before the war we had a contract price for paper, 
so we could sell this set of Mark Twain at half price. 

Send the%pupon Without Money 

The list of the^tition is in sight, 
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ATuerican h.as got to have a /^ Send me, all charges 
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THE LITTLE REVIEW 



A MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS 

MAKING NO COMPROMISE WITH THE PUBLIC TASTE 

Margaret Anderson 
Publisher 

September, 1917 

Inferior Religions Wyndham Letvis 

L'Homme Moyen Sensuel E^ra Pound 

Eeldrop and Appleplex, II: T S. Eliot 

The Passion for Experience 

Imaginary Letters, IV : Ezra Pound 

The Nonsense about Art for the Many 

The Children and Judas Robert Alden Sanborn 
The Reader Critic: 

Yeats's Poems "Upon a Dying Lady" 

Gargoyles 

Phases of Crazes 

To our Readers 
Announcement for October 

Gopyrigh. 1917, by Margaret Ander»«». 

Published Monthly 

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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

VOL. IV. SEPTEMBER 1917 No. 5 



Inferior Religions* 
Wyndham Lewis 



TO introduce my puppets, and the Wild Body, the generic puppet 
of all, I must look back to a time wh^n the antics and 
solemn gambols of these wild children filled me with triumph. 

The fascinating imbecility of the creaking men-machines, 
some little restaurant or fishing-boat works, is the subject of these 
studies. The boat's tackle and dirty little shell keeps their limbs in 
a monotonous rhythm of activity. A man gets drunk with his boat 
as he would with a merry-go-round. Only it is the staid, everyday 
drunkenness of the normal real. We can all see the ascendance 
a "carrousel" has on men, driving them into a set narrow intoxica- 
tion. The wheel at Carisbrooke imposes a set of movements on the 
donkey inside it, in drawing water from the well, that it is easy to 
grasp. But in the case of a fishing-boat the variety is so great, the 
scheme so complex, that it passes as open and untrammeled life. 
This subtle and wider mechanism merges, for the spectator, in the 
general variety of Nature. Yet we have in most lives a spectacle as 
complete as a problem of Euclid. 

Moran, Bestre and Brobdingnag are essays in a new human 
mathematic But they are each simple shapes, little monuments of 
logic. I should like to compile a book of forty of these propositions, 
one deriving from and depending on the other. 



* [Editor's note: This essay was written as the introduction to a 
volume of short stories containing "Inn-Keepers and Bestre", "Un- 
lucky for Pringle" and some others which had appeared in The 
English Review under Ford Madox Huefifer's editorship, and in other 
English periodicals. The book was in process of publication (the 
author had even been paid an advance on it) when war broke out. 
The last member of the publishing firm has been killed in France, 
and the firm disbanded. The essay is complete in itself and need 
not stand as an "introduction". It is perhaps the most important 
single document that W^yndham Lewis has written. Such stones 
as had not been previously published will appear in later numbers 
of The Little Reviezv. — E. P.] 



The Little Review 



These intricately moving bobbins are all subject to a set of ob- : 
jects or one in particular, iirobdingnag is fascinated by one object, 
for instance; one at once another vitality. He bangs up against it 
wildly at regular intervals, blackens it, contemplates it. moves 
round it and dreams. All such fascination is religious. Moran's 
damp napkins are the altar-cloths of his rough illusion. Julie's 
bruises are the markings on an idol. 

These studies of rather primitive people are studies in a savage 
worship and attraction. Moran rolls between his tables ten million 
times in a realistic rhythm that is as intense and superstitious as the 
figures of a war-dance. He worships his soup, his damp napkins, 
the lump of flesh that rolls everyAvhere with him called Madam 
Moran. 

All religion has the mechanism of the celestial bodies, has a 
dance. When we wish to renew our idols, or break up the rhythm .of 
our naievty, the effort postulates a respect which is the summit of 
devoutness. 

II 

I would present these puppets, then, as carefully selected spec- 
imens of religious fanaticism. With their attendant objects or 
fetishes they live and have a regular food for vitality. They 
are not creations, but puppets. You can be as exterior to them, 
and live their life as little, as the showman grasping from beneath 
and working about a Polichinelle. They are only shadows of 
energy, and not living beings. Their mechanism is a logical struc- 
ture and they are nothing but that. 

Sam Weller, Jingle, Malvolio, Bouvard, and Pecuchet, the ''com- 
missaire" in Crime and Punishment, do not live; they are con- 
gealed and frozen into logic, and an exuberant, hysterical truth. 
They transcend life and are complete cyphers, but they are monu- 
ments of dead imperfection. Their only reference is to them- 
selves, and their only significance their egoism. 

The great intuitive figures of creation live with the universal ego- 
ism of the Poet. They are not picturesque and over palpable. 
They are supple with this rare impersonality; not stiff with a 
common egotism. The "realists" of the Flaubert, Maupassant, 
and Tchekoff school are all satirists. '"Realism", understood as ap- 
plied to them, implies either photography or satire. 

Satire, the great Heaven of Ideas, where you meet the Titans of 
red laughter, is just below Intuition, and Life charged with black 
Illusion. 



The Little Review 



III 

When we say '"types of humanity", we mean violent individual- 
ities, and nothing stereotyped. But Othello, Falstaff and Peck- 
sniff attract, in our memory, a vivid following. All difference is 
energy, and a category of humanity a relatively small group, and 
not the myriads suggested by a generalisation. 

A comic type is a failure of a considerable energy, an imitation 
and standardising of self, suggesting the existence of a uniform 
humanity,— creating, that is, a little host as like as ninepins; in- 
stead of one synthetic and various Ego. It is the laziness of a 
successful personality. It is often part of our own organism be- 
come a fetish. 

Sairey Gamp and Falstaff are minute and rich religions. They 
are illusions hugged and lived in. They are like little dead Totems. 
Just as all Gods are a repose for humanity, the big religions an im- 
mense refuge and rest, so these little grotesque idols are. One 
reason for this is that, for the spectator or participator, it is a world 
in a corner of the world, full of rest and security. 

Moran, even, advances in life with his rows of bottles and 
napkins; Julie is Brobdingnag's Goddess, and figures for interces- 
sions, if the occasion arises. 

All these are forms of static and traditional art, then. There 
is a great deal of divine Olympian sleep in English Humour. The 
most gigantic spasm of laughter is sculptural, isolated and essen- 
tially simple. 

IV 

1 Laughter is the Wild Body's song of triumph. 

2 Laughter is the climax ifi. the tragedy of seeing, hearing and 
smelling self-consciously. 

3 Laughter is the bark of delight of a gregarious animal at the 
proximity of its kind. 

4 Laugher is an independent, tremendously important, and lurid 
Emotion. 

2 Laughter is the representative of Tragedy, when Tragedy is 
away. 

6 Laughter is the emotion of tragic delight. 

7 Laughter is the female of Tragedy. 

8 Laughter is the strong elastic fish, caught in Styx, springing 
and flapping about until it dies. 

9 Laughter is the sudden handshake of mystic violence and the 
anarchist. 



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10 Laughter is the mind sneezing. 

1 1 Laughter is the one obvious commotion that is not complex, or 
in expression dynamic. 

1 2 Laughter does not progress. It is primitive, hard and unchange- 
able. 



The chemistry of personality (subterranean in a sort of cemetery 
whose decompositions are our lives) puffs up in frigid balls, 
soapy Snow-men, arctic Carnival Masks, which we can photograph 
and fix. 

Upwards from the surface of Existence a lurid and dramatic 
scum oozes and accumulates into the characters we see. The 
real and tenacious poisons, and sharp forces of vital vitality, do not 
socially transpire. Within five yards of another man's eyes we are 
on a little crater, which, if it erupted, would split up as a cocoa- 
tin of nitrogen would. Some of these bombs are ill-made, or some 
erratic in their timing. But they are all potential little bombs. 

Capriciously, however, the froth-forms of these darkly-contrived 
machines, twist and puff in the air, in our legitimate and liveried 
masquerade. 

Were you the female of Moran (the first Innkeeper) and be- 
neath the counterpane with him, you would be just below the 
surface of life, in touch with a nasty and tragic organism. The 
first indications of the proximity of the real soul would be ap- 
parent. You would be for hours beside a filmy crocodile, con- 
scious of it like a bone in an Ex-Ray, and for minutes in the 
midst of a tragic wallowing. The soul lives in a cadaverous activity; 
its dramatic corruption thumps us like a racing engine in the body 
of a car. The finest humour is the great Play-Shapes blown up 
or given off by the tragic corpse of Life underneath the world 
of the Camera. This futile, grotesque and sometimes pretty 
spawn, is what in this book is Kodacked by the Imagination. 

Any great humourist is an artist; Dickens as an example. It is 
just this character of uselessness and impersonality in Laughter, 
the fibre of anarchy in the comic habit of mind, that makes a 
man an artist in spite of himself when he begins living on his 
laughter. Laughter is the arch-luxury that is as simple as bread. 

VI 

In this objective Play-World, corresponding to our social con- 
sciousness as opposed to our solitude, no final issue is decided. 



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You may blow away a Maii-of-bubbles with a Burgundian gust 
of laughter, but that is not a personality, it is an apparition of 
no importance. Its awkwardness, or prettiness is accidental. But 
so much correspondence it has with its original that if the cadaveric 
travail beneath is vigorous and bitter, the mask and figurehead 
will be of a more original and intense grotesqueness. The op- 
posing armies in Flanders stick up dummy men on poles for their 
enemies to pot at, in a spirit of fierce friendliness. It is only a 
dummy of this sort that is engaged in the sphere of laughter. But 
the real men are in the trenches underneath all the time, and 
are there on a more "decisive" affair. In our rather drab Revel 
there is certain category of spirit that is not quite anaemic, and 
yet not very funny It consists of those who take, at the Clark- 
son's* situated at the opening of their lives, some conventional 
Pierrot costume, with a minimum of inverted vigour and the as- 
surance of superior insignificance. 

The King of Play is not a phantom corresponding to the 
Sovereign force beneath the surface. The latter must always be 
accepted as the skeleton at the Feast. That soul or dominant 
corruption is so real that he cannot rise up and take part in 
man's festival as a Falstaff of unwieldly spume; if he comes at 
all it must be as he is, the skeleton or bogey of True Life, stuck 
over with corruptions and vices. He may have a certain "succes 
d'hysterie". 

VII 

A scornful optimism, with its confidant onslaughts on our snob- 
bism, will not make material existence a peer for our energy. 
The gladiator is not a perpetual monument of triumphal health. 
Napoleon was harried with Elbas. Moments of vision are blurred 
rapidly and the poet sinks into the rhetoric of the will. 

But life is invisible and perfection is not in the waves or 
houses that the poet sees. Beauty is an icy douche of ease and 
happiness at something suggesting perfect conditions for an or- 
ganism. A stormy landscape, and a Pigment consisting of a lake 
of hard, yet florid waves; delight in each brilliant scoop or 
ragged burst, was John Constable's beauty. Leonardo's consisted 
in a red rain on the shadowed side of heads, and heads of mcissive 
female aesthetes. Uccello accumulated pale paralells, and delighted 
in cold architecture of distinct colour. Korin found in the symmet- 



Edifor's foot note: Clarkson, a London theatrical costumer. 



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rical gushing of water, in waves like huge vegetable insects, traced 
and worked faintly, on a golden pate, his business. Cezanne liktd 
cumbrous, democratic slabs of life, slightly leaning, transfixed in 
vegetable intensity. 

Beauty is an immense pretlelection. a perfect conviction of the 
desirability of a certain thing. To a man with long and consump- 
tive fingers a sturdy hand may be heaven. Equilibrium and "per- 
fection" may be a bore to the perfect. The most universally 
pleasing man is something probably a good way from "perfection". 
Henri Fabre was in every way a superior being to Bernard, and he 
knew of elegant grubs which he would prefer to the painter's 
nymphs. 

It is obvious, though, that we should live a little more in small 
communities. 



L' Homme Moyen Sens u el* 
Ezra Pound 

"I hate a dumpy woman" 

— George Gordon, Lord Byron 

'Tis of my country that I would endite, 

In hope to set some misconceptions right. 

My country? I love it well, and those good fellows 

Who, since their wit's unknown, escape the gallows. 

But you stuffed coats who 're neither tepid nor distinctly boreal. 

Pimping, conceited, placid, editorial, 

Could I bnl speak as 'twere in the "Restoration" 

I would articulate your perdamnation . 

This year perforce I must with circumspection — 

For Mencken states somewhere, in this connection: 

"It is a moral nation we infest". 

Despite such reins and checks I'll do my best. 

An art! You all respect the arts, from that infant tick 



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Who's now the editor of The Atlantic, 

From Comstock's self, down to the meanest resident. 

Till up again, right up, we reach the president, 

Who shows his taste in his ambassadors : 

A novelist, a publisher, to pay old scores, 

A novelist, a publisher and a preacher, 

That's sent to Holland, a most particular feature, 

Henry Van Dyke, who thinks to charm the Muse you pack her in 

A sort of stinking diliquescent saccharine. 

The constitution of our land, O Socrates, 

Was made to incubate such mediocrities, 

These and a taste in books that's grown perennial 

And antedates the Philadelphia centennial. 

Still I'd respect you more if you could bury 

Mabie, and Lyman Abbot and George Woodberry, 

For minds so wholly foimded upon quotations 

Are not the best of pulse for infant nations. 

Dulness herself, that abject spirit , chortles 

To see your forty self-baptized immortals. 

And holds her sides where swelling laughter cracks 'em 

Before the "Ars Poetica" of Hiram Maxim. 

All one can say of this refining medium 

Is "Zut! Cinque lettres!" a banished gallic idiom, 



* [Note: It is through no fault of my own that this diversion was 
not given to the reader two years ago; but the commercial said it 
would not add to their transcendent popularity, and the vers-libre 
fanatics pointed out that I had used a form of terminal consonance 
no longer permitted, and my admirers (j'en at), ever nobly desirous 
of erecting me into a sort of national institution, declared the work 
'"unworthy" of my mordant and serious genius. So a couple of the 
old gentlemen are dead in the interim, and, alas, two of the great 
men mentioned in passing, and the reader will have to accept the 
' opusculus for what it is, some rhymes written in 1915. I would give 
them now with dedication "To the .Anonymous Compatriot Who 
Produced the Poem 'Fanny', Somewhere About 1820", if this form 
of centennial homage be permitted me. It was no small thing to 
have written, in America, at that distant date, a poem of over forty 
pages which one can still read without labour. E. P.] 



10 The Little Review 

Their doddering ignorance is waxed so notable 

'Tis time that it was capped with something quotable. 

Here Radway grew, the fruit of pantosocracy, 

The very fairest flower of their gynocracy. 

Radway? My hero, for it will be more inspiring 

If I set forth a bawdy plot like Byron 

Than if I treat the nation as a whole. 

Radway grew up. These forces shaped his soul; 

These, and yet God, and Dr. Parkhurst's god. the N. Y. Journal 

(WTiich pays him more per week than The Supernal). 

These and another godlet of that day, your day 

(You feed a hen on grease, perhaps she'll lay 

The sterile egg that is still eatable: 

"Prolific Noyes" with output undefeatable) . 

From these he (Radway) learnt, from provosts and from editors 

unyielding 
And innocent of Stendhal, Flaubert, Maupassant and Fielding. 
They set their mind (it's still in that condition) — 
May we repeat; the Centennial Exposition 
At Philadelphia,M876? 

What it knew then, it knows, and there it sticks. 
And yet another, a ''charming man", "sw^eet nature", but was Gilder, 
De mortuis vcriim, truly the master builder? 

From these he learnt . Poe, Whitman, Whistler, men, their 

recognition 
Was got abroad, what better luck do you wish 'em, 
When writing well has not yet been forgiven 

In Boston, to Henry James, the greatest whom we've seen living. 
And timorous love of the innocuous 
Brought from Gt. Britain and dumped down a'top of us, 
Till you may take your choice: to feel the edge of satire or 
Read Benett or some other flaccid flatterer . 

Despite it all, despite your Red Bloods, febrile concupiscence 



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Whose blubbering yowls you take for passion's essence; 
Despite it all, your compound predilection 
For ignorance, its growth and its protection 
(Vide the tariff). I will hang simple facts 
Upon a tale, to combat other facts, 
"Message to Garcia", Mosher's propagandas 
That are the nation's bcJtts, collicks and glanders. 
Or from the feats of Sumner cull it? Think, 
Could Freud or Jung unfathom such a sink? 

My hero, Radway, I have named, in truth, 

Some forces among those which "formed" his youth: 

These heavy weights, these dodgers and these preachers, 

Crusaders, lecturers and secret lechers. 

Who wrought about his "soul" their stale infection. 

These are the high-brows, add to this collection 

The social itch, the almost, all but, not quite, fascinating, 

Piquante, delicious, luscious, captivating 

(Puffed satin, and silk stockings, where the knee 

.Clings to the skirt in strict (vide: ■"'Vogue") propriety. 

Three thousand chorus girls and all unkissed, 

O state sans song, sans home-grown wine, sans realist! 

"Tell me not in mournful wish-wash 

Life's a sort of sugared dish-wash " ! 

Radwa)'^ had read the various evening papers 

And yearned to imitate the Waldorf capers 

As held before him in that unsullied mirror 

The daily press, and monthlies nine cents dearer. 

They held the very marrow of the ideals 

That fed his spirit; were his mental meals. 

Also, he'd read of christian virtues in 

That canting rag called Everybody's Maga::ine, 

And heard a clergy that tries on more wheezes 

Than e'er were heard of by Our Lord Ch . . . . J . . . . 

So he "faced life" with rather mixed intentions. 



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He had attended country Christian Endeavour Conventions, 

Where one gets more chances 

Than Spanish ladies had in old romances. 

(Let him rebuke who ne'er has known the pure Platonic grapple. 

Or hugged two girls at once behind a chapel.) 

Such practices diluted rural boredom 

Though some approved of them, and some deplored 'em. 

Such was he when he got his mother's letter 

And would not think a thing that could upset her ... , 

Yet saw on "ad." "To-night. THE HUDSON SAIL", 

With forty queens, and_ music to regale 

The select company: beauties you all would know 

By name, if named". So it was phrased, or rather somewhat so 

I have mislaid the "ad.", but note the touch, 

Note, reader, note the sentimental touch : 

His mother's birthday gift. (How pitiful 

That only sentimental stuff will sell!) 

Yet Radway went. A circumspections prig! 
And then that woman like a guinea-pig 
Accosted, that's the word, accosted him. 
Thereon the amorous calor slightly frosted him. 
(I burn, I freeze, I sweat, said the fair Greek, 
I speak in contradictions, so to speak.) 

I've told his training, he was never bashful, 

And his pockets by ma's aid, that night with cash full, 

The invitation had no need of fine aesthetic. 

Nor did disgust prove such a strong emetic 

That we, with Masefield's vein, in the next sentence 

Record "Odd's blood! Ouch! Ouch!" a prayer, his swift repentence. 

No. no, they danced. The music grew much louder 
As he inhaled the still fumes of rice-powder. 
Then there came other nights, came slow but certain 
And were such nights that we should "draw the curtain" 



ThcLittleReview 13 



In writing fiction on uncertain chances 

Of publication; "Circumstances", 

As the editor of The Century says in print, 

"Compel a certain silence and restraint." 

Still we will bring our "fiction as near to fact" as 

The Sunday school brings virtues into practice. 

Soon our hero could manage once a week, 

Not that his pay had risen, and no leak 

Was found in his employer's cash. He learned the lay of cheaper 

places, 
And then Radway began to go the paces: 
h rosy path, a sort of vernal ingress, 
And Truth should here be careful of her thin dress — 
Though males of seventy, who fear truths naked harm us. 
Must think Truth looks as they do in wool pyjamas. 
(My country, I've said your morals and your thoughts are stale 

ones, 
But surely the worst of your old-women are the male ones.) 

Why paint these days? An insurance inspector 

For fires and odd risks, could in this sector 

Furnish more date for a compilation 

Than I can from this distant land and station. 

Unless perhaps I should have recourse to 

One of those firm-faced inspecting women, who 

Find pretty Irish girls in Chinese laundries, 

Up stairs, the third floor up, and have such quandaries 

As to how and why and whereby they got in 

And for what earthly reason they remain .... 

Alas, ehen, one question that sorely vexes 

The serious social folk is "just what sex is". 

Though it will, of course, pass off with social science 

In which their mentors place such wide reliance. 

De Gourmont says that fifty grunts are all that will be prized 



14 The Little Review 

Of language, by men wholly socialized, 

With signs as many, that shall represent 'em 

When thoroughly socialized printers want to print 'em. 

"As free of mobs as kings."? I'd have men free of that invidious. 

Lurking, serpentine, amphibious and insidious 

Power that compels 'em 

To be so much alike that every dog that smells 'em. 

Thinks one identity is 

Smeared o'er the lot in equal quantities. 

Still we look toward the day when man, with unction, 

Will long only to be a social junction. 

And even Zeus' wild lightning fear to strike 

Lest it should fail to treat all men alike. 

And I can hear an old man saying: ''Oh, the rub! 

"I see them sitting in the Harvard Club, 

"And rate 'em up at just so much per head, 

"Know what they think, and just what books they've read, 

"Till I have viewed straw hats and their habitual clothing 

"All the same style, same cut. with perfect loathing." 

So Radway walked, quite like the other men, • 

Out into the crepuscular half-light, now and then; 

Saw what the city offered, cast an eye 

Upon Manhattan's gorgeous panoply. 

The flood of limbs upon Eighth Avenue 

To heat Prague, Budapesth, Vienna or Moscow,* 

Such animal invigorating carriage 

As nothing can restrain or much disparage. . . . 

Still he was not given up to brute enjoyment, 

An anxious sentiment was his employment, 

For memory of the first warm night still cast a haze o'er 

The mind of Radway, whene'er he found a pair of purple stays or 

Some other quaint reminder of the occasion 



* Pronounce like respecta])le Russians: "Mussqu". 



The Little Review 15 

That first made him believe in immoral suasion. 

A temperate man, a thin potationist, each day 

A silent hunter off the Great White Way, 

He read The Century and thought it nice 

To be not too well known in haunts of vice — 

The prominent haunts, where one might recognize him, 

And in his daily walks duly capsize him. 

Thus he eschewed the bright red-walled cafes and 

Was never one of whom one speaks as '• brazen 'd". 

Some men will live as prudes in their own village 

And make the tour abroad for their wild tillage — 

I knew a tourist agent, one whose art is 

To run such tours. He calls 'em .... house parties. 

But Radway was a patriot whose venality 

Was purer in its love of one locality, 

A home-industrious worker to perfection, 

A senatorial jobber for protection, 

Especially on books, lest knowledge break in 

Upon the national brains and set 'em achin'. 

('Tis an anomaly in our large land of freedom. 

You can not get cheap books, even if you need 'em). 

Radway was ignorant as an editor. 

And, heavenly, holy gods! I can't say more, 

Though I know one, a very base detractor. 

Who has the phrase "As ignorant as an actor". 

But turn to Radway: the first night on the river. 

Running so close to "hell" it sends a shiver 

Down Rodyheaver's prophylactic spine, 

Let me return to this bold theme of mine. 

Of Radway. O clap hand ye moralists! 

And meditate upon the Lord's conquests. 

When last I met him, he was a pillar in 

An organization for the suppression of sin ... . 



1 6 T h e Li t tl e Re view 

Not that he'd changed his tastes, nor yet his habits, 
(Such changes don't occur in men. or rabbits). 
Xot that he was a saint, nor was lop-loftical 
In spiritual aspirations, but he found it profitable. 
For as Ben Franklin said, with such urbanity: 
■•'Nothing will pay thee, friend, like Christianity", 
And in our day thus saith the Evangelist: 
"Tent prcachin' is the kind that paj'-s the best." 

*Twas as a business asset pure an' simple 

That Radway joined the Baptist Ikoadway Temple. 

I find no moral for a peroration. 

He is the prototype of half the nation. 



Eeldrop and Appleplex 
T. H. Eliot 

II 

THE suburban evening was grey and yellow on Sunday; the 
gardens of the small houses to left and right were rank with 
ivy and tall grass and liliac bushes; the tropical South London 
verdure was dusty above and mouldy below; the tepid air swarmed 
with flies. Eeldrop, at the window, welcomed the smoky smell 
of lilac, the gramaphones. the choir of the Baptist chapel, and the 
sight of three small girls playing cards on the steps of the po- 
lice station. 

"On such a night as this", said Eeldrop, "I often think of 
Scheherazade, and wonder what has become of her". 

Appleplex rose without speaking and turned to the files which 
contained the documents for his "Survey of Contemporary Society". 
He removed the file marked Lo)idon from between the files Barcel- 
ona and Boston where it had been misplaced, and turned over the 
papers rapidly. "The lady you mention", he rejoined at last, 
"whom I have listed not under S. but as Edith, alias Scheherazade, 



The Little Review 17 

has left but few evidences in my possession. Here is an old laun- 
dry account which she left for you to pay, a cheque drawn by her 
and marked "R/D", a letter from her mother in Honolulu (on 
ruled paper), a poem written on a restaurant bill— "To Atthis" — and 
a letter by herself, on Lady Equistep's best notepaper, containing 
some damaging but entertaining information about Lady Equistep. 
Then there are my own few observations on two sheets of foolscap". 

•'Edith", murmured Eeldrop, who had not been attending to this 
catalogue, "I wonder what has become of her. 'Not pleasure, but 
fulness of life .... to burn ever with a hard gem-like flame', those 
were her words. What curiosity and passion for experience! Per- 
haps that flame has burnt itself out by now." 

"You ought to inform yourself better", said Appleplex severely, 
''Edith dines sometimes with Mrs Howexden, who tells me that her 
passion for experience has taken her to a Russian pianist in Bays- 
water. She is also said to be present often at the Anarchist Tea 
Rooms, and can usually be found in the evening at the Cafe de 
rOrangerie." 

"Well", replied Eeldrop. "I confess that I prefer to wonder what 
has become of her. I do not like to think of her future. Sche- 
herazade grown old! I see her grown very plump, full-bosomed, 
with blond hair, living in a small flat with a maid, walking in the 
Park with a Pekinese, motoring with a Jewish stock-broker. With a 
fierce appetite for food and drink, when all other appetite is 
gone, all other appetite gone except the insatiable increasing ap- 
petite of vanity; rolling on two wide legs, rolling in motorcars, 
rolling toward a diabetic end in a seaside watering place". 

"Just now you saw that bright flame burning itself out," said 
Appleplex, "now you see it guttering thickly, which proves that 
your vision was founded on imagination, not on feeling. And 
the passion for experience — have you remained so impregnably 
Pre-Raphaelite as to believe in that? WTiat real person, with the 
genuine resources of instinct, has ever believed in the passion for 
experience? The passion for experience is a criticism of the sin- 
cere, a creed only of the histrionic. The passionate person is 
passionate about this or that, perhaps about the least significant 
things, but not about experience. But Marius, des Esseintes, 
Edith . ..." • 

"But consider", said Eeldrop. attentive only to the facts of 
Edith's histor3^ and perhaps missing the point of Appleplex 's re- 
marks, "her unusual career. The daughter of a piano tuner in 



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Honolulu, she secured a scholarship at the University of California, 
where she graduated with Honours in Social Ethics. She then 
married a celebrated billiard professional in San Francisco, after 
an accjuaintance of twelve hours, lived with him for two days, 
joined a musical comedy chorus, ^and was divorced in Nevada. 
She turned up several years later in Paris and was known to all 
the Americans and English at the Cafe du Dome as Mrs Short. She 
reappeared in London as Mrs Griffiths, published a small volume of 
verse, and was accepted in several circles known to us. And now, 
as I still insist, she has disappeared from society altogether." 

*'The memory of Scheherazade", said Appleplex. "is to me that of 
Bird's custard and prunes in a Bloomsbury boarding house. It 
is not my intention to rei)resent Edith as merely disreputable. 
Neither is she a tragic figure. I want to know why she misses. 
I cannot altogether analyse her 'into a combination of known el- 
ements' but 1 fail to touch anytliing definately unanalysable. 

"Is Edith, in spite of her romantic past, pursuing steadily some 
hidden purpose of her own? Are her migrations and eccentricities 
the sign of some unguessed consistency? I find in her a cjuantity 
of shrewd observation, an excellent fund of criticism, but I cannot 
connect them into any peculiar vision. Her sarcasm at the ex- 
pense of her friends is delightful, but 1 doubt whether it is more 
than an attempt to mould herself from outside, by the impact of 
hostilities, to emphasise her isolation. Everyone says of her, 'How 
perfectly impenetrable!' I suspect that within there is only the 
confusion of a dusty garret". 

"I test people", said Eeldrop, "by the way in which I imagine 
them as waking up in the morning. I am not drawing upon mem- 
ory when I imagine Edith waking to a room strewn with clothes, 
papers, cosmetics, letters and a few books, the smell of Violettes 
de Parme and stale tobacco. The sunlight beating in through 
broken blinds, and broken blinds keeping out the sun until Edith 
can compel herself to attend to another day. Yet the vision does 
not give me much pain. I think of her as an artist without the 
slightest artistic power". 

"The artistic temperament — " began Appleplex. 

"No, not that". Eeldrop snatched away the opportunity. "I 
mean that what holds the artist together is the work which he 
does; separate him from his work and he either disintegrates or 
solidifies. There is no interest in the artist apart from his work. 
And there are, as you said, those people who provide material for 



T It e Li t tl c Rev lew 19 

the artist. Now Edith's poem 'To Atthis' proves beyond the shad- 
ow of a doubt that she is not an artist. On the other hand I 
have often thought of her, as I thought this evening, as presenting 
possibilities for poetic purposes. But the people who can be mate- 
rial for art must have in them something unconscious, something 
w^hich they do not fully realise or understand. Edith, in spite of 
what is called her impenetrable mask, presents Iierself too well. I 
cannot use Iter; she uses herself too fully. Partly for the same 
reason I think, she fails to be an artist: she does not live at all 
upon instinct. The artist is part of him a drifter, at the mercy 
of impressions, and another part of him allows this to happen for 
the sake of making use of the unhappy creature. But in Edith 
the division is merely the rational, the cold and detached part of 
the artist, itself divided. Her material, her experience that is, is 
already a mental product, already digested by reason. Hence 
Edith (I only at this moment a,rrive at understanding) is really the 
most orderly person in existence, and the most rational. Nothing 
ever happens to her; everything that happens is her own doing." 

"And hence also", continued Appleplex, catching up the thread. 
"Edith is the lea^t detached of all persons, since to be detached 
is to be detached from one's self, to stand by and criticise coldly 
one's own passions and vicissitudes. But in Edith the critic is 
coaching the combatant." 

"Edith is not unhappy". 

"She is dissatisfied, perhaps". 

"But again I say, she is not tragic: she is too rational. And in 
her career there is no progression, no decline or degeneration. 
Her condition is once and for always. There is and will be no 
catastrophe". 

"But I am tired. I still wonder what Edith and Mrs Howexden 
have in common. This invites the consideration (you may not 
perceive the connection) of Sets and Society, a subject which we 
can pursue tomorrow night". 

Appleplex looked a little embarrassed. "I am dining with Mrs 
Howexden", he said. "But I will reflect upon the topic before 
I see you again". 



20 The Little Review 

Imaginary Letters 

IV 

(Walter Villerant to Mrs. Bland Burn) 

Ezra Pound 

MY DEAR LYDIA: 
Your rather irascible husband asks for "Aunt Sallys"*; 
with the Pyrenees before me and at this late date, it is difficult to 
provide them. I agree with at least half he says. I am, with 
qualifications, Malthusian. I should consent to breed under pres- 
sure, if I were convinced in any way of the reasonableness of 
reproducing the species. But my nerves and the nerves of any 
woman I could live with three months, would produce only a vic- 
tim — beautiful perhaps, but a victim: expiring of aromatic pain 
from the jasmine, lacking in impulse, a mere bundle of discrimin- 
ations. If I were wealthy I might subsidize a stud of young 
peasants, or a tribal group in Tahiti. At present "valga mas estar 
soltero", I will not take Miss J., nor her income, nor the female 
disciple of John. 

There is no truce between art and the public. The public 
celebrates its eucharists with dead bodies. Its writers aspire to 
equal the oyster: to get themselves swallowed alive. They encom- 
pass it. 

Art that sells on production is bad art, essentially. It is art that 
is made to demand. It suits the public. The taste of the 
public is bad. The taste of the public is always bad. It is bad 
because it is not an individual expression, but merely a mania for 
assent, a mania to be "in on it". 

Even the botches of a good artist have some quality, some dis- 
tinction, which prevents their pleasing mass-palates. 

Good art weathers the ages because once in so often a man of 
intelligence commands the mass to adore it. His contemporaries 
call him a nuisance, their children follow his instructions, include 
him in the curricula. I am not lifting my voice in protest; I am 



* "Imaginary Letters", by Wyndliam Lewis. The Little Keviczv 
for May. 



The Little Review 21 



merely defining a process. I do not protest against the leaves 
falling in autumn. 

The arts are kept up by a very few people; they always have 
been kept up, when kept up at all, by a very few people. A 
great art patron is a man who keeps up great artists. A good 
art patron is a man who keeps up good artists. His reputation 
is coterminous with the work he has patronized. He can not 
be an imbecile. 

There are a few more people capable of knowing good art 
when they see it. Half of them are indiffernt, three fourths of 
them are inactive, the exceeding few side with the artist; about all 
they can do is to feed him. Others, hating his art. may from 
family or humanitarian motives, feed and clothe him in spite of his 
art .... and attempt to divorce him from it. 

These statements are simple, dull. One should write them in 
electric lights and hang them above Coney Island, and beside the 
Sarsaparilla sign on Broadway! The Biblical Text Society should 
embellish them upon busses. 

Unfortunately the turmoil of yidds. letts, finns. esthonians. 
cravats, niberians, nubians, algerians. sweeping along Eighth Ave- 
nue in the splendour of their vigorous unwashed animality will not 
help us. They are the America of tomorrow .... 

(The good Burn belives in America; the naive English, mad 
over apriculture, horticulture arboriculture, herbiculture, agricul- 
ture, asparagriculture etc., always believe in America .... until they 
have seen it.) 

The turmoil of Yidds, Letts, etc.. is ''full of promise", full 
of vitality. They are the sap of the nation, our heritors, the heri- 
tors of our ancient acquisitions. But our job is to turn out good art. 
that is to produce it, to make a tradition. 

''My field must be ploughed up, but the country has need of 
quiet" (La Famille Cardinal). "I admire Epicurus. He was not 
the dupe of analogies". Need I give references for all my quota- 
tions? 

This nonsense about art for the many, for the majority. J'en. 
ai soupe. It may be fitting that men should enjoy equal ''civic 
and political rights", these things are a matter of man's exterior 
acts, of exterior contacts. ( Macchiavelli believed in democracy:: 
it lay beyond his experience). The arts have nothing to do with 
this. They are man's life w'ithin himself. The king's .writ does not 
run there. The voice of the majority is powerless to make me en- 
joy, or disenjoy. the lines of Catullus. I dispense with a vote 



2 2 The Little Review 

without inconvenience; Villon I would not dispense with. 

Bales are written on the false assumption that you can treat 
the arts as if they were governed by civic analogies. The two 
things are not alike, and there is an end to the matter. 

It is rubbish to say "art for the people lies behind us". The 
populace was paid to attend greek drama. It would have gone to 
cinemas instead, had cinemas then existed. Art begins with the 
artist. It goes first to the very few; and, next, to the few very 
idle. Even journalism and advertising can not reverse this law. I 
have scribbled a very long letter, and not answered half the 
good William's diatribe. My regards to Mrs Amelia. 

Yours, 

Walter Villerant. 



The Children and Judas 
Robert Alden Sanborn 

It was dawn upon the fields of Heaven, 

The dew upon the fence-rail twinkled, 

And there were seven 

Stars upon the sky that beamed; 

And in the grass the cow-bells tinkled, 

And daisies dreamed. 

And sweet smells streamed 

Over the tasselled corn. 

God lay dimmed in slumber, 

And Jesus' warm hair was pillowed on His Father's breast; 

Seven disciples like seven points of a star 

Were rayed about the sleeping Majesties, 

And Judas was brighter than the rest, 

Because his spirit had a fiercer sin to burn. 

His ruddy hair was rimmed with dew. 

And what he was to me he is to you. 



The Little Review 23 

There was no sound 

But the lyric murmur of a Mary, singing 

Low upon the ground. 

Where a brook ran upon a secret errand 

Like a silver hound 

Slipping beneath the unbound hair of trees; 

Mary was singing to the least of these. 

Some Children. 

All listened. 

For the breath of her caressed the silence 

With curves of melody; 

And hence the very corfi awoke to hear. 

And to inhale the healing psalmody. 

So because the grass, the daisies, stirred 

Pleasantly, and light wings whirred 

As birds arose from nests, 

And quests of dew and honey went upon, 

The Children, one by one, moved about, 

And some would run up the hill, 

And back again; another seemed to^out, 

But changed and blew a glad shrill whistle out 

That pleased the sailing stars. 

Then Mary ceased her song, 

And silence fell like shadow on them all. 

Now amongst the ones who slept 

Judas raised his head; 

Sleep never touched his eyes with cool forgetfulness. 

Instead his soul was fed with sin 

That never flickered out within. 

He yawned and bent his knees. 
And the tongue of a silver bell 



The Little Review 



Shivered above the sleeping Majesties 

Within the ring of seven. 

Because there were but six 

When Judas vaulted the fence-rail 

Out of the fields of Heaven. 

And now you could hear Jesus breathe. 

And God murmur peace upon the wakeful corn. 

"God!" 

A spire of frail sound rose from a boyish will, 
"See God, He's walking down the hill, 
See. Mary!" 

And Mary looked up 

And saw Judas coming toward them, 

The sweet hand of a Child in the cup of either hand. 

"Shall I tell them the truth, Judas, 
That you are far from God," said she, 
"Or will you burn them with your sin, 
You who are no kin to such as these. 
And drive them back to me. 
Crying bitterly?" 

A smile struggled with his twisted face. 

But could not give it grace, 

And the two Children, wary 

Of the lurid tumult in his breast, 

Wrested their twined fingers from the gnarled hold of him, 

And their eyes dim with tears, 

Ran back to Mary. 

Judas, the silent shadow of a man. 

His will as heavy as a fallen tree in a wood, 

Stood upon the hill. 



The Little Review 25 

And watched the Children as they ran, 

Saw them nestle into Mary's arms, 

Seeking in the cloudy charms 

Of her loosened hair, 

The peace they knew was there. 

Words crowded in his throat, 
And he sat upon the hillside 
With his face between his knees. 

Now when his face was hidden 

From the least of these, 

One, bidden by the helplessness 

Of the man on the side of the hill, 

Came from the shelter of Mary's hair, 

And minding not her warning touch. 

Nor her sounding of his name. 

Knowing he was not chidden much, 

Went winding an idle way 

Up the hill, and around and away 

From the still bowed man. 

And first he picked a flower 

Which he threw higher toward the fence-rail. 

God smiled in His sleep. 

And Jesus opened His eyes, 

Put forth a hand for the plucked flower. 

And hid it in His breast, 

Yet did not rise nor cease His rest. 

The Child, 

Keeping a moody soft eye upon the grey humped figure, 

Betrayed his mischief in a smile 

That waxed bigger, bubble-like, and broke into a laugh, 



26 The Lin I e Review 

And like a thief in the night 
Crept up the hill to the fence-rail, 
And peeked. 

The fence-rail creaked 

As Jesus turned His face to him: 

"Poor man. dear boy." he whispered silverly, 

"Until he learns to play. 

To dress his dusty head 

With ribbons of the rosy day, 

Never can he share 

Your early morning passion, 

Flecked with foamy curls of "hair. 

Would you give him back again 

To my bosom, cleansed of pain, 

Spill your living ways of laughing 

In his muffled ears; 

At him. and beset him! Splash him. little dears, 

In your fun." Jesus bade the boy. 

"Run!" 

And the Child winked, Yes, 

Turned about and ran. 

Put his flying hands upon the shoulders of the man, 

And while a star bfinlved 

At what he saw. 

The Child broke the law of sin 

As he leaped over Judas in the old, old game; 

Ran screaming down to Mary's covering hair, 

But did not linger there; 

Sped back and bounded over once again. 

And others captured by the first one's joy 

Were startled into rapture 

And followed, girl and boy, 

In the glamour of the game. 

Until the sunken man became 



The Little Review 27 



Bathed and spattered, 

Shaken, shattered and half-hidden, 

In the breaking foam of Children. 

There came a pause 

When the Little Ones, breathing 

Hard about Judas, saw him raise his head, 

Saw a smile like theirs, wreathing 

His face, washed with sleep, 

As though he waked in his bed 

From the keep of angels. 

In his eyes rememberance shone 

Of when he was a boy 

And looked upon the face of God everywhere; 

Of when he was himself a toy, 

A plaything of a God who dreamed 

Everywhere and everything. 

And when the Children saw 

Upon his face the broken law 

Of sin dissolve like shadows 

In a ruined wood; 

When they saw the sun come up 

Within him, fill his face as the cup 

Of the world is filled. 

They spilled their bubbling laughter on the air, 

And cuddled to his knees 

As though he, too, were of the least of these. 

His greedy arms inarticulately stuffed 

With bloomy charms, 

His roughed voice sweet 

With honey of his joy, he began: 



28 The Little Review 

"Now when 1 was a boy 

I had as little as you to give me joy, 

And made as much of it, 

Made a world of many mansions 

Each great enough for God to dwell in; 

Yes, mansions of my little joy, 

Even as do you." 

"Do we?" asked one thoughtfully, 
And, "What is mansion?" said another. 
"And who put the shadows in your face?" 
"And who took them away again?" 

"A great light put the shadows in my face." 

Said he; 

"Because I hoarded it within. 

And boarded it up with sin 

Of my importance ; 

Because I would not dance with joy of it 

Like a brook prancing to the sea, 

But in a deep dark well 

Sealed the living spirit up; 

What grace of it I could not keep 

I would not give away 

In play, like you." 

"Do we?" asked one closer than the rest. 

"And who is Grace?" from another troubled breast. 

"And what is sin?" 

"Sin is a stone," 

Dreamed Judas, his chin on a silky head, 

"Which when a seed is blown 

Upon it, harbors not 

The desire of a flower in the seed, 



The Little Review 29 

But must be broken by the shower, 

And a deal of shining, 

And the bold clutch of cold; 

Grace is the flower 

Of desire in the seed, 

And sin is the stone that will not feed the flower." 

'^Here is a flower," 

Said a Child with a daffodil. 

"And here is a stone, 

Will you show us how 

The stone won't feed the flower?" 

"Yes. will you now?" chattered all. 

Judas took the stone in one hand. 

And in the other raised a black leather bag 

That sagged from the girdle at his waist. 

"There is little grace in either. 

As much in one as in the other," 

Murmured Judas, helfting the leather bag. 

"Oh, I hear something jingle," said a little blond brother. 
"Are they sins?" said his sister. 

"NO I" spoke a voice like the beat of a great wing 
On the air behind Judas. 

Then a white light shone upon him, 
Through him spread the light 
So that no shadow of him fell 
Like night around the Children. 
And Judas looked up, 
And saw Jesus standing there. 

"See, Children!" cried Jesus, with many smiles, 



30 The Little Review 

"What the good Judas has brought you all these years; 
See. my dears, what he has saved all the stony hilly miles, 
For you!" 

And Jesus opened the black leather bag. 
And brought forth hands full of sweet bread 
Which he fed to the Children. 

Then Judas, his hands sticky 
With crumby kisses of the Little Ones, 
Went lip the hill with the great Lover, 
Under the cover of H^s arm, 
All harm gone from him. 



The Reader Critic 
Yeats's "Upon a Dying Lady" 



J., New York: 

I wonder how many of your readers know that the Seven Poems 
by William Butler Yeats in the August number of The Little Review 
were inspired by and written about Miss Mabel Beardsley, the sister 
of Aubrey Beardsley? I remember when Yeats was writing them. 
She was dying of a lingering illness. She was a Catholic, and it is 
of course well known that Aubrey Beardsley became a Catholic be- 
fore he died. Artists, poets and writers like Charles Shannon and 
Charles Ricketts, W. B. Yeats, and other old friends of her brother 
and herself, used to take turns tn visiting her. Some of them made 
points of collecting their best and in some cases most improper 
stories for her, I hope that she kept a diary and entered 
some of the stories in it. W. B. Yeats was tremendously moved by 
her fine spirit and gaiety. The Seven Poems were the result. 



The Little Review 31 

The story is one that Meredith would have loved. And she was 
a joyous creature that Meredith would have loved had he known her. 
There was no wearing of black there, no making a luxury of her 
grief, no flaunting it in the faces of others, even though they might 
S3'mpathize with or share her feelings. It was all quite French, what 
a spirited French woman would do. She would have enjoyed the 
story published in the Letters of Meredith that an old Cornish woman 
told him: 

'A hunting Squire in her neighborhood had a very handsome wife, 
whom he valued less than the fox's tail. One of the Vivians eyed 
her, admired, condoled, desired and carried her off. Some days after, 
she was taken with compunction or compassion, and about midnight 
the forsaken squire, sitting in his library, heard three knocks at the 
window. 'That's Bess,' he said, and let her in. She was for weeping 
and protesting repentance, but he kissed her, taking the blame on 
himself, rightly, and the house was quiet. Old Lady Vivian, like 
many old ladies, had outgrown her notions of masculine sentiment 
in these matters; she said to my friend: 'What are the man's family 
inaking such a fuss about! My son only had her a fortnight!'" 

Gargoyles 

An Old Reader: 

I have never been a real subscriber. The only copy of 
Tlie Little Review I ever bought was the memorable March issue 
with Galsworthy's letter in it. For a long time after that The 
Little Review was my religion; it converted me to a faith in New 
America, it inspired me to dreams and creative work. It was 
my first American sweetheart, and as long as it remained such it 
aroused in me the whole gamut of love emotions, from passionate 
admiration to passionate hatred. It would pain me to become just 
a subscriber, to manifest my attitude through a dollar and a half. 
Better leave the ashes undisturbed by profane poking. 

Of late I have thought a good deal about the magazine. I 
have been camping near the ocean, and have spent some time in 
your various haunts of last summer where the natives still gossip 
about the Little Review crowd. Plunging at night into the phos- 
phorous surf and other delightful sins, mingled with communion 
with some Little Review worshippers, has disturbed my academic 
calm and provoked my reveries. One night I was awakened and 
perceived an apparition moving from the roaring sea toward my 
gigantic fire. I heard a voice, a wail: "Help! Margaret Ander- 
son is murdering me!" Was it the spirit of The Little Review'^ 



32 The Little Review 

l-'or surely the spirit of the old Little Review is dead. You 
seem to be proud of your evolution, of the graves of your old g"ods 
that loom ill your eyes like stepping-stones to those heights where 
you bask in the wisdom of the Ezras. 1 hope your new faith is 
as sleeve-deep as your former acquired creeds. For the beauty of 
the old Little Review, the secret of its magnetism and appeal to 
Young America, lay in its youthfulness, its spontaneity, in its 
puerility, if you wish. For puerility mates with originality. The 
Ezras know too much. Their minds are black, scarcely smouldering 
logs. They are yogis; you remember how Galsworthy hoped that 
you would escape the danger of becoming yogis? 

An Ezraized Little Reviezv will have no appeal to Young Amer- 
ica. Shall I tell you that in my summer class I had students from 
various western states to the University of California because 
they saw my name in the catalogue, and they associated my 
name with the old Little Reviezv? These worshippers are cold to 
the recent issues. And I sympathize with them. The new Little 
Review is gargoylitic, monotonously so. We can still enjoy a 
passage in Wyndham Lewis, although Remy de Gourmont has 
said the same things more beautifully and less flippantly. _We 
are still grateful for such a jewel as Maxwlel Bodenheim's "Poet's 
Heart"; Bodenheim is the greatest of all the Others, for he does 
not suffer from self-consciousness, from too-much-knowing. But 
it is Ezra who sprawls all over The Little Review and bedecks it 
with gargoyles. Mr. Pound is digestible only in the early minia- 
tures: 

"Oh fan of white silk, clear as frost on the grass-blade". . . . 

I hope that you will soon tire of your over-sophisticated as- 
sociates and drive them out of the sanctuary. After all you are 
a rock .... you are still persisting at the impossible and tlie 
miraculous. I am looking forward to the next stage in your evo- 
lution. And T send you my hearty greeting, over the gargoylitic 
heads of your miseacres, for the next fresh, spontaneous Little Reviezv. 

jThis letter I think will find an echo in the minds of many of 
our first subscribers. I have several faults to find wijth its point of 
view, but one especially: I cannot see why personal qualities such 
as freshness, spontaneity, enthusiasm, etc., are in any way a gurantee 
for an interesting or important magazine. Being tempermentally 
spontaneous, my actions will always be characterized by impulsive- 
ness, etc. But I know that spontaneity will never help me to write 
an immortal poem. You must keep things in their proper corres- 
pondences. 



The Little Review 



33 



I very spontaneously accept the cooperation of a group of 
writers who can really write. Literature is their medium. Playing 
the piano is mine. When I play the piano very beautifully to the 
original Little Review "worshippers" they will know it is not because 
I am young and fresh and enthusiastic but because I know a great 
deal about how the piano should be played. I can't do such things 
to words. Wyndham Lewis does it in this issue in a passage — 
"Leonardo's beauty consisted in a red rain on the shadowed side 
of heads". . . . That is a matter of great prose. And the only reason 
for a magazine of the Arts to be published is that it shall produce 
great prose, great poetry, great reproductions of sculpture, painting, 
and music. We are going to have the latter as soon as possible. 
—M. C. A.] 

Phases of Crazes 

H. L. C, Chicago: 

I have just read your circular letter in which you state your 
aims and set forth your plans for the future. It is the best-written 
letter of the kind I have ever read. 

But I don't like your promises, so I am going to risk your 
Reader Critic (that at least is always interesting: no one ever seems 
to be safe from you) and tell you why. 

1 wish you didn't have such a craze for foreigners and self-exiled 
Americans. I think you have missed your chance right here in your 
own country. I am sure there are writers if you would go after 
them who, if they couldn't write so well, would on the other hand 
be writing in a familiar manner about subjects known to us and in 
so doing be creating a literary tradition of our own. 

I am tired of these floods of Russian, French, Scandinavian, 
Irish and Hindoo stuff tl'^it have swept the country. The "war will 
probably reduce the importation of foreign books, and I for one 
think this will be a good thing 

[I should thing there might be room in America for one 
magazine which will pfint work just because it is good, no matter 
where it is produced. All we ask in this is to be allowed a choice 
of crazes. 

To us is seems that there is an indiscriminate craze in the 
theatre, in books, in magazines, and even in exhibition rooms, for 
the American product with all its sins upon it. Let your fears for 
the contamination or stifling from abroad of American letters be 
at rest. Congress and the established publisher have attended to all 



34 T h c I.I t i I c R (■ V i e w 



that. Ignorance is protected from invasion far better than the 
country itself. 

Each generation in this country is spared the shock of contem- 
porary foreign masterpieces. When a masterpiece reaches America, 
a generation late, Time has tempered it to the shorn. I happen to 
know something of Tagore's experience with this protection. When 
Tagore was first "discovered" in America — (lie had been published 
in London and had with him only a few personal copies of his work) 
— he sent to his London publisliers for extra copies to meet the 
requests of his friends. Aside from a terrific tariff, the red tape 
and the questioning as to the integrity of his purpose in importing 
his own books proved too wearing an experience: the idea was 
abandoned. On his recent trip he brought with him a small collec- 
tion of very gentle Indian water colours, with no other motive than 
to create if possible an understanting of Indian art in this country. 
His pictures were held up at the port of Seattle, he wa called again 
and again before inspectors, made to swear all kinds of oaths, and 
to deposit a fabulous sum (some forty thousand dollars, as I re- 
member) to assure the government that liis intentions were all 
right. 

As he was leaving the country some one asked him if he ever 
intended making another visit, — (there had been some agitation be- 
fore this about including the Hindoo in the Oriental Immigration 
laws) — and Tagore replied' "1 do not know. You will make a law 
against the Hindoo coming to your country. You have now a law 
against books. It may be you will make a law against poets coming 
too?" 

When the western nations have finished making the world safe 
for democracy, if it wouldn't be too satirical the Orient might wage 
a world war to make the world safe for Art. — jh.] 

Bury bloody Bodenheim 
Bury bloody Bodenheim 
Bury bloody Bodenheim 

And Johnny Rodker too. 

—E. J. 



To 


Do you know anything more annoying or 


Our 


more ageing than to have your friends 


discover for you those cherished things in 


Readers 


Art which you should have discovered for 




yiiurself? 




The Little Review is giving its readers an 




opportunity to make their own discoveries. 




There is no magazine in America which 




has on its staff such an important line-up 




of known genius and the "yet unknowns". 




If you have any friends who are not 




entrenched in mediocrity, definitely pro- 




tecting themselves against good literature, 




tell them to subscribe to The Little Review. 




Or send us their names and we will mail 




them sample copies. 




The Little Review is doing some intensive 




growing this autumn. We have great 




plans for enlarging our format and giving 




you the best creative work that is being 




produced here and in Europe, written 




without an eye on the established pub- 




lisher, and not garbled in editorial rooms 




to meet the taste of the average mind. 




Send us the names of any people you 




think will be interested. We will appre- 




ciate it. 



THE LITTLE REVIEW 

MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Editor 
EZRA POUND, London Editor 

For October: 

A POEM, by T. S ELIOT 

PO-CHU-I, versions by ARTHUR D. WALEY 
CANTLEMAN, by WYNDHAM LEWIS 
IMAGINARY LETTERS, V., by EZRA POUND 
BARBARA ROSCORLA'S CHILD, by ARTHUR 

SYMONS 
AN EDITORIAL ON SOLICITOUS DOUBT 

For November: 

HANRAHAN'S OATH: A PLAY, by LADY GREGORY 

Editorials in The Little Review will respect no vested 
interests, no publishers' interests, no aged magazines and 
reviews, nor staffs of the same. 

Yearly Subscription, U. S. A., $1.50; Canada, $1.65; 
Great Britain and other Countries, 7/- 



THE LITTLE REVIEW 

24 West i6th Street, New York City 
Foreign Office: 5 Holland Place Chambers, London W 8. 

Enclosed find $1.50 for one year's subscription. 

beginning 

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MAKING vo COMPROMISE WITH TUV PUBLIC T 



OCTOBER, 1917 



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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

THE MAGAZINE THAT IS READ BY THOSE 
WHO WRITE THE OTHERS 



Margaret Anderson, Publisher 

OCTOBER, 1917 

Poems of Po Chu-I, translated by Arthur Waley 

Cantleman's Spring-Mate Wyndham Lewis 

Imaginary Letters, V. Ezra Pound 

Exasperations Margaret Anderson 

Improvisations William Carlos Williams 

Editorial on Solicitous Doubt Ezra Pound 

Style and American Literature Maxwell Bodenheim 
Barbara Roscorla's Child Arthur Symons 

The Reader Critic 
Announcements 

Copyright, 1917, by Margaret Anderson. 

MARGARET ANDERSON, Editor 

EZRA POUND, Foreign Editor 

24 West Sixteenth Street, New York 

15 cents a copy $1.50 a year 

Entered as second-class matter at P. O., New York, N. Y. 



THE GREENWICH VILLAGE THEATRE 

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THE 

OPENING 

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A Fantasy in two 
scenes, Behind the 
1 1 'at tea u Picture, by 
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Bacchus by Arthur 
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All about the artistic and practical 
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// you write, act, read or criticise, you need this book. 

$1.25 net 

B.W.HUEBSCH, Publisher, 225 Fifth ave., New York 



THE LITTLE REVIEW 

VOL. IV. OCTOBER 1917 No. 6. 



POEMS OF PO CHU-I 

(772-846 a. d.) 

Translated by Arthur Waley 
The Harper of Chao 

The singers have hushed their notes of clear song; 

The red sleeves of the dancers are motionless. 

Hugging his lute, the old harper of Chao 

Rocks and sways as he touches the five chords. 

The loud notes swell and scatter abroad: 

''Sa, sa", like wind blowing the rain. 

The soft notes dying almost to nothing: 

"Ch'ieh, ch'ieh", like the voice of ghosts talking. 

Now as glad as the magpie's lucky song: 

Again bitter as the gibbon's ominous cry. 

His ten fingers have no fixed note; 

Up and Aown.~"kunf, "chih" and "yu''.* 

And those who sit and listen to the tune he plays 

Of soul and body lose the mastery. 

And those who pass that way as he plays the tune 

Suddenly stop and cannot raise their feet. 

Alas, alas that the ears of common men 

Should love the modern and not love the old! 

Thus it is that the harp in the green window 

Day by day is covered deeper with dust. 



* Notes of the scale. 



The Lit tie Review 



On the Way to Hangchow: 

Anchored on the River at Night 

Little sleeping and much grieving, the traveller 
Rises at midnight and looks back toward home. 
The sands are bright with moonlight that joins the shores; 
The sail is white with dew that has covered the boat. 
Nearing the sea, the river grows broader and broader: 
Approaching autumn, the nights longer and longer 
Thirty times we have slept amid mists and waves, 
And still we have not reached Hangchow I 

Immortality 

Boundless, the great sea! 

Straight down, — no bottom: sideways, — no border. 

Of cloudy waves and misty billows down in the uttermost depths 

Men have fabled, in the midst there stand three sacred hills. 

On the hills thick growing, — herbs that banish death. 

Wings grow on those who eat them and they turn into heavenly 

hsien. 
The Lord of Ch'in^ and Wu of Han^ believed in these stories; 
And magic-workers year by year were sent to gather the herbs. 
The Blessed Islands, now and of old, what but an empty tale? 
The misty waters spread before them and they knew not where 

to seek. 
Boundless, the great sea! 
Dauntless, the mighty wind! 

Their eyes search but r.annot see the shores of the Blessed Islands. 
They cannot find the Blessed Isles and yet they dare not go back; 
Youths and maidens that began the quest grew gray on board 

the boat. 
They found that the writings of Hsij Fu were all boasts and lies; 

^ The 'First Emperor', B. C. 259 — 210. 
2 The Emperor Wu, B. C. 156—87- 



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To the Great Unity and Lofty Principle they had raised their prayers 

in vain. 
Do you not see 
The graves on the top of Black Horse Hill and the tombs at 

Mo-ling?^ 
What is left but the sighing wind blowing in the tangled grass? 
Yes, and what is more, 

The Dark and Primal Master of Sagas in his five thousand words 
Never spoke of herbs: never spoke of hsien, 
Nor spoke of climbing in broad daylight up to the blue of heaven. 



The Two Red Towers 

{A Satire Against Clericalism) 

The Two Red Towers 

North and South rise facing each other. 

I beg to ask, to whom do they belong? 

To the two princes of the period Cheng YUan.^ 

The two princes blew on their flutes and drew down fairies from 

the sky; 
Who carried them off through the Five Clouds, soaring away to 

Heaven. 
Their halls and houses, that they could not take with them, 
Were turned into Temples, planted in the Dust of the World. 
In the tiring-rooms and dancers' towers all is silent and still ; 
Only the willows like dancers' arms, and the pond like a mirror. 
.\t twilight when the flowers are falling, when things are sad and 

hushed, 
One does not hear songs and flutes, but only chimes and bells. 
The Imperial Patent on the Temple doors is written in letters of gold; 
For nuns' quarters and monks' cells ample space is allowed. 



1 The burial places of these two Emperors. 
' 785—805 A. D. 



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For green moss and bright moonlight — plenty of room provided; 
In a hovel opposite is a sick man who has hardly room to lie down! 
I remember once when at P'ing-yang they were building a great 

man's house: 
How it swallowed up the housing space of thousands of ordinary 

men. 
The Immortals^ are leaving us, two by two, and their houses are 

turned into Temples; 
I begin to fear that the whole world will become a vast convent! 



OnBoardShip: 
Reading Yuan Chen's Poems 

1 take your poems in my hand and read them beside the candle; 
The poems are finished: the candle is low: dawn not yet come. 
With sore eyes by the guttering candle still I sit in the dark, 
Listening to the waves that strike the ship driven by a head-wind. 

Arriving at Hsun-Yang' 

A bend of the river brings into view two triumphal arches; 
This is the gate in the western wall of the suburbs of Hsun-yang. 
I have still to travel in my solitary boat three or four leagues — 
By misty waters and rainy sands, while the yellow dusk thickens. 

We are almost come to Hsun-yang; how my thoughts are stirred 
As we pass to the south of Yu-liang's Tower and the east of P'en port. 
The forest trees are leafless and withered, — after the mountain 

ram; 
The roofs of the houses are hidden low among the river mists. 
The horses, fed on water-grass, are too weak to carry their load; 



1 The Empcror'.s relatives. 

2 He was banished to this place in 815 with the rank of Sub-prefect. 



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The cottage walls of wattle and thatch let the wind blow on one's 
bed. 

In the distance I see red-wheeled coaches driving from the town- 
gate; 

They have taken the trouble, these civil people to meet their new 
Prefect! 

After Getting Drunk, Becoming 
Sober in the Night 

Our party scattered at yellow dusk and I came home to bed; 

I woke at midnight and went for a walk, leaning heavily on a friend. 

As I lay on my pillow my vinous complexion, soothed by sleep, 

grew sober; 
In front of the tower the ocean moon, accompanying the tide, had 

risen . 
The swallows, about to return to the beams, went back to roost 

again; 
The candle at my window, just going out, suddenly revived its 

light. 
All the time till dawn came, still my thoughts were muddled; 
And in my ears something sounded like the music of flutes and 
strings. 

Last Poem 

They have put my bed beside this unpainted screen; 

They have shifted my stove in front of the blue curtain. 

I listen to my grandchildren reading to me from a book; 

I watch the servants heating up the soup. 

I move my pencil, answering the poems of friends; 

I feel in my pockets and pull out the medicine money. 

When this super intendance of trifling affairs is done 

I lie back on my pillows and sleep with my face to the South. 



The Little Review 



CANTELMAN'S SPRING -MATE 

Wyndham Lewis 

CANTELMAN walked in the strenuous fields, steam rising from 
them as though from an exertion, dissecting the daisies specked 
in the small wood, the primroses on the banks, the marshy lakes, 
and all God's creatures. The heat of a heavy premature Summer 
was cooking the little narrow belt of earth-air, causing everything in- 
nocently to burst its skin, bask abjectly and profoundly. Every- 
thing was enchanted with itself and with everything else. The 
horses considered the mares immensely appetising masses of quiv- 
ering shiny flesh: was there not something of "je ne sais quoi" 
about a mare, that no other beast's better half possessed? The 
birds with their little gnarled feet, and beaks made for fishing 
worms out of the mould, or the river, would have considered Shel- 
ley's references to the skylark — or any other poet's paeans to 
their species — as lamentably inadequate to describe the beauty of 
birds! The female bird, for her particular part, reflected that, in 
spite of the ineptitude of her sweetheart's latest song, which he 
insisted on deafening her with, never seemed to tire of, and was 
so persuaded that she liked as much as he did himself, and al- 
though outwardly she remained strictly critical and vicious: that 
all the same and nevertheless, chock, chock, peep, peep, he was a 
fluffy object from which certain satisfaction could be derived! 
And both the male and the female reflected together as they stood 
a foot or so apart looking at each other with one eye, and at the 
landscajDe with the other, that of all nourishment the red earth- 
worm was the juiciest and sweetest! The sow, as sfie watched her 
hog, with his splenetic energy, and guttural articulation, a sound 
between content and complaint, not noticing the untidy habits 
of both of them, gave a sharp grunt of sex-hunger, and jerked rapid- 
ly towards him. The only jarring note in this vast mutual ad- 
miration society was the fact that many of its members showed 
their fondness for their neighbour in an embarrassing way: that 
is they killed and ate them. But the weaker were so used to dying 
violent deaths and being eaten that they worried very little about 
it.=The West was gushing up a harmless volcano of fire, ob- 
viously intended as an immense dreamy nightcap. 

Cantleman in the midst of his cogitation on surrounding life, 
surprised his faithless and unfriendly brain in the act of turning 



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over an object which humiliated his meditation. He found that 
he was wondering whether at his return through the village ly- 
ing between him and the Camp, he would see the girl he had pas- 
sed there three hours bfore. At that time he had not begun his 
philosophizing, and without interference from conscience, he had 
noticed the redness of her cheeks, the animal fulness ot the child- 
bearing hips, with an eye as innocent as the bird or the beast. He 
laughed without shame or pleasure, lit his pipe and turned back 
towards the village. =: His fieldboots were covered with dust : his 
head was wet with perspiration and he carried his cap, in un- 
military fashion, in his hand. In a week he was leaving for the 
Front, for the first time. So his thoughts and sensations all had, 
as a philosophic background, the prospect of death. The In- 
fantry, and his commission, implied death or mutilation unless he 
were very lucky. He had not a high opinion of his luck. He 
was pretty miserable at the thought, in a deliberate, unemotional 
way. But as he realised this he again laughed, a similiar sound 
to that that the girl had caused. =For what was he unhappy about? 
He wanted to remain amongst his fellow insects and beasts, which 
were so beautiful, did he then: Well well! On the other hand, who 
was it that told him to do anything else? After all, supposing 
the values they attached to each other of "beautiful", "interesting", 
/'divine", were unjustified in many cases on cooler observation: — 
nevertheless birds were more beautiful than pigs: and if pigs were 
absurd and ugly, rather than handsome, and possibly chivalrous, as 
they imagined themselves; then equally the odour of the violet was 
pleasant, and there was nothing offensive about most trees. The 
newspapers were the things that stank most on earth, and human 
beings anywhere were the most ugly and offensive of the brutes 
because of the confusion caused by their consciousness. Had it 
not been for that unmaterial gift that some bungling or wild 
hand had bestowed, our sisters and brothers would be no worse 
than dogs and sheep. That they could not reconcile their little 
meagre stream of sublimity with the needs of animal life should 
not be railed at. Well then, should not the sad human amalgam, 
all it did, all it willed, all it demanded, be thrown over, for the 
fake and confusion that it was, and should not such as possessed 
a greater quantity of that wine of reason, retire, metaphorically, to 
the wilderness, and sit forever in a formal and gentle elation, re- 
fusing to be disturbed ?=rShould such allow himself to be dis- 
turbed by the quarrels of jews, the desperate perplexities, resulting 
in desperate dice throws, of politicians, the crack-jaw and un- 
reasoning tumult? 



lo The Little Review 



On the other hand, Cantleman had a little more human, as 
well as a little more divine, than those usually on his left and 
right, and he had had, not so long ago, conspicuous hopes that such 
.1 conjuncture might produce a new human chemistry. But he 
must repudiate the human entirely, if that were to be brought off. 
His present occupation, the trampling boots upon his feet, the belt 
that crossed his back and breast, was his sacrifice, his compliment 
to. the animal. 

He then began dissecting his laugh, comparing it to the pig's 
grunt and the bird's cough. He laughed again several times in 
order to listen to it. ; 

At the village he met the girl, this time with a second girl. 
He stared at her "in such a funny way" that she laughed. He 
once more laughed, the same sound as before, and bid her good 
evening. She immediately became civil. Enquiries about the 
village, and the best way back to camp across the marsh, put in 
as nimble and at the same time rustic a form as he could con- 
trive, lay the first tentative brick of what might become the 
dwelling of a friend, a sweetheart, a ghost, anylJtiing in the ab- 
surd world! He asked her to come and show him a short cut 
she had indicated. 

"I couldn't! My mother's waiting for we/" in a rush of ex- 
postulation and semi-affected alarm. However, she concluded, in 
a minute or two, that she could. 

He wished that she had been some Anne Garland, the lady 
whose lips were always flying open like a door with a defective 
latch. He had made Anne's acquaintance under distressing circum- 
stances. 

On his arrival at Gideon brook, the mighty brand-new camp 
on the edge of the marsh, he found that his colleague in charge of 
the advance party had got him a bed-space in a room with four 
officers of another regiment. It had seemed impossible that there 
were any duller men than those in the mess of his particular bat- 
talion: but it was a dullness he had become accustomed to. 

He saw his four new companions with a sinking of the heart, and 
steady gnawing anger at such concentration of furious foolishness. 

Cantleman did not know their names, and he hated them in or- 
der as follows: 

A. he hated because he found him a sturdy, shortish young man 
with a bull-like stoop and energetic rush in his walk, with flat 
feet spread out to left to right, and slightly bowed legs. This 
physique was enhanced by his leggings: and not improved, though 
hidden, in his slacks. He had a swarthy and vivacious face, 



The Little Review ii 



with a sort of Semitic cunning and insolence painted on it. His 
cheeks had a broad carmine flush on general sallowness. The mind 
painted on this face for the perusal of whoever had the art of 
such lettering, was as vulgar stuff, in Cantleman's judgement, as 
could be foimd. To see this face constantly was like hearing 
perpetually a cheap and foolish music. A. was an officer, but na- 
turally not a gentleman. 

B. he disliked, because, being lean and fresh-coloured, with glas- 
ses, he stank, to Cantleman's peculiar nose, of Jack London, Sum- 
mer Numbers of magazines, bad flabby Suburban Tennis, flabby 
clerkship in inert, though still prosperous, city offices. He brought 
a demoralizing dullness into the room with him, with a brisk punc- 
tiliousness, several inches higher from the ground than A. 

C. he resented for the sullen stupidity with which he moved 
about, the fat having settled at the bottom of his cheeks, and 
pulled the comers of his mouth down, from sheer stagnation. His 
accent dragged the listener through the larger slums of Scotland, 
harrowing him with the bestial cheerlessness of morose religion and 
poverty. The man was certainly, from every point of view% 
social perstige, character, intelligence, far less suited to hold a 
commission than most of the privates in his platoon. 

D. reproduced the characteristics of the other three, in different 
qantities: his only personal contribution being a senile sing-song 
voice, from the North, and a blond beam, or partially toothless 
grin, for a face. 

This was the society into the midst of whicn Cantleman 
had been dropped on his arrival at Gideon brook, ten days pre- 
vious to this. They had all looked up, (for it was always all, they 
having the inseparability of their kind) with friendly welcome, as 
brother officers should. He avoided their eyes, and sat amongst 
them for a few days, reading the Trumpet-Major, belonging to B. 
He had even seemed to snatch Hardy away from B. as though 
B. had no business to possess such books. Then they avoided his 
eye as though an animal disguised as an officer and gentleman 
like themselves had got into their room, for whom, therein, the 
Trumpet-Major and nothing else exercised fascination. He came 
among them suddenly, and not appearing to see them, settled 
down into a morbid intercourse with a romantic abstraction. The 
Trumpet-Major, it is true, was a soldier, that is why he was there. 
But he was an imaginary one, and imbedded in the passionate 
affairs of the village of a mock-county, and distant time. Can- 
telman bit the flesh at the side of his thumbs, as he surveyed the 
Yeomanry Cavalry revelling in the absp^t farmer's house, and 



12 The Little Review 



the infantile Famese Hercules, with the boastfulness of the Red, 
explaining to his military companions the condescensions of his 
infatuation. Anne Garland stood in the moonlight, and Loveday 
hesitated to reveal his rival, weighing a rough chivalry against 
self-interest. 

Cantelman eventually decamped with the Trumpet-Major, taking 
him across to Havre, and B. never saw his book again. Cantel- 
man had also tried to take a book away from A. (a book in- 
compatible with A's vulgar physique) . But A. had snatched it back, 
and mounted guard surlily and cunningly over it. 

In his present rustic encounter, then, he was influenced in 
his feelings towards his first shepherdess by memories of Wessex 
heroines, and the something more that being the daughter of 
a landscape-painter would give. Anne, imbued with the delicacy of 
the Mill, filled his mind to the injury of this crude marsh-plant. But 
he had his programme. Since he was forced back, by his logic and 
body, among the madness of natural things, he would live up to 
his part. 

The young woman had, or had given herself, the unlikely name of 
Stella. In the narrow road where they got away from the village, 
Cantelman put his arm around Stella's waist and immediately 
experienced all the sensations that he had been divining in the 
creatures around him; the horse, the bird and the pig. The way 
in which Stella's hips stood out, the solid blood-heated expanse on 
which his hand lay, had the amplitude and flatness of a mare. Per 
lips had at once no practical significance, but only the aesthetic 
blandishment of a bull-like flower. With the gesture of a fabulous 
Faust he drew her against him, and kissed her with a crafty 
gentleness. 

Cantelman turned up that evening in his quarters in a state of 
baffling good-humour. He took up the Trumpet-Major and was 
soon surrounded by the breathing and scratching of his room- 
mates, reading and writing. He chuckled somewhere where Hardy 
was funny. At this human noise the others fixed their eyes on him 
in sour alarm. He gave another, this time gratuitous, chuckle. 
They returned with disgust at his habits, his peculiarity, to what 
he considered their maid-servant's fiction and correspondence. Oh 
Christ, what abysms! Oh Christ, what abysms! Cantelman shook 
noisily in the wicker chair like a dog or a fly-blown old gentleman. 

Once more on the following evening he was out in the fields, 
and once more his thoughts were engaged in recapitulations.= 
The miraculous camouflage of Nature did not deceive this observer. 
He saw ever5nvhere the gun-pits and the "nests of death". Each 



The Little Review 13 



puff of green leaves he knew was in some way as harmful as the 
burst of a shell. Decay and ruins, it is true, were soon covered up, 
but there was yet that parallel, and the sight of things smashed 
and corruption. In the factory town ten miles away to the right, 
whose smoke could be seen, life was just as dangerous for the poor, 
and as uncomfortable, as for the soldier in his trench. The hy- 
pocricy of Nature and the hypocrisy of War were the same. The 
only safety in life was for the man with the soft job. But that 
fellow was not conforming to life's conditions. He was life's 
paid man, and had the mark of the sneak. He was making too 
much of life, and too much out of it. He, Cantelman, did not 
want to owe anything to life, or enter into league or understanding 
with her! The thing was either to go out of existence: or, failing 
that, remain in it unreconciled, indifferent to Nature's threat, con- 
sorting openly with her enemies, making a war within her war 
upon her servants. In short, the spectacle of the handsome English 
spring produced nothing but ideas of defiance in Cantleman's 
mind. 

As to Stella, she was a sort of Whizbang. With a treachery 
worthy of a Hun, Nature tempted him towards her. He was drug- 
ged with delicious appetites. Very well! He would hoist the im- 
seen power with his own petard. He would throw back Stella where 
she was discharged from (if it were allowable, now, to change her 
into a bomb) first having relieved himself of this humiliating 
gnawing and yearning in his blood. 

As to Stella, considered as an unconscious agent, all women 
were contaminated with Nature's hostile power and might be 
treated as spies or enemies. The only time they could be trusted, 
or were likely to stand up to Nature and show their teeth, was 
as mothers. So he approached Stella with as much falsity as he 
could master. 

At their third meeting he brought her a ring. Her melting grati- 
tude was immediately ligotted with long arms, full of the contra- 
dictoiy and offending fire of the spring. On the warm earth con- 
sent flowed up into her body from all the veins of the landscape. 
The nightingale sang ceaselessly in the small wood at the top of the 
field where they lay. He grinned up towards it, and once more 
turned to the devouring of his mate. He felt that he was raiding 
the bowels of Nature: not fecundating the Aspasias of our flimsy 
flesh, or assuaging, or competing with, the nightingale Cantelman 
was proud that he could remain deliberate and aloof, and gaze 
bravely, like a minute insect, up at the immense and melancholy 
night, with all its mad nightingales, piously folded small brown 



14 The Little Review 

wings in a million nests, night-working stars, and misty useless 
watchmen. They got up at last: she went furtively back to her 
home. Cantelman on his way to camp had a smile of severe 
satisfaction on his face. It did not occur to him that his action 
might be supremely unimportant as far as Stella was concerned. He 
had not even asked himself if, had he not been there that night, 
someone else might or might not have been there in his place. 
He was also convinced that the laurels were his, and that Nature had 
come off badly. He was still convinced of this when he received 
six weeks afterwards, in France, a long appeal from Stella, telling 
him that she was going to have a child. She received no answer 
to that nor any subsequent letter. They came to Cantelman 
with great regularity in the trenches; he read them all through from 
beginning to end, without comment of any sort. And when he 
beat a German's brains out, it was with the same impartial malign- 
ity that he had displayed in the English night with his Spring- 
mate. Only he considered there too that he was in some way 
outwitting Nature; he had no adequate realization of the extent 
to which, evidently, the death of a Hun was to the advantage of the 
animal world. 



IMAGINARY LETTERS 

V 

(Walter Villerant to Mrs. Bland Burn) 
Ezra Pound 

Y DEAR LYDIA: 

Russians! No. William is matto over his Russians. They 



M 



are all in the beginning of Fumce — all the Russians. Turgenev 
has done it: a vaporous, circumambient ideologue, inefficient, fun- 
damentally and katachrestically and unendingly futile set of bar- 
barians. Old Goff says of savages: "I like savages. They do no- 
thing that is of the least use, they do nothing the least intelligent, 
they do nothing of the least interest. They are bored. They have 
ceremonies. The malice of boredom: the medicine man makes 
them dance in a ring for hours in order to dequst their stupidity, 
per assagiarlo, to bask in the spectacle of a vacuity worse than 
his own." 



The Lit tie Review 15 

I mistrust this liking for Russians; having passed years in one 
barbarous country I can not be expected to take interest in another. 
All that is worth anything is the product of metropoles. Swill out 
these nationalist movements. Ireland is a suburb of Liverpool. And 
Russia! The aged Findell comes back in ecstacy, saying "It is 
just like America." That also bores me. They say Frankfort-am- 
Main is just like America. 

Paris is not like America. London is not like America. Venice 
is not like America. Perugia is not like America. They are not 
the least like each other. No place where the dew of civilization 
has fallen is "just like" anywhere else. Verona and Pavia are 
different. Poictiers is different. Aries is a place to itself. 

Dostoevsky takes seven chapters to finish with an imbecile's wor- 
ries about a boil on the end of his nose. Dostoevsky is an eminent 
writer. Let us thank the gods he existed. I do not read Dostoev- 
sky. Several young writers have impressed me as men of genius, by 
reason of tricks and qualities borrowed from Dostoevsky. At length 
when the craze is over, I shall have to read Dostoevsky. And so 
on ... . I have also read Samuel Butler. And Poetry? As 
the eminently cultured female, Elis writes me that her little cousin 
will have nothing to do with it. Rubbish! Her little cousin will 
read Li Po, and listen to the rondels of Froissart. I know, for I 
tried her. 

Elis has imbibed a complete catalogue, with dates, names of 
authors, chief works, "influence" of A, B, C, on M, N, O, etc., 
etc., with biographies of the writers, and "periods". Buncomb! 
Her cousin, who knows "nothing at all", is ten times better edu- 
cated. No? She "doesn't like poetry", Anglice: she doesn't like 
Swinburne. It is not the least the same thing. And she is worried 
by most of Dowson, etc. 

Elis appeals to me as possessing "manner" or "prestige", i. e. 
professorial aspects, to coerce the rebellious infant. 

She says I used to read Swinburne "so splendidly". Damn it 
all! I believe this to be true. The "first fine", etc. "The hounds 
of swat are on the wobbles wip wop". Ma';nificent sound. Now 
as a matter of fact I tried to read A. C. S. to the small cousin 
and broke down Isunentably. The constant influx of "wrong words" 
put me out of it altogether. 

And Browning is full of jejune remarks about God. And only 
parts of Landor are left us. And Elis says the girl will be no 
use to me whatsoever. (Neither she may, perhaps. But who is any 
lose to me? Hackett I see once a month in a state of exhaustion, i. e. 
H. in a state of exhaustion). He makes two negative but intel- 



i6 The Little Review 



ligent remarks, and departs before the conversation develops. Your 
spouse is afar from us both. We are surrounded by live stock. 

I enjoy certain animal contacts .... without malice. I have 
a "nice disposition". I pat them like so many retrievers . . . ehbene? 
I live as a man among herds .... for which I have a considerate, 
or at least considerable, if misplaced, affection. "Herds" is possibly 
a misnomer. A litter of pups that amuses me. I am not prey to 
William's hostilities . . . save that I dislike ill-natured animals. 

As for poetry: : : how the devil can anyone like it . . . given, I 
mean, the sort of thing usually purveyed under that label? 

The girl asked me the only sane question I have ever hlad 
asked me about it. 

''But is there no one like Bach? No one where one can get all 
of it?'' 

That staves in my stratified culture. 

The Odyssey? But she does not — naturally, she does not read 
greek. She is "wholly uneducated". That is to say I find her 
reading Voltaire and Henry James with placidity. 

And Dante? But she does not read italian. Nor latin. And 
besides, Dante! One needs a whole apparatus criticus to sift out 
his good from his bad; the appalling syntax from the magnificence of 
the passion. Miss Mitford said "Dante is gothic." Out of the 
mouths of prudes and imbeciles 1 Gothic, involved, and magnificent, 
and a master of nearly all forms of expression. And what, pray, is 
one to reply to a person who after having read Maison Telli^r, 
refuses to stand "The fifth chariot of the pole, already upturning, 
when I who had etc., . . . turning as Pyramus whom when the mul- 
berry had been tasted .... not otherwise than as etc." The 
quotation is inexact, but 1 can not be expected to carry english tran- 
slations of Dante about with me in a suit case. Dante is a sealed 
book to our virgin, and likewise Catullus, and Villon is difficult 
french .... and Sappho .... perhaps a little Swinbumian? 
Hie mi par esse .... is possibly better than the Aeolic original; 
harder in outline. (If this bores you. give it to Elis). Chaucer 
writes in a forgotten language. One must read earlier authors first 
if one is to run through him with ease as with pleasure. What 
the devil is left us? What argument for a person too sincere to 
give way to the current mania for assenting to culture? The 
fanaticism of certain people who believe they ought to "read poetry" 
and "be accjuainted with" art. A person, I mean, who has taken 
naturally to good prose; who is so little concerned with appearing 
educated that she does not know whether Shelley is a dead poet or 
still living, ditto. Keats. It is qtute oriental. Ramdath told mc 



The Little Review 17 



a tale from the Mahabharata, but it was only when I found it in 
the Mahabarata that I discovered it had not happened to Ram- 
dath's grandpapa. If people would forget a bit more, we might have 
a real love of poetry. Imagine on what delightful terms the living 
would compete with their forbears if the doriphory of death were 
once, for even a week or so, removed from the "brows" or "works" 
of the "standard" authors. No more Job and Stock's "Works of 
the Poets", series including Mrs. Hemans, Proctor and Cowper 7/6, 
5/, 2/6, hymn-book padded leather with gilding, real cloth with 
gilding, plain covers. The great Victorian age has done even better. 
Culture, utility! ! I found in lodgings a tin biscuit-box, an adorn- 
ment. It represensented a bundle of books, of equal size, bound 
in leather, a series, the spiritual legacy of an era, education, popu- 
larity. The titles of the tin books were as follows: 

History of England. 

Pilgrim's Progress. 

Burns. 

Pickwick Papers 

Robinson Crusoe. 

Gulliver's Travels. 

Self-Help. 

Shakespeare 

Is it any wonder we have Gosse cautioning us against De 
Maupassant's account of Swinburne, and saying that De M's un- 
bridled fancy gave great offence when it reached the recluse at 
Putney. Or dribbling, i, e. Gosse dribbling along about "events 
at the Art Club which were widely discussed at the time" (italics 
mine) when he might have said simply "Algernon got drunk and 
stove in all the hats in the cloak-room". 

Yours, 
Walter Villerant. 



i8 The Little Review 

EXASPERATIONS 

Margaret Anderson 

CARL VAN VECHTEN has an article about Mary Garden in 
The Bellman which he prefaces with the aesthetic discovery 
that in her art Mary Garden leaves nothing to accident. Oh subtle 
critical mind! .... Mr. Van Vechten should write art notes for 
The New York Times, — which I believe he has done. I remember 
once, in a discussion on music, I asked him furiously whether he 
knew anything about the subject, only to learn that he had been a 
Times music critic for years — which is quite as it should be. 

I UNDERSTAND that The Seven Arts is about to suspend 
publication because of the withdrawal of its chief patron, Mrs. 
Rankine, on account of an irreconcilable disagreement between her 
and the editorial body concerning a war policy. There are intelligent 
people, I hear, who are prepared to defend her action. But there 
is no conceivably intelligent defense for such an action. It is simply 
another case of the proverbial and astounding American "nerve". 
In the case of a magazine of the Arts it is a truly collossal nerve. 
How dare Mrs. Rankine or any other patron take the responsibility 
of the several thousand readers who subscribed to The Seven Arts 
because they wished to read what its editors had to say? Whether 
they agreed or not with what was said has nothing to do with it. 
It is even conceivable that some of them may have enjoyed reading 
what they did not agree with, or that some of them (ghastly but pos- 
sible) approved of the Seven Arts attitude toward the war. Only 
one thing is certain: that none of those subscribers read the maga- 
zine because of anything Mrs. Rankine contributed to its pages. 

But a certain type of American mind is capable of anything. This 
moral nation is now facing the issue of prohibition. If the prohibi- 
tionists are successful great vineyards in California will be burned. 
To burn a vineyard! — is it conceivable? A vineyard is a beautiful 
thing .... 

PR MONTHS, everywhere I have looked for life I have found 
death — except in two cases: once in the instance of death 
itself, and once in the spectacle of an old woman. 

The first was an "absurd and unmerited exile," impossible to bear; 
and it gave me forever, though I could not be there, the picture of a 
woman with a high thin nose lying in a coffin, — part of that beauty 
which alone is indestructible. The second was Sarah Bernhardt in 
an act of Camille, — a thing immortal beyond any words that I 
can find. 



T he Lit tl e Review 19 

IMPROVISATIONS 

William Carlos Williams - 



POLS have big wombs. For the rest? — ^here is pennyroyal if one 
knows to use it. But time is only another liar, so go along the 
wall a little further: if blackberries prove bitter there'll be mush- 
rooms, fairy-ring mushrooms, in the grass, sweetest of all fungi. 

II 

For what it's worth: Jacob Louslinger, white haired, stinking, 
dirty bearded, cross eyed, stammer tongued, broken voiced, bent 
backed, ball kneed, cave bellied, mucous faced — deathling, — found 
lying in the weeds "up there by the cemetery". "Looks to me as if 
he'd been bumming around the meadows for a couple of weeks". 
Shoes twisted into incredible lilies: out at toes, heels, tops, sides, 
soles. Meadow flower! ha, mallow! at last I have you. (Rot 
dead marigolds — an acre at a time! Gold, are you?) Ha, clouds 
will touch world's edge and the great pink mallow stand singly in 
the wet, topping reeds and — a closet full of clothes and good ^oes 
and my-thirty-year's- master's- daughter's two cows for me to care 
for and a winter room with a fire in it — . I would rather feed 
pigs in Moonachie and chew calamus root and break crab's claws at 
an open fire; age's lust loose! 

Ill 

Talk as you will, say: "No woman wants to bother with children 
in this country"; — speak of your Amsterdam and the whitest aprons 
and brightest door-knobs in Christendom. And I'll answer you: 
"Gleaming door-knobs and scrubbed entries have heard the songs 
of the housemaids at sun-up and — housemaids are wishes. Whose? 
Ha! the dark canals are whistling, whistling for who will cross to 
the other side. If I remain with hands in pocket leaning upon my 
lamp-post — ^why, — I bring curses to a hag's lips and her daughter 
on her arm knows better than I can tell you: best to blush and out 
with it than back beaten after. 



20 The Little Review 



EDITORIAL ON SOLICITOUS DOUBT 
Ezra Pound 



VARIOUS people have expressed certain doubts as to whether . . . 
The Little Review .... etc 

Good people, be at rest: the price of The Little Review will 
never be raised for present subscribers or for those who subscribe 
before January i, 19 18 . After that we can make no promises. The 
quality will not decline; if we give "twice as much of it" the new 
readers will have to pay more. If we had given you only Mr. Yeats's 
fourteen poems we would already have given you more literature 
than is to be found in the "four big" magazines since the beginning 
of our present volume. 

Next month you will have a whole play by Lady Gregory. 
Mr. Lewis, after having been in some heavy fighting is now in hospi- 
tal, and that leisure has made sure the supply of his prose for some 
time. I have now at my elbow the first eighty-eight pages of the 
best book Ford Madox Hueffer has written. WTiy "the best book"? 
Five years ago Mr. Hueffer read me this manuscript, an imfinished 
work for which there was presumeably "no market". 1 
read the typescript which was brought me last evening; so familiar ' 
is the text that I can scarcely convince myself that it is five years i 
since I heard the even voice of the author pronouncing it. I do not I 
think my memory is particularly good, I think there must be some f 
quality in a man's style and matter if it is to stay fresh in another | 
man's mind for so long. Mr. Hueffer's Women and Men will run 
in The Little Review from January 1918 to May 1919 inclusive, un- 
less interfered with by force majeur. Perhaps it is not his best 
book. 

Lest there be any confusion about Olivers, Madoxes, Madox 
Browns, Francis Hueffers, etc. Ford Madox Hueffer is the author 
of various novels, and of The Heart 0} the Country, The Soul of 
London, Ancient Lights, Collected Poems, of On Heaven, the first 
successful long poem in English vers libre, after Whitman. This 
poem appeared in Poetry for June 1914, and has certainly as 
much claim to permanence as, say, Meredith's Love in the Volley. 

Beside his own achievement, Mr. Hueffer has done one definite 
service to English letters. This service is unquestioned, and recogni- 
tion of it does not rest upon any personal liking or disliking of 



The Little Review 21 



Ir. Hueffer's doctrines of writing. In 1908 he founded The English 
'.eview; for a year and a half he edited that magazine and during 
aat time he printed work not only by the great men of letters, 
jiatole France, Thomas Hardy, Swinburne, Henry James, not only 
y men of public reputation like Wells, and Conrad and Bennett, but 
Iso by about all the younger men who have since made good. 
'or example by Lewis (in 1909), and by other now well-known 
oung men who have both made good and declined since that date. 
lis editorship of the review marks a very definate period; at the 
ad of it, as its glory was literary, not commercial, it was bought 
y certain jews, who thought Mr. Hueffer a damn fool (possibly 
ecause of his devotion to literature), and who gave the editor- 
[lip into other hands. Comparison of current numbers of The 
English Review with the first numbers issued from 84 Holland 
'ark Avenue, will give any thinking person all the data he wants 
1 deciding between the folly of Hueffer and the folly of manufac- 
uring, political hebrews. In fact, if a crime agamst literature 
ould bring any shame upon that class of person, this family would 

into penitence, which needless to say they will not. But the 
areful historian of literature will record and remember their shame. 
Tie files of the review being stored in the British Museum, the 
ata will continue available. There will be no faking the records. 

The Little Review is now the first effort to do comparitively 
^hat The English Review did during its first year and a half: that 
;, to maintain the rights and position of literature, I do not say 

1 contempt of the public, but in spite of the curious system of 
•ade and traders which has grown up with the purpose or result of 
iterposing itself between literature and the public. 

We act in spite of the public's utter impotence to get good liter- 
ture for itself, and in despite of the efforts of the "trade" to 
itiate the public with a substitute, to still their appetite for liter- 
ture by providing them, at a cheaper rate and more conveniently, 
ith a swallowable substitute. 

Whereanent a very successful journalist has said to me: We, 

e. we journalists, are like mediums. People go to a spiritist 
§ance and hear what they want to hear. It is the same with 

leading article: we write so that the reader will find what he 
'ants to find. 

That is the root of the matter; there is good journalism and 
ad journalism, and journalism that "looks" like "literature" and 
terature etc ... . 

But the root of the difference is that in journalism the reader 
nds what he is looking for, what he, the reader wants; whereas 



22 The Little Review 



in literature he must find at least a part of what the author ii 
tended. 

That is why "the first impression of a work of genius" is "near 
always disagreeable", at least to the "average man". The publ 
loathe the violence done to their self-conceit whenever an autht 
conveys to them an idea that is his, not their own. 

This difference is lasting and profound. Even in the vaguest < 
poetry, or the vaguest music, where in a sense the receiver ma 
or must, make half the beauty he is to receive, there is always som 
thing of the author or composer which must be transmitted. 

In journalism, or the ''bad art" which is but journalism thin, 
disguised, there is no such strain on the public. 

I am now at the end of my space. Of Remy de Gourmont 
feeling toward such a magazine as we are now making I will wri 
in the December number. 



STYLE AND AMERICAN LITERATURE 

Maxwell Bodenheim 

AMERICAN literature is divided into three plaintive continent: 
clear cold psychological data; sentimental unbeautiful lyinj 
and social propaganda. The first is a photograph; the second, 
pretty vase; and the third, a decorated sledge-hammer. 

The American Writer earnestly strives to accomplish something 
he starts out with a fixed and lofty objective which ranges fro; 
a "portrayal of the soul of the masses" and an exposure of the ii 
iquities of the present social system, to "an unfolding of the poeti 
that lies in simple people". He seizes upon ideas that have bee 
current coin in Europe for the past century, writes them muo 
worse than they were originally written, and is hailed as a geniu 
His characters are marvels of realism — stop any milkman on tl: 
corner and he will talk exactly as Dreiser's Witla talks, and ai 
just as ordinary human beings in the "Arcadia Residence Hotel" ( 
Winklehofer's Alley would act. He writes on the theory that hi 
man beings lack eyes and cannot see the conditions aboi 
thm, but must be carefully told in lengths of four hundred page 
that a grafting politician is looting a city, that a man can immers 
himself in moneymaking and lose his soul, that working-people ai 
unjustly treated, that women are asserting their economic inde 
pendence, and that society people drink and have gossamer-moralj 



The Little Review 23 



I he is striving to educate people who are inclined to argue pro 
id con about these subtle matters, he could become a far more 
fective elementary teacher by compiling with his fellow-writers 
1 encyclopedia which could be printed in serizd form, or by haying 
is work made into text books for schools and colleges. Since 
s aim is really the spreading of information about human beings, 
iscriptive and phsycological, his prose style is always simple, strong 
id clear, as the phrase goes, and he leaves imagination and 
jautiful word-mosaics to weak-kneed poets, who believe in mak- 
g lyrical, elaborate lies about human beings and life in a des- 
jrate effort to escape the simple, strong and clear nightmares of 
mditions and sights about them. But what am I saying? Modem 
merican poets have also become realistic in a different way. It 
is become a rigid shiboleth among American poets of the present 
ly, that writing about a rose or a sunset inevitably proves that a 
an is a minor poet, and that steam-cranes, shoe-string peddlars, 
rm-hands, the Panama Canal, ice-wagon drivers and machinists 
e the only fit subjects for a spirited poet. And so the most sin- 
re of the present landslide of American poets write about these 
ibjects in a bold and true manner, providing a sort of unadorned 
ndergarten which your soul is supposed to attend. And the 
ast sincere among them sing of realistic sights, but seem a little 
hamed of their content, hiding it with picture-puzzle styles, 
hich you piece together only to discover that they lead to very 
mple meanings. 

Then there is another class of contemporary American poets, 
10 strive hard to achieve subtle meanings, not realizing that only 
erary style is subtle, and that meanings are all on about the 
me intangible level. These poets write poems that seem exper- 
sents in differential calculus, until you suddenly discover that they 
e in reality many simple concepts mixed in a temporarily baf- 
ng fashion. In their plaintive search for originality ol thought 
d emotion American writers achieve only twisted echoes of old- 
)rl(f literature, for the simple reason that outside of scientific 
search and pure philosophy ideas are eunuchs drained by centuries, 
d dressed in variations of old costumes. Any modem writer with 
little research can discover that some old Hindoo or Chinaman 
European said exactly what he is saying, and in a far more 
laginative and beautiful way. But literary style alone remains 
comparatively untouched region, because the great majority of 
"iters, since the beginning of the Christian era, have always been 
itched by some great buming message which they fancied the 
)rld needed or by some new situation in which human beings would 



24 The Little Review 



act differently than they ever before acted, or by some importa 
moral that required hundreds of pages for illustration. Wh< 
they abandoned these important kingships it was cither to lo 
themselves in aimless tears, to become vaguely exuberant, or 
shrewdly analyze the mob-desires of their days and settle down 
careful entertaining. In all of these aims, literary style becar 
chief-cook-and-bottle-washer — an obedient servant, who was the 
oughly whipped if he ever became rebellious, and achieved momer 
of sheer word-beauty, which failed to illuminate the aim of t 
writer, or which momentarily crystalized the writer's formless rha 
sodies. 

Therefore absolutely new and beautiful word-designs are possib 
since words alone, unconnected with great messages or sentimem 
self-portrayals, have been practically ignored by writers of t 
Christian Era. 

When American writers become thoroughly decandent, and a 
not ashamed to frolic ardently with words, writing in a passions 
surge in which imagination becomes a tipsy priest, marrying wor 
and meaning, and waltzing arm in arm down the road with the 
beauty in j^erican literature will have its inception. One cri 
claims that this situation is impossible, because of the complace 
democracy of this country, in which every country bumpkin a 
rich man with a large library considers himself an infallible juc 
of literary values, among other questions of art. Because of tl 
he believes that only those writers who deal in elementary soc 
instruction or sentimental commonplaces, can secure a hearing. B 
even if a small aristocracy were in control of the literary situati 
here, beautiful books would have to be distributed free of chai 
and would gain very little in circulation, because the average Am< 
ican is an unmellowed self-confident nondescript who considers c 
ture to be for sale at bargain-prices. Each European country t 
had centuries in which to condense into that quiet sophisticati 
which demands in fiction and poetry other intangible food than ca 
nomic sermons or descriptions of the surface facts of its da 
life, or sentimental ecstasies, while the American is still a lit 
growing boy, interested only in literary marble-games. The Am« 
ican political situation has nothing to do with this — if we changed 
a kingdom or an economic Utopia tomorrow the American ci 
zen would still purchase tons of Governeur Morris and Edna Ft 
ber, and would still wistfully and wearily try to wade through < 
casional volumes from writers who have been recommended to h 
as "highbrows". 



The Little Review 



25 



:ARBARA ROSCORLA'S CHILD 

A Play in One Act 

Arthur Symons 

^HARACTERS: 

ETER ROSCORLA, aged 40 

R. TREVITHICK 

STER AGATHA, a Nurse 

SENATH, an old woman who has been Peter Roscorla's nurse. 

The action takes place in the dining-hall of Roscorla 
Manor, near the sea-coast 0} Cornwall. The hall is 
lofty, panelled with oak, jurnished squarely with old 
oak furniture. There is an open hearth, with oak 
benches, on the right; beyond the fireplace is a door, 
leading into the house. In the centre of the hall is a 
long table, the end of which faces the audience. An 
oak arm-chair stands at the head, plain oak chairs at 
the sides. At the back, to the left of the table, is a 
door leading into a bedroom. On the left is a panelled 
screen which reaches two-thirds of the way to the ceil- 
ing and forms the whole of the wall. A door in the 
centre of it leads to the entrance-hall. 

It is twilight in autumn. During the whole of the 
action BARBARA ROSCORLA is lying in bed, in the 
inner room. With her, during the first part of the play, 
is SISTER KATHERINE, a nurse. 

ASENATH and SISTER AGATHA are seated by 
the fire; the old woman drowses. 

The wind is heard as the curtain rises. 

{with a start) Asenath, Asenath, is ihat only the wind? 

{rousing herself) Eh? 

Is that the wind? 

It is the wind from the sea. It blew all night. You 

c^ hear the sea out beyond; sometimes you can hear 



26 



The Little Review 



it louder than the wind. There's always been wu 

at sea when the Roscorlas were bom; they brii 

trouble. 
SISTER A.: The wind frightens me I have never been qui 

myself since I came here. 
ASENATH: Yes, yes, the Roscorlas come with the wind; th' 

bring trouble. 
SISTER A.: (nodding her head towards the closed door) Do y' 

think she is going to die? 
ASENATH: It isn't death I'm fearing; it's being bom. 
SISTER A.: Is that what she is afraid of? 
ASENATH: It's a poor gift being bom; if they that come cou 

think twice, not many of them would take it. 
SISTER A.: Is that what she is afraid of? I have never seen a! 

woman who seemed to dread so what was going 

happen. She lies there all the time as if she we 

seeing a ghost. 
ASENATH: The wives of all the Roscorlas feared what they we 

going to bring into the world. Peter Roscorla's w 

is only like all the others. 
SISTER A.: I have never seen any woman who was so afraid 

being a mother. 
ASENATH: Any woman is wise to fear it; there's little joy ai 

much care for any mother; but it's a bitter moth< 

hood here in this house. She does right to fear it. 
SISTER A.: She is such a little thing, and so young, and sometin* 

she trembles all over, so that the bed quivers. 
ASENATH: She is thinking on that that's to be. Did she s- 

nothing when you were with her? 
SISTER A.: She said nothing; she lay there with her long black hi 

all over the pillow; her eyes were wide open, stari 

straight in front of her; I think she was listening 

the wind. 
ASENATH: The last that was born in this house was Grega 

Roscorla, Peter Roscorla's brother; there was an c 

wind when he was born, and the sea came up the v 

lagc street as far as the market-cross. 
SISTER A.: I have never seen Gregory Roscorla- does he not cod 

to this house? 
ASENATH: Not for these fifteen years. He was the best of thei 

Gregory; a fine lad, a wild lad; but he was his fathei 

child, his father loved him the best. Tis his pla 

here, by rights of love* but it's Peter's by rights 



The Little Review 



27 



law. Peter's the elder, and his father hated him for 
that, and now he hates his brother that's younger, 
and they haven't spoken a word for these fifteen 
years, and Gregory hasn't set a foot inside the house. 
Do they hate one another so much? 
(leaning forward, speaking low). Shall I tell you a 
thing? Why do you think Peter Roscorla is so hungry 
for the child to come that's coming, and why has he 
been wild for joy ever since he had the hope of him, 
and why does he fear every minute of the day that 
his wife isn't cared for as she should be? Is it love 
for his wife, do you think? Is it just and only be- 
cause he wants a son of his own? O, he loves his 
wife, and he's hungering for a son of his own; but 
it's to spite his brother as well, it's for fear his brother 
should come to take his place here after he's dead; 
it's because his brother shan't inherit Roscorla. 
Has his brother ever done him any harm? 
Gregory never did any man harm; but the Roscorla 
blood's in Peter. Do you know what they say in 
these parts? "To hate like a Roscorla." Peter will 
have an evil child. 

And she, why is it she is so afraid of being a mother? 
(as before, leaning forward and speaking low). Do 
you know how Peter Roscorla that was, died? No one 
knows how he died; his sons don't know how he died; 
/ tended him, weeks and weeks, and he cried on God 
and the saints when he saw hell-fire coming near him; 
there was the smoke of it in his eyes, and he fell a- 
whimpering at the last, and he cursed the father that 
had begotten him. The child that's going to be born 
will curse his father. 
Do you mean that they are all — ? 
An evil race, bad sons, and bad fathers; evil in the 
blood. They come and they go with the wind, and it's 
the birth that's the greater evil. 
And she, does she know? 
(keenly) Ay, she knows now. 
Didn't she know when she married him? 
What does a young girl know? A little and sweet 
thing, like a young child, that I could take in my 
arms. But she knows now, (meaningly). 
She should never have known. 



28 



The Lit tie Review 



ASENATH: (fiercely) It was right for her to know; what I to 
her I told her for her good. 

SISTER A.: (rising, in agitation). You? Do you mean that yt 
told her? 

(The door at the side opens and PETER RO 
CORLA enters. He is in riding gaiters, spotted wi 
mud; he carries a whip which he lays down gently < 
a table near the door. He moves with clumsy cat 
glancing at the bedroom door, as if afraid of distur 
ing his wife. 

ROSCORLA: (going over to SISTER AGATHA and speakh 
rapidly and harshly). Why are you not with he 
Has the doctor called? 

SISTER A.: (standing stiffly). Sister Katherine is taking t 
turn to watch beside her; she was asleep when I 1« 
her. The doctor has not called. 

ROSCORLA: (taking out his watch and putting it back wit ho 
looking at it). I went for him, but he wasn't the 
When do you think he will come? (Takes out wat 
again and looks at it). You say she's asleep. H 
she been quite quiet? said nothing? not wanted an 
thing? 

SISTER A.: She cried a little, but very quietly. She has sa 
nothing. 

ROSCORLA: (makes a few steps, then turns — anxiously). Wh 
do you think he will come? 

SISTER A.: The doctor promised to be here soon after five. 

ROSCORLA: (looking at his watch and speaking slowly). Fi 
minutes to five. (He controls himself with an effor 
(appealingly) I suppose I mayn't go in? 

(SISTER AGATHA shakes her head firmly, s 
sits down in her former seat, and turns to the fi: 
ROSCORLA moves away and seats himself heav 
in the oak armchair at the upper end of the long tab 
ASENATH has not taken her eyes off his face 
looks at her abruptly). 
What are you staring at me for, like an old rave 

ASENATH: Mayn't old Asenath look at you, Master Peter? I 
three generations of the Roscorlas that she's se 
born. There was Peter Roscorla. your father, th( 
was you. Master Peter, there was Master Gregory- 



i 



The Little Review 29 

iOSCORLA: (his face convulsed with rage) Gregory! 

(He is about to bring down his fist on the table 
when he stops, glancing aside at the closed door. 
ASENATH gets up and comes over to him slowly )- 

^SENATH: (shaking her head). No birth here comes to good. 
There's a wind at sea. Master Peter, there's a wind 
coming in from the sea; the wind's bringing trouble, it's 
bringing trouble to the Roscorlas; mark my words, it's 
an evil night, Master Peter, it's an evil night to be 
born on. 

lOSCORLA: (angrily, looking up at her with an ugly sneer) 
You're the witch on the hearth, Asenath; you always 
bode ill-luck. But you're wrong; it's an ill wind, 
Asenath, but it's bringing good luck to me. 

kSENATH.: (shaking her head). No birth here comes to good. 
Master Peter. Do you know what you're going to 
give to the child that's to be bom? 

(He stares at her with a puzzled look). 
The legacy of the Roscorlas. 

(As she speaks the door at the side opens and DR. 
TREVITHJCK enters. He comes up to the table. 
ROSCORLA rises eagerly). 

LOSCORLA: I am so glad you have come. And you will stay? 

)R. T.: I have to see an old man in the village. But I can at- 

tend to that later. There is no change, Sister Agatha? 

ISTER A.: (rising and coming forward) There is no change, doc- 
tor. She was asleep a little while ago. Shall I see 
if she is awake? 

'R. T. : If you please. 

(SISTER AGATHA opens the bedroom door quiet- 
ly, and goes in. Part of the bed is seen as she opens 
the door). 

(The Doctor turns to ROSCORLA, looking at him 
keenly). 
Have you done exactly as I told you? 

OSCORLA: (meekly) Yes, doctor. 

•R. T.: You have left her quite alone; not disturbed her in 

way? not let her know that you have any anxiety? 

OSCORLA: I have left her quite alone. 

(SISTER AGATHA opens the bedroom door, and 
beckons to the doctor, who goes in. The stage has 
gradually darkened: ASENATH gets up and lights 



.^0 



The Little Review 



several candles, which give a dim light. 

ROSCORLA walks up and down uneasily; sue 
denly he stops in jront oj ASENATU, who is in th 
act oj lighting a candle). 
What do you mean by what you said just now? 
(hypocritically) What was it I was saying just nov 
Master Peter? 

(She goes back to the fireside. He jollows her). 
The legacy of the Roscorlas. What did you mean 
It was only a word that I said, Master, and there W£ 
no great meaning in it. Birth and death I've seen tt 
coming and going of them for three generation 
(Looking up at him and putting her hand on k 
sleeve). Are you not fearing this birth that's goir 
to be? 

ROSCORLA: (excitedly) Asenath, when I come in here holding re 
son in my arms- 



ASENATH: 



ROSCX)RLA 
ASENATH: 



ASENATH: 
ROSCORLA: 

ASENATH: 



ROSCORLA 



ASENATH: 



ASENATH: 

ROSCORLA 
DR. T: 



ROSCORLA 
DR. T.: 



Your son. Master Peter? 

It must be a son. Hasn't the first-born here alwa? 

been a son, Asenath? 

Very true, Master; the first-bom of the Roscorlas hj 

always been a son; yes, it'll be a son, Master Pete 

and the blood of the Roscorlas will be in him . . 

(triumphantly) Didn't I tell you? The legacy of tl 

Roscorlas! Is that what you meant? It's old bloo 

good Cornish blood, the blood of gentlemen. 

Ay, ay, old and gentle; do you know what goes to tli 

seasoning of old blood among gentle- folk? 

(The bedroom door opens, and the doctor comi 
out with a very anxious look on his face. He loot 
scrutinisingly at ROSCORLA before speaking to hit 
ASENATH looks suspiciously at the doctor, and mu 
ters, shaking her head). 

It's not the doctor that's wanted, but the power 
God! 

(ASENATH goes out by the door on the right). 
Well, doctor? 
(A pause). 

(sitting down at the side of the table and leaning h 
arms upon it) I must not hide from you that the ca 
is grave. 

She is worse 1 She is not dying? 
She is not dying. But she is not out of danger. 



The Little Review 



31 



lOSCORLA; 
JR. T.: 



lOSCORLA: 
)R. T,: 

lOSCORLA: 
)R. T.: 



lOSCORLA: 
)R .T.: 

LOSCORLA: 
)R. T.: 



OSCORLA 
R. T.: 



OSCORLA 
R. T.: 

OSCORLA 



R. T.: 
OSCORLA 



Only — you are going to save her! 
I hope so, I think so. But, something may have to be 
done, as I feared. There are times when it is doubt- 
ful if we or Nature are the best physicians. Nature 
generally knows better than we do, but she is not al- 
ways to be trusted to do what we want. 
Something will have to be done! 
May have to be done. Do you mind if I ask you a 
few questions? 

I will answer anything you ask me. 
Do you know I sometimes wish we physicians had the 
power that our rival, the priest, has; the power of 
getting at the truth, the real, inner truth of our pa- 
tients. The body is so often little more than the slave 
of the mind And yet all we can say is: "Do you 
feel a pain here, a pain there?" the mere ache of the 
body. We dare not pry into the soul. 
What do you mean? 

If I were a priest, I would ask your wife to come to me 
for confession. 

: (proudly) My wife has nothing to confess. 
Do not misunderstand me. Something has been prey- 
ing on her mind; the mind has helped to take its own 
revenge upon the body; some shock, some brooding 
trouble; do you know of any? 
(shaking his head blankly) No. 
Something to account for what is certainly the fact: 
that she has a morbid horror of giving birth to a 
child. 

; Nothing possible in the world. 
How long is it since she became melancholy, silent, 
brooding? Since she has expected the child? 
: She was filled with joy! Oh, it is not that. Some- 
thing has changed her, but not that, about five months 
ago. I don't know what it was. There was no reason. 
There could have been no reason. 
And since then? 
•.(bitterly) She has been different, she has seemed as 
if she were afraid of something; afraid of me! But 
it's nerves, surely it's nothing but nerves? It's wild 
here in the Winter, the house is gloomy, it's too 
near the sea. She is rather afraid of the sea and the 
wind, but I'll take her to London, 111 do anything 



The Little Review 



she likes. I'm very fond of Barbara! All I want is 

one thing: my son. It will be a son. It must be. It's 

all I want in the world. 
DR. T.: You want a son more than anything in the world? 

(A pause). 

Do you know I don't always agree with people wher 

they express that wish. There are some children wh( 

should never be bom. (He looks at ROSCORLA 

keenly). 
ROSCORLA: (excitedly) My son must be born. If I don't have 

son, Gregory gets the land when I die. 
DR. T. : Is that why you want a son so much, Ro.scorla? 

ROSCORLA: (rising to his jeet, in intense excitement, and leaninf 

towards the doctor) Isn't that reason enough 

Gregory shall never be master here, not if I'm alive 

not if I'm dead. / keep him out now, and my soi 

keeps him out when I'm gone. 
DR. T.: ^"What wrong has your brother done you? 

ROSCORLA: (sitting down fiercely) Wrong? Nonel He exists. 
DR. T.: Is that enough reason, in your family, for hating on- 

another? 
ROSCORLA: (jumping up in rage) Yes. (Sitting down again) 

Don't you know the saying: to hate like a Roscorla 

It's a true saying. 
DR. T. I know it's a true saying. I was by your father's bed 

side when he died. 
ROSCORLA: They sent me away when he was dying. I was younj 

then. I never heard much about it. 
DR. T: When I said to you jiist now that there were som 

children who should never be born 

ROSCORLA: Yes? 

DR. T: Do you know much about your family history. Ros 

corla? 
ROSCORLA: I've got the pedigree; it's in the drawer, yonder. 

never went beyond it. 
DR. T: I don't quite mean that. Your father, your grand 

father, his father: do you know much about them 

about how they lived and died? 
ROSCORLA: (with a laugh, which he tries to render careless) No^ 

you're talking to me like Asenath. What are thes' 

riddles, Doctor? 
DR. T: Asenath! What was she saying to you? She ha 

been here since your grandfather's time, hasn't she? 



The Little Review 



33 



ROSCORLA: Asenath is always saying she has seen three genera- 
tions born, and the birth of a Roscorla brings trouble 
and talk of that kind. But you, Doctor, you are not 
going to tell me old wives' tales? (Excitedly) I want 
to know exactly what you mean. 

DR. T: What I mean is this, that, as you must be aware, 

there is a certain strain in your family, call it a strain 
of eccentricity, which is not exactly healthy; perhaps 
from an abstract point of view, not exactly desirable 
to perpetuate. Have you ever thought of the respon- 
sibility of bringing a child into the world? (Mean- 
ingly) Has your wife ever thought of it? 

ROSCORLA: (looking round at him in a dazed, awakening way) I 
begin to see what you mean. You mean (slowly) 

that we are all (breaking off with a gasp of 

terror.) 

DR. T: You see my point. You see the reason why I speak 

to you about it at this moment. 

ROSCORLA: (haggard and dazed, shaking his head helplessly) 
No .... (His face slowly changes, and with a dxdl 
terror in his eyes he whispers) Is it in me? 

DR. T: No, no, I don't mean that at all. One generation may 

escape, often does. It is the next that suffers. 

ROSCORLA: The next! 

DR. T: Now, I tell you frankly; I am not sure that I can 

save both your wife and your child. If the child lives 
the mother may die. Will you risk her life on a pos- 
sibility, on such a possibility? Will you, after what 
I have told you? 

ROSCORLA: (sullenly) I don't believe what you have told me. 
The family's a good family. You and Asenath are 
only trying to frighten me. I must have my son. 
And Barbara (excitedly) Both! 

DR .T: I am not sure I can save them both. 

ROSCORLA: Barbara has been a good wife to me. There was no 
woman for me till I married Barbara. I shouldn't 
care much for life if she wasn't there But my son — 
he's to live after me! If my son isn't born Gregory 11 
have the place. (Starting to his feet as if struck by 
a sudden thought) Do you think she knows an5rthing 
about it? Is that why she's frightened of me? 

DR. T: I think it is possible she has guessed something. 



34 The Little Kevie-iV 



ROSCORLA: (in wild excitement) She wants to rob me of my 
child! She wants my child not to be born! They 
all want my child not to be born! They are all in 
league against me! But, I'll have my way. It's the 
way of Nature! I have that on my side they can't 
fight with. They're fighting against God. (Drop- 
ping into his chair as if exhausted) I must have my 
child. 

(While he is speaking the door on the right opens, 
and ASENATH steals in quietly and makes her way 
unobserved to her seat by the fire. She listens to every 
word). 

DR. T: At whatever cost? 

aOSCORLA: At whatever cost! 

DR. T: (rising and taking out his watch) I will return in 

half-an-hour. Mind, till then, quiet; above all, quiet. 

(He goes out. ROSCORLA buries his face in his 

hands, and then sits staring before him with his elbows 

on his knees. After a pause). 

ROSCORLA: What have you been saying to my wife, Asenath? 

ASENATH: (as if she did not hear) Eh, master? 

ROSCORLA: It is you that set her thinking on things there was no 
need to think on. 

ASENATH: A young wife thinks her own thoughts; what should 
an old woman give her to think on? Maybe, it's the 
wind she's thinking on now, and the life that's coming 
as the wind comes. 

ROSCORLA: How did my father die, Asenath? 

ASENATH: He died hard; he cursed his own father. 

ROSCORLA: And my grandfather, Asenath? 

ASENATH: They took him away; he didn't die at Roscorla. The 
Roscorla blood was in him. 

ROSCORLA: Docs Barbara know all this. Asenath? 

ASENATH: How should I know, master? It's whispered, it's not 
spoken. 

ROSCORLA: (getting up and walking to and fro, and speaking 
half to 'himself and half to ASENATH) If it's true— 

• but it's not true — it makes no difference. Do you 

understand, Asenath, it's not true! Have you been 
telling these lies to my wife? 

(ASENATH makes no reply, but gazes at him 
fixedly). 



The Little Review 



35 



ASENATH: 



SISTER A. 

ASENATH: 

SISTER A. 

ASENATH: 
SISTER A. 



ASENATH: 
SISTER A. 



ASENATH: 
SISTER A. 



The Roscorla family is the best family in Cornwall. 
What have you been telling her? 

(She remains silent). 
She always believed everything you said to her. And 
she has been believing it; she hates to bear me a 
child because he'll be a Roscorla. He shall, he shall 
be a Roscorla! I am going to speak to her, she must 
see, it must be proved to her! She doesn't want my 
child to be bom, Asenath. But he miist be born. 

(In suppressed excitement he goes up to the bed- 
room door, opens it and goes in). 
What were they talking about? "Must have my 
child," he said; "at any cost," he said. Whose cost? 
Mistress Barbara's. It's the mother for the child, 
they mean. Is it? (she laughs). She shall know, 
she shall. She's a brave woman; she will do justice 
on the Roscorlas. 

(SISTER AGATHA opens the bedroom door and 
comes out, accompanied by SISTER KATHERINE, 
who goes out by the door on the right. She goes over 
to ASENATH). 

He sent us away. Will he be quite quiet? He was 
quiet, but he looked strange. He said he had to speak 
to her alone. 

It's lies that he has to tell her. But I am going to 
tell her the truth. 

Asenath, what is the truth? Is it something terrible? 
Why do you look at me like that? 
Has she said nothing? 

She was listening, and she asked me if that was the 
wind, and I said yes, and she said "The wind from 
the sea. The wind of birth!" and then she 
said, "I don't want to die, but it would be better if I 
were dead. I am bringing life." And she turned her 
head over on the pillow, .and lay quite still. 
And that was all? 

No; I heard her say: "If I had only the courage!" 
I don't know what she meant. And she said, as if she 
were speaking to herself, "It would be the right thing, 
wouldn't it?" 

She knows the right thing, and when she knows all 
she will do the right thing. 
Listen! He is speaking loud. O, he should not cry 



36 



The Little Review 



ASENATH: 

SISETR A.: 
ASENATH: 



ROSCORLA 



SISTER A.: 
ROSCORLA 
SISTER A.: 
ROSCORLA 



ROSCORLA 
ASENATH: 



out to her like that! I must go back. She was so 
frightened, and she is lying there between life and 
death, as if she had to choose between them. 
(Rising) Child, let me go ia to her. I can soothe her 
better than you can soothe her. 
If she could only sleep! 

I will try to put her to sleep. But only if she chooses 
sleep. 

(The bedroom door opens and ROSCORLA rushes 
out violently. ASENATH slips into the room and 
closes the door behind her). 

(beside himself— to SISTER AGATHA) I told her 
it was alright; I told her the child must be born; I 
was perfectly quiet; I said "Look at me!" I was as 
quiet as possible, but she wouldn't hear; she shrank 
away from me; she said: "You, you I see it all; now 
I see it!" and that put me in a fury, and I don't quite 
know what I said to her. 

(A low wail is heard jrom the bedroom; they listen). 
What was that? 

Asenath is trying to put her to sleep. 
Why isn't the doctor here? 
I think I hear him coming. Listen. 
He is coming! 

(He goes towards the door; the doctor comes in, 
greets him, and, with a questioning lift of the eye- 
brows to SISTER AGATHA, goes into the bedroom, 
followed by her. After a slight pause, the doctor 
comes out, holding a phial in his hand. He says 
quietly): 

I have come too late. She is dead. 
: (with a cry, falling on his knees by the table) My 
God! 

(appearing at the bedroom door) hush! I have put 
her to sleep. She chose sleep. There will be no more 
trouble to the Roscorlas for a time now. 



THE CURTAIN FALLS. 



T he Lit tie Review 37 

THE READER CRITIC 

Letters from Ezra Pound 

Chere Editeuse: 

May I be permitted to leave the main part of the magrazine, and 
reply in the correspondence columns to several other writers of 
letters? 

A. R, S. Cher Monsieur : There is one section of our magazine devoted 
(DEEvoted) to "interpretation"; it is, if you have not divined it. 
The Reader Critic. It is, so far as I know, the only publication that 
ever has "interpreted" our native country. Never before has the in- 
telligent foreigner been able to fearn "what the American artist is 
up against." 

V. H., (Maine). Chere Madam : Could Lewis but hear you, through his 
gas-mask, gazing at the ruins of one of the gun parapets of his battery, I 
think he would smile with the delicate and contented smile that I have at 
moments seen "lighting his countenance". There was once a man 
who began an article: "WE MUST KILL JOHN BULL, we must 
kill him with Art". These words smote the astonished eyes of the 
British public. No other Englishman had ever before so blasphemed 
the effete national symbol. Neither had any one else very much 
objected to the ladies in nightgowns which distinguished Punch' 
caricatures. The writer was, needless to say, Wyndham Lewis. He 
will probably have died for his country before they find out what he 
meant. 

L. P. Cher Monsieur : You ask "What sympathy can the ma- 
jority of readers feel for the foreign editor, Ezra Pound, with his con- 
temptuous invective against the "vulgus"? Are the majority of the read- 
ers "vulgus"? We had hoped, the few choice spirits were gathered. 
Perhaps they have only migrrated to this side of the ocean. 

There was also a lady or mother who wrote to me (personally) 
from New Jersey, asking me to stop the magazine as Lewis's writ- 
ings were "bad for her milk". (I am afraid there is no way of soft- 
ening her phrase for our readers). Madame, what you need is lactol 
and not literature; you should apply to a druggist. 

And there is the person who says all my stuflE is "in a way propa- 
ganda. If not", what am I "trying to do", etc Cher Monsieur: My 
propaganda is the propaganda of all realist and almost all fine 
un-realist literature, if I seek to "do" anything it is only to stimulate 



7,8 T he Lit 1 1 c Review 

a certain awareness. It would not distress me if the reader should 
suddenly look upon his surroundings and upon his own conscious- 
ness and try to see both for himself, in his own terms, not in my 
terms, nor in the terms of President Wilson, or W. D. Howells, or 
Scribner's, or any other patent cut-size machine, or home-mould or 
town-mould, or year-mould. Voila toute ma petite propagande. It is 
.so little propaganda that I am quite content if it has no such effects, 
and if two or three pleasant people are enabled to get through a dull 
evening more easily with the aid of my sketches; or those of the writ- 
ers whom I have brought to this magazine. There are some people 
who are not entertained by Success, the Saturday Evening Post, The 
Seven Arts, The Dial and all that contingent. "Matter", as Lewis has 
written, "which does not contain enough intelligence to permeate it, 
grows, as you know, rotten and gangrenous." It is not everyone who 
enjoys the aroma of a dormant and elderly corporis litterarum, nor 
the stertorous wheeze of its breathing. 

If I were propaganding I should exhort you to get a decent in- 
ternational copyright law — though as my own income will presumably 
never equal that of a plumber, or stir the cupidity of the most class- 
hating, millionaire-cursing socialist, I have very little interest in this 
matter. 

I should exhort you to enliven your universities. 1 should, what- 
ever your nationality, exhort you to understand that art is exceeding 
slow in the making, that a good poet can scarcely write more than 
twenty good pages a year, and that even less that this, if it be good. 
should earn him his livelihood. (This problem' with good augury 1 
shall of course attempt to solve with this magazine.) I should, if you 
are American, exhort you, for your own good, to try not to drive 
all your best artists out of the country. (Not that I object to living 
in London, North Italy, Paris, or that my name need be dragged 
into the matter). I would ask you to try to understand WHY Ameri- 
can literture from 1870 to 1910 is summed up in the sentence: "Henry 
James stayed in Paris reading Flaubert and Turgenev. Mr. William 
Dean Howells returned to America and read the writings of Henry 
James." And WHY Whistler stayed in Europe, although Chase 
went back to the Philadelphia Fine Arts Academy. These are simple 
questions which the serious reader will not try to shirk answering. 

However these matters do not belong to the body of the magazine, 
which will at best, as the clubman complains, be devoted to "inven- 
tion" if there is enough invention to fill it; and at worst to active 
cerebration. 

Votre bien devoue, 

Ezra Pound. 



The Little Review 



39 



P. S. An american author writes to me "You mix your damn foolery 
with sense, so you continue readable". Chere Editeuse, what does 
this person want? Does he wish it unmixed and therefore unreadable? 
Should he follow the sign "Seek safety first!"? Read The Spectator! 
Does he wish "sound opinion", cautious statement, the New Repub- 
lic's guarded hazard that six and seven probably will make thirteen, 
but that, etc ? 

This Approaches Literature! 

Abel Sanders: 

The enclosed document may be of interest to you, as showing the 
true nature of the forces against which we are arrayed. 

SECRET 

Translation of a German document dated February 20, 1916, taken 
from a German prisoner captured near Ypres, Comines Canal, March 
2, 1916). 

Committee for the increase of population 

Notice No. 138756. 
Sir: 

On account of all able-bodied men having been called to the 
colours, it remains the duty of all those left behind for the sake of 
the Fatherland to interest themselves in the happiness of the married 
women and maidens by doubling or even trebling the number of 
births. 

Your name has been given us as a capable man, and you are here- 
with requested to take on this office of honour and do your duty in a 
proper German way. It must here be pointed out that your wife or 
fiancee will not be able to claim a divorce, it is in fact hoped the 
women will bear this discomfort heroically for the sake of the War. 

You will be given the district of Should you not feel 

capable of carrying on the task allotted to you, you will be given 
three days in which to name someone in your place. On the other 
hand if you are prepared to take on a second district as well, you will 
become a "Deckofificer"* and receive a pension. 

An exhibition of photographs of women and maidens in the dis- 
trict allotted to you, is to be found at the office of ... . You are 
requested to bring this letter with you. 

Your good work should commence immediately on this notification. 
A full report of results is to be submitted by you after nine months. 



■* "Deck" possibly meaning "coverlet". 



40 T he Li t tie Review 

Worthy of Byron 

Frank Harris, New York: 

Hearty congratulations! I've read innumerable things of Ezra 
Pound in the last ten years and found nothing. He has tantalized me 
with the feeling that there must be some originality to explain if not 
to justify at least his preposterous name. And now in The Little 
Review his satiric poem, "L'Homme Moyen Sensuel", really enchants 
me: there are rhymes in it worthy of Byron. 

That "infant tick who's now the editor of The Atlantic" is as good 
as the couplet on H. Van Dyke. When he praises (Henry James, for 
instance), he's not so convincing. Still I enjoyed the whole thing 
immensely and thank you for the treat. 

Dry Bones 

H. R., Trinidad, Colorado: 

I enclose a subscription to The Little Review. Not because it is 
worth it. You know it is not. But because of my appreciation of 
the magazine when it first heralded the dawn of a new era. I knew 
the body and soul of it then and thought it the most significant, 
youthful and vigorous magazine in America. When your last num- 
ber reached me I exclaimed "How the mighty have fallen!" It at- 
tempts to speak, but the voice is too feeble. Through its pages I 
find only bones, dry bones, sans life, sans youth, sans energy. 

But as long as you are at the helm of the new adventure I have 
faith in The Little Review. I know it will emerge triumphantly. 

Alienation 

Otis A. Poole, Shidzuoka, Japan: 

Sometimes I think you needlessly alienate the support of numbers 
of subscribers, possessed of rudimentary ambitions toward a better 
appreciation of Art in its various forms, by too roughly snubbing and 
scoffing at them, because they do not immediately swallow all the 
new "stuff" created in defiance of convention and precedent, without 
a grimace of dislike or a rational lack of faith in its worthwhileness 
as expressive of the present era's conception of truth and beauty in 
all that pertains to life as it is or might be; but "the Gods give my 
donkey wings", if herewith isn't an extension of my subscription to 
The Little Review in spite of it. 

Art and the War 

/. K. C, Boston: 

The idea of The Little Review appealed to me immensely and I 
subscribed because I wanted to be friends. Altogether I like it: 



T h e Li 1 1 1 e R eview 41 

ispecially your article on Isadora Duncan, Ezra Pound's stuff, and 
he Chinese poems. Also the book reviews, which, to use a phrase of 
!veon Daudet, are not "mere vague publicity" like most of them 
hese days. 

But I was very much surprised by the lack of appreciation and un- 
lerstanding shown by your comments on Le Feu by Henri Barbusse, 
►ut decided that you had probably never read that great book. What 
listresses me, however, is in the August number. Some one from 
Cansas writes congratulating you for not printing anything about 
this blasted war". That you do not I have no quarrel with. It is 

relief. But when in a superior way you say that you do not con- 
ider the war "an interesting or legitimate subject for Art" I cannot 
gree. The existence of Art and all its traditions depends on the 
mtcome of the war, which is fundamentally a war of the ideal of 
hese traditions against the ideal of power. Read Le Genie Latin, by 

ugliumo Ferrero if you have not already done so. Think of the 
teautiful noble things inspired by the war in France: for example, 
,mong many, the articles of Barres in L'Echo de Paris and the poems 
if Paul Claudel. After your statement, to compare these writings 
vith some that you have printed is quite laughable. And then Art 
leeds something noble in it, and anything where noble self-sacrifice 
ccurs daily is a fit subject for it. 

(I don't understand what you mean by my lack of appreciation 
i Le Feu. The object of M. Barbusse was to show that the immense 
lorror of war is not to be used for any object except for the destruc« 
ion of that horror. As for the noble elements of daily self-sacrifice, 
tc, etc., he says: "It would be a crime to show the nobler aspects of 
'^ar, even if there were any." 

As for Art needing something noble in it : Art doesn't need anything ; 

rt is the nobility. And of course I thought we needn't argue any longer 
bout the vice of self-sacrifice. 

But you have clearly misunderstood what was meant by the war not 
eing a legitimate subject for Art. We will arg^e it fully in the next 
isue. Also I have a long letter from Stephane Boecklin about the artist's 
elation to the war, which will be printed in the November number.— 
f. C. A.] 



42 ThcLittleRcvieiv 



ART AND CRITICISM IN AMERICA 

(from the New York Press) 

Tribune: "Editli Wharton's Summer (Appleton) is a masterpiece of 
accurate, graceful and fascinating composition ... a climax of graphis 
power is reached which has seldom been approximated in contemporary 

fiction. But then the pity of it all ! the pity of it all ! Was it 

worth while to use such gifts, to employ such rare and exqiiisite an art- 
istry, in the exploitation of so sordid and so seamy a side of life? . . . 
If now and then, and here and there, man must be so fallen and so lost, 
let us rather 'Walk backward with averted gaze and hide the shame.' " 

Times: Mr. Lewis's (The innocents, by Sinclair Lewis. Harper) 
native endowement is essentially Dickensian, because his mental affinity 
is stronger for what is sweet and clean and bright, upward looking and 
forward pressing, in human nature, than it is for the rotten, the dour 
and the hopeless. He sees and duly uses these poisoned and poisonous 
elements of human life, but in his estimate of the forces that inspire, 
etc., etc." 

(To get the full value of the reviews of Mr. Lewis's work one must 
read his countless stories and novels. But it would be well, perhaps, to 
mention that he is a rising young manufacturer of literary all-day suck- 
ers, who turns out a novel in about the time it took Flaubert to write a 
paragraph of Madame Bovary) — /. S. 

Roosevelt's "The Foes of Our 
Own Household". 

This is an invaluable book. It is a compilation of all the outworn 
thought of the last two generations. — jh. 

WE WANT! 

We want monthly eight pages more for French, eight pages more 
for painting and sculpture (when extant), sixteen pages more if we 
are to print both the Hueffer prose series and the new novel prom- 
ised by James Joyce, at the same time. We see no reason why we 
should not publish music (not criticism of music) if any happens to 
be written. Even our most rabid detesters can not expect us to 
double our format unless we can, at about the same time, double our" 
list of subscribers. It is, placid reader, up to you. 



i 

Mr. KNOPF announces 

LUSTRA 

by Ezra Pound 

This, the first book of; 
poertis by Mr. Pound to appear ; 
in this country since 1912,1 
opens with a number of \ 
pieces on modern subjects.] 
These are followed by the now \ 
famous Cathay "translation" ; 
from the Fenollosa Chinese! 
manuscripts. Then come some i 
earlier poems, and the book! 
closes with the long and new \ 
Three Cantos. \ 

The volume contains muchf 
that is not included in any} 
English editions of Mr. Pound's f 
books. I 

%i.5o net at all bookshops I 

Alfred A. Knopf, 

Publisher | 

New York I 



Modern Gallery 

500 Fifth Avenue 



DAUMIER 

CEZANNE 

LAUTREC 

VAN GOGH 

PICASSO 

BRANCUSI 

PICABIA 

DERAIN 

BURTY 

VLAMINCK 

RIVERA 

BRAQUE 



Mexican Pre-Conquest Art 
African Negro Sculpture 



EUGENE 
HUTCHINSON 

PHOTOGRAPHS 

Fine Arts Building 
Chicago. Illinois 



To 

the 

Memory 

of 

"The Seven Arts" 



FALL ANNOUNCEMENT OF NEW BOOKS 
OF THE OPEN COURT PUBLISHING CO. 

Bool's Collected Logical Works. Volume two: 
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"Here is an exact reproduction in the 1854 original, with the 
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Entile Boutroux. Translated by Fred Rothwell. 
Goth, $1.50. 

"M. Boutroux has restored to man his thoughts and feelings 
that reality and effective influence over the course of things 
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Geometrical Lectures of Isaac Barrow. With 
an introduction by J. M. Child. Cloth, $1.25. 

"The importance of this work to students of mathematical 
theory goes without saying. The introduction is carefully and 
ably reasoned." — The Springfield Republican. 

Diderot's Early Philosophical Works. Trans- 
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"No man with an interest in literature and life would care 
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"In view of the privileged and almost irresponsible positions 
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A Modern Job. An essay on the Problems of 
Evil. By Etienne Giran. $.75. 

"The volume is worthy of careful reading for it presents 
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Three Men of Judea. By Henry S. Stix. Pp. 
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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

^OL. IV. NOVEMBER, 1917 No. 7. 

CHINESE POEMS 

Translated from the Chinese of Li Po 
by Sasaki and Maxwell Bodenheim 

Whose Daughter? 

Fling me harp-notes almost soundless. 

From your hidden white window. 

Your coming is like a flower petal 

Wavering down from the sky. 

Walk after me, across the water 

Like a drifting flower. 

You sing of So-land, and speak of Ko-Iarid. 

You seem older than you are 

And that opens my love. 

I take your hand and we walk past many springs. 

A Woman Speaks 

The keenest of swords plunges into leaping water 

And cannot cut it. 

My love for you is like that sword, 

But winds around your heart. 

After you go, the weeds shrouding my garden-gate 

Fade, and become the groimd of autumn. 

But spring slips back from your foot-marks 

Prisoned in the soft ground, about the gate. 



The Little Review 



A Woman Speaks 

And my heart becomes like a peach-blossom 

On a tree that grows from the bottom of a shallow well. 

The peach blossom opens in a smile 

But why, since he has gone? 

He was like a quick moon 

That gave but one moon-strand, 

I look down at the water in the well 

But I cannot recognize myself 

For I am shrivelled by the lack of him. 

V e i 1 - S k i r t 

Her skirt of veils is like curling water 
Covered with golden nets of frail dust. 
How can I drop to the bottom of her heart? 
I cannot refuse a thousand cups of green wine. 
Her red cheeks sink into me, and make me dead. 

I Go to Visit a Semi-God 

A group of mountains, like blue screens, 
Scrape the sky, 

r 'othing is written upon the blue screens, 
i walk over them, pushing apart the clouds 
And search for a slender road. 
I lean against a tree 
' And hear rushing springs, and see warm flowers. 
A green cow lies amid the warm flowers 
And white cranes sleep on the tops of pine trees. 
Twilight rises from a lake below the mountains. 
And meets a cold haze from the mountain-tops. 



The Little Review 



SKETCHES 

Jh. 
White 

I. 

Sharp, empty air . . . Out of the black mouths of engines white' 
smoke rises on thin stems into white ghosts of ancient trees; together 
they rise into ghosts of ancient forests, sway and surge and are" 
gone again a million years. 

II. 

The hot air of the day stays in the city until night. The long 
slope of my roof presses the heat down upon me. Soon it will 
rain. But there is no rest in me: my heart is wandering too far. 
My friends may still be in the city, but I do not seek them. I go 
to the animals in the park. Within their enclosures black shadows 
of camels lie in the darkness. A great white camel broods in the 
moonlight, apart from the rest. His lonely eyes are closed and he 
moves his head slowly from side to side on his long neck, swaying 
in pain, searching in a dream for his lost world. I have seen a Nor- 
wegian ship carrying its carved head through the waters of a fjord 
with such a movement .... 

Now the high clouds cover the moon. Out on the lake a wind as- 
sails the layers of heat. A white peacock sits in a tree, aloof, elegant, 
incorruptible ... A light green spirit . . . Across the first thunder 
he lifts his long white laugh at us like a maniac. 

Void 

I cannot live long in your city: it has no zones of pain for mfe 
where I may rest, no places where old joys dwell and I may suffer. 
It is as empty for me as the honeycomb cliff cities of the Southwest. 
For I shall not know love again in this or any place. 



The Little Review 



HANRAHAN'S OATH 

Lady Gregory 

MARY GILLIS 

MARGARET ROONEY 

OWEN HANRAHAN 

COEY ^ 

MRS. COEY ' 

MICHAEL FEENEY 

SCENE: A wild and rocky place. Door of stone cabin to 
LEFT, that is the bed of a Saint. 

MARY GILLIS (coming from right). — Did you get any tidings 

of him, Margy? 
MARGARET ROONEY. — All I heard was he was seen going over 

the scalp of the hill at daybreak. 
MARY GILLIS. — Bad cess to him! Why wouldn't he stop in the 

house last night beyond any other night? 
MARGARET ROONEY. — You know well it was going to the 

preaching of that strange friar put disturbance in his mind. 
MARY GILLIS. — Take care is he listening to him yet. 
MARGARET ROONEY. — He is not. I went in the archway of 

the chapel and took a view. The missioner is in it yet, giving 

out masses and benedictions and rosaries and every whole 

thing. But as to Owen Hanrahan, there was no sign of him 

in it at all. 
MARY GILLIS. — It is the drink houses I went searching for him. 
MARGARET ROONEY. — He was never greatly given to drink 
MARY GILLIS. — If he isn't, he is given to company and he'd 

talk down all Ireland. 
MARGARET ROONEY. — So he is a terror for telling stories, and 

it is yourself made your own profit by it. It is his gift of 

talk brought the harvesters, would live and die with him, 

to your house this five weeks past. 
MARY GILLIS. — Yourself that is begrudging me that, where you 

want to keep him to yourself. 
MARGARET ROONEY. — So I would keep him, I to find him. 



The Little Review 



I wouldn't wish him to go travelling. He had his enough of 
hardship. There is no great stay in him. 
ARY GILLIS. — There are but the two roads for him to travel 
from the scalp, over and hither. He to come this way, believe 
me I'll bring him back to the town. 
ARGARET ROONEY. — He wouldn't go with you. 
ARY GILLIS. — I have a word will bring him, never fear. 
ARGARET ROONEY. — What word is that? 
ARY GILLIS. — What was it he was giving out to the two of us 
ere yesterday, the time he came back after having drink 
taken at the sailor's wake? 
ARGARET ROONEY. — I don't keep in mind what he said. 
klARY GILLIS. — You, maybe, remember the story he gave us of 
one Feeney that he was with at a mountain still and that 
made an assault on a gauger. 
MARGARET ROONEY. — Feeney, that was the name—, but 

what signifies that? 
MARY GILLIS. — That's right. I'll make a spancel from that 

story will bring him into hiding in the Currough. 
VIARGARET RQONEY. — You might not. It's little you knmv 
the twists of a poet's mind. He to have the fit of wandering, 
it is round the wide world he might go. 
MARY GILLIS. — Hurry on now, let you go the lower road and 
see will you bring him any better than myself, (pushes her). 
— Go on now, he might pass and go on unknownst to you! 
MARGARET ROONEY. — I'll not be three minutes going down 

the hill. (Goes). 
MARY GILLIS (sitting down). — That you may! It's the hither 

road he is coming! 
HANRAHAN (coming in, head down). — Isn't it a terrible place 
we are living in and terrible the wickedness of the whole 
world! 
MARY GILLIS. — What is it ails you, Owen Hanrahan? 
HANRAHAN. — People to be breaking all the laws of God and 

giving no heed to the beyond! 
MARY GILLIS. — It is likely the preaching of the friar put those 

thoughts athrough your head. 
HANRAHAN. — Murders and robberies and lust and neglecting 

the mass! 
MARY GILLIS. — Ah, come along home with me to the dinner. 
You are fasting this good while back. 



The Little Review 



HANRAHAN, — What way can people be thinking of gluttony, 
' and the terrors of the grave before them. 

MARY GILLIS. — Come on now to the little house, and the drop 
of drink will put such thoughts from your mind. ' 

HANRAHAN. — Drink! That was another of them! Seven 
deadly sins in all! 

MARY GHXIS. — WTiat call has a poet the like of you to go lis- 
tening to a missioner stringing talk? You, that is so handy 
at it yourself. . 

HANRAHAN. — A lovely saint he was! He came from foreign. 
To let fall a drop of scalding water on your foot would be 
bad he said, or to lay your hand on a hot coal on the floor; 
but, to die with any big sin on our soul, it will be burning for 
ever and ever, and that burning will be worse than any burn- 
ing upon earth. To say that he did, rising up his hand. The 
great fear he put on me was of eternity. Oh, he was a darling 
man! 

MARY GILLIS. — Ah, that is the way that class to be beckoning 
flames at the people, or what way would they get their liv- 
ing? Come along now where you will have company and 
funning. 

HANRAHAN. — Leave touching me! I have no mind to be put 
away from my holy thoughts. Three big mastiffs, their red 
gullets open and burning the same as three wax candles! 

MARY GILLIS. — Come along, I tell you, to the comforts of the 
town. 

HANRAHAN. — Get away, you hag, before I'll lay a hand on you! 

MARY GILLIS. — After the good treatment I gave you this five 
weeks past, beyond any lodger was in the house! 

HANRAHAN. — Be off, or I'll do you some injury! 

MARY GILLIS. — It's kind for you do an injury on me, the same 
as you did on the man that was sent before the judge! 

HANRAHAN. — Who was that? 

MARY GILLIS. — Feeney that stuck down the ganger. 

HANRAHAN. — Anyone didn't see who did it! He was brought 
before no judge! 

MARY GlLLtS. — You didn't know he was taken and charged anr' 
brought to the Tuam Assizes? 

HANRAHAN. — They could have no proof against him. It was 
a dark cloudy night. 

MARY GILLIS. — That is what they are saying. It was in no 
fair way it was made known who did it. 



The Little Review 



HANRAHAN. — Ah what did he do but put up his fist this way 
..... and the gauger was standing where you are supposing 
.... and there was a naggin in poor Feeney's hand (stoops 
for a stone) — and there lit a stroke on him (strikes as if 
at her — It's hard sa:y was it that knocked him or was it 
the Almighty God. 

MARY GILLIS. — There is another thing the people are saying 

HANRAHAN. — What is that? 

MARY GILLIS. — They are saying there was another man along 
with Feeney at the bog-still. 

HANRAHAN. — What harm if they are saying that? 

MARY GILLIS. — It will be well for that man not to be rambling 
the countryside, but to stop here in the shelter of the town 
where it is not Imown. It is likely his name is given out. the 
baronies of Galway cind to the merings of County Mayo. 

HANRAHAN. — Little I care they to know I was in it. What 
could they lay to my charge? 

MARY GILLIS. — You had drink taken. You have no recollec- 
tion what you said in the spree-house in Monivea. It is 
the name of an informer you have gained in those districts, 
where you gave out the account of Feeney's deed, in the 
hearing of spies or of Government men. 

HANRAHAN. ~ That cannot be so! An informer! That would 
be a terrible story! 

MARY GILLIS. — A poor case they are saying, you to be roaming 
the country free and Feeney under chains through your 
fault. 

HANRAHAN. — An informer! I'll go give myself up in his place! 
I'll swear it was I did it! Maybe I did too. I am certain 
I hit him a hit or kick that loosed the patch on my shoe. 
(holds foot up). I'll go set Feeney free. < 

MARY GILLIS. — You cannot do that. He is gone to his punish- 
ment where he was convicted of assault and attempt to kill. 

HANRAHAN. — In earnest? 

MARY GILLIS. — It is much he escaped the death of the rope. It 
is to send him to transportation they did. 

HANRAHAN. — The Lord save us! 

MARY GILLIS. — Sent out in the ship with thieves and vagabones 
to Australia or Van Dieman's Land, to be yoked in traces 
along with blacks driving a plough for the over-Government. 

HANRAHAN. — Transported and judged! It is a bad story for 



lo The Little Review 



me that judgment is! And to be brought about through m- 

giving out too much talk! 
MARY GILLIS. — Ah come along and get a needleful of porte 

and we'll have a good evening in the town. 
HANRAHAN. — There will be no good evening or good morrow 

come to me for ever! Let me run to take his place in th 

ship and in the chains. 
MARY GILLIS. — Sure it sailed away yesterday. It is ploughinj 

his way across the green ocean Michael Feeney should be a 

this hour. 
HANRAHAN. — I'll go to judgment all the same! They'll set m 

out after him and set him free! 
MARY GILLIS. — Not a fear of them, and they having him in thei 

hand. And it's likely any^vay the ship might go down i: 

some storm. 
HANRAHAN. — To have sent a man to his chastisement througl 

chattering! That is not of the nature of friendship. Tha 

is surely one of the seven deadly sins! 
MARY GILLIS. — Sure there is nothing standing to you onl; 

your share of talk. 
HANRAHAN. — It is that was my ruin! It would be better fo 

me be born without it, the same as a blessed sheep! It 

the sin of the tongue is surely the blackest of all! A ma 

that died with drink in him, the missioner was saying, th 

soul would sooner stop in torment a thousand years tha 

come back to the body that made it so unclean. And surel; 

my soul would think it worse again, to be coming under th' 

sway of a tongue that had it steered to the mouths of th* 

burning mountain, that are said to be the door of hell! 
MARY GILLIS. — Ah it is your own talk had always pleasantnes 

on it — come on now — the people love to see you travellin; 

through the town. 
HANRAHAN. — It is the tongue that does be giving out lies am 

spreading false reports and putting the weighty word on 

neighbour, till a character that was as white as lime wil 

turn to be black as coal ! 
MARY GILLIS. — No but good words yourself does be puttili| 

out. Whoever you praised was well praised. 
HANRAHAN. — A cross word in this house, and a quarrel out o 

it in the next house, and fighting in the streets from tha 

again, till the whole world wide is at war . The man tha 



The Little Review ii 

would make a gad for the tongue would be out far beyond 
Alexander that laid one around all the kingdoms of the 
world! 

MARY GILLIS. — It is the roads would be lonely without the 
sound of your own songs. 

HANRAHAN. — To make silence in the roads for ever would be 
a better task than every Orpheus, and he playing harpstrings 
to the flocks I 

MARY GILLIS. — It is not yourself could keep silence in the world 
without you would be a ghost. 

HANRAHAN. — My poor Feeney! He that wore out the night 
making still whiskey would put courage into armies of men, 
and the hares of the mountain gathered around him looking 
on. I could cry down my eyes, he at this time in the black 
hole of a vessel you couldn't hardly go into head and heels, 
among rats and every class of ravenous thing! Have you ere 
a knife about you or a sword or a dagger, that you'll give it 
to me to do my penance, till I'll cut the tongue out from my 
head and bury it under the hill! 

MARY GILLIS. — Ah, come along and do your penance the same 
as any other one, saying a rosary alongside your bed. 

HANRAHAN. — I'll go no more into the room with lodgers and 
strangers and dancers and youngsters enjoying music. I will 
out my time in this cabin of a saint, shedding tears un- 
knownst to the world, hearing no word and speaking no word 
will be putting my repentance astray. There is great safety 
in silence! It will cut off the world and all of sins at the 
one stroke. 

MARY GILLIS. — It is not yourself could keep from the talk with- 
out you would be dumb. 

HANRAHAN. — So I will be dumb and live in dumbness, if I have 
my mind laid to it! I will make an oath with myself (puts 
up hands) by the red heat of anger and by the hard strength 
of the wind I will speak no word to any living person through 
the length of a year and a day! I will earn Feeney 's pardon 
doing that! I'll be praying for him on all my beads! 

MARY GILLIS. — Ah, before the year is out he will have his es- 
cape made, or maybe have done some crime will earn him 
pimishment, whether or no without any blame upon your- 
self. It will fail you to stop in this wilderness. You were 
always fond of life. 



4 

12 The Little Review 
^ 

HANRAHAN (sitting down and taking off boots). — Bring away" 
my shoes to some safe place to the end of my penance, that 
I will not be tempted to break away! Mind them well till 
I will be wanting them again. 

MARY GILLIS. — It is a big fool you are and a cracked thief and 
a blockhead and a headstrong ignorant man ! 

HANRAHAN. — I am not in this place for wrastling! It is good 
back answers I could give you, if it wasn't that I am dumb! 

MARY GILLIS. — I'm in no dread of your answers! I'd put cur- 
ses out of my own mouth as quick as another the time I 
would be vexed! 

HANRAHAN. — Get out now of this! The devil himself couldn't 
do his repentance with the noise and the chat of you! 
(Threatens her). 

MARY GILLIS. — \Vhisper now, one thing only and I'll go. 

HANRAHAN. — Hurry on so, and say what is it. 

MARY GILLIS. — What place did you put the keg of still-whiskey 
you were saying you brought away at the time Feeney ran, 
the ganger being stretched on the bog? 

HANRAHAN. — What way can I whisper it, and I under an oath 
to be dumb! 

MARY GILLIS.— Is it in the bog you hid it? Or within a ditch 
or a drain. Let you beckon your hand at me, the time I'll 
give out the right place and you'll not break your promise 
and your oath. Under. a dung-heap maybe.... i^et you 
make now some sign. ... 

HANRAHAN. (seizing stick and rushing at her). — Sign is it? 
Here's signs for you! My grief that I cannot break my 
oath ! 

MARY GILLIS (who has rushed off, looking back). — Your oath 
is it? You may believe me telling you, it will fail you for 
one day only to keep a gad upon your tongue. (Goes). 

(HANRAHAN shakes fist at her and sits down. Rocks himself and 
moons. 

A man with basket or sack) of seaweed comes in and looks at him, 
timidly). 

COEY. — Fine day! (HANRAHAN takes no notice). Fine day! 
(louder) — Fine day, the Lord be praised! (HAN- 
RAHAN scowls) What is on you? FINE DAY! Is it deaf 
you are Is it maybe after taking drink .yon are? 



The Little Review i^; 



To put your head down in the spring well below would may- 
be serve you. (HANRAHAN shakes head indignantly). — 
Is it that you are after being bet? A puck on the poll is apt 
to put confusion in the mind. (Another indignant shake) 
Tell me out now, what is on you or what happened you 
at all? 

lANRAHAN gets up. ...Gives some dumb show as he did to MARY 
GILLIS, stoops, picks up stone, rushes as if to threaten 
COEY. 

ZOEY. — The Lord be between us and harml It is surely a wild 
man is in it! (He throws down basket and rushes off right). 

HANRAHAN. — Ah, what is it ails you? That you may never be 

better this side of Christmas What am I doing? 

Is it speaking in spite of myself I am? What at all can I do! 
I to speak, I am breaking my oath; and I not to speak, I 
have the world terrified, (sits down dejectedly, then starts) 

— What is that? A thorn that ran into me a thorn 

bush .... It is. Heaven put it in my way. There is no sm 
or no harm to be talking with a bush, that is a fashion 
among poets. Oh, my little bush, it is a saint I am 
out and out! It is a man without blame I will oe from 
this time! To go through the whole gamut of the heat and 
of the frost with no person to be annoying till I get a fit 
of talk and be letting out wicked words, that is surely the 
road will reach to Paradise. It is a right plan I made and 
a right penance I put on myself. As I converse now with 
yourself, the same as with a living person, so every living 
person I may hold talk with, and my penance ended, I will 
think them to be as harmless as a little whitethorn bush. It 
is a holy life I will follow, and not to be annoyed with the 
humans of the world that do be prattling and prating, carry- 
ing lies here and there, putting trouble in people's mind, lavish 
in tale-bearing and talk! It is a great sin from God Al- 
mighty to be ballyragging and draAving scandal on one an- 
other, rising quarrels and rows! I declare to honest good- 
ness the coneys and the hares are ahead of most Christians 
on the road to heaven where they have not the power to 
curse and damn or to do mischief through flatteries ana chat- 
terings and coaxings and jestings and jokings and riddles 
and fables and fancies and vanities and backbitings and 
mockeries and mumblings and grumblings and treachery and 



14 The Little Review 



false reports! It is free I am now from the screechings and 
vain jabberings of the world in this holy quiet place that is 
all one nearly with the blessed silence of heaven! (He takes 
beads). 

(COEY and MRS. COEY come on and look at him from behind). 

COEY. — A wild man I tell you he is, wild and shy. 

MRS. COEY. — Wording a prayer he would seen to be, letting 
deep sighs out of himself. A wild man would be apt to be a 
pagan or an unbeliever. 

COEY. — I tell you he rose up and made a plunge at me and ruz 
a stone over my poll. If it wasn't for getting the bag I left 
after me, I couldn't go anear him. It's a good thought I had 
taking out of it the two shillings I got for the winkles I sold 
from the strand, and giving them into your own charge 
Take care would he turn and make a run at me! 

MRS. COEY. — He is no wild man but a spoiled priest or a crazed 
saint or ^ome thing of the sort. 

COEY. — Striving to put curses on me he was, but it failed him 
to bring them out. It might be that he was born a dummy 
into the world, and drivelling from his birth out. 
(HANRAHAN listens). 

MRS. COEY. — Would you say now would he be Cassidy Bawn, the 
troubled Friar, that the love of a woman put astray in his 
wits? 

COEY. — A half-fool I would say him to be. But it might be that 
he has a pain in the jaw or a tooth that would want to be 
drawn. Or is it that the tongue was cut from him by somcK 
j)erson had a cause against him. 
(HANRAHAN turns indignantly and puts tongue out). 

MRS. COEY. — He is not maimed or ailing. It is long I was covet- 
ing to see such a one that would have power to show miracles 
and wonders or to do cures with a gospel or put away the 
wildfire with herbs. 

COEY. — Let him show a miracle or do something out of the way, 
and ni believe it. 

MRS. COEY. — If he does, it is to myself he will show it. I am 
the most one is worthy. 

COEY. — Have a care. He is about to turn around. 

MRS. COEY (sitting down). — Let me put a decent appearance on 
myself before he will take notice of me. (begins putting 
on boots). 



T het Lit tie Review 15 

COEY. — A pair of shoes! What way did they come into your 

hand? 

MRS. COEY. — It is that I found them on the road 

COEY. — They are belonging so to some person will come looking 

for them. 
MRS. COEY. — They are not but to myself they belong ... it is 

that they were sent to me by messenger. 
COEY. — And who would bestow you shoes, you that never put a 
shoe or a boot on you and snow and frost 3 feet on the 

ground! and you after going barefoot through the snow and 

the frost of two score of years! 
MRS. COEY. — There's plenty to bestow them to me. Haven't 

I a first cousin went harvesting out in England where there is 

maybe shovel fulls of gold. 

(HANRAHAN comes across quickly, seizes boots angrily 

and takes them away, shaking his fist at her). 
COEY (retreating). — There is coming on him a fit of frenzy! 

Run now, Let you rtm! 

(HANRAHAN seizes and shakes her). 
MRS. COEY (on her knees). — Oh leave your hand off of me, 

blessed father! I'll confess all! Oh it is a miracle is after 

being worked on me! (Another shake) A miracle to put 

shame on me where I told a lie, may God forgive me! on 

the head of the boots! 
COEY. — I was thinking it was lying you were. 
MRS. COEY. — How well he knew it, the dear and the holy man! 

He that can read the hidden thoughts of my heart as the 

same as if written on my brow! 
COEY. — Is it to steal them you did? 
MRS. COEY (to HANRAHAN). — Do not look at me so terrible 

wicked, and I'll make my confession the same as if it was 

the Bishop in it! 
COEY. — Is it that I am wedded with a thief and a robber? 
MRS. COEY. — I am not a thief but to tell a lie I did, laying 

down that I got them from my first cousin, where I bought 

them from a woman going the road. 
COEY. — That's another lie, where would you get the money?^ 
MRS. COEY. — Your own two shillings I gave for them that you-. 

put in my care a while ago. Take the shoes, holy saint, for 

111 lay no hand on them any more. There never was the- 

like of it of a start ever taken out of me. 



: ^ 

i6 The Little Review 



COEY. — You asked a miracle and you got a miracle ybull db 
forget from this day. (takes off hat) I'll never go agaiit 
such things from this out . A good saint he is, by helll 
(MARGARET ROONEY comes on, HANRAHAN catchin 
sight of her flings doivn boots and crouches behind bush).' 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Did you see anyone passing the road 

COEY. — Not a one. 

MARGARET ROONEY. — I am in search of a friend I have, tba 
is gone travelling the road. 

MRS. COEY. — There is not a one in this place but the blessfr 
saint is saying out prayers abroad under the bush. 

MARGARET RONEY. — I knew no saint in this place. WTia 
sort is he? 

COEY. — You would say him to be a man that has not a great de» 
of talk. 

MRS. COEY. — He is a great saint; he is so saintly as that then 
couldn't be saintlier than what he is. He living in the wilde 
erness on nuts and the berries of the bush, and his two jaws* 
being bloomy all the time. 

COEY. — He to be known, the people will come drawing from thi 
to Dublin till he will have them around him in droves. 

MARGARET ROONEY (seising boots). — What way did you ge 
those shoes? 

COEY. — It was the saint threw them there in that place. 

MARGARET ROONEY. — What happened the man that owneo 
them? 

MRS. COEY (pointing to bush). — Sorra one of me knows. Go 
crave to the saint under the bush to give out knowledge ol 
tnat. It's himself should. He beckoned the hand at me z 
while ago and told me all that ever I did. 

MARGARET ROONEY (Goes to back of bush but HANRAHAN^ 
moves round from her). I ask yoar pardon father, but will 
you tell me what happened the man I am in search of and 
what way did his shoes come in this place? I am certain he 
would not part them unless he would be plundered andj^ 
robbed. Tell me where can I find him. 

MRS. COEY. — Do not be annoying him now. It is likely he is 
holding talk with heaven. 

MARGARET ROONEY (to COEY). — It is maybe you yourself 
took the shoes. 



i 



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17 




Drawing by Max Weber 



20 



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Carving by Walt Kuhn 



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21 




!^.U. 



Drawing by Marie Laurencin 



24 



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L_j.'(^ >i*«i««-AA^ 



Drawing by Henri Caudier-Brzeska 



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25 







Drawing by Andre D. Segonzac 



28 



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Engraving by Arthur B. Davies 






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The Starry Sky, by Windham Lewis 



32 



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Drawing by Jules Pascin 



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COEY. — Let you stop putting a stain on my character. 1 that 
never put a farthing astray on anyone! 

MARGARET ROONEY. — What at all can I do to know is he liv- 
ing or dead. Or is he gone walking the round world bare- 
foot! 

MRS. COEY. '■ — Hurry on and get news from that man is under 
the bush before there might angels come would give him a 
horn and rise him through the sky! 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Saint or no saint. I'll drag an answer 
out of him! 

(She goes to him, he moves aivay from her round bush. 
She takes hold of his shouldersQ. 

COEY. — Ah there will thunder fall on her! 

(HAN RAH AN tries to escape hut MARGARET ROONEY 
holds him and looks at his face). 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Is it you, Owen, is in it! Oh what is 
it happened at all! 

COEY. — Will you hearken to her speaking to him as if he was 
some common man. 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Tell me now what parted you from 

your shoes and are you sound and well? . Answer 

me now I think you very dark not speaking to me. 

It would be no great load on you to say "God bless you"! 
(He keeps moving on, she holding and folloiving him). 
Is it your spirit I arn looking on, or your ghost! 

MRS. COEY. — Look at how he will not let his eye rest upon a 
woman, the holy man! 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Get him to speak one word to me and 
you will earn by blessing! .... Do you not recognize me, 
Owen, and I standing in the pure daylight! .... i)on't 
now be making strange, but stretch over to the road to be 
chatting and talking like you used 

COEY. — He has lost the talk, I am telling you. It is but by signs 
he makes things known. 

MRS. COEY. — It is that the people of this district are not worthy 
to hear his voice. 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Is it that you went wild and mad, find- 
ing the olace so lonesome? What at all but that, would 
cause you to go dumb in the heel? 

MRS. COEY. — Have some shame on you? Can't you see he is 
not acquainted with you at all. 



34 The Little Review 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Did there some disease fall upon you, 
or some sickness? Why wouldn't you come back with me. 

and I would tend you and find you a cure Let you 

answer me back, if it is but to spit at me! Is it that I vexed 
you in any way, and the stocking I mended with kind worsted 

covering your foot yet (He draws it hack). Is it to 

break my heart, you will? .... Is it to put ridicule on me 
and to me making a mockery of me, you are? Letting on to 
be dumb? (He weeps) I had great love for him and I 
thought he had love for me. (She turns away. He is stretch- 
ing out his arms to her when MARY GILLIS comes on. 
HANRAHAN breaks away, making a grab at hoots, he sits 
down to ^ut them on, sideways, making a face at her). 
Is that yourself, Mary Gillis. It is in the nick of time you 
are come. 

MRS. COEY. — Give me back now the two shillings I gave you for 
that pair of shoes, 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Will you draw down on these fools of 
the world that this is no saint but Owen Hanrahan. 

MRS. COEY. — No, but she is under delusions! A man from God 
he is! Miracles he can do, and he living, and at the time 
he'll be dead there is apt to be great virtue in his bones. 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Tell them, can't you. that he is Owen 
Hanrahan? 

MARY GILLIS (puts arms akimbo). — And what is it makes you 
say this to be Owen Hanrahan? 

(MRS. COEY picks up triumphantly the string of herrings 
she droi)s). 

MARGARET ROONEY. ~ Are you gone cracked along with them? 

COEY and MRS. COEY. — That's the chat! That's the chat! 

MARY GILLtS. — There will a judgment come on you. Margy 
Rooney, for putting on a holy Christian, is dwelling in the 
blessed bed of a saint, the name of a vagabone heathen poet 
does be filling the long roads with his follies and his lies! 
(He grimaces). 

COEY. — That's right! That's right! A great shame the name 
of this holy friar to be mixed with any sinful at all. 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Is it the whole world has gone raging 
wild? 

MARY GILLIS. — Hanrahan the poet is it? God bless your 
health! That is a man should not be spoken of in this 



T he Little Review 35 



saintly place. He is the greatest schemer ever God created! 
There is no beat to him! Putting lies on his own father 
and mother in Cappaghtagle ! , Letting his father be buried 
from the poorhouse that was gaoled for sheepstealing! Sure 
that one would hang the Pope! 
(HANRAHAN makes faces at her again). 

MARGARET ROONEY. — Give over now cutting him down! 
(tries to Mit hand over her mouth.) 

MARY GILLIS (freeing herself). — It is not dumb I am myself, 
the Lord be praised, the same as this holy man. And I say, 
if you must put a name on him, let it be the name of some 
poet worth while, such as Carolan or Virgil or Sweeney from 
Connemara. It is Sweeney that is great! (MARGARET 
ROONEY tries to stop her, but she backs and goes on.) 
It is himself can string words through the night-time. But 
as to poor Owen Hanrahan, it is inhuman songs he makes. 
Unnatural they are, without mirth or loveliness or joy or 
delight. 

(HANRAHAN writhes with anguish and makes threatening 
signs) 

You'd laugh your life out, listening to the way he was put 
down one time by Sweeney, the Connemara boy! 
(HANRAHAN throws himself down and bites at the grass.) 

MARGARET ROONEY. — If you are Hanrahan, let you put her 
down under a poet's curse. And if you are a saint, let you 
make a grasshopper of her with the power of a saint! 

MARY GILLIS. — It is bawneen flannel and clean, that dumb 
friar is wearing; but as to Owen Hanrahan, it is a stirabout 
poet he is, and greasy his coat is, with all the leavings he 
brings away from him and he begging his dinner from door 
to door. 

(HANRAHAN gets up and rushes at her. She shrieks and 
runs right. She knocks against FEENEY who is coming on. 
HANRAHAN stops short and goes quickly into cabin.) 

FEENEY. — Mind yourself, woman! You all to had be knocked, 
barging and fighting and raising rings around you! I'll 
make you ax my pardon so sure as my name is Feeney! 

MARY GILLIS. — Michael Feeney is it? (He nods.) 

MARGARET ROONEY. — What is it brings you here? 

FEENEY. — This is a place if you'd go astray, you'd go astray 
very quick in it. Crosscutting over the mountain I was, till 



36 T h c L i 1 1 1 e R ev i eiv 

I'd face back to my own place near Tuam. And I got word 

there is a friar from foreign here in some place, giving out 

preachings and absolutions. 
MRS. COEY. — No. but a holy man that is in the cabin beyond. 

A great saint he is, out and out! 
FEENEY. — That'll serve me as well, where I missed attending 

mass this fortnight back, where I was travelling .... 

In very backward places, I was. It is home I am facing" 

now, and I'd sooner give out my confession to a stranger 

than to our own priest, might be questioning me where is my 

little mountain still. He being a Father Matthew man, that 

couldn't so much as drink water out of a glass but from a 

cup. 
COEY. — You did well coming to himself that can put no question 

to you at all. 
MRS. COEY. — My grief that he cannot word out a rosary or give 

us newses of the fallen angels, being dumb and bereft . of 

speech. 
FEENEY. — That will suit me well, so long as his ears are not 

closed, and that he can get me free from going to confes- 
sion for another quarter of a year on this side of St. Martin's 

Day. 

(He kneels at door.) 
MARGARET ROONEY (trying to move him away). — Do not be 

■pushing on him where he might be in a sleep or a slumber. 
MRS. COEY (aivcd). — It is maybe away in a trance he might be, 

and the angels coming around him. It is in that way hi* 

miracles and wonders come to him. 
COEY (getting behind him). — Mind yourself. He might likely-1 

burst demented out from his trance and destroy the world' 

with one twist of the hand. 
MRS. COEY. — He is bended now, holy father. Be so liberal as: 

to reach your hand for the good of his soul. \ 

MARY GILLIS. — It would maybe be right, the whole of us toj 

go in and see is there a weakness come upon him with his"* 
fast. 

(A hand is hurriedly stretched out.) 
FEENEY (having knelt a moment shouts). — What is that I see! 
I recognise that yellow patch! Owen Hanrahan's boot! 
(jumps up and drags) Come out now, out of that! 
MARGARET ROONEY. — Let you leave dragging him! (tries 
to stop him.) 



The Little Review 37 



FEENEY (dragging him out and amused). — Is it yourself, Owen 
Hanrahan, is setting up to be no less than a saint? Is it 
for sport or for gain you are working miracles and giving out 
benedictions? 

HANRAHAN. — Is it not transported you are! 

FEENEY. — Why should I be transported, without you would be 
wishful of it? 

HANRAHAN. — Taken and judged and sent out to Van Dieman's 
Land! 

FEENEY, — It is seemingly well pleased you would be, I to be there, 
and my neck in the hemp along with ilt. 

PIANRAHAN. — Is that the thanks you are giving me, for doing 
penance under dumbness, on the head of you being gaoled 
in a ship! 

FEENEY. — Little you'd care, I to linger my life out on a tread- 
mill or withering in a cell! 

HANRAHAN. — Don't I tell you I am working out my repentance 
with the dint of my grief, where it was through my talk you 
are made a prisoner, and brought to the Court, and let away 
under chains, and blacks maybe beating you with whips. 

I'EENEY. — What are you raving about, making me out a rogue 
and putting that stain on my name, I that never stood in a 
court, or a dock, or was brought away in a ship, or e'-er 
rattled a chain, or put my head upon a block! 
vNRAHAN. — Having the name of an informer put on me for 
your sake! 

FEENEY. — Is it that you are after being an inf6rmer? Givinrf 
out to the world the hidden bog-hole where I have my still! 

HANRAHAN. — I did not! 

r EENEY. — And you lurking in a cleft and letting on to be word- 
ing your beads! But I'll knock satisfaction out of you. 
I'll have you baulked! 

HANRAHAN. — It is likely the ganger gave it out! 

FEENEY. — He wouldn't put the people against him, saying chat, 
a, neighbour made me out and told me he swore he disre- 
membered all that happened. Death and destruction on me, 
but he's a more honourable man than yourself!- 

MARGARET ROONEY. — What have you against one another so? 

FEENEY. — Blessed if I know. 

HANRAHAN. — If I haven't anything against him, there are 
others I have it against, (to MARY GILLIS) Let you be 
ashamed and under grief, for the way you have us made 



38 The Little Review 



fools of, and earning my forgiveness to the end of your life 
It is up here in this cabin yourself has a right to stop for tfc 
centuries, sleeping in your pelt and scraping your bare fe< 
on the rock, like myself was doing, and speechless, and witl 
out defence, the same as I was myself, through the story yo 
made up and the lies! 

MARGARET ROONEY. — That's the chat, Owen! That is you: 
self is come back to us! 

MRS. COEY. — Well now, for a saint of silence hasn't he a te. 
rible deal of talk! 

MARY GILLIS. — As savage as a wasp out of a bottle, he is. H 
talk is seven times sharper than before! and a holy terrc 
to the whole world. I'll go call to the true friar at tl 
Chapel to say are you not bound to silence for a year ai; 
a day by your oath ! 

HANRAHAN. — (Putting arm round MARGARET ROONEY an 
shaking fist at MARY GILLIS and picking up coat) You wi 
will you? Well I'm not bound! How would I know, when 
took the oath in my lone there would be schemers comir 
around me challenging and annoying me. It is yourself th; 
broke the bond, following after me! And you have a gre; 
wrong done to me. The next time I will take an oath of s 
lence it is in the market square I will take it, the night befo: 
the spring fair, and the pigs squealing from every paling ar 
every car, and hawkers bawling sooner than to be narrowc 
up on a crag where I cannot make my esscape from tl 
tongue of a woman that is more lasting than the sole of ir 
shoe! It's bad behaviour you showed, with your lies and 
great shame for you, and you being a widow and advance 
out a while! It's a great wonder the Lord to stand the vi 
lainy is in you! I'll make you go easy! The time you n 
me out of my senses, tearing away my character*, and I b 
ing dumb, I had myself promised I would make a wor 
wonder of you in the bye and bye and my year and a ds 
being passed! You disgrace, you! The curse of my hea l' 
on you! Go on now, you withered sloe bush, you cranl 
crab fish, ou hag, you rap, you vagabone! May your da 
not thrive with you. and that you may be seven hundrf 
times crosser this time next year, and it is good curses I'll I 
making, and the first I'll put on you is the curse of dunri 
ness, for that is the last curse of all! 

THE END 



The Little Revie IV 39 



THE SOUL'S AWAKENING 
J. R. W h i t e 

I am as drunk as drunk 

And in the ebb of that last wave of wine 

I did opine that I had sunk. 

I am as drunk as drunk 

But on the crest of this last wave of drink 

I really think I can not sink 

So I will rest. 

IMAGINARY LETTERS 

VI 

(Walter Villerant to Mrs. Bland Burn) 
Ezra Pound 

MY DEAR LYDIA: 
Levine is a clever man. Yes, "of course", of course I agree 
with you. He is a clever man. He is constantly being referred to, 
by the Cincinnati papers, as the "brains behind the single-tax move- 
ment in England", or the "brains behind" the neo-vegetarians, or 
the "brains behind" the reformed simple-lifers. Were he in France 
he would undoubtedly get himself referred to as the brains behind 
the Claudel pseudo-romancatholocoes. All things are grist to his 
mill. He knows the psychological moment: i.e., when a given idea 
or "form" will fetch the maximum price per thousand. I don't 
wonder William wants you to get rid of him. 

There is no reason why William should see him, there is no rea- 
son why William should not punch his face in an orgy of sensuous 
gratification, there is no reason why William should not kick him 
down stairs. There is no reason why any one should see him, or hear 
him, or endure him. And there is no reason why I should not see 



40 T h c Li 1 1 le Rev i ew 



him. Besides he once procured me £j2. I use the word "procur 
with intention. It applies — temperamentally it applies to all 
his acts: does he write, does he commission an article, it is all, 
some way, procuration. 

On tlie whole, I do not even dislike him. He has unbound 
naivete. I am civilized man; I can put up with anything th 
amuses me. 

As for the french pseudo-catholicians, ages of faith, Jean' 
d'Arc canonized, capitalized and the rest of it. They are a pes 
lent evil. The procurer is an honest .... and boastful .... tradt 
man in comparison. And they are on the whole rotten writers. 

''But pray what sort of a gentleman is the devil? For I ha 
heard some of our officers say, there is no such person; and that 
is only a trick of the parsons, to prevent their being broke, ^d^ 
it was publicly known that there was no devil, the parsons wi 
be no more use than we are in time of peace." 

Said the Serjeant. Fielding would not have put up with th< 
dribble. And he was quite as good as the Russians. The Russia 
and ha^f Flaubert thrown in. And he is as modern a? tlie last vc 
ticist ^vriters: 

"First having planted her right eye side-ways against iv: 
Jones . . . . " 

Not having been at Rugby or Eton, I can take up anglo-phil 
as a decent and defendable bastion, and leave William to enthu 
over moujiks. I believe there is just as much good. ... no. de 
lady. I forget myself, or rather I forget I am not writing 
William, and that this is not the siecle de Brantome. I "believ 
there is just as much animal energy latent. ... or patent in t 
inhabitants of your esteemed chalk hummock. .\i any rate I w 
born in a more nervous and arid climate. 

De Gourmont is dead, and with him has ceased Monsieur Of 
quant, and I suppose the washy rhetoricans, this back-flush of defr 
symbolism, dead celticism etc.. will have its way. their ways, sot^ 
of the channel. There seems no one to stop it. The "society 
will be full of it. The french mystic is most footling of all myst^i 
France herself will go under. I mean France as the arbitress of of 
literary destinies, the light we look to, from our penumbra. Or pfl» 
haps Dr. Dnhamel, with his realism of hospitals, and the brilliab 
long silent Romains, the humane VMldrac will save us? Damn R 
main Rolland. Ch. Louis Phillipe is excessive. Meritorious, doub 
less, but excessive. Amities WALTER. 



The Little Review 41 



THE RAISED ARMS 

(Theatre Muet) 

Remy de Gourmont 

, Translated by Stephana Boecklin 

f^HE SCENE represents an ocean of heads, whence arises, like 
t bouys half revealed by the waves, a forest of raised arms. It 
jjU people on its knees and in prayer. 

The heads bob to and fro between the raised arms: lichens 
d seaweed clinging to the bouys; the wind, blowing off the East, 
ells out all the hair upon them and excites it in a rhythm that 
ms also a prayer. 

The people is on its knees; from inisible eyes, ecstatic with ter- 
and hope, a mJlky radiance is exhaled, and ascends to heaven. 
le souls climb the milky way, bedewed with splinters of pearl, and 
e white road, streaked with nocturnal bars, with flaming tears and 
Dody scum, is engulfed and in its supreme altitudes lost within the 
fulgent glory of the Pentagon. 

The Pentagon oscillates, then rotates about itself like a wheel; 

flames that spurt from its angles gyrate around the wheel; the 
sntagon whirls with an infinite velocity and propels into the very 
nfines of the world a vortex of flaming air, agitated by disorbed 
e-balls, phosphorescent nut-shells, swept down the obscure and 
rtuous current of the universal maelstrom. 

At this divine spectacle the kneeling people trembles in love 
d recognition; piety prostrates itself in all hearts, and in all bel- 
s humility crouches upon the stones among the debris of life, 
gainst the white road, which has resisted the impact of the vortex, 
e souls hurl themselves and confuse one another; one perceives 
em, corpuscles of incombustible amianthus, stumbling among the 
linters of pearl, scaling the nocturnal bars, vaulting over the 
Lining tears, swimming athwart the bloody scum . . . 

The wheel stops and becomes again the pentagon; its angles 
minish: it is a circle; it swells: it is a sphere. This spectacle ap- 
ars no less divine than the first. The arms stretch forth more 
Tvously, the heads are all upturned, resolved to contemplate the 
finite face to face and in all its glory. The white road is satur- 
ed with a heavy dust of souls: one swarm rises to the assault of 
aven and menaces the limpid gold of the immaculate sphere. 



42 The Little Review 

Behold how all the hands and all the heads have swayed beneath 
the same force: the first swarms make a stain upon the glorious 
sphere, and straightway a line of souls extends from pole to pole. 
The Sphere is obliterated: the people has vanquished its God. 

Below, one by one the torches are extinguished; one by one 
the lamps go out; the arms and the heads become one with the air, 
and the East Wind, which passes above the stricken bodies, carries 
toward the Future the imponderable perfume of life. 

The world is become black; a formless and stolid God hangs 
above the shadows like an extinquished lustre; having no more spec- 
tators the Infinite closes the doors of the Theatre; — ^but it medi- 
tates, and it thinks, "I was Pentagon; I will be Triangle." 

The darkened Sphere is shaken upon its axis; once more it 
swells; points of gold appear upon its skin; once more the swarms 
commence to rain down upon the world where the radiance strikes. 
The Sphere bursts asunder and out of its ruins, impelled to the cen- 
tre by attraction, the Triangle is formed. 

AH the souls are hurled again to earth, and, as they touch 
the slime, the atoms group themselves about thei essence, for the 
East Wind, having made the circuit of the globe, is returned, laden 
with the imponderable perfume of life. 

Again the torches and the lamps are lit; the heads bob to and 
fro; the arms stretch forth; the unconscious prayer ascends in milky 
radiance towards the multiform Ideal, and the souls again climb 
along the white road of heaven, the road which, henceforth, is to be 
swallowed up and in its supreme altitudes lost within the refulgent 
glory of the Triangle. 



T he Lit tl e Review 43 



TO SUBSCRIBERS 

Who did not receive their October issue 

ar October issue has been lying in the Postoffice for the last 
renty days! 

e did not know this until November 2 1 

he issue was mailed on October 18. No notice was sent us of 
ly sort, so we assumed it had reached subscribers as usual. There 
IS no reason for us to imagine that it had not. 

responses came in about the October number, as they usually do 
ithin a week. We inquired of the Postoffice but could get no in- 
rmation except that "all deliveries are likely to be slow these days". 

ut complaints of non-receipt kept coming in, and I went to the 
jstoffice, November 2, to find out what was the matter. I was in- 
rmed that the issue was being held on account of the short story 
Wyndham Lewis, called "Cantleman's Spring Mate". 

his story, by a distinguished man of letters, a man who at present is 
the English army and is fighting in the trenches, is about a young 
Idier, who has a rustic encounter with a girl in "the offend- 
ig fires of the spring". Also it happens to be a very good piece 
: prose, which was our reason for printing it. We had no hope 
lat such a good piece of prose could gain the interest of the 

ostoffice for a minute. 

f 

OBSCENITY! 

November g 

There is nothing lewd or obscene in that story. It| is a piece of 
terature. I can't find a word or phrase or sentence in it that anyone 
)uld dream of distorting into indecency. 

The decision of the Post Office is in our opinion quite absurdly 



44 The Little Review 



wrong. We believe that there have been various complaints of othe 
magazines and that because of those complaints, the Post-Offic 
officials have been aroused to excessive zeal and that we are there 
for hit with the others, wrongly and unjustly, we believe. We expec 
to take matter into Court. The decision may take a month. W 
hope and believe it will be favorable to The Little Review. 

We do not question the motives of the official who acted in th: 
case. We know our rights. We are going to defend our rights. W 
are sure we will win. 



About Newsstand Sales 

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Many readers have placed standing orders with their new. 
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Before me, a Notary Public in and for the State and county aforesaid, personalljr 
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of THE LITTLE REVIEW, and that the following is, to the best of her know- 
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1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing editor, and 
business managers are: 

Publisher, Margaret C. Anderson, 24 W. Sixteenth St., New York; Editor, 
Margaret C. Anderson, 24 W. Sixteenth St., New York; xManaging Editor 
Margaret C. Anderson, 24 W. Sixteenth St., New York; Business Manager, 
Margaret C. Anderson, 24 W. Sixteenth St., New York. 

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any interest direct or indirect in the said stock, bonds, or other securities than 
as 8o stated bv her. MARGARET C. ANDERSON. 

Sworn to and subscribed before me this 29th day of Sept., 1917. 

W. J. HADLEY. Notary Public. 
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11 lii:fl road " iluck I'irin ' 
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or Vni ITMCC Novels— .Storieii — Humor 
CD VULUmCO Ji88,.y,_Tr«vcl - History 

This 1(1 Mark Twaln'8 own wt. Thi'flstheHet he 
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a perfect Met at a reduced price. 

H<-fore the war we had n contract price for rmi)er» 
tto we could sell thiHHetof Mark Twain at haU|)rite. 



A Real American 

Mark 'I'wain wan a Ktiairiboat pilot. 
He waH a Keatcher for koIiI In the far 
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bitterly hard. .Ml thlx without a Klim- 
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\o the lieartM of his countrymen. 

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ile wan, uf »ll Aiiirrldinii, the iiiout Aiiirrl- 
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wuyii ready In lau|{li. I'liut wait Mark Twain. 

HARPER & BROTHERS. New York 



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TUelmt oltlir clll Ion Is In slight. J lir 
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Inr at X ''""••"'"^'"''' Little Review 

II. 



'ASdttu. 



THE LITTLE REVIEW 

Respecting no vested interests, no publishers' 

interests, no aged magazines and reviews 

nor staffs of the same. 

In the December number: 

A Letter from Remy de Gourmont 
A Soidier of Humor, I., by Wyndham Lewis 
T. S. Eliot: A Criticism, by May Sinclair 
The beginning of a new type of book reviewing 

V/omen and Men, by Ford Madox Hueffer, (probably his 
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I THE LITTLE REVIEW 

THE MAGAZINE THAT IS READ BY THOSE 
WHO WRITE THE OTHERS 



DECEMBER, 1917 

\ Letter from Remy de Gourmont 

'Prufrock": A Criticism May Sinclair 

"4otes on Books and Plays: jh 

Amy Lowell's "Tendencies in Modern 
American Poetry" 

Jean de Bosschere's "The Closed Door" 

"Peter Ibbetson" 

The Washington Square Players 

The Greenwich Village Theatre 

The Provincetown Players 

The Drama as an Art 
Poems of Po Chu I translated by Arthur Waley 

Aviation in Musical Criticism : Margaret Anderson 

Galli-Curci 

Heifetz 

A Soldier of Humour, I IVyndham Lewis 

Judicial Opinion (Our Suppressed October Issue) 

M.C.A, 

Improvisation Louis Gilmore 

In Shadow Hart Crane 

Vulgar Infatuations Israel Solon 

Editorial on Solicitous Doubt 
The Reader Critic 

Copyright. 1917, by Margaret Anderson. 

MARGARET ANDERSON, Editor 
EZRA POUND, Foreign Editor 

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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

VOL. IV. DECEMBER, 1917 No. 8 



A LETTER FROM REMY DE GOURMONT 
Ezra Pound 

AT A TIME when most of our now vocal and prominent American 
bellifists were still determined that the United States should 

take no part in saving civilization, I desired to found a magazine 
which should establish some sort of communication between New 
York, London and Paris .To that end I asked the assistance of 
Mr. Yeats, who is without question the greatest living poet of these 
islands; of Ford Madox Hueffer. founder of The English Review 
(and in no way connected with the present management of that 
periodical) ; and of Remy de Gourmont. None of these men refused. 
Other complications delayed the project. The present arrangement 
with The Little Review is the ultimate result of the scheme. If 
DeGourmont had lived he would now be among our contributors. 
His last letter concerning the project is therefore of personal interest 
to our well-wishers. It is of far wider interst, in so much as there 
are few amiable and dispassionate critics of America, and that De- 
Gourmont's few words on the subject are not without some enlight- 
enment. 

Cher Monsieur : 

J'ai lu avec plaisir votre longue lettre, qui m'ex- 
pose si clairement la necessite d'une revue unissant les efforts des 
Americains, des Anglais, et des Fran^ais. Pour cela, je vous servirai 
autant qu'il sera en mon pouvoir. Je ne crois pas que je puisse 
beaucoup. J'ai une mauvaise sante et je suis extremement fatigu^; 
je ne pourrai vous donner que des choses tr^ courtes, des indications 
d'idees plutot que des pages accomplies, mais je ferai de mon 
mieux. J'esp^re que vous reussirez 4 mettre debout cette petite 
affaire litteraire et que vous trouverez parmi nous des concours 
utiles. Evidement si nous pourions amener les Americains h. mieux 
sentir la vraie litterature frangaise et surtout i ne pas la confondre 
avec tant d'oeuvres courantes si mediocres, cela serait un resultat 
trcs hcureux. Sont-ils capables d'assez de libertc d'esprit pour lire, 
sans etre choques, mes livres par example, elle est bien, douteux et 
il faudrait poUr cela un long travail de preparation. Mais pour- 



The Little Review 



quoi ne pas I'entreprendre? En tous les pays, il y a un noyau de 
bons esprit3, d'esprits libres, il faut leur donner quelque chose qui 
les change de la fadeur des magazines, quelque chose qui leur donne 
confiance en eux-mtmes et leur soit un point d'appui. Comme 
Vous le dites, il faudra pour commencer les amener k respecter 
I'individualisme frangaise, le sens de la liberie que quelques unt 
d'entre nous possedent a un si haut point. lis comprennent cela en 
theologie. Pourquoi ne le comprendraient-ils pas en art, en poesie, 
en litterature. en philosophic. 11 faut leur faire voir — s'ils ne le 
voient pas deji — que I'individualisme frangais peut, quand il If 
faut, se plier aux plus dures disciplines. 

Conqucrir I'Americain n'est pas sans doute votre seul but. 
Le but du Mercure a ete de permettre k ceux qui en valent la peine 
d'ecrire franchement ce qu'il pense, — seul plaisir d'un ecrivain. Ccia 
doit aussi etre le votre. 

Votre bien devoue 

Remy de Gourmont. 

"The aim of the Mercure has been to permit any man, who is 
worth it, to write down his thought frankly, — this is a writer's sole 
pleasure. And this aim should be yours." 

"Are they capable of enough mental liberty to read my books, 
for example, without being horrified. I think this very doubtful, 
and it will need long preparation. But why not try it. There are 
in all countries knots of intelligent people, open-minded; one must 
give something to relieve them from the staleness of magazines, 
somthing which will give them confidence in themselves and serve 
as a rallying point. As you say, one must begin by getting them 
to respect French individualism; the sense of liberty which some 
of us have in so great degree. They understand this in theology, 
why should they not understand it in art, poetry, literature." 

If only my great correspondent could have seen letters I re- 
ceived about this time from English alleged intellectuals ! 1! Ill 1 
The incredible stupidity, the ingrained refusal of thought !!! II 
Of which more anon, if I can bring myself to it. Or let it pass? 
Let us say simply that DeGourmont's words form an interesting 
contrast with the methods employed by the British literary epis- 
copacy to keep one from writing what one thinks, or to punish one 
(financially) for having done so. 

Perhaps as a warning to young writers who can not afford the 
loss, one would be justified in printing the following: 



The Little Review 



Soa. Albermarle Street. London W. 
2 October, '14 

Dear Mr. Pound: 

Many thanks for your 
letter of the other day. I am afraid I 
must say frankly that I do not think I 
can open the columns of the Q. R. — 
at any rate at present — to anyone asso- 
ciated publicly with such a publication 
as Blast. It stamps a man too disad- 
vantageously. 

Yours truly. 

G. W. Prothero. 

Of course, having accepted your 
paper on the Noh, I could not refrain 
from publishing it . But other things 
would be in a different category. 

I need scarcely say that The Quarterly Review is one of the 
lost profitable periodicals in England, and one of one's best "con-^ 
ections", or sources of income. It has, of course, a tradition. •» 

"It is not that Mr. Keats (if that 
be his real name, for we almost doubt ^ 

that any man in his senses would put ' 

his real name to such a rhapsody)" — 

iTOte their Gifford of Keats' Endymion. My only comment is that 
he Quarterly has done it again. Their Mr. A. Waugh is a lineal 
lescendent of Gifford, by way of mentality. A century has not 
aught them manners. In the eighteen fourties they were still de- 
ending the review of Keats. And more recently Waugh has lifted 
ip his senile slobber against Mr. Eliot. It is indeed time that the 
unctions of both English and American literature were taken over 
>y younger and better men. 

As for their laying the birch on my pocket. I compute that 
ny support of Lewis and Brzeska has cost me at the lowest estimate 
ibout £20 per year, from one source alone since that regrettable 
iccurence, since I dared to discern a great sculptor and a great 
>ainter in the midst of England's artistic desolation. ("European 
ind Asiatic papers please copy".) 

Young men, desirous of finding before all things smooth berths 
md elderly consolations, are cautioned to behave more circum- 
pectly. 



The Little Review 



It is a far cry from these schoolmaster tactics to Remy de 
Gourmont, and of course no Englishman or American would write 
as DeGourmont has written. Nor does the generation that pre- 
ceded us care much whether we understand French individualism, or 
the difference between the good and bad in French literature. Nor ia 
it conceivable that any of them would write to a foreigner: "indica- 
tions of ideas, rather than work accomplished, but I will send you 
my best." 

To the phrase "lis comprennent cela en theologie" I may take, 
later, exception. My present comment was intended solely to show 
De Gourmont's attitude toward our endeavour to publish an en- 
lightened periodical in English. Concerning "concours utiles" from 
Paris, I hope to make definite and interesting announcements be- 
fore much more time has elapsed. 



"PRUFROCK: AND OTHER OBSERVATIONS" 

A CRITICISM 

May Sinclair 

SO FAR I have seen two and only two reviews of Mr. Eliot's 
pwems: one by Ezra Pound in The Egoist, one by an anony- 
mous wTiter in The New Statesman. I learn from Mr. Pound's 
review that there is a third, by Mr. Arthur Waugh, in the Quarterly. 

To Mr. Ezra Pound Mr. Eliot is a poet with genius as incon- 
testable as the genius of Browning. To the anonymous one he is 
an insignificant phenomenon that may be appropriately disposed of 
among the "Shorter Notices." To Mr. Waugh, quoted by Mr. Pound, 
he is a "drunken Helot." I do not know what Mr. Pound would 
say to the anonymous one. but I can imagine. Anyhow, to him 
the Quarterly reviewer is "the silly old Waugh." And that is 
enough for Mr. Pound. 

It ought to be enough for me. Of course I know that genius 
does inevitably provoke these outbursts of silliness. I know that 
Mr. Waugh is simply keeping up the good old manly traditions of 
the Quarterly, "so savage and tartarly," with its war-cry: " ' Ere't 
a stranger, let's 'eave 'arf a brick at 'imi" And though the be- 
haviour of The New Statesman puzzles me. since it has an editor 
who sometimes knows better, and really ought to have known bet- 



The Little Review 



ter this time, still The New Statesman also can plead precedent. 
But when Mr, Waugh calls Mr. Eliot "a drunken Helot." it is clear 
that he thinks he is on the track of a tendency and is making a 
public example of Mr. Eliot. And when the Einonymous one with 
every appearance of deliberation picks out his "Boston Evening 
Transcript," the one insignificant, the one neglible and trivial thing 
in a very serious volume, and assures us that it represents Mr. Eliot 
at his finest and his best, it is equally clear that we have to do with 
something more than mere journalistic misadventure. And I think 
it is something more than Mr. Eliot's genius that has terrified 
The Quarterly into exposing him in the full glare of publicity and 
The New Statesman into shoving him and his masterpieces away 
out of the public sight. 

For ''The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", and the "Portrait 
of a Lady" are masterpieces in the same sense and in the same de- 
gree as Browning's "Romances" and "Men and Women"; the 
"Preludes" and "Rhapsody on a Windy Morning" are masterpieces 
in a profounder sense and a greater degree than Henley's "London 
Voluntaries"; "La Figlia Che Piange" is a masterpiece in its own 
sense and in its own degree. It is a unique masterpiece. 

But Mr. Eliot is dangerous. Mr. Eliot is associated with an 
unpopular movement and with unpopular people. His "Preludes" 
and his "Rhapsody" appeared in Blast. They stood out from the 
experimental violences of Blast with an air of tranquil and triumph- 
ant achievement; but. no matter; it was in Blast that they ap- 
peared. That circumstance alone was disturbing to the comfortable 
respectability of Mr. Waugh and The New Statesman. 

And apart from this purely extraneous happening, Mr. Eliot's 
genius is in itself disturbing. It is elusive; it is difficult; it de- 
mands a distinct effort of attention. Comfortable and respectable 
people could see. in the first moment after dinner, what Mr. Henley 
and Mr. Robert Louis Stevenson and Mr. Rudyard Kipling would 
be at; for the genius of these three travelled, comfortably and fairly 
respectably, along the great high roads. They could even, with a 
little boosting, follow Francis Thompson's flight in mid-air, partly 
because it was signalled to them by the sound and shining of his 
wings, partly because Thompson had hitched himself securely to 
some well-known starry team. He was in the poetic tradition all 
right. People knew where they were with him, just as they know 
now where they are with Mr. Davies and his fields and flowers and 
birds. 



10 The Little Review 



But Mr. Eliot is not in any tradition at all; not even it 
Bro\vning's and Henley's tradition. His resemblances to Brown- 
ing and Henley are superficial. His difference is twofold; a differ* 
cnce of method and technique; a difference of sight and aim. H« 
does not see anything between him and reality, and he make! 
straight for the reality he sees; he cuts all his comers and hii 
curves; and this directness of method is startling and upsettinf 
to comfortable, respectable people accustomed to going superfiuouslj 
in and out of corners and carefully round curves. Unless you ar< 
prepared to follow with the same nimbleness and straightness yoi 
will never arrive with Mr. Eliot at his meaning. Therefore th« 
only comfortable thing is to sit down and pretend, either that Mr 
Eliot is a "Helot" too drunk to have any meaning, or that hh 
"Boston Evening Transcript" which you do understand is greatei 
than his "Love Song of Prufrock" which you do not understand 
In both instances you have successfully obscured the issue. 

Again, the comfortable and respectable mind loves conven- 
tional beauty, and some of the realities that Mr. Eliot sees are not 
beautiful. He insists on your seeing very vividly, as he sees them 
the streets of his "Preludes" and "Rhapsody." He insists on youi 
smelling them. 

"Regard that woman 
Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door 
Which opens on her like a grin. 
You see the border of her dress 
Is torn and stained with sand. 
And you see the corner of her eye 
Twists like a crooked pin. 

Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, 

Slips out its tongue 

And devours a morsel of rancid butter." 

He is 

"aware of the damp souls of housemaids 
Sprouting despondently at area gates." 

And these things are ugly. The comfortable mind turns away 
from them in disgust. It identifies Mr. Eliot with a modem ten- 
dency; it labels him securely "Stark Realist", so that lovers of 
"true poetry" may beware. ' 

1 



The Little Review li 



It is nothing to the comfortable mind that Mr. Eliot is 

"... moved by fancies that are curled ■ 

Around these images, and cling: 
The notion of some infinitely gentle ^ 

Infinitely suffering thing." 

It is nothing to it that the emotion he disengages from his 
ugliest image is unbearably poignant. His poignancy is as un- 
pleasant as his ugliness, disturbing to comfort. 

We are to observe that Mr. Eliot's "Observations" are ugly 
and unpleasant and obscure. 

Now there is no earthly reason why Mr. Eliot should not be 
ugly and unpleasant if he pleases, no reason why he should not 
do in words what Hogarth did in painting, provided he does it well 
enough. Only, the comfortable mind that prefers So and So and 
So and So to Mr. Eliot ought to prefer Hogarth's "Paul Before 
Felix" to his "Harlot's Progress". Obscurity, if he were really ob- 
scure, would be another matter. But there was a time when the 
transparent Tennyson was judged obscure; when people wondered 
what under heaven the young man was after; they couldn't tell for 
the life of them whether it was his "dreary gleams" or his "curlews" 
that were flying over Locksley Hall. Obscurity may come from de- 
fective syntax, from a bad style, from confusion of ideas, from in- 
volved thinking, from irrelevant association, from sheer piHng on 
of ornament. Mr. Eliot is not obscure in any of these senses. 

There is also an obscurity of remote or unusual objects, or of ' 
familiar objects moving very rapidly. And Mr. Eliot's trick of 
cutting his corners and his curves makes him seem obscure where • 
he is clear as daylight. His thoughts move very rapidly and by- 
astounding cuts. They move not by logical stages and majestic 
roundings of the full literary curve, but as live thoughts move in 
live brains. Thus "La Figlia Che Piange:" 

"Stand on the highest pavement of the stair — 

Lean on a garden urn — - ? 

Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair — 

Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise. 

Fling them to the ground and turn 

With a fugitive resentment in your eyes: 

But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair. 



12 The Little Review 

So I would have had him leave, 

So would have had her stand and grieve, 

So he would have left 

As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised, 

As the mind deserts the body it has used. 

I should find 

Some way incomparably light and deft. / 

Some way we both should understand, 

Simple and faithless as a smile or a shake of the hand. 

She turned away, but with the autumn weather 

Compelled my imagination many days, 

Many days and many hours. 

Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers. 

And I wonder how they should have been together 1 

I should have lost a gesture and a pose. 

Sometimes these cogitations still amaze 

The troubled midnight and the moon's repose." 

I suppose there are minds so comfortable that they would 
rather not be disturbed by new beauty and by new magic like this. 
I do not know how much Mr. Eliot's beauty and magic is due to 
sheer imagination, how much to dexterity of technique, how much 
to stern and sacred attention to reality; but I do know that without 
such technique and such attention the finest imagination is futile, 
and that if Mr. Eliot had WTitten nothing but liat one poem he 
would rank as a poet by right of its perfection. 

But Mr. Eliot is not a poet of one poem; and if there is any- 
thing more astounding and more assured than his performance it 
is his promise. He knows what he is after. Reality, stripped naked 
of all rhetoric, of all ornament, of all confusing and obscuring as- 
sociation, is what he is after. His reality may be a modem street 
or a modern drawing-room; it may be an ordinary human mind sud- 
denly and fatally aware of what is happening to it; Mr. Eliot is 
careful to present his street and his drawing-room as they are, and 
Pruf rock's thoughts as they are: live thoughts, kicking, running 
about and jumping, nervily, in a live brain. 

Prufrock , stung by a longing for reality, escapes from respect- 
ability into the street and the October fog. 

"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes. 
The yellow smoke that rubs its mxizile on the window panes, 



T he Lit tie Review 13 



Licked its tongue into the comers of the evening. 

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, 

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys. 

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, 

And seeing that it was a soft October night. 

Curled once about the house and fell asleep." 

Profrock has conceived the desperate idea of disturbing the 
universe. He wonders 

"Do I dare 

Disturb the universe? 

In a minute there is time 

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse. 

For I have known them all already, known them all: 
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons; 
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; 
I know the voices dying with a dying fall 
Beneath the music from a farther room. 
So how should I presume?" 

Prufrock realises that it is too late .He is middle-aged. The 
horrible drawing-room life he has entered has got him. 

"And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! 

Smoothed by long fingers, 

Asleep . . . tired ... or it malingers, 

Stretched on the floor, here between you and me. 

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices. 

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? 

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed. 

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought 

in upon a platter, 
I am no prophet — and here's no great matter; 
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker. 
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and 

snicker. 
And, in short, I was afraid." 

His soul can only assert itself in protests and memories. He 
would have had more chance in the primeval slime. 



1 



I 



1 

14 T h e Lit tl e Rev i ew n 



"I should have been a pair of rugged claws 
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas." 

As he goes downstairs he is aware of his futility, aware that 
the noticeable thing about him is the "bald spot in the middle of 
my hair". He has an idea; an idea that he can put into action: — 

"I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled." 

He is incapable, he knows that he is incapable of any action more 
momentous, more disturbing. ... 

And yet — and yet — 

"I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. 

I have seen them riding seaward on the wave? 
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back 
When the wind blows the water white and black. 
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea. 
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 
Till human voices wake us and we drown." 

Observe the method. Instead of writing round and round 
about Prufrock, explaining that his tragedy is the tragedy of sub- 
merged passion, Mr. Eliot simply removes the covering from Pruf- 
rock 's mind: Prufrock 's mind, jumping quickly from actuality to 
memor>' and back again, like an animal, hunted, tormented, terribly 
and poignantly alive. The Love-Song of Prufrock is a song that 
Bakac might have sung if he had been as great a poet as he was 
a novelist. 

It is nothing to the Quarterly and to the New Statesman that 
Mr. Eliot should have done this thing. But it is a great deal to 
the few people who care for poetry and insist that it should concern 
itself with reality. With ideas, if you like, but ideas that are reali- 
ties and not abstractions. 



The Little Review 15 



NOTES ON BOOKS AND PLAYS 

jh. 

T^HE CRITICS here are like country doctors who carry on their 
^ J entire business with proprietary or patent medicines. 

They have no scent which will lead them to discover for them- 
selves work of exception and creation, and, when bad stuff is put 
before them with the good, no principles from which they may 
strongly declare or damn. 

They are merely practising reviewers who write carefully- 
gleaned comments upon two kinds of things: things that come from 
Europe heralded and stamped with the approval of some well-known 
critic over there, or things in this country recommended by Mrs. 
Atherton or Colonel Roosevelt. 

When I am offended or amused by some exceeding stupidity or 
sentimentality I feel a momentary impulse to do something about 
it; but "I am a man who does not kill mosquitos". 

I could never be a useful critic because I can never see myself 
taking any interest in anything beyond the work of art itself. It is 
of no interest to me whether the public comes to it early or late or 
never. If it were I should not try to lure or lead or goad or shame 
them to accept it. But to prevent my suffering I should entrench 
me in some creed of reincarnation and rest, knowing that they will 
have to come. 

I have no militant opinions of the offensive kind. I have formed 
a few principles out of some intelligence that I contained at birth 
and I have kept them in spite of so-called education and training. 
I am quite conscious of their operating independently of my thoughts. 
I cannot understand Ezra Pound and Margaret Anderson when they 
become impatient with the American public because it won't take 
Art. I believe if you leave the right kind of food out the right kind of 
animals will get it-^-if they are hungry! 

It is never a matter of impatience to me when people fail to 
use their brains; but I am sometimes puzzled when they give no 
sign of instincts or emotions. I should never be very angry or sur- 
prised at an automobile if it refused to gfo if the gasoline tank were 
found to be empty, but I would be slightly dashed if the gasoline. 



i6 The Littlf Review 



properly ignited, gave no action. Water in the gasoline would be 
the obvious answer to that, I suppose, and Puritanism in the blood 
the obvious answer to the life in America. This last seems to me 
more of a question than an answer. It goes back to the kind of 
people who could adopt a religion so opposed to life, no matter 
against what they were revolting. Some fundamental leick chose the 
religion and then chose a place to flourish. Some seeds are blown 
upon the rocks and are forced to take root there; they soon die, 
starved or burned out. Others choose the rock because it is all they 
need. It is cheap and sentimental to talk about the nation being 
so young. Savages have and are producing significant and perman- 
ent Art. Americans always talk and act as if all individuality, all 
nationality and race-consciousness were inevitably washed away, in 
the Atlantic, from everyone who dared to come to America. If there 
is to be Art in America, no fear: Art will have its way. The ap- 
paling and unholy thing is a nation that is satisfied and thinks it 
can exist without Art. It has no precedent, no parallel in history. 

Amy Lowell's Loose Criticism 

Miss Lowell showed a nice touch in naming her latest book 
Tendencies in Modem American Pottry. I flared up for just t 
second on opening it not to find Eliot or Pound included. But when 
I did not find Amy either I calmed down and discovered the reason: 
Pound is a force, not a tendency; Eliot sprang full-fledged perhaps; 
and Amy Lowell has answered for herself in her work. It's a little 
hard on H. D. to put her in such company .... 

I am not going into a discussion of the book. My ideas of life 
and art are so opposed to those expressed by Miss Lowell that to do 
the thing properly I should have to write another book perhaps longer 
than hers. 

The first sentence in the preface I think has been proved untrue 
by many artists by whom I think we can judge values. Yeats hu 
not known there was a war. Jean de Bosschere, a Belgian of whom 
I shall write later, has created well without mentioning the war. I 
should say from where I stand that Art and the war have only this 
relation: the war is only a disturbance, a distant dust raised in tht 
road bv a mighty Passing. Art preceeded the passing. 

Miss Lowell believes she can understand and criticise these 
poets better because she knows them personally. Miss Lowell 
believes in friends and enemies in Art. I thought we were so far 
beyond the personal life criticism of a man's work that all the 



T he Li t tie Review 17 

people who ever did it were long dead. Our only concern is with 
the poetry. The poetry, if it be art, contains the ultimately diffen- 
entiating stamp of the man. 

Miss Lowell has become the guide, philosopher and friend of her 
contemporaries. In one place in the book she gently warns them 
against "seeing life through the medium of sex". In a recent article 
T. S. Eliot also took a rap at "those American poets who study 
Freud." Why warn them or jeer them about Freud? If it has taken 
all the men of science all the ages to discover something of what the 
first poet knew, why fear for the poets? I believe these scientists 
have depended entirely upon Art for their researches. Life is so 
short — to live at all. But to live one's life and one's immortality at 
once is what the artist must do. To be an artist one must be born 
containing an intense vision of the spirit of life; he must grip the 
fundamental qualities in the work of the past and in the little space 
of a life master a method or form of presenting himself. 

If American writers have to study Freud to discover the spirit 
of life, — in other words, if they have to make themselves poets before 
they can begin to make poetry, it isn't warnings and jeerings they 
need: it's pity. Life is so short. But if reading Freud will influence 
any one in this country to believe that the force which produced him 
regulates his whole life, if anything can make the rawness in the 
general attitude toward sex a little less raw, boil the whole nation in 
Freud! 

Miss Lowell's book is a book of loose thinking, of what I might 
call cliche phychology. When she compares poets to painters or di- 
lates on the effects of environement she is as indiscriminate as a club- 
woman. 



Jean de Bosschcre 

A case in illustration of my talk about the critics* is Jean de 
Bosschere's The Closed Door (John Lane, New York), translated 
into English by Mr. F. S. Flint. 

In August 1916 we printed "Ulysse Fait son Lit", and in Jan- 
uary 191 7 "L'Offre de Plebs"; — both poems now included in the 
book . At the time they appeared in The Little Review not a single 
critic, poetry expert, or Friday Supplement editor gave a sign of 
recognition. But now that the poems come in a book, translated 



i8 T he Li t tie Review " 

into the one language in their repertory, with a preface by May Sin- 
clair, this chorus of safely first in criticism bursts into praise, taking 
the two poems above as special examples of DeBosschers's "anar- 
chism of soul", — as "deep and beautiful and terrible poems" .... 
This might be a compliment to May Sinclair, but .... 

What interests me is Jean de Bosschere. I can't understand why 
this man must be called mystic, symbolist, or Catholic by anyone. 
Even May Sinclair discusses his "mysticism". 

If I should tell an intelligent but unread man that I had seen 
the sun shining at midnight in Norway I should think him a fool if 
he took me for a mystic and thought that I was referring symbolically 
to the spiritual state of the Norwegians. My interest in telling of 
this aspect of nature may not have been in the fact that the sun 
shone at midnight, but in a more or less diverting mental game of 
seeing opposites as the same thing in aspect; and in this way getting 
the most intense contrast of the two things in spirit. 

Jean de Bosschere (I am speaking only of the poems in The 
Closed Door) writes of the aspects of life. He does not explain, he 
does not comment. He leaves you to make the emotional and in- 
tellectual connection with the spirit of life. He has made it for himself 
in silence. 

There is something akin to the Norsk in the way Jean de Boss- 
chere, the sophisticated man, the intellectual, sees life. The Norwe- 
gians are often called mystics. Again the intense similarity of op- 
posites. There is an immense simplicity of vision in the people of 
the North which gives them the power to see the thing as it is, not 
all disorganized by hopes and fear^ and doubts that it may be other- 
wise. They too are called austere, unemotional, uncompromising. 
You can be emotional about life and its details, but you can not be 
emotional about the naked eternal spirit of life, nor about Art. They 
exist outside of emotions. 

Jean de Bosschere builds his poems in the same proud, clean, 
glad way in which he has Ulysse build his house. "There is hardly 
need for him to add a table, a chest, an altar". 

This book will show you something that you would not find for 
yourself. I have found something in it that is my own. 

"Peter Ibbetson" 

Among intelligent people everywhere in the country there is a 
dissatisfaction with the theatre. It is expressed and dissapated by 
the public in little theatre movements and drama-league revival 



The Little Review 19 

meetings; by actors and playwrights in ravings at the theatric*! 
trusts. 

Once in a season there may come a play like Peter Ibbetson, over 
which even the intelligent theatre-goer takes hope and talks of "a 
beautiful play", — "here at least is something with a different qual- 
ity", — "a play the young must be taken to see to develop a taste 
for the good things in the theatre", etc. 

Peter Ibbetson is the worst kind of thing from the standpoint of 
Drama that the stage has to offer. Peter Ibbetson "made from the 
book". Nothing has been made: no drama. It comes on the stage 
a cut-down acting version of the book, and is called a play. Reality 
is forced upon the audience at every turn. Reality is substituted 
for imagination even in the dreams .'It is a wearing thing, — this 
constant frustration of the imagination. The personality of the 
actors is so intrusive that in one of the "intensest" moments some 
one in the audience whispered: "Oh now he looks just like Ethel!" 
I believe it would have done something for the play if Ethel had taken 
the part of the Lady of Towers. The concentrated Barrymore charm 
could have perhaps produced some kind of emotion. I have never 
seen a Barrymore who seemed to know an emotion except as such, — 
as a human emotion. An art emotion is beyond them. 

As it was given the play was a kind of grown-up, uninspired, 
metaphysical Alice in Wonderland. It dripped sentimentality. I 
myself had that reflex action of sentimentality called tears. But 
an onion too makes me weep. 

The most beautiful and weepy scene is the last, in which the 
Lady of Towers returns from the dead to encourage the dying 
Peter. I don't know what the book has her say about the state 
after death, but in the play she says: "Peter, where I am it is all 
eye and all ear; it is seeing, hearing, feeling and smelling all in one". 
This is indeed something to fever and struggle and die to attain. 
It is the state of an oyster. But the play is "beautiful" .... 

The Washington Square Players 

The most popular attempt to establish something better than 
the Broadway production in the theatre is the Washington Square 
Players. And they are the most futile. 

■ I have never seen them when they were able to create even a 
feeling of- the theatre. The Drama must exist in its own world, not 
in ours. That world is the theatre. The Drama is a creation of 
art, the theatre a creation of science and art. This world must be 
created. The last time I saw them, in a little piece of propaganda. 
The Family Exit, they created no more than a disturbance in public. 



20 , The Little Review 



There was no dividing line between the audience and the stage. One 
scene is a family row. Being let in on a family row in this way is 
as annoying as it ever is in life, and no different. 

The Greenzvicli Village Theatre 

The Greenwich Village Theatre, \Vhich of>ened last month in 
Sheridan Square, proved in its first bill that it was no reaction against 
the tiresomeness and conventions of the uptown theatres. It is no 
fresh start for the drama: it is a Broadway theatre slightly converted 
to the beliefs of the little theatres: a new playhouse designed and 
built by a real-estate architect in a fascinating location. 

The first play, an inconsequential thing in verse, was overloaded 
and overpowered by an extravagantly cjorgeous setting, decorative 
and period costumes, and bad actors . Sidney Carlyle as the melan- 
choly Pierrot saved it from complete futility . He at least played 
with distinction and as if he had heard of a theatre before. I think 
it was some other idea than his that made him play the part with 
so much stress and vim. His perfect resemblance to the statue of 
the young Augustus gave to his Pierrot a subtle irony. 

Fania Marinoff, the Columbine, could not be borne. 

The second play. Efficiency, illegitimately depended on the war- 
time feeling in the audience for its entire support. 

In T/ie Feast of Bacchus Mr. Conroy did the best work of the 
company. I find the Uttle psychological and intellectual stunts of 
Schnitzler just as interesting to read as to see acted. They are not 
drama, but if they are put on the stage they must be done by people 
of some intelligence. Fania Marinoff's conception of the sophisti- 
cated wife and comrade of a distinguished dramatist was a brainless 
thing: a third-rate actress off stage and not an interesting one. Her 
voice and manners were recht ordinaire; in other words, she was 
crass. 

TJie Provincctozvn Players 

Where there is nothing there may still be hope. I don't exactly 
mean that about the hope .... 

The Provincetown Players in their bleak room in MacDougal 
Street, with their home-made plays and their wobbly scenery, have 
a set purpose: to give American plays to promote the art of the 
drama in America. That spirit about the arts will block any one or 
anything from getting on and up. 

But in all this welter of theatres they alone have an actress: 
Ida P.aiih. Here is a woman who contains the qualities of an actress. 
She is akin to the great ones, Bemhardlt, Duse and Rejane, in that 



The Little Review 21 



fundamental quality and force of being. It is such an undeniable 
force that even the spectator without imagination (vision) becomes 
aware of it and is held. 

There is an absolute lack of scientific training or direction in 
the Provincetown Theatre. It seems to be an art theatre of the 
"natural" kind. Many of the players will never develop into ama- 
teurs; few of them will ever recognize the difference between Ida 
Rauh and themselves. 

With a ban on everything but Ameri(|l6.n plays there is little 
possibility of finding a role with enough resistance in it for this kind 
of actress. No dramatist has shown himself of enough intensity and 
sophistication. There is no reason Vv'hy such an actress should be 
sacrificed to the commercial theatre. The only thing left for her is 
to create through and over and beyond weak plays, as Duse did. 

The Drama as Art 

It is useless to go on talking about the theatre as it is. The thea- 
tre as a place of Art is dead. Som.e of us who recognize this and 
have not reached a state in our development where we can suavely 
and unselfishly permit the dead to remain with us, cry out-crudely: 
Life is for the alive; the theatre is dead; bury it or resurrect it 
Alive. 

But the drama is one of the great Arts. It can neither be killed 
nor buried alive . In all the other arts the modem artist has cut away 
tradition and convention, stripped dov.n to the very soul, and 
given a chance for a new intense life .Only the dramatist lies inert, 
helpless, buried under the theatre, literature, the system, and the 
public. 

There is nothing else to believe but that in time Drama will ex- 
tricate it self from all the systems that have fastened upon it. 
There is some interest in trying to hasten this time, for our own 
sake. I should like to make clear a simple suggestion, without 
getting into a treatise on the Drama. 

For years men in Europe have been working to establish the 
drama as an art, but in America the whole idea seems to have 
been to make it a branch of Social Service Work. 

As one of the Arts it is almost unrecognized in the theatre. In 
its place we have literature and very much not-literature, novels il- 
lustrated v.'ith voice, gesture, costume and scenery of endless varieties ; 
we have propaganda, — moral, social, political, religious. 

The little theatres in their protest have expended all their ener- 
gies upon the externals: scenery and lighting. They have weakly 



22 The Li t tic Review 



discarded the technique in voice and acting which they had never 
acquired. 

But "talk", the real curse of the theatre today, they hug to 
themselves: and as so much else is lacking, seem to be the exponents 
of the "talk", "discussion", and "domestic relations plays". 

Drama is emotion expressed in motion (action). Words are not 
needed to evoke the emotion or to explain the action. Words belong 
to literature. Only a setting is needed which shall stay a setting and 
not become a painting, interior decoration, or nature . And actors 
with enough personality to impersonally transmit the emotion. 

Several months ago we printed some experiments by John Rod- 
ker called the Theatre Muet. I should like to see them tried out in 
one of our theatres. 

In scultpure we have had the design simplified and intensified 
for its own sake rather than for the sake of expression. In painting 
we have gone to the extreme of throwing down all representation 
and presenting the abstract. Poetry and music have had their 
revolutions. 

When the emotions that are eternal have been rescued from the 
confusion of our brutally taxing physical life and the emptines of 
our psychology, which deals too much with the details and too little 
with the spirit of life, we will have a nevv drama. I do not think 
that it will be the theatre muet, any more than I believe that this 
painting will remain abstract forever. Representation will return 
to painting. The artist will be consciously or subconsciously in- 
fluenced in a world of representations. I do not mean representation 
as imitation or illustration, but as an interpretation of the inner rela- 
tion of things to life. We will have our theatre staging emotions in 
action with dialogue that is not conversation but rather an ac- 
companiment. 

That Boston Paper Again 

London Office: 

One of the younger Irish essayists has just been in with yet 
another prize tale of The Atlantic Monthly. It seems that one of 
the Garnett family had delivered himself of a more than usulaly typi- 
cal article in that pipe organ of Massachusetts kultur; our Irish con- 
temporary wrote to them outlining a reply and rebuttal of Garnett. 
The Atlantic, ever priceless, The Atlantic replied to him that they 
thought his idea a good one. and would entrust it to one of thar regu- 
lar contributors. 



The Lit tie Review 23 



POEMS OF PO CH U-l* 

(772-846 a. d.) 

Translated by Arthur Waley 
The Harper of Chao 

The singers have hushed their notes of clear song; 

The red sleeves of the dancers are motionless. 

Hugging his lute, the old harper of Chao 

Rocks and sways as he touches the five chords. 

The loud notes swell and scatter abroad: 

"Sa, sa", like wind blowing the rain. 

The soft notes dying almost to nothing: 

"Ch'ieh, ch'ieh", like the voice of ghosts talking. 

Now as glad as the mag pie's lucky song: 

Again bitter as the gibbon's ominous cry. 

His ten fingers have no fixed note; 

Up and down — "kung", "chih" and "yu"^ 

And those who sit and listen to the tune he plays 

Of soul and body lose the mastery. 

And those who pass that way as he plays the tune 

Suddenly stop and cannot raise their feet. 

Alas, alas that the ears of common men 

Should love the modern and not love the old! 

Thus it is that the harp in the green window 

Day by. day is covered deeper with dust. 



^ Notes of the scale. 

* I reprint these poems from the October number. They are too, 
good for any one to miss. — M, C. A. 



24 The Little Review 



On the Way to Hangchow: 

Anchored on the River at Night 

Little sleeping and much grieving, the traveller 
Rises at midnight and looks back toward home. 
The sands are bright witli moonlight that joins the shores; 
The sail is white with dew that has covered the boat. 
Nearing the sea, the river grows broader and broader: 
Approaching autumn, the nights longer and longer 
Thirty times we have slept amid rfiists and waves, 
And still we have not reached Hangchow! 

Immortality 

Boundless, the great sea! - 

Straight down, — no bottom: sidewa>'s, — no border. 

Of cloudy waves and misty billows down in the uttermost depths 

Men have fabled, in the midst there stand three sacred hills. 

On the hills thick growing, — herbs that banish death. 

Wings grow on tliose who eat tliem and they turn into heavenly 

hsien. 
The Lord of Ch'irf^ and Wu of Han^ believed in these stories; 
And magic-workers year by year were sent to gather the herbs. 
The Blessed Islands, now and of old, what but an empty tale? 
The misty waters spread before them and they knew not where 

to seek. 
Boundless, the great sea! 
Dauntless, the mighty wind! 

Their eyes search but cannot see the shores of the Blessed Islands. 
They cannot find the Blessed Isles and yet they dare not go back; 
Youths and maidens that began ttie quest grew gray on board 

the boat. 
They found that the writings of Hsii Fu were all boasts and lies; 



* The "First Emperor," B. C. 259 — 210. 
2 The Emperor Wu, B. C 156— S7. 



The Little Review 25 

To the Great Unity and Lofty Principle they had raised their prayers 

in vain. 
Do you not see 
The graves on the top of Black Horse Hill and the tombs at 

Mo-ling?^ 
What is left but the sighing wind blowing in the tangled grass? 
Yes, and what is more, 

The Dark and Primal Master of Sagas in his five thousand words 
Never spoke of herbs: never spoke of hsien, 
Nor spoke of climbing in broad daylight up to the blue of heaven. 

The Two Red Towers 

{A Satire Against Clericalism) 

The Two Red Towers 

North and South rise facing each other. 

I beg to ask, to whom do they belong? 

To the two princes of the period Cheng YiJan.^ 

The two princes blew on their flutes and drew down faries from the 

sky; 
Who carried them off through the Five Clouds, soaring away to 

Heaven. 
Their halls and houses, that they could not take with them, 
Were turned into Temples, planted in the Dust of the World. 
In the tiring-rooms and dancers' towers all is silent and still; 
Only the willows like dancers' arms, and the pond like a .mirror. 
At twilight when the flowers are falling, when things are sad and 

hushed, 
One does not hear songs and flutes, but only chimes and bells. 
The Imperial Patent on the Temple doors is written in letters of gold; 
, For nuns' quarters and monks' cells ample space is allowed. 



* The burial places of these two Emperors. 
2 785—805 A. D. 



26 The Little Review 

For green moss and bright moonlight — plenty of room provided; 
In a hovel opposite is a sick man who has hardly room to lie down! 
I remember once when at P'ing-yang they were building a great 

man's house: 
How it swallowed up the housing space of thousands of ordinary 

men. 
The Immortals' are leaving us. two by two. and their houses are 

turned into Temples; 
I begin to fear that the whole world will become a vast convent! 

On Board Ship: 
Reading Yuan Chen's Poems 

I take your poems in my hand and read them beside the candle; 
The poems are finished: the candle is low: da\\Ti not yet come. 
With sore eyes by the guttering candle still I sit in the dark, 
Listening to the waves that strike the ship driven by a head-wind. 

Arriving at Hsun-Yang' 

A bend of the river brings into view two triumphal arches; 
This is the gate in the western wall of the suburbs of Hsun-yang. 
I have still to travel in my solitary boat three or four leagues — 
By misty waters and rainy sands, while the yellow dusk thickens. 

We are almost come to Hsun-yang; how my thoughts are stirred 
As we pass to the south of Yii-liang's Tower and the east of P'en port. 
The forest trees are leafless and withered. — after the mountain 

rain ; 
The roofs of the houses are hidden low among the river mists. 
The horses, fed on water-grass, are too weak to carry their load; 



' The Emperor's relatives. 

■■!■ He was banished to this place in 815 with the rank of Sub-prefect. 



The Little Review 27 

The cottage walls of wattle and thatch let the wind blow on one's 
bed. 

In the distance I see red- wheeled coaches' driving from the town- 
gate; 

Thev have taken the trouble, these civil p>eople, to meet their new- 
Prefect! 



After Getting Drunk, Becoming 
Sober in the Night 

Our party scattered at yellow dusk and I came home to bed; 

I woke at midnight and went for a walk, leaning heavily on a friend. 

As I lay on my pillow my vinous complexion, soothed by sleep, 

grew sober; 
In front of the tower the ocean moon, accompanying the tide, had 

risen. 
The swallows, about to return to the beams, went back to roost 

again; 
The candle at my window, just going out, suddenly revived its 

light. 
All the time till dawn came, still my thoughts were muddled; 
And in my ears something sounded like the music of flutes and; 

strings. 

Last Poem 

They have put my bed beside this unpainted screen; 

They have shifted my stove in front of the blue curtain. 

I listen to my grandchildren reading to me from a book; 

I watch the servants heating up the soup. 

I move my pencil, answering the poems of friends; 

I feel in my pockets and pull out the medicine money. 

When this suf)erintendance of trifling affairs is done 

I lie back on my pillows and sleep with my face to the fouth. 



28 The Little Review 



AVIATION IN MUSICAL CRITICISM 

Margaret Anderson 

I HAVE heard a great deal of music lately, I have sat at concerts 
with the critics and listened to their strange discussion of it, 
and I have sat alone and wondered how such a wierd cind sterile race 
of beinf^s ever happened to be produced in the world. 

First of all. New York will go into raptures over Galli-Curci. 
I say this now before New York has heard her, because I am already 
suffering over the things I will have to listen to about her. The cri- 
tics \Vill call her a great artist and the public will rave in the same 
key. And the only true things that can be said of GalU-Curci is 
that she has a remarkable vocal organ which any intelligent being 
will listen to with the same type of interest he has for a tight-rope 
performance. 

Any one grown enough to classify his emotions will know this 
at once. To say that she has a marvelous voice is not to say that she 
has an art, that she is capable of art. that she has anything more to 
do with Art than a toadstool has. The fact is that she was not born 
an artist, that she will never become one (you can't, of course), and 
that she probably hasn't enough knowledge of what the word means 
even to wish to become one. 

I heard her debut last year in Qiicago. She did her stunts with 
the facility of a bird, and so there was a great clamour. I can im- 
agine how Campanini rushed to sign contracts with her, how he sud- 
denly discovered that he had been concealing a jewel from the public, 
how the legend of her greatness was the easiest thing in the world to 
create, etc. etc. This is a country where everyone believes that a 
stunt superbly done is an art. They don't exactly call baseball 
playing one of the arts, but anything comparable to the "form" 
needed to pitch a ball properly becomes art when they recognize it 
in a voice, on a piano or a vilon. In literature they can't yet recog- 
nize when a stunt has been properly accomplished, so any one who 
writes at all is regarded as an "artist"; he may do the worst poetry 
or novel-writing of his generation, but the mere fact of his being 
engaged in writing is enough to include him in the cult. 

But Annette Kellerman is not an artist, despite the grace and 
dexterity of her diving; and Theodore Dreiser is not an artist, des- 
pite the interesting books he has written; and Mrs Fiske is not an 
artist, even if she has mastered the technique of the stage; ana Bar- 



The Little Review 29 



rie's plays are not Art even if they do contain a complete and exquis- 
ite knowledge of human nature; and Isadora Duncan is not an artist 
even if she does move many people profundly; and Rudolf Ganz is 
not an artist even if he does play the pmno with utter and absolute 
and delightful virtuosity. And Paderewski and Kreisler and Bauer 
and Bernhardt and Mary Garden are artists because they were born 
•with creative imagination. AnO Galii-Curci is not an artist, by vir- 
ture of that lack. These home-truths, I regret to say, are still un- 
recognized. 

Galli-Curci is a very unattractive little person without pi-esence, 
personality, charm, brains, taste, spirit, or looks. She is a^vkward 
and silly on the stage, simpering and excessively saccharine, un- 
trained in any of the beautiful uses of the body. She has one of two 
gestures, like Melba, for all kinds of emotion, and uses them contin- 
uously, with an awful coyness, without regard to what is going on 
in the music or in the drama. All the most stupid affectations of the 
old opera ideals are in her perfomances. I believe she is supposed 
to have said that she likes singing with Caruso and dislikes singing 
with Muratore. Whether she said it or not it would have to be true. 
She and Caruso are on about the same intellectual level: what Mura- 
tore conceives as the art of opera belongs to an air which they can- 
not breathe. I am not trying to disparage the gift of voice which 
Galli-Curci has. I am merely objecting to the riot ot idiocy through 
the country which calls that voice art. And I am. trying to express 
my contempt for the New York audiences that will go into testacies 
over this woman next month and refuse to understand the great art 
which Mary Garden has to give them. 

The musical sensation of the year is Jascha Heifctz. Before I 
heard him I was told that he played the violin more beautifully than 
Kreisler, that he was the most wonderful phenomenon that has ever 
come to these shores, etc,, etc. When I went fo his concert I heard 
this: a triumph of virtuosity, as definitely and forever removed from 
comparison with Kreisler as Godowsky is from Harold Bauer. 

Heifetz plays with more ease than any violinist I have ever 
seen. He is very young, very graceful and charming and appealing, 
and the chief characteristic of his music is flawlessness. One enthus- 
iast told me she loved his playing because he did such unexpected 
things, you could never tell what he was going to do next, etc. But 
he does no unexpected things. His playing is perfection. He hasn't 
even a touch of that "exaggeration a propos" which is the gp.uge of 
personal quality, and without which a man cannot put the stamp 



;o The Little Review 



of himself upon his work. Such playing is not the playing of a master 
but of a perfect pupil. Heifetz is like that: the essence of all the 
things that can be taught seem to have come together in him. He has 
not discarde<l any values handed on to him and replaced them with 
his own. He has not outstripped his teachers. He gives no indication 
of the thing which cannot be taught. He is the perfect artist, and ' 
as such he won this tribute from one critic: "Heifetz does not in- 
trude himself upon the music." Exactly. That is the trouble. 

I had looked for some of the richness of the Slav in Heifetz. 
They say he has a weary face. I was not close enough to see. but 
certainly his music has no weariness. It is not interesting enough for 
that. My informants may be quite mistaken about his look. He 
may have merely a sad face . Certainly in his pictures he hasn't "the" 
look. 

It is really quite too naive of the newspaper critics to have 
compared him with Kreisler. One of the more conservative remarks 
carefully: "I cannot agree with those who, on the inspiration of 
the moment, instantly sweep away all the favorites of the day. 
Kreisler still remains my ideal of violinists". Good heavens! this 
'•« all but pitiable Kreisler's quality is that of the trained human 
being, a nervous concentration of imagination and intellect and 
fxassion turned upon a finely conscious idea; Hcifet's quality is that of 
the un-selfconscious, unaware human being, dedicated to the beautiful 
playing of music as some one else has conceived it. "But Kreisler is 
mature and Heifetz is so young. Wait a bit", etc., etc. This is 
banality. I am talking of the quality each man had at birth, and 
of absolutely nothing else. There was more art in Kreisler's playing 
of his arrangement of Paderewski's minuet than in Heifetz's whole 
program. David Hochstein's playing is more nearly like Heifetz's 
than that of any one else in this country. But David Hochstein 
plays with more interest in the quality of his feeling. He hasn't such 
a range of virtuosity, but why does New York care more for virtu- 
osity than for anything else? 

No, Heifetz is not the great new violinist. And another thing: 
whenever a great new violinist does appear his audiences will be start- 
led by one difference at least, whatever else they arc able to perceive. 
They will discover a quite different kind of acompianlst at the piano, 
and a quite different kind of sound coming from that instrument. No 
great musician of the future could stand the strain of the horrible 
sounds made by the hack pianists that serve today as the best ac- 
companists. The things they do to the piano are fearful. I always 
have a nightmare afterward of their loose, flat, unfeeling, unsensitive. 



T he Lit tie Review 31 

untrained (not in the sense of technique but of touch) hands fiop- 
ping up and down on the keyboard,— hands that can keep good time, 
but that. know no differentiations of sound except loud and soft. 
I keep thinking "Oh, great heavens, in a few minutes he'll play loud, 
but not a contained loud — a brassy loud as if the sound were in 
shreds." .... It is very awful. 



IMPROVISATION 

Louis Gilmore 

Blue night 
Powdered with stars 
Haggard moon 
With late hours 
Mandolins .... 

M. I'Abbe 
In mauve trousers 
Shapely hand 
Pulling flowers 
Violins .... 

Marquise 
By greenisn taper 
Sly mask 
Ogling a sailor 
Tambourins .... 



32 The Little Review 



A SOLDIER OF HUMOUR "^ , 

Wyndham Lewis 

PART I 

SPAIN IS AN overflow of sombreness "Africa commences at the 
Pj-renees." Spain is a check-board of Black and Goth, on 
which Primitive Gallic chivalry played its most brilliant games. At 
the gates of Spain the landscape gradually becomes historic with 
Roland. His fame dies as difficultly as the flourish of the cor de 
chasse. It lives like a superfine antelope in the gorges of the 
Pyrenees, becoming more and more ethereal and gentle, Charle- 
magne moves Knights and Queens beneath that tree; there is 
something eternal and Rembrantesque about his proceedings. A 
stormy and threatening tide of history meets you at the frontier. 

Several summers ago I was cast by Fate for a fierce and pro- 
longed little comedy, — an essentially Spanish comedy. It approp- 
riately began at Bayonne, where Spain not Africa begins. 

I am a large blonde Clown, ever so vaguely reminiscent (in 
person) of William Blake. George Alexander, and some great Ameri- 
can Boxer whose name I forget. I have large strong teeth which I 
gnash and flash when I laugh, as though I were chewing the hu- 
mourous morsel. But usually a look of settled and aggressive naiev- 
Ty rests on my face. I know I am a barbarian, who, when Imperial 
Rome was rnther like Berlin to-day, would have been paddling 
about in a coracle. My body is large, white and savage. But all 
the fierccnes has become transformed into laughter. It still looks 
like VisiGothic fighting machine, but is really a laughing machine. 
As I have remarked, when I laugh I gn.vsh my teeth, which Is an- 
other brutal survival, and thing Laughter has taken over from War. 
Everywhere where formerly I would fly at thoats, I howl with 
laughter! 

A German remains in a foreign country for thirty years, speaks 
its language as well as his own, and assimilates its ideas. But he 
is the ideal spy of Press-Melodrama, because he remains faithful in 
thought to his Fatherland, and in his moments of greatest expan- 
siveness with his adopted countrymen, is cold, more or less: — 
enough to remain a German. So I have never forgotten that I 
am really a neo-Teuton barbarian. I have clung coldly to this con- 
sciousness with an almost Latin good sense. 



The Little Review 33 

I realise, similarly, the uncivilized nature of my laughter. It 
does not easily climb into the neat Japanese box, which is the 
"cosa sallada" of the Spaniard, or French "esprit." It sprawls into 
everything. It has become my life. 

All this said, I have often passed quite easily for a Frenchman, 
in spite of my Swedish fairness of complexion. 

There is some Local genius or god of adventure haunting the 
soil of Spain, of an especially active and resourceful type. I have 
seen people that have personified him; for the people of a country, 
in their most successful products, always imitate their gods. You 
feel in Spain that it is safer to seek adventures than to avoid 
them. You have the feeling that should you refrain from charging 
the windmills, they are quite capable of charging you; in short, 
you come to w^onder less at Don Quijote's eccentric behaviour. 
But the diety of this volcanic soil has become more or less civilised. 
— My analysis of myself would serve ecjually for him in this respect. 
— Your life is no longer one of the materials he asks for to supply 
you with constant amusement, as the conjuror asks for the gentle- 
man's silk hat. Not your life, — but a rib or two, your comfort or 
a five pound note are all he needs. With these things he juggles 
and conjures from morning till night, keeping you perpetually 
amused and on the qui vive. 

It might have been a friend: but as it happened it was the 
most implacable enemy I have ever had that Providence provided 
me with as her agent representative for this journey. 

The comedy I took part in was a Spanish one, then, at once 
piquant and elemental. But a Frenchman filled the principle role. 
When I add that this Frenchman was convinced the greater 
part of the time that he was taking part in a tragedy, and was 
perpeually on the point of transplanting my adventure T^'^'^-^y into 
that other category; and that although his actions drew their ve- 
hemence from the virgin source of a racial hatred, yet it was not 
as a Frenchman or a Spaniard that he acted, — then you will con- 
ceive what extremely complex and unmanageable forces were about 
to be set in mbtion for my edification. 

What I have said about my barbarism and my laughter is a 
key to a certain figure. By these antecedents and modifications of 
a modern life, such another extravagant warrior as Don Quijote is 
produced, existing in a vortex of strenuous and burlesque en- 
counters. Mystical and humourous, astonished at everything at 
bottom (the settled naivete I have described) he is enclined to 
„ worship and deride, to pursue like a riotous moth the comic and 



34 The Little Review 



unconscious luminary he discovers; to make war on it, and cherish 
it, like a lover. 

It was about ten o'clock at night when I reached Bayonne. . I 
had started from Paris the evening before. 

In the market square near the station I was confronted with 
several caravanseris shamelessly painted in crude intimate colours; 
brilliantly shining electric lights of peculiar hard, livid disreputable 
tint illumined each floor of each frail structure; eyes of brightly^' 
frigid invitation. Art of Vice, cheap ice-cream, cheaply ornamented 
ice wafers on a fete night, were things they suggessed. "Fonda 
del Universo," "Fondo del Mundo": Universal Inn. and the Inn 
of the World, two of them were called. I had not sufficient energy 
left to resist these buildings. They all looked the same, but to keep 
up a show of will and discrimination I chose the second, not the 
first. I advanced along a narrow passage-way and found myself 
suddenly in the heart of the Fonda del Mundo. On my left lay the 
dining-room, in which sat two travellers .1 was standing in the 
kitchen, — a large courtyard round which the rest of the hotel and 
a house or two at the back were built. But it had a glass roof on 
a level with the house proper. 

About half a dozen stoves with sinks, each managed by a sep- 
arate crew of grimy workers, formed a semicircle. One had the 
impression of hands being as cheap, and every bit as dirty as dirt. 
You felt that the lowest scullery maid could afford a servant to do 
the roughest of her work, and this girl in turn another. The abund- 
richness and prodigality of beings, of a kind with its profusion of 
fruits and wine. Instead of buying a wheelbarrow would not one 
attach a man to one's business? — instead of hiring a removing van 
engage a gang of carriers? In every way that man could replace 
the implement he would here replace it. An air of leisurely but 
continual activity pervaded this precinct, extensive cooking going 
on. I discovered later that this was a preparation for the morrow. 
a market day. But to enter at ten in the evening this large and 
apparently empty building, as far as customers went, and find a 
methodically busy population in its midst, cooking a nameless 
Feast, was naturally impressive. A broad staircase was the only^ 
avenue in this house to the sleeping apartments; a shin'^ng cut glass, 
door beneath it seemed the direction I ought to take when I should 
have made up my mind to advance. This door, the stairs, the 
bread given you at the table d'hote all had the same new, unsub- 
stantial appearance, 



T he Lit tl e Review 35 

I stood waiting, my rug on my arm, before penetrating fur- 
ther into this enigmatical world of the "Fonda del Mundo." Then 
the hostess appeared through the glass door — a very stout woman 
in a c'rc-ss like a dressing gown. She had the air of sinking into her- 
self as if into a hot enervating bath, and the sleepy leaden in- 
tensity of expression belonging to many Spaniards. Her face was 
ance of the South seemed manifesting in this way, as well, in a 
so still and impassabie that the ready and apt answers coming to 
one's questions were startling. The air of dull resentment meant 
nothing except that I was indifferent to her. Had I not been so 
this habitual expression would not have been allowed to remain, 
a cold expressionlessness would have replaced it. 

She turned to the busy scene at our right and called out 
with guttural incisiveness several orders in Spanish, all having 
some bearing on my fate; some connected with my supper, the 
others with further phases of my sojourn in her house. They 
fell in the crovvd of leisurely workers without causing a ripple. 
But they gradually reached their destination. 

First i noticed a significant stir and a dull flare rose in the 
murky atmosphere, as though one of the lids of a stove had been 
slid back preparatory to some act of increased culinary activity. 
Then elsewhere a ^ slim, handsome young witch left her cauldron 
and passed me, going into the dining-room. I followed her and 
the hostess went back through the cut glass door. 

Supper began. The wine may have been Condy's Fluid. It 
resembled it, but in that case it had been many years in stock. I 
made short work of the bacalao (cod, — that nightmare to Spaniards 
of the Atlantic seabord). The stew that followed had no terrors 
for me, a spectator would have thought. But the enthusiastic on- 
looker at this juncture would have seen me suddenly become in- 
ert and brooding, would have seen my knife fall from my nerveless 
right hand, my fork be no longer grasped in my left. I was van- 
quished. My brilliant start had been a vain flourish. The insolent 
display of sweets and dessert lay unchallenged before me. Noticing 
my sudden desistance, my idle and defenceless air, the only other 
ocupant, now, of the salle a manger, and my neighbor, addressed 
me. He evidently took me for a Frenchman. I could maintain 
that role, if need be. 

"11 fait beau ce soir!" he said dogmatically and loudly, staring 
blankly at me. 

'l^SIais non, voyons! It's by no means a fine night! It's cold 
and damp, and, what's more, it's going to rain.' 



36 The Little Review 

1 cannot say uhy 1 contradicted him in this fashion. Perhaps 
the insolent and mystical gage of drollery his appearance generally 
fiung down was the cause. 

My neighbor took my response quite stolidly however, and prob- 
ably this initial rudeness of mine would have had no effect what- 
ever on him, had not a revelation made shortly afterwards at once 
changed our relative positions, and caused him to look on me with 
different eyes. He then went back, remembered this first incivility 
of mine, and took it, retrospectively, in a different spirit to that 
shown contemporaneously. For he now merely inquired, 

"You have come far?" 

"From Paris,'" 1 answered, gazing in consternation at a large 
piece of cheese, which was about to advance upon me at every mo- 
ment, and finish what the cod, its sauce and the dreadful stew had 
begun. 

The third occupant of the salle a manger had just retired to 
rest a few moments before this dialogue began after a prolonged and 
apparently drawn battle with the menu, for he looked by no means 
unscathed. He had been hard pressed by the sweets, that was evident. 
You felt that had not the coffee been the last item of the bill 
of fare, he would inevitably have succumbed. Honour was saved, 
however, and he hurried to bed head erect, but legs, — that part 
of his person farthest removed from the seat of his indomitable 
will, — in palpable disarray. As to the individual who had addressed 
me, he showed every sign of the extremest hardiness. He lay back 
in his chair, his hat on the back of his head, ftnishing a bottle of 
wine with iDravado. His waistcoat was open, and this was the 
only thing about him that did not denote the most facile of victories. 
I considered this as equivalent to a rolling up of the sleeves; it 
was businesslike, it showed that he respected his enemy. Had 
his waistcoat remained buttoned down to the bottom, it would 
have been more in keeping wih the rest of his fanfaronading manner. 
But after all, it may have beeh because of the heat. 

His straw hat served rather as a heavy coffee-coloured nim-» 
bus, — such a nimbus as some Browningsque Florentine painter, the 
worst for drink, might have placed, rather rakishly and tilting for- 
ward, behind the head of a saint. Above this veined and redly sun- 
burnt forhead gushed a lot of dry black hair. His face had the 
vexed, wolfish look often seen in the Midi. It was full of char- 
acter, but had no breadth of touch; it had been niggled at and worked 
all over, at once minutely and loosely* by a hundred little blows and 
chissellings of fretful passion. Flis beard did not sprout with any 
shape or symmetry. Yet in an odd and baffling way there was a 



The Little Review 37 

breadth, a look of possible largeness somewhere. You were forced at 
length to attribute it to just that blankness of expression I have just 
mentioned. This sort of blank intensity spoke of a real possibility 
of real passion, of the sublime. (It was this sublime quality that I 
was about to waken, and was going to have an excellent opportunity 
of studying). 

He was dressed with a sombre floridity. In his dark grey- 
purple suit with thin crimson lines, in his dark red hat band, in his 
rich blue tie, in his stormily flowered waistcoat, one had a feeling 
that his taste for the most florid of colouring had everywhere -strug- 
gled to assert itself, and everywhere been overcome. But by what? 
That was one of this man's secrets, and one of the things that 
made him a pubbling person. Again, the cut of his clothes, in a kind 
of awkward amplitude, seemed out of place. 

He was not a commercial traveller. I was sure of this. For 
me, he issued from a void. I rejected in turn his claim, on the 
strength of his appearance, to be a small vineyard owner, a man in 
the automobile business and a 'rentier'. He was part of the mys- 
tery of this extraordinary hotel; his solitude, his ungregarious ap- 
pearance, his aplomb before that menu! 

In the meantim.e his little sunken eyes were fixed on nie im- 
perturbably, blankly. 

"I was in Paris last week:" he suddenly announced. "I don't 
like Paris. Why should J[?" I thought he was becoming rather 
aggressive, taking me for a Parisian. 'They think they are up-to- 
date. Go and get a parcel sent you from abroad, and go and try 
and get it at the Station Depot. See how many hours you will 
pass there trotting from one little bureau clerk to another before 
tliey give it to you. Then go to a cafe and ask for a drink! The 
waiter will upset half of it over your legs! Are you Parisian?'* 
He asked this in the same tone, the blankness slightly deepening. 

"No, I'm English," I answered. 

He looked at me steadfastly. This evidently at first seemed to 
him untrue; then he suddenly appeared to accept it implicity. 

After a few minutes of silence, he addressed me, to my surprise, 
in my own language; but with every evidence that it had crossed 
the Atlantic at least once since it had been in his posession, and 
that he had not inherited it but acquired it with the sweat of his brow 

"Oh! you're English? It's fine day!" 

Now, we are going to begin all over again. And we are going 
to start, as before, with the weather. But I did not contradict him 
this time. My opinion of the weather had in no way changed. 
I disliked that particular sort as much as ever. But for some reason 



38 T he Lit t le Review 

I withdrew from my former attitude of uncompromising truth, and 
agreed. 

"Yes," I said. 

Our eyes met, doubtfully. He had not forgotten my late inciv- 
ility, and I remembered it at the same time. He was silent again, 
evidently turning over dully in his mind the signification of this 
change on my part; and, before my present weak withdrawal, feeling 
a still stronger resentment in remembering my wounding obstinacy 
of five minutes before. Yes, this was now taking effect. 

And then, almost threateningly, he continued, — heavily, point- 
edly, steadily, as though to see if there were a spark of resistance 
anjrvvhere left in me, that would spit up under his trampling words. 

"I guess eets darn fi' weather, and goin' to laast. A friend 
mine, who ees skeeper, sailing for Bilbao this afternoon, said that 
mighty little sea was out zere, and all fine weather for his run. 
A skipper ought' know, I guess, ought'n he? Zey know sight more 
about zee weader than most. I gess zat's deir trade, — a'nt I 
right?" 

A personal emotion was rapidly gaining him. And it seemed 
that speaking the tongue of New York helped its increase con- 
siderably. All his strange blankness and impersonality had gone, 
or rather it had ivoken up, if one may so describe this strange 
phenomenon. He now looked at me with awakened eyes, coldly, 
judicially, fixedly. But he considered he had crushed me enough, 
and began talking about Paris, — as he had done before in French. 

He spoke English incorrectly, but, like many foreigners, the 
one thing linguistically he had brought away from the United States 
intact was an American accent of the most startling and uncompro- 
mising perfection. Whatever word or phrase he knew, in however 
mutilated a form, had this stamp of colloquialism and air of being 
the real thing. He spoke English with a careless impudence at 
which I was not surprised; but I had the sensation besides that the 
vague but powerful consciousness of the authentic nature of his ac- 
cent, made him still more insolently heedless of the faults of his 
speech. His was evidently to the full the American ,or Anglo-Saxon 
American, state of mind: a colossal disdain for everything that 
does not possess in one way or another an American accent. It 
It seemed almost that my English, grammatically regular though it 
was, lacking the American accent was but a poor vehicle for 
thought compared with his most blundering sentence. 

Before going further I must make quite clear that I have no 
more predjudice against the American way of accenting English 



The Little Review- 39 

than I have against the Irish or English. The Irish brogue is pret- 
tier than English (despite Irishmen's alternate disparagement and 
exploiting of it) ; and American possesses an indolent vigour and 
dryness which is a most cunning arm when it snarls out ironies. 
The American accent is the language of Mark Twain, and is the 
tongue, at once naive and cynical, of a thousand inimitable humour- 
ists. 

I remember at the three or four schools I succesively went to, 
that at all a curious and significant belief prevailed. I always under- 
stood, up to my seventeenth year, that an Englishman could reckon, 
without undue vanity and as a matter of scientific fact, on overcom- 
ing in battle seven Frenchman. That he need feel by no maens un^ 
easy if threatened by twenty, or fifty, for that matter; but that the 
sort of official and universally acknowledged standard was one En- 
glishman corresponding to seven Frenchmen. I remember also a 
conversation I had in Paris with a young Englishman. We were 
both nineteen, and very tall and lanky. He was a slow, awkward 
and rather timid youth. We were discussing nocturnal aggressions, 
and he said quietly that these Paris roughs "wouldn't ever tackle an 
Englishman." "They knew better" — This same young man also was 
very conscious of the difference of his walk from that of French- 
men. He referred to it quite seriously as "the walk of the conquer- 
ing race." I could never see any difference myself, except that his 
legs were disproportionately long, and he seemed a rather incompet- 
ent pedestrian. 

Now I have met nowhere else in Europe with this excellent 
illusion of national superiority. A Frenchman knows he will have 
to use his utmost cunning to circumvent and eventually exterminate 
or main one single German. The German reflects he will have to 
eat a great deal of Leberwiirst and Sauerkraut to be able to crush 
with his superior weight the nimble Frenchman. "The God's Own 
Country" attitude of some Americans is more Anglo-Saxon than 
their blood. I can now proceed without fear of misinterpretation on 
the part of my American friends. 

I had before this met Americans from Odessa, Buda Pesth and 
Pekin. Almost always the air of the United States, which they 
breathed for a month or two, had proved too much for them. They 
were never any good for anything afterwards, became wastrels in 
their own countries, — poets and dreamers. 

This man at once resembled and was different from them. 
The case of this diffence became apparent when he informed me that 
he was a United States citizen. I believed him unreservedly and on 



40 The Little Revie'o 

the spot. Some air of security in him that only such a ratification 
can give, convinced me. 

He did not tell me at once. Between his commencing to speak 
in English and his announcing his citizenship came an mdetermined 
neutral phase in our relations. In the same order as in our con- 
versation in French, we progressed from the weather topic, — a del- 
icate subject with us, — to Paris. 

Our acquaintance had matured wonderfully quickly. I already 
felt instinctively that certain subjects of conversation were to be 
avoided; that certain shades of facial expression would cause suspi- 
cion, hatred or perplexity in his soul. — He, for his part, evidently 
with the intention of eschewing a subject fraught with dangers, did 
not once speak of England. It was as though England were a sub- 
ject that no one could expect him to keep his temper about, and that 
if a man did inde'ed come from England he would naturally resent 
being reminded of it, — as though he might feel that the other was 
seeking to take an undue advantage of him. He was in fact in- 
dulgently pretending for the moment that I was an American. 

"Guess you' goin' to Spain?" he. said. "Waal, Americans are 
not like' very much in that country. That country, sir, is barb'- 
rous; you kant believe how behind in everything that country's is! 
All you have to do is to look smart there to make money. No need to 
worry there. No, by gosh! Just sit round and ye'll do bett' dan zee 
durn dagos!" 

The American citizenship wiped out the repulsive fact of his 
southern birth, otherwise he would have been almost a dago him- 
self, being a Gascon. 

"In Guadalquiver, — waal — kind of State-cap 'tie, some manza- 
nas or kind shanties, see? — waar'-L 

I make these sentences of my neighbour's much more lucid 
than they were in reality. But he now plunged into this obscure 
swirl of words with a story to tell. The story was drowned in 
them, but I gathered it told of how. travelling in a motor car, he 
could find no petrol anywhere in a town of some importance. 

He was so interested in the telling of the story, that I became 
rather off my guard, and once or twice showed that I did not. 
quite follow him, did not quite understand his English. He finished 
his story rather abruptly and there was a silence. It was after this , 
silence that he divulged the fact of his American citizenship. : 

And now things took on a very gloomy aspect. ] 

With the revelation of this mighty fact he seemed to consider <i 
it incumbent upon him, to adopt an air of increased arrogance. 



The Little Review 41 

He was now the representative of the United States. There was no 
i^ore question of my being an American. All compromise, all cour- 
teous resolve to ignore painful facts, was past. Things must 
stand out in their true colours, and men too. 

As a result of this heightened attiude, he appeared to doubt 
the sincerity or exactitude of everything I said. His beard bristled 
round his drawling mouth, his thumbs sought his arm-pits, his feet 
stood up erect and aggressive on his heels, at the delicate angle of a 
drawing by Pascin. An insidious attempt on my part to induct the 
conversation back into French, unhappily detected, caused in him 
a sombre indignation. I was curious to see the change that would 
occur in my companion on feeling on his lips once more and in his 
throat, the humbler tongue. The treachery of my intention gradu- 
ally dawned upon him. He seemed taken aback, was silent and very 
quiet for a few minutes, as though stunned. The subtleties, the 
Ironies, to which he was exposed! 

"Oui, c'est vrai", I went on, with frowning, serious air, over 
palpably absorbed in the subject v.e were discussing, and overlook- 
ing the fact that I had changed to French; "les Espagnols ont du 
chic a se chausser. D'Ailleurs, c'est tout ce qu'ils savent, en fait 
de toilette. C'est les Americains surtout qui savent s'habiller!" 

- His eyes at this became terrible. He saw through it all. And 
now I was flattering, was flattering Americans, and above all, prais- 
ing their way of dressing. The guile of this wks too much for him. 
He burst out vehemently, almost wildly, in the language of his 
adopted land: — 

"Yes, sirr and that's more'n see durn English do!" 

He was a typical product of the French midi. But, no doubt, 
in his perfect Americanism—and at this ticklish moment, his im- 
peccable accent threatened by an unscrupulous foe, who was at- 
tempting to stifle it temporarily — a definate analogy arose in his 
mind. The red-skin and his wiles, the hereditary and cunning foe 
of the American citizen, no doubt came vividly to his mind and he 
recognized, in its evoking this image, the dastardliness of my at- 
tack. Yes, wiles of that familiar sort were being used against him, 
Sioux-like, Blackfeet-like maneouvres. He must meet them as the 
American citizen had always met them. He had at length over- 
come the Sioux and Mohican. He turned on me a look as though 
I had been unmasked, and his accent became more accentuated, 
rasping and arrogant. I might say that his accent became venem- 
ous. All the elemental movements of his soul were always acutely 



42 TJtc Little Review 



manifest in his American accent, the principal vessel, as it were, of 
his vitality. 

After another significant pause he brusquely chose a subject of 
conversation that he was convinced we could not agree 
upon. He took a long draught of the powerful fluid served to 
each diner. I disagreed with him at first out of politeness. But as 
he seemed resolved to work himself up slowly into a national pas- 
sion, I changed round and agreed with him. He glared at me for 
a moment. He felt at bay before this dreadful subtlety of mine. 
Then he warily changed his position in the argument, taking up the 
point of view he had begun by attacking. 

We changed about alternately for a little. At one time, in tak- 
ing my new stand, and asserting something, either I had changed 
too quickly, or he had not quite quickly enough. At all events, 
when he began speaking, he found himself agreeing with me. This 
was a terrible moment. It was very close quarters. I felt as one 
does at a show, standing on the same chair with some uncertain 
tempered person . I was compelled rapidly to disagree with him 
and just saved the situation. A moment more, and we should have 
fallen on each other, or rather, he on me. 

He buried his face once more in the sinister poiton in front of 
him, and consumed the last vestiges of the fearful aliment at his 
elbow. I felt the situation had become perfetcly blood-curdling. 

We had not been once interrupted during these happenings. 
A dark man, a Spaniard, I thought, had passed into the kitchen 
along the passage. The sound of bustle came to us uninterruptedly 
from within. 

He now with a snarling drawl engaged in a new discussion on 
another and still more delicate subject. I renewed my tactics, he hii. 

Subject after subject was chosen, and his voltes-face, his change 
of attitude in the argument, became less and less leisurely and 
more and more precipitate, until at length whatever I said he said 
the opposite brutally and at once. But still my cunning was too 
great for him. At last, pushing his chair back with a frightful grat- 
ing sound, and thrusting both his hands in his pockets — at this su- 
preme moment the sort of large blank look came back to his face 
again — he said slowly: — 

"Waal, zat may be so — you say so — waal! But what say you 
to England, ha! England! — England! England!" 

At last it had come! He repeated "England" as though that 
word in itself were a question — unanswerable question. "England" 



T he Little Review 43 

was a question that a man could only ask when very, very exaspera- 
ted. But it was a thing hanging over every Englishman, the pos- 
sibility of having this question put to him. He might at any mom- 
ent be silenced with it. 

"England! ha! England! England!" he repeated as though 
hypnotised by this word; as though pressing me harder and harder 
and finally "chawing me up" with the mere utterance of it. 

"Why, mon vieux!" I said suddenly, getting up, "how about the 
South of France, for that matter — the South of France, the South 
of France!" 

If I had said "America" he would have responded at once, no 
doubt. But "the south of France"! A look of unutterable vague- 
ness came into his face. The south of France! This was at once 
without meaning, dispiriting, humiliating, paralysing, a cold douche, 
a stab in the back, an unfair blow. I seemed to have drawn a 
chilly pall suddenly over the whole of his mind. 

I had fully expected to be forced to fight my way out of the 
salle-a-manger, and was wondering whether his pugilistic methods 
would be those of Alabama or Toulouse — whether he would skip 
round me with his fists working like piston rods; or whether he 
would plunge his head in the pit of my stomach, kick me on the 
chin and follow up with the "coup de la fourchette", which consists 
in doubling up one's fist, but allowing the index and little finger 
to protrude, so that they may enter the eyes on either side of 
the bridge of the nose. 

But he was quite incapable of dealing adequately with this 
new situation. As I made for the door, he sat first quite still. 
Then, slowly, slightly writhing on his chair, his face half turned 
after me. The fact of my leaving the room seemed to find him 
still more unprepared, to dumfound him even more, than my answer 
to his final apostrophe. It never had occured to him aonarently, 
that I should perhaps get up and leave the room! — Sounds came 
from him, words too — hybrid syllables lost on the borderland be- 
tween French and English, which app>eared to signify protest, 
pure astonishment, alarmed question. I got safely out of the 
kitchen. 

In the act of liehtiner my candle I heard a nasal roar behind me. 
I mounted the stairs three steps at a time, with the hotel boy at 
my heels, and, ushered into my room, hastily locked and bolted th** 
door. 



L 



44 The Little Review 

I knew perfectly well that I had not treated the little French- 
man at all well. To drag in France in that way — "the south of 
France", — was brutalising to this tender flower of the Prairies oi the 
West. But to leave the room at that point of our conversation,, 
at that point in our relationship, was still more unpardonable. 

My room was at the back. The window looked on to the 
kitchen; it was just over the stairs leading the bedrooms . From 
that naturally unfresh and depressing port-hole above the cauldrons, 
I could observe my opponent in the murky half court, half kitchen, 
beneath. He looked very different, inspected from this height and 
distance. I had not till then seen him on his feet. His Yankee 
clothes, evidently cut beneath his direction by a Gascon tailor, 
made him look as broad as he was long. 

His violently animated leanness imparted a precarious and 
toppling appearance to his architecture. He was performing a 
war-dance in this soft national armour just at present beneath 
the sodden eyes of the Proprietress. It had shuffling cake-walk 
elements, and cacaphonic gesticulations of tJie Gaul. It did not 
seem the same man I had been talking to before. He evidently, 
in this enchanted hotel, possessed a variety of incarnations. Or 
it was as though somebody else had leapt into his clothes, which 
hardly fitted the newcomer, and was carrying on his quarrel. The 
original and more imposing man had disappeared, and this little 
fellow had taken up his disorganised and overwrought life at that 
precise moment and place, at exactly the sarne pitch of passion, 
only with fresher nerves, and identically the same racial senti- 
ments as the man he had succeeded. 

He was talking to the proprietress in Spanish — much more 
correct than his English. She listened with her leaden eyes crawling 
swiftly over his person, with an air of angrily and lazily miking an 
inventory. In his fiery attack on the adamantine depths of langour 
behind which her spirit lived, he would occasionally turn and ap- 
peal to one of the nearest of the servants, as though seeking cor- 
roboration of something. What was he accusing me of? I muttered 
rapid prayers to the effect that that mock-tropical reserve might 
prove unassailable. For I might otherwise be cast bodily out of the 
Fonda del Mundo, and in my present worn-out state, and with a 
dyspeptic storm brewing in tliis first contact with primitive food, 
have to seek another and distant roof. I knew that I was the object 
of his discourse. \\^at effectively could be said about me on so 
short an acquaintance? He would, though, certainly affirm that I 
was an extremely suspicious character, unscrupulous, resourceful, slip- 



The Little Review 45 

pery, diabolically cool; such a person as no respectable hotel would 
consent to harbour, or if it did, would do so at its peril. Then he 
might have special influences with the Proprietress, be a regular 
customer and old friend. He might only be saying, "I object to 
that person; I cannot explain to you how I object to that person! 
I have never objected to anybody to the same fearful degree. All 
my organs boil. My kidneys are almost cooked. I cannot ex- 
plain to you how that Island organism tears my members this way 
and that. Out with this abomination. Oh! out with it before I die 
at your feet from over-heating and plegm!!!" 

This way of putting it, the personal way, might be more ef- 
fective. I went to bed with a feeling of e.xtreme insecurity. I 
thought that, if nothing else happened, he might set fire to the 
hotel. I, slept quite soundly in spite of the dangers obviously 
infesting this establishment for m.e. 

In the morning breakfast passed off without incident. I 
concluded that the complete American was part of the night-time 
aspect of the Fonda del Mundo and had fio part in its more nor- 
mal day-life. 

The square was full of peasants, the men v/earing dark blouse 
and beret connected with Pelota. Several groups were sitting near 
me in the salle-a-manger. A complicated arrangement of chairs 
and tables, like man traps in their intricate convolutions, lay out- 
side the hotel, extending a little distance into the square. From 
time to time one or more peasants would appear to become stuck, 
get somehow caught, in these iron contrivances. They would then, 
with becoming fatalism, seeing they could not escape, sit down and 
call for a drink. Such was the impression at least that their gauche 
and embarrassed movements ia choosing a seat gave one. 

A train would shortly leave for the frontier. I bade farewell to 
the Patrona, and asked her if she could recommend me a hotel in 
Burgos or in Pontaisandra. Wlien I mentioned Pontaisandra, she 
said at once — "You are going to Pontaisandra?" She turned with a 
sluggish ghost of a smile to a loitering servant and then said, "Yes, 
you can go to the Burgaleza at Pontaisandra, That is a good 
hotel." 

I had told her the night before that my destination was Pont- 
aisandra, and she had looked at me steadfastly and resentfully, as 
though I had said that my destination v;as Heaven, and that I 
intended to occupy the seat reserved for her. 

I regarded the episode of the supper room, the night before, 
as an emanation of that place. The Fonda del Mimdo was a very 



46 The Little Review 



mysterious hotel, despite its more usual aspect in the day time. I 
imagined it inhabited by solitary and hallucinated beings, like 
my friend of the night before — or such as I myself might have 
become. The large kitchen staff was occupied far into the night 
in preparing a strange and excessive table d'hote. For the explan- 
ation of this afforded me in the morning by the sight of the 
crowding peasants did not efface my impression of midnight. The 
dreams caused by its lunches, the visions conjured up by its suppers, 
haunted the place. 

This is tiie spirit in which I remember my over-night affair. 

When I eventually started for the frontier, hoping by the in- 
halation of a Picadura to dispose my tongue to the coining of fair 
Spanish, I did not realise that the American adventure was the pro- 
penitor of other adventures; nor that the dreams of the Fonda del 
Mundo were to go with me into the heart of Spain. 

( To be continued ) 



JUDICIAL OPINION 

(Our Suppressed October Issue) 

Margaret Anderson 

S EXPLAINED in the last issue, our October number has been 

held up by the Postoffice because of a story by Wyndham 
Lewis, called "Cantleman's Spring Mate", which the Postoffice solici- 
tor judged to be obscene. 

We took the case to court, where it was brilliantly and, because 
of the irony of the situation, homourouly defended. But much to 
our surprise a decision was rendered against us. 

I quote from the opinion of Judge Augustus N. Hand: 



A 



This is a motion to restrain the Postmaster of New York from 
denying the use of the mails to the October issue of T/te Little 
Review. This publication was supressed upon the advice of the" 
solicitor of the Post Office Department on the ground that it was non- 
mailable under Section 211 of the United States Criminal Code which 3 
provides : 



I 



The Little Review 47 

"Every obsence, lewd, or lascivious, and 
every filthy book, pamphlet writing or other pub- 
lication of an indecent character is hereby de- 
clared to be non-mailable matter and shall not be 
conveyed in the mails or delivered from any post- 
office or by any letter carrier". 
The publication which is particularly objected to by the Postal 
Authorities is a short story about a soldier in the British Army who 
reflects upon the topsy-turvy condition of the world and feels that 
gigantic forces, which he is pleased to call those of nature, are ar- 
rayed against the individual — forces that in most cases will over- 
power him. He regards his own destruction in the present European 
conflict as more than likely, and under all these conditions feels at 
war with the world. With satirical satisfaction he seduces a young 
girl and disregards her appeals when she becomes a mother . In his 
revolt at the confusion and injustice of the war he feels justification 
at having wreaked his will and obtained his satisfaction — thus, as 
he says, outwitting nature. 

It may be urged that this story points various morals. One 
may say it shows the wickedness of selfishness and indulgence. An- 
other may argue that it shows the degradation of camp life and the 
demoralizing character of war. It naturally causes a reflecting mind 
to balance the heroism and self abnegation that always shines forth 
in war, with the demoralization that also inevitably accompanies it. 
The very old question suggests itself as to the ultimate values of war. 
But no outline of the story conveys its full import. The young 
girl and the relations of the man with her are described with a de- 
gree of detail that does not appear necessary to teach the desired 
lesson, whatever it may be, or to tell a story which would possess 
artistic merit or arouse any worthy emotion. On the contrary it is 
at least reasonably arguable, I think, that the details of the sex re- 
lations are set forth to attfpct readers to the story because of their 
salacious character. I am of course aware that mere description of 
irregular things in relation to sex may not fall with the Statute. 
The whole subject involved in this case is beset with difficulties 
and the duty of the Postmaster General in administering the Act is 
a most delicate one . Few would, I suppose, doubt that some pre- 
vention of the mailing of lewd publications is desirable, and yet no 
field of administration requires better judgment or more circumspec- 
tion to avoid interference with a justifiable freedom of expression 
and literary development. I have little doubt that numerous really 
great writings would come under the ban if tests that are frequently 



48 The Little Review 

current were applied, and these approved publications doutbless at 
times escape only because they come within the term "classics", 
which means for the purpose of the application of the statute, that 
they are ordinarily immune from interference, because they have 
the sanction of age and fame and usually appeal to a comparatively 
limited number of readers. It is very easy by a narrow and prudish 
construction of the Statute to suppress literature of permanent merit. 
These considerations of administration, however, are not for the 
courts except in cases where the judgment of the Postmaster General 
has been wholly arbitrary and without fundation. 

While it has been urged with unusual ingenuity and ability 
that nothing under consideration can have the tendency denounced 
by the Statute, I do not think the complainant has made out a case 
for interfering with the discretion lodged in the Postmaster General 
whose "decision must be regarded as conclusive by the courts unless 
it appears that it was clearly wrong." Masses v. Patten, N. Y. Low 
Journal, Nov. 5, 1917. Smith v. Hitchcock, 226 U. S. 58. 

The motion is denied. 

Augustus N. Hand. 

It would be ridiculous for me to conceal my complete disagree- 
ment with Judge Hand and the Postoffice. I disagree even with the 
best arguments that could be presented in a couternporary court-room 
about the merits of such a story. Tlie Little Review was founded in 
direct opposition to the prevalent art values in America . It would 
have no function or reason for being if it did not continually conflict 
with those values. 

In the first place "Cantleman's Spring Mate" is a piece of litera- 
ture, over and beyond being merely a good story, because its author 
knows tlie difference between writing a story and making a piece of 
prose. The latter means that he is master of the mysterious laws by 
which words are made into patterns or rhythms, so that you read 
them for the spirit contained in the rhythm, — which is the only way 
of getting at the context; which in fact is a thing of distinct and 
separate entity, existing above and beyond the context. Many fairly 
good writers and critics do not understand these laws. It is not sur- 
prising that the Postoffice department does not understand them. 

For instance, to say that "Cantleman walked in the strenuous 
fields, steam rising from them as from an exertion" is prose; but to 
say that "Cantleman took a walk in the fields from which steam was 
rising, as if the ground had been exerting itself in a strenuous strug- 
gle" would have no relation to prose. To say "and sit forever in a 



The Little Review 49 



formal and gentle elation" is prose; or "to see this face constantly 
was like hearing perpetually a cheap and foolish music"; or "since 
he was forced back, by his logic and body, among the madness of 
natural things"; or "and gaze bravely, like a minute insect, up at 
the immense and melancholy night, with all its mad nightingales 
and misty useless watchmen", — these things come within the laws 
which separate what is good from what is bad. "Good" and "bad" 
in literature have no otiher connotation than this. 

As for the content of the story, that is not separable from its 
fonn, once you grant it to a piece of Art. But if we must strip the 
meaning from the form, I could argue for several days with any one 
who had enough interest to listen to me. The only intelligible 
things that can be said today in a court-room, arguments carefully 
calculated to meet the intellectual capacity of those who are trying to 
prove immoral something they cannot even understand, is that the 
story is a brutal one containing a lesson and a terrible warning, and 
therefore salutary in its effect. If one still thought about life in 
terms of destruction or salvation, it would be perfectly legitimate to 
say that the influence of this story would be "good" rather than 
"bad". But one doesn't think in such terms any more. Scientists 
have never thought in such terms; neither have philosophers. There 
is no law by which the Postoffice department of any country can 
force scientists or philosophers or artists to think in such terms. 
Some children, many parents, religious people, club ladies, roues, 
etc., think this way. But we cannot do it. I hope our foreign sub- 
scribers will forgive me the boredom and obviousness of these argu- 
ments. It is necessary in America. Our Postoffice is the supreme 
authority on all matters of intellectual interest. 

I can see nothing brutal in "Cantleman's Spring Mate". I can 
see no warning or lesson in it. It is a story of two people who 
answer the call of sex. The woman does it quite instinctively, being 
a creature of instincts; the man does it with certain intellectual re- 
servations, being a civilized product. Both are in the situation 
merely because they want to be there. No force except that of na- 
ture compelled them to be there. Nature cannot be called either mor- 
al or immoral. The popular mind argues that the girl's life is des- 
troyed. But nothing can "destroy" life. Any life that is capable of 
being destroyed, in the popular sense of the term, should be des- 
troyed. It might then take on that tragic significance which would 
make it material for Art. That these arguments may still be re- 
garded as childish or immoral by the majority of the world is the 
supreme human joke. That I could be called an "iconoclast" for 
making them is a measure of conten^)orary fatuity. 



50 The Little Review 



IN SHADOW 
Hart Crane 

Out in the late amber afternoon, 
Confused among chrysanthemums, 
Her parasol, a pale balloon, 
Like a waiting moon, in shadow swims. 

Her furtive lace and misty hair 
Over the garden dial distill 
The sunlight, — then withdrawing, wear 
Again the shadows at her will. 

Gently yei suddenly, the sheen 
Of stars inwraps her parasol. 
She hears my step behind the green 
Twilight, stiller than shadows, fall, 

"Come, it is too late, — too late 
To risk alone the light's decline: 
Nor has the evening long to wait", — 
But her own words are night's and mine. 



TJte l^iitle Review 51 



VULGAR INFATUATIONS* 
Israel Solon 

All religions have this in common, in that they offer us an 
escape from psychic tension, by eliminating uncertainty and 
suspense. 

The iconoclast is more devout than the priest, who is merely a 
follower. 

All our systems are finished and dead systems; and all our 
aws and logics are human and arbitrary, being but the products of 
azy men infatuated with idleness. 

The artist cuts across the flowing, inchoate and lawless and 
articulates it into the definitive and never changing. 

The beautiful realises our conceptual ideals of arrested flow, 
violent ease, tense repose, — galloping tragedy halted at the climax. 

In so far as we love the comic it is because it enables us to 
live outside, yet close by, the stream, of life, in a quiet nook and 
still waters. 

Laughter is creative, in that it shows us that the universe and 
jurselves are two; laughter is the measure of man's freedom ,just 
IS infatuation is the measure of his slavery. We laugh on suddenly 
discovering that we may behave in our habituated way where we 
lad feared we should have to learn new tricks; we laugh when the 
lew and terrifying proves to be the tame and familiar; we laugh 
lehen, on entering the lion's den, we find the lion absent. 



^[Editor's note: In our September number we published Wyndham 
Lewis's "Inferior Religions." It is not extravagant to speak 'of this 
ssay as one of the most profound of our time. But if there were ten 
)eople in the United States who reah'zie.d this fact they have not men- 
ioned it to me. Some several hundred have written to say that they 
:an find so sense or interest in it — that it is quite unintelligible. I 
hereupon asked Mr. Solon (one of the possible ten who appreciated 
he essay) to write a digest of it for the puzzled leader. He replied: 
'That is hardly possible, since Mr. Lewis has himself condensed his 
bought to the utmost; but I shall herewith attempt a restatement 
)f the chief ideas of his essay, though without adhering to their 
)riginal order. Attend l"] 



52 The Little Review 

We call a man strong who has come nearest to destroylnj? him- 
self, who has succeeded in making an automaton of himself; we 
consider a man to be rising in strength according as he succeeds in 
transforming himself into a machine and everything and everybody 
that he deals with into materials such as can be worked by a ma» 
chine; our conception of a superman is one who is able to drive ouf 
of life all that is strange, fantastic and wild, replacing these by the 
known, the orderly and the lawabiding — by the dull angels of »<i 
Prussian Paradise. 

Because we cannot see beyond the present, since wc do not re- 
member the beginning and do not know Uie end, because we are pro- 
pelled by attractions and repulsions, by loves and hates, and not by 
visible and palpable wires, we fail to see that we are but following; 
out the set figures of a dance, a dance in which we may take, but i 
in which we but rarely find, joy; and it is only by grace of our 
ignorance that we are enabled to become infatuated with our pup- 
pet-like antics, mistaking these for behavior that is new, imique, 
personal and wilful. We chatter about the mountains of the moon, 
about world-views and cosmic consciousness; and are content to 
remain in utter ignorance of our neighbor five yards away, whose 
serene smile may be screening a smoking vulcano, a vulcano that 
is perh^s kept from errupting only by our childish faith in our 
security. 

The King of the Show is not a Person or Being, but an Ever- 
Prcsent Menace, resulting from the fact that Life has not alone 
Death for neighbor, but an infinity of other neighbors as well, whom 
we may crush, suppress and enslave, but who may one day rise in 
revolt against us, rush in upon us and destroy us; since, for all 
we know, all our assumptions, all our habits and laws, and all the 
wiles and tricks that we have mastered through countless ages of 
travail and pain, may at any moment break down and fail us, loos- 
ing upon us in one blinding flash the awful terror that is without 
face or form, inconceivable and unimaginable, the appalling Host 
inhabiting the Black Silence around us. 



The Little Review 53 



V 



EDITORIAL ON SOLICITIOUS DOUBT* 
Ezra Pound 

ARIOUS people have expressed certain doubts as to whether . 



Good people, be at rest: the price of The Little Review will 
lever be raised for present subscribers or for those who subscribe 
)efore January i, 19 18. After that we can make no promises. The 
juality will not decline; if we give "twice as much of it" the new 
eaders will have to pay more. If we had given you only Mr. Yeats's 
burteen poems we would already have given you more literature 
han is to be found in the "four big" magazines since the beginning 
)f our present volume. 

Mr. Lewis, after having been in some heavy fighting is now in hos- 
)ital, and that leisure has made sure the supply of his prose for some 
:ime. I have now at my elbow the first eighty-eight pages of the 
)est book Ford Madox Hueffer has written. Why "the best book"? 
•"ive years ago Mr. Hueffer read me this manuscript, an unfinished 
work for which there was presumeably "no market". I read the 
'^tj'pescript which was brought me last evening; so familiar is the 
text that I can scarcely convince myself that it is five years since I 
heard the even voice of the author pronouncing it. I do not think 
my memory is particularly good, I think there must be some quality 
m a man's style and matter if it is to stay fresh in another man's 
mind for so long. Mr. Hueffer 's Women and Men will run in 
The Little Review from January 19 18 to May 19 19 inclusive, unless 
interefered with by force majeur. Perhaps it is not his best book. 

Lest there be any confusion about Olivers, Madoxes, Madox 
Browns, Francis Hueffers, etc. Ford Madox Hueffer is the author 
of various novels, and of The Heart of the Country, The Soul of 
London, Ancient Lights, Collected Poems, of On Heaven, the first 
successful long poem in English vers libre, after Whitman. This 
poem appeared in Poetry for June 1914, and has certainly as much 
claim to permanence as, say, Meredith's Love in the Valley. 

Besides his own achievement, Mr. Hueffer has done one definite 
service to English letters. This service is unquestioned, and recogni- 
tion of it does not rest upon any personal liking or disliking of 

* Repeated from the October number. 



54 The Little Review 

, I 

Mr. Hueffer's doctrines of writing. In 1908 he founded The English 
Review; for a year and a half he edited that magazine and during 
that time he printed work not only by the great men of letters, Ana- 
tole France, Thomas Hardy, Swinburne, Henry James, not only 
by men of public reputation like Wells, and Conrad and Bennett, but 
also by about all the younger men who have since made good. 
For example by Lewis (in 1909), and by other now well-known 
young men who have both made good and declined since that date. 
His editorship of the review marks a very definite period; at the 
end of it, as its glory was literary, not commercial, it was bought 
by certain jews, who thought Mr. Hueffer a damn fool (possibly 
because of his devotion to literature), and who gave the editorship 
into other hands. Comparison of current numbers of The English , 
Review with the first numbers issued from 84 Holland Park Avenue, t 
will give any thinking person all the data he wants in deciding be- k 
tween the folly of Hueffer and the folly of manufacturing, political | 
hebrews. In fact, if a crime against literature could bring any ' 
shame upon that class of person, this family would go into penitence, 
which needless to say they will not. But the careful historian of lit- 
erature will record and remember their shame. The files of the re- 
view being stored in the British Museum, the data will continue avail- 
able. There will be no faking the records. 

The Little Review is now the first effort to do comparitively 
what The English Review did during its first year and a half: that 
is, to maintain the rights and position of literature, I do not say in 
contempt of the public, but in spite of the curious system of trade 
and traders which has grown up with the purpose or result of in- 
terposing itself between literature and the public. 

We act in spite of the public's utter impotence to get good liter- 
ature for itself, and in despite of the efforts of the "trade" to satiate 
the public with a substitute, to still their appetite for literature hy 
providing them, at a cheaper rate and more conveniently, with a 
swallowable substitute. 

Whereanent a very successful journalist has said to me: We 
i. e. we journalists, are like mediums. People go to a spiritist 
seance and hear what they want to hear . It is the same with 
a leading article: we write so that the reader will find what he wants 
to find. 

That is the root of the matter; there is good journalism and 
bad journalism, and journalism that "looks" like "literature" and 
literature etc ... . 

But the root of the difference is that in journalism the reader 
finds what he is looking for, what be, the reader wants; whereas 



The Little Review 55 

in literature he must find at least a part of what the author in- 
tended. 

I'hat is why "the first impression of a work of genius" is "nearly 
always disagreeable", at least to the "average man". The public 
loathe the violence done to their self-conceit whenever an author 
conveys to them an idea that is his, not their own. 

This difference is lasting and profound. Even in the vaguest of 
poetry, or the vaguest music, where in a sense the receiver may, or 
must, make half the beauty he is to receive, there is always some- 
thing of the author or composer which must be transmitted. 

In journalism, or the "bad art" which is but journalism thinly 
disguised, there is no such strain on the public. 



THE READER CRITIC 

Longfellow's "Birthplace" is in the act of being preserved to the 
nation. The White House, the two living ex-whitehouses, the State 
of Maine (prohibition), the Senate (not dry by any long extended tra- 
dition), various governors, not including those of North and South 
Carolina, have spotted up their selected dollars, or perhaps being 
vice-presidents they have not been asked to spot up, for the reser- 
vation and preservation of the "rare old colonial mansion" inhabited 
Dy Longfellow before the birth of his whiskers. The house wherein 
this eminently moral and eminently proper and eminently "suitable 
for the school-child" luminary mewled and peuked, is to be taken on 
as national shrine, by the "International Longfellow Society", and 
the mortgage on it removed. 

It is not proposed that the house should be made an official resi- 
dence for some living Longfellow, some worthy, elderly, more or less 
broken-down emeritus; for let us say, Edwin Markham, who would, 
of course, ortiament any shrine with a venerable and befitting ap- 
pearance. 

It is in fact an eloquent tribute to the popular lust after some 
place where they can leave orange peel, and feel that they have 
"shown reverence", without troubling their cerebra with such detiH 
as standards of literature. 

Longfellow was the ideal poet for a prohibitionist state. It is 
however interesting to note how the diverse pieties have gathered 
about his remains. 

Cardinal O'Connel writes: "To all who love beautiful sentiments 
admirably expressed, the works of Longfellow are dear; but they are 



56 The Little Review 



especially dear to the hearts of Catholics. At a time when the Church 
was little understood and less appreciated, Longfellow, with true re- 
ligious insight, placed before the reading public the fervor of the 
Church's spirit and the lofty idealism of its mission. His beautiful 
poems help to make our faith better understood and appreciated." 
("Fervor" is," of course," le mot juste). 

The United Society of Xtn. Endeavour writes: "I spent seven j 

very happy years in Portland The site of this old home, and 5 

memories which it will arouse, will be an inspiration to many young \ 
people in all the future years, to live a worthy poem if they cannot ! 
write one." Faithfully yours, Francis E. Clark. 

Rabbi Enlow writes: "My admiration for the work of the poet 
makes my appreciation more keen. Longfellow, like Browning, wa» 
one of the poets who were alive to the grandeur and heroism of Jew- 
ish history, as is witnessed by several of his best-known poems. Thit 
has added to his popularity with Jewish readers." 

(News Item: A point of similarity between Browning and Long- 
fellow has at last been described on the horizon. — E. P.) 



A Difference of Opinion 

M. T., Chicago: 

If you really do like criticisms, may I ask why you can't mix in 
with your London stuflf a little other stuf?? Perhaps the London stuff 
might be "shown up"? Well! In any event this is my sincere cor- 
rect opinion: you need very badly a warmer quality in your magazine. 
I'm not speaking about "emotion", "human interest", "life", etc. But 
you cannot make me believe that Art is not vital. Now I am sayingi 
that there is very little which might truly be called vital in the last 
issue. The play of course is good. Bodenheim is readable — usually. 
However you can't depend on Bodenheim to put any of this "big 
line sweep" into your pages. He is merely one of those happy "holi* 
days" in a real snappy water-color. 

A. S., New York: | 

"As for Bodenheim, he is so bone ignorant. 

His general claim is passable, or good enough, but the needlcssi 
remark about "words practically ignored by writers of Christian 
«ra" 



T he Little Review 57 

This is the kind of thing that weakens terribly. Bodenheira 
imply doesn't know any literature, foreign or english. Half the latins 
rere of the christian era. Periods in Italian, Chinese, Gongorism in 
Ipain, Euphues in England, to say nothing of all the Mallarmeen 
eriod in France, and the Parnassians. (To say nothing of Stirling 
unk in a welter of verbosity and proclaimed by Bierce in America 
en years ago!) All these sets of people intent on words, and most 
£ them much more skilled in them than Bodenheim. 

I don't mind his blowing off his rather unoriginal opinions, but 
heer hoggish ignorance ought to be barred. 

The Waley transaltions look to me the best Chinese we have had 
I English save a couple of things in "Oathay." 



Ezra's Indian Summer 

What was the tune you heard on tho way 
that you must dawdle here, 
cut a reed like any truant, 
cut crooked holes in the reed, 
and dabble with burbling phrases 
which can only tremble and halt 
no matter how fearfully carefully you blow? 
The tune you heard didn't limp? 
Time, you're a dunce. 
My word on it — 
you should have, could hare 
breathed echo when the air was near — 
now it's a wraith 
beyond even tiny embodiment! 
That amorphous haze, ^ 

arpeggic fall of those leaves, 
glint of that bird — or was it a squirrel? — 
they ought to preach your heedlessness — 
had it been a rat it would have bitten you! — 
no man can essay a pavanne 
with his phrases at variance — 



58 The Little Review 

it is a pavanne, don't deny it I 

And why propose a pavanne 

when nobody dances pavannes, 

and why ask a flute 

to mime the tone of a spinet? 

Dear dunce — 

your tune begins to sound feminine — 

go away — 

the phrases are exquisite daggers — 

move along, move along — 

we have all sought the same lady twice I 

Alfred Krtymborg 



Advice tq a Young Poet | 

The following letter may interest many aspiring poets: "^ 

"The opening sentence of your not;^ shows a lamentable unfami- 
liarity with the work of Homer, Villon and Catullus .... not to men- 
tion such lesser lights as Dante, Gautier, Cavalcanti, Li Po, Omar, 
Corbiere, or even Shakespeare (to cite a familiar example). You 
are evidently ignorant as Ham of both prose and poetry. You ap- 
pear to have read next to nothing. Stendhal, Fielding, Flaubert, 
Brantome, — what have you read or studied anyhow? 

How do you expect to make yourself interesting to men who 
have hammered their minds hard against this sort of thing? 

And as for what is called "knowledge of the human heart"? It 
needs intellect as well as intuition. 

If you knew more of what had been done, you wouldn't expect 
to make people fall before you in adoration of what you take to be 
"new and colourful combinations", but which people of wider reading 
find rather worn and unexciting. 

You began with a certain gift, a sort of emotionee decorativcness, 
vide small boy by brick wall, impressions of scenes, etc. That's all 
very well, and very nice, but what the hell do you know or feel that 
we haven't known and felt already? On what basis do you propose 
to interest us? 

There's plenty of this decoration in Spenser and Tasso, etc., etc., 
in French of the last half century, 1850 — 1900, etc. AND one is fed 
up with it. 

If you could persuade yourself to read something, if you could 
persuade yourself really to find out a little about the art you dab at 
.... you might at the end of five years send me something interesting. 



[ 

The Little Review 59 

The fact that you like pretty things does not distinguish you 
from 500,000 ather people, young impressionist painters still doing 
not-quite-Monet, etc., etc. 

Lewis, Joyce, Eliot all give me something F shouldn't have 
noticed for myself. 

You won't better your art by refusing to recognize that at 
twenty-four you haven't knocked the world flat with admiration of 
your talents. You simply haven't begun the process by which the 
young person of temperament hammers itself into an artist (or into 
nothing, depending on the capacity for being self-hammered inherent 
in the personal substance). 

You might begin on Aristotle's Poetics, Longinus "on the Sub- 
lime, Dante's De Vulgari Eloquio. Scattered remarks of Coleridge 
and De Quincey, and the early elizabethan critics would do you no 
harm. You also need to educate yourself, as said above, in both 
prose and poetry. 

Because the native American has nearly always been too lazy to 
take these preliminary steps, we have had next to no native writing 
[worth anything. 

Mastering an art does not consist in trying to bluff people. Work 
shows; there is no substitute for it; holding one theory or another 
[doesn't in the least get a man over the difficulty, etc., etc 

Poetry has run off into Gongorism, concetti, etc,, at various times, 
odd words, strained metaphors and comparisons, etc., etc. We know 
perfectly well all about that. At twenty I emitted the same kind of 
asinine generalities regarding Christianity and its beauties that you 
now let off about poetry." 






Will You Help? 

The suppression of the October issue has cut into our 
business plans terribly. It was an especially good number, 
from which we hoped to get a lot of new subscribers. 

Won't you help us now by renewing your subscription 
promptly, if it has expired, and by urging your friends to 
subscribe at once? 

If you are interested in what we are trying to do, won't 
you help us to retrieve this loss by sending any donation 
that you can afford? 



rr 



In Greenwich Village, New York 





In the Webb Van Dam you will see 


WEB 


Just a place to have your tea 


VAN 


There you are taken by the hand * 
To a Wigwam in No Man's Land 


DAM 


There you have a nice young feller 




To guide you down to the cyclone cellar 


I Sheridan 


Crullers with cider you'll eat and drink 
Then home you'll go to sit and think 


Square 


And in your dreams you'll seem to be 


• 


A Greenwich Villager just like me. 



THE SHERIDAN 
SQUARE SHOP 

A New Place 

Flowers— Art Objects 

131 Washington Place 
On Sheridan Square 

Telephone: Spring 586 ^^ 
New York City 



ROBERT EDWARDS 

announces a Hook of tlie Songs 
he sings about th« Village. 

Fifteen Songs : 

Words, music, pictures. 
Preface, biography, {ootnotes. 

Price: Two Dollars 

To be sold by subscription. 
Send check to 

46 Washington Square 



Don't forget 

THE GARDEN OF 
PARADISE 

WEBSTER HALL 

December 25 
Telephone: Spring 1875 



THE Come 
OPEN Dance and 

nnop ^^ ^-^""^ 

U\J\Jt\ ,n Bohemia 

Ever}' evening from 8 P. M 
Light refreshments 

134 W. Fourth Street 



\ 



In Greenwich Village, New York 



IlillllllUlUlllllllH 



THE QUILL 

A Magazine of Greenwich Village 
Announces the Publication of a folio 

GREENWICH VILLAGE by its ARTISTS 

Fifteen Sketches and Photographs by 

HUGH FERRISS, MAUD LANGTREE. 
FOREST MANN and GLENN O. COLEMAN 

and a Map of the Village. 

The Cover has been designed by HAROLD TRUE. 
Two Dollars Postpaid from ARTHUR H. MOSS 

at 143 West Fourth Street, New York City. 



THE SAMOVAR 

"Through the alley, 

up the stairs, 

and over the roof.'* 

Luncheon Dinner 

148 W. Fourth Street 
New York City 



THE DUTCH OVEN 

135-139 MacDougal Street 
GREENWICH VILLAGE 

Spring S9^2 

Lunch, Tea, Dinner 

Table d'hote and A la Carte 

On Sunday: Chicken or beef 

Steak Dinner 



THE 
HEARTHSTONE 

of Greenwich Village 

124 ^^^^ 4^lt Street 

A LA Carte Table d'hote 

Delicious home cooking 

Attractive Open Fires 



THREE STRUNSKY 
RESTAURANTS 

the WASHINGTON SQUARE 

restaurant 

(first floor) 

THE WASHINGTON SQUARE 

CAFETERIA 

(just opened — first floor) 

THE GREENWICH VILLAGE 

CAFETERIA 

("Three Steps Down") 

All at 19 West 8th Street 

Better than home cooking 



In Greenwich Village, New York 



A GROUP of SHOPS, GALLERIES, 
AND TEA ROOMS IN THE CENTER 
OF NEW YORK'S LATIN QUARTER 



Exhibition of Drawings and 

Paintings 

by ALEXANDER BROOK 

at Aladdin Gallery 

Dec. I — Jan. ! 

Sheridan Square North 
at 133 Washington Place 



RUSSIAN TEA ROOM 

133 Washington Place 

Midnight lunches, Coffee, 

Tea Dancing, Special 

Dinners to order 



YE 
5tLt10UtTU 
-5«0PP£- 



LUNCH 
DINNER 

Sunday 

morning 

breakfast 

Doughnuts, 
Gingerbread, 
I Waffles 

142 W. 4 St. 



THE LITTLE 
SEA-MAID 

sells Dolls, Toys, and Pictures 
and serves Sea-food to her guests. 

Oyster Cocktails, Fried 

Shrimps, Oyster Stew. 

Tea, Coffee Chocolate 

Home-made Cake, Chinese 

Rice Cakes. 

167 West Fourth Street 



ROMANY MARIE 

The Roumanian Peasant Inn 

133 Washington Place 

Roumanian delicacies and 
Turkish coffee 



PUSS IN BOOTS 

Will Serve 
BREAKFAST, LUNCH 

and DINNER 

at 57 West 10th Street 

Afternoon Tea, After Dinner . 

Coffee 

Light Refreshments 



Shop of pure Russian atmos- 
phere, with unique Russian 
brass and copper, pots and 
boxes, blouses, hats, scarfs, 
and Russian tea. 

244 Thomson Street, just off Washington Square 



LITTLE RUSSIA 

FANIA MINDELL 



The Little Review 



63 



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THE LITTLE REVIEW 




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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

A MAGAZINE OF THE ARTS 

MAKING NO COMPROMISE WITH THE PUBLIC TASTE 



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313 nFTH AVENUE 
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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

THE MAGAZINE THAT IS READ BY THOSE 
WHO WRITE THE OTHERS 



JANUARY, 1918 

Impovisations William Carlos Williams 

Three Views of H. L. Mencken : 

America's Critic Raoul Root 

Mr. Mencken, Philistine jh 

Mr. Mencken's Truisms Margaret Anderson 

The Convalescent in the South Jessie Dismorr 

Women and Men, I. Ford Madox Hiieffer 

Incidents in the Life of a Poet John Rodker 

A Soldier of Humour, II. Wyndham Lewis 

Thoughts from a Country Vickerage 
The Reader Critic: 
Vachel Lindsay 
The Quintuple Effulgence 
Ezra Pound's Critics 
Announcements 

Copyright, 1918, by Margaret Anderson 

MARGARET ANDERSON, Editor 
EZRA POUND, Foreign Editor 

24 West Sixteenth Street, New York 

Foreign office: 

5 Holland Place Chambers, London W. S. 

15 cents a copy $1.50 a year 

Entered as second-class matter at P. O., New York, N. Y. 
Published monthly by Margaret Anderson 



JAMES JOYCE 

in "THE LITTLE REVIEW" 

I have just received the first three instalments 
of James Joyce's new novel which is to run 
serially in The Little Review, beginning with 
the March number. 

It is called "Ulysses". 

It carries on the story of Stephan Dedalus, the 
central figure in "A Portrait of the Artist as 
a Young Man". 

It is, I believe, even better than the "Portrait". 

So far it has been read by only one critic of 
international reputation. He says: "It is cer- 
tainly worth running a magazine if one can get 
stuff like this to put in it. Compression, in- 
tensity. It looks to me rather better than 
Flaubert". 

This announcement means that we are about 
to publish a prose masterpiece. 

Owing to the delays in tlie mails during the 
holidays the last number oj "THE LITTLE 
REVIEW" did not reach many people until 
very late in the month, and our announcement 
oj a raise in price came too late to allow them 
to act upon it. We therefore extend the offer 
until February lo. Any one subscribing on 
or before that date may have the magazine 
at the $1.50 rate. 

After February 10 the price will be raised as follows: 

Yearly subscription, $.2.50 

Single copies, 25 cents 

Canadian subscriptions, - - $2.75 
Foreign subscriptions, 12/ 



THE LITTLE REVIEW 

VOL.IV. ■ JANUARY, 1918 No. 9 

;^ *^| IMPROVISATIONS 

• William Carlos Williams 

I. 



So far away August green as it yet is. They say the sun still 
comes up o'rnornings and it's harvest moon now. Always one leaf at 
the peak-twig swirling, swirling and apples rotting in the ditch. 



My wife's uncle went to school with Amundsen. After he Amund- 
sen returned from the South Pole there was a Scandinavian din- 
ner, which bored him Amundsen like a boyhood friend. There 
was a young woman at his table, silent and aloof from the rest. She 
left early and he restless at some impalpable delay apologised 
suddenly and went off with two friends, his great, lean bulk twitch- 
ing agilely. One knew why the poles attracted him. Then my 
wife's mother told us the same old thing, of how a girl in their vil- 
lage jilted him years back. But the girl at the supper ! Ah — that 
comes later when we are wiser and older ! 



What can it mean to you that a child wears pretty clothes and 
speaks three languages or that its mother goes to the best shops? 
It means: July has good need of his blazing sun. But if you pick 
one berry from the ash tree I'd not know it again for the same no 
matter how the rain washed. Make my bed of witch-hazel twigs, 
said the old man, since they bloom on the brink of winter. 



The Little Review 



II. 

I 

Mamselle Day, Mamselle Day, come back again! Slip your cloth^ 
off, — the jingling of those little shell ornaments so deftly faste* 
ed — ! The streets are turning in their covers. They smile with 
shut eyes. I have been twice to the moon since supper but she has 
nothing to tell me. Mamselle come back, I will be wiser this time. 

If one should catch me in this state! — wings would go at a bargain. 
Ah but to hold the world in the hand then — Here's a brutal 
jumble. And if you move the stones, see the ants scurry. But it's 
queen's eggs they take first, tax their jaws most. Burrow burrow, 
burrow ! there's sky that way too if the pit's deep enough — so 
the stars tell us. 

Lulla-by! Lulla-by! the world's pardon writ in letters six feet high! 
So sleep, baby, sleep! 

2 * 

How smoothly the car runs. And these rows of celery, how they 
bitter the air — winter's authentic fore-taste. Here among these 
farms how the year has aged, yet here's last year and the year 
before and all years. One might rest here time without end, watch 
out his stretch and see no other bending than spring to autumn, 
winter to summer and earth turning into leaves and leaves into 
earth and — how restful these long beet rows, — the caress of the 
low clouds, — the river lapping at the reeds. Was it ever so higbi 
as this, so full? How quickly we've come this far. Which way is 
north now? North now? why that way I think. Ah here's the 
house at last, here's April, but — the blinds are down! It's alt 
dark here. Scratch a hurried note. Slip it over the sill. WelLl 
some other time. 

How smoothly the car runs. This must te the road. Queer how 
a road juts in. How the dark catches among those trees! How the 
light clings to the canal! Yes there's one table taken, we'll not be 
alone. This place has possibilities. Will you bring her here? Per* 
haps — and when we meet on the stair, shall we speak, say it ii 
some acquaintance — or pass silent? Well, a jest's a jest but ho# 

• s 



The Little Review 



yooT this tea is. Think of a life in this place, here in these hills by 
;hese truck-farms. Whose life? Why there, back of you. If a 
voman laughs a little loudly one always thinks that way of her. But 
low she bedizens the country-side. Quite an old world glamour. If 
t were not for — but one cannot have everything. What poor 
ca it was. How cold it's grown . Cheering, a light is that way 
imong the trees. That heavy laugh ! how it will rattle these 
)ranches in six week's time. 



rhe fronti^iece is her portrait and further on, — the obituary 
iermon: she held the school upon her shoulders. Did she. Well — 
;urn in here then: — we found money In the blood and some in 
he room and on the stairs. My God I never knew a man had so 
nuch blood in his head ! — and thirteen empty whisky bottles. I 
im sorry but those who come this way meet strange company. This 
s you see death's canticle. 

III. 



Jeatiful white corpse of night actually ! So the north-west winds 
>f death are mountain sweet after all! All the troubled stars are 
>ut to bed now: three bullets froip wife's hand none kindlier: in 
Jie crown, in the nape and one lower: three starlike holes among 
million pocky pores and the moon of your mouth: Venus 
upiter, Mars and all stars melted forthwith into this one good 
vhite light over the inquest table, — the traditional moth beating 
ts wings against it — except there are two here. But sweetest are 
he caresses of the County Physician, — a little clumsy perhaps — mats 
— ! and the Prosecuting Attorney, Peter Valuzzi and the others, wav- 
ng green arms of maples to the tinkling of the earliest ragpicker's 
)ells. Otherwise — : kindly stupid hands, kindly coarse voices, infin- 
tely soothing, infinitely detached, infinitely beside the question, 
estfully babbling of how, where, why and night is done and the 
preen edge of yesterday has said all it could. 



!t is the water we drink. It bubbles under every hill. How? 
Vgh, you stop short of the root . Why, caught and the town goes 



The Little Review 



mad. The haggard husband pirouettes in tights. The wolf lean wife 
is rolling butter pats: it's a clock striking the hour. Pshaw, they 
do things better in Bangkok, — here too, if there's heads together. 
But up and leap at her throat ! Bed's at fault ! Yet — I've seen 
three women prostrate, hands twisted in each others hair, teeth 
buried where the hold offered. — not a movement, not a cry more 
than a low meowling. Oh call me a lady and think you've caged me. 
Hell's loose every minute, you hear? And the truth is there's not 
an eye clapped to either way but someone comes off the dirtier 
for it. Who am I to wash hands and stand near the wall? I confess 
freely there's not a bitch littered in the pound but my skin grows 
ruddier. Ask me and I'll say: curfew for the ladies. Bah. two in 
the grass is the answer to that gesture. Here's a text for you: 
Mao.y daughters have done virtuously but thou exccUest them all ! 
And so vou do. if the manner of a walk means anythini^ You walk 
in a different air from the others, — though your husband's the 
better men and the charm won't last a fortnight: the street's kiss 
parried again. But give thought to your daughters' food at mating 
time, you good men. Send them to hunt spring beauties beneath the 
sod this winter, — otherwise: hats off to the lady ! One can afford 
to smile. 



Marry in middle life and take the young thing home. Later ui the 
year let the worst out. It's odd how little the tune changes. Do 
worse — till your mind's turning, then rush into repentance and 
the lady grown a hero while the clock strikes. 

Here the harps have a short cadenza. It's sunset back of the 
new cathedral and the purple river scum has set seaward. The car's 
outside. I'd not like to go alone tonight. I'll pay you well. It's 
the king's evil. Speed ! Speed ! The sun's self's a chancre low 
in the west. Ha, how the great houses shine — for old time's sake! 
For sale! For sale! The town's gone another way. But I'm not 
fooled that easily. Fort sale ! Fort sale ! if you read it aright. 
And Beauty's own head's on the pillow, a la Muja Desnuda ! 
Contessa de Alba ! Contessa de Alba ! Never was there such a lewd 
wonder in the streets of Newark ! Open the windows — but all's 
boarded up here. Oud with you, you sleepy doctors and lawyers 
you, — the sky's afire and Calvary Church with its snail's horns up, 
sniffing the dawn — o' the wrong side ! Let the trumpets blare ! 
Tutti i instrumenti ! The world's bound homeward. • 



The Little Review 



IV. 



Of course history is an attempt to make the past seem stable and of 
course it's all a lie. Nero must mean Nero or the game's up. But 
-^ though killies have green backs and white bellies, zut ! for the 
bass and hawks ! When we've tired of swimming we'll go climb 
in the ledgy forest. Confute the sages. 



Quarrel with a purple hanging because it's no column from the 
Parthenon. Here's splotchy velvet set to hide a door in the wall 
and there — there's the man himself praying ! Oh quarrel whether 
'twas Pope Clement raped Persephone or — did the devil wear a 
mitre in that year? Come there's much use in being thin on a 
windy day if the cloth's cut well. And oak leaves will not come 
on maples, nor birch trees either — that is, provided — , but pass 
it over, pass it over. 

3 

Think of some lady better than Rackham draws them: mere fairy 
stuff, — some face that would be your face, were you of the right 
sex, some twenty years back of a still morning, — some Lucretia 
out of the Vatican turned Carmelite, — some double image cast over a 
Titian Venus by two eyes quicker than Titian's hands were, — some 
strange daughter of an inn-keeper, — some . . . Call it a net to catch 
love's twin doves and I'll say to you: Look! and therell be 
the sky there and you'll say the .sky's blue. Whisk the thing away 
now 1 What's the sky now? 

V. 

I 

It is still warm enough to slip from weeds into the lake's edge, 
your clothes blushing in the grass and three small boys grinning 
behind the derelict hearth's side. But summer is up among the 
huckleberries near the path's end and snake's eggs lie curling in 
the sun on the lonely summit. But — well — let's wish it were 
higher after all these years staring at it dq)lore the paunched 
clouds glimpse the sky's thin counter crest and plunge into the 



The Little Review 



gulch. Sticky cobwebs tell of feverish midnights. Crack a rock 
(what's a thousand years!) and send it crashing among the oaks! 
Wind a pine tree in a grey-worm's net and play it for a trout; 
oh — but it's the moon does that! No, summer has gone. down the 
other side of the mountain. Carry home what we can. What have 
you brought off? Ah here are thimble berries. 



The little Polish Father of Kingsland does not understand, he cannot 
understand. These are exquisite differences never to be resolved. 
He comes at mid-night through mid-winter slush to baptise a dying 
newborn; he' smiles suavely and shruggs his shoulders: a clear middle 
A touched by a master — but he cannot understand . And Benny, 
Sharon, Henrietta and Josephine, what is it to them? Yet jointly 
they come more into the way of the music. And white haired Miss 
Ball! The empty school is humming to her little melody played 
with one finger at the noon hour but it is beyond them all. There 
is much heavy breathing, many tight shut lips, a smothered laugh 
whiles, two laughs cracking together, — three together sometimes 
and then a burst of wind lifting the dust again. 



What I like best's the long unbroken line of the hills there. Yes, 
it's a good view. Come, let's visit the orchard. Here's peaches 
twenty years on the branch. Not ripe yet! ? Why — ! Those 
hills ! Those hills ! But you'ld be young again ! Well, fourteen's 
a hard year for boy or girl, let alone one older driving the pricks 
in, but though there's more in a song than the notes of it and a 
smile's a pretty baby when you've none other — let's not turn 
backward. Mumble the words, you understand, call them four 
brothers, strain to catch the sense but have to admit it's in a lang- 
uage they've not taught you, a flaw somewhere, — and for answer: 
well, that long unbroken line of the hills there. 

Coda 

Squalor and filth with a sweet cur nestling in the grimy blankets of 
your bed and on the better roads striplings dreaming of wealth 
and happinesss. Country life in America ! The crackling grackle 



The Little Review 



that dartled at the hill's bottom have joined their flock and swing 
with the rest over a broken roof toward Dixie. 



VI. 



Some fifteen years we'll say I served this friend, was his valet 
nurse, physician, fool and master: nothing too menial — to say the 
least. Enough of that: so. 

Stand aside while they pass. This is what they found in the rock 
when it was cracked open: this finger nail. Hide your face among 
the lower leaves, here's a meeting should have led to better things 
but — it is only one branch out of the forest and night pressing you 
for an answer ! Velvet night weighing upon your eye-balls with 
gentle insistence; calling you away, — Come with me, now, tonight! 
Come with me ! now tonight . . 



You speak of the enormity of her disease, of her poverty. Bah, 
these are the fiddle she makes tunes on and it's tunes bring the 
world dancing to your house door, even on this swamp side. You 
speak of the helpless waiting, waiting till the thing squeeze her 
windpipe shut. Oh, that's best of all, that's romance — with the 
devil himself a hero. No my boy. You speak of her man's callous 
stinginess. Yes, my God, how can he refuse to buy milk when it's 
alone milk that she can swallow now? But how is it she picks 
market beans for him day in day out, in the sun, in the frost? You 
understand? You speak of so many things, you blame me for my 
indifference. Well, this is you see rny sister and death, great death, 
is robbing her of life. It dwarfs most things. 



Hercules is in Hacketstown doing farm labor. Look at his hands 
if you'll not believe me. And what do I care if yellow and red 
are Spain's riches and Spain's good blood, here yellow and red mean 
simply autumn ! The odor of the poor farmer's fried supper is 
mixing with the smell of the hemlocks, mist is in the valley hugging 
the ground and over Parsippany — where an oldish man leans talk- 
ing to a young woman — the moon is swinging from its star. 



10 The Little Review 



THREE VIEWS OF H. L. MENCKEN* 

("A Book of Prefaces") 

Raoul Root 

AMERICA has "at last produced" a critic, or rather a native 
American critic has at last succeeded in extricating 
his mind from his surroundings to such a degree as to be able to 
envisage the said surroundings. This does not mean that we have 
coughed up a new aesthete who will remurmur, in rather more veiled 
and semidiaphanous tones, the same velleities which Arthur Symons 
uttered in 1891. 

H. L. Mencken has read his Mark Twain, It is a great bles- 
sing that at last some one with fibre tough enough to read Mark 
Twain, and intelligence enough to perceive the part which is not 
simple "Hee-Haw", has at last diagnosed Mark Twain's trouble. 
Pages 203-5 of Mr. Mencken's book show him to be a critic of no 
mean profundity. In these pages Mr. Mencken (or Dr. Kellner to 
whom he refers) has given a correct diagnosis. He has put his finger 
on the plague spot My own detestation of Twain has stayed vague 
for a number of years; there were too many more important things 
to attend to; I could not be bothered to clarify this patch of vagueness- 
A detestation of a man's tonality does not necessitate a blindness to 
his abilities. And when a man's rightnesses have been so lied against 
as Twain's were in America, one could be well content to conceal a 
private and unimportant detestation. One could not express a dis- 
like of any man, for instance, whose posthumous publications have 
been so lied about and distorted as Twain's final p>essimistic expres- 
sions. 

Mencken is in some circles considered a purely frivolous person 
because he edits, of half edits, a frivolous magazine. In a half- 
baked country one has to use what tools one can lay hold of. I 
would call one fact to the attention of the cognoscenti: namely, that 
The Smart Set is the only magazine in America that has ever reduced 
a circulation from 70,000 to 20,000 in a quixotic attempt to break 
through the parrochial taboo and give America free literatue. 



*A Book of Prefaces, by H. L. Mencken. Alfred A. Knopf, New York. , 



I 



The Little Review ii 



I have it on personal knowledge that Willard Huntington Wright 
went to London about five years ago determined to buy up the best 
stuff he could find. I do not in the least mean to imply that Mr. 
Wright and I would see eye to eye in questions of excellence, I may 
reserve my opinion that literature is not a commodity, that literature 
emphatically does not lie on a counter where it can be snatched up at 
once by a straw-hatted young man in a hurry. 

An editor pleased with "Oz3anandias", or with the fifth act of 
"The Cenci", might have rushed up to Shelley, for example, and 
found nothing in that worthy's desk but "The Sensitive Plant" (than 
which no poet of any reputation ever penned anything less desira- 
ble). Moreover, the better the author the greater his detestation of 
magazines and the less likely he is to believe in, or take the slightest 
interest in the success of, any magazine for which he has not some 
very personal security in his own private knowledge of the editors 
and the business management. 

Let us remember that David Phillips had been shot by a fanatic, 
that various living writers were under contract elsewhere; and that 
The Smart Set did publish some of the first stories of James Joyce 
and some of the first short stories of D. H. Lawrence. Also that 
Wright resigned reasonably soon after he found that he was not free 
in his selection. 

These huge mechanisms have to be kept going, if they are to re- 
main huge mechanisms; in that condition they can be of very little 
service to literature until there is, what is almost unthinkable, a 
"really large" public intensely interested in literature. 

The point I wish to emphasize, in part replying to the people 
who object to being asked the pertinent question regarding Whistler 
and Henry James and their protracted foreign residence, is that New- 
York has a critic dealing with native affairs. Graham Phillips dealt 
with native affairs, in a style as crude as the types he depicted. He 
was painful to read, but he was working in honesty; and he was shot 
by a fematic (not a New Englander). I don't know that he had 
been taken very seriously. Dreiser is taken seriously because the 
violent opposition to him has been longer; it has not been settled at 
the point of a pistol. 

In all this the American hatred of liberty, their peculiar loathing 
of all forms of intellectual freedom, is striking and apparent. The 
last study in Mencken's book is full of fruitful suggestion; one ani- 
madverts to Franklin and Jefferson and remembers how carefully 
they are screened in school histories; how few Americans looking 
back upon the glory of America's founder have the slightest notion 



12 The Little Review 



\ 



of Franklin's ideas upon God, or of Jefferson's ideas upon dalliana 
(Still they are represented in the standard school histories as men c 
great brilliance and acumen). Washington's intelligence is, I b» 
lieve, left unmentioned, as are his personal law-suits regarding cej 
tain acerage. 

On page 218 Mr. Mencken falls heavily, treats W. D. Howel 
and Henry James together, and shows a total inability to get an 
further with Henry James than the mentioning of a limitation whic 
Henry James had himself better defined. I venture to suggest, ver 
simply, that Mr. Mencken has read very little of the author, an 
that he is so intent on his main theme (wherein he is right in th 
main) that he has rather warped his idea of James to his own parti( 
ular purpose and treated one superficial aspect rather than James i 
toto. If this error is not an oversight on Mr. Mencken's part, 
allies him to the philistines he inveighs against, and shows him bit b 
the very baccilus that he is out to exterminate, — adding perhaps b 
this very misfortune to the cogency of his warning. 

With the excision of this one excessive page, the essay can b 
recommended as a necessary text book in all high-schools, wherei 
there is now current too little plain-written history. 

We should be grateful to Mr. Mencken for the actual names c ] 
the "dozen men", page 294. His history at this point is importar | 
enough to be worth a little documentation. 

Mencken in this part of his book, at least, is guarded and care 
ful in his statements , Whether he can preserve this gravity of ton 
sufficiently to be really effective, whether he is indeed what his ac 
versaries would call "the chosen instrument of the Lord's vengeanc 
upon them", I do not know; but his book is at least enough to con 
vince one that whatever America's part in world war , and whateve 
its results to her , she is faced at home witli a no less serious war fo 
internal freedom , and for the arteries and capillaries of freedom 
the mail-routes and presses . 

It is a sinister and significant fact that even a campaign for th' 
freedom of art becomes in American a "campaign", a sort of super 
religious crusade ; so does the actual genius of the country , th< 
actual volk-geist, enforce its forms upon contemporary expression 

(As ever in prose , compare for example the wholly mediaeva 
and limited Dante of the prose works , modeled by and comforminj 
with his time , with the lasting Dante who flashes out of the emoi 
tional passages in poetry .... passages which form only a part a 
his terza rima). 



The Little Review 13 



Mr. Mencken, Philistine 

To a person who has not had the advantage of American ances- 
y and American traditions, it is at first a little confoundmg, but 
Iter it becomes quite right and logical, that Mr. Mencken should 
e the critic of just the men and things he has chosen to criticize, 
[is treatment of Henry James does not seem to me an error but 
ither the stamp of the true democratic inability to distinguish 
jreeds" of things. Here he is writing in the best manner of the 
len he criticizes. 

•Mr Mencken's Truisms 
Margaret Anderson 

In the real sense, I believe, Mr. Mencken cannot be considered 
> critic at all. 

A critic does not believe that because an author's work is free 
attempts to edify, to console, to improve, or to moralize, the author 
free of the chief lacks which stand in the way of art. Mr. Men- 
en believes this : read the generalizations in his chapter on Con- 
id; read his estimate of Dreiser. A critic is not conscious that art 
as ever got mixed up with such matters, or that the absence of such 
latters would in any way help art to creep in. But Mr. Mencken 
ills Winston Churchill's Richard Carvel, "within its limits, a work 
f art", and The Inside 0} the Cup, because it is an outpouring of so- 
al and economic panaceas, "no more than a compendium of paralogy^ 
5 silly and smattering as a speech by William Jennings Bryan or a 
locker by Jane Addams". Of course the first has no more art than 
16 second. It is a charming and dashing story But how did it come 
) be dragged into a modern discussion of aesthetics ? 

Next, a critic is not interested in the old discussions as to whether 
deft craftmanship" makes an artist. But Mr. Mencken talks always 
ith a residue of these old and very unessential distinctions in the 
ack of his mind. So when he comes to Kipling he grants him the 
raftmanship, etc., but says he is not an artist in the sense that Con- 
id is because his ideas are those of a mob orator, while Conrad's 
leas plough down into the sub-strata of human motive and act. All 



14 The Little Review 



this explains the difference in the minds of the two men. It does not 
touch upon the difference in what they have made. 

A critic does not talk of "beauty per se" and of pure artists." 
He makes no distinctions between art and pure art, for the reason 
that there are none. 

A critic is concerned, first, last, and always, with art emotions. 
Human emotions interest him. but he does not confuse the two. 
Mr. Mencken does almost nothing else. His valutions are nearly 
all those of the "radical"; that is, of the man who takes more 
naturally to ideas than to quality. This explains his feeling about , 
Chopin; also his remark about Lizst's "plebian warts", which were 
no more plebian than his finely-cut nose; and his description of Poe's 
"congenital vulgarity and shoddy soul". These things hurt you aS' 
fiercely as all the other talk you hear from people who are con- 
genitally unaware of quality. 

A critic could no more summarize Dreiser's limitations, as Mr. 
Mencken very ably does, and then call Dresier an artist than he 
could call an airship that didn't fly a successful airship. To prove 
that Dreiser gets his effects not by designing them but by living 
them, etc., etc., and then that he "manages" to produce works of syt 
of unquestionable beauty and authority, is amusing. To say that he 
is still in the transition stage between Christian Endeavor and civi- ' 
lization. that his steps are made uncertain by a guiding theory which i 
too often eludes his own comprehension, — to show him in fact as > 
an ungrown, un-self conscious, muddled, evangelical, naive man with 
"a solemnly absurd respect for Bouguereau", etc., etc.. and then to say 
that he can interpret life in a way that is poignant and illuminating, 
is pathetic . Just as pathetic as the naive explanation of why Schu- 
bert was an artist, "though he was an ignoramus even in music" — 
which is merely talking like the college professors whom Mr. Men- 
cken scorns. Even they have long been silent before the phenome- 
non that a man may be ignorant and still be a creator. What business 
has a modern critic to be interested in such truisms ? 

Mr Mencken's book should be read because ,of its chapter on 
American puritanlsm. Aside from that there are other things in it 
which may be useful for America as a statement of facts up to a 
point But as a piece of aesthetic criticism it will have no interest 
any where else. There is not an ounce of original discrimination 
in it. 



T he Lit tie Review 15 

THE CONVALESCENT IN THE SOUTH 
Jessie Dismorr 

Out of the evil tangle of waters a faggot is tossed on to a couch 

of foam. 
I am bedded in the silken winter of the south: storm and fever 

have ebbed away. 
Oh, the lull of this security! I am emptied of my old violences. 
Never more will delirium nor ecstacy shake the perilous nerve of 

the brain. 
T3n-anny has elicited sweetness; my eyes are dark with fidelity; 
Dog-like, I nuzzle at the knee of Power. 
Why should I disdain prescription and advice? 

Docile I drag my body over yellow paths . . . 
With ribbons and webs of sunlight that quaint effigy of bones is 

garlanded, the warmth pricks and pickles its coat of membrane. 
Caught at my breast, the frail rainbow of possibilities strains like 

a shimmering scarf. 
Frensh games and ameliorations! This taste for delicate finery is 

a new thing. 
Once like a gay circus-rider I paraded the fine animal that belonged 

to me. All its bells and trappings clapping, it played its 

superb pranks. 
Oh, the rapt performance in a well of round eyes and lifted palms 1 
Oh, the perfectly centarlized stupidity of the arrived artiste ! 
The adoption of this novel aestiietic punishes like a graft of new 

bone. 
I am the victim of my solitary perfectioning. 
Dismayed, I watch the coloured company of boon delights roll away 

in a rattle of wheels and dust. 
The involuntary stare of my elevation has cowed the Creole and 

inconsequent mob. 
Oh, hilarity of the senses ! oh, colour, enormity, ostentation of 

gold, your term has come ! 



i6 The Little Review 



A tardy primitivism supersedes the Renaissance of gifts. 
The superb nullity of the body no longer arrogates command. 
Reactive to disaster, it must assume the lesser style of the inanimate. 
In it, as in a blackened tower, I sit morose and intelligent, the 

reconnoitrances of my fine wits brinigng me flesh and honey. 
I no longer turn under my tongue the cud of intensive valuations. 
Wings carry my provision: vicissitude and long transit produce 

strange flavourings. 
My appetite covets the secrets of ten million lives in lieu of my 

virginal stupidity. 
Perfection alone balances perfection. My loss must be paid with 

omniscience and final concepts. 
I have abandoned the banality of choice; I pursue the last intimacy 

with any stranger. 
My personality unhedged admits the travelling seeds and dust of 

unnumbered cultures. 
Observation is no longer a complacent and mirroring lake; 
It is a flame, blown by the spirit: nothing eludes the thrust of its 

streaming tongues. 
Oh, happiness, I have not yet done with you! By all means I must 

preserve the attenuated thread of life. 
I drag my body over yellow paths. The sunlight folds my emaciation 

in a thread of gold. 



The Little Review 17 



WOMEN AND MEN 

Ford Madox Hueffer 

I. H n o u r 

THE OTHER DAY an author of some position came to me in a 
state of great anger. He had been asked by a woman-writer 
to compose a preface for her volume of short stories that was newly 
to appear. My friend H had written the preface. He had dilated 
on the fact that publishers said the short story in volume form did 
not sell. He had gone on to say that probably the publishers were 
right. But that was because short stories in England are simply not 
good enough, and he adduced the fact that when short stories were 
really first rate they sold in quantities really enormous. He 
instanced Messrs A, B, and C, — all authors of short stories with 
huge publics; then he went on to talk of the stories by the lady 
herself. He told me that he had made a good job of it and I dare 
say he had. The epilogue came when the publishers of the volume 
flatly refused to print the preface. They said that no honourable 
publisher would publish a word against any other publisher and 
they flatly refused to print in a volume published by them any 
flattering reference to anj^ author not published by them. The au- 
thors A B and C whom my friend H had mentioned with admiration 
were all published, that is to say ,by other firms. 

My friend H was exceedingly infuriated. He said that it was 
an outrage to ask anybody to write a preface for nothing and then 
to cavil at its contents. He said that if publishers were to refuse to 
publish any comments on the habits of publishers they would thus 
be establishing a censorship which was utterly against all decency; 
under the cloak of it they would be able of course to commit any 
outrage. And, if all publishers were going to set up the pretention 
that in a book published by them no work by any author appearing 
through another publisher could ever be praised, there would be an 
end of criticism since criticism only exists by means of comparison. 
And Mr. H's fury became enormous when he spoke of the authoress. 
He said that this was what came of having to do with women. He 
said that no woman had any principles whatever. 



i8 The Little Review 



The trouble was that Miss W — the woman writer in question, 
— had not been really excessively pleased with my friend H's pre- 
face. She had expected him to devote the whole of that piece of 
writing to her own merits. She had wanted enormities of praise. 
Now my friend H happened to be a particularly intimate friend of 
Miss W. He said that one cannot apply butter with a trowel to 
the works of one's intimates . It was not the thing to do; it was not 
honorable ; it was not even polite. Miss W on the other hand 
wanted to know what a friend was for if he could not praise one's 
books. 

Miss W put up no sort of fight against the publisher. She just 
let Mr. H's preface drop. It seemed to her that it was reasonable 
that publishers should refuse to allow other publishers to be com- 
mented on. She even said that that was why men got on better 
than women. They stuck together and realised that dog does not 
eat dog. And she was quite on the side of the publishers in their 
refusing to have anything to do with praising other publishers' 
authors. She said that that was business common sense and that 
that again was why men got on better than women. They kne^v 
the ropes better and she got in a nasty shot by asking why it was 
that my friend H got prices three times better for his books while 
she had a public twice as large. 

At this point of his tale my friend H swore violently. He said 
again that this was what came of having to do with women. Miss W, 
he said, if she had been a man would have withdrawn her book un- 
conditionally from the publishers. She would not have permitted him 
to be insulted. She would have taken her stand on the broad emi- 
nence of principles, honour and etiquette. But women, my friend H 
observed, had no sense of honour, of rectitude, or even of decency. 
Moreover, he continued, every woman was entirely wanting in the 
sense of what is honourable in men. Almost every woman was un- 
der the influence of some shocking bad hat or other. Miss W. was 
an instance in point. She got such low prices for her books because 
she was entirely under the thumb of X. X was the managing di- 
rector of the publishers in question. 

My friend H went on to say that he was perfectly convinced 
that X was a shocking bad hat and with his firm was absolutely 
dishonest. He had told Miss W this; he had told her innumerable 
times. He had begged her to take her books away from the firm 
which X administered. What X was up to now was no more nor 
less than trying to breed a quarrel between himself and Miss W . X 
had always hated to think that H should have any influence with 
Miss W at all. Miss W on the other hand was always in X's 



The Little Review 19 



office and X was always pitching her some tale or other to prove 
that her books did not sell. That was X's way of doing business. 
He got hold of a lot of women and had them there to tea every 
day and all day long. And then he told them that their books did 
not sell and got them on the cheap. And Mr. H. said that Mr. X 
had always hated himself because X had once tried to swindle him 
and had of course failed utterly. Now X had got the chance to 
kick him in the face and by Jove! he had taken it. 

"And the damnably irritating thing about it all," Mr. H. con- 
cluded vindictively, "as it's the damnably irritating thing about all 
women, is that Miss W is by now convinced that the fellow X is a 
swindler. But how? — I have been trying to make her believe it 
for years. I am a sane, honourable and fairly distinguished person. 
Yet every word of warning that I have given her against X has 
glided off her like water from a duck's back. But the other day 
some sort of a little chap who is a clerk in another publisher's 
office comes to call upon her to take away some pictures for repro- 
duction. And this little chap tells her that X is dishonest. And im- 
mediately she writes off to me to say that she had found X out. 
A clerk had told her that he was dishonest. Now there you have a 
woman! Would she believe me who am an expert in publishers and 
publishing? Not a bit of it! But she takes the word of the first 
understrapper that comes along. That is woman!" 

And Mr. H in his agitation rushed away from me to tell his 
tale to someone else. He said that he was going to write to the 
Times. But as I have not seen his letter, I presume the editor of 
that journal refused him hospitality in those respectable columns. 
Mr. H went away so quickly that I had not time to tell him that 
everyone in London knew perfectly well that he and Mr X had been 
angling for the affections of Miss W for the last five years. In fact 
they were just furiously jealous of each other. Mr. H had given 
Mr. X the chance to kick him in the face and Mr. X, who was a 
heavy man, had taken it with glee. I had wanted to tell Mr. H that, 
since everyone that he could possibly speak to knew just what the 
state of affairs was, Mr. H — would only be making himself ridicu- 
lous by trumpeting what was after all simply his own folly. But he 
gave me no time. I still sat reflecting in a deep chair and wondering 
whether the club-waiter intended to bring me back the change for 
my tea or whether he would conveniently forget it. And I was 
wondering too, whether I should muster up the courage to tell that 
menial that it was the third or fourth time that he had tried to play 
that trick upon me or whether for the third or fourth time I should 



20 The Lit tie Review 



let him pocket the sixpence. I began wondering why it was that 
all men are such cowards for club servants. And then I thought 
that if I had been a woman in a woman's club I should have got that 
skpence back in the twinkling of an eye. I never got that sixpence 
back. I do not know that I should not have had the courage to ask 
for it, but my attention was diverted. I do not honestly think that 
I should have asked for it. 

But Reggie SpKDfforth was standing in front of the other fire- 
place at the end of the smoking room. He was trying to keep his- 
broad fat face serious, but traces of smiles were p>eeping up at every 
minute round the corners of his mouth. Reggie Spofforth was the 
junior partner in the firm of Spofforth, Hawes and Spofforth, the 
old established literary advisers . He wore gold spectacles and what 
he did not know of literary gossip would go into a club wine glass. 
From an arm chair that was below him and hidden from me by a 
writing desk there went up the low babble of a monologue of which 
I could not catch the words. Mr. Spofforth continued to smirk joy- 
ously whilst he tried not very successfully to appear serious and 
concerned. And suddenly there burst forth in a voice of uncontol- 
able emotion the words: 

"That is what it is to be trapped into having anything to do 
with a woman ! " 

— My friend H was once more rehearsing the story of his woes. 

I began to reflect on H's case. Something of the sort has 
happened to me several times — on at least three occasions. On 
each of these a young writer, publishing a first book, had asked me 
to write a preface for him. And on each of these occasions either 
the publisher or the writer himself had asked me to modify my 
preface because, as I hope sufficiently to demonstrate, I write 
very uncautiously and say exactly what I mean. On the other hand 
the only preface that I ever wrote which got through exactly as 
I wrote it was written for a volume of translations by a woman. 

Looking at Mr. Spofforth 's face, — Mr. Spofforth is I should say 
exactly the average man. Vliomme moyen sensucl, — I realised that, 
while Mr. Spofforth knew quite well of the jealousy between Messrs 
H and X, and while he was in consequence making allowances for 
both these gentlemen, he was at the same time exactly agreeing with 
everything that H said about Miss W as a woman. And suddenly 
it came in my head to consider that this is how we men and women 
build up our respective views of each other. For it is perfectly true 
that Miss W had treated Mr H with discourtesy, and without proper 



The Little Review 21 



attention to etiquette. But she had done it by the orders of a man. 
This Mr. Spofforth would omit to notice. 

This incident happened several years ago and, since .that 
date — because it awakened in me a certain train of thought — I 
have in my mind been gathering together material for this book. 
I tried in the beginning to reduce my intelligence to a blank. I tried 
to wipe the slate clean. I said to myself: Let me postulate for the 
sake of clearness of thought, that there is no difference between men 
and women. — And then, I began to gather together the illustra- 
tions. I gathered them strictly from my own experience or from 
what I have the right to consider as first hand information, — that 
is to say from the direct experiences of friends as they have related 
them to me. I have been trying to get at what, if any, is the essen- 
tial difference between man and woman in the life that to-day we 
lead in Western Europe . I do not profess to have studied the mat- 
ter historically. History is an excellent thing and, when it is treated 
by scientific historians it becomes infinitely more misleading than 
anything that I could hope to, write. 

The first writer who paid much attention to, who generalised 
much about the difference between, the sexes was of course Shakes- 
peare. I do not mean to say that Shakespeare was the first who ever 
wrote that woman was not to be trusted, but that he is the earliest 
writer — and he is almost the only writer — who has any influence 
in this matter over the minds of gentlemen like my friend Mr. 
Spofforth. Let us just transcribe typical passages as to a gentle- 
man's views respectively of the good and the bad of woman. Let 
the first be from Cymbeline and the first gentleman Posthumus: 

"Could I find out 
The Woman's part in me! For there's no motion 
That tends to vice in man but I affirm 
It is the Woman's part. Be it lying, note it. 
The Woman's; flattering, hers; deceiving, hers. 
Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers; revenges her; 
Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain. 
Nice longings, slanders, mutability. 
All faults that have a name, nay that hell knows 
Why, hers in part or all; or rather all; 
For even to vice 
They are not constant, but are changing still 

I 



22 The Little Review 



One vice of but a minute old for one 
Not half so old as that. I'll write against them 
Detest them, curse them, — Yet 'tis greater skill 
In a true hate to pray they have their will 
The very devils cannot plague them better." 

I do not know of any particular quotation from Shakespeare 
as to the virtues of women . There are so many, and most of them 
are hackneyed. Possibly lago in his "small beer" speech expresses 
what was really Shakespeare's opinion of women, — his balanced 
and level-headed view. But let us set against Posthumus's views 
of his wife when he was angry, his view when he was pleased. It 
will be observed that he is not so eloquent and that his opinion is 
reported for him by others : 

lachimo. That lady is not now living; or this gentleman's 
opinion, by this, worn out. 

Postlmmns. She holds her virtue still and I my mind. 

lachimo. You must not so far prefer her love hours of Italy. 

Posthumus. Being so far provoked as I was in France, I would 
abate her nothing; though I profess myself her adorer, not her 
friend. 

lachimo. As fair and as good (a kind of hand in hand compari- 
son) had been something too fair, and too good, for any lady in 
Brittany. If she went before others I have seen, as that diamond of 
yours out-lustres many I have beheld, I could not but believe she ex- 
celled many: but I have not seen the most precious diamond that is, 
nor you the lady . 

Posthumus. I praised her as I rated her; so do I my stone. 

lachimo. What do you esteem it at ? 

Posthumus. More than the world enjoys. 

lachimo. Either your unparagoned mistress is dead or she's T5ut- 
prized by a trifle. 

Posthumus. You are rrtistaken: the one may be sold, or given; 
or if there were wealth enough for the purchase, or merit for the gift: 
the other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. 

lachimo. Which the gods have given you ? 

Posthumus. Which, by their graces, I will keep. 

We thus arrive at an accurate impression of what was the 
equivalent in Shakespeare's view of a club man's estimate of woman. 
You will observe that it was pretty exactly the estimation that a 
South Sea Islander has of his god, who is an idol made of black wood 



The Little Review 23 

and mother of pearl. When his god pleases him this gentleman 
exclaims: "Oh divinity!" When bis god fails to provide him with 
his desired meal of human flesh he takes a club and bangs the ugly 
object over the head. It is exactly in this way that we treat women 
to-day. 

It is exactly in this way, only with this difference. When we 
are pleased with our women we exclaim: 

"Oh divinity! You are different from all your sex!" But 
when we are displeased we say: "Hateful beast you are exactly like 
all the rest of your sex!" And this is a very subtle and a very sig- 
nificant distinction. Consider how differently we approach men. If 
a man pleases us, is honourable and all the rest of it, we say: 

"Oh he is a good sort of chap!" On the other hand I had a 
friend who shared my rooms with me for some time. He was a 
great nuisance. His toilet articles filled my room to overflowing. 
I could not go into my bathroom without falling over half a dozen 
bottles of different scents. And on one occasion I heard a wild yell, 
a thud that shook the whole house. I rushed into my friend's bed- 
room and discovered this stalwart person — he was six foot two in 
height and weighed seventeen stone — stretched upon the floor in a 
dead faint. 

He had perceived a mouse upon his bed! Yes, he had per- 
ceived a mouse and he had fainted! 

No it did not immediately enter my head to say: 

This infernal nuisance is as bad as all the rest of his sex. 
He uses an enormous number of scents. He is remarkably un- 
truthful. He never tips the laundress of my chambers, so that 
I have to tip her double. He faints and he yells when he sees a 
mouse. He is like all other men!" 

No, I did not say this. On the contrary I just said to myself: 

"Poor fellow, what can you expect? He went to Harrow while 
I went to Westminister," 

On the other hand I do not know that men come any better out 
of this particular struggle. For the defects which are supposed to 
be exclusively masculine are by women, scored up against my unfor- 
tunate sex in a manner much more subterranean but none the less 
obstinate. I had a great-great-aunt called Bromley, My great-great- 
aunt Bromley had a niece. This niece was very happily married 
to a gentleman called Tristram Madox. She had everything that in 
those days the wife of man could desire, — an elegant and substantial 
establishment, turtle soup once a week, limes for concocting punch, 



24 The Little Review 

a carriage and pair, and affectionate healthy and obedient children 
as well as a healthy affectionate and properly patronizing husband 
whom she always addressed as "Mr. Madox" and spoke of as "the 
"Master". One day she made the extraordinary discovery that her 
husband possessed also another establishment, a mistress and sev- 
eral children. All at once Mrs. Madox's happiness went to pieces. 
She still possessed her substantial establishment, the carriage and pair; 
Mr. Madox still patronized her, her children were still healthy, affec- ■ 
tionate and obedient. But a blight had come over all these desir- 
able possessions; the world appeared to her a desert. For consola- 
tion she sought my great-great-aunt . And Miss Bronley who was of 
great age and was accounted wise beyond most people, — Miss 
Bromley uttered these words that I was always taught to consider 
memorable: 

"My dear," she said, "You can never trust a man when he is 
out of your sight." 

And these words I was always taught as I have said to con- 
sider memorable. My grandfather would relate this anecdote upon 
every appropriate and upon many inappropriate occasions . And this 
remarkable speech, whenever he related it was always received with 
the most extraordinary applause. Yet actually no remark was ever 
more imbecile. 

For of course you can trust nobody, neither a man nor a woman 
when he or she is out of your sight. I was talking the other day to 
a distinguished Russian exile, who has for many years lived in 
England. He purports to be a considerable observer of life. I dare 
say he is. At any rate he writes admired letters as to English social 
affairs once a week to the Peter sburgkaia Viedemosti or some journal 
of the sort. My friend said that, upon his first coming to England 
he was immensely impressed with the orderliness and regularity of 
British marital conditions. All wives were faithful and devoted, 
it appeared to him. and all husbands faithful and attached. Every 
where there reigned a deep calm, — a sort of undreamt-of and holy 
Pax Britannica. He seemed to himself to have strayed into some 
Garden of Eden. Everywhere were smiles, politeness, concord. And 
this struck him as all the more remarkable because he came from 
Russia where as far as I could understand him there reigned a sort 
of orderly disorder. Apparently in that Empire the rule was that you 
married with the blessings of the Church and then quarrelled more 
or less outrageously with the partner of your joys and sorrows. 
Then by mutual agreement you separated and each of the parties 
contracted another union which was quite irregular because the 



The Little Review 



25 



Russian Church does not admit of divorce. Nevertheless the second 
union, — as if the first had purged the parties by fire so as to render 
them comparatively tolerant of the fault and failings of others — 
this second union was as a rule permanent and satisfactory. But 
this terrible state of things was so normal in Russia that, as I have 
said, conditions in England struck my friend as those of concord 
surpassing belief. But that had been only for the first year or so. 
Apparently Count P was one of those mild and trustworthy persons 
to whom the unhappy come for confession and for consolation. I 
don't know exactly who his friends in England were. But I could 
hazard a guess that they were mild and earnest creatures of ad- 
vanced views and unsuspected respectability, — a sort of inverted 
society of puritans all wearing flannel next their skins. Count P 
assured me that he did not know a single household in England 
where beneath the surface conditions of domestic life were not ab- 
solutely appalling even to his Russian mind. On the surface these 
estimable married people went about together and smiled one upon 
the other. But whatTeally upset my Russian friend was that ap- 
parently English people could not even be faithful in their irregular 
unions. 

I don't know what may be the worth of Count P's observations. 
He made them to me while we were watching the results of a late 
general election come in at Trafalgar Square. We were watching 
the magic lantern sheet of one of the great Liberal organs. Count P 
cheered wildly at every Liberal success and groaned in a becoming 
maimer at the announcement of every Tory victory. Election re- 
sults becoming scarce the magic lantern began to show portraits of 
prominent Liberal politicians all of whom Count P recognised. Sud- 
denly there appeared an atrociously ugly caricature in pinks and 
greens. It represented a gentleman with an immense and purky 
nose, a huge eyeglass, and an expression of dismay at the result of, 
let us say, the Grimsby election. In the button-hole of the carica- 
ture was represented an enormous orchid. Beneath it was written: 

"What price Jo, now!" 

My Russian friend said: "Who's that? Who's that?" ex- 
citedly. 

I explained whom the caricature represented . "No, no," Count 
P exclaimed, "you don't know English journalists. They are chival- 
rous gentlemen. The man you mention is ill, is disabled and dying. 
No English political journalist would permit himself to caricature 
an old dying statesman." 



26 The Little Review 

The sheet continued to show pictures of the gentleman with the 
eyeglass and the orchid, — a whole series of them depicting him in 
various attitudes of degradation. Under each one was written: 

"Jo!" 

My Russian friend insisted that I did not know English jour- 
nalists and that this could not be the politician familiarly denoted 
by tiiose two letters. It must be the leader of the Irish party, the 
president of the United States or Lord Lansdowne. He repeated that 
no Liberal journalist would to-day caricature Mr. Chamberlain, — 
that no journalist in England would caricature a dying statesman, 
and he repeated that English journalists were chivalrous gentlemen. 

I remembered that the day before a prominent English jour- 
nalist had printed a private letter which I had incautiously addressed 
to him and I cordially agreed with Count P. And then Count P ex- 
plained to me the reason why English journalists were so much 
more chivalrous than their brothers of Russia and more particularly 
of Poland. In Russia and more particularly in Poland politics are 
carried on, as far as the active side is concerned, very largely by 
women. The men are much more theoretic and Count P was careful 
to inform me that women have no sense of chivalry. 

At that moment the sheet showed Mr. Chamberlain being sick 
into basin. And once more Count P repeated: 

"You don't know English journalists; they are chivalrous gen- 
tlemen." 

So that perhaps my Russian friend was not an exactly trust- 
worthy observer . He may have viewed English matrimonial ar- 
rangements with a jaundiced eye, just as he kept a very rosy one 
for the gentlemen who daily instruct this country. I don't know. 
And I don't know that it all affects my argument. My great-great- 
aunt said that you can never trust a man when he is out of your 
sight. And this wise saw has been applauded by tens of thousands 
of women. It is accepted as a brilliant and indisputable discovery. 
Let me add another discovery which seems to me all the more bril- 
liant and all the more indisputable because I believe it is a discovery 
entirely of my own. I have at least never met a woman to whom 
this singular fact occurred. But the fact is that no man ever went 
wrong in this particular matter without having a woman to go wrong 
with him. In the nature of the case the number of immoral women 
must be exactly the same as the number of immoral men. The sta- 
tistics must come out exactly equal so that my great-great-uncle 
Madox might just as well have said: 

"My boy, you cannot trust a woman out of your sight!" 



The Little Review 27 

And of course you can't. 

I am in the nature of things not as well asquainted with the 
psychology of women in this matter as I am with that of men. As 
I hope later to point out — since I am writing what is only another 
volume of reminiscences — I have personally been treated badly by 
men who behaved as if they were wolves. On the other hand I have 
been badly treated by women who behaved as if they were hyenas. 
I do not know that there is much difference in the methods of these 
two animals. Wolves are more inclined to run in packs but the 
other quadruped has the more formidable teeth when it comes to 
crushing your bones. That is why I have selected these two animals 
as illustrations. For I have noticed that when men of that disposi- 
tion imagined that I was "down", as the saying is, they jumped 
upon me four or five or fourteen or fifteen at a time. The women 
on the other hand went about their jobs of stealing my furniture 
or my reputation or whatever it was they wanted, — they went about 
it as solitary beasts of prey, silently but much more efficiently. But 
.that I am aware is largely because I am a rather observant person 
and have generally been able to prevent women from getting about 
me in packs. It is much more difficult for a man to prevent men do- 
ing this, because a man has to deal so much more frequently with 
bodies of men. 

^^Hommo homini lupus" the old writer says: — "man behaves 
to his fellow man like a wolf". And when one has grasped this essen- 
tial and necessary fact one has achieved something like heaven on 
earth, for one will have ceased to expect anything more of one's fel- 
lows. So that I jcannot for myself very well differentiate between 
man and woman in these particular aspects. Woman declares that 
she is more tender and more tactful than man, but the most careful 
tendernesses and the most exquisite tactfulness that I have person- 
ally met with have been at the hands of one or two men. Similarly 
man in the eyes of woman is a coarse and unimaginative animal. 
Yet certainly the coarsest person I ever met was a woman. And I 
have seldom met — I have met, but very, very seldom — a woman 
who possessed the instinctive gift of imagination which is sympathy. 
I am not, you understand, laying down any laws. Perhaps men are 
the coarser, perhaps women are the more tender. But the point 
that I desire to make is that having knocked about the occidental 
world in many corners and in half a dozen countries, having met 
more persons that I can well number, I cannot see that in these 
particulars or in any particulars woman differs essentiallv from man 



28 The Little Review 



Of course the female housekeeper of an English lord's castle will 
differ from a major in a German infantry regiment. The fact that 
she has stopped indoors for the greater part of her life will probably 
make her more hysterical. On the other hand I happened to meet 
the other day a major in a German infantry regiment who was the 
.most hysterically sensitive being I have ever come across. He had 
fought more than twenty duels over imaginary insults and he was 
eventually cashiered after an occasion of the sort .But I do not 
mean to adduce from this that all German officers of the rank of 
majors are distinguished by hysteria and sensitiveness. As a rule 
they are not. But had I been an observer of mankind like my great 
aunt Bromley, and had I been possessed of the theory that all men 
were hysterical, I should have stored up that particular major in the 
note books of my memory and I should have neglected to notice any 
other man until I came across one who was distinguished by similar 
nervous eccentricities. 

Tlie subject is one singularly difficult to tackle. I have just put 
down that, in my personal experience, men have acted more fre- 
quently in packs when they have desired to victimise me and that 
women as a rule have operated solitarily. Now I am quite aware 
that there are certain sex-theorists — Weininger, Schopenhauer Rus- 
kin, John Stuart Mill, Mr. Bernard Shaw, and Solomon the author 
of the proverbs being among them — who, if they do me the honour to 
read this work, will say at once: ''Ha! here we find this author 
confirming what we have always said. Women are incapable of con- 
certed action." 

And I am perfectly aware that this statement of mine is the 
only one that they will notice, for they will set down the rest of 
this book as airy persiflage. So the sex-legend has been built up. 
By good Christians you will daily hear it alleged that woman is an 
inferior animal because she lacks physical and moral courage. They 
close their eyes to the fact in the»6tory of the Crucifixion that it 
v.-as the mother of Christ who took the risk of lingering last beside 
the Cross and of being the first to go to her son's grave. Palestine 
at that date was rather a dangerous place in which to manifest sym- 
pathy or concern for the seed of David. Yet the Virgin Mary was 
surely a woman. In the same spirit you will hear a good Frenchman 
declare that woman is Inecessarily an inferior animal because she 
cannot lead armies. And immediately afterwards he will go and lay 
a wreath upon the statue of Joan of Arc. Similarly the other day I 
heard an excellent English scholar and gentleman declare that 
woman was an inferior animal because no woman had ever been a ; 



T he Lit tie Review 29 

first rate poet. Immediately afterwards he became — he was in 
another mood then — almost lachrymose over the line 

" I loved thee Athis in times past . " 

Yet this line is by Sappho! 

My friend was at that moment trying to persuade me that 
Swinburne in translating these words had allowed all of their ma- 
jesty, of their magic and of their mastery — yes, he said "mastery" 
— to escape. Yet Algernon Charles Swinburne was a man. 

The fact is that no sooner does either man or woman approach 
this theme of the difference between the sexes than straightway all 
reason deserts him. He may be the most powerful reasoner such 
as was Schopenhauer; he may be a slightly hysterical novelist like 
Strindberg; he may be a great poet like Shakespeare. But the never- 
failing rule with man as well as with woman is to revenge in his 
public utterances his private wrongs against a sex. I was once in an 
omnibus with a lady and another man. A man got up to go out. 
and the bus, skidding, the poor man on his feet was thrown against 
my charming friend. One of his boots considerably damaged her 
thin summer skirt and she was quite properly angry. But did she 
abuse the driver of the bus? Or did she say that motor-buses are 
horrible inventions because of their skidding properties? Not at all. 
She looked at me in whom she had a certain proprietary interest 
and she remarked: 

"Why have all men feet as large as elephants ?" 

Yet, for the mere trouble of looking down she would have ob- 
served that the friend who was with us had feet actually smaller 
than her own. And he was a man. Quite a manly man; in fact he 
held the Oxford record for the mile. But indeed this 'gentleman's 
feet were so small that once, when he as well as the lady was stop- 
ping with me, I rang the bell to tell the servant to bring in his 
boots; when she brought them I blew her up because I thought from 
their size that they must be the boots of the lady in question. Yet 
actually they were the boots of my friend, the holder of the mile 
record. That was how I came to know that his feet were smaller 
than those of the lady who said that the feet of all men were even 
as those of the largest quadrupeds. 

Similarly, having as I have already pointed out been outrage- 
ously robbed by several housekeepers and female dependents to 
whom I had been a great deal more kindly than was at all ;iecessary, 
I might subscribe to the theory that women are incapable of con- 
certed action for the purpose of plunder or for any other purpose. I 



30 The Little Review 

might say I have been robbed only by solitary females. Therefore the 
female of man is always a robber and always robs singly. She is a 
hyena not a wolf. I might with the light and skilful pen in that 
way revenge myself upon my late housekeepers by abusing the 
whole sex. If I do not do it, it is in part because I have a sense 
of humour. And I should say that in England to some extent, and 
in the United States enormously, very largely in Germany, very 
largely in Russia and Holland but hardly at all in France, — that 
generally over the occidental world the prime cause of the domestic 
misery and of the domestic dissatisfaction that exist is precisely 
that each separate household has as its theoretic base an association 
of dependent women packing together against the made head of the 
house . I can imagine nothing more terrible than the domestic con- 
ditions of the large bulk of ordinary, respectable and apparently 
tranquil middle-class families . Here you will have a good, honest, 
rather stupid, rather fat man. 

He will be a mere machine all his life. At home there will be, 
say, five women and two sons. And this man from any intellectual, 
social, or political point of view will be worse than a log. He will be 
too tired to read a book, too tired to follow a political argument, too 
tired to join in an intelligent conversation . So he will be too tired 
all his life, and to what end? ... In order to support this mon- 
strous regiment of five women and two sons who, because they are 
allied with the five women for the purposes of extracting money 
from this wretched helot, may be counted as only two more women. 
Even upon the surface it is a really hideous picture. But the mo- 
ment you inquire a little deeper you discover that things are infinite- 
ly more repulsive. 

For all those five women and their two allies will be linked 
against that sweating day labourer. Officially he is the master of 
the house. Actually he is "He" for all the household. And, be- 
cause all his household — the wife, the daughter, the three maid 
servants and the sons — because they are all nothing more nor less 
than parasitic menials, they will have evolved a sort of freemasonry 
to extort always more and more money from the unfortunate camel 
who bears them all upon his back. And behind his back they will 
be perpetually whispering their servants' discontent. They will be 
perpetually grumbling among themselves because he cannot afford 
them more and more useless luxuries. "He" won't let the wife 
have a new carriage; "He" won't let the cook have a new kitchen 
range, the daughter a new conservatory, the sons new golf clubs, 
the housemaid new silver cloths .And if "He" let them have all 



T he Little Review 31 



these things entirely new to-morrow, they would want them all once 
more on the following day together with twenty more new, useless, 
and expensive things. There would never be any end to it, and so 
he staggers along to his useless and expensive funeral which is really 
all that he gets out of life. And all the while this regiment of 
women will have been whispering with their heads together all 
round him. They will have been bidding each other observe that 
"He" is stupid, coarse, gross, unintelligent, late for his meals, too 
fond of the pleasures of the table, inartistic, unpresentable, given to 
leaving his slippers in the dining room, a person whom it takes five 
women to tidy up after .... He is "He" in fact. 

No! I will never subscribe to the doctrine that women cannot 
act in concert ! 

(to be continued) 

INCIDENTS IN THE LIFE OF A POET jjit^' 
John Rodker 

AT seventeen he had made up his mind- that Fate had destined 
him for a high sphere, yet how inexpressibly sordid Life was. He 

became a philosophical anarchist. Later, when he found that Shel- 
ley too had been an anarchist, his pride knew no bounds. Then the 
greatness of his destiny made it impossible to risk it by throwing 
bombs. Nevertheless he was convinced that bomb-throwing was 
the only panacea. 

Fortunately for his self-respect he remembered that " The pen 
is mightier than the sword ". 

* * * * 

At eighteen he was embarrassed by the frequency with which 
middle-aged women fell on his neck, hailing him as the poetical 
genius of the future. He began to take it for granted. Therefore he 
cut his hair; wore a bowler: did his utmost in fact to look like a 
stockbroker and man of spirit; for he thought—" since the greatness 
of my future is so certain, why waste energy in trying to look it. 
Besides what is more intriguing than a dark horse" ? 

Alas, the very women who had been the first to tell him of 
his divine mission, now spurned him. " We were mistaken," they 
said to each other; "After all, he has the mind of a stockbroker ! " . 



32 



The Lit tig Review 



At nineteen he was surprised by the frequency with which 
young women fell in love with him. Not because he was a man — 
nor even because of his art — but because, "he looked so girlish," 
they said. 

"Was it" he could not refrain from asking himself," a refined 
form of Lesbianism"? His whole soul revolted at the idea. 

He spent long hours pushing his chin forward: he got drunk 
quite frequently: he became a specialist in bawdy-houses. 

He adopted a brutal and mcisive form of speech with these 
women: and allowed no subject to be taboo in discussion. 

Alas, they were only the more convinced of his profound fe- 
mininity . 

It was exactly the way they talked to each other. 
* * * * 

Strangely enough, although his poetry was of heroic mould, he 
was a coward. The idea of physical injury made him sick and he 
could not bear to tread on a worm. (No, dear reader, he was not 
such a coward as to be afraid of it turning.) If he passed over a 
bridge where children were playing, his heart w'ould stop beating 
and his knees liquefy under him at the thought that one of them 
would fall in, in which case he would have to dive the hundred feet 
or so into the water; perhaps get wet — even perhaps a cold, — 
risk his destiny for the sake of a slum brat: for unfortunately he 
could swim and dive too, but not very well. 

One day at Margate (he was a poet whose destiny was to des- 
cribe the life of his time), he had finished bathing and was in his 
machine looking out to sea. He saw a girl and a man swim out, with 
a tide strongly running . Then the man turned back and the girJ 
threw up an arm, and cried "Help". He w'as scandalised to sec 
that the man had left her and that no one else went in. Feeling 
the world to be full of injustice he realised that after all he would 
have to go in. He dropped into the water casually — first putting on 
his wet costume (les convenances must be observed) — and pulled 
her out. He had to sweat over it, but managed it finally by swim- 
ming obliquely against the tide. 

Both collapsed on the beach. Then the girl murmured 'Thank 
you", and disappeared . The crowd cheered. He went into his tent. 
He realised now how heroes were made, quite casually, just like 
that. He dressed himself, and after a proper interval left the ma- 
chine proudly as befitted a hero; prepared to receive the acclamation, 
— perhaps even a collection — from the crowd who had witnessed 
the deed. At least, he thought, my photograph in the Mirror ought 



T he Lit tie Review 33 

to sell out those damned sonnets. And the girl — ah the girl — 
she would surely be waiting to throw her arms round his neck and 
be his bride. 

There was nobody on the beach — he looked on every hand — 
not even a Mystic Choir anywhere. And the thin clapping of dead 
leaves mocked him. 

SfC 3fC SfS ^ 

Of course he was in love: quite often in fact. Each new 
woman was that one for which his whole soul had longed. She alone 
was the one vision who had solaced his sleepless nights, visiting him 
in dreams. Never was poet so rhapsodical, never woman so idolised 
— never union more inspiring. 

Alas, soon she began to cry "Give me bread, meat, children." 
He was, of course, penniless. 

There was the usual scene. She said he had no right to be a 
poet without a rich father behind him. It was directly contrary to 
Novelette precedent. What about Shelley, etc. 

I can't live on air, if you can!" She slammed the front door. 

When he.jvas thus deserted, he would question himself : "Am 
I unhappy?" Yes, there was no use denying it, he was. "Joy" he 
cried, "for only through suffering shall one gain eternal life", i. e. 
write eternal poetry. 

While he wrote the sonnet inspired by the above, he was already 
seeing how it would go to the Editor. The postman would throw it 
into the "sanctum" with a pile of other letters . He pictured the 
Editor's amazement, when he opened his sonnet, read his letter, and 
how he would admire the dignity of the covering letter. "Dear Sir,, 
herewith I beg to enclose you a sonnet which you may care to 
print. I am, Sir, etc." Here was the poet for whom the Editor had 
sought so long. He would rush out, hail a taxi, dash up to the 
poet's door, take him home and give him a square meal at last; 
buy all his other stuff at incredible sums a line. 

Alas, his father died before ever he had a sonnet accepted, and 
he had put £ 2000 into the dying Reclame first. Therefore the son- 
net appeared in The Reclame. 

sft * * * 

One day he was in a bad mood. His anger grew with every 
word of the story he was telling to his large friend. 
" ' So then, she said, 'do you like my new frock ? ' 
" ' Admirable ' , I said. 
" ' And do you love me better in it ? ' 
" 'No' I saicij thinking of the sonnets she'd promised to print 



34 The Little Review 



with the money, 'I think it's a nice frock, but not more pleasant 
than your other frocks, or no frock at all for that matter. One 
knows of course that people must have frocks sometimes.' 

" ' Yes, ' she said. ' I simply had to. Just as sometimes I have to 
have smart hats, — just as I have to have you. They're all just as 
necessary to me as each other. Sometimes my only desire is a 
hat, or else it's a box at the theatre, or else its a frock — or else — ' 
and then she beamed at me — 'it's you' " . 

There was a ferocious silence which irked the friend, and to 
break it he said "Well, what did you say to that?". 

"Say? I strangled her." 



At twenty-one he decided the time had come for his Magnum 
Opus. It was to be a novel. At last the human soul would be torn 
bare, — disclosed in all its innate vileness and nobility. 

With the object of unveiling Isis, he therefore said to his sweet- 
heart : "Darling, there must have been times when you hated me; 
when you felt you'd burst if you had to see me ever again; and all 
because of things I had done unwittingly and which offended you 
the more because of it. Its no good denying it, because it always 
happens in all love. 

"Yes, all right" she said. "But you tell me yours first". 

"No, you first" he said. 

"No you! then I promise I will." 

"No you" he replied, "then I will." 

"What must his thoughts have been like," she thought, 

"since he's so ashamed to own them"; and left him there and then 

and forever. 

* * * * 

At the age of twenty-five he had written, in chronological order, 
a volume of sonnets, a novel, a play; believe me, all showing marked 
talent. Then his father providentially died. His first thought was 
to forswear the Muses. When he entertained old friends he took 
care to wear with his newly-acquired velvet dinner jacket an afr of 
ferocious melancholy. 

"Well, what are you writing now, John?" they would ask. 

"Nothing" he would reply shortly . "What's the good of the 
damned game, I want to know? All dust and ashes. In a hundred 
years where is it all? No! I'm going abroad. I mean to have a 
good time — wine, women and song. I've talked about it long 
enough, heaven knows. The only thing that kept me at it in the old 



T he Little Review 35 



days was the thought that the old man would go on till I was fifty 
or so and I'd have to keep going somehow." 

When they had gone he remained in thought. An insidious 
voice whispered in his ear "That little scene now would make a 
good prose-poem. Not for publication, of course, but just interest- 
ing. It wouldn't take you a few minutes. Just the poet — now 
wealthy— literature forsworn for ever and ever, stretching out his 
hand to a sheet of paper. 

"What an old hypocrite you are, John", he said as he went into 

the library. 

* rn W W 

When his father died he went abroad. 

His destiny went with him and gave him no rest. 

Then he thought "Even if I rescue my name from oblivion for a 
hundred years only, it would have been worth while. 

A hundred years — why the mere fact of printing a book gains 
it admission to the British Museum Library . Surely that institution 
must last as long as the British Empire, i. e for ever and ever — 

So then, it would be quite a simple matter to last as long as any 
of the classics in that superb library. 

He decided that the means of lasting to Eternity were too sim- 
ple, too easily procured for one of so electric a mind as himself. 

It was like preserving coprolites . 

He was glad he could afford to forego Literature. 



A SOLDIER OF HUMOUR 

Wyndham Lewis 
Part II. 

BURGOS WAS to break my journey. But San Sebastian and 
Leon seemed eventually better halting places. 

This four days journeying was an interlude — an entr'acte filled 
with appropriate music; the lugubrious and splendid landscapes of 
Castile, the extremely selfconscious pedantic and independent spirit 
of its inhabitants, met with en route. Fate was marking time, mere- 
ly. On with the second day's journey I changed trains and dined at 
Venta de Banos ,the junction for the line that branches off in the 
direction of Palencia, Leon and the Gallician country. 

The Spanish people, while travelling, have a marked preference 



36 T he Lit tie Review 

for the next compartment to that that they have chosen. No sooner 
has the train started than one after another, heads, arms and should- 
ers appear above the wooden partition, and you occasionally have the 
entire human contents of the neighbouring compartment gazing 
gloomily into your o^^Tl. In the case of some theatrical savage of the 
Sierras, who rears a dishevelled head before you in a pose of fierce 
abandon hangs there smoking, you know that it may be some in- 
stinctive pride that prevents him from remaining in an undignified 
position huddled in a narrow carriage. In other cases it is probably 
a naive conviction that the occupants of other compartments are 
likely to be more interesting. 

The whole way from Venta de Banos to Palencia the carriage was 
dense with people. Crowds of peasants poured into the train, loaded 
with their heavy vivid horse-rugs, gaudy bundles and baskets; which 
profusion of mere matter, combined with their exuberance, made 
the carriage appear positively to swarm with human life. They would 
crowd in at one little station and out at another a short way along 
the line, where they were met by hordes of their relations awaiting 
them. They would rush or swing out of the door, charged with their 
goods and accoutrements and catch the nearest man or woman of their 
blood in their arms with a turbulence that outdid Northerners' most 
vehement occasions. The waiting group became at least tw>ce as 
vital as ordinary human beings, on the arrival of the train, as though 
so much more blood had poured into their veins. Gradually we got 
beyond the sphere of this Fiesta and in the small hours of the morn- 
ing arrived at Leon. 

Next day came the final stage of the journey to the Atlantic 
sea board. We arrived within sight of the towTi that evening just as 
the sun was setting. With its houses of green, rose and white, in 
general effect rather subdued and faded, it Avas like some Oriental 
town in the nerveless tempera tints of a fresco. Its bay, thirty miles 
long reached out to the sea. 

On the train drawing up in the Central station, furious contingents 
furnished by every little raggamuffin cafe as well as every stately ho- 
tel in the town were hurled against us. I had mislaid the address 
given me at Bayonne. I wished to find a hotel of medium luxury 
half way between the ghastly bouge and the princely hostelry. This 
was a method with me. The different hotel attendants called hotly 
out their prices at me. I selected one who named a sum for board 
and lodging that only the frenzy of competition could have fathered, 
I thought. Also the name of this hotel was, it seemed to me, the one 
the Patrona at Bayonne had mentioned. I had not then learnt to con- 



The Little Review 37 

nect Burgaleza with Burgos. With this man I took a cab and was 
left seated in it at the door of the station while he went after the 
heavy luggage. Now one by one the hotel emissaries came up; 
queer contrast between their fury of a few minutes before and their 
present listless calm. Putting themselves civilly at my disposition, 
they thrust forward matter-of-factly the card of their establishment, 
adding that they were sure that I would find out my mistake. 

I now felt an a vague manner a tightening of the machinery 
of Fate— a certain uneasiness and strangeness in the march and suc- 
cession of facts and impressions, like the trembling of a motor bus 
about to start again. The interlude was over. 

After a long delay the hotel man returned and we started. The 
method I have spoken of consisted in a realization of the following 
facts: — when your means are very restricted, it is best to go to a 
cheap hotel and pay a few pesetas more a day for "extras". This is 
satisfactory than affecting second class '' houses. " You can never 
be sure in any hotel especially in Spain, of the menu not containing 
every dish you most loathe. But there is something private, almost 
home-made, about Extras. You always feel that a single individual 
has bent over the extra and carefully cooked it and that it has not 
been bought in too wholesale a manner . I wished to live on Extras — 
a privileged existence. 

Tthe cabman and hotel man were discussing some local event. 
But we penetrated farther and farther into a dismal and shabby 
quarter of the town. I began to have misgivings. I asked the rep- 
resentative of the Burgaliza if he were sure that his house was a clean 
handsome and comfortable house. He dismissed my doubtful glance 
with a gesture full of assurance. 'Tt's a splendid place! You wait 
and see; we shall be there directly. " he added. 

We suddenly emerged in a broad and imposing street, on one side 
of which was a public garden; "El Paseo", I found out afterwards, 
the Town-Promenade. Gazing idly at a vast palatial white building 
with an hotel omndbus drawn up before it, to my astonishment I 
found our driver also stopping at its door. A few minutes later, in 
a state of .stupefaction, I got out and entered this palace, noticing 
"Burgaleza" on the board of the omnibus. I followed dumbly, having 
glimpses in passing of a superbly arrayed table with serviettes that 
were each a work of art that a diner would soon haughtily pull to 
pieces to wipe his moustache on — tables groaning beneath salvers 
full of fruit and other delicacies. Then came a long hall, darkly 
panelled, at the end of which I could see several white-capped men 
shouting fiercely and clashing knives, women answering shrilly and 



38 T he Li 1 1 le Review 

rattling dishes — a kitchen; the most diabolically noisy and nauseous 
I had ever approached. We went straight on towards it. Were we 
going through it, At the very threshold we stopped, and opening a 
panel-like door in the wall, the porter disappeared with my portman- 
teau, appeared again without my portmanteau, and hurried away. 
At this moment my eye caught something else, a door ajar on the 
other side of the passage and a heavy wooden, clothless table, with 
several squares of bread on it, and a fork or two. In Spain there is 
a sort of bread for the rich, and a horrible looking juiceless papery 
bread for the humble. The bread on that table was of the latter 
category. 

Suddenly the truth flashed upon me. With a theatrical gesture 
I dashed open again the panel and passed into the pitchy gloom 
within. I struck a match. It was a cupboard, quite windowless, with 
just enough room for a little bed; I was standing on my luggage. No 
doubt in the room across the passage I should be given some cod 
soup, permanganate of potash and artificial bread. Then, extremely 
tired after my journey, I should crawl into my kennel, the pandemon- 
ium of the kitchen at my ear for several hours. 

In the central hall I found the smiling proprietor. He seemed to 
regard his boarders geneally as a mild joke, and those who slept 
in the cupboard near the kitchen a particularly good but rather low 
one. I informed him that I would pay the regular sum for a day's 
board and lodging and said I must have another room, A valet ac- 
cepted the responsibility of seeing I was given a bedroom, and the 
landlord walked slowly away, his iron-grey side whiskers, with their 
traditional air of respectability, giving a disguised look to his rascally 
face. I was transferred from one cupboard to another. Or rather, I 
had exchanged a cupboard for a wardrobe — reduced to just half its 
size by a thick layer of skirts and cloaks, twenty deep, that protruded 
from all four walls. But still the little open space left in the centre 
would ensure me a square foot to wash and dress in, with a quite dis- 
tinct square foot or two for sleep. And it was upstairs. 

A quarter of an hour later, wandering along a dark passage on 
my way back to the central hall, a door opened in a very violent 
and living way and a short rectangular figure, the size of a big 
square trunk, issued forth, just in front of me. I recognized this 
figure fragmentarily — first, with a cold shudder, I recognized an 
excrescence of hair; then with a jump I recognized a hat held in its 
hand; then, with a shrinking, I realized that I had seen those flat 
pseudo-American shoulders before. With a tidal wave of surging 
emotion, I then recognized the whole man. 



T k e Lit tie Rev tew 39 

It was the implacable figure of the Fonda del Mundo. 

He moved along with wary rigidity ahead, showing no recipro- 
cal sign of recognition. He turned corners with difficulty, with a 
sort of rapid lurch and seemed to get stuck on the stairs just as a 
large American trunk would, borne by a sweating porter. At last 
he safely reached the hall. I was a yard or two behind him. He 
stopped to light a cigar, still taking up an unconscionable amount 
of space. I manoeuvred round him, and gained one of the doors of 
the salle-a-manger. But as I came within his range of vision, I also 
became aware that my presence in the house was not a surprise to 
this sandwich-man of Western citizenship. His eye fastened on me, 
with ruthless bloodshot indignation, a crystallised eye blast of the 
Bayonne episode. I had distinctly the impression of being face to 
face with a ghost, he was so dead and inactive. And in all my subse- 
quent dealings with him, this feeling of having to deal with a ghost, 
although a particulary mischievous one, persisted. If before, my 
anger at the trick that had been played on me had dictated a speedy 
change of lodging, now my anxiety to quit this roof had, natuarally, 
a tremendous incentive. After dinner, I went forth boldly in search 
of the wonderful American enemy. Surely I had been condemned, 
in some indirect way, by him, to the cupboard beside the kitchen. 
No dungeon could have been worse. Had I then known, as I learnt 
later, that he was the owner of this hotel, the mediaeval analogy 
would have been still more complete. He now had me in his castle. 

I found him, in sinister conjunction with the Proprietor or Man- 
ager as I suppose he was, in the lobby of the hotel. He turned slightly 
away as I came up to him, with a sulky indifference due to self-re- 
straint. Evidently tJie time for action was not ripe. There was no 
pretence of not recognising me. As though our conversation in the 
Fonda del Mundo had taken place a half an hour before, we ac- 
knowledged in no way a consciousness of the lapse of time, only of 
the shifted scene. 

"Well, colonel, "I said, adopting an allocution of the United 
States, "taking the air?" 

He went on smoking. 

"This is a nice little town." 

"I'm glad you like it", he replied in French, as though I was 
not worthy even to hear his American accent, and that, if any com- 
munication was to be held with me, French must serve. 

"I shall make a stay of some weeks here", I said with indulgent 
defiance. • 



40 The Little Review 

"Oui?" 

"But not in this Hotel." 

He got up with something of his Bayonne look about him. 

"No, I Wouldn't. You might not find it a very comfortable 
hotel." 

He walked away hurriedly, as a powder magazine might walk 
away from a fuse, if it did not, for some reason, want to blow up for 
the moment. 

The upstairs and less dreadful dungeon with its layers of clothes, 
would have been an admirable place for a murder. 

Not a sound would have penetrated its woolen masses and thick 
Spanish walls. But the next morning I was still alive when I woke 
up. I set out after breakfast to look for new quarters. My prac- 
tised eye had soon measured the inconsistencies of most of the pen- 
sions of the town. But a place in the Calle Real suited me all 
right arid I decided to stop there for the time. 

Tihis room again was a cupboard. But it was a human cupboard 
and not a clothes cupboard. It was one of four tributaries of the 
dining-room. My bedroom door was just beside my place at table — 
the entire animal life being conducted over an area not exceeding 
fiftten compact square feet. 

The extracting of my baggage from the Burgaleza was easy 
enough, except that the rogue of a proprietor charged a heavy toll, 
sunk somewhere in the complications of the bill. As at Bayonne, 
there was no sign of the enemy in the morning. But I was not so 
sure this time that I had seen the last of him. 

That evening I came amongst my new fellow-pensionnaires for 
the first time. This place had recommended itself to me partly be- 
cause the boarders would probably speak good Spanish. They were 
mostly Castilians. My presence caused no stir yvhatever. Just as 
a stone dropped in a small pond which has long been untouched and 
has a good thick coat of mildew, slips dully to the bottom, cutting ai 
clean little hole on the surface slime, so I took my place at the bottom 
of the table. But as the pond will send up its personal odour at this- 
intrusion, so these people revealed something of themselves in thes 
first few minutes, in an illusive and immobile way. They must all 
have lived in that pension together for an inconceivable length of 
time. My neighbour however promised to be a little El Dorado of 
Spanish; a small mine of gossip, grammatical rules and willingness to 
impart his native riches. I struck a deep shaft of friendship into him 
at once and began work without delay. He yielded in the first three* 
days a considerable quantity of pure ore — coming from Madrid, this 



The Little Review 41 

ore was at least 30 carot, thoroughly tMtaed and Castilian. What I 
gave him in exchange was insignificant. I taught him nothing. He 
knew several phrases in French and English, such as, "if you please" 
and "fine day"; I merely confirmed him in these. Every day he 
would hesitatingly say them over, and I would assent, "quite right" 
and "very well pronounced", and then turn to extracting his natural 
riches from him for the next hour or two. He was a tall bearded man, 
■ihead of the orchestra of the principal cafe in the town. Two large 
cuffs lay on either side of his plate during meals, the size of serviet- 
tes, and out of them his hands emerged without in any way disturb- 
ing them and served him with his food as far as they could. But he 
had to remain with his mouth quite near his plate, for the cuffs would 
not move a hair's breadth. This somewhat annoyed me, as it muffled 
a little the steady flow -of Spanish, and even was a cause of consider- 
able waste. I tried to move the cuffs once or twice without success. 
T'heir ascendancy over him and their indolence were phenomenal. 

But I was not content merely to extract Spanish from him. I 
wished to see it in use: to watch this stream of Spanish working the 
mill of general conversation, for instance. But, although willing 
enough himself, he had no chance in this Pension. 

On the third day he invited me to come round to the cafe after 
dinner and hear him play. Our dinners overlapped, he leaving 
early. So, dinner over, I strolled round, alone. 

The cafe Pelayo was the only* really Parisian establishment 
in the town. It was the only one where tiie Madrilenos and other 
Spaniards proper, resident in Ponta Issandra, went regularly. I 
entered, peering round in a business-like way at "Its monotonously 
mirrored walls and gilded ceiling. This was a building that must 
contain prodigious quantities of Spanish every evening. Here I 
should virtually pass my examination. 

In a lull of the music, my chef d'orchestre came over to me, 
and presented me to a large group of "consommateurs", friends of 
his. It was an easy matter, from that moment, to become acquainted 
with everybody in the cafe. 

I did not approach Spaniards in general with any very romantic 
notion. Each man I met possessed equally an ancient and admirable 
tongue, however degenerate himself. He often appeared like some 
rotten tree, in which a swarm of words had nested. I, like a bee- 
cultivator, found it my business to transplant this vagrant swarm to 
a hive prepared — in which already two kindred swarms were bil- 
leted, as I have said. A language has its habits and idiosyncrasies 
just like a species of insect, as my first professor comfortably ex- 



42 The Little Review 



plained; its thousands of little words and parts of speech have to be 
carefully studied and manipulated. So I had my hands full. 

When the cafe closed, I went home with Don Pedro, chef d'or- 
chestre, to the Pension. Every evening, after dinner — and at lunch 
time as well — I repaired there. This lasted for three or four days. 
I now had plenty of opportunity of talking Spanish. I had mo- 
mentarily forgotten my American enemy. 

On the fifth evening, I entered the Cafe as usual, making towards 
my most useful and intelligent group. But then, with a sinking of 
the heart, I saw the rectangular form of my ubiquitous enemy, 
quartered with an air of demoniac permanence in their midst. A 
mechanic who finds a big lump of alien metal stuck in the very 
heart of his machinery — what simile shall I find for my dismay? 
To proceed somewhat with this image, as this unhappy engineer 
might dash to the cranks or organ stops of his machine, so I dashed 
to several of my formerly most willing listeners and talkers. I 
gave one a wrench and another a screw but I found that already the 
machine had become recalcitrant. 

I need not enumerate the various stages of my defeat on that 
evening. It was more or less a passive and moral battle, rather than 
one with any evident show of the secretly bitter and desperate nature 
of the passions engaged. Of course, the inclusion of so many people 
unavoidably caused certain "brusqueries" here and there. The 
gradual cooling down of the whole room towards me, the dreadful icy 
currents of dislike that swept over the chain of little drinking groups^ 
— little eddies, or tiny whirlpools of conversation — from that mys- 
tical centre of hostility, that soul that recognised in me something^ 
icily antipodean too, no doubt; the immobile figure of America's? 
newest and most mysterious child, apparently emitting these strongi 
waves without effort, as naturally as a fountain : all this, with great' 
vexation, I felt happening almost in the first moment. It almost 
seemed as though he had stayed away from this haunt of his foresee- 
ing what would happen. He had waited until I was settled and there* 
was something palpable to attack. His absence may have had soma 
more natural cause. 

What exactly he said about me I never discovered. As at 
Bayonne I saw the mouth working and I felt the effects only. NO' 
doubt it was the subtlest and most electric thing that could be found; 
brief, searching and annihilating. Perhaps something seemingly 
crude — that I was a spy — may have recommended itself to hit 
ingenuity. But I expect it was a meaningless or rather indefinite, 
blast of disapprobation that he blew upon me, an eerie and stinging, 



I 



The Little Review 43 



wind of personal unexplained scorn and hatred. He evidently exer- 
cised a queer ascendancy in the cafe Pelayo, explained superficially 
by his commercial prestige, but due really to his extraordinary char- "" 
acter — moulded by the sublime force of his illusion. 

His inscrutable immobility, his unaccountable self-control (for 
such a person, and feeling as he did towards me) were of course the 
American or Anglo-Saxon coolness and coldness as reflected, or por- 
trayed, in this violent human mirror. 

I left the Cafe earlier than usual, before the chef d'orchestre. It 
was the following morning at lunch when I next saw him. He was 
embarrassed. His eyes wavered in my direction fascinated and 
inquisitive. He found it difficult to realise that his respect for me had 
to end and give place to another feeling. 

"You know Monsieur de Valmore?" he asked. 

"That little cur of a Frenchman, do you mean ? " 

I knew this description of my wonderful enemy was vulgar and 
inexact. But often with an ordinary intercourse it is necessary to 
be vulgar and inexact. 

But this way of describing Monsieur de Valmore appeared to 
the chef d'orchestre so eccentric, apart from its profanity, that I lost 
at once in Don Pedro's sympathy. 

He told me, however, all about him; vulgar details that did not 
touch on the real conditions of this life. 

"He owns the Burgaleza and many houses in Pontaisandra. 
Ships, too. Es Americano" he added. 

The American War was still fresh in the memory of all Span- 
iardr. But being obviously a Frenchman, they could allow them- 
selves to admire in him all the commercial cunning and other quali- 
ties that their disgusted souls admired in the Yankee. 

Vexations and hindrances of all sorts now made my stay in 
Pontaissandra useless and depressing. Don Pedro had generally al- 
most finished when we came to dinner and I was forced to shut up 
the mine, so to speak. Nothing more was to be extracted, except 
uncomfortable monosyllables. The rest of the boarders remained 
morose and inaccessible. I went once more to the Cafe Palayo, but 
the waiters even seemed affected. The new cafe I chose yielded 
nothing but Gallego chatter, and the gargon was not gregarious. 

There was little encouragement to try another pension and stay 
on in Pontaissandra. I made up my mind to go to Coruna. This 
would waste a bit of time. But there is more Gallego than Spanish 
spoken in Galicia, even in the cities. Too easily automatic a conquest 
^ it may seem, Monsieur de Valmore had left me nothing but the 



44 The Little Review 

Gallegos. I was not getting anything like the practice in Spanish 
necessary, and this necessity infected the whole air of the place. I 
began to get neuresthenic about the necessity of learning this tire- 
some language. I would go to Coruna in any case . On the fol- 
lowing day, some hours before the time for the train, I paraded the 
line of streets towards the station, with the feeling that I was no 
longer there. The place seemed cooling down and growing strange 
already prematurely and looked very cheerless. But the miracle 
happened, coming with a gradual flowering of beauty. A more 
beautiful checkmate never occurred in any record of exquisite 
war- fare. 

The terrible ethnological difference that existed between Mon- 
sieur de Valmore and myself up till that moment showed every sign 
of ending in a w^eird and revolting defeat for me. The "moment" I 
refer to was that in which I turned out of the High Street, into the 
short hilly avenue where the Post Office lay. I had some letters to 
post, communications adorned with every variety of expletives about 
Spanish, Pontassandra and other opposite things. 

On turning the corner I at once became aware of three anoma- 
lous figures walking just in front of me. They were all three of the 
proportion known in certain climes as "husky". When I say they 
were walking, I should describe their movements more accurately 
as wading — wading through the air, evidently towards the Post 
Office. Their carriage was slightly rolling, like a ship under weigh. 
They occasionally bumped into each other, but did not seem tp 
mind this. Yet no one would have mistaken these three young men 
— for such they were — for drunkards. But I daresay you will liave 
already guessed. It would under other circumstances, have had no 
difficulty in entering my head. As it was, there seemed a certain im- 
pediment of consciousness when any phenomena of that sort was 
concerned. These three figures were three Americans! — This seems 
very simple, I know, very simple. This was abstract fact, however. 
This very simple and unabstruse fact trembled and lingered before 
completely entering into my consciousness. The extreme rapidity of 
my mind in another sense — in seeing all this fact, if verifieid, might 
signify to me — may have bein responsible for that. Tflien one of 
them, on turning his head, displays the familiar features of Taffany, 
a Mississippi freind of mine. I simultaneously recognized Blauenfeld 
and Morton, the other two members of a trio. A real trio, like real 
twins, is rarer than one thinks. It is one of the strangest and clos- 
est of human relationships. This one was the remnant of a quartet. 
I had met it first in Paris. « 



The Little Review 45 

In becoming, from any three Americans, three of my friends, 
they precipitated in a most startling way the vivid and full-blooded 
hope, optimism, reinstatement of vitality, contained in the possibili- 
ties wonderfully hidden in tJiis meeting. 

Two steps brought me up with them and my cordiality almost 
exceeded theirs. 

"Why, if that doesn't beat everything! How did you get here?" 
shouted Taffany, 

"Been here long? How do you like it? What do you think of 
the town?" pressed Blauenfeld. 

"Where are you staying? Have you struck a good Hotel?" 
demanded Morton. 

Optimism, consciousness of power (rib wonder, I thought) surged 
out of them. Ah, the kindness! the overwhelming kindness. I 
bathed voluptuously in this American greeting — this real American 
greeting. '■Nothing naturalised about that. At the same time I felt 
almost an awe at the thought of my friends' dangerous nationality. 
These good fellows I knew and liked so well seemed for the mo- 
ment to have some intermixture of the strangeness of Monsieur 
de Valmore. 

However, I measured with enthusiasm their egregious breadth of 
shoulder, the exorbitance of their "pants." They could not be too 
American, or American enough, for me. Had diey appeared in a 
star and stripe swallow tail suit, like the cartoons of Uncle Sam, I 
should not have been satisfied. 

I felt rather like some Eastern potentate who, having been 
continually defeated in battle by a neighbour because of the presence 
in the latter's army of half a dozen elephants, suddenly becomes pos- 
sessed of a couple of dozen himself. The amount of Americanism at 
my disposal now. was overwhelming. Talk of super-Dreadnoughts! 
But there is no such thing as a super-American. It can't be done. 
It is one thing that can't be supered. 

Or I felt like some chemist who gets a temporary monopoly 
of a rare and potent chemical substance. The amount of pure un- 
adulterated American stuff in my possession at present would neu- 
tralize the Americanism in Monsieur de Valmore in a brace of 
shakes, and leave nothing but a scraggy little Gascon. 
' I must have behaved rather oddly to my friends. As a starving 
man, unexpectedly presented with a shilling, might squeeze it tightly 
in his fist and run along, for fear of its melting or escaping in some 
way, till he gets to the nearest cook shop, so I cherished my three 
Americans. I was inclined to shelter them as though they were 



46 The Little Review 

fragile, to see they didn't get run over, or expose themselves to the 
sun. Each transatlantic quaintness of speech or gesture I received 
with a positive ovation. 

All thoughts of Corunua disappeared. The letters remained 
unposted. 

First of all I took my trio into a little cafe near the Post Office, 
and told them at once what was expected of them. 

"There's one of the 'boys' here," I said. 

"Oh? An American?" Morton asked seriously. 

"Well, he deserves to be. But he began too late in life, I 
think. He hails frrom the South of France and Americanism came 
to him as a revelation when youth had already past. He repented 
tardily but sincerely of his misguided early nationality. But his 
years spent as a Frenchman have left their mark. In the meantime, 
he won't leave Englishmen alone. He persecutes them, apparently, 
wherever he finds them." 

"He mustn't do that!" Taffany said with resolution. 

"Why, no, I guess he musn't," said Blauenfeld. 

"I knew you'd say that," I continued, "It's a rank abuse of 
authority and I was sure would be regretted at headquarters. Now |i 
if you could only be present, unseen, and witness how I, for instance, I 
am oppressed by this fanatic fellow citizen of yours; and if you could i 
then issue forth, and reprove him, and tell him not to do it again, [ 
I should be much obliged. |i 

"I'm very sorry you should have^ to complain, Mr. Pine of 
treatment of that sort — bilt what sort is it, anyway?" | 

I gave a lurid picture of my tribulations, to the scandal and 
indignation of my friends. They at once placed themselves, and 
laughingly, their Americanism — any quantity of that mixture in 
their organisms — at my disposal. 

I considered it of the first importance that Monsieur de Val- 
more should not get wind of what had happened. I took my threes 
Americans cautiously out of the cafe, and as their hotel was near thej 
station and not near the enemy's haunts, I encouraged their going 
back to it. I also supposed that they would wish to make some 
toilet for the evening, and relied on their good sense to put on their 
baggiest trousers — I dreamed of even baggier ones than they had 
on — I knew that, unlike other nations, the smarter an American's 
clothes, the more American they are. 

My army was in excellent form. A rollicking good humour pre- 
vailed. I kept them out of the way till nightfall and then after 
early dinner, by a circuitous route, approached the cafe Pelayo. 



The Little Review 47 

I have not yet described my forces. I will adopt the unusual 
method of describing what was in their pockets. What is in a man's 
pockets is generally the outposts of his soul; and being only a 
tenth of an inch below the surface and infinitely more accessible 
than the soul, I wonder that this compromise has never been hit 
upon in the history of exuberant and creative fiction. I feel it would 
have suited the clothes of Dickens' characters. The contents of a 
man's pockets is like a spiritual deposit just beneath the surface, or 
like bubbles from the deep well beneath. 

Of course it will be only guesswork. But had I pretended to 
deeper insight it would be more so still. The soil of Taffany, if I 
may so describe his clothing, was of a rich uniform, brown earthern 
appearance, with little veins, like the trace of some attenuated min- 
eral running down it. His trouser pockets contained a couple of 
knives, a revolver, a reckless mass of coin and some string. The 
form of these knives denoted at once a fierce and inventive nature. 
iOne of them was not unlike a "bowie" knife, although it had, I think, 
never been used for slaughter. No doubt in ''whittling" a stick or 
iparing his nails its appearance in his hand helped to the sensation 
of some blood-thirsty act. The other knife when opened was a little 
hedgehog of stumpy blades, skewers, "poking and prodding implements 
and corkscrews. With this Taffany went through life prying open 
obstinate fruit tins, pulling out corks, manufacturing pipes, etc. 
The mass of money, silver and copper, accounted somewhat for the 
richness of the soil in which it lay (as I have mentioned) — although 
this may not tally with any known geology — also, along with the 
notes in the pockets above, acted as fuel to impel Taffany over wide 
lapses of land and sea. By its disposition and neighbourhood i' 
should belong to a man who regarded it rather as water to draw, and 
in large quantities, often, according to the needs of life — a sober 
life — and for whom it had none of the attributes of wine or drugs 
— not even of beer! Just homely water, of which there must be 
much. The revolver was the only voice one would hear of the thor- 
oughly roused Taffany. 

This was the practical area. As one mounted higher in this 
mountainous soil one came to the sentimental and intellectual tracts 
ibout the breast, letters from his family, paper cuttings and so on. 

Blauenfeld had in his coat pocket the "Digit of the Moon". So 
had Morton in his. This book had been recommended to them by 
in American girl in a Paris studio. They had very seriously and 
gratefully made a note of it, after several weeks had procured it 
md were now reading it assidiously. Blauenfeld's money was in 



48 The Little Review 



strata — copper, silver, etc. He had more than Taffany, but paio 
more attention to it. A rich black enveloped him. 

Morton possessed a little seraglio of photographs of ladies thai 
his undecided and catholic fancy had made him indule in. The} 
all had great sexual charm, tactfully displayed. He had his favorite- 
photograph, of course. It was the least tactful, merely, I am afraid. 

Then there was a card-case, a dictionary, a map, with mud 
other matter. In fact, what was found in Morton's pockets was o 
such a complicated nature that it would be difficult to classify it. Hi 
soul, as it happened, was momentarily nearer the surface thai, 
the case of his companions. 

That these three men were my willing instruments needs no e.\ 
planation, as we were excellent comrades. A sense of humour i 
the chief and most inalienable right of the American citizen. I 
goes always hand in hand with Liberty. These three good fellow [ 
went campaigning with me, even put themselves under my orden 
with enthusiasm. They were in sympathy with my cause, which wa ; 
that of humour. We were all four Soldiers of Humour. But, as i 
was my magnificent discovery and patent quarrel, it was my battlt 
and they willingly marched at my heels, as I should have done a 
theirs had it been the other way about. The natural enemy of th 
Soldier of Humour, and against whom he carries on uproarious, enc 
less and delighted warfare, is the man or the multitude bereft c 
that astonishing sense. This wonderful warrior, to make the battl 
more exquisite will even feign a dullness, and falling away froi ^ 
the keenness, of that sense . In my historic struggle with Monsiet 
de Valmore, sometimes I pretended to go down into the headlon 
cockpit of his unconsciousness, and grappled with him on equal term 

But no doubt such encounters nowadays are mostly bloodies 
I am sure that many of the soldiers and adventurers of the Middl 
Ages were really Soldiers of Humour, unrecognised and unclassifiet 
I know that many a duel has been fought in this solemn cause. , 
man of this temper and category will, perhaps carefully "entretenit 
or cherish a wide circle of accessible enemies that his sword ma| 
not rust. Any other quarrel may be patched up. But what can t 
described as a quarrel of humour divides men for ever. 

It is usually conceded that Humour is the ''discovery of tl 
Anglo-Saxon race. I felt this racial solidarity as I was marching o 
the Cafe Pelayo. 

I revised my plan of action. Taffany and his two friends wa 
to enter the cafe, establish themselves autocratically there, becoa 
acquainted with Monsieur de Valmore — almost certainly the latU 



s 



II! 
it 
!1 



The Little Review -49 

rould at once approach his fellow-citizens, — and then I was to 
lUt in an appearance. 

The Cafe was entered to the strains of 

''There is a tavern in the town, in the town" 
ung by my three allies. 

I imagined the glow of national pride and delighted recognition 
lat would invade Monsieur de Valmore on hearing this air. Apart 
rem the sentimental reason — its use as a kind of battle-song — 
ras the practical one that this noisy entrance^ would at once attract 
ly enemy's attention. 

I awaited events at a neighbouring cafe. 

Ten minutes passed, and I knew that my friends had "located" 
lonsieur de Valmore, even if they had not begun operations. Else 
ley would have returned to my place of waiting. I wallowed naively 
I a superb coolness and indifference; as a man who has set some 
lachinery going, which can now run by itself, turns nonchalantly 
way, paying no more attention to it. I felt strongly the stage ana- 
igy. I became rather conscious of my appearance. I must await 
rcxy cue" but was sure of my reception. From time to time I glanced 
ily down the road, and at last saw Blauenfeld making towards me, 
is usual American swing of the body complicated by rhythmical up- 
eavals of mirth into trampling and stumblings and slappings of his 
ligh somewhere in the folds of his clothes. I paid for my coffee 
hile he was coming up, and then turned to him. 

"All ready?" 

"Yep! we've got him fine. Come and have a look at him." 

"Did he carry out his part of the programme according to my 
■rangements?" 

"Why, yes. We went right in, and all three spotted him at the 
ime time. Taffany manoeuvred in the vicinity, and Morty and 
e coquetted round in his pro-pinquity. We could see his eyes be- 
nning to stick out of his head, and his mouth watering. At last 
I could hold himself in no longer; we came together with a hiss and 
)I utter of joy. He called up a tray full of drinks, to take the raw- 
'ss off our meeting He can't have seen an American for months. 
e just gobbled us up. There ain't nothing left of Taffany. He's 
!ade us promise to go to his Ho-tel tonight." 

I approached the lurid stronghold of citizenship, with its pre- 
intious palmy terrace, my mouth a little drawn and pinched, eye- 
lows raised, like a fastidious expert called in somewhere to decide a 
(batable point. This figure dictated my manner now. I entered 
te swing doors 4nd looked round in a cold and bosiness-Iike way, 



1 



50 The Little Review 



as a doctor would in saying loftily, "Where is the patient?" 

The patient was there right enough, surrounded by the nurses 
I had sent. There sat Monsieur de Valmore in as defenceless a 
state of beautitude as possible. He stared at me with an incredulous, 
grin at first. I believe that in this moment of exquisite plenitude off 
life'he would have been willing to extend to me a temporary pardonf 
— a passe-partout to his cafe for the evening. 

I approached him with impassive professional rapidity, my eye 
fixed on him (the physician analogy) already making my diagnosis. 
I was so carried away by this that I almost began things by asking j 
him to put out his tongue. Instead I sat down carefully in front of 
him and examined him in silence 

Inr the midst of an enervating debauch, or barely convalescent 
from a bad illness, confronted by his mortalest enemy, no man could 
have looked more blank. But as such a man might turn to his boon 
cori^panions or to his nurse or attendants for help, so Monsieur de 
Valmore turned with a characteristic blank childish appeal to Taf- 
fany. Perhaps he was shy or diffident of taking up actively his 
great role, when more truly great actors were present. Would not 
divine American speak, or thunder, through them, at this intruder? 

"I guess you don't know each other" said Taffany, "Say, Mr. 
de Valmore, here's a friend of mine, Mr. Arthur Pine." 

My enemy pulled himself together as though the different parts 
of his body all wanted to leap away in different directions, and he, 
with huge effort, were preventing such disintegration. An attempt 
at a bow appeared as a chaotic movement of various limbs and 
organs. The bow had met other movements on the way, and nev«» 
became a bow at all. An extraordinary confusion beset his body. 
The beginning fo a score of actions ran over it blindly andi 
disappeared. 

"Guess Mr. de Valmore ain't quite comfortable in that chair,^ 
Morty. Give him yours." 

And in this chaotic and unusual state he was hustled from 0M» 
chair to the other, like a sack of mildly expostulating potatoes. 

His racial instinct was undergoing the severest revolution it 
has yet known. It was somewhat in the state of a South American 
Republic which has had three Presidents and an Emperor in a fort- 
night and is just electing a provisional Dictator. It was as thou^ 
an incarnation of sacred America herself had commanded him to tak« 
me to his bosom . And, as the scope of my victory dawned upon him. 
his personal mortification assumed the proportions of a national 
calamity. For the first time since the sealing of his citizenship h( 



The Little Review Si 

felt that he was only a Frenchman from the Middi — ^hardly as near 
an American, in point of fact, as even an Englishman is. 

The soldier of Humour is chivalrous, tiiough implacable. I 
merely drank a bottle of champagne at his expense; made Don Pedro 
and his orchestra perform three extras, all made up of the most in- 
tensely national English light comedy music, such as San Toy and 
Our Miss Gibbs. Taffany, for whom Monsieur de Valmore enter- 
tained the maximum of respect — held him solemnly for some time 
with a detailed and fabulous enumeration of my virtues. Before 
long I withdrew with my forces to riot in barbarous triumph else- 
where for the rest of the evening. 

During the next two days I on several occasions visited the bat- 
tlefield, but Monsieur de Valmore had vanished. His disappearance 
alcjne would have been sufficient to tell me that my visit to Spain 
was terminated. And in fact two days later I left Pontaissandra 
with the Americans, parting with them at Tuy and myself con- 
tinuing on the Leon, San Sebastian route back to France and event- 
ually to Paris. 

I was taking away with me a good deal of Spanish, but in a 
rather battered or at least fragmentary condition. I interpret Span- 
ish now, among other things, but with a hesitating lack of finish 
that shows traces of the stress of this time I have just described. 

Arrived at Bayonne, I left the railway station with a momen- 
tarily increasing premonition. It was already night time. Stepping 
rapidly across the square, I hurried down the hall-way of the Fonda 
del Mundo, and turning brusquely and directly into the dining room 
of the Inn gazed round me almost shocked not to find what I had 
half expected. I sat down, pilotting myself alertly and safely 
through the menu. Although Monsieur de Valmore had not been 
there to greet me, as good or better than his presence seemed to be 
attending me on my withdrawel from Spain. I still heard in this 
naked little room, as the wash of the sea in a shell, the echo of the 
first whisperings of his weird displeasure. Next day I arrived in 
Paris, my Spanish nightmare shuffled off long before I reached that 
hum-drum spot. 



52 The Little Review 



THOUGHTS FROM A COUNTRY VICARAGE. 

I PRINT the following letter, or rather part of a letter, not be- 
cause I wish to commit either myself or The Little Review to the 
opinions therein expressed. We are not a propagandist organ, and 
the religion of the multitude is not our affair. It is however our af- 
fair to take note of what things are thought by our contemporaries, 
and thus to leave as nearly as possible a true record of our time. 
Neither is the letter itself propaganda. It was written to a friend; 
as the Review is mentioned the letter was shown to me. I now print 
it with its author's permission. He is the vicar of a country parish 
in England, a vicar highly efficient and deeply respected by his pa- 
rishioners. Despite Remy de Gourmont's "lis comprennent cela en 
theologie" I think there is very little real toleration in America, 
which being so the reader may regard this communication as a sign 
of the times. 

"I think the churches have little influence; and that little is de- 
clining: it will decline more as education spreads. But the clergy 
are still aggressive and mischievous; and they are exploiting the 
present distress, although their theology has brought them into a 
false and absurd position. Of course entire pacifism and non-resis- 
tance are the only logical deduction from the principles of Jesus, so 
far as we have any record of anything he said; but the churches 
have never been able to accept these principles: facts have always 
been too strong for them. And only a few fanatics dare enunciate 
them now. The majority of the clergy have to talk the twaddle 
which they circulate about reprisals, and to resist the ap)plicatfon of 
military service to themselves. For all these follies they will pay 
dearly in the end; but, in the meanwhile, pacifists and Sabbatarian 
fanatics are doing harm. 

"I suppose the majority of people are neither brave nor logical 
enough to see that Christianity is not compatible with things as they 
are. In fact, it is a doctrine of death; and the more thoroughly it is 
applied, the more destructive it becomes. If the sermon on the 
mount were carried out it would lead mankind through idleness, ig- 
morance, and barbarism to extinction. I don't know whether the 



T he Lit tie Re view 53 

latter would be any loss to the universe; but the journey would 
be unpleasant for us. 

"The old testament begins with a cosmology which we know to 
be untrue. The new testament begins by saying that the Kingdom 
of Heaven is at hand, which two thousand years have disproved. 
Even this does not convince a fanatic, or confute a theologian. The 
only justification for the sermon on the mount is the speaker's belief 
that the existing order was to disappear at once, and a new society 
was to be inaugurated, in which the ideal would displace the real. 
As the premise was unsound, the conclusion is erroneous, or worse 
These errors took a very large part in wrecking civilization, fifteen 
centuries ago; and, so far as they were able to prevail they made 
a hell of Europe for over a thousand years. Tlhe same principles 
would hand us over again to the same barbarians, if they were as 
influential now as they were in the fifth century, which fortunately 
they are not; but they are still mischievous and prevalent enough, 
so I hope Pound and his allies will go for them with their sharpest 
weapons, though I think only clubs and stones are effective against 
the density of theologians: 'satire or sense, alas, can Sporus feel' ". 

The rest of the letter is concerned with English politics. I 
think there is a slight misunderstanding of The Little Review implied 
in the last expression of desire. We are not out either to support or 
destroy any religion. We stand simply for the free right of ex- 
pression. A certain view is excellently and pithily put in this letter. 

In so far as repressive measures, measures against the freedom 
of literary expression have proceeded, and often proceed, from rem- 
nants and superstitions of religion, in just so far would we stand 
against the erroneous opinion than any given religion is ubiquitous or 
undoubted, or subject to all men's approval. The question whether 
the fall of the Roman Empire was due to Christianity, or the spread 
of Christianity due to the fall of the Empire and the ensuing ignor- 
ance must be referred to the research of historians. I believe I have 
somewhere expressed the latter view, or ascribed it to some character 
in a dialogue, but I am, or he is, subject to correction. It is signifi- 
cant that the letter quoted comes from a churchman and not from 
an amateur in theology or a person uneducated. 

E. P. 



54 The Little Review 



THE READER CRITIC 

Mr. Lindsay 

Whoop golly-ip Zopp, bop BIP!! 

I'm Mr. Lindsay with the new sheep-dip, 

I'm a loud-voiced yeller, I'm a prancing preacher, 

Gawd's in his heaven! I'm the real High Reacher. 

When Moses to the Red Sea came 

He yelled to Jehovah anri the answer was the same: 

"I will lead you onward, in a pillar of flame". 

Oh, the little red fox whistled, 

Tho' my heart was like gristle, 

The little red fox whistled and smoothed his reddish breeches, 

There's a wide wind blowing in the Illinois beeches. 

Gawd in the fire, 
Gawd in the wind 

SAID: 

Moses slew the Egyptian, 
"Mr. Moses, you have sinned 
AND YOU SHALL NOT SEE 
The Promised Land." 

Thus Gawd he sweared it 
An' he spat on his hand: 

Moses^hall NOT SEE 

The promised land. 
But I seen me saviour comin' 
And saw his watch-chain plain. 

Gawd in the lightning! 

Gentle Jesus in the raini! 
He looked like the porter on a "B. & O." train; 
So fine an' portly was the Lord OF Hosts 
Who likes the smell of 

Baked meats 
Of barbecues and roasts 
An' purple an' silver 
And gold and fine linen 



The Little Review 55 



W'^ And loves the dirty sinner 

And loatheth shameful sinning. 

When Daniel came to the lion's DEN 

The big lion sniffed him 

And his missus said: 
I "Say when!" 

1 "For big Buck Lindsay will put us in a song, 

' "I'd like to make a meal of this 

"But we musn't get in wrong." 

Then Dan'l in his corner 
Softly crooned 'is 'ymn of 'Ate, 
And yelled in the receiver: 
"HI !!!!! Belshazzer, 
"YOU'RE SHORT WEIGHT !! 
"The LORD has found you wantin' 
"And these lions wantin' too. 
"I will not stay a prophet 
"Unless you raise my screw. 
"KI, wung bang buzzah 
"Hi wobble oggle ZOO !!II • 
"I won't remain a prophet 
"Unless you raise my screw." 

So Bellshazzy had him up 

From the lions' gloomy cage, 

And since then Dan'ls come to JEDGEMENT 

Are the real Chicago CRAZE. 

Abel Sanders. 

[Time consumed in composition 4 minutes 31 seconds. "Try Sander's 
'or celerity"). 



Interior Decoration of Chicago 

^ B., Chicago'. 

I want to register a protest somewhere against those people who 
ire permitted to experiment in interior decoration on the buildings 
)f Chicago, when there are artists here who can do the thing. Mrs. 
Zarpenter has just finished the Auditorium. It is shiny, shiny gold 



56 T he Lit tie R e view 

everywhere, and red, red walls; the edge of the stage opening is a 'l-^( 
blue, almost black, which spoils the architectural eflfect of the who 
procenium arch. The colours sound well enough but they liave r. 
relation to the places where they are used. They are too profuse, tc 
all over, to have any significance .... I shall be glad when she hi 
got through the experimental stage. It doesn't seem fair that si 
should have so much education at the expense of Chicago's beauty. 



The Quintuple Effulgence 

or 
The Unapproachable Splendou 

At a feast of honour to Masefield 

The following people sat for their photograph: 

Mr. Lawrence Housman, 

Mr. Witter Bynner, 

Mr. Cale Young Rice, 

Mr. Edwin Markham, 

Mr. Louis Untermeyer, 

Miss Amy Lowell, 

Mr. J. D. Something or other, 

Mr. Masefield, 

Mr. Noyes. 

—5". 0. S. 



Ezra Pound's Critics 

" .... It is a tremendous shock to be hurtled into the compaOi 
of devil-begotten Ezra Pound, put up between yellow boards b 
Alfred A. Knopf, under the nomenclature of "Lustra". This wor ) 
"lustra" means one of two things, either expiatory sacrifices c 
morasses. Ezra Pound is too absolutely degraded to offer sacrifice 
much less expiatory ones; therefore we must be content to consid* 
the book a collection of morasses, quicksands. 

Bogs the poems certainly are. There is an enormous chart 
about some of them, and one is in jeopardy of being lured to trea 
out upon them, and only when the hungry mud sucks a shoe off an 



The Little Review 57 

ne gets a stocking slimy, realize one's delusion. They have the ap- 
earance of poetry; the lines are all split up; and now and again there 
a really delightful metaphor, to give the devil his due. This it is 
liiih'has induced people out upon them, and has given Ezra's 
)ricipting influence a wide scope. As a rule these poems are not 
Kins; beauty is never flippant .... — Leonard Cline. 

I Who is this man in Detroit who thinks he can limit beauty? 

it's a sin to "make beauty flippant", isn't it a minor sin compared 
> limiting beauty? Mr. Cline is akin to all that brood who have lines 
side of which beauty must move — the range of their vision. Beau- 

I >r them must be pleasing, pretty, decorous, obvious, and "clean". 
1 1 member a similar criticism in another Michigan paper some time 
;(i When the Chicago Little Theatre Company played The Medea 

'lie of its cities a critic wrote : "The Little Theatre gave a beau- 
hil performance of The Medea, if tragedy can ever be called 
■aiuiful." — jh.] 

In Ezra, thus, I have belatedly discovered a creature given 
tr heart and soul to the art of writing. I have discovered in him, 
elatedly, of course, a decadent after my own fancy, a thin little, 
^hiptuary of phrase, but a voluptuary none the less. I would h0 
ul more sonority to his rainbows (I refer, gentlemen, to the rain- 
)w used by Demetrius as an oboe in summoning together the gods 
r inference). I would that he, Ezra, were a bit more luscious in 

([uancies, more lyric in his outlinings. But given moonlight one 

il be reconciled to the absence of the moon. 

here is in Pound, as he stands published to-day, a gift of irony 

I ; olor which, wan though it be, is to be treasured like a full goat- 

in in the desert. He alone, of the few bards with whose work I 

M acquainted, preserves an exquisite balance in the current of his 

il emotions. Of material things he is never serious, of passions 

•ats with a sharp tongue held in his cheek. Of ideas, thoughts, 

ations, he is drolly cynical, even when they are the product of 

,vn enfevered fancy. And of color, wherever he finds it, he is 
i<,Mcrly rapturous. Nothing is too small to receive the salaam of 
; adjective. Nothing too unimportant to receive the touch of his 
inminating phrases." — Ben Hecht, in The Chicago Daily News. 

i^zra Pound is the bite of. the champagne. It is not the best part 
I the wine, but the most important . . . 

Ife is the translator essentially unfaithful. His active intelligence 

beyond mere bookish imitation. When he brings the old wine 



L 



58 The Little Re view 

out of the bottle, the atmosphere in which he lives, his quick mind, 
naturally biting in its methods, in a word, the ardent quality of his 
whole personality, are fused in the old wine, and make this witty, 
delicate, often sarcastic effervescence. The wine itself, howevef, al- 
most disowns this sparkle. Pound does not interfere with the genius 
of foreign work; but whatever intelligence and liberty of thought, the 
destructive spirit, and imagination can add to a work of art, that 
Pound adds. 

If the name of Pound comes into all discussions on art it is be- 
because he has, to an unusual degree, certain qualities, and that at 
least two of them are very apparent and greatly appreciated. 

He is free and without rhetoric — no one more so. His vision is 
dir-ect; he does not use the image, but shows the things themselves 
with power. This is indeed a quality of the Imagistes. His inde 
pendence comes from the fact that he has dug into the past with a 
keener mind, and more profoundly than is necessary for ordinary cul- 
ture. The number of influences he has passed under have also freed 
him, and he has made his departure from the known with rare au- 
dacity .... 

The poet is a sceptic madly in love, who wants in spite of every- 
thing to create his dream. Up to now Pound has beaten out a path 
for his creations; he uproots weeds of aesthetics and morals; he makes 
one look in front, not to the side ,or through a veil of passive accept- 
ance. Everywhere his poems incite man to exist, to profess a be- 
coming egotism, without which there can be no real altruism . . . One 
must believe in one's own existence, and this faith begins with nega- 
tion. One must be capable of reacting to stimuli for a morrrent, as a 



The Eve of the Millennium An Amazing Divine Re- 

-pjjg velation (not Spiritualism) 

concerning Christ's Second 

Gleoh Wealyan Scripures Coming. World War and 

or Chaos, and Millennium to 

The Word of the Lord ^°"°^; ^'""^ Instalment, 

as it Came to Cleohia Weal ^5 cents. Free Circular. 

JULE JERANON 

Care of Mrs. Bonhard, 964 St. Nicholas Ave., N. Y. City 



The Little Review 



59 



real, live person, even in face of as much of one's own powers as are 
arrayed against one, balanced by an immediate avowal: 

And who are we, who know that last intent, 
To plague tomorrow with a testament ! 

But a kind of disease called hope cannot be cut out of a man's 
heart. He goes on believing in the successive moments. It is great 
poetry, the intimate drama of this strugle, to go on believing in spite 
of the appearance of optimism. The groans, the virile complaint, 
the revolt of the poet, all which shows his emotion — that is poetry 
. . Pound knows very well what awaits him. He has experience 
of the folly of the Philistines who read his verse. Real pai nis born 
of this stupid interpretation, and one does not realize how deep it is 
unless one can feel, through the ejaculations and laughter, what has 
caused these wounds, which are made deeper by what he knows, and 
what he has lost. — Jean de Bosschere in The Egoist. 





SIGN OF THE FLYING STAG 

PLAYS 

for the 

LITTLE THEATER 

We carry in stock the published plays 
of the Greenwich Village Theatre, 
the Washington Square Players, the 
Provincetown Players, etc. 

And a full line of books on the 
New Theatre. 

A post card brings our drama lists. 

EGMONT H. ARENS 

WASHINGTON SQUARE BOOK SHOP 

17 West 8th Street, New York 



[ 



THE PAGAN 

A magazine that is bound to take the 
place of the fine magazines lately given up 
because 

It publishes every printable form of fine 
art, — stories, plays, poems (original and trans- 
lated), drawings, etchings, etc. 

75 cents a copy $^-30 a year 

THE PAGAN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

147 Center Street 
New York City 



j THE QUILL I 

I A Magazine of Greenwich Village . | 

I Announces the Publication of a folio g 

I GREENWICH VILLAGE by its ARTISTS | 

M Fifteen Sketches and Photographs by 1 

I HUGH FERRISS, MAUD LANGTREE, j 

I FOREST MANN and GLENN O.COLEMAN j 

I andaMapoftheVillage. | 

j The Cover has been designed by HAROLD TRUE. j 

I Two Dollars Postpaid from ARTHUR H. MOSS | 

I at 143 West Fourth Street, New York City, j 

iiitiiiiiiiiiii 



In Greenwich Village, N e w Yd f k 



SOLVE YOUR FOOD PROBLEM 

BY Eating at the Strunsky Restaurants 

Good cooking — pleasant envirnments — 

liberal portions — moderate prices. 



"THE WASHINGTON 
SQUARE RESTAURANT" 

19 West Eight Street. 

"THREE STEPS DOWN" 

19 West Eight Street. 

(Down Stairs). 

Between 5th & 6th Avenue, 

Phone Stuyvesant 1880 
Open for lunch and dinner. 



"THE STUYVESANT 
SQUARE RESTAURANT" 

201 Second Ave. 

"THE STUYVESANT 
CAFETERIA" 

201 Second Avenue, 

(Down Stairs). 

Between 12th & 13th Street. 

Phone Stuyvesant 3379. 

Open for lunch, dinner and 

evenings. 





In the Webb Van Dam you will see 


WEB 


Just a place to have your tea 


VAN 


There you are taken by the hand 
To a Wigwam in No Man's Land 


DAM 


There you have a nice young feller 




To guide you down to the cyclone cellar 


1 Sheridan 


Crullers with cider you'll eat and drink 
Then home you'll go to sit and think 


Square 


And in your dreams you'll seem to be 




A Greenwich Villager just like me. 



What Is Poetrv ? 



A PRIZE OF FIFTY DOLLARS is offered for the 
best and most beautiful original definition in poetry, — 
of poetry. This contest has been inaugurated by The 
Poetry-Lovers of New York City and is open to all. The 
winning Ms. becomes the property of the Poetry-Lovers 
and publication proceeds will be donated by them to the 
work of the Red Cross Ambulance in Italy, the country 
particularly dear to poets and poetry-lovers. The judges 
will be Edwin Markham, George E. Woodberry, Florence 
Wilkinson, Ridgely Torence, Edith Wynne Matthison and 
Robert Frost. The jury thus represents not only the 
fields of creative poetry, poetic criticism and the teaching 
of poety, but also the art of the spoken word in poetry. 

The conditions are as follows : the definition is re- 
stricted to thirty-five words, all words counted, and may 
be fewer than that number. Competitors may send in 
more than one definition. Ms. must be signed by a nom- 
de-plume only, accompanied by the name, address and 
nom-de-plume of the writer in a separate sealed envelope 
and must be received before noon, February 28, by 

The Poetry-Lovers, 

122 West nth Street, 

New York City. 

The result of the competition will be made known on 
March 28. 



The Little Review 



63 



Your 
Chance 
To 
Help 




// every subscriber mill get two or 
three new subscribers by February 
10, it will help us greatly zvith the 
important numbers to come. Send 
us names also of any of your friends 
who will appreciate sample copies. 



THE EGOIST 



This journal is not a chatty literary review: its mis- 
sion is not to divert and amuse: it is not written for tired 
and depressed people. Its aim is rather to secure a fit audi- 
ence, and to render available to that audience contemporary 
literary work bearing the stamp of originality and per- 
manance: to present in the making those contemporary 
literary efforts which ultimately will constitute 20th 
century literature. 

The philosophical articles which The Egoist publishes, 
by presenting the subject-matter of metaphysics in a form 
which admits of logical treatment, are promising a new 
era for philosophy . The power of its fictional work is 
investing that commonest but laxest of literary forms — the 
novel (as written in English) — with a new destiny and 
a new meaning. In poetry, its pages are open to exper- 
iments which are transforming the whole conception of 
poetic form, while among its writers appear leaders in 
pioneering methods radically affecting the allied arts. 



Obviously a journal of interest to virile readers only. 
Such should write, enclosing subscription, to 

THE EGOIST 

23 ADELPHI TERRACE HOUSE. ROBERT STREET 
LONDON. W. C. 2. 

Illllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllilllllllllllllllllllllllll^^ 

PUBLISHED MONTHLY 

Price, fifteen cents a number 

Yeraly subscription, one dollar sixty cents 



CONTEMPORARY VERSE 

Charles Wharter Stork, Editor 

"Truth when 'tis beauty, beauty when 'tis truth". 

William Dean Howelfs 

in an extended criticism of American magazines of poetry 
in "Harper's Magazine," devotes most of his article to 
Contemporary Verse, mentioning no other poetry magazine by 
name. Of this magazine he says, in part: 

"One periodical, which comes from Philadelphia, is wholly 
given to the pub/ication of poetry in its different forms. A 
copy of this magazine, 'Contemporary Verse,' has attracted us 
by the variety and quality of its contributions. What is most 
remarkable is that poems are all good, and several are of the 
highest and freshest beauty. One of the poems in this number 
— and we have said that there is a good deal else that is good — 
would be enough in itself to justify the charming enterprise. 

We have of course no means of knowing how the enter- 
prise has prospered, but we are sure it ought to prosper at 
fifteen cents a copy, and if it probably does not enrich its 
proprietors or contributors we are sure it serves their higher 
needs better than the more miscellaneous magazines, which 
reserve for verse such ho/es and corners of space as their 
prose leaves unfilled." 



HERE IS WHAT OTHER CRITICS SAY ABOUT 
CONTEMPORARY VERSE: 

"The contents are of very "Slender in bulk — but it con- 
good quality indeed." tains good poems." 
— Current Opinion, New York — New Orleans, Louisiana, 
"Each contribution is a gem." Times-Picayune 
— Sioux City, Iowa, " 'Contemporary Verse' is 
Daily Tribune here, and, we hope, to stay. 
"Has in it finer stuff than It came without a flourish — 
we've seen in many another simply printed some very 
more pretentious journal." good contributions. That 
— T. A. Daly, American intellectuals who 
Philadelphia Evening Ledger are bemoaning the deca- 
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"A STUDY OF FRENCH MODERN POETS" 

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FEBRUARY, 1918 

A Study of Modern French Poets: Esra Pound 

Jules Laforgue 

Tristan Corbiere 

Arthur Rimbaud 

Remy de Gourmont 

De Regnier 

Emile Verhaeren 

Viele-Griffin 

Stuart Merrill 

Laurent Tailhade 

Francis Jammes 

Moreas 

Andre Spire 

Vildrac 

Jules Romains 
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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

VOL.fV. FEBRUARY, 1918 No. 10 



A STUDY IN FRENCH POETS 
Ezra Pound 

THE TIME when the intellectual affairs of America could be 
conducted on a monolingual basis is over. It has been irk- 
some for long. We offer no apology for printing most of this num- 
ber in French. The intellectual life of London is dependent on 
people who understand this language about as well as their own. 
America's part in contemporary culture is based chiefly upon two 
men familiar with Paris: Whistler and Henry James. - It is some- 
thing in the nature of a national disgrace that a New Zealand paper, 
The Triad, should be more alert to, and have better regular criticism 
of, contemporary French publications than any American periodical 
has yet had. 

In this number I had wished to give but a brief anthology of 
French poems, interposing no comment of my own between author 
and reader; confining my criticism to selection. The following 
letter explains why that plan is not feasible. 

8, St. Martin's Place, W. C. 
Londres, le ii' Septembre, 1917 
Cher Ami, 

Je viens de recevoir la reponse de Vallette. Tout d'abord, la 
rectification de votre adresse est faite; et voici maintenant I'import- 
ant. Je cite Vallette: 

"La question reproduction est tres claire. Vous savez 
qu'on a le droit de citation. Supposons que The Little Review 
publie une etude sur un mouvement litteraire: elle aura le droit 
de citer les poetes qu'elle etudie. La jurisprudence n'est pas 
tres siire en ce qui concerne I'etendue des citations. Mais si 
la revue reproductrice publie des textes sans critique, avec de 
simples chapeaux ou notes, ou seulement quelques explications 
pour I'hitelligence des textes, il lui faut I'autorisation du ou des 
proprietaires des textes. 



The Little Review 



"En ce qui me concerne. en tant qu' editeurs, je donne 
I'autorisation. Mais cela ne suffit pas. II faut a M. Ezra 
Pound celle des auteurs on de leurs ayants-droit. II aura 
done a adrcsser au Mcrcure (care of) des demandes aux 
auteurs de chez nous qu'il desire reproduire: nous transmettrons 
les lettres, mais ca n'ira pas trcs vite: Cros est en Allemagne. 
Arcos est en Suisse, Elskamp est en Hollande, la famille de Des- 
pax est je ne sais ou, etc., etc." 

V'ous voyez que ca semble assez complique. Je crois que le plus 
simple serait d'entrelarder, si j'ose dire, les citations avec quelques 
lignes de commentaires. Vous jugerez de ce qui conviendra le 
mieux. 

Bien cordialement votre, 

Henry D. Davray. 

This note is characteristic of the generous spirit of the Mercure 
and I wish to express my thanks to Henry Davray and to the editor, 
A. Vallette, for their readiness to assist us. The formalities, with 
which we would both wilHngy dispense, make it necessary to choose 
between the present form and long, indefinite delay. 

PREFACE 

We shall in future wish to print criticism of current French lit- 
erature; there must be a minimum of knowledge presupposable in 
the reader. Hence the Little Review's immediate necessity to print 
some such number as the present. 

Certain delitate wines will not travel; they are not always the 
best wines. Foreign criticism may sometimes correct the criticism 
du cru. I do not pretend to give the reader a summary of contem- 
porary French opinion, even were such a summary of opinion avail- 
able. Certain French poets have qualities strong enough to be 
perceptible to me, that is, to at least one alien reader. 

I have written long since that certain things are translatable 
from one language to another, i. e. that, generally speaking, a man's 
tale or his image will 'translate", his music will, practically, never 
translate. In the same way, if his work be taken abroad in the 
original tongue, certain properties seem to become less apparent, or 
less important. It is impossible for me to take much interest in the 
problem of the mute "e" in French verse; fancy styles, questions 



T h e Li t tl e Review 5 

of local "taste" lose importance. Even though I know the over- 
whelming importance of technique, technicalities in a foreign 
tongue can not have for me the importance they have to a man 
writing in that tongue. Or, if I may put it another way, almost the 
only technique perceptible to a foreigner is the technique which 
consists in the artist's presenting his content as free as possible from 
the clutteration of dead technicalities, fustian a la Louis XV; and 
from timidities of workmanship. And this is perhaps the only 
technique that ever matters, the only maestria. 

Five years ago I did a series of studies of French Poetry in 
The New Age, covering almost the same ground as this essay, giving 
more space proportionally to Remains and Vildrac; having gone 
back over the subject, pawed over some sixty more volumes of 
contemporary poetry in the British Museum, I am convinced that 
mediocre poetry is the same everywhere; there is not the slightest 
need to import it; we search foreign tongues for maestria, and for 
discoveries not yet revealed in the home product. The foreign 
critic must have some sense of proportion, he must know a reason- 
able amount of the bad poetry of the nation he studies. 

He will never be as sensitive to fine shades of language as the 
native; he has however a chance of being less bound, less allied to 
some group of writers. In my own case it would be politic to praise 
as many living Frenchmen as possible, and thereby to increase the 
number of my chances for congenial acquaintance on my next trip 
to Paris. I might also want to have a large number of current 
French books sent to me to review. 

But these are rather broad and general temptations; they can 
scarcely lead me to praise one man instead of another. 

The writings of critics who merely try to gauge current opinion, 
who try to say the thing advisable at the moment, are and have 
always been, and will be always dung. In defense of my throwing 
over current French opinion I urge that foreign opinion has at 
times been a corrective. England has never accepted the continen- 
tal opinion of Bryon. the right estimate lies perhaps between the two. 
Heine is better read outside Germany than within. The continent 
has never accepted the idiotic British adulation of Milton, on the 
other hand the idiotic neglect of Landor has never been rectified 
by the continent. 

Foreign criticsm, if honest, can never be quite the same as 
home criticism; it may be better or worse; or it may have almost 



The Little Review 



the same value as the criticism of a different decade or century. 
At least it has some chance of escaping whims and stampedes of 
opinion. 

2 

I can not in this sketch "aim at completeness". I believe in a 
general way that the American reader has heard of Baudelaire and 
Verlaine and Mallarme; that Mallarme, perhaps unread, is apt to 
be slightly overestimated; that Gautier's reputation, despite its 
greatness, is not yet as great as it should be. At any rate he 
seems to me the back bone of French nineteenth century poetry. 

After a man has lived a reasonable time with the two volumes of 
Gautier's poetry, he might pleasantly venture upon the authors 
whom I indicate in this essay; and he might have, I think, a fair 
chance of seeing them in proper perspective. I omit nebulous mushi- 
fiers, because I think their work bad; I omit the Parnassiens, Sa- 
main and Heredia, firstly because their work seems to me to show 
little that was not already implicit in Gautier; secondly because 
America has had enough Parnassianism — perhaps second rate, 
but still enough. (As an undergraduate, the verses of La Comtesse 
de Noailles in the Revue des Deux Mondes, and those of Vance 
Cheyney in The Atantic gave me an almost identical plea.sure.) 
The above' must not be mistaken to mean that I consider all the 
poems here to be quoted better than Samain's "Mon ame est une 
infante . . . .", or his '"Cleopatre". 

I aim at a sort of qualitative analysis. If the reader familiar- 
izes himself with the work of Gautier, Baudelaire, Verlaine, Mallarme 
Samain, Heredia. and of the authors I quote here, I think he will 
have a pretty fair idea of the sort of poetry that has been written in 
France during the last half century, or at least the last forty years, 
and, for what my opinion is worth, he will know most of the best. — 
and a certain amount of the half-good. He may also purchase Van 
Bever and Leautaud's anthology and find samples of some forty or 
fifty more poets. 

THE GIST 

After Gautier. France produced, as nearly as I can understand, 
three chief and admirable poets: Tristan Corbiere, perhaps the 
most poignant writer since Villon; Rimbaud, a vivid and indubitable 
genius; and Laforgue, — a slighter, but in some ways a finer 



The Little Review 



"artist," than either of the others. I don't mean that he "writes 
better" than Rimbaud; and Eliot has pointed out the wrongness of 
Symons's phrase "Laforgue the eternal adult. Rimbaud the eternal 
child". I wrote five years ago that some of Rimbaud's effects 
seemed to come as the beauty of certain silver crystals produced 
by a chemical means the name of which I have since forgotten; 
Laforgue always knows what he is at; Rimbaud, the "genius" in the 
narrowest and deepest sense of the term, the "most modern", seems, 
almost without knowing it, to hit on the various ways in which the 
best writers were to follow him. slowly. There is no use gassing 
about these differences; the reader can see the thing itself in the 
poems. In another stumbling formulation I might say "Laforgue 
is the last word; he. out of infinite knowledge of all the ways of 
saying a thing, finds the right one. Rimbaud, when right, does the 
thing right because he simply can't be bothered to do it anyhow 
else. 

JULES LAFORGUE 

{i86o-'87) 

I begin with Laforgue because he is, in a way, the end of a 
period; he summed up and summarized and dismissed nineteenth- 
century French literature, its foibles and fashions, as Flaubert in 
Bouvard and PecucJiet summed up nineteenth-century general ci- 
vilization. He. Laforgnje, satirized inimitably Flaubert's heavy 
"Salammbo" manner. But he manages to be more than a critic, 
for in the process of this ironic summary he conveys himself, il 
raconte lui mime en racontant son age et ses moeurs, he conveys 
the subtle moods and delicate passion of an exquisite and rare per- 
sonality: "point ce 'gaillard-la' ni le Superbe .... mais au fond 
distinguee et franche comme une herbe". Or, knowing he had not 
long to live : 

Oh! laissez-moi seulement reprendre haleine, 
Et vous aurez un livre enfin de bonne foi. 

En attendant, ayez pitie de ma misere ! 
Que je vous sois a tous un etre bienvenu! 
Et que je sois absous pour mon ame sincere, 
Comme le fut Phryne pour son sincere nu. 



8 The Little Review 



Laforgue is one of the poets whom it is practically imp)0ssiblc 
to "select" . Almost any other six poems would be quite as "repre- 
sentative" as the six I am quoting. 

Pierrots 

{On a des principes) 

Elle disait, de son air vain fondamental: 

"Je t'aime pour toi seul !" — Oh! la, la, grele histoire; 

Oui, comme I'art ! Du calme, 6 salaire illusoire 

Du capitaliste Ideal ! 
Edle faisait : "J'attends, me voici, je sais pas" . . . 
Le regard pris de ces larges candeurs des lunes ; 
— Oh! la, la, ce n'est pas peut-etre pour des prunes, 

Qu'on a fait ses classes ici-bas ? 
Mais voici qu'un beau soir, infortunee a point, 
Elle meurt ! — Oh ! la, la; bon. changement de theme ! 
On sait que tu dois ressusciter le troisieme 

Jour, sinon en personne, du moins 
Dans I'odeur, les verdures, les eaux des beaux mois !x 
Et tu iras, levant encore bien plus de dupes 
Vers le Zaimph de la Joconde, vers la jupe ! 

II se pourra meme que j'en sois. 

Pierrots 
III. 

Comme ils vont molester, la nuit, 
Au profond des pares, les statues, 
Mais n'offrant qu'au moins devctues 
Leur bras et tout ce qui s'ensuit. 

En tete a tete avec la femme 
Ils ont toujours I'air d'etre un tiers , 
Confondent demain avec hier, 
Et demandcnt Rien avec ame ! 

Jurent "je t'aime" I'air la-bas, 
D'une voii sans timbre, en extase, 



The Little Review 



Et concluent aux plus folles phrases 
Par des : "Mon Dieu, n'insistons pas?" 

Jusqu'a ce qu'ivre^ Elle s'oublie, 
Prise d'on ne sait quel besoin 
De lune ? dans leurs bras, fort loin 
Des convenances etablies. 



Complainte des consolations 

Quia voluit consolari 

Ses yeux ne me voient pas, son corps serait jaloux ; 
Elle m'a dit: "monsieur ..." en m'enteiTant d'un geste; 
Elle est Tout, I'univers moderne et le celeste. 
Soit, draguons done Paris, et ravitaillons-nous , 
Tant bien que mal, du reste. 

Les Landes sans espoir de ses regards brules, 
Semblaient parfois des paons prets a mettre a la voile . . . 
Sans chercher a me consoler vers les etoiles , 
Ah ! Je trouverai bien deux yeux aussi sans cles, 
Au Louvre, en quelque toile ! 

Oh ! qu'incultes, ses airs, revant dans la prison 
D'un cant sur le qui-vive au travers de nos hontes ! 
Mais, en m'appliquant bien, moi dont la foi demonte 
Les jours, les ciels, les nuits, sans les quatre saisons 
Je trouverai men compte. 

Sa bouche ! a moi, ce pli pudiquement martyr 
Oil s'aigrissent des nostalgies de nostalgies ! 
Eh bien, j'irai parfois, tres sincere vigie, 
Du haut de Notre-Dame aider I'aube, au sortir, 
De passables orgies. 

Mais, Tout va la reprendre ! — Alors Tout m'en absout. 
Mais, Elle est ton bonheur! — Non! je suis, trop immense, 
Trop chose. Comment done ! mais ma seule presence 
Ici-bas, vraie a s'y mirer, est I'air, de Tout: 
De la Femme au Silence. 



10 The Little Review 



Locutions des Pierrots 
VI. 

Je te vas dire: moi, quand j'aime, 

C'est d'un coeur, au fond sans apprets, 

Mais dignement elabore 

Dans nos plus singuliers problemes. ^ 

Ainsi, pour mes moeurs et mon art, 
C'est la periode vedique 
Qui seule a bon droit revendique 
Ce que j'en "'attelle a ton char." 

Comme c'est notre Bible hindoue 
Que, tiens, m'amene a caresser, 
Avec ces yeux de cetace, 
Ainsi, bien sans but, ta joue. 

I am well aware that this sort of thing will drive most of our 
bull-moose readers to the perilous borders of apoplexy. It may give 
pleasure to those who believe that man is incomplete without a cer- 
tain amount of mentality. Laforgue is an angel whom our modern 
poetic Jacob must struggle with .... 



Complainte des Printemps 

Permettez, 6 sirene, 
Voici clue votre haleine 
Embaume la verveine; 
C'est 1 'printemps qui s'amene! 

— Ce systeme, en effet, ramene le printemps, 
Avec son impudent cortege d'excitants. 

Otez done ces mitaines ; 
Et n'ayez, inhumaine, 
Que mes soupirs pour traine: 
Ous'qu'il y a de la gene . . . 



I 



The Little Review ii 

— Ah! yeux bleus meditant sur I'ennui de leur art! 
Et vous, jeunes divins, aux soirs cms de hasard! 

Du geant a la naine, 
Vois, tout bon sire entraine 
Quelque contemporaine, 
Prendre I'air, par hygiene . . . 

— Mais vous saignez ainsi pour Tamour de Texil! 
Pour Tamour de TAmour! D'aileurs, ainsi soit-il ... 

T'ai-je fait de la peine? 
Oh! viens vers les fontaines 
Ou tournent les phalenes 
Des Nuits Elys^ennes! 

— Pimbeche aux yeux vaincus, bellatre aux beaux j arrets. 
Donnez votre fumier a la fleur du Regret. 

Voila que son haleine 
N'embaum' plus la verveine! 
Drole de phenomene . . . 
Hein, a I'annee prochaine? 

— Vierges d'hier, ce soir traineuses de foetus, 
A genoux! voici I'heure ou se plaint I'Angelus. 

Nous n'irons plus au bois, 
Les pins sont eternels, 
Les cors ont des appels! . . . 
Neiges des pales mois, 
Vous serez mon missel! 
— Jusqu'au jour de degel. 

Complainte des Pianos 

Qu'on entend dans les Qttartiers AisSs 

Menez Tame que les Lettres onit bien nourrie, 
Les pianos, les pianos, dans les quartiers aises! 



12 The Little Review 



Premiers soirs, sans pardessus, chaste flanerie, 
Aux complaintes des nerfs incompris ou brises. 

Ces enfants, a quoi revent-elles, 
Dans les ennuis des ritournelles? 

— "Preaux des soirs , 
Christs des dortoirs! 

"Tu t'en vas et tu nous laisses, 
Tu nous laiss's et tu t'en vas, 
Defaire et refaire ses tresses, 
Broder d'eternels canevas." 

Jolie ou vague? triste ou sage? encore pure? 

jours, tout m'est egal? ou, monde, moi je veux? 

Et si vierge, du moins, de la bonne blessure, 

Sachant quels gras couchants ont les plus blancs aveux? 

Mon Dieu, a quoi done re vent-elles ? 
A des Roland, a des dentelles? 

— "Coeurs en prison. 
Lentes saisons! 

"Tu t'en vas et tu nous quittes, 
Tu nous quitt's et tu t'en vas! 
Convents gris, choeurs de Sulamites, 
Sur nos seins nuls croisons nos bras." 

Fatales cles de I'etre un beau jour apparues; 
Psitt! aux heredites en ponctuels ferments, 
Dans le bal incessant de nos etranges rues; 
Ah! pensionnats, theatres, jouraux, romans! 

Allez, steriles ritournelles, 
La vie est vraie et criminelle. 

— "Rideaux tires. 
Peut-on entrer? 



The Little Review 13 

"Tu t'en vas et tu nous laisses, 
Tu nous laiss's et tu t'en vas, 
La source des frais rosiers baisse, 
Vraiment! Et lui qui ne vient pas ..." 

II viendra! Vous serez les pauvres coeurs en faute, 
Fiances au remords comme aux essais sans fond, 
Et les suffisants coeurs cossus, n'ayant d'autre hote 
Qu'un train-train pavoise d'estime et de chiffons 

Mourir? peut-etre brodent-elles, 
Pour un oncle a dot, des bretelles? 

— " Jamais! Jamais! 
Si tu savais! 

Tu t'en vas et tu nous quittes, 
Tu nous quitt's et tu t'en vas, 
Mais tu nous reviendras bien vite 
Guerir mon beau mal, n'est-ce pas?" 

Et c'est vrai! I'Ideal les fait divaguer toutes; 
Vigne boheme, meme en ces quartiers aises. 
La vie est la; le pur flacon des vives gouttes 
Sera, comme il convient, d'eau propre baptise. 

Aussi, bientot, se joueront-elles 
De plus exactes ritournelles. 

*' — Seul oreiller! 
Mur familier! 

"Tu t'en vas et tu nous laisses, 
Tu nous laiss's et tu t'en vas, 
Que ne suis-je morte a la messel 
mois, 6 linges, 6 repas!" 



14 T he Lit tl e Review 



i TRISTAN CORBIERE 

{1841-1S75) 

Corbie re seems to me the greatest poet of the period. 'iLa 
Rapsode Foraine et le Pardon de Sainte Anne" is, to my mind, 
beyond all comment. He first published in '73, remained practically 
unkno\Mi until Verlaine's essay in '84, and was hardly known to 
the "public" until the Messein edition of his work in '91. 

La Rapsode Foraine 
et le pardon de Sainte-Anne 

La Palud, 27 A out, jour du Pardon. 

; ^...; Benite est 1 'infertile plage 

Oil, conune la mer, tout est nud. 
, ._ Sainte est la chapelle sauvage 

r^^ De Sainte-Anne-de-la-Palud . . . 

; De la Bonne Femme Sainte Anne, * 

Grand'tante du petit Jesus, 
En bois pourri dans sa soutane 
Riche . . . plus riche que Cresus! 

Contre elle la petite Vierge, 
Fuseau frele, attend VAngelus; 
Au coin, Joseph, tenant son cierge, 
Niche, en saint qu'on ne fete plus . . . ' 

C'est le Pardon. — Liesse et mysteres — 

Deja rherbe rase a des pous . . . 

— Saifite Anne, Onguent des belles-meres! 

Consolation des rpoux ! . . . 

Des paroisses environnantes: 

De Plougastel et Loc-Tudy. 

lis viennent tous planter leurs tentes. 

Trois nuits, trois jours, — jusqu'au lundi. 



The Little Review 15 



Trois jours, trois nuits, la palud grogne, 
Selon I'antique rituel, 

— Choeur seraphique et chant d'ivrogne 
Le Cantique spirituel. 

Mere taillee a coups de hache. 
Tout coeur de chine dur et bon; 
Sous I'or de sa robe se cache 
Lame en piece dhin franc Breton ! 

— Vieille verte a la face usee 
Comme la picrre du torrent. 
Par des larmes d' amour creusee, 
Sechee avec des pleurs de sang . . . 

— Tot, dont la mamelle tarie 
S'est refait, pour avoir porte 
La Virginite de Marie, 

Une male virginite ! 

— Servanfe-maitresse altiere, 
Trcs haute d^evant le Tres-Haut; 
An pauvre monde, pas fiere, 
Dame pleine de comme-il-jaut ! 

— Baton des aveugles ! Bequille 
Des vieilles ! Bras des nouveau-nes ! 
Mere de madame ta fille ! 

Parente des abandonnes ! 

— Fleur de la pucelle neuve ! 
Fruit de I'epouse au sein grossi ! 
Reposoir de la jemme veuve... 
Et du veuf Dame-de-merci ! 

— Arche de Joachim ! A'ieule ! 
Medaille de cuivre efface ! 

Gui sacre! Trefle quatre-jeuille ! 
Mont d'Horeb ! Souche de Jesse I 



i6 The Little Review 



— toi qui recouvrais la cendre, 
Qui jilais comme on fait chcz nous^ 
Quand le so'r venait a descendre. 
Tenant /'Enfant sur tes genoux; 

Toi qui jus la, seule, pour faire 
Son maillot a Bet/deem, 
Et la. pour coudre son suaire 
Douloureux, a Jerusalem ! ... 

Des croix projondcs sont tes rides, 
Tes cheveux sont blancs comme fils . . . 

— Preserve des regards arides 
Le berceaii de nos pctits-fds . . . 

Fais venir et conserve en joie 

Ceux a naitre et ccux qui sont nes, .; 

Et verse, sans que Dieii te voie, e- 

Veau de tes yeux sur Ics damnes ! % 

Re pr ends dans leur chemise blanche 
Les petits qui sont en langueur... 
Rappelle a Veternel Dimanche 
Les vieux qui trainent en longueur. 

— Dragon-gardicn de la Vierge, 
Garde la creche sous ton oeil. 
Que, pres de toi, Joseph-concierge 
Garde la proprete du seuil ! 

Prends pitie de la fille-mcre, 
Du petit au bord du chemin . . . 
Si quelqu'im leur jetfe la pierre. 
Que la pierre sc change en pain ! 

— Dame bonne en mer et sur terre, 
Montre-nous le del et le port, 
Dans la tempete on dans la guerre... 
O Fanal de la bonne mort I 



The Little Review 17 

Humble : a tes pieds n'as point d'etoile. 
Humble . . . et brave pour proteger ! 
Dans la nue apparatt ton voile, 
Pale aureole du danger. 

— Aux perdus dont la vie est grise, 

( — Sauj respect — perdus de boisson) 
Montr e le clocher de Veglise 
Et le cJiemin de la maison. 

Prete ta douce et chaste jlamme 
Aux Chretiens qui sont ici... 
Ton remede de bonne jemme 
Pour tes betes-a-corne aussi ! 

Montre a nos jemmes et servantes 
Uouvrage et la jecondite... 

— Le bonjour aux dmes parentes 
Qui sont bien dans I'eternite ! 

— Nous mettrons tin cordon de cire, 
De cire-vierge jaune autour 

De ta chapelle et ferons dire 

Ta messe basse au point du jour. 

Preserve notre cheminee 

Des sorts et du monde malin ... 

A Paques te sera donnee 

Une quenouille avec du lin. 

Si nos corps sont puants sur terre, 
Ta grace est un bain de sante; 
Repands sur nous, au cimetiere, 
Ta bonne odeur de saintete. 

— A Van prochain ! — Void ton cierge : 
{Cest deux livres qii'il a coute) 

. . . Respects a Madame la Vierge , 
Sans oubier la Trinite. 



i8 The Little Review 

* 

. . . Et les fideles, en chemise , 
Sairife Anne, aycz pitic de nous ! 
Font trois fois Ic tour de I'eglise 
En se trainant siir leurs i^enoux. 

Et boivent I'eau miraculeuse 

Ou les Job teigneux ont lavt- 

Leur nudite contagieuse .-.. 

Allez: la Foi I'oiis a sauvc ! * j 

C'est la que tiennent leurs ccnacles 
Les pauvres, freres de Jesus . 
— Ce n'est pas la cour des miracles, 
Les trous sont vrais: Vide hit us ! 

Sont-ils pas divins sur leurs claires 

Qu 'aureole un nimbe vermeil 

Ces proprietaires dc plaies, : 

Rubis vivants sous le soleil ! . . . -it 

% 

En aboyant, un rachitique s "^i 

Secoue un moignon desosse, 5 

Coudoyant un epileptique h 

Qui travaillc dans un fosse. ' 1 

La, ce tronc d'homme oil croit I'ulcere, 

Contre uii tronc d'arbrc ou croit le gui. ^ 

Ici, c'est la fille et la mere -^ 

Dansant la danse de Saint-Guy. ^ 



Cet autre pare le cautere |' 

De son petit infant malsain : jf 

— L'enfant se doit a son vieux pere ... * 

— Et le chancre est un g,igne-i)ain ! r 

La. c'est Tidiot de naissance, 

Un visit e par Gabriel, 

Dans I'extcise de I'innoccnce ... 

— L'innocent est (tout) pres du ciel! — 



The Little Review 19 



— Tiens, passant, regarde: tout passe. 
L'oeil de 'idiot est reste. 

Car 11 est en etat de grace ... 

— Et la Grace est I'Eternite ! — 

Parmi les autres, apres vepre, 
Qui sont d'eau benite arroses, 
Un cadavre, vivant de lepre,. 
Fleurit, souvenir des croises . . . 

Puis tous ceux que les Rois de France 
Guerissaient d'un toucher de doigts . . . 

— Mais la France n'a plus de Rois, 
Et leur dieu suspend sa clemence. 



Une forme humaine qui beugle 
Centre le calvaire se tient; 
C'est comme un moitie d'aveugle: 
Elle est borgne et n'a pas de chien . . . 

C'est une rapsode foraine 
Qui donne aux gens pour un Hard 
L' Istoyre de la Magdalayne, 
Du Jtiij Errant ou A^Abaylar. 

Elle hale comme une plainte, 
Comme une plainte de la faim, 
Et, longne comme un jour sans pain, 
Lamentablement, sa complainte . . . 

— Qa chante comme ^a respire, 
Triste oiseau sans plume et sans nid 
Vaguant ou son instinct I'attire: 
Autour des Bon-Dieu de granit . . . 

Qa peut parler aussi, sans doute, 
Qa peut penser comme ga voit: 
Toujours devant soi la grand'route . . 

— Et, quand q'a deux sous, ga les boit. 



20 The Little Review 



— Femme: on dirait, helas! — sa nippe 
Lui pend, ficelee en jupon; 
Sa dent noire scrre une pipe 
Eteintc . . . Oh, la vie a du bon ! — 

Son nom ... qa se nomme Misere. 
Qa s'est trouv^ ne par hasard. 
Qa sera trouvc mort par terre . . . 
La meme chose — quelque part. 

Si tu la rencontres, Poete, 

Avec son vieux sac de soldat : 

C'est notre soeur . . . donne — c'est fete — 

Pour sa pipe, un peu de tabac ! . . . 

Tu verras dans sa face creuse 
Se creuser, comme dans du bois, 
Un sour ire; et sa main galeuse 
Te faire un vrai signe de croix. 

{Lcs Amours Jaunes.) 

It is not long since a "strong, silent" American who had been 
spending a year or so in Paris, complained to me chat "all French 
poetry smelt of talcum powder". He did not specifically mention 
Corbiere.who, with perhaps a few dozen other French poets, may 
have been outside the scope of his research. Corbiere came also to 
"Paris". 



Batard de Creole et Breton, 
II vint aussi la — fourmiliere, 
Bazar ou rieri n'est en pierre, 
Ou le soleil manque de ton. 

— Courage ! On fait queue . . . . Un planton 
Vous pousse a la chaine — derriere ! — 

— Incendie eteint, sans lumiere; 
Des seaux passcnt, vides ou non. — 



The Little Review 21 

La, sa pauvre Muse pucelle 

Fit le trottoir en demoiselle. 

lis disaient : Qu'est-ce qu'elle vend ? 

— Rien. — Elle restait la, stupide, 
N'entend^nt pas sonner le vide 
Et regardant passer le vent .... 



II. 

La: vivre ci coups de fouet ! — passer 
En fiacre, en correotionnelle; 
Repasser a la ritournelle, 
Se depasser, et trepasser ! — 

— .Non, petit, il faut commencer 
Par etre grand — simple ficelle — 
Pauvre: remuer Tor a la pelle; 
Obscur: un nom a tout casser! . . , . 

Le coller chez les mastroquets, 
Et I'apprendre a des per roquets 
Qui le chantent ou qui le sifflerut — 

— Musique ! — C'est le paradis 
Des mahomets ou des houris, 

Des dieux souteneurs qui se giflent ! 

People, at least some of them, think more highly of his Breton 
subjects than of the Parisian, but I can not see that he loses force 
on leaving the sea-board; for example his "Frere et Soeur Jumeaux" 
seems to me "by the same hand" and rather better than his "Ros- 
coff". His language , does not need any particular subject matter, 
or prefer one to another. "Mannequin ideal, tete-de-turc du leurre". 
"Fille de marbe, en rut!", "Je voudrais etre chien a une fille pub- 
lique" are all, with a constant emission of equally vigorous phrases, 
to be found in the city poems. At his weakest he is touched with 
the style of his time, i. e. he falls into a phrase a la Hugo, — but 
seldom. And he is conscious of the will to break from this manner, 
and is the first, I think, to satirize it, or at least the first to hurl 



I 



22 The Little Review 



anything as apt and violent as "garde nationale epique" or "inven- 
teur de la larme ecrite" at the Romantico-rhetorico and the senti- 
mento-romantico of Hugo and Lamartine. His nearest kinships in 
our period are to Gautier and Laforgue, though it is Villon whom 
most by life and temperament he must be said to resemble. 

Laforgue was, for four or five years, "reader" to the present ^ 
Kaiser's mama (what an existence); he escaped and died of la 
misere. Corbiere had, I believe, but one level of poverty: 

Un beau jour — quel metier ! — je faisais, comme qa 
Ma croisiere. — Metier! ... — Enfin. Elle passa. 
— Elle qui, — La Passante! Elle, avec son ombrelle! 
Vrai valet de bourreau, je la frolai .... — mais Elle 
Me regarda tout bas, souriant en dessous, 

Et • — me tendit sa main, et 

m'a donne deux sous. 

ARTHURRIMBAUD 

(1854— 1 891) 

Rimbaud's first book appeared in '73 His complete poems with 
a pweface by Verlaine in '95. Laforgue conveys his content by com- 
ment, Corbiere by ejaculation, as if the words were wrenched and 
knocked out of him by fatality; by the violence of his feeling, Rim- 
baud presents. A thick suave colour, firm, even. 

Cinq heiires du soir 

AuCabaretVert *' 

Depuis huit jours, j'avais dechire mes bottines ^. 

Aux cailloux des chemins. J'entrais a Charleroi , t 

— Au Cabaret Vert : je demandai des tartines ^ 
De beurre et due jambon qui fut a moitie froid. 

Bienheureux, j'allongeai les jambes sou3 la table 

Verte: je contemplai les sujets tres nai'fs 

De la tapisserie. — Et ce fut adorable , \^ 

Quand la fille aux tetons enormes, aux yeux vifs , 



The Little Rev 



tew 23 



— Celle-la , ce n'est pas un baiser qui I'epeure ! — 
Rieuse, m'app.orta des tartines de beurre , 
Du jambon tiede. dans un plat colorie . 

Du jambon rose et blanc parfume d'une gousse 

D'ail, — et m'emplit la cliope immense , avec sa mousse 

Que dorait un rayon de soleil arriere . 

The actual writing of, poetry has advanced little, or not at all 
since Rimbaud. Cezanne was the first to paint, as Rimbaud had 
written, — in for example "Les Assis " : 

lis out greffe dans des amours epileptiques 

Leur fantasque ossature aux grands squelettes noirs 

De leurs chaises ; leurs pieds aux barreaux rachitiques 

S'entrelacent pour les matins et pour les soirs 

Ces vieillards ont toujours fait tresse avec leurs sieges . 

or in the octave of 

Venus Anadyomene 

Comme d'un cercueil vert en fer-blanc. une tete 
De femme a cheveux bruns fortement pomnades 
D'une vielle baignoire emerge, lente et bete, 
Montrant des deficits assez mal ravaudes ; 

Puis le col gras et gris les larges omoplates 
Qui saillent ; le dos court qui rentre et qui ressort , 
— La graisse sous la peau parait en feuilles plates 
Et les rondeurs des reins semble prendre I'essor . 

Tailhade has painted his "Vieilles Actrices" at greater length , 
but smiling ; Rimbaud does not endanger his intensity by a chuckle . 
He is serious as Cezanne is serious . Comparisons across an art are 
always vague and inexact , and there are no real parallels ; still it is 
possible to think of Corbiere a little as one thinks of Goya , without 
Goya's Spanish , with infinite differences , but with a macabre in- 
tensity, and a modernity that we have not yet surpassed . There are 
possible grounds for comparisons of lik« sort between Rimbaud and 
Cezanne. 



24 The Little Review 



Tailhade and Rimbaud were both born in '54 ; there is not a 
question of priority in date , I do not know who hit first on the form , 
but Rimbaud's "Chercheuses" is a very good example of a mould 
not unlike that into which Tailhade has cast his best poems . 



Les Chercheuses de Poux 

Quand le front de I'enfant plein de rouges tourmentes, 
Implore I'essaim blanc des reves indistincts , 
II vient pres de son lit deux gran des soeurs charmantes 
Avec de freles doigts aux ongles argentins . 

Elles asseoient I'enfant aupres d'une croisee 
Grande ouverte ou I'air bleu baigne un fouillis de fleurs , 
Et , dans ses lourds cheveux ou tombe la rosee , 
Promenent leurs doigts fins , terribles et charmeurs. 

II ecoute chanter leurs haleines craintives 
Qui fleurent de longs miels vegetaux et roses 
Et qu'interrompt parfois un sifflement. salives 
Reprises sur la levre ou desirs de baisers. 

II entend leurs cils noirs battant sous les silences 
Parfumes ; et leurs doigts electriques et doux 
Font crepiter , parmi ses grises indolences , - 
Sous leurs ongles royaux la mort des petits poux . 

Voila que monte en lui le vin de la Paresse , 
Soupir d'harmonica qui pourrait delirer ; 
L'enfant se sent , selon la lenteur des caresses , 
Sourdre et mourir sans cesse un desir de pleurer . 

The poem is "not really" like Tailhade's, but the comparison 
is worth while . Many readers will be unable to "see over" the 
subject matter and consider the virtues of the style , but we are , 
let us hope , serious people ; besides Rimbaud's mastery is not con- 
fined to "the umpleasant"; " Roman" begins : 



The Little Review 2$ 



I. 

On n'est pas serieux , quand on a dix-sept ans. 

— Un beau soir , foin des bocks et de la limonade , 
Des cafes tapageurs aux lustres eclatants I 

— On va sous les tilleuls verts de la promenade . 

Les tilleuls sentent bons dans les bons soirs de juin ! 

L' air est parfois si doux , qu'on ferme la paupiere ; 

Le vent charge de bruits , — la ville n'est pas 

A des parfums de vigne et des parfums de biere . . . loin, — 

The sixth line is worthy of To-em-mei . But Rimbaud has not 
exhausted his idyllic moods or capacities in one poem . Witness : 



Comedie en Trois Baisers 

Elle etait fort deshabillee , 
Et de grands arbres indiscrets 
Aux vitres penchaient leur feuillee 
Malignement , tout pres, tout pres . 

Assise sur ma grande chaise . 
Mi-nue elle joignait les mains . 
Sur le plancher frissonnaient d'aise 
Ses petits pieds si fin , si fin . 

— Je regardai , couleur de cire 
Un petit rayon buissonnier 
Papillonner , comme un sourire 

Sur son beau sein , mouche au rosier . 

— Je baisai ses fines chevilles . 
Elle eut un long rire tres mal 
Qui s'egrenait en claires trilles , 
Une risure de cristal 

Les petits pieds sous la chemise 
Se sauverent : "Veux-tu finir !'-* 

— La premiere audace permise , 
Le rire feignait de punir ! 



26 The Little Review 

— Pauvrets palpitant sous ma levre , 
Je baisai doucement ses yeux : 

— Elle jeta sa tete mievre 

En arriere : "Oh ! c'est encor mieux ! 



"Monsieur , j'ai deux mots a te dire " 

— Je lui jetai le reste au sein 
Dans un baiser , qui la fait rire 
D'un bon rire qui voulait bien . . . 

— Elle etait fort deshabillee 

Et de grands arbres indiscrets , 
Aux vitres penchaient leur feuillee 
Malignement , tout 'pres, tout pres . 

The subject matter is older than Ovid , and how many poems has 
it led to every silliness, every vulgarity ! One has no instant of 
doubt here , nor , I think , in any line of any poem of Rimbaud's . 
The thing that stuns me most in preparing this section of my essay 
is HOW , HOW , HOW ! so much could have escaped me when I 
read him five years ago . How much I might have learned from 
the printed page that I have learned slowly from actualities . Or 
perhaps we never do learn from the page ; but are only capable of 
recognizing the page after we have learned from actuality . 

I do not know whether or no Rimbaud "started" the furniture 
poetry with "Le Buffet"; it probably comes, most of it, from the 
beginning of Gautier's "Albertus". 1 can not see that the "Bateau 
Ivre" rises above the general level of his work, though many people 
seem to know of this poem (and of the sonnet on the vowels) who 
do not know, the rest of his work . Both of these poems are in Van 
Bever and Leautaud. I wonder in what other poet will we find such 
firmness of colouring and such certitude . 

TABLE 

If the reader is unfamiliar with the period the following tabula- 
tion of dates may help him "to keep things straight": 

Laforgue i860- 1887 ; published 1885 
Corbiere 1840-1875 ; published 1873 and 1891 



The Little Review 27 



Rimbaud 1854-1891 ; published 1873 

Remy de Gourmont 1858-1915 

Merril 1868-1915 

Verhaeren 1855-1916 

Moreas 1856-1911 
Living : 

Viele-Griffin 1864 

Tailhade 1854 

Jammes 1868 

De Regnier 1864 
Younger Men : 

Klingsor, Remains, Vildrac, Spire 
Other Dates : 

Verlaine 1844-1896 

Mallarme 1842-1898 

Samain 1858-IJ900 

Elskamp, born 1862 



REMY DE GOV RMONT 

(1858-1915) 

As in prose Remy de Gourmont found his own form , so also 
in poetry , influenced presumably by the mediaeval sequaires and 
particularly by that Goddeschalk quoted in his (De Gourmont's) 
work on "Le Latin Mystique", he recreated the "litanies". It is 
one of the great gifts of "symbolisme", of the doctrine that one should 
''suggest" not "present"; it is, in his hand, an effective indirectness . 
The procession of all beautiful women moves before one in the 
"Litanies de la Rose"; and the rhythm is incomparable . It is not 
a poem to lie on the page, it must come to life in audition , or in the 
finer audition which one may have in imagining sound. One must 
"hear" it, in one way or another , and out of that intoxication comes 
beauty. One does no injustice to DeGourmont by giving this p>oem 
alone . The "Litany of the Trees" is of equal or almost equal beauty. 
The Sonnets in prose are different ; they rise out of natural speech , 
out of conversation . Paul Fort perhaps began or rebegan the use 
of conversational speech in rhyming prose paragraphs , at times 
charmingly. 



1 



28 The Little Review 



LI TAMES I)K I. A ROSK 

A Henry de Groux. 

Fleur hypocrite, 

Fleur du silence. 

Rose couleur de cuivre, plus frauduleuse que nos joies, rose 
couleur de cuivre, embaume-nous dans tes mensonges, fleur hypocrite, 
fleur du silence. 

Rose au visage peint comme une fille d'amour, rose au cceur 
prostitue, rose au visage peint, fais semblant d'etre pitoyable. fleur 
hypocrite, fleur' du silence. 

Rose a' la joue puerile, 6 vierges des futures trahisons, rose 
a la joue puerile, innocente et rouge, ouvre les rets de tes yeux clairs, 
fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose aux yeux noirs, miroir de ton neant, rose aux yeux noirs, 
fais-nous croire au mystere, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose couleur d'or pur, 6 coffe-fort de 1 'ideal, rose couleur d'or 
pur, donne-nous la clef de ton ventre, fleur hypocrite, fleur du 
silence. 

Rose couleur d'argent, encensoir de nos reves. rose couleur 
d'argent, prends notre cceur et fais-en de la fumee, fleur hypocrite, 
fleur du silence. 

Rose au regard saphique. plus pale que les lys, rose au regard 
saphique, offre-nous le parfum de ton illusoire virginite, fleur hypo- 
crite, fleur du silence. 

Rose au front pourpre, colere des femmes dedaignees. rose 
au front pourpre dis-nous le secret de ton orgueil. fleur hypocrite, 
fleur du silence. 

Rose au front d'ivoire jaune, amante de toi-meme, rose au 
front d'ivoire jaune, dis-nous le secret de tes nuits virginales, fleur 
hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose aux levres de sang, 6 mangeuse de chair, rose aux levres 
de sang, si tu veux notre sang, qu'en ferions-nous ? bois-le, fleur 
hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose couleur de soufre, enfer des desirs vains, rose couleur de 
soufre, allume le bijcher ou tu planes, ame et flamme, fleur hypwcrite, 
fleur du silence. 

Rose couleur de peche, fruit veloute de fard, rose sournoise, 
rose couleur de peche, empoisonne nos dents, fleur hypocrite, fleur 
du silence. 



I 



The Little Review 29 

Rose couleur de chair, deesse de la bonne volonte, rose couleur 
de chair, fais-nous baiser la tristesse de ta peau fraiche et fade, fleuf 
hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose vineuse, fleur des tonnelles et des caves, rose vineuse, 
les alcools fous gambadent dans ton haleine: souffle-nous I'horreur 
de I'amour, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose violette, 6 modestie des fillettes perverses, rose violette, 
tes yeux sont plus grands que la reste, fleur hypocrite, fleur du 
silence. 

Rose rose, pucelle au cceur desordonne, rose rose, robe de 
mousseline, entr'ouvre tes ailes fausses, ange, fleur hypocrite, fleur 
du silence. 

Rose en papier de sole, simulacre adorable des graces increees, 
rose en papier de sole, n'es-tu pas la vraie rose, fleur hj^ocrite, fleur 
du silence? 

Rose couleur d'aurore, couleur du temps, couleur de rien, 6 
sourire du Sphinx, rose couleur d'aurore, sourire ouvert sur le neant, 
nous t'aimerons, car tu mens, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose blonde, leger manteau de chrome sur des epaules freles, 
6 rose blonde, femelle plus forte que les males, fleur hypocrite, fleur 
■du silence ! 

Rose en forme de coupe, vase rouge ou mordent les dents quand 
la bouche y vient boire, rose en forme de coupe, nos morsures te 
font sourire et nos baisers te font pleurer, fleur hypocrite, fleur du 
silence. 

Rose toute blanche, innocente et couleur de lait, rose toute 
blanche, tant de candeur nous epouvante, fleur hypocrite, fleur du 
silence. 

Rose couleur de bronze, pate cuite au soleil, rose couleur de 
bronze, les plus durs javelots s'emoussent sur ta peau, fleur hypo- 
crite fleur du silence. 

Rose couleur de feu, creuset special pour les chairs refractaires, 
rose couleur de feu, 6 providence des ligueurs en enfance, fleur 
hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose incarnate, rose stupide et pleine de sante, rose incarnate, 
tu nous abreuves et tu nous leurres d'un vin tres rouge et tres benin. 
fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose en satin cerise, munificence exquise des levres triomphales, 
rose en satin cerise, ta bouche enluminee a pose sur nos chairs le 
sceau de pourpre de son mirage, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 



30 The Little Review 

Rose au cceur virginal, 6 louche et rose adolescence qui n'a pas 
encore parle. rose au cceur virginal, tu n'ais rien a nous dire, fleur 
hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose groseiUe, honte et rongeur des peches ridicules, rose 
groseille, on a trop chiffonne ta robe, fleur hypocrite, fleur du 
silence. 

Rose couleur du soir, demi-morte d'ennui, fumee crepusculaire, 
rose couleur du soir, tu meurs d'amour en baisant tes mains lasses, 
fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose bleu, rose iridine, monstre couleur des yeux de la Chi- 
mere, rose bleue, leve un peu tes paupieres: as-tu peur qu'on te re- 
garde, les yeux dans les yeux, Chimere, fleur hypocrite, fleur du 
silence ! 

Rose verte, rose couleur de mer, 6 nombril des sirenes, rose 
verte, gemme ondoyante et fabuleuse, tu n'es plus que de I'eau des 
qu'un doigt t'a touchee, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose escarboucle, rose fleurie au front noir du dragon, rose 
escarboucle. tu n'es plus qu'une boucle de ceinture, fleur hypocrite, 
fleur du silence. 

Rose couleur de vermilion, bergere enamouree couchee dans les 
sillons, rose couleur de vermilion, le berger te respire et le bouc t'a 
broutee, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose des tombes, fraicheur emanee des charognes, rose des 
tombes, toute mignonne et rose, adorable parfum des fines pourri- 
tures, tu fais semblant de vivre, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose brune, couleur des mornes acajous, rose brune, plaisirs 
permis, sagesse, prudence et prevoyance, tu nous regardes avec des 
yeux rogues, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose ponceau, ru])an des fillettes modelcs, rose ponceau, gloire 
des petites poupees, es-tu niaise ou sournoise, joujou des petits 
freres, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose rouge et noire, rose insolente et secrete, rose rouge et noire, 
ton insolence et ton rouge ont pali parmi Is compromis qu'invente 
la vertu, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose ardoise. grisaille des vertus vaporeuses, rose ardoise. tu 
grimpes et tu fleuris autour des vieux bancs solitaires, rose du soir, 
fleur hypocrite,fleur du silence. 

Rose pivoine, modeste vanite des jardins plantureux, rose 
pivoine, le vent n'a retrousse tes feuilles que par hasard, et tu n'en 
fus pas mecontente, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 



The Little Review 31 

Rose neigeuse, couleur de la neige et des plumes du cygne, rose 
neigeuse, tu sais que la neige est fragile et tu n'ouvres tes plumes de 
cygne qu'aux plus insignes, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose hyaline, couleur des sources claires jaillies d'entre les 
herbes, rose hyaline, Hylas est mort d'avoir aime tes yeux, fleur 
hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose opale, 6 sultane endormie dans I'ordeur du harem, rose 
opale, langueur des constantes caresses, ton cceur connait la paix 
profonde des vices satisfaits, fleur hypocrite, -fleur du silence. 

Rose amethyste, etoile matinale, tendresse episcopale, rose 
amethyste, tu dors sur des poitrines devotes et douillettes, gemme 
offerte a Marie, 6 gemme sacristine. fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose cardinale, rose couleur du sang de I'Eglise romaine, rose 
cardinale, tu fais rever les grands yeux des mignons et plus d'un 
t'epingla au nceud de sa jarretiere, fleur hypocrite, fleur du silence. 

Rose papale, rose arrosee des mains qui benissent le monde, rose 
papale, ton coeur d'or est en cuivre, et les larmes qui perlent sur ta 
vaine corolle, ce sont les pleurs du Christ, fleur hypocrite, fleur du 
silence. 

Fleur hypocrite, 

Fleur du silence. 



DE REGNIER 

( born 1864 ) 

De Regnier is counted a successor to the Parnassiens , and has 
indeed written much of gods and of marble fountains, as much per- 
haps of the marble decor as have other contemporaries of late 
renaissance and of more modern house furniture . His "J'ai feint 
que les dieux m'aient parle" opens charmingly . He has in the 
"Odelettes" made two darts into vers libre which are perhaps 
worth many more orderly pages , and show lyric sweetness. 

O d e 1 e 1 1 e 

Si j'ai parle 

De mon amour , c'est a I'eau lente 

Qui m'ecoute quand je me penche 

Sur elle ; si j'ai parle 

De mon amour , c'est au vent 



31 T he Lit tig Review 



Qui rit et chuchote entre les branches ; 

Si j'ai parle de mon amour, c'est a I'oiseau 

Qui passe et chante 

Avec le vent ; 

Si j'ai parle 

C'est k I'echo . 

Si j'tii aime de grand amour, 

Triste ou joyeux , 

Ce sont tes yeux ; * 

Si j'ai aim6 de grand amour , 

Ce fut ta bouche grave et douce , 

Ce fut ta bouche ; 

Si j 'ai aime de grand amour , 

Ce furent ta chair tiede et tes mains fraiches , 

Et c'est ton ombre que je cherche . 

He has joined himself to the painters of contemporary things in: 



L' a c c u e i 1 

Tous deux etaient beaux de corps et de visages, 

L'air francs et sages 

Avec un clair sourire dans les yeux, 

Et, devant eux, 

Debout en leur jeunesse svelte et prompte, 

Je me sentais courbe et j'avais presque honte 

D'etre si vieux. 

Les ans 

Sont lourds aux epaules et pesent 

Aux plus fortes 

De tout de poids des heures mortes, 

Les ans 

Sont durs, et breve 

La vie et Ton a vite des cheveaux blancs ; 

Et j'ai deja vecu beaucoup de jours. 

Les ans sont lourds .... 

Et tous deux me regardaient, surpris de voir 
Celui qu'ils croyaient autre en leur pensee 



The Little Review 33 



Se lever pour les recevoir 

Vetu de bure et le front nu 

Et non pas, comme en leur pensee, 

Drape de pourpre et laure d'or 

Et je leur dis : "Soyez tous deux les bienvenus." 

Ce fut alors 

Que je leur dis: 

"Mes fils, quoi, vous avez monte la cote 

Sous ce soleil cuisant d'aout 

Jusqu'a ma maison haute, 

O vous 

Qu'attend la-bas peut-etre. au terme du chemin 

Le salut amoureux de quelque blanche main ! 

Si vous avez pour moi allonge votre route 

Peut-etre, au moins mes chants vous auront-ils aides, 

De leurs rythmes presents en vos memoires, 

A marcher d'un jeune pas scande ? 

Je n'ai jamais desire d'autre gloire 

Sinon que les vers du poete 

Plussent a la voix qui les repete. 

Si les miens vous ont plu: merci, 

Car c'est pour cela que, chantant 

Mon reve, apres I'avoir concu en mon esprit, 

Depuis vingt ans, 

J'habite ici." 

Et, d'un geste, je leur montrai la chambre vide 

Avec son mur de pierre et sa lampe d'argile 

Et le lit ou je dors et le sol oil, du pied, 

Je frappe pour apprendre au vers estropie 

A marcher droit, et le calame de roseau 

Dont la pointe subtile aide a fixer le mot 

Sur la tablette lisse et couverte de cire 

Dont la divine odeur la retient et I'attire 

Et le fait, dans la strophe en fleurs qu'il ensoleille, 

Mysterieusement vibrer comme une abeille. 

Et je repris: 
"Mes fils. 



34 The Little Review 



Les ans 

Sont lourds aux epaules et pesent 

Aux plus fortes 

De tout le poids des heures mortes . 

Les ans ^ 

Sont durs, la vie est breve | 

Et Ton a vite des cheveux blancs., 1 

Si quelque jour, 

En revenant d'ou vous allez, 

Vous rencontriez sur cette meme route, 

Entre 4es orges et les bles. 

Des gens en troupe 

Montant ici avec des palmes k la main, 

Dites-vous bien 

Que si vous les suiviez vous ne me verriez pas 

Comme aujourd'hui debout en ma robe de laine 

Qui se troue a I'epaule et se dechire au bras, 

Mais drape de pourpre hautaine 

Peut-etre — et mort 

Et laure d'or!" 

Je leur ai dit cela, pour qu'ils le sachent. 
Car ils sont beaux tous deux de corps et de visages, 
L'air francs et sages 
• Avec un clair sourire aux yeux, 
Parce qu'en eux 

Peut-etre vit quelque desir de gloire, 
Je leur ai parlc ainsi pour qu'ils sachent 
Ce qu'est la gloire, 
Ce qu'elle donne, 
Ce qu'il faut croire 
De son vain jeu, 

Et que son dur laurier ne pose sa couronne 
Que sur le front inerte et qui n'est plus qu'un peu 
Deja d'argile humaine ou vient de vivre un Dieu. 

Here we have the modern tone in De Regnier . My own feeling 
at the moment is that his hellenics , his verse on classical and an- 
cient subjects, is likely to be overshadowed by that of Samain and 
Heredia . I have doubts whether his books will hold against the 



The Little Review 35 

Cleopatra sonnets, or if he has equalled , in this vein, the poem be- 
ginning "Mon ame est une infante en robe de parade". But in the 
lyric odelette , and in this last given poem in particular we find him 
leading perhaps onward toward Vildrac , and toward a style which 
might be the basis for a certain manner F. M. Hueffer has used in 
English vers libre, rather than remembering the Parnassiens . 

EMILE VERHAEREN 

Verhaeren has been so well introduced to America by his recent 
obituary notices that I can scarcely hope to compete with them in 
this limited space . One can hardly represent him better them by 
the well known : 



Les Pauvres 

II esfainsi de pauvres cceurs 
avec en eux, des lacs de pleurs , 
qui sont pales , comme les pierres 
d'un cimetiere . 

II est ainsi de pauvres dos 
plus lourds de peine et de fardeaux 
que les toits des cassines brunes , 
parmi les dunes . 

II est ainsi de pauvres mains , 
comme feuilles sur les chemins , 
comme feuilles jaunes et mortes, 
devant la porte . 

II est ainsi de pauvres yeux 
humbles et bons et soucieux 
et plus tristes que ceux des betes , 
sous la'tempete . 



II est ainsi de pauvres gens , 
aux gestes las et indulgents 
sur qui s'acharne la misere , 
au long des plaines de la terre 



36 The Little Review 



VIELE-GRIFFIN 

Two men, Viele-Griffin and Stuart Merril, who are half Ameri- 
cans have won for themselves places among the recent French poets . 
Viele-Griffin's poem for the death of Mallarme is among his better 
known works : 



In Memoriam Stephane Mallarme 

Si Ton te disait : Maitre ! 

Le jour se leve ; 

Voici une aube encore , la meme . pale ; 

Maitre, j'ai ouvert la fenetre , 

L'aurore s'en vient encor du seuil oriental , 

Un jour va naitre ! 

— Je croirais t'entendre dire : Je reve . ■ 

Si Ton te disait : Maitre , nous sommes la , 

Vivants et forts , 

Comme ce soir d'hier, devant ta porte ; 

Nous sommes venus en riant , nous somrnes la , 

Guettant le sourire et I'etreinte forte , 

— On nous repondrait : Le Maitre est mort . 

Des fleurs de ma terrasse , i 

Des fleurs comme au feuillet d'un livre , ■' 

Des fleurs , pourquoi ? 

Voici un peu de nous , la chanson basse 

Qui tourne et tombe , 

— Comme ces feuilles-ci tombent et tournoient — 
Voici la honte et la colere de vivre 

Et de parler des mots — contre ta tombe . 

His curious and, perhaps not in the bad sense, old-fashioned 
melodic quality shows again in the poem beginning: 

Lache comme le froid et la pluie , 
Brutal et sourd comme le vent , 
Louche et faux comme le ciel has , 



The Little Review 37 

L'Automme rode par ici , 

Son baton heurte aux cpntrevents ; 

Ouvre la porte , car il est la . 

Ouvre la porte et fais-lui honte , 
Son manteau s'effiloche et traine , 
Ses pieds sont alourdis de boue ; 
Jette-lui des pierres, quoi qu'il te conte , 
Ne Grains pas ses paroles de haine : 
C'est tou jours un role qu'il joue . 



It is embroidery a la Charles D 'Orleans; one must take it 
or leave it. 



STUART MERRIL 

I know that I have seen somewhere a beautiful and effective 
ballad of Merril's . His "Chambre D'Amour" would be more in- 
teresting if Samain had not written "L'Infante", but Merril's paint- 
ing is perhaps interesting as comparison . It begins : 

Dans la chambre qui fleure un peu la bergamote , 
Ce soir, lasse. la voix de I'ancien clavecin 
Chevrote des refrains enfantins de gavotte . 

There is a great mass of this poetry full of highly cultured 
house furnishing ; I think Catulle Mendes also wrote it . Merril's 
"Nocturne" illustrates a mode of symboliste writing which has been 
since played out and parodied : 

La bleme lune allume en la mare qui luit , 
Miroir des gloires d'or , un emoi d'incendie . 
Tout dort . Seul , a mi-mort , un rossignol de nuit 
Module en mal d'amour sa moUe melodie . 
Plus ne vibrent les vents en le mystere vert 
Des ramures . La lune a tu leurs voix nocturnes : 
Mais a travers le deuil du feuillage entr'ouvert 
Pleuvent les bleus baisers des astres taciturnes . 



38 The Little Review 

There is no need to take this sort of tongue-twisting too seri- 
ously . though it undoubtedly was so taken in Paris during the late 
eighties and early nineties . 



LAURENT TAILHADE 

( born 1854 ) 

Tailhade's satires seem rough if one come upon them straight 
from reading Laforgue , and Laforgue will seem, and is presumably, 
the greatly finer artist ; but the reader must not fail to note certain 
definite differences . Laforgue is criticizing, and conveying a mood. 
He is more or less literary , playing with words . Tailhade is paint- 
ing contemporary Paris, with verve. His eye is on the thing 
itself . He has , au fond , not very much in common with Laforgue . 
He was born six years before Laforgue and in the same year as 
Rimbaud . Their temperaments are by no means identical . I do 
not know whether Tailhade wrote "Hydrotherapie" before Rim- 
baud had done "Les Chercheuses". Rimbaud in that poem identi- 
fies himself more or less with the child and its feeling . Tailhade is 
detached. I do not say this as praise of either one or the other . 
I am only trying to keep things distinct . 

Hydrotherapie 

Le vieux monsieur , pour prendre une douche ascendante , 
A couronne son chef d'un casque d'hidalgo 
Qui, malgre sa bedaine ample et son lumbago , 
Lui donne un certain air de famille avec Dante . 

Ainsi ses membres gourds et sa vertebre a point 
Traversent I'appareil des tuyaux et des lances , 
Tandis que des masseurs , tout gonfles d'insolences , 
Frottent au gant de crin son dos ou I'acne point . 

Oh ! I'eau froide ! la bonne et rare panacee 
Qui , seule , raffermit la charpente lassee 
Et le protoplasma des senateurs pesants ! 



I 



T h e Lit tl e R ev iew 39 

Voici que , dans la rue , au sortir de sa douche , 

Le vieux monsieur qu'on sait un magistral farouche 
Tient des propos grivois aux filles de douze ans . 



Qu artier Latin 

Dans le bar ou jamais le parfum des brevas 
Ne dissipa I'odeur de vomi qui la navre 
Triomphent les appas de la mere Cadavre 
Dont le nom est fameux jusque chez les Howas . 

Brune , elle fut jadis vantee entre les brunes , 
Tant que son souvenir au Vaux-Hall est reste . 
Et c'est toujours avec beaucoup de dignite 
Qu'elle rince le zinc et detaille les prunes . 

A ces causes, son cabaret s'emplit le soir , 
De futurs avoues , trop heureux de surseoir 
Quelque temps a I'etude inepte des Digestes , 

Des Valaques , des riverains du fleuve Amoor 

S'acoquinent avec des potards indigestes 

Qui s'y viennent former aux choses de I'amour . 

R u s 

Ce qui fait que I'ancien bandagiste renie 
Le comptoir dont le faste allechait les passants , 
C'est son jardin d'Auteuil ou , veufs de tout encens , 
Les zinnias ont I'air d'etre en tole vernie . 

C'est la qu'il vient , le soir , goiiter Pair aromal 
Et , dans sa rocking-chair , en veston de flanelle , 
Aspirer les senteurs qu'epanchent sur Crenelle 
Les fabriques de suif et de noir animal . 

Blen que libre-penseur et franc-maqon , il juge 

Le dieu propice qui lui donna ce refuge 

Ou se meurt un cyprin emmy la piece d'eau , 



40 The Little Review 



Oil , dans la tour mauresque aux lanternes chinoises , 
— Tout en lui preparant du sirop de framboises — 
Sa "demoiselle" chante un couplet de Nadaud . 

From this beneficient treatment of the amiable burgess ; from 
this perfectly j^oetic inclusion of modernity , this unrhetorical inclu- 
sion of the factories in the vicinity of Crenelle (inclusion quite differ- 
ent from the allegorical presentation of workmen's trousers in sculp- 
ture , and the grandiloquent theorizing about the socialistic up-lift or 
down-pull of smoke and machinery), Tailhade can move to personal 
satire , a personal satire impersonalized by its glaze and its finish. 

Rondel 

Dans les cafes d'adolescents 
IMoreas cause avec Fremine : 
L'un , d'un parfait cuistre a la mine , 
L'autre beugle des contre-sens . 

Rien ne sort moins de chez Classens 
Que le linge de ces bramines . 
Dans les cafes d'adolescents , 
Moreas cause avec Fremine . 

Desagregeant son albumine , 
La Tailhede offre quelque encens : 
Maurras leur invente Commine 
Et 9a fait roter les passants , 
Dans les cafes d'adolescents . 

But perhaps the most characteristic phase of Tailhade is in his 
pictures of the bourgeoisie. Here is one depicted with all Tailhadian 
serenity . Note also the opulence of his vocables . 



Diner Champetre 

Entre les sieges ou des gar<;ons volontaires 
Entassent leurs chalants parmi les boulingrins , 
La famille Feyssard , avec des airs sereins , 
Discute longuement les tables solitaires . 



The Little Review 41 



La demoiselle a mis un chapeau rouge vif 
Dont s'honore le bon faiseur de sa commune , 
Et madame Feyssard , un peu hommasse et brune , 
Porte une robe loutre avec des reflets d'if . 



r 



Enfin ils sont assis ! Or le pere com.mande 
Des ecrevisses , du potage au lait d'amande , 
Toutes choses dont il revait depuis longtemps . 

Et , dans le ciel couleur de turquoises fanees , 
II voit les songes bleus qu'en ses esprits flottant 
A fait naitre I'ampleur des truites saumonees . 

All through this introduction I am giving the sort of French 
poem least likely to have been worn smooth to us; I mean the kind 
of poem least represented in English. Landor and Swinburne have 
I think forestalled Tailhade's hellenic poems in our affections. 
There are also his ballades to be considered . 



FRANCIS J A M M E S 

(born 186S) 

The bulk of Jammes' unsparable^poetry is perhaps larger than 
that of any man still living in France. The three first books of 
poems, and ''Le Triumphe de la Vie" CDntaining ''Existences", the 
more than "Spoon River" ol France , must contain about six hun- 
dred pages worth reading . 'Existences" can not be rendered in 
snippets. It is not a series of poems but the canvass of an whole 
small town or half city , unique , inimitable and "to the life", 
full of verve . Only those who have read it and "L'Angelus de 
I'Aube", can appreciate the, full tragedy of Jammes' debacle. Paul 
Fort had what his friends boasted as '"tone", and he has diluted 
himself with topicalities ; in Jammes' case it is more charitable to 
suppose some organic malady, some definite softening of the brain , 
for he seems perfectly simple and naive in his diliquescence. It 
may be, in both cases, that the organisms have broken beneath the 
strain of modern existence . But the artist has no business to 
break . 

Let us begin with Jammes' earlier work : 



42 The Little Review 



J'aime I'ane si doux 

marchant le long des houx. 

II prcnd garde uux abcilles 

et bouge ses oreilles ; 

et il porte les pauvres 

et des sacs remplis d'orge. . 

II va , pres des fosses *■ 

d'un petit pas casse. „ 

Men amie le croit bete 

parce qu'il est poete, t 

II reflechit tou jours, 

Ses yeux sont en velours. 

Jeune fille aa doux coeur 

tu n'as pas sa douceur. 



The fault is the fault, or danger, which Dante has labled 
"muHebria"; of its excess Jammes has since perished. But the poem 
to the donkey can , in certain moods , please one . In other moods 
the playful simplicity , at least in excess , is almost infuriating . He 
runs so close to sentimentalizing — when he does not fall into that 
puddle — that there are numerous excuses for those who refuse him 
altogether . "J'allai a Lourdes" has pathos . Compare it with Cor- 
biere's "St Anne" and the decadence is apparent ; it is indeed a sort 
of half-way house between the barbaric Breton religion and the ulti- 
mate diliquescence of french Catholicism in Claude! , who (as I 
think it is James Stephens has said) "is merely lying on his back 
kicking his heels in it". 

J' allai a Lourdes 

J'allai a Lourdes par le chemin de fer , 
le long du gave qui est bleu comme I'air . 

Au soleil les montagnes semblaient d'etain . 

Et Ton chantait : sauvez I sauvez ! dans le train , 

II y avait un monde fou , exalte , 
plein de poussiere et du soleil d'ete. 



The Little Review 43 

Des malheureux avec le ventre en avant 
etendaient leurs bras , priaient en les tordant . 

Et dans une chaire ou etait du drap bleu , 
un pretre disait : "un chapelet a Dieu ! " 

Et un groupe de femmes , parfois , passait , 

qui chantait : sauvez ! sauvez ! sauvez ! sauvez ! 

Et la procession chantait . Les drapeaux 
se penchaient avec leurs devises en or . 

Le soleil etait blanc sur les escaliers 
dans I'air bleu , sur les cloches dechiquetes. 

Mais sur un brancard , portee par ses parents , 
son pauvre pere tete nue et priant , 

et ses freres qui disaient : " ainsi soit-il," 
une jeune fille sur le point de mourir. 

Oh ! qu'elle etait belle ! elle avait dix-huit ans , 
et elle souriait ; elle etait en blanc . 

Et la procession chantait. Des drapeaux 
se penchaient avec leurs devises en or . 

Moi je serrais les dents pour ne pas pleurer , 
et cette fille , je me sentais I'aimer . 

Oh ! elle m'a regarde un grand moment , 
une rose blanche en main , souriant. 

Mais maintenant ou es-tu ? dis , on es-tu , 
Es-tu morte ? je t'aime , toi qui m'as vu . 

Si tu existes , Dieu , ne la tue pas . 

elle avait des mains blanches , de minces bras . 



44 The Little Review 



Dieu ne la tue pas ! — et ne serai t-ce que 
pour son pere nu-tete qui priait Dieu . 

Jammes goes to pieces on such adjectives as "pauvre" and 
"petite", just as DeRegnier slips on "cher", "aimee" and "tiede"; 
and in their train flock the herd whose adjectival centre appears to 
waver from "nue" to "frejnissante". And there is, in many french 
poets , a fatal proclivity to fuss , just a little , too much over their 
subjects. Jammes has also the furniture tendency, and to it wc 
owe several of his quite charming poems . However the strongest 
impression I get today, reading his work in inverse order, (i. e. 
"Jean de Noarrieu" before these earlier poems) is of the very great 
stylistic advance made in that poem over his earlier work. 

But he is very successful in saying all there was to be said in: — 

La Jeune Fille 

La jeune fille est blanche , 

elle a des veines vertes 

au poignets , dans ses manches 

ouvertes . 
On ne sait pas pourquoi 
elle rit . Par moment 
_ elle crie et cela 

est pergant . 
Est-ce qu'elle se doute 
qu'elle vous prend le coeur 
en cueillant sur la route 

des fleurs. 
On dirait quelquefois \ 

qu'elle comprend des choses . 
Pas tou jours . Elle cause 

tout bas 
"Oh ! ma chere ! oh ! la , la . . . 
.... Figure-toi .... rrtardi 
• je I'ai vu . . . . j'ai ri" — Elle dit 

comme qa . 
Quand un jeune homme souffre , 
d'abord elle se tait : 
elle ne rit plus , tout 

etcnnee , 



The Little Review 45 

Dans les petits chemins 
elle remplit ses mains 
de piquants de bruyeres 

de fougeres . 
Elle est grande , elle est blanche , 
elle a des bras tres dotix , 
Elle est tres droite et penche 

le cou . 

The poem beginning : 

Tu seras nue dans le salon aux vieilles choses , 
fine comme un fuseau de roseau de lumiere 
et, les jambes croisees, aupres du feu rose 
tu ecouteras I'hiver 

loses, perhaps, or gains 
little by comparison with that of Heinrich von Morungen, begin- 
ning : 

Oh weh , soil mir nun nimmermeher 
hell leuchten durch die Nacht 
noch weisser denn ein Schnee 
ihr Leib so wohl gemacht ? 
Der trog die Augen mein , 
ich wahnt , es sollte sein 
des lichten Monden Schein , 
da tagte es . 

Morungen had had no occasion to say "Je pense a Jean- 
Jacques", and it is foolish to expect exactly the same charm of a 
twentieth-century poet that we find in a thirteenth-century poet. 
Still it is not necessary to be Jammes^razy to feel 

II va neiger.... 

II va neiger dans quelques jours . Je me souviens 
de Tan dernier. Je me souviens de mes tristesses 
au coin du feu. Si Ton m'avait demande: qu'est-ce ? 
j'aurais dit: laissez-moi tranquille . Ce n'est rien . 
J'ai bien reflechi , I'annee avant , dans ma chambre , 
pendant que la neige lourde tombait dehors . 



46 The Little Review 



J'ai reflechi pour rien. A present comme alors 
je fume une pipe en bois avec un bout d'ambre. 

Ma vieille commode en chene sent toujours bon. 
Mais moi j'etais bete parce que ces choses 
ne pouvaient pas changer et que c'est une pose 
de vouloir chasser les choses que nous savons. 

Pourquoi done pensons-nous et parlons-nous ? C'est drole 
nos larmes et nos baisers , eux , ne parlent pas , 
et cependant nous les comprenons , et les pas 
d'un ami sont plus doux que de douces paroles . 



If I at all rightly understand the words "vouloir chasser les 
choses que nous savons" they are an excellent warning ; and their 
pose, that of simplicity over-done, has been the end of Maeter- 
linck , and of how many other poets whose poetic machinery con- 
sists in so great part of pretending to know less than they do ? 

Jammes' poems are well represented in Miss Lowell's book on 
Six French Poets, especially by the well-known "Amsterdam" and 
"Madame de Warens", which are also in Van Bever and Leautaud . 
He reaches, as I have said, his greatest verve in "Existences" in the 
volume "Le Triomphe de la Vie". 

I do not wish to speak in superlatives , but "Existence", if not 
Jammes' best work , and if not the most important single volume 
by any living French poet , either of which it well may be , is at 
any rate indispensible . It is one of the first half dozen books that 
a man wanting to know contemporary French work, must indulge 
in. One can not represent it in snippets . Still I quote "Le Poete" 
(his remarks at a provincial soiree) : 

C'est drole . . . Cette petite sera bete 

comme ces gens-la , comme son pere et sa mere . 

Et cependant elle a une grace infinie . 

II y a en elle I'lntelHgence de la beaute . 

C'est delicieux , son corsage qui n'existe pas , 

son derricre et ses pieds . Mais elle sera bete 

comme une oie dans deux ans d'ici. Elle va jouer . 

{Benette joiie la valse des elfes) 



The Little Review 47 

In an earlier scene we have a good example of his rapidity in 
narrative. 

La Servante 
II y a quelqu'un qui veut parler a monsieur . 
Le Poete 
Qui est-ce ? 

La Servante 
Je ne sais pas . 

Le PoHe 

Un homme ou une femme ? 
La Servante 
Un homme . 

Po^te 
Un commis-voyageur , \'ous me la foiitez belle ! 
La Servante 
Je ne sais pas , monsieur . 
PoHe 

Faites entrer au salon . 
Laissez-moi achever d'achever ces cerises . 

{Next Scene) 

Le Poete {dans son salon) 

A qui ai-je I'honneur de parler , monsieur ? 

Le Monsieur 
Monsieur . je suis le cousin de votre ancienne rnaitresse . 

Le Poete 
De quelle maitresse ? Je ne vous connais pas . 
Et puis qu'est-ce que vous voulez ? 
Le Monsieur 

Monsieur , ecoutez-moi . 
On m'a dit que vous etes bon . 
PoHe 

Ce n'est pas vrai . 
La Pipe du Poete 
II me bourre avec une telle agitation 
que je ne vais jamais pouvoir tirer de I'air . 
D'abord. de quelle maitresse me parlez-vous ? 
De qui , pretendez-vous ? Non . Vous pretendez de qui 
j'ai ete I'amant ? 



48 The Little Review 



, Le Monsieur 
De Neomie . 
Poete 



De Neomie , 



Le Monsieur 
Oui , monsieur . 

Po^te 
Ou habitez-vous? 
Le Monsieur 
J'habite les environs de Mont-de-Marsan . 

Pocte 
Enfin que voulez-vous ? ^ 

Le Monsieur 

Savoir si monsieur serait 
assez complaisant pour me donner quelque chose . 

Po^te 
Et si je ne vous donne le pas , qu'est-ce que vous ferez? 

Le Monsieur 
Oh ! Rien monsieur . Je ne vous ferai rien . Non . . . 

Le PoHe 

Tenez , voila dix francs , et foutez-moi la paix . 

{Le monsieur s'en va, puis le poete sort.) 

The troubles of the Larribeau family , Larribeau and the 
bonne , the visit of the "Comtese de Pentacosa" who is also staved 
off with ten francs , are all worth quoting . The whole small town 
is "Spoon-Rivered" with equal verve . "Existence" was written 
in 1900. ' 

MOREAS 

It must not be thought that these very "modern" poets owe^ 
their modernity merely to some magic chemical present in the Pari- 
sian milieu. Moreas was born in 1856, the year after Verhaeren , 
but his Madeline-aux-serpents might be William Morris on Ra- 
punzel : 

Et votre chevelure comme des grappes d'ombres , 
Et ses bandelettes h. vos tempes , 
Et la kabbale de vos yeux latents , — 
Madeline-aux-serpents , "Madeline . 



I 



The Little Review 49 

Madeline , Madeline , . 
Pourquoi vos levres a mon cou , ah, pourquoi 
Vos levres entre les coups du hache du roi ! 
Madeline , et les cordaces et les flutes , 
Les flutes , les pas d'amour , les flutes , vous les voulutes, 
Helas ! Madeline , la fete , Madeline , 
Ne berce plus les flots au bord de Pile , 
Et mes bouffons ne crevent plus des cerceaux 
Au bord de Tile , pauvres bouffons . 
Pauvres bouffons que couronne la sauge ! 
Et mes litieres s'effeuillent aux ornieres , toutes mes litieres 

a grand pans 
De nonchaloir , Madeline-aux-serpents . . 

A difference with Morris might have arisen , of course , over the 
now long-discussed question of vers-libre , but who are we to dig up 
that Babylon . The school-boys' papers of Toulouse had learnt all 
about it before the old gentlemen of The Century and Harpers had 
discovered that such things exist . 

One will not have understood the French poetry of the last half- 
century unless one makes allowance for what they call the-gothic 
as well as the roman or classic influence. We should probably call 
it (their "gothic") "mediaevalism", its tone is that of their XIII 
century poets , Crestien de Troies , Marie de France , or perhaps 
even D'Orleans (as we noticed in the quotation from Viele-Griffin) . 
Tailhade in his "Hymne Antique" displays what we would call Swin- 
bumism (greekish). Tristan Klingsor (a nom de plume showing 
definite tendencies) exhibits these things a generation nearer to us: 

Dans son reve le vieux Prince de Touraine 
voit passer en robe verte a longue traine 
Yeldis aux yeux charmeurs de douce reine . 



or 
Au verger ou sifflent les sylphes d'automne 
mignonne Isabelle est venue de Venise 
et veut cueillir des cerises et des pommes . 



He was writing rhymed vers libre in 1903 , possibly stimulated 
by translations in a volume called "Poesie Arabe". This book has 



50 The Little Review 



an extremely interesting preface. I have forgotten the name of 
'the translator , but in excusing the simplicity of Arab songs he says : 
"The young girl in Germany educated in philosophy in Kant and 
Haegel , when love comes to her , at once exclaims 'Infinite !', and 
allies her vocabulary with the transcendental . The little girl in 
the tents "ne savait comparer fors que sa gourmandise". In Kling- 
sor for 1903 , I find : 

Croise tes jambes fines et nues 
Dans ton lit , 

Frotte de tes mignonnes mains menues 
Le bout de ton nez ; 
Frotte de tes doigts poteles et jolii' , 
Les deux violettes de tes yeux cernes , 
Et reve . 

Du haut du minaret arabe s'echappe 
La melopee triste et breve '' 

De I'indiscret muezzin 
. Qui nasillonne et qui eternue . 
Et toi tu bailies comme une petite chatte , 
Tu bailies d'amour brisee , 
Et tu songes au passant d'Ormuz ou d'Endor 
Qui t'a quittee ce matin 
En te laissant sa legere bourse d'or 
Et les marques bleues de ses baisers . 

Later he turns to Max Elkskamp , addressing him as if he, 
Klingsor , at last had "found Jesus": 

Je viens vers vous , mon cher Elkskamp 

Comme un pauvre varlet de cceur et de joie 

Vient vers le beau seigneur qui campe ' 

Sous sa tente d'azur et de soie . 1 



However I believe Moreas was a real poet , and , being stub- 
born , I have still an idea which got imbedded in my head some 
years ago : I mean that Klingsor is a poet. As for the Elskamp 
phase and cult , I do not make much of it . Jean de Bosschere has 
written a book upon Elskamp , and he assures me that Elskamp is 
a great and important poet , and someday , perhaps , I may un- 



The Little Review 51 

derstand it. De Bosschere seems to me to see or to feel perhaps 
more keenly than anyone else certain phazes of modern mechanical 
ivilization : the ant-like madness of men bailing out little boats 
they never will sail in, shoeing horses they never will ride, making 
chairs they never will sit on , and all with a frenzied intentness . I 
may get my conviction as much from his drawings as from his 
poems . I am not yet clear in my mind about it . nis opinion of 

Max Elskamp can not be too lightly passed over . 

» 

OF OUR DECADE 

Early in 191 2 L' Effort, since called L' Effort Libre published an 
excellent selection of poems mostly by men born since 1880: Arcos, 
Chenneviere , Duhamel , Spire , Vildrac , and Jules Romain , with 
some of Leon Bazalgette's translations from Whitman . 

SPIRE 

Andre Spire is well represented in this collection by his "Dames 
Anciennes". The contents of his volumes are of very uneven value : 
Zionist propaganda , addresses , and a certain number of well- 
written poems . , 

Dames Anciennes 

En hiver , dans la chambre claire , 
Tout en haut de la maison , 
Le poele de faience blanche , 
Cercle de cuivre , provincial , doux , 
Chauffait mes doigts et mes livres . 
Et le peuplier mandarine , 
Dans le soir d'argent dedore , 
Dressait , en silence , ' ses branches , 
Devant ma fenetre close . 

— Mere , le printemps aux doigts tiedes 

A souleve I'espagriolette 

De mes fenetres sans rideaux . 

Faites taire toutes ces voix qui montent 

Jusqu'a ma table de travail . 



52 



The Little Review 



— Ce sont les amies de ma mere 
Et de la mere de ton pere , 
Qui causent de leurs maris morts , 
Et de leurs fils partis . , 

— Avec , au coin de leurs levres , 
Ces moustaches de cafe au lait ? 
Et dans leurs mains ces tartines ? 
Dans leurs bouches ces kouguelofs ? 

— Ce sont des cavales anciennes 
Qui machonnent le peu d'herbe douce 
Que Dieu veut bien leur laisser . 

— Mere , les maitres sensibles 
Lachent les juments inutiles 
Dans les pres , non dans men jardin ! 

— Sois tranquille , men fils , sois tranquille , 
Elles ne brouteront pas tes fleurs . 

— Mere , que n'y occupent-elles leurs levres , 
Et leurs trop courtes dents trop blanches 
De porcelaine trop fragile ! 

— Mon fils , fermez votre fenetre . 
Mon fils , vous n'etes pas chretien ! 

VI L DRAG 

Vildrac's "Gloire" is in a way commentary on Romains' Ode ttl 
the Crowd ; a critique of part , at least , of unanimism . 

II avait su gagner k lui 
Beaucoup d'hommes ensemble , 



Et son bonheur etait de croire , 
Quand il avait quitt^ la foule , 



The Little Review 53 

Que chacun des hommes I'aimait 
Et que sa presence durait 
Innombrable et puissante en eux , 



Or un jour il en suivit un 

Qui retournait chez soi , tout seul , 

Et il vit son regard s'eteindre 

Des qu'il fut un peu loin des autres 



(The full text of this appeared in Poetry Aug. 1913). Vildrac's 
AG best-known poems are "Une Auberge" and "Visite"; the first a 
Drlorn scene . not too unlike a Van Gogh , though not done with 
an Gogh's vigour . 

C'est seulement parce qu'on a soif qu'on entre'y boire; 
C'est parce qu'on se sent tomber qu'on va s'y asseoir . 
On n'y est jamais a la fois qu'un ou deux 
Et Ton n'est pas force d'y raconter son histoire . 



Celui aui entre 



mange lentement son pain 
Parce que ses dents sont usees; 
Et il boit avec beaucoup de mal 
Parce qu'il a de peine plein sa gorge . 

Quand il a fini , 
II hesite , puis timide. 
Va s'asseoir un peu 
A cote du feu . 

Ses mains crevassees epousent 

Les bosselures dures de ses genoux . 

'hen of the other man in the story : 

"qui n'etait pas des notres 

"Mais comme il avait Pair cependant d'etre des notres!" 



54 The Little Review 



The story or incident in "Visile" is that of a man stirring himi 
self out of his evening comfort to visit some pathetic dull friends 



Ces gens helas , ne croyaient pas 

Qu'il fut venu a I'improviste 

Si tard . de si loin , par la neige . . . 

Et ils attendaient I'un et 1 'autre 

Que brusquement et d'un haleine il exposat 

La grave raison de sa venue . 

Only when he gets up to go, "ils oserent comprendre" 
II leur promit de revenir . 



Mais avant de gagner la porte 

II fixa bien dans sa memoire 

Le lieu ou s'abritait leur vie . 

II regarda bien chaque objet 

Et puis aussi I'homme et la femme , 

Tant il craignait au fond de lui 

De ne plus jamais revenir . 

The relation of Vildrac's verse narratives to the short story 
form is most interesting . 

JULES ROMAINS 

The reader who has gone through Spire, Romains, and Vildrac 
will have a fair idea of the poetry written by this group of men. Ro- 
mains has always seemed to me, and is I think generally recognizee 
as, the nerve-centre, the dynamic centre of the group. 

Les marchands sont assis aux portes des boutiques; 'I 

Ils regardent. Les toits joignent la rue au ciel 
Et les paves semblent feconds sous le soleil 

Comme un champ de mais . 
Les marchands ont laisse dormir pres du comptoir 
Le desir de gagner qui travaille des I'aube. 



The Little Review 55 

On dirait que, malgre leur ame habituelle , 

line autre ame s'avance et vient au seuil d'eux-memes 

Comme ils viennent au seuil de leurs boutiques noires . 

The fact of the matter is that we are regaining for cities a little 
*i what savage man has for the forest. We live by instinct ; re- 
:eive news by instinct; have conquered machinery as primitive man 
>nquered the jungle. Romains feels this, though his phrases may 
"not be ours. Wyndham Lewis on giants is nearer Romains than 
anything else in English, but vorticism is, in the realm of biology, 
the hypothesis of the dominant cell. Lewis on giants comes perhaps 
nearer Romains than did the original talks about the Vortex. There 
is in inferior minds a passion for unity, that is for a confusion and 
melting together of things which a good mind will want kept dis- 
tinct. Absolutely uninformed English criticism has treated Unani- 
niism as if it were a vague general propaganda, and this criticism 
has cited some of our worst and stupidest versifiers as a correspond- 
ing manifestation in England. One can only account for such error 
by the very plausible hypothesis that the erring critics have not read 
"Puissances de Paris". 

Romains is not to be understood by extract and fragments. He 
has felt this general replunge of mind into instinct, or this develop- 
ment of instinct to cope with a metropolis, and with metropolitan 
conditions; in so far as he has expressed the emotions of this con- 
sciousness he is poet; he has, aside from that, tried to formulate 
this new consciousness, and in so far as such formulation is dogmatic, 
debatable, intellectual, hypothetical, he is open to argument and dis- 
pute; that is to say he is philosopher, and his philosophy is definite 
and defined. Vildrac's statement "II a change la pathetique" is 
perfectly true. Many people will prefer the traditional and familiar 
and recognizable poetry of writers like Klingsor. I am not dictating 
peoples' likes and dislikes. Romains has made a new kind of poetry. 
Since the scrapping of the Aquinian, Dantescan system, he is per- 
haps the first person who had dared put up so definite a philosophi- 
cal frame-work for his emotions. One can neglect the protestant 
systems, fall of the angels, hell goverened by parliament, on the one 
hand, and the operatic Mephistopheles on the other; they are not 
for serious people. 

I do not mean, by this, that I agree with Jules Romains ; I am 
prepared to go no further than my opening sentence of this section, 
concerning our growing, or returning, or perhaps only newly-noticed, 



i 



s6 The Little Review 



sensitization to crowd feeling; to the metropolis and its peculiar 
sensations. Turn to Romains: 

Je croyais les murs de ma chambre impermeables . 

Or ils laissent passer une tiede briiine 

Qui s'epaissit et qui m'empeche de me voir, 

Le papier a fleurs bleus lui cede. II fait le bruit 

Du sable et du cresspn qu'une source traverse. 

L'air qui touche mes nerfs est extremement lourd. 

Ce n'est pas comme avant le pur milieu de vie 

Ou montait de la solitude sublimee . » 

V'oila que par osmose 

Toute I'immensite d'alentour le sature. 



II charge mes poumons , il empoisse les choses , 
II separe mon corps des meubles familiars , 



Les forces du dehors s'enroulent k mes mains . 

In "Puissances de Paris" he states that there are beings more 
"real than individual". I can not of course go into detail here, I can 
but touch upon salients. 

Rien ne cesse d'etre interieur . 
La rue est plus intime a cause de la brume . 
Lines like Romains', so well packed with thought, so careful that 
you will get the idea , can not be poured out by the bushel like those 
of contemporary rhetoricians, like those of Claudel and Fort. The 
best poetry has always a content, it may not be an intellectual con- 
tent; in Romains the intellectual statement is necessary to keep the 
new emotional content coherent. 

The opposite of Lewis's giant appears in: 

Je suis I'esclave heureux des hommes dont I'haleine 
Flotte ici. Leur vouloir s'ecoule dans mes nerfs ; 
Ce qui est moi commence a fondre. 



The Little Review 57 

This statement has the perfectly simple order of words. It is 
the simple statement of a man saying things for the first time, whose 
chief concern is that he shall speak clearly. His work is perhaps 
the fullest statement of the poetic consciousness of our time, or the 
scope of that consciousness. I am not saying he is the most poignant 
poet; simply that in him we have the fullest poetic exposition . 

You can get the feel of La Forgue or even of Corbiere from a 
few poems; Romains is a subject for study. I do not say this as 
praise, I am simply trying to define him. His "Un fitre en Marche" 
is the narrative of a girls' school, of the ''crocodile" or procession 
going out for its orderly walk, its collective sensations and adven- 
tures, 

Troups and herds appear in his earlier work: 

Le troupeau marche , avec ses chiens et son berger, 
II a peur. Qk et la des reverberes briilent , 
II tremble d'etre poursuivi par les etoiles . 



La foule traine une ecume d'ombrelles blanches 



La grande ville s'evapore , 
Et pleut k verse sur la plaine 
Qu'elle sature . 

His style is not a "model", it has the freshness of grass, not of 
new furniture polish. In his v/ork many nouns meet their verbs for 
the first time, as, perhaps, in the last lines above quoted. He needs, 
as a rule, about a hundred pages to turn round in. One can not 
give these poems in quotation; one wants about five volumes of 
Romains. In so far as I am writing "criticism", I must say that his 
prose is just as interesting as his verse. BuLthen his verse is just 
as interesting as his prose. Part of his method is to show his sub 
ject in a series of successive phases, thus in L'Individu : 



Je suis un habitant de ma ville , un de ceux 
Qui s'assoient au theatre et qui vont par les rues 



VI 

Je cesse lentement d'etre moi. Ma personne 



S8 The Little Review 



Semble s'aneantir chaque jour un peu plus 
C'est a peine si je Ic sens et m'en etonne . 

His poetry is not of single and startling emotions , but — for 
better or worse — of progressive states of consciousness. It is as 
useless for the disciple to try and imitate Romains. without having 
as much thought of his own, as it is for the tyro in words to try imi- 
tations of Jules Laforgue. The limitation of Romains' work, as 
of a deal of Browning's, is that, having once understood it, one 
may not need or care to reread it. This restriction applies also. 
in a wholly different way . to "Endymion"; having once filled the 
mind with Keats' colour, or the beauty of things described, one gets 
no new thrill from the re-reading of them in not very well-written 
verse. This limitation applies to all poetry that is not implicit in its 
OAvn medium, that is, which is not indissolubly bound in with the ac- 
tual words, word music, the fineness and firmness of the actual 
writing , as in Villon, or in "CoUis O Heliconii". 

But one can not leave Romains unread . His interest is more 
than a prose interest , he has verse technique, rhyme, terminaf sy- 
zogy , but that is not what I mean. He is poetry in : 

On ne m'a pas donne de lettres , ces jours-ci ; 
Personne n'a songe , dans la ville . a m'ecrire , 
Oh ! je n'esperais rien ; je sais vivre et penser 
Tout seul , et mon esprit , pour faire une flambee , 
N'attend pas qu'on lui jette une feuille noircie . 
Mais je sens qu'il me manque un plaisir familier , 
J'ai du bonheur aux mains quand j'ouvre une envelof^e ; 



But such statements as : 

Tentation 

Je me plais beaucoup trop a rester dans les gares ; 
.Accoudo sur le bois anguleux dcs barrieres , 
Je regarde les trains s'emplir de voyageurs . 



and : 



Mon esprit solitaire est une goutte d'huile 



The Little Review 59 

Sur la pensee et sur le songe de la ville 

Qui me laissent flotter et ne m'absorbent pas . 



Duld not be important unless they were followed by exposition . 
le point is that they are followed by exposition , to which they 
rm a necessary introduction , defining Romains' angle of attack ; 
kI as a result the force of Romains is cumulative . His early 
)oks gather meaning as one reads through the later ones . 

And I think if one opens him almost anywhere one can discern 
ie authentic accent of a man saying something, not the desultory 
^pagination of rehash . 

Charles Vildrac is an interesting companion figure to his bril- 
tnt friend Romains . He conserves himself , he is never carried 
way by Romains' theories . He admires , differs , and occasionally 
)rmulates a corrective or corollary as in "Gloire". 

Compare this poem with Romains' "Ode to the Crowd Here 
resent" and you get the two angles of vision . 

Henry Spies , a Genevan lawyer, has written an interesting series 
f sketches of the court-room. He is a more or less isolated figure. 
have seen amusing and indecorous poems by George Fourest, but 
. is quite probable that they amuse because one is unfamiliar with 
iieir genre ; still "La Blonde Negresse" (the heroine of his title), 
is satire of the symbolo-rhapsodicoes in the series of poems about 
er : "La negresse blonde , la blonde negresse", gathering into its 
ound all the swish and woggle of the sound-over-sensists ; the 
'oem on the beautiful blue-behinded baboon ; that on the gentle- 
lan "qui ne craignait ni la verole ni dieu"; "Les pianos du Casino au 
lord de la mer" (Lafcrgue plus the four-hour touch) are an egregious 
nd diverting guffaw . (I do not think the book is available to the 
mbiic . J. G. Fletcher once lent me a copy , but the edition was 
limited and the work seems rather unkno\vn). 

Romains is my chief concern . I can not give a full exposition 
)f Unanimism on, a page or two . Among all the younger writers 
md groups in Paris, the group centering in Romains is the only one 
vhich seems to me any where nearly so energized as the Blast group 
n London ; the only group in which the writers for Blast can be 
expected to take very much interest . 

PvOmains in the flesh does not seem so energetic as Lewis in the 
iesh , but then I have seen Romains only once and I am well ac- 
quainted with Lewis . Romains is, in his writing, more placid , the 



6o The Little Review 



thought seems more passive , less impetuous . As for those who w: 
not have Lewis "at any price", there remains to them no othi 
course than the acceptance of Remains , for these two men hold tl 
two tenable positions: the Mountain and the Multitude . 

It might be fairer to Romains to say simply he has choser 
or specialized in, the collected multitude as a subject matter , ar 
that he is quite well on a mountain of his own. 

My general conclusions, redoing and reviewing this perk 
of French poetry , are (after my paw-over of some sixty new volume 4 
as mentioned, and after re-reading most of what I had read befon 
I., as stated in my opening , that mediocre pwetry is about the san 
in all countries ; that France has as much drivel , gas , mush , etc 
poured into verse , as has any other nation . 

2. That it is impossible" to make a silk purse out of a sow 
ear", or poetry out of nothing ; that all attempts to "expand" 
subject into poetry are futile , fundamentally ; that the subje 
matter must be coterminous with the expression . Tasso , Spensei 
Ariosto , prose-poems , diffuse forms of all sorts are all a preciositj 
a parlour-game, and dilutations go to the scrap heap . 

3. That Corbiere , Rimbaud , Laforgue are permanent ; th). 
probably some of DeGourmont's and Tailhade's poems are pe* 
manent , or at least reasonably durable ; that Romains is indispei 
sible, for the present at any rate ; that people who say they "don 
like French poetry" are possibly matoids , and certainly ignorant • 
the scope and variety of French work . In the same way peop^ 
are ignorant of the qualities of French people ; ignorant that 
they do not feel at home in Amiens (as I do not), there are othi 
races in France ; in the Charente if you walk across country yc 
meet people exactly like the nicest people you can meet in ti* 
American country and t/iey are not "foreign". 

All France is not to be found in Paris . The adjective "French 
is current in America with a dozen erroneous or stupid connotationsi 
If it means , as it did in the mouth of my contemporary," talcui 
powder" and surface neatness , the selection of poems I have give 
here would almost show the need of, or at least a reason for Freno 
Parnassianism ; for it shows the French poets violent , whetht 
with the violent words of Corbiere , or the quiet violence of the iroD 
in Laforgue , the sudden annihilations of his "turn-back" on th 
subject . People forget that the incision of Voltaire is no more all ( 
French Literature than is the robustczca of Brantome . (Burton 
the "Anatomy" is our only writer who can match him.) The 
forget the two distinct finenesses of the latin French and of til 



The Little Review 



[•ench "gothic", that is of the eighteenth century , of Bernard 
" one take a writer of no great importance to illustrate a definite 
liality), or of D 'Orleans and of Froissart in verse . From this deli- 
:y , if they can not be doing with it , they may turn easily to 
llion or Basselin , Only a general distaste for literature can be oper- 
live against all of these writers . 



Footnote: Given time, we shall in later numbers deal with Peguy, De 
schere, and give ampler studies of Remains, Tailhade and other modern 
teDch writers. 

The Chicago Grand Opera 
Invades New York 
Margaret Anderson 

The critics are never more pathetic than when they praise things 
hich really deserve praise. They did their best about the Chicago 
)pera Company, but the result w^as only a reiteration of their stock 
uperlative3 and an intensification of their helplessness before a new 
motion. 

The new emotion was caused by Mary Garden. I am prepared 
defend this" statement with intelligent arguments. 
First, I am not interested in discussions of the relative merits 
f the Metropolitan and the Chicago Opera. I am not interested in 
I! the talk of competition and opera war, and the debates as to 
.hether an outside opera organization has any "right" to invade 
Cew York. Anything that is good has a right to go where it will. 

In the second place, there is really no question of competition: 
)ne organization is "interesting" and the other is not. The Met- 
opolitan is now distinguished chiefly for the fact that it is an insti- 
tution: it is therefore dead, from the only point| of view that mat- 
ers. The Chicago Opera Company has achieved institutionalism only 
n so far as it clings to antediluvian scenery and to the strange idea 
hat a prima donna with intelligence is still subject to the traditional 
uanagerial dictation. 

The Metropolitan has Caruso, who sings "beautifully" and who 
lets — well, to be exact, who acts chiefly like a fool; it has Farrar, 
who at her best is no better than a dozen Broadway actresses and at 
her worst gives a sort of bouncing servant-girl touch to her 
roles. The Chicago company has Galli-Curci, to match Caruso, 



62 • T he Little Re view 



ti 
r' 

r 
ipe 



aiul, speaking rouylily, Vix tu iiialcli Farrar; it has Kaisa 
match Metzanaur, etc., etc. The good singers on both sides, w! 
are good singers and nothing more than that, probably match 
rather evenly. The point worth talking about is that the Chica> 
company has two good singers who are in intellectual and artis 
sympathy with opera as it is conceived today and as it will be c 
veloped tomorrow. They are Lucien Muratore and Mary Gard« 
The critics have not concerned themselves with these major d 
criminations. They have used the word "artist", of course, but th 
have used it for Galli-Curci, Caruso, Melba, Farrar, etc., and 
robbed their remarks of any semblance of meaning. 

I am not particularly interested in vocal organs. I am not int< 
ested in a certain quality of youth or dash or prettiness which t 
public describes as "personality". Tlie worst definition of beauty 
ever heard was given by a lecturer in Chicago. He said that if y 
should gather a liundred people into a room and ask another hu 
dred to look at them, the second hundred would come to some cO; 
nion agreement as to which ones were ugly and which ones could 
called beautiful. In other words, there are some people whom . 
the world calls beautiful, and this is a test before which all intellecti 
curiosity is supposed to come to ^ full stop. Well, this is the w 
the world feels about voices. A conventionally beautiful voice 
exactly like a conventionally lieautiful girl. The world never realiz 
that the latter gives no real pleasure to a fastidious mind. The woi 
wants to listen to one kind of voice, — the kind that is recogniz 
'■l)y all the world" as sweet, pure, true, veil-trained, etc., etc. Tl 
is the standard by which the singers of both companies are chost 
This is the unthinkable standard by which the critics and the pub 
say that Mary Garden cannot sing. 

- It is perfectly patent that Muratore has no such standarc 
His voice is richer than Caruso's and he not only tries to show th 
he is conscious of the dramas in which he acts, but he knows how 
show it. In the case of Mary Garden you have all this plus the ne 
emotion of which I spoke. How does great singing or great actii jj' 
measure up beside this? As accomplishment, merely. The intere 
of Mary Garden, as I conceive it, is of a quality on which gre 
legends will be made a hundred years from now. That is why I s« 
a "new" emotion: these things do not happen several times in 
generation. The last generation had Bernhardt; we have not be< 
shut off from that greatness, l)ut we have Mary Garden too. We wi 
jirobably have no other. We have urged our younger contemporari* 
to see her, "lest there grow in them a bitterness and deep ground i 
reproach that they had not known so fair a thing before that ho» 



The Little Review 63 



en they must be cut oil from it forever." They have seen her, 
i not known what we were talking about. Well, M iry Garden is 
ot for backfisch. The opera management shows its ignorance of 
er "place in history" b}' not allowing her a complete autocracy in 
egard to her operas ; the press shows its ignorance by talking ex- 
lusively of the improvement in her voice, her remarkable acting, and 
he fact that she has a great deal of "pep" this year (I shudder to 
epeat the stufif); the public shows its ignorance (that portion of it 
hat recognizes her at all) by confusing the greatness of her "Thais" 
irith the fact that that lovely pagan somehow got mixed up with the 
isciating doctrines of Christianity. 

The entire critical force of the country has never hinted that 
Vlary Garden is the reason for the Chicago Opera being dififerent and 
nteresting. 

A Letter 

jh 

It is no part of my intention to start an argument with you or 
ivith any one over the art of Mary Garden. I hate controversy. It 
s a social vice. This note then is not to answer you but to show 
you why discussion is futile. We do not exist in the same world. 
Your concern is with education and the drawing-room, mine with 
creation, life and the individual. 

Your slogan is moderation in all things. This is on intrusion 
on your part. You might leave moderation to the voluptuary. When 
I come into such close contact with the miserly disposition of the pu- 
ritan race, the indisposition or inability to spend even a gesture of 
emotion, the tightness of natures that can never praise or curse 
splendidly or freely, — the impossibility of discussing any subject 
becomes to me appaling, and I have no other interest than to strike 
through the subject to the tensely fundamental differences in people. 

You greet any spoken or written statement or observation by me 
with either a sigh or a laugh. "You are so extravagant, so superla- 
tive, so violent". This generosity of my nature is well known to me; 
so much so that I pity all who'have come under it either for approval 
or disdain. And you are always sure that it has some personal direc- 
tion. Why not admit your miserly dealings with these matters, and 
grant that my "outbursts" may be iinpersonal, even though you your- 
self suffei- under the curse of the personal-on-look in all things. 

I am rather hopeless about this, though. Even in our last dis- 
cussion you took some of my remarks to yourself and talked vaguely 
about friendship and my offending your religion. I had given you no 
friendship. Friendship does not lie in my experience. I had not said 



64 T/ie Little Review 



more against your religion than to imply that the Christian vir^ ■ 
could not stand the wear and tear of my nature. You have knowr 
me well enough to know that I should always have respected youi 
religion with silence, if silence is all the respect that you demand 
But here was your religion influencing your attitude towa.d Art 
and therefore the discussion. You were expounding Art: I wjB 
not attacking Christian Science. 

You pretend to an interest in and a love for the arts. Yet yot 
have never given an hour of your time in your whole life to th< 
study of the arts. You have read neither criticism nor theories o: 
Art. But you "love" Art and yet you have not enough respect foi 
it to protect it from your own ignorance. You "love" it and you trj 
to make a utility of it, to apply it to your living and your system a 
education with no more thought than if you were applying polisl 
to your shoes, and for the same effect. And / have insulted yom 
intelligence because I refuse to discuss Art in your terms! I than! 
the gods there are places where insults may not reach. 

If I must say what I think about Christian Science: it is the 
greatest achievement of mediocrity and white corpuscles of the age 
and a very necessary adjunct to our great American Index Filinj 
System. That is all. You recognize as Art only those works of ar 
or so-called works of art that have been considered in good taste, 
as innocuous enough to be countenanced in all educational instit^ 
tions. You know nothing of primitive, ancient, or modern art. Y^ 
laugh the same laugh at an African negro sculpture and at a Brancu* 
If you admit your complete blindness to every form of modern af 
including painting, music, poetry, what, may I ask, gives you yottt 
sight when you come to the drama as presented by Mary Garden? s 

You say that she is no actress, that she has no psychology, nc 
intelligence, that she does not create real characters but movei' 
through an opera in a series of beautiful poses like the figures in t 
dance. And you think this is damning what she does! You at(^ 
speaking of "Monna Vanna" and this is your criticism because tl^: 
_jeunnes filles sitting beside you didn't know, when it was oveft 
»vhethcr Monna Vanna was a "pure, woman" or not. Can such I 
lack — the lack of living, the lack of imagination about life — measure 
the psychology, the intelligence, the art of Mary Garden? 

You say you can see that she is very beautiful. She is not. Nol 
with that limited personal beauty you are praising. But there is alt 
over-beauty which she creates out of herself like the beauty created 
out of a poem or a picture or a piece of sculpture by itself if it poJ!! 
sesses the eternal quality of Art. I should have been slightly sur» 
prised to find you granting her beauty if I did not know that youf 



09 

i 



J 



The Little Review 65 



find always trusts its physical sight when it judges beauty as it 
rusts its taste when it judges Art. 
- While I knew, before your criticism, what you would do about 
ler Art I must confess I had a curiosity about what she herself 
would do to you. Whether the timbre of her gerat existence would 
■each you. 

You say you cannot accept anything that your reason will not 
accept, that does not meet standards of taste and does not measure 
with contemporary achievement. By this statement you have cut 
yourself off forever from the life of the emotions. 

In creation of this kind the feelings can be the only judge. The 
audience can no longer rely upon standards: it must learn slowly 
a new telegraphy of Art. All comparison with contemporary achieve- 
ment is drown in this element of the eternal quality. In creation of 
this kind all apparent and unimportant details, all questions of opera 
singing or stage acting must go down before the aesthetic aim of the 
woman. The exaggerations, the liberties, the distortions, — all the 
flexibility about which you have so many reservations, are in- 
dications of great creation: the main com'position is as steady and 
sustained as a flame in a windless place. 



SOLVE YOUR FOOD PROBLEM 

by Eating at the Strunsky Restaurants 

Good cooking — pleasant envirnments — 

liberal portions — moderate prices. 

"THE WASHINGTON "THE STUYVESANT 
SQUARE RESTAURANT" SQUARE RESTAURANT" 

19 West Eighth Street. 201 Second Ave. 

"THREE STEPS DOWN" "THE STUYVESANT 

19 West Eighth Street. CAFETERIA" 

Between 5th & 6th Avenue, 201 Second Avenue, 

(Down Stairs). 

CAFETERIA Between 12th & 13th Street. 
19 West Eighth Street. 

(Upstairs) Phone Stuyvesant 3379- 

Phone Stuyvesant 1880 Open for" lunch, dinner and 
Open for lunch and dinner. evenings. 



JAMES JOYCE I 

in "THE LITTLE REVIEW" 

I have just received the first three instalments 
of James Joyce's new novel which is to run 
serially in The Little Review, beginning with 
the next number. 

It is called "Ulysses". 

It carries on the story of Stephan Dedalus, the 
central figure in "A Portrait of the Artist as 
a Young Man". 

It is, I believe, even better than the "Portrait". 

So far it has been read by only one critic of 
international reputation. He says: "It is cer- 
tainly worth running a magazine if one can get 
stuff like this to put in it. Compression, in- 
tensity. It looks to me rather better than 
Flaubert". 

This announcement means that we are about 
to publish a prose masterpiece. 



The March mimber will also contain: 

Imaginary Letters, by Wyudham Lewis 
Reproductions of drawings by modern American artists 
Law, Order, and the Republic, by Ezra Pound 
Women and Men, IL, by Ford Madox Hueffer 
Reviews of books and plays. 



TH 



^.< ' IT' >.^ 



A MAGAZIN E 

MAKINn NO COMPBOV 



HE ARTS 



WITH THs^ Pi'R' JC TASTE 



"ULYSSES" 

by 
MMF.V JOYCE 



THE LITTLE REVIEW 



THE MAGAZINE THAT IS READ BY THOSE 
WHO WRITE THE OTHERS 



MARCH, 1918 



Ulysses, 1. 

Imaginary Letters, VIII. 

Matinee 

The Classics ''Escape" 

Cantico del Sole 

Women and Men, II. 

Bertha 

A List of Books 

Wyndham Lewis's "Tarr" 

Raymonde Collignon 

The Reader Critic 



James Joyce 

Wyndham Lezvis 

Jessie Dismorr 

Ezra Pound 

Ford Madox Hueffer 
Arthur Symons 
Ezra Pound 



Copyright, 1918, by Margaret Anderson 

MARGARET ANDERSON, Editor 
EZRA POUND, Foreign Editor 

24 West Sixteenth Street, Nezv York 

Foreign office: 

5 Holland Place Chambers, London W. 8. 

25 cents a copy $2.50 a year 



Entered as second-class matter at P. 0., New York, N. F. 
Published monthly by Margaret Anderson 



THIS MARK ON GOOD BOOKS 




By JAMES JOYCE 

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST 

AS A YOUNG MAN 

''Like some of -the best novels in the world it is the story of an 
education; it is by far the most living and convincing picture that 
exists of an Irish Catholic upbringing. It is a mosaic of jagged 
fragments that does altogether render with extreme completeness 
the growth of a rather secretive, imag-inative boy in Dublin. The 
technique is startling, but on the whole it succeeds. The interest 
of the book depends entirely upon its quintessential and unfailing 
reality. One believes in Stephen Dedalus as one believes in few 
characters in fiction." H. G. Wells in T/ie New Republic. 

DUBLINERS 

"As a delineator of the more sombre aspects of Dublin life 
Mr. James Joyce is unequalled. For him it has remained in 
'Dubliners' to illuminate with a searching flood of imagination and 
sympathetic understanding whole tracts of middle-class life in the 
gray and laughing city. He invests with a convincing reality and 
an abiding human significance what are apparently the most trivial 
and insignificant happenings.'' The Nation 

"He is a genuine realist; he puts in the exaltations as well as 
the depressions, the inner life as well as the outer. Spiritual passions 
are as powerful to him as physical passions." — The New Statesman. 

Each $1.50 net. 



In preparation 

EXILES 

A three-act play that will enhance interest in the Irishman whose 
"Dublinens" and "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" 
established him among the most significant literary creators of 
the day. Probably $1.00 net 



At all bookstores, or 0} the publisher 

B. W. HUEBSCH 225 Fifth avenue NEW YORK 



THE LITTLE REVIEW 

^ol.fV. MARCH, 1918 No. 11 

ULYSSES 

J AMES JOYCE 

E p i s d e 1 



A 



TATELY, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bear- 
ing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor 
ay crossed. A yellow dressing gown, ungirdled, was sustained gent- 
y behind him on the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and 
ntoned: 

— Introibo ad altare Dei. 

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called up 
oarsely: 

— ^Corne up, Kinch. Come up, you fearful Jesuit. 

Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. 
le faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surround- 
ng country and the awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of 
tephen Dedalus, he bent towards him and made rapid crosses in 
he air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his head. Stephen 
)edalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of the 
taircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed 
im, equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained 
nd hued like pale oak. 

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then 
overed the bowl smartly. 

— Back to barracks, he said sternly. 

He added in a preacher's tone: 

— For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body 
nd soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please, "^hut your eyes, 
ents. One moment. A little trouble about those white" corpuscles, 
ilence, all. 



The Little Review 



He peered sideways up and gave a long low whistle of call, 
then paused awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening 
here and there with gold points . Chrysostomos. ^ 

— Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. 
Switch off the current, will you? 

He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, 
gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump 
shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts 
in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips. 

— The mockery of it! he said gaily .Your absurd name, an 
ancient Greek! 

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the 
parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed 
him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, 
watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped 
the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck. 

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on . 

— My name is absurd too. Malachi, Mulligan, two dactyls. 
But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the 
buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get 
the aunt to fork out twenty quid? 

He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried: 

— Will he come? The jejune Jesuit. 

Ceasing, he began to shave with care. 

— Tell me. Mulligan, Stephen said quietly. 

— ^Yes, my love? 

— How long is Haines going to stay in this tower? 

Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder. 

— God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. 
He thinks you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English I 
Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes from Ox- 
ford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford manner. He 
can't make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the 
knifeblade. 

He shaved warily over his chin. 

— He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. 
Where is his gfuncase? 

— A woeful lunatic, Mulligan said. Were you in a funk? 

— I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here 
in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself 



i 



I 



The Little Review 



about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning . 
I'm not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off. 

Buclv Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razor blade. He 
hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets 
hastily. 

— Scutter, he cried thickly. ' 
' He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Ste- 
phen's upper pocket, said: 

— Give us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. 

Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its 
corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the 
razor blade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said: 

— The bard's noserag. A new art colour for our Irish poets: 
snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can't you? 

He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin 
bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly. 

— God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great 
sweet mother. The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. 
Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! She is our great sweet 
mother. Come and look. 

Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it, 
he looked down on the water. 

— Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said. 

He turned abruptly his quick searching eyes from the sea to 
Stephen's face. 

— The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why 
she won't let me have anything to do with you. 

— Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily. 

— You could have knelt down, damn it. Kinch, when your dying 
mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much 
as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last 
breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is 
something sinister in you .... 

He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A 
tolerant smile curled his lips. 

— But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself, Kinch, the 
loveliest mummer of them all! 

He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously. 

Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his 
palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny 



The Little Review 



black coatsleeve . Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted 
his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her deathj 
her wasted body within its loose brown jjraveclothes giving off an 
odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, 
mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the 
threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea. hailed as a great sweet mother 
by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held 
a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside 
her deathbed, holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up 
from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting. 

Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade. 

— Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice . I must give you 
a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breelcs? 

— They fit well enough, Stephen answered. 

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip. 

— The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they 
should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a 
lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. 
I'm not joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you're dressed. 

— Thanks , Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey. 

— He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the 
mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't 
wear grey trousers. 

He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers 
felt the smooth skin. 

Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with 
its smokeblue mobile eyes. 

— That fellow I was with in the Ship with last night, said Buck 
Mulligan, says you have g. p. i. He's up in Dottyville with Conolly 
Norman. General paralysis of the insane! 

He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings 
abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips 
laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized 
all his strong wellknit trunk. 

— Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard! 

Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, . 
cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me.j 
Who chose this face for me? It asks me too. I pinched it out of* 
the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The' 



The Little _R ev i ew 



aunt always keeps plain looking servants for Malachi. Lead him not 
into temptation. And her name is Ursula. 

Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's 
peering eyes. 

— The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. 
If Wilde were only alive to see you! 

Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness: 

— It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a 
servant. 

Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and 
walked with him round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in 
the pocket where he had thrust them. 

— It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said 
kindly. God knows you have more spirit than any of them. 

Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that 
of his. 

— The cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy 
chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with 
money and thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made 
his tin by selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. 
God, Kinch, if you and I could only work together we might do 
something for the island. Hellenise it. 

Cranly's arm. His arm. 

— And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm 
the only one that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me 
more? What have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If 
he makes any noise here I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him 
a ragging worse than they gave Clive Kempthorpe. 

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. 
Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another, 
O, I shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall 
die! With slit ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and 
hobbles round the table, with trousers down at heels, chased by 
Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's shears. A scared calf's face 
gilded with marmalade. I d.on't want to be debagged! Don't you 
play the giddy ox with me! 

Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quad- 
rangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's 
face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn, watching narrowly the 
dancing motes of grasshalms. 



The Little Review 



To ourselves .... new paganism .... omphalos. 

—Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him 
except at night. 

— Then what is it? Buck Mullician asked impatiently. Cough 
it up. I'm quite frank with you. What have you against me now? 

They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that 
lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed 
his arm quickly. 

— Do you wish me to tell you? he asked. 

— Yes. what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remem- 
ber anything. 

He looked in Stephen's face as he spoke A light wind passed 
his brow, fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver 
points of anxiety in his eyes. 

Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said: 

— Do you remember the first day I went to your house after 
my mother's death? 

Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said: 

. — What? Where? I can't remember- anything. I remember 
only ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of 
God? 

— You were making tea, Stephen said, and I went across the 
landing to get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came 
out of the drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room. 

— Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget. 

— You said, Stephen answered, O, it's only Dedalus whose 
mother is beastly dead. 

A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose 
to Buck Mulligan's cheek. 

—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that? 

He shook his constraint from him nervously. 

— And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my 
own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day 
in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissecting 
room. It's a beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't mat- 
ter. You wouldn't kneel down to pray for your mother on her 
deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because you have the cursed 
Jesuit strain in you only it's injected the wrong way. To me it's 
all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. 
She calls the doctor Sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the 



1 



The Little Review 



quilt. Humour her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in death 
and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like some hired 
mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I didn't 
mean to offend the memory of your mother. 

He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the 
gaping wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very 
coldly: JK^M^ 

— I am not thinking of the offence to my mother. 

— Of what, then? Buck Mulligan asked. 

— Of the offence to me, Stephen answered. 

Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel. 

— O, an impossible person! he exclaimed. 

He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his 
post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and head- 
land now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their 
sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks 

A voice within the tower called loudly: 

— Are you up there, Mulligan? 

— I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered. 

He turned towards Stephen and said: 

— Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck 
Loyola, Kinch, and come- on down. The Sassenach wants his morn- 
ing rashers. 

His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, 
level with the roof: 

— Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give 
up the moody brooding. 

His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice 
boomed out of the stairhead. 

— And no more turn aside and brood , 

Upon love's hitter mystery 

For Fergtts rules the brazen cars. 

Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace 
from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther 
out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by light-shod hurrying 
feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by 
two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords. 
Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide. 

A clod began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the 
bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. 



10 T he Little Review 



Fergus' song. I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long 
dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music. 
Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in 
her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery. 

Where now? 

Her secrets: old feather fans, tassled dancecards, powdered with 
musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage 
hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a girl. She 
heard old Royce sing in the pantomime of Turko the Terrible and 
laughed with others when he sang: 

/ am the boy 

That can enjoy 

Invisibility. 

Phantasmal mirth, folded away: musk perfumed. 

And no more turn aside and brood. 

Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories 
beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap 
when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with 
brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. 
Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from 
the children's shirts. 

In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body with- 
in its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, 
her breath bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of 
wetted ashes. 

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my 
soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly 
light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, 
while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. 
Liliata riitilantium te conjessoriim turma circumdet: iiibilantium te 
virginum chorus excipiat. 

Ghoul! Chewer of corpses! 

No, mother! Let me be and let me live 

— Kinch ahoy! 

Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came 
nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his 
soul's cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him, 
friendly words. 

— Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. 
Haines is apologising for waking us last night. It's all right. 



The Little Review ii 



— I'm coming, Stephen said, turning. 

— Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and 
for all our sakes. 

His head disappeared and reappeared, 

— I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's very clever. 

Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean. 

— I get paid this morning, Stephen said. 

— The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four 
quid? Lend us one. 

— If you want it, Stephen said. 

— Four shining sovereigns. Buck Mulligan cried with delight. 
We'll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four 
omnipotent sovereigns. 

He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, sing- 
ing out of tune with a Cockney accent. 

— O, won't we have a merry time, 

Drinking whiskey, beer and wine! 

On coronation 

Qoronation day! 

won't we have a merry time 

On coronation day ! 

Warm sunshine merry over the sea. The nickel shaving bowl 
shone, forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or 
leave it there all day, forgotten friendship? 

He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its cool- 
ness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which tihe brush was 
stuck. So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am 
another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant. 

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's 
gowned form moved briskly about the hearth to and fro, hiding and 
revealing its yellov/ glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across 
the flagged floor from the high barbaoans: and at the meeting of 
their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, 
turning. 

— We'll be choked. Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, 
will you? 

Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose 
from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway 
and pulled open the inner doors. 

— Have you the key? a voice asked. 

— Dedalus has it. Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm 
choked! 



%.. 



12 The Little Review 



He howled withovit looking up from the fire: 

— Kinch! 

— It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward. 

The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door 
had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood 
at the doorway, looking out. Stephen hauled his up-ended valise to 
the table and sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on 
to the dish beside him. Then he carried the dish and a large tea- 
pot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief. 

— I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when 

But hush! Not a word more on that subject. Kinch, wake up! 
Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless 
us, Lord, and these they gifts. WTiere's the sugar? O, jay, there's 
no milk. 

Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the butter- 
cooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet. 

— What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come be- 
fore nine. 

— We can drink it black, Stephen said. There's a lemon in the 
locker. , 

— O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I 
want Sandycove milk. 

Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly: 

— That v^'oman is coming up with the milk. 

— The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan said, jumping 
up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar 
is in the bag. Here, I can't go fumbling at the damned eggs. 

He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on 
three plates, saying: j 

— In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. ■ 

Haines sat down to pour out the tea. 

— I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulli- 
gan, you do make strong tea, don't you? 

Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old 
woman's wheedling voice: 

— When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grbgan said. 
And when I makes water I makes water. 

— By Jove, it is tea, Haines said. ' 

Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling: 
— So I do, Mrs. Cahill, says she. Begob, ma'am, says Mrs. Ca- 
hill, God send you don't make them in the one pot. 



T h e Lit tl e Rev iew 13 

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, 
impaled on his knife. 

— That's folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. 
Five lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fish- 
gods of Dundrum. 

He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting 
his brows: 

— Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot 
spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishade? 

— I doubt it, said Stephen gravely. 

—Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your 
reasons, pray? 

— I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of 
the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman 
of Mary Ann. . 

Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight. 

— Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white 
teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? 
Quite charming! 

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a 
hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf. 

— For old Mary Ann 

She doesn't care a damn 

But, hising up her petticoats 

He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. 

The doorway was darkened by an entering form. 

— The milk, sir. 

— ^Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug. 

An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow. 

— That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God. 

— To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be surel 

Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker. 

— The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak fre- 
quently of the collector of prepuces. 

— How much, sir? asked the old woman. 

— A quart, Stephen said. 

He watched her p)our into the measure and thence into the jug 
rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a 
measurful and a tillv. Old and secret she had entered from a morn- 



14 The Little Review 

ing world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of her milk, 
pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the 
lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the 
squirting dugs. 'I'hey lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky 
cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old 
times. A wandering queen, lowly form of an immortal serving her 
conqueror and her betrayer, a messenger from the secret morning. 
To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell: but scorned to 
beg her favour. 

— It is indeed, ma'am. Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into 
their cups. 

— Taste it, sir, she said. 

He drank at her bidding. 

— If we could only live on good food like that, he said to her 
somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth 
and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the 
streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. 

— Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked. 

— I am, ma'am. Buck Mulligan answered. 

Stephen listened in scornful silence She bows her old head to a 
voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me 
•he slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all 
there is of her but her woman's unclean loins. And to the loud 
voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes. 

— Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her. 

— Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to 
Haines. 

Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently. 

— Irish, Buck Mulligan said. 

— I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are 
you from the west, sir? 

— I am an Eng-lishman, Haines answered. 

— He's English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to 
speak Irish in Ireland. 

— Sure we ought too, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I 
don't soeak the language myself I'm told it's a grand language by 
them that knows. 

— Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Fill us out 
some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma'am? 



The Little Review 15 



—No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of 
the milkcan on her forearm and about to go. 

Haines said to her: ,, „. 

—Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, 

hadn't we? 

Stephen filled again the three cups . 

—Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornmgs a pmt 
at twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these 
three mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling and 
one and two is two and two, sir. 

Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust 
thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began 
to search his trouser pockets. 

Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him smiling. 

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the 
thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round 
in his fingers and cried: 

— A miracle! 

He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying: 

— Ask nothing more 0} me, sweet, 

All I can give you I give. 

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand. 

— We'll owe twopence, he said. 

— Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. 
'Good morning sir. 

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's 
tender chant: 

— Heart of my heart, were it more 

More would be laid at your feet. 

He turned to Stephen and said: 

— Seriously, Dedalus, I'm stony . Hurry out to your school 
kip and bring us back some money. Today the bards must drink 
and junket. Ireland expects that every man this day will do his 
duty. 

— That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit 
your national library today. 

— Our swim first. Buck Mulligan said. 

He turned to Stephen and asked blandly: 

— Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch? 



i6 The Little Review 



Then he said to Haines: 

— The bard makes a point of washing once a month. 

— All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he 
let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf. 

Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf 
about the loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke: 

— I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let 
me. 

Speaking to me. 

— That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being 
the S5mibol of Irish art is deuced good. 

Buck Mullie^an kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said 
with warmth of tone: 

— Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines. 

— Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was 
just thinking of it when that poor old creature came in. 

— Would I make money by it? Stephen asked. ^ 

Haines laughed and as he took his soft grey hat from the hold- 
fast of the hammock, said: 

— I don't know, I'm sure. 

He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to 
Stephen and said with coarse vigour: 

— You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for? 

— Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From 
whom? From the milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think. 

— I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you 
come along with your lousy leer and your gloomy Jesuit jibes. 

— I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him. 

Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's 
arm. 

— From me, Kinch, he said. 

In a suddenly changed tone he added: 

— To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all 
else they are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell 
with them all. Let us get out of the kip. 

He stood up. gfravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his 
gown, saying resignedly: 

— ^Mulligan is stripped of his garments. 

He emptied his pockets on to the table. 

— There's your snotrag, he said. 

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie, he spoke to 



The Little Review 17 

them, chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands 
plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean 
handkerchief. God, we'll simply have to dress the character. I 
want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict 
myself? Very well then. I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi, 
A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands. 

— And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said. 

Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from 
the doorway: 

— Are you coming, you fellows? 

— I'm ready. Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. 
Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose 

Stepphen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed 
them out and, as they went down the ladder pulled to the slow iron 
door and locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket. 

At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked: 

— Did you bring the key? 

— I have it, Stephen said, preceding them. 

He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with 
his heavy bathtowel upreared ferns or grasses. ^ 

— Down, sir! How dare you, sir! 

Haines asked: 

— Do you pay rent for this tower? 

— Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said. 

— To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his 
shoulder. 

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last: 

— Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it? 

— Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the 
French were on the sea. But ours is the omphalos. 

— What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen. 

— No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I'm not equal to 
Thomas Aquinas and the fifty-five reasons he has made to prop it up. 
Wait till I have a few pints in me first. 

He turned to Stephen, saying as he pulled down neatly the peaks 
of his primrose waistcoat: 

— You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you? 

— It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait 
longer. 

— You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably Is it some 
paradox? 



i8 The Little Review 

— Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde 
and paradoxes. It's quite simple. He proves by algebra that Ham- 
let's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the 
ghost of his own father. 

— What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He him- 
self? 

Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise roun his neclt and, 
bending in loose laughter, said to Stephen's ear: 

— O, shade of Kinch the elder. 

— I'm always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. 
And it is rather long to tell. 

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands. 

— The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he 
said. 

— I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they fol- 
lowed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsi- 
nore. 

— That beetles O'er his Base into the sea, isn't it? 

Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen 
but did not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own 
image in cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires. 

— It's a wonderful tale, Haines said bringing them to halt again. 

He gazed southward over the bay. Eyes, pale as the sea the 
wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent. The seas' ruler, he 
gazed over the bay, empty save for a sail tacking by the Muglins. 

— I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said 
bemused. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be 
atoned with the Father. 

Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. 
He looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, 
from which he had suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking 
with mad gaiety. He moved a doll's head to and fro, the brims of his 
Panama hat quivering, and began to chant in a quiet happy foolish 
voice: 

— I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard. 
My mother's a jew, my father's a bird. 
With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree, 
So here's to disciples and Calvary. 



The Little Review 19 

He held up a forefinger of warning 

// anyone thinks that I amn't divine 
He'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine 
But have to drink water and wish it were plain 
That I mP'ke when the ivine becomes water again. 

He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running 
forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like 
fins or wings of one about to rise in the air: and chanted 

Goodbye, now, goodbye! Write down all I said 
And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead. 
What's bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly 
And Olivet's breezy — Goodbye, now, goodbye! 

He capered before them down towards the forty-foot hole, 
fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quiver- 
ing in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdlike cries. 

Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside 
Stephen, and said: 

— We oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous. 
I'm not a believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes 
the harm out of it somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? 
Joseph the Joiner? 

— The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered. 

— O, Haines said, you have heard it before? 

— Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily. 

— You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a be- 
liever in the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and 
miracles and a personal God. 

— There's only one sense of tht word, it seems to me, Stephen said. 

Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twin- 
kled a green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it. 

— Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette. 

Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back 
in his sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tin- 
derbox, sprang it open too, and having lit his cigarette, held the flam- 
ing spunk towards Stephen in the shell of his hands. 

— Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you 
believe or you don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that 
idea of a personal God. You don't stand for that, I suppose. 



20 The Little Review 



— You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horri- 
ble example of free thought. 

He walked^on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by 
his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his 
heels. My familiar, after me, calling Steeeeeeephen ! A wavering 
line along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the 
dark. He wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat 
his food. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was 
in his eyes. 

— After all, Haines began — 

Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured 
him was not at all unkind. 

— After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You 
are your own master, it seems to me. 

— I am the servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and 
an Italian. 

— Italian? Haines said. 

— A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me. And 
a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs. 

— Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean? 

— The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour ris- 
ing, and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church. 

Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before 
he spoke. 

— I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman 
must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have 
treated you rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame. 

The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen's memory the 
triumph of their brazen bells: ct in iinam sanctam cathoUcan et apos- 
tolican ecclesiam. Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Mar- 
cellus, the voices blended, singing alone, loud in affirmation: and 
behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church militant disarmed 
and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies fleeing with mitres 
awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom Mulligan was one, 
and Arius, waring his life long upon the consubstantiality of the 
Son with the Father and Valentine, spuming Christ's terrene body, 
and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father 
wEis Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment 
since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void awaits 
surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a 
worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael's host. 



The Little Review 21 



who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and 
their shields. 

Hear, hear! Prolonged applause. Zut! Nom de Dieu! 

— Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and I feel as 
one. I don't want to see my country fall into the hands of German 
jews either. That's our national problem, I'm afraid, just now. 

Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman, 
boatman. 

— She's making for Bullock harbour. 

The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some 
disdain. 

— There's five fathoms out there, he said. It'll be swept up 
that way when the tide comes in about one. It's nine days today. 

The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank 
bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a 
puffy face, saltwhite. Here I am. 

They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck 
Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his undipped tie rippling 
over his shoulder. A young man cling-ing to a spur of rock near him, 
moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the water. 

— Is the brother with you, Malachi? 

— Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons. 

— Still there? I got a card form Bannon. Says he found a 
sweet young thing down there. Photo girl he calls her. 

— Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure. 

Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man 
shot up near the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up 
by the stones, water glistening on his pate and on its garland of 
grey hair, water rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets 
out of his black sagging loincloth. 

Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glanc- 
ing at Haines and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumb- 
nail at brow and lips and breastbone. 

— Seymour's back in town, the young man said, grasping again 
his spur of rocks. Chucked medicine and going in for the army. 

— Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said. 

— Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle 
girl? Lily. 

—Yes. 

— Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotten 
with money. 

— ^Is she up the pole? 



22 The Little Review 



— Better ask Seymour that. 

— Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said. 

He nodded to himself as he drew off hLs trousers and stood up, 
saying tritely: 

— Redheaded women buck like goats. 

He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt. 

— 'My twelth rib is gone, he cried. I'm the Uehcrmcnsch. 
Toothless Kinch and I, the supermen. 

He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where 
his clothes lay. 

— Are you going in here, Malachi? 

— Yes. Make room in the bed. 

The young man shoved himself backward through the water 
and reached the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. 
Haines sat down on a stone, smoking. 

— Are you not coming in, Buck Mulligan'' asked. 

— Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast. 

Stephen turned away. 

— I'm going, Mulligan, he said. 

— Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my 
chemise flat. 

Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his 
heaped clothes. 

— And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there. 

Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Buck Mulligan 
erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly: 

— He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus 
spake Zarathustra. 

His plump body plunged. 

— We'll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked 
up the path. 

— The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve. 

— Good, Stephen said. 

He walked along the upwardcurving path. 

— Liliata rutilantium. Turma circumdet. The priest's grey 
nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. Jiibtlantium te vir- 
ginum. I will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go. 

A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. 
Turning the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek 
brown head far out on the water, round. 

Usurper. 

{to he continued) 



The Little Review 



23 



IMAGINARY LETTERS 

(William Bland Burn to his Wife) 

Wyndham Lewis 

Petrograd, iS th Feburary, 191 7. 

Dear Lydd, 

I am glad you decree that the debate shall continue. You 
seem to desire a debate to the death. 

I don't know why my coming to Russia should have provoked 
this stubborn battle in your brain; this kind of revolution against 
Russia! I suppose you are pretty jealous of this immense land, and 
you perhaps feel that my liaison with it is hardly intellectually 
respectable . Russia is too elementary ! However, to approach your 
latest objections. Mine is not really a case of "national engoue- 
ment" as you would persuade me (only engouement for Russian 
things instead of those of my own country) . All Russian books of the 
last twenty years that I have read are disappointing. "Sanine" is 
certainly not as good as Bernard Shaw. Gorky was the best figure 
— and writer. Living here, you can get a better sense of the books 
of the Russian writers of the last century, but it is not like living 
among their books . Nor are the people around you as prepossessmg 
as the fictitious nation. But where would art be if they were? The 
Russian novelists have given an almost unexampled illusion of a 
living people. Their Christianity, good sense and the method of 
realism each contributed to this. 

Not only are most Russians not Dostoevskys, they are not even 
Volchaninovs or Pavel Pavlovitches. Raskolnikoffs and Golyadkins 
mope and trot about in certain members, but they badly need the 
presence of their creator. When they were looked at by their great 
brother he entered into them as he looked and they ran mad at once, 
eventually exploding with energy. 

There are masses of the cheaply-energetic Oriental (non-Jew) 
and of the unsatisfactory-Teutonic. The springs of Dostoevsky's 
imagination I have chiefliy found in thick, pungent, sud- 
denly discovered Oases ; in families , restaumnts or moods 



34 The Little Review 

of the town . But it is only the books that matter. And the 
Russian novels were made with this material, condensed, vividly ex- 
ploited. They are better books than any Englishman or Frenchman 
wrote at the same period . not because genius varies, but because the 
material was richer and realler. When an Englishman was given 
a similar chance, we threw up Shakespeare. 

William Blake pushed on into the unimanent atmosphere of 
SfKwks and of lege;id and produced a powerful group of phantoms. 
He vituperated his enemies — enemies are always real and interesting 
— and plagiarised children and Elizabethans. In that way, with a 
queer and clever engineering of his own, he climbed up where Shakes- 
peare and all successful genius resides; he established himself there 
as a matter of course; with a proselytizino^ lack of self -consciousness 
he took up his abode in that simple and exclusive heaven — first 
having enthusiastically removed all his clothes! 

Now, we can admit that a nation is not necessary for a fine book. 
If the human material should be found faulty, you can turn to scor- 
pions and beetles, or, like Blake, you can affect the heavily historied 
bogey; awaken the man who built the Pyramids and pretend that 
it was lie who awakened you. 

And there is the scholar's book, which is merely embarrassed 
by a handy matter, which naturally thrives on the remote, not 
brought to new life, matter, but left where it is, with its academic 
persj)ectives, or whose only interest or use for immediate things is 
dispassionate and critical and whose success is a structureof delicate 
adjustments, not the belief of an incurable love. All the full and 
tragic artists partake of the destiny of the popular hero; thousands 
of people contribute to their success only in this case without mean- 
ing to; each man or woman hands in his or her fraction of vitality; 
wherever they go, there is a great crowd with them. Their brain 
is the record of their sympathies, people pour in and are piled up, 
with a persistent classification, until giant-like and permanent im- 
ages, the "types" of drama or fiction are produced: Raskolnikoffs, 
Golyadkins and Alioshas. It is the sense of power bestowed by this 
throng that enables them to create so hotly, and with so unreasonable 
a faith. 

You remember my remarks about Colossi in a former letter. 
You can only get Colossi by sticknig two or more men together. 
The perfected unamalgamated man recedes from any semblance of 
human or material power. As he refines he loses in stamina and 



T he Lit tie Review 35 

scale, carried to its farthest limit it is the gnat's song, a si^, a 
shadow. These things are in different categories, not, as is popularly 
assumed, a big and a little of the same species. One thing is not 
better than the other. You pay your money and take your choice. 

But when twenty men are conglomerated into a giant, it is 
not, in the case of genius, simply an addition sum. The fine fellow is 
the head of the Colossus. But we must admit that he never suc- 
ceeds in quite actively canalizing the mass. There is always the 
slovenly character of all giants about the organism. His superb 
megaphone is not so successful as the attenuated voice of the whit- 
tled-down human reed. Dostoevsky was a peculiarly untidy and un- 
dependable freak of vastness, addicted to interminable nervous 
seizures (do you know of a single story of his in which there is not 
an epileptic?), drunken to a fault; but a true god. And every 
Russian I meet I know to be a posthumous fragment of my favourite 
Deity. So there you are. . It is useless your talking about "na- 
tional engouements" ; it is idle your hinting that my caprice for 
Colossi (and such dirty, uncouth and childish ones at that — not 
nice clean Greek ones! ) is unintelligent and compromising. You 
stick to the gentlemanly silver buzzing of the French critical p>er- 
fection. I wish to live in the sanguine, unsavoury fairy-land where 
the Giants consort and where the Man-Child wanders. I hope this 
will not divide us. For I like the fastidious things as well; as much 
as you do. 

I now am going to break the ice and refer to something that so 
far, in my shyness, I have avoided. You, for your part, have pre- 
tended also not to have been conscious of it. So we have discussed 
nearly everything except this. I think it is unfortunate that we have 
not had it out, before, and gazed at it in mutual horror. 

I refer to my ugliness. 

The horrible thought steals over me as I write this that you may 
have thought I considered myself handsome — or at least unique! 
And I even seem to remember occasions on which you looked quiz- 
zingly and pityingly at me when I was speaking of beauty; as though 
you considered that I would not have spoken in that way had I not 
imagined that I had my share of looks. Also I do not, let me say 
for your instruction, consider myself tall. Unlike most little men, 
I know that I am short and stunted. 

And as to my looks, there is no blotch or puff in my face with 
which I am not bitterly acquainted . I know that my lower lip pro- 



26 T he Lit tie Review 



trudes ill-temperedly. My hands are a Palagial nightmare, ou 
plutot abyssal. The horrible straight thick thatch of hair does not 
seem to me a silken chevelure. My stumpy muscular limbs, my ob- 
jectionable buttocks that protrude, the back of my head that also pro- 
trudes, preventing me from ever getting a hat to fit me properly. 
I have all these details noted and oh! hated and deplored. My small 
and staring eyes, with the pockets underneath, I know do not re- 
deem, as eyes are said frequently to do, the disgusting mask in which 
they are set. I have the face of a blind man, sunk in a dark and 
filthy stupor; my raised triangular eyebrows and jutting lip give 
this impression. I am physically, I know, one of the most ungainly 
blighted and repusive of God's creatures. Why, then, was I filled so 
full of this will to Beauty, of these convulsions towards realization of 
power? WTiy was I given the wisdom to hate myself? Is the body 
I was given such a botched and valueless thing, because Nature re- 
garded a fine body as wasted in my case, seeing I should live in and 
through other people, and never, in that sense, be at home? 

"Here, you haven't much use for a showy thing of this sort, 
Mr. Burn .With a nobby brain like that you won't have much use 
for these trifles. Take this poor devil's, Mr. Burn, you need a fine 
coat less than he does. The World is at your feet. / know, Mr. Bum!" 

This was chucked over to me! There is probaly an imbecile 
somewhere with the head of a god, and a bearing that would be ap- 
propriate to me. Neither he nor I are selling matches . But when I 
approach the world with my books, they think I am vending laces 
and never cjuite get over the notion. 

I can console myself, however. I can say, "You can enter into 
his form and possess it more than he ever will do himself. What 
is your imagination for?" 

A sort of burglar's consolation, although damned real. 

So this plague of mine is probably a sacrifice, I am relieving 
someone of this winsome, glad, alluring carcase. 

Alas! 

But you will see in all this, I expect, nothing but an attempt to 
extenuate my ugliness and put it in a more favourable light, a rather 
romantic light, even. But I am not doing that . I know that there 
is no getting away from or forgiveness for such preposterous and 
hate-producing plainness. For it is a sort of uncomeliness that 
arouses one's worst feelings; is it not? 



The Lit tie Review 27 



With such a physique, I should never have married, I am aware. 
Thank God, Yorke, by a miracle (the miracle of your beauty, I sup- 
pose) appears to have escaped the contamination of my flesh or to 
have sailed over it in some way. 

But how hgrrible it must be for you, my dear girl! A score of 
times I have said to myself that I would not come back to you, but 
release you from such a repulsive little satyr. 

All cats are grey in the dark, we know. But how that ugly 
bumpy little body, and big head, with its rough red puffy skin must 
disgust you when I take you in my arms — you, who have a dower of 
bodily perfection and whom I smirch even at this distance in thinking 
of you. And the abominable lechery that the sight of you awakens 
in me. What a gruesome beast I must be! 

Can you stand me? Tell me the truth! 

We have not got on quite so well lately. Your letters are ^curi- 
ous. You seem to be becoming unduly critical of my mind, a ten- 
dency you have not formerly displayed. Are you accusing my mind 
of what you would really say of my body? Is it because you have 
never been harsh enough to curse and comment upon my distress- 
ing person, that you now attack my mind? Must you abuse and 
at last complain of something? 

Perhaps this letter may deflect your criticism into its natural 
channel'. Or do you consider my mental enthusiasms part and parcel 
of my ugliness? Do you see my twisted and thwarted body with a 
wave of exasperation, in my enthusiasm for the epileptic pages of 
the unfortunate Feodor? 

One truth, however, I have tested enough for it to be no more 
experimental. I am fixed on that. The body does not matter the 
smallest fraction where the mind is concerned. I can imagine 
beauty as fluently and fully as if I had the head of Apollo. The 
smallness of my eyes does not contract the surging and spreading 
of my understanding. The twists in a body can only impress them- 
selves on a spirit that dwells constantly therein. Mine comes back 
to its disgraceful bed, and lies cramped and ill in it. But it was 
nurtured straight before it ever lay there. A fine and comely ap- 
pearance is useful for repose only. Goethe's god-^like person gave 
him plenty of calm sleep. If I said too much you would sneer and 
think that the grapes were sour ! ! If my body were weakly and sick 
and my mind were one of those that had the power to go here and 
there and break into other minds, that body would not prevent me 



28 The Little Review 

from imagining physical heroism. Or rather. I could imagine it no 
better if my mind had l>een originally installed in a sinewy carcase, 
like Hackensmidt's. I am debarred from nothing in my world: onl\ 
from you. 

I know I have not got you as I otherwise should. 1 know it 
was madness to choose such a beauty. 

Schopenhauer's wretched phrase "Women consider that they 
supply the beauty" had stuck in my head. And yet why abuse him? 
It is true, up to a point, women do reply for the beauty. But!- 
Obviously there is a limit beyond which they are likely to regard 
their proverbial fairness as inadeciuatel My face, I am aware. - 
far the other side of that limit! 

You know how physical beauty knocks me over. The "beauti- 
ful young man" species holds me as tongue-tied and gets me In the 
same way that social eminence does the humble or inexperienced. I 
simply stand gaping at a handsome young man. Each of his ges- 
tures or smiles is balm to me. My face, like some belching ocean 
plant, spread towards the light, seems to expand in front of his come- 
liness in the idiotic hope of a cure. Such boys are as soothing as 
rain to a man with a fever. And after passing some time with one 
of these dazzling pictures, I feel less ugly myself, instead of, as you 
would suppose, uglier by contrast. Women do not affect me in the 
same way, I do not feel that their beauty is so hard or so deep; 
therefore that the same divine properties of healing do not go with it. 

Young Adrian Mitchell, Willie Plant, Menzies, Peele: willowy, 
well dressed, bland perfection! They could do nothing wrong in 
my eyes. 

Women must feel cheap beside a really beautiful young man. 

But beauty of any sort takes my breath away and routs all my 
unbattled bag of tricks — dreams, values, prejudices. 

And so in this way, too, my ugliness is a bad weakness, and is 
an element of unreliability in my life. It is, from another stand- 
point, of serious worldly disadvantage to me. Women simply will 
not stand it or overlook it. But men also do not consider my pecu- 
liar ill-looks as consonant with what my books claim; wdth what I 
know my writing is. 

I enter a room — there stands before the assembled company a 
walking lampoon of Mankind; for those of penetration a sort of lewd 
drunken and preposterous version of William Blake, his bottom and 
the back of his head sticking waggishly out, an idiotic grin on his 



The Little Review 29 



face! What a reincarnation! If I could only have my posterior 
shaved down a bit! 

I think I must have convinced you that my silence has not hid- 
den complacency. Possibly that huge mass of humility at the rear 
of my cranium Should not be so despised, although nothing can com- 
pensate me for those horrible cushions that prop me up like a child 
when I sit down. 

The choice of such an extremely good looking woman as yourself 
for my wife was the result of all that I have just been explaining to 
you. Beauty was all I wanted to begin with, not children, flea 
hunter, gooseberry or canned meat. 

It was only when I married you and duly found you undressed 
at night, that the dull old Nature-hack woke up and gave a snort. 
He became an institution. Familiarity bred contempt. I produced 
Yorke! I was mildly surprised to find myself on such intimate terms 
with anything so beautiful. No beautiful man could stand as much 
ugliness as you have. 

For a long time I have felt that I had your secret, that you 
were not really of the Beautiful, but in reality ugly, like me, and 
that your passions put you in my side. But When one says that you 
are a woman, ca dit tout. 

Let us see what your next letter will be! 

W. Bland Burn. 



Petrograd, gth March 191 7. 
Dear Lydia, 

Your letter was short and preternaturally unsweet. You drop 
the discussion entirely; I at least succeeded in making you loosen 
your hold on that. 

My photograph of myself meets with a very cold reception. 
In fact, your undemonstrativeness, amounting to disdain, has hurt 
me very much! Cheerless and unprepossessing as it is, you might 
have paid a little more attention to it. After all, it is me: Bland, 
your husband! — need I add, Yorke's father? 

Or perhaps I am not Yorke's father? 

Yes, I am. I should know that tell-tale rump anywhere. 

Your letter I find wounding, there, in two ways. First, you ill- 



30 The Little Review 

naturedly drop our little controversy. That was disagreeably meant. 
And secondly, the first photograph that a husband sends to his loving 
wife is ignored and persiflage opened to a flank. 

In exchange for my aunt sallies you send me a very disagreeable 
object. Was it necessary? Am I expected to call you "my Gothic 
husband?" I am not going to. Your vanity finds strange paths 
and means to satisfy itself. 

I suppose I shall be accused of "obtuseness" in your next letter 
if I do not rave over the abortion you sent me ana say how much 
character and genius there is in your lip and — the other items. 

Decidedly, times have changed! A charming wife! Are you 
too fastidious to refer to parts of my anatomy more distinctly than 
— "other items"? Are they to be relegated with dignity to the dis- 
tant plane of an item? And they are not items! Ah, no certainly 
not items, whatever else they may be! As to my lip, it may not 
contain any genius, but you have frequently placed your two lips 
on either side of it and given a throaty trill of a laugh, provoking it 
to libidious misdemeanour you would prefer to forget. You would 
prefer to forget? — And our frolics have borne fruit! You are 
after all, my dear lady, only a reproductive machine, painted up in 
order not to be too unappetising. But you are a machine that has 
two legs which enable you at any time to run away if you feel in- 
clined. Any time in the last five years you could have done so. 
The first inclination that you have shown to use your legs in that 
way has been in the last few months. I therefore must suppose that 
you have soma adulterous plans, in which, I do not, however, take 
the faintest interest. You can burn my letters and photographs, 
and pawn the jewels and other pledges of my unhappy love! Now 
go to Hell. 

— Yours, 

W. B. Burn. 

(to be continued) 



The Little Review ,• 31 

MATINEE 

Jessie Dismorr 

The Croisette trembles in the violent matutinal light; shapes quicken 
and pass; the day moves. My nerves spring to the task of 
quisiitiveness. 

The secret of my success is a knowledge of the limitedness of time. 

Economy is scientific: I understand the best outlay of intention. 

Within this crazy shell, an efficient machinery mints satisfactions. 

Your pity is a systematic mistake. I may yet grow arrogant on the 
wastage of other lives. The holes of my sack spill treasure. 

Who but I should be susceptible to the naked pressure of things? 

Between me and apprenhension no passions draw their provoking 
dissimulative folds. 

I have not clouded heaven with the incense of personal demand. 

Myself and the universe are two entities. Those unique terms admit 
the possibility of clean intercourse. 

All liaisons smell of an inferior social grade; but alliance can dis- 
pense with fusion and touch. 

I treat with respect the sparkling and gesticulating dust that con- 
fronts me: of it are compounded fruits and diamonds, superb 
adolescents, fine manners. 

This pigment, disposed by the ultimate vibrations of force, paints 
the universe in a contemporary mode. 

I am glad it is up-to-date and ephemeral; that I am to be diverted 
by a succession of fantasies. 

The static cannot claim my approval . I live in the act of departure. 
Eternity is for those who can dispose of an amplitude of time. 

Pattern is enough. I pray you, do not mention the soul. 

Give me detail and the ardent ceremonial of commonplaces that 
means nothing. 

Oh, the ennui of inconceivable space! My travelling spirit will 
taste too soon of emptiness. 

I thrill to the microscopic. I plunder the close-packed cells and 
burrows of life. 

The local has always the richness of brocade: it is worth while to 
explore the design. 



32 * The Lit tig Review 



I spell happiness out of dots and dashes; a ray, a tone, the insig- 
nificance of a dangling leaf. 

Provided it has a factual existence the least atom will suffice my 
need. 

But I cannot stomach shadows. It is certain that the physical round 
world would fit my mouth like a lolly-pop. 

You ask: To what end this petty and ephemeral busines, this last 
push of human sensation? 

Is one then a neophyte in philosophy, demanding reasons and results? 

I proclaim life to the end a piece of artistry, essentially idle and 
exquisite. 

The trinkets stored within my coffin shall outlast my dust. 



THE CLASSICS "ESCAPE" 
Ezra Pound 

IT IS well that the citizen should be acquainted with the laws of 
his country. In earlier times the laws of a nation were graven 
upon tablets and set up in the market place. I myself have seen a sign 
"Bohemians are not p>ermitted within the precincts of this com- 
mune"; but the laws of a great republic are too complex and arcane 
to permit of this simple treatment. I confess to having been a bad 
citizen, to just the extent of having been ignorant that at any mo- 
ment my works might be classed in law's eye with the inventions of 
the late Dr. Condom. 

I have been unable to speak promptly regarding the suppression 
of the October number ; I am a long way from the New York Post 
Office. 

However, as I. whom the law appears to concern, was ignor- 
ant of it, it is possible that others with only a mild interest in liter- 
ature may be equally ignorant ; I therefore quote the law : 

Section 211 of the United States Criminal Code provides: 
"Every obscene, lewd, or lascivious, and every filthy, book pamphlet, 
picture, paper, letter, writing, print, or other publication of an indecent char- 



The Little Review 



33 



acter and every article or thing designed, adapted or intended for preventing 
conception or producing abortion, or for any indecent or immoral use; and 
every article, instrument, substance, drug, medicine, or thing which is adver- 
tised or described in a manner calculated to lead another to use or apply.it for 
preventing conception or producing abortion, or for any indecet or immoral 
purpose; and every written or printed card, letter, circular, book, pamphlet, 
advertisement, or notice of any kind giving information directly or indirectly, 
where, or how, or from whom, or by what means any of the hereinbefore- 
mentioned matters, articles, or things may be obtained or made, or where or 
by whom any act or operation of any kind for the procuring or producing of 
abortion will be done or performed, or how or by what means conception may 
be prevented or abortion produced, whether sealed or unsealed; and every letter, 
packet, or package, or other mail matter containing any filthy ,vile or indecent 
thing, device, or substance; any every paper, writing, advertisement, or repre- 
sentation that any article, instrument, substance, drug, medicine, or thing may, 
or can be, used or applied for preventing conception or producing abortion, or 
for any indecent or immoral purpose; and every description calculated to induce 
or incite a person to so use or apply any such article, instrument, substance, 
drug, medicine, or thing, is hereby declared to be non-mailable matter and shall 
not be conveyed in the mails or delivered from any post-office or by any letter 
carrier. Whoever shall knowingly deposit, or cause to be deposited for mailing 
or delivery, anything declared by this section to be non-mailable, or shall 
knowingly take, or cause the same to be taken, from the mails for the purpose 
of circulating or disposing thereof, or of aiding in the circulation or disposition 
thereof, shall be fined not more than five thousand dollars, or imprisoned not 
more than five years, or both". 

That, gentle reader , is the law , the amazing , grotesque , and 
unthinkable , ambiguous law of our country . 

The Little Review will continue to print that law monthly in 
order that it may become known. For it is well that the citizens 
of a country should be aware of its laws. 

It is not for me to promulgate obiter dicta ; to say that what- 
ever the cloudiness of its phrasing this law was obviously designed 
to prevent the circulation of immoral advertisements, propaganda 
for secret cures, and slips of paper that are part of the bawdy house 
business; that it was not designed to prevent the mailing- of Dante> 
Villon, and Catullus. Whatever the subjective attitude of the fram- 



B^ 



34 The Little Review 

ers of this legislation, \\t have fortunately a decision from a learned 
judge to guide us in its working. 

"I have little doubt that numerous really great writings would come 
under the ban if tests that are frequently current were applied, and these ap- 
proved publications doubtless at times escape only because they come within 
the term "classics", which means, for the purpose of the application of the 
statute, that they are ordinarily immune from interference, because they have 
the sanction of age and fame and USUALLY APPEAL TO A COMPARATIVE- 
LY LIMITED NUMBER OF READERS.* 

The capitals are my own. Judge Hand was quoted in our 
December issue. 

The gentle reader will picture to himself the state of America 
IF the classics were widely read; IF these books which in the begin- 
ning lifted mankind from savagery, and which from a.d. 1400 on- 
ward have gradually redeemed us from the darkness of mediavalism, 
should be read by the millions who now consume Mr. Hearst and the 
Lady's Home Journal ! ! ! ! ! ! 

Also there are to be no additions. No living man is to contri- 
bute or to attempt to contribute to the classics. Obviously even 
though he acquire fame before publishing, he can not have the sanc- 
tion of " age". 

Our literature does not fall under an inquisition; it does not 
bow to an index arranged by a council. It is subject to the taste of 
one individual. 

Our hundred and twenty millions of inhabitants desire their 
literature sdfted for them by one individual selected without any 
examination of his literary qualifications. 

I can not write of this thing in heat. It is a far too serious 
matter. 

We shall continue to publish the text of this law until the 
law is amended. Let us pray for a speedy victory in the field, but 
let us also recognize that it will not be acclerated by a prolongation 
of our internal darkness. 

No more damning indictment of American civilization has been 
written than that contained in Judge Hand's "opinion". The clas- 
sics "escape". They are "immune" "ordinarily". 



TheLittleReview 35 



Cantico Del Sole 

The thought of what America would be like 
If the classics had a wide circulation 

Troubles my sleep , 
The thought of what America , 
The thought of what America , 
The thought of what America would be like 
If the classics had a wide circulation 

Troubles my sleep , 
Nunc dimittis , Now lettest thou thy servant , 
Now lettest thou thy servant 

Depart in peace . 
The thought of what America , 
The thought of what America , 
The thought of what America would be like 
If the classics had a wide circulation ... . 

Oh well ! \ 

It troubles my sleep. 

Ezra I. Y. H. X. 

"Tarr", by Wyndham Lewis 

"Tarr" is the most vigorous and volcanic English novel of our 
time. Lewis is that rarest of phenomena, an Englishman who has 
achieved the triumph of being also an European. He is the only 
English writer who can be compared with Dostoevsky, and he is more 
rapid than Dostoevsky. his mind travels with greater celerity, with 
more unexpectedness, but he loses none of Dosteovsky's effect of 
mass and of weight. 

Tarr is a man of genius surrounded by the heavy stupidities of 
the half-cultured latin quarter; the book delineates his explosions in 
this oleaginous mileau; as well as the debacle of the unintelligent 
emotion-dominated Kreisler. They are the two titanic characters 
in contemporary English fiction . Wells's clerks, Bennet's "cards" 
and even Conrad's Russian vilHans do not ''bulk up" against them. 

Only in James Joyce's Stephen Dedalus does one find an equal 
intensity, and Joyce is, by comparison, cold and meticulous, where 
Lewis is, if uncouth, 'at any rate brimming with energy, the man 
with a leaping mind. — Ezra Pound. 



36 The Little Review 

WOMEN AND MEN 

Ford Madox Hueffer 

II. 

The Literature of the Subject 

AND when Ghama had made Man he desired that Man should 
have a companion. So he took the coldness of ice and the heat 
of fire and the softness of the dove's breast and the ferocity of the 
tiger and the fidelity of the Chakrawakra and the untrustworthyness 
of the Bandalog and the humility of the gazelle and the vanity of the 
peacock and the soft and weeping voice of the nightingale and the 
loquacity of the mocking bird and of all these ingredients he fash- 
ioned Woman. 

And Man rejoiced in his companion and went away with her. 
But wi±in a fortnight he returned to Ghama and said: 

"Oh Ghama take away this creature with which thou hast affict- 
ed me; for all day she chatters so that my head is like to burst and 
all night she is never silent so that I am unable to get any sleep and 
her laugh is as discordant as the cracking of pine trees in a gale. 
And water pours unceasingly from her eyes so that life is a bur- 
den to me." 

Then Ghama took Woman to himself again. 

But within a week the man came back to Ghama and said: 

"Oh Ghama give me back again her that you have taken. 
For my ears crave incessantly for the soft laughter of her voice so 
that by day I have no rest. And at night I am consumed as if by 
fire with the desire of her warm caresses. By day the light of the 
sun is a burden if I have not her companionship in the shade of the 
desert and at night the light of the moon is blighted if she is not 
with me when I walk by the broad and misty e.xp&nses of the river." 

Then Gam'a gave Woman back to Man. .^nd within three days 
Man came back again to Ghama and said: 

"Oh Great God Ghama take away now again this creature 
with which thou hast cursed me. For she is possessed of all those 
evils which before I reported to you and in a ten times worse degree. 



The Little Review 37 

So that in truth I cannot support my life with her." 

"Neither canst thou Hve without her," said Ghama. 

Then said Man : 

"Oh Ghama, what sort of a creature is this thou hast created 
since I cannot live either with her or without her." 

"That I cannot tell you," Ghama answered. 

The Digit oj the Moon. 

I was once very well acquainted with two Russian exiles who 
had escaped from the East of Siberia. They had gone overland, hid- 
ing in forests, crossing immense deserts, swimming broad rivers 
and avoiding humanity except when it was absolutely necessary for 
them to purchase food at the hut of a native. At the start they were 
the best of friends. Their tastes, their aims, their political aspira- 
tions and their friendships they both held in common. There was 
nothing about which they could differ but the journey — the desolate 
and solitary journey lasted for months and months over that im- 
mense stretch of territory. They were absolutely alone; they spoke 
to no other soul. And gradually these itwo men who had as it were 
their souls in common, who suffered the same perils, who relied upon 
each other's help to overcome the same difficulties — gradually these 
two men began to differ. They differed about the uniform of the 
convict guards on the island of Sagalien, about the date of the birth 
of Ivan the Terrible, about the doctrines of Karl Marx. The quarrels 
grevv^ more and more bitter; they were entirely alone. At last they 
travelled each upon the further horizon, just keeping each other in 
sight but never speaking, never shaking hands. So it went on for 
months and months. And one of my friends assured me that if the 
other man united to him in soul and purpose had come near him, such 
was his nervous exacerbation that he would undoubtedly have shot 
his companion and have perished miserably himself. On the other 
hand when for a whole day he lost sight of his friend he nearly went 
mad from loneliness. 

"It was very funny," he said reflectively, "I could neither live 
with him nor without him." 

It is such a journey as this over the months and years of time 
and the forests and deserts of a life-time that a man undertakes 
when he selects a woman for his mate and sets out. And it will be 
observed that the words used by my Russian friend about his com- 
panion are identical with those uSed by man about woman in the 



38 The Little Review 



Sudian legend that I have quoted.* 

The Englishman's mind is of course made up entirely of quo- 
tations. A person entirely without intellect himself, he is the man 
of all the world who best knows his poets. And the poets best 
known to him are of course Shakespeare and the English translators 
of the Bible. When his quotations do not come from either Shakes- 
p)eare or the Bible he thinks they do, so that it comes to the same 
thing. The moment you put before him any argument he at once 
floors you with a quotation which has a Biblical or a Shakespearean 
ring. It will be observed that the experience ofTlaubert and his 
friend was exactly parallel to that of my two Russians. Yet, Du 
Camp never said that Flaubert was like a woman. He just said that 
the great writer got on his nerves. 

The Englishman has of course two quotations about woman. 
One of them generally he knows to come from Byron and the other 
from the Vicar of Wakefield — 

"Oh woman in our hours of ease'' . . . 

And— 

"When lovely w^oman stoops to folly" 

So that outside Shakespeare he gathers that woman is uncertain 
coy and hard to please — which is all that he knows of the quotation 
from Byron. He also gathers from Goldsmith that she finds too late 
that men betray, and this makes him rather proud of himself as a 
potential "gay dog". 

To the Bible he goes for guidance as a rule upon most matters 
— except about women. He regards of course the Holy Scriptures 



* Note : Such instances are by no means uncommon when two men set 
out upon journeys together. There is an exactly parallel instance in the caae 
of Flaubert and Maxime du Camp. They journeyed together into the deserts 
of Egypt. They were the closest of friends. But at one time the society of 
Flaubert got to such an extent on the nerves of Du Camp that, says ce cher 
Maxime: 

"Je n'y tins plus; une pensee terrible me secoua. Je me dis: 'je vais le 
tuer! Je pouseai mon dromadaire jusqu'a le toucher, je lui pris le bras: 'Ou 
veux-tu te tenir? En arriere ou en avant?' II me repondit: 'J'irai en avant!' 
J'arretai mon dromadaire at quand notre petite troupe fut a deux cents paa 
en avant de moi, je repris ma marche. " Le soir je laissai Flaubert au milieu> 
de no8 ho/nmes et j'allai preparer ninn lit de sable a plus de deux cents metres 
du campement." 



T h e Lit tie Review 39 

as works too sacred to be used in the acquiring of merely worldly 
knowledge. The only women that he much considers in the Bible 
are Delilah and Ruth. The Virgin Mary he does not much care to 
think about: his tendency is faintly to regard Her as an improper 
member of an otherwise respectable family. He is not a very 
logical person, God's Englishman. Delilah he will not much think 
of because he wears his hair short. But when it comes to Ruth there 
is no Englishman who cannot give you the quotation about her. I 
can do it myself. 

And Ruth said: 

"Entreat me not to leave thee; or to leave off from following 
after thee. 

"For where thou goest I will go and where thou lodgest I will 
lodge. Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God. 

"Where thou diest will I die and there will I be buried. 

"The Lord do so to me and more also if aught but death part 
thee and me." 

This the excellent Englishman — before marriage — regards 
as the whole duty of woman. After his marriage his view changes 
somewhat. He rather objects to her entreating him not to leave 
her. He goes to his club where the hall porter has the strictest possi- 
ble injunction to let nothing in petticoats enter. But the woman 
having been carefully taught by the man has a general idea that the 
only person who ought to stop her is the keeper of the gates of a 
suburban cemetery. This causes a good many misunderstandings 
in the course of many lives. For the woman as a rule does not un- 
derstand that when she was told to behave like Ruth the gentleman 
did not really mean it. 

Roughly speaking, in Germany the woman is better drilled than 
in England. It is not so long since I saw a dinner party of German 
professors. The gentlemen were all eating an enormous and excel- 
lent repast. The wives sat round the walls of the dining-room 
knitting. They knew they were the inferior animals. They had 
been carefully taught even before marriage that they were not Ruth. 
Besides Ruth said nothing about dinners . Perhaps she did not ex- 
pect to eat with Boaz. 

In France where they manage these things better they do not 
read the Bible. That makes them inferior Christians — inferior 
creatures altogether. But whilst the French have not their eyes on 
the dizzy altitude where our gaze is permanently fixed, they have the 



40 The Little Review 

leisure to evolve a fairly satisfactory arrangement as to the living 
together of the sexes. It is perfectly true that every Englishman and 
every German would tell you that every French husband is un- 
faithful. So he probably is. But then every English and every 
German husband— though he will not tell you so — knows that he is 
much more unfaithful than any mere Frenchman could be. Isn't 
that why we go to Paris? Yes surely and ginger shall be hot in the 
mouth. 

The real difference is that the Frenchwoman, not having it 
perpetually dinned into her that she is Ruth, does not expect much 
fidelity from her husband and what the eye does not see the heart 
does not grieve after. On the other hand the French woman takes a 
great deal of care to have a controlling voice in her husband's busi- 
ness affairs. There is' no inferiority in her consciousness . She knows 
that she is a better business man than her husband. But if he is a 
good boy she lets him go out and play now and then. And the net 
result is that one does not hear in a French club the imbecilities 
about women that one will hear in an English or a German one. 

(In America where they have not begun to think about life but 
merely exhaust themselves in the uplifting search after the dollar, 
the men are entirely emasculated. They never talk about women at 
all in their clubs. Poor America! Like the young puppy it has all 
its troubles before it. As it at present stands the United States has 
reduced the English and the German system to lunacy. France 
on the other hand has advanced that system to a reasonable modus 
Vivendi. 

The most important, as it is the most singular, of contributions 
to modern literature on tlie sex question is an extraordinary work 
called in English.- "Sex and Character". This book is noteworthy 
because it had an immense international vogue. It was towards the 
middle of '06 that one began to hear in the men's clubs of England 
and in the cafes of France and Germany — one began to hear singu- 
lar mutterings amongst men. Even in the United States where men 
never talk about women, certain whispers might be heard. The 
idea was that a new gospel had appeared. I remember sitting with 
a table full of overbearing intellectuals in that year, and they at once 
began to talk — about Weininger .It gave me a singular feeling be- 
cause they all talked under their breaths. I should like to be precise 
as to the strong impression I then received, because if I could convey 
that impression exactly I should give a precise idea of what is the 



T he Lit tl e Rev tew 41 

attitude of really advanced men towards woman-kind. 

To begin with my companions: 

There may have been ten of them and every one of them 
except myself had a name of some distinction in the world of ad- 
vanced ideas in England. It was indeed a gathering with a formal 
name. Let us say that it was called the Pincushion, though the real 
name was of course much more serious. 

I once perpetrated an epigram — the only epigram of my whole 
life. God knows how a person so frivolous as myself ever came to 
be made a member of the Pincushion Club. But a member I once 
certainly was. And I was asked, by a young person in a voice of 
awe, what was this mysterious and authoritative assembly? I ans- 
wered — and this was the one epigram of my life — "What the Pin- 
cushion Club says to-night the Daily News yiiW say to-morrow." 

For the benefit of those few of my readers who are not also stu- 
dents of that instructive journal I should point out that this means 
that the members of the Pincushion Club were, to a man, serious, 
improving, ethical, advanced, careless about dress and without ex- 
ception Young Liberals. The date of which I am speaking fell in 
1906 and it will be remembered that it was just about that time that 
Miss Pankhurst interrupted the late Sir Henry Campbell Bannerman 
at the Albert Hall. I had more or less sincerely — but how very 
stupid it was of me! — imagined that these Young Liberals would 
sympathise with the attempts of woman to attain a share in the 
government of the country. And so they did of course, for were they 
not to a man Young Liberals? But the odd thing was that they 
were extraordinarily angry with Miss Pankhurst and her followers. 
They were anxious to point out to me that they were the most ad- 
vanced body of men that could be found in the world. Their sjnnpa- 
thies with anything advanced could not possibly be doubted. To sus- 
pect them on this point would be worse than suspecting the Pope of 
heresy. It would be too shocking! 

But when it came to Miss Pankhurst they exclaimed all to- 
gether that she was really a bad girl. They said that it was such bad 
manners to interrupt a Liberal Prime Minister, fo rail Liberal Prime 
Ministers are by nature inclined to favour advanced ideas. And all 
my friends showed themselves pained to the point of tears and I knew 
then that next day the Daily News would say that Miss Pankhurst 
was a very naughty girl indeed. 

And then suddenly all their voices sank low together. I really 



42 The Little Review 

thought that for the first and last time someone of that circle was 
going to relate an indecent anecdote. But that would have been im- 
possible. No! they were talking about Weininger. 

And the odd thing was that every one of them had read "Sex 
and Character", w'hereas I had never even heard the name of that 
young German doctor of medicine. That singular and whimsically 
nonsensical work had spread through the serious male society of 
England as if it had been an epidemic. If it had been the Influenza 
up)on its first visit it could not more effectively have laid them low. 
They knew all about the book, they knew even all about the romantic 
young doctor who had laid this terrific egg at the age of twenty or 
so, or .vho like an eel had died of the effort. Their tones were ex- 
traordinarily curious. They contained a mixture of relief, of thanks- 
giving, of chastened jubilations, of regret and of obscenity. It was 
as if they were some sort of inverted monks rejoicing because some- 
one had proved that the Christian miracles were all false; or rather 
it was as if they were all high-minded bankrupts to whom some new 
law-giver of genius had proved that the paying of debts was un- 
necessarily scrupulous. And that indeed is what they were. 

For the young doctor who went mad and died at the age of 
twenty-three had proved to them that women were inferior animals . 
He had proved it to the satisfaction of all their intelligences; out of 
the mouth of this babe and suckling had come the wisdom for which 
they had craved. And they were — all these Young Liberals — un- 
feignedly thankful. They were more thankful than any men that I 
have ever known. The burden of years had fallen from their shoul- 
ders. For, for years and years they had had, as Liberal minded men, 
to live up to the idea that women should have justice done to them. 
Now Dr. Weininger had come along and proved that women were in- 
ferior animals. He had proved it by all the sciences that are open 
to a very very young German doctor of medicine. He had proved 
it by medicine, by biology, by classical law, by theology, which is 
the oldest of all sciences and by "characterology" which was a 
science so new that it had been invented by Dr. Weininger himself. 
And how thankful my Liberal friends were! Once more they could 
look the world in the face. In one particular at least they could find 
themselves in agreement with the bagman, the music-hall singers and 
all those unthinking and jovial people who make up the man in the 
street. Yes, they were unfeingedly thankful for it meant that the 
Young Liberal Party need not any more be burdened with the woman 



The Little Review 43 

question. They were able then and there to throw women over and 
that was an immense gain for the Party. For the Young Liberal 
Party is always being made fun of by bagmen and by music-hall 
singers. In this respect they would at least be able to be at one with 
the ordinary male man. It made them very happy. As for me I was 
discouraged for I really imagined that Weininger had proved his case. 
But immediately I resigned my membership of the Pincushion Club. 
I couldn't stand the Young Liberal any more. They had given them- 
selves away too thoroughly! 

I did not read Weininger for some time afterwards because, be- 
ing naive and ingenuous I really believed my Young Liberal friends 
when they assured me that "Sex and Character" was a scientific 
work. I was at that time a little tired of the Doctor posing as a 
prophet in these matters. We all know the distinguished president 
of the British College of Physicians who assures us quite arbitrarily 
that woman has no frontal lobe of the brain- — this is quite untrue — 
and that therefore she is unable to drive railway trains. This also 
is quite untrue. We all know, too, the distinguished president of the 
Scottish College of Surgeons who assures us that because woman 
lacks one rib — that I believe is true — therefore she cannot write epic 
poems, and we all know the several other distinguished medical gen- 
tlemen who assure us that because of matters which one cannot dis- 
cuss in drawing-rooms all women are necessarily dishonest. Never- 
theless after a time I did read this new scientific work. 

Dr. Weininger's book is a collection of arbitrary theories in- 
vented by Dr. Weininger himself and of second-'hand nonsense 
collected as it were from the music halls. What Dr. Weininger's 
own immense discovery amounts to is, that some men are more like 
women and some women are more like men. This enormous dis- 
covery had already been made by my grand aunt Bromley — the lady 
who said that you can never trust a man when he is out of your sight. 
It was also made by Shakespeare, Euripedes, the writers of the Bible, 
of the Egyptian Book of the Dead. I should imagine that the only 
persons who were not acquainted with this world shaking discovery 
^— the only recorded persons who never discovered it for themselves 
were Adam and Eve. But Dr. Weininger, commencing his great 
work at the age of about fourteen, did certainly elaborate the idea, 
for as he grew older he must have discovered that this proposition 
startled nobody when it was put boldly. 



44 The Little Review 

I imagine the gifted boy approaching the scribes and elders of 
his day and attempting to expound the law to them. Says he: 

"I have discovered that some men are more like women and 
some women are more like men." 

A profound silence greets his remark. The gifted boy goes away 
to reflect on the cause of his failure. He discovers that what is 
wanted is that his discovery should be wrapt up in scientific termi- 
nology. And after several years he sets down the proposition thus: 

Sometimes M = M" -f W^ 
and VV = W^ + M" 

This means exactly the same as the original proposition but it 
looks more formidable. With this as a basis Dr. Weininger launches 
out upon a yet more adventurous discovery. He discovers that for 
a happy marriage it is best for a manly man not to marry a manly 
woman because each will want to be head'of the house, and that it 
is better for a womanly man not to marry a womanly Avoman because 
then the house will have no head at all and will therefore not be well 
conducted. This discovery was also made by my grand aunt Brom- 
,ley and no doubt our first parents were able to observe it working in 
the households of Cain and Abel. And Dr. Weininger, no doubt find- 
ing that his discovery lacked mysteriousness, proceeds once more 
to express it thus: 



(M7 + Wi) 



(W7 


+ Ml) 


(M7 -f Wi) 


{W 


+ MO 


(Ml 


+ WO 



= X 



= Y 



= Y 

{W + Ml) 

X being satisfactory and Y unsatisfactory union. 

This it will be admitted is a very impressive way of stating an 
extraordinarily worn out platitude and without doubt Dr. Weininger 
deserves all the success that he obtained. He proceeds to state that 
this Algebraic theory will be found to be true in the cases of the 



The Little Review 45 

marriage of animals and of plants. But he does not support this 
dogma with any scientific examples . Why should he? And this is 
positively all the hard scientific fact that his great volume contains; 
the rest is sheer arbitrary statements. 

This is how it is done. Dr. Weininger proceeds to question: 

"What is genius?" He answers: 

"Genius is memory." 

And he devotes an immense long chapter to proving that Homer, 
Shakespeare, Goethe, Schiller, Freiligrath, Bismarck and Richard 
Wagner all had wonderful memories. He supports the theory with 
quotations from the autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, the con- 
fessions of Jean Jacques Rousseau, Novalis, Cicero and Heinrich 
Heine. All this part of a chapter on genius he documents in the most 
weighty and the most teutonic manner. No reader could possibly 
doubt that here is a truly scientific work. Towards the end of the 
chapter Dr. Weininger, thumping his pulpit shouts: "Thus I have 
proved that genius is memory." Then as it were in a low voice he 
says "No woman ever had a good memory, therefore no woman was " 
ever a genius." And in that moment he jumps down from the pulpit 
before anyone has time to make objections. 

Or again he asks: 

"What is greatness?" and he answers: To be great is to have a 
strong sense of one's own individuality." He proceeds* to cite the 
cases of Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Charlemagne. Prince 
Eugene, Frederick the Great, Marshall Bluecher, Napoleon, the first 
Count Moltke and William i of Germany. All these people he says 
had a strong sense of their individual importance. He proceeds to 
document his theory with quotations from Jean Paul, Novalis, Schel- 
ling, Kant and Nietzsche. He mentions Shelley, Lucretius and 
Hume with disapproval. He approves of Archimedes, Johannes Mul- 
ler, Karl Ernst von Baer, Conrad Sprengel, Friedrich August Wolff, 
Franz Bopp, Leibnitz, Newton and Thucydides. He quotes Empe- 
docles, Plotinius and Goethe. Once more there is the splendid Ger- 
man scientific manner. Once more he thumps his pulpit, 'fehouts: 
"To be great is to have a sense of one's own individual importance." 
Once more he slips out the sentence: "No woman has ever had a 
sense of her own individual importance. Therefore no woman was 
ever great." And once more he vanishes discreetly from view. 

For these allegations against women Dr. Weininger adduces no 
authority. He does not quote Novalis or Amiel or Schelling or Jean 



46 T he Li t tie Rev lew 

Paul Richter or even the most obscure of German philosophers. He 
just boldly makes a statement. In this way: 

" — And even women with the best and least limited mem- 
ories never free themselves from this kind of association by feel- 
ings. For instance if they 'feel reminded' by a word of some 
definite colour, or by a human being of some definite thing 
to eat— forms of association common with women — they rest 
content with the subjective association, and do not try to find 
out the source of the comparison, and if there is any relation 
in it to actual fact. The complacency of self satisfaction of 
women corresponds with what has been called their intellectual 
unscrupulousness. and will be referred to again in connection 
with their want of the power to form concepts." 

The aim of this passage is to prove that women have no memo- 
ries. Or again, says Dr. Weininger, 

"The consciousness of identity of the male even although 
he may fail to understand his own past, manifests itself in the 
very desire to understand that past. Women, if they look back 
on their earlier lives never understand themselves and do not 
even wish to understand themselves, and this reveals itslf in the 
scanty interest they give to the attempts of man to understand 
them. The woman does not interest herself about herself." 

Or yet again: 

"There is nothing more upsetting, to a man than to find, 
when he has discovered a woman in a lie, and he asks her: "WTiy 
did you lie about it?" that she simply does not understand the 
question, but simply looks at him and laughingly tries to soothe 
him, or bursts into tears." 
Or once more: 

"Truth must first be regarded as the real value of logic and 
ethics before it is correct to speak of deviations from truth for 
special motives as lies from the moral point of view. Those 
who have not this high conception should be adjudged as guilty 
rather of vagueness and exaggeration than of lying; they are not 
immoral, but non-moral. And in this sense the woman is non- 
moral!" 

This last passage shows Dr. Weininger at his astutest. With an 
admirable cunning he wraps up a truism in scientific language that 



The Little Review- 47 

that may awe the simple-minded and comfort the erudite. This is at 
the opening of the paragraph. And then when he has proved to his 
own satisfaction that he is learned, balanced, thoughtful and scientific 
he makes a statement from quite another department of knowledge 
and trusts that his form.er erudition may carry him over. This is 
Dr. Weininger's one technical trick and he uses it with such consum- 
mate skill that he certainly hoodwinked a large portion of the world 
of his day. Here for instance we may read how he affected his 
publishers: 

"In the two chapters, The Nature of Woman and her Sig- 
nificance in the Universe, and Woman and Mankind, we drink 
from a fountain of the ripest wisdom. A tragic and most un- 
happy mind reveals itself here, and no thoughtful man will lay 
down ithis book without deep emotion and admiration, many, 
indeed, will close it with almost religious reverence." 

It is almost incredible that any human being can have written 
in this way of any book written by human hands, yet there the words 
stand in cold print. And v/hat does it all amount to*. It is as if a 
first class cricketer should demand the religious attention of the 
public to his pronouncement upon literary style or as if a field mar- 
shal should demand to be listened to on the subject of the divorce 
law. It amounts exactly to that. Dr. Weininger was something of a 
biologist, something of a psychologist, something of a metaphysician. 
He had passed his time — his short life — in the reading of innumerable 
books; he could turn out some really good, compiled chapters on logic, 
aesthetics, metaphysics. And his reading on these subjects was prob- 
ably unrivalled by any German student of his day. He was nothing 
more or less than a conscientious book-worm and an absolutely un- 
scrupulous theorist, these characteristics going so often hand in hand. 
He lived in the little town of Jena where opportunities for observing 
life are as wide or as narrow as in any other little town of a handful 
of learned inhabitants and where the atmosphere is as conducive to 
the study of books as is anywhere possible. He was an immensely 
hard worker, he had an enormous memory, he had an extremely arro- 
gant sense of his personal worth. (It will be observed that he says 
that the characteristics of genius are memory and an arrogant sense 
of one's personal worth.) 

Without doubt the poor fellow thought himself a genius and per- 
haps'he was. Then this book-worm came across a stupid girl just as 
Christina Rossetti came across a stupid young man. There was 
nothing on the face of Weininger to show that he was a great man. 



48 The Little Review 



He was rather ugly, arrogant and rude. The stupid girl ignored his 
distinguished qualities, deceived him and threw him over. The result 
of this experience — it was the only real experience of this short life 
— is to be found in the passage that I have quoted — the one begin- 
ning. There is nothing more upsetting to a man than to find, 
when he has discovered a woman in a lie" .... And this passage 
is a real outpouring of the soul of poor Weininger. The stupid young 
girl had gone to the theatre in Weimar with another and more at- 
tractive young man. Afterwards she lied about it to the doctor and 
naturally he had never experienced anything more upsetting. At last 
she deserted him for the more dashing young student. Then Wein- 
inger, outraged and driven mad by his solitary experience, retired 
into his study to revenge himself against the sex. And when he had 
written his book he shot himself on the fourth of October, 1903. 

As I have said, Dr. Weininger hardly documents his book at all; 
the list of actual women whom he mentions by name limiting itself 
to a score or so. Of these the most prominent are, from an English 
point of view, George Sand. Christina Rossetti and George Eliot. 
Of George Sand he says in the familiar anti-feminine tone that she 
ought to have been a man. George Eliot he says, "had a broad mas- 
sive forehad, her movements like her expression were quick and de- 
cided and lacked all womanly grace." Christina Rossetti he likewise 
declares to have been masculine in her character! Of another con- 
nection of my own, Annette von Droste Hulshorff he says upon one 
page that she was the most original poetess that Germany produced 
and that "her frame was wiry and unwomanly and her face mascu- 
line and recalling that of Dante." This is when Dr. Weininger is 
anxious to prove that all women of distinction have had masculine at- 
tributes. Now, I am exceedingly acquainted with portraits and with 
anecdotes of this poetess who really did write some extremely charm- 
ing verse. In her youth she was fresh coloured, soft in outline and 
smiling. Towards the end of her life she certainly grew thin and 
rather hook-nosed but in her general characteristics, and particularly 
in her long-drawn-out love affair with the poet Levin Schucking, she 
was certainly as feminine as any one could desire. But it is not 
enough for Dr. Weininger to belabour Annette with attributes of 
masculinity upon page 67 when he is anxious to say that she is an 
original poetess. On a later page when he desires to prove that no 
woman ever wrote original poetry he says that Annette's work was 
unoriginal, outmoded and feminine. In this way does this distin- 
guished writer have his aruguments both ways. And similarly when 



The Little Review 49 

/ le wishes to prove that distinguished women, being always masculine- 
I ninded, mate themselves with effeminate men, he mentions Daniel 
Stern the mistress of Liszt and then says that Liszt's compositions 
were effeminate. He says that "Mme de Stael, whose work on Ger- 
many is probably the greatest book by woman ever published, is 
supposed to have been intimate with August Wilhelm Schlegel" — 
an effeminate. But he never mentions the catalogue of other lovers 
whom Mme de Boigne assigns to Mme de Stael — lovers who were 
all sufficiently masculine. And hfe does not even spell Mme de 
Stael's name correctly. 

It is in this way that Dr. Weininger's large book is built Uf) — 
by leaving out documentation as far as possible when he is upon 
the question of woman; by falsifying his documentation or by mis- 
reading- other documents when documentation is forced upon him. 
And as a matter of fact he approaches women very sparingly at all 
in this work. About ten per cent of it is devoted to provingHhe 
littleness of the inferior sex; about ninety per cent is devoted to 
those passages in which he analyses the nature of the greatness of 
man. And this ninety per cent is documented carefully enough. 

Writing on questions of sex characteristic is vastly more diffi- 
cult than writing upon international differences, and there are few 
men so bold that they would write upon the characteristics of China 
without having visited that empire or ever having known with some 
intimacy a Chinaman. Most men will tell you that the nature of 
women is vastly more incomprehensible to them than is the empire 
of the Mongols. Yet there is hardly any man, be his acquaintance 
with women ever so little or his experience of them ever so limited, 
that would not willingly sit down to write you a great long book 
, about what he will call the fair sex. 

So it was with Dr. Weininger who shot himself in 1903 because 
a silly girl went from the town of Jena to the theatre of Weimar 
with a fellow-student. That some experience of a foreign country 
would have been necessary to him before he wrote about that foreign 
country, he would have been ready to agree. Yet thoug^h the heart 
of another is a dark forest, he was ready to set out writing on the 
mysteries that are to be found in innumerable darknesses without 
having touched more than one tree in all the forests of this world. 
For It is literally the fact that the one trace of experience in all this 
long book is the poor young man's expression of astonishment when 
be found that a woman could lie to him. He regarded himself as 



50 



The Little Review 



God Almighty; that, I suppose, is why his publisher recommends 
us to lay down his book with almost religious reverence. 

I am aware that it may seem almost foolish to break so gravely 
upon a wheel so frail a butterfly, and indeed I have only set about 
the task because this work represents for so many men of the present 
day a fifth gospel. 

Before the day of Weininger their testament was a work called 
"Parerga und Paralipomena", and a chapter of that work called 
"Ueber die Weiber". But this celebrated chapter beginning with 
the world-renowned words: 

''Dass man das kurzbeinige, breithupige u. s. w. Geschlecht 
das schoene nennen sollt — '' this celebrated chapter is not meant 
even by its author to be taken very seriously, for the sub-title of 
this collection is given as "little philosophic sketches" and it is 
bound up with such half humorous philippics as the exceedingly 
funny essay called "Ueber Larm und Geraeusch''. Schopenhauer 
knew quite well that he was exaggerating; that he was exaggerating 
even humorously. He documents his tremendous essay with the 
most solemn and portentous notes. He puts into it the fruits of as 
much reading as the ordinary scholar would give to his work of a 
whole life-time. But the whole effect is slightly whimsical, is slightly 
nonsensical. It produces the impression of a good Tory filled with 
port wine and at peace with the universe, declaring loudly that all 
Liberals are a set of swine whose sole preoccupation is that of 
handing over the British Empire to the Germans. He knows that 
it isn't true but he goes on adducing fact after fact in a fine non- 
sensical fury. Schopenhauer's experience of women was twice as 
broad as Weininger's, but it was only half as deep. He knew two 
of these mysterious creatures, his mother who worried him to mad- 
ness with her silly tongue and his housekeeper whom eventually he 
threw dowTistairs. She broke her leg and he was under the necessity 
of paying her a pension for the rest of her life and quite naturally 
this annoyed him. The rest of the knowledge of life that this 
learned philosopher had he acquired at the public dining table of 
a restaurant in Frankfurt. Here he was accustomed to sit every 
day during lunch time. Beside him on the table cloth he would lay 
a ten Taler piece in gold. And this piece of money he declared that 
he would give to the poor as soon as he heard one of the many officers 
who sat at table with him. talk of anything more sensible than rac- 
ing or women. He was never called on for the ten Talers. So that 
perhaps Schopenhauer heard something about the fair sex after all. 
But he was a very great philosopher and quite the ugliest man of his 



The Little Review 51 



day. His mother Johanna Schopenhauer was the most popular 
novelist of her day and Arthur was entirely dependent on her. This 
alone would have been sufficient to have irritated any philosopher 
for she was a tiresome woman — and he was a tiresome man. Before 
Schopenhauer there was no writer who systematically and scientifi- 
cally attacked the other half of the human creation. 

{to be continued) 



BERTHA 

Arthur Symons 

No, dear Madame, it has never greatly interested me to be taken 
for a poet. And that is one reason why I have for the most 
part shunned poetical persons; you are the exception, of course, but 
then you are beautiful, and I forgive you for being that. And yet 
I too have been taken for a poet. Shall I tell you about it, before 
I tell you about Bertha, who did not know what a poet was? 

It was one midnight, in London, at the corner of a somewhat 
sordid street. I was standing at the edge of the pavement, looking 
across at the upper windows of a house opposite. That does not 
strike you, dear Muse of imaginary cypresses, as a poetical attitude? 
Perhaps not; and indeed I was thinking- little enough of poetry at 
the time. I was thinking only of someone who had quitted me in 
anger, five minutes before, and whose shadow I seemed to see on 
the blind, in that lighted upper room of the house opposite. I 
stood quite motionless on the pavement, and I gazed so intently at 
the blind, that, as if in response to the urgency of my will, the 
blind was drawn aside, and she looked out. She saw me, drew 
back, and seemed to speak to someone inside; then returned to the 
window, and pulling down the blind behind her, leant motionless 
against the glass, watching me intently. In this manner we gazed 
at one another for some minutes, neither, at the time, realizing that 
each could be seen so distinctly by the other. As I stood there, 
unable to move, yet in mortal shame of the futile folly of such an 
attitude, I realized that my appearance was being discussed by some 
loungers not many yards distant. And the last, decisive, uncontro- 
verted conjecture was this: "He's a poet!" That point settled. 



$2 The Little Review 



one of them left the group, and came up to me. He was a prize- 
fighter, quite an amiable person: I welcomed him, for he talked 
to me, and so gave me an excuse for lingering; he was kind enouq^h 
to borrow a shilling of me, before we parted; and the action or slip- 
ping the coin into his hand gave me the further excuse of turning 
rapidly away, wiihont a last look at the motionless figure watching 
me from the lighted window. Ah, that was a long time ago, Madame; 
but you see I remember it quite distinctly, not, perhaps, because it 
was the occasion when I was taken for a poet. Do you mind if I talk 
now about Bertha? I met Bertha much more recently, but T am 
not sure that I remember her quite so well. 

This was at Brussels. It was in the time of the Kermesse when, 
as you know, the good Flemish people are somewhat more boister- 
ously jolly than usual; when the band plays in the middle of the 
market-place, and the people walk round and round the band-stand, 
looking up at the Archangel Michael on the spire of the Hotel de 
Ville, to see him turn first pink and then green, as the Bengal lig-hts 
smoke about his feet; when there are processions in the street, 
music and torches, and everyone* sets out for the Fair. Vou have 
seen the Gingerbread Fair at Paris? Well, imagine a tiny Ginger- 
bread Fair, but with something quite Flemish in the solid gaiety of 
its shows and crowds, as solid as the bons chevaux de bois, Verlaine s 
bons chevaux de bois, that go prancing up and down in their rattling 
circles. Quite Flemish, too, were the little mysterious booths, which 
you have certainly not found in Paris. Madame, and which I should 
certainly not have taken 3'^ou to see in Brussels . You paid a penny 
^t the door, and, once inside, were scarcely limited in regard to the 
sum you might easily spend on very little. \Vliat did one see? In- 
deed, very little. There was a lady, perched, for the mosi part, in. 
an odd little alcove, raised a bed's height above the ground. As a. 
rule, she was not charming, not even young; and her conversation 
was almost limited to a phrase in which Man petit benefice recurred 
somewhat tiresomely. No, there was not much to see, after all. 

But Bertha was different. I don't know exactly whar was the 
odd fascination of Bertha, but she fascinated us all; the mild Flemish 
painter, with his golden beard; our cynical publisher, with his dia- 
bolical monocle; my fantastical friend, the poet; and, Madame, be 
sure, myself. She was tall and lisom: she apologised for takinsf the 



The Little Review 53 



place of the fat lady usually on exhibition; she had strange, perverse, 
shifting eyes, the colour of burnt topazes, and thin painful lips, 
that smiled frankly, when the eyes began their queer dance under 
the straight eyebrows. She was scarred on the cheek: a wicked 
Baron, she told us, had done that, with vitroil; one of her breasts 
was singularly mutilated; she had been shot in the back by an 
Englishman, when she was keeping a shooting-gallery at Antwerp. 
And she had the air of a dangerous martyr, who might bewitch one, 
with some of those sorceries that had turned, somehow, to her 
own hurt. 

We stayed a long time in the booth. I forget most ot our con- 
versation. But I remember that our publisher, holding the monocle 
preposterously between his lips, announced solemnly: Je sui's un 
poete. Then he generously shifted the credit upon the two of us 
who were most anxious to disclaim the name. Bertha was curious, 
but bewildered. She had no conception of what a poet was. We 
tried French, Flemish, and English, poem, verse, rhyme, song, 
everything in short, and in vain. At last an idea struck her: she 
understood: we were cafe-chantant singers. That was the nearest 
she ever came. 

Do but think of it, Madame, for one instant: a woman who 
does not so much as know what a poet is! But you can have no 
idea how grateful I was to Bertha, nor how often, since then, I 
have longed to see her again. Never did any woman so cliarm 
me by so celestial an ignorance. The moments I spent with Bertha 
at the Fair repaid me for I know not how many weary hours in 
drawing-rooms. Can you understand the sensation, Madame, the 
infinite relief? .... And then she was a snake-like creature, with 
long cool hands. 



54 The Little Review 



A LIST OF BOOKS 
Ezra Pound 

WHEN circumstances have permitted me to lift up my prayer to 
the gods, of whom there are several, and whose multiplicity has 
only been forgotten during the less felicitous periods,! have requested 
for contemporary use, some system of delayed book reviewing, some 
system whereby the critic of current things is permitted to state that 
a few books read with pleasure five or six years ago can still be with 
pleasure perused, and that their claims to status as literature have 
not been obliterated by half or all of a decade. • 

George S. Street 

There was in the nineties, the late nineties and during the early 
years of this century, and still is,, a writer named George S. Street. 
He has written some of the best things that have been thought con- 
cerning Lord Byron, he has written them not as a romanticist, not 
as a presbyterian, but as a man of good sense. They are worthy 
of commendation. He has written charmingly in criticism of eight- 
eenth century writers, and of the ghosts of an earlier Piccadilly. 
He has w'ritten tales of contemporary life with a suavity, wherefrom 
the present writer at least has learned a good deal, even if he have 
not yet put it into scriptorial practice. (I haste to state this 
indebtedness) . 

The writers of moeurs contemporaines are so few, or rather 
there are so few of them who can be treated under the heading ''lit- 
erature", that the discovery or circulation of any such writer is no 
mean critical action. Mr. Street is "quite as amusing as Stockton", 
,with the infinite difference that Mr. Street has made literature. 
Essays upon him are not infrequent in volumes of english essays 
dealing wtih contemporary authors. My impression is that he is not 
widely read in America (his publishers will- doubtless put me right 
if this impression is erroneous) ; I can only conclude that the pos- 
session of a style, the use of a suave and pellucid english has erected 
some sort of barrier. 

"The Trials of the Bantocks", "The Wise and the Wayward", 



The Little Review $5 



"The Ghosts of Piccadilly", "Book of Essays", "The Autobiography 
of a Boy", "Quales Ega" "Miniatures and Moods", are among his 
works, and in them the rare but intelligent reader may take refuge 
from the imbecilities of the multitude. 

Frederick Manning 

In 19 10 Mr. Manning published, with the almost defunct and 
wholly uncommendable firm of John Murray, "Scenes and Por- 
traits", the opening paragraph of which I can still, I believe, quote 
from memeory. 

"When Merodach, King of Uruk, sat down to his meals, 
he made his enemies his footstool, for beneath his table he kept 
an hundred kings with their thumbs and great toes cut off, as 
signs of his power and clemency. When Merodach had finished 
eating he shook the crumbs from his napkin, and the kings fed 
■ themselves with two fingers, and when Merodach observed how 
painful and difficult this operation was, he praised God for hav- 
ing given thumbs to man. 

" 'It is by the absence of things', he said, 'that we learn 
their use. Thus if we deprive a man of his eyes we deprive him 
of sight, and in this manner we learn that sight is the function 
of the eyes.' 

"Thus spake Merodach, for he had a scientific mind and was 
curious of God's handiwork. And when he had finished speak- 
ing, his courtiers applauded him." 

Adam is afterwards discovered trespassing in Merodach's gar- 
den or paradise. The characters of Bagoas, Merodach's high priest, 
Adam, Eve and of the Princess Candace are all admirably presented. 
The book is divided in six parts: the incident of the Kingdom of 
Uruk, a conversation at the house of Euripides, "A Friend of Paul", 
a conversation between St. Francis and the Pope, another between 
Thomas Cromwell and Macchiavelli, and a final encounter between 
Leo XIII and Renan in Paradise. 

This book is not to be neglected by the intelligent reader, (avis 
rarissima, and in what minute ratio to the population I am still 
unable to discern.) 



56 T ke Lit tie Re view 



C. F. K e a r y 

C. F. Keary is recently dead. He had written divers novels 
greatly admired in certain circles and a volume of pagan poems en- 
titled "Religious Hours", printed with black borders like a book 
of devotions. He was a contributor to the more solid english quar- 
terlies and reviews. The poems are in the tradition of english poetry 
as it was before Keats and Shelly, they are consistent within them- 
selves, and it is extremely difficult to appraise such work in a hurry. 
One must sink into the given period. It is not my period, nor even 
one of my periods, and I have not yet fotmd the right critic to do 
the job for me. I hope to give some adequate notice of the novels 
after I have arranged suitable complete numbers in appreciation of 
Henry James and of Remy de Gourmont, in each case a lengthy 
matter, for the number of critics qualified to cooperate is, one need 
hardly say, very lirnited. Mr. Gosse, for instance, has spent so many 
years concealing the fact that he could not read his friend Henry 
James; and the general critic is both ignorant of the subject, and 
incapable of treating it. 

The Egoist has collected a few essays in their January number. 
R. H. C. in the New Age has printed one or two paragraphs. 

One's first step is to dissociate, firmly and completely, Henry 
from William, and from the James family in general, or rather to 
observe that this process of dissociation has been for some time under 
way. D. G. Rossetti had also a brother named William. 

The one person really qualified to write of the subject is Mrs. 
Wharton, whose cooperation is perhaps unobtainable. 

Mr. Hueffer is in the army, and can scarcely be called upon. 
But with or without these two most desirable critics we will set forth 
on some sort of apprecition of the greatest prosateur of our time. 

"Others" 

The Cuala Press has issued a volume of Mr. Yeats' latest poems, 
the quality of which is well known to our readers and needs no fur- 
vther expositon. Among other books received for review is a se- 
quence by Moireen Fox, a new book of short poems by Joseph Camf>- 
bell, and the "Others" Anthology for 191 7. This last gives I think the 
first adequate presentation of Mina Loy and Marianne Moore, who 



T ht Little R eview 57 



lave, without exaggerated "nationalism", without waving of banners 
ind general phrases about Columbia gem of the ocean, succeeded in, 
)r fallen into, producing something distinctly American in quality, 
lot merely distinguishable as Americans by reason of current na- 
ional faults. 

Their work is neither simple, sensuous nor passionate, but as 
we are no longer governed by the North American Review we need 
not condemn poems merely because they do not fit some stock phrase 
[)f rhetorical criticism. 

(For example an infinitely greater artist than Tennyson uses 
six "s" 's and one "z" in a single line. It is one of the most musical 
lines in Provencal and opens a poem especially commended by 
Dante. Let us leave the realm of promoted typists who quote the 
stock phrases of text-books.) 

In the verse of Marianne Moore I detect traces of emotion; in 
that of Mina Loy I detect no emotion whatever. Both of these 
women are, possibly in unconsciousness, among the followers of 
[Jules Laforgue (whose work shows a great deal of emotion). It is 
[possible, as I have written, or intended to write elsewhere, to divide 
poetry into three sorts; (i.) melopoeia, to wit, poetry which moves 
by its music, whether it be a music in the words or an aptitude for, 
or suggestion of, accompanying music; (2.) imagism, or poetry 
wherein the feelings of painting and sculpture are predominant 
(certain men move in phantasmagoria; the images of their gods, 
whole countrysides^, stretches of hill land and forest, travel with 
them) ; and there is, thirdly, logopoeia or poetry that is akin to 
nothing but language, which is a dance of the intelligence among 
words and ideas and modification of ideas and characters. Pope 
and the eighteenth-century writers had in this medium a certain 
limited range. The intelligence of Laforgue ran through the whole 
gamut of his time. T. S. Eliot has gone on with it. Browning wrote 
a condensed form of drama, full of things of the senses, scarcely ever 
pure logopoeia. 

One wonders what the devil anyone will make of this sort of 
thing who has not in their wit all the clues. It has none of the 
stupidity beloved of the "lyric" enthusiast and the writer and 
reader who take refuge in scenery description of nature, because 
they are unable to cope with the human. These two contributors to 
the "Others" Anthology write logopoeia. It is, in their case, the 



SS The Little Review 



utterance of clever people in despair, or hivoering upon the brink 
that precipice It is of those who have acceded with Renan "I 
bctise humaine est la seule chose qui donne une idee de I'infini." 
is a mind cry. more than a heart cry. "Take the world if thou w 
but leave me an asylum fc/ my affection"' is not their lamentatio 
but rather "In the midst of this desolation, give me at least one i 
telligence to converse with." 

The arid clarity, not without its own beauty, of le temper, 
ment de I'Americaine, is in the poems of these, I think, gradual 
or post-graduates. If they have not received B. A. 's or M. A. 's i 
B. Sc-s they do not need them. 

The point of my praise, for I intend this as praise, even if I c 
not burst into the phrases of Victor Hugo, is that without any pr 
tences and without clamours about nationality, these girls ha^ 
written a distinctly national product, they have written somethir 
which would not have come out of any other country, and (while 
have before now seen a deal of rubbish by both of them) they ar 
as selected by Mr. Kreymborg, interesting and readable (by me, thi 
is. I am aware that even the poems before me would drive numei 
ous not wholly unintelligent readers into a fury of rage-out-of-puj 
blement.) Both these poetrial have said a number of things not t 
be found in the current numbers of Everybody's, the Century or Mi ' 
Clare's . "The Effectual Marriage", "French Peacock", "My Apis 
Cousins" have each in its way given me pleasure . Miss Moore ha 
already prewritten her counterblast to my criticism in her peer 
"To a Steam Roller". 

Kreymborg's anthology contains poems by Eliot; by Cannd 
who manages to get still a drop more poetry from that worn sub 
ject, the deity (monotheist) ; and by Carlos Williams who oftfll 
delights me by his opacity, a distinctly unamerican quality, and t^ 
without its own value. Mr. Kreymborg is getting his eye in. 



The Little' Review 59 



^ THE READER CRITIC 

Astronomy 

The Evening Standard addresses us: 

"Amateur and professional astronomers all over the world will heave a 
great sigh of relief at the news that the 100-inch mirror of the new Mount 
Wilson telescope has safely completed its perilous nine-mile ascent of the moun- 
tain side and is now securely installed in the observatory. 

"The priceless mirror (says the San Francisco correspondent of the Daily 
Express), which took twelve years to cast and shape and cannot be duplicated 
in the rough, owing to the war, is expected by many in its explorations of the 
abysses of space — 

"(a) To solve at last the mystery of the canals of Mars. 

"(b) To bring no fewer than 100,000,000 new suns into the observer's 
ken." 

On s^encanaille. 

"(c) To advance materially the solution of the mystery of the origin of 
the universe by determining still further the nature of the gassy nebluae, which, 
science is generally agreed, are unborn world — suns and planets visibly in the 
making." 

They will doubtless tie the Pleiades in a bow-knot and loose the bands 
of Orion. 

"The mirror weighs four and a half tons, and all sorts of remarkable me- 
chanical precautions have been adopted to prevent any climatic or other inter- 
ference with the 100-ton telescope of which it forms the most important part." 

world, thou Socratic star, the gods and fairies have left thee. 

X. 



Criticism 

M. S. F., 

As you ask me, I will tell you what I think of The Little Review. The 
first two years I received it, it was a constant source of joy to me; but for the 
last year and a half it has been filled with pointless eccentricities and gargoyles, 
— with once in a while a very beautiful thing in it. One thing for which I 



6o The Little Review 



shall love the memory of The Little Review ii its freedom and fearlessness: 
it is startling and therefore fine. 



R a y m n d e Collignon 

There is a new diseusc loose on London. She will go to France after the 
war, and heaven knows when she will get to America, but she will sometime. 
She is singing folk-song without the vegetarian and simple-life element. She is 
the first singer to work on Walter Rummel's reconstructions of Xllth. century 
Provencal music. Her name is Raymonde Collignon. Verb. sap. She is 
really a consummate artist. — E. P. 



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IN THE APRIL NUMBER : 

• Unanimism, by Ezra Pound 
^Jlysses (Episode II), by James Joyce 
The Novels of Dorothy Richardson, by May Sinclair 
Imaginary Letters, IX., by Wyndham Lewis 
Reproductions of the work of modern American artists 
Etc., Etc. 

IN THE MAY NUMBER : 

The Ideal Giant, by Wyndham Lewis 

Imaginary Letters, X., {On Suburbias), by Ezra Pound 

Ulysses {Episode III), by James Joyce 

Etc., Etc. 



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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

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APRIL, 1918 



The Novels of Dorothy Richardson 

The Criterion 

Elimus 

Unanimism 

Ulysses, II. 

Fragments 

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Women and Men, III. 



May Sinclair 



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THE LITTLE REVIEW 

Vol.lV. APRIL, 1918 No. 12 

THE NOVELS OF DOROTHY RICHARDSON 

May Sinclair 

Pointed Roofs . 

Backwater. 

Honeycomb. 

(Duckworth and company, London). 

I HAVE been asked to write — for this magazine which makes no 
compromise with the public taste — a criticism of the novels 
of Dorothy Richardson. The editors of the Little Review are 
committed to Dorothy Richardson by their declared intentions; for 
her works make no sort of compromise with the public taste. If 
they are not announced with the same proud challenge it is 
because the pride of the editors of the Little Review is no mate for 
the pride of Miss Richardson which ignores the very existence of the 
public and its taste. 

I do not know whether this article is or is not going to be a criti- 
cism, for so soon as I beg-in to think what I shall say I find myself 
criticising criticism, wondering what is the matter with it and what, if 
anything, can be done to make it better, to make it alive. Only a 
live criticism can deal appropriately with a live art. And it seems 
to me that the first step towards life is to throw off the philosophic 
cant of the XlXth Century. I don't mean that there is no philoso- 
phy of Art, or that if there has been there is to be no more of it; I 
mean that it is absurd to go on talking about realism and idealism, 
or objective and subjective art, as if the philosophies were sticking 
where they stood in the eighties. 

In those days the distinction between idealism and realism, 
between subjective and objective was important and precise. And 
so long as the ideas they stand for had importance and precision 



The Little Review 



those words were lamps to the feet and lanterns to the path of the 
critic. Even after they had begun to lose precision and importance 
they still served him as useful labels for the bewildering phenpmena 
of the arts. 

But now they are beginning to give trouble; they obscure the 
issues. Mr. J. B. Beresford in his admirable introduction to Pointed 
Roofs confesses to having felt this trouble. WTien he read it in 
manuscript he decided that it "was realism, was objective." When 
he read it in typescript he thought: "this . . is the most subjective 
thing I have ever read." It is evident that, when first faced with 
the startling "newness" of Miss Richardson's method and her form, 
the issues did seem a bit obscure to Mr. Beresford. It was as if up 
to one illuminating moment he had been obliged to think of methods 
and forms as definitely objective or definitely subjective. His il- 
luminating moment came with the third reading when Pointed Roofs 
was a printed book. The book itself gave him the clue to his own 
trouble, which is my trouble, the first hint that criticism up till now 
has been content to think in cliches, missing the new trend of the 
philosophies of the XXth Century. All that we know^ of reality at 
first hand is given to us through contacts in which those interesting 
distinctions are lost. Reality is thick and deep, too thick and too 
deep and at the same time too fluid to be cut with any convenient 
carving knife. The novelist who would be close to reality must con- 
fine himself to this knowledge at first hand. He must, as Mr. Beres- 
ford says, simply "plunge in". Mr. Beresford also says that Miss 
Richardson is the first novelist who has plunged inf. She has plunged 
so neatly and quietly that even admirers of her performance might 
remain unaware of what it is precisely that she has done. She has 
disappeared while they are still waiting for the splash. So that Mr. 
Beresford's introduction was needed. 

When first I read Pointed Roofs and Backwater and Honey- 
comb I too thought, like Mr. Beresford, that Miss Richardson has 
been the first to plunge. But it seems to me rather that she has 
followed, independently, perhaps unconsciously, a growing tendency 
to plunge. As far back as the eighties the de Goncourts plunged 
completely, finally, ' in Soeur PJiilomene, Germinie Lacerteux and 
Les Frdres Zemganno. Marguerite Audoux plunged in the best pas- 
sages of Marie Claire. The best of every good novelist's best 
work is a more or less sustained immersion. The more modern the 



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novelist the longer his capacity to stay under. Miss Richardson 
has not plunged deeper than Mr. James Joyce in his Portrait of the 
Artist as a Young Man. 

By imposing very strict limitations on herself she has brought 
her art, her method, to a high pitch of perfection, so that her form 
seems to be newer than it perhaps is. She herself is unaware of the 
perfection of her rr^ethod. She would probably deny that she has 
written with any deliberate method at all. She would say: "I only 
know there are certain things I mustn't do if I was to do what I 
wanted." Obviously, she must not interfere; she must not analyse 
or comment or explain. Rather less obviously, she must not tell a 
story, or handle a situation or set a scene; she must avoid drama as 
she avoids narration. And there are some things she must not be. 
She must not be the wise, all-knowing author. She must be Miriam 
Henderson: She must not know or divine anything that Miriam 
does not know or divine; she must not see anything that Miriam 
does not see. She has taken Miriam's nature upon her. She is not 
concerned, in the way that other novelists are concerned, with 
character. Of the persons who move through Miriam's world you 
know nothing but what Miriam knows. If Miriam is mistaken, well, 
she and not Miss Richardson is mistaken. Miriam is an acute ob- 
server, but she is very far from seeing the whole of these people. 
They are presented to us in the same vivid but fragmentary way in 
which they appeared to Miriam, the fragmentary way in which 
people appear to most of us. Miss Richardson has only imposed on 
herself the conditions that life imposes on all of us. And if you are 
going to quarrel with those conditions you will not find her novels 
satisfactory. But your satisfaction is not her concern. 

And I find it impossible to reduce to intelligible terms this 
satisfaction that I feel. To me these three novels show an art and 
method and form carried to punctilious perfection. Yet I have 
heard other novelists say that they have no art and no method and 
no form, and that it is this formlessness that annoys them. They 
say that they have no beginning and no middle and no end, and 
that to have form a novel must have an end and a beginning and a 
middle. We have come to words that in more primitive times would 
have been blows on this subject. There is a certain plausibility in 
what they say, but it depends on what constitutes a beginning and a 
middle and an end. In this series there is no drama, no situation, 



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no set scene. Nothing happens. It is just life going on and on. It 
is Miriam Henderson's stream of consciousness going on and on. 
And in neither is there any grossly discernible beginning or middle 
or end. 

In identifying herself with this life which is Miriam's stream 
of consciousness Miss Richardson produces her effect of being the 
first, of getting closer to reality than any of our novelists who are 
trying so desperately to get close. No attitude or gesture of her 
own is allowed to come between her and her effect. Whatever her 
sources and her raw material, she is concerned and we ought to be 
concerned solely with the finished result, the work of art. It is to 
Miriam's almost painfully acute senses that we owe what in any 
other novelist would be called the "portratis" of Miriam's mother, 
of her sister Harriet, of the Corries and Joey Banks in Honeycomb, 
of the Miss Pernes and Julia Doyle, and the north London school- 
girls in Backwater, of Fraulein Pfaff and Mademoiselle, of the Mar- 
tins and Emma Bergmann and Ulrica- and "the Australian'' in 
Pointed Roofs. The mere "word painting'' is masterly. 

"... Miriam noticed only the hoarse, hacking laugh of the 
Australian. Her eyes flew up the table and fixed her as she sat 
laughing, her chair drawn back, her knees crossed — tea was draw- 
ing to an end. The detail of her terrifyingly stylish ruddy-brown 
frieze dress with its Norfolk jacket bodice and its shiny leather belt 
was hardly distinguishable from the dark background made by the 
folding doors. But the dreadful outline of her shoulders was visible, 
the scjuarish oval of her face shone out — the wide forehead from 
whiph the wiry black hair was coined W-a. hi.s^^pUff, the red eyes, 
black now, the long-, straight nose, the wide, laughing mouth with 
the enormous teeth." 

And so on all round the school tea-table. It looks easy enough 
to "do" until you try it. There are thirteen figures round that 
table and each is drawn with the first few strokes and so well that 
you see them all and never afterwards can you mistake or confuse 
them. 

You look at the outer world through Miriam's senses and it is 
as if you had never seen it so vividly before. Miriam in Back- 
water is on the top of a bus, driving from North London to Picca- 
dilly: 

"On the left a tall grey church was coming towards them, 



The Little Review 



spindling up into the sky. It sailed by, showing Miriam a circle 
of little stone pillars built into its spire. Plumy trees streamed by, 
standing large and separate on moss-green grass railed from the road- 
way. Bright, white-faced houses with pillared porches shone through 
from behind them and blazed white above them against the blue sky. 
Wide side streets opened, showing high balconied houses. The side 
streets were feathered with trees and ended mistily. 

"Away ahead were edges of clean, bright masonry in profile, 
soft, tufted heads of trees, bright green in the clear light. At the 
end of the vista the air was like pure saffron-tinted mother-of-pearl." 

Or this "interior" from Honeycomb: . . . "the table like an 
island under the dome of the low-hanging rose-shaded lamp, the 
table-centre thickly embroidered with beetles' wings, the little dishes 
stuck about, sweets, curiously crusted brown almonds, sheeny grey- 
green olives; the misty beaded glass of the finger bowls — Venetian 
glass from that shop in Regent Street — the four various wine 
glasses at each rig'ht hand, one on a high thin stem, curved and 
fluted like a shallow tulip, filled with hock; and floating in the 
warmth amongst all these things the strange, exciting dry sweet 
fragrance coming from the mass of mimosa, a forest of little powdery 
Wossoms, little stiff grey — the arms of railway signals at junctions 
— Japanese looking leaves — standing as if it were growing, in a 
shallow bowl under the rose-shaded lamp." 

It is as if no other writers had ever used their senses so purely 
and with so intense a joy in their use. 

This intensity is the effect of an extreme concentration on the 
thing seen or felt. Miss Richardson disdains every stroke that does 
not tell. H'er novels are novels of an extraordinary compression and 
of an extenuation more extraordinary still. The moments of Miriam's 
consciousness pass one by one, or overlapping, moments tense with 
vibration, moments drawn out fine, almost to snapping point. On 
one page Miss Richardson seems to be accounting for every minute 
of Miriam's time. On another she passes over events that might be 
considered decisive with the merest slur of reference. She is not 
concerned with the strict order of events in time. Chapter Three 
of Pointed Roofs opens with an air of extreme decision and import- 
ance: "Miriam was practising on the piano in the larger of the two 
English bedrooms," as if something hung on her practising. But 
■"no, nothing hangs on it, and if you want to know on what day she 



The Little Review 



is practising you have to read on and back again. It doesn't mat- 
ter. It is Miriam's consciousness that is going backwards and for- 
wards in time. The time it goes in is unimportant. On the hun- 
dredth page out of three hundred and twelve pages Mirian has been 
exactly two weeks in Hanover. Nothing has happened but the in- 
finitely little affairs of the school, the practising, the "Vorspielen", 
the English lesson, the "raccommodage", the hair-washing. At 
the end of the book Friiulcin Pfaff is on the station platform, gently 
propelling Miriam "up three steps into a compartment marked 
Damen-Coupe. It smelt of biscuits and wine." Miriam has been 
no more than six months in Hanover. We are not told, and Miriam 
Is not told, but we know as Miriam knows that she is going because 
Pastor Lahmann has shown an interest in Miriam very disturbing to 
Fraulein Pfaff 's interest in him. We are not invited to explore the 
tortuous mind of the pious, sentimental, secretly hysterical Fraulein; 
but we know, as Miriam knows, that before she can bring herself 
to part with her English governess she must persuade herself that 
it is Miriam and not Mademoiselle who is dismissed because she is 
an unwholesome influence. 

In this small world where nothing happens "that dreadful talk 
with Gertrude", and Friiulein's quarrel with the servant Anna, the 
sound of her laugh and her scream. "Ja, Sie Konnen Ihre paar Gro- 
schen haben! Ihre paar Groschen!", and Miriam's vision of Made- 
moiselle's unwholesomeness, stand out as significant and terrifying. 
They are terrifying; they are significant; through them we know 
Gertrude, we know Fraulein Pfaff, we know Mademoiselle as Miri- 
am knows them, under their disguises. 

At the. end of the third volume. Honeycomb, there is, appa- 
rently, a break with the design. Something does happen. Some- 
thing tragic and terrible. We are not told what it is; we know as 
Miriam knows, only by inference. Miriam is sleeping in her mo- 
ther's room. 

"Five o'clock. Three more hours before the day began. The 
other bed was still. "It's going to be a magnificent day", she mur- 
mured, pretending to stretch and yawn again. A sigh reached her. 
The stillness went on and she lay for an hour tense and listening. 
Someone else must know ... At the end of the hour a descending 
darkness took her suddenly. She woke- from it to the sound of vio- 
lent language, furniture being roughly moved, a swift, angry splasli- 



The Little Review 



ing of water . . . something breaking out, breaking through the con- 
finements of this little furniture-filled room . . . the best gentlest 
thing she knew openly despairing at last." 

Here Miss Richardson "gets" you as she gets you all the time 
— she never misses once — by her devout adhesion to her method, 
by the sheer depth of her plunge. For this and this alone is the way 
things happen. AVhat we used to call the "objective" method is a 
method of after-thought, of spectacular reflection. What has hap- 
pened has happened in Miriam's bedroom, if you like; but only by 
reflection. The firsthand, intimate and intense reality of the hap- 
pening is in Miriam's mind, and by presenting it thus and not other- 
wise Miss Richardson seizes reality alive. The intense rapidity of 
the seizure defies you to distinguish between what is objective and 
what is subjective either in the reality presented or the art that 
presents. 

Nothing happens. In Miriam Henderson's life there is, ap- 
parently, nothing to justify living. Everything she ever wanted 
was either withheld or taken from her. She is reduced to the barest 
minimum on which it is possible to support the life of the senses 
and the emotions at all. And yet Miriam is happy. Her inexhaus- 
tible passion for life is fed. Nothing happens, and yet everything 
that really matters is happening; you are held breathless with the 
anticipation of its happening. What really matters is a state of 
mind, the interest or the ecstasy with which we close with life. It 
can't be explained. To quote Mr. Beresfdrd again: "explanation 
in this connection would seem to imply knowledge that only the mys- 
tics can faintly realise". But Miss Richardson's is a mysticism 
apart. It is compatible with, it even encourages such dialogue 
as this: 

" 'Tea' " smiled Eve serenely. 

" 'All right, I'm coming, damn you, aren't I ?' 

" 'Oh, Mimmy!' 

" 'Well, damn me, then. Somebody in the house must swear. 
I say. Eve!' 

" 'What?' 

'.' ' Nothing, only I sayJ 

" ' Urn.' " 

It is not wholly destroyed when Miriam eats bread and butter 
thus: "When she began at the hard thick edge there always seemed 



10 The Little Review 



to be tender places on her gums, her three hollow teeth were uneasy 
and she had to get through worrying thoughts about them — they 
would get worse as the years went by, and the little places in the 
front would grow big and painful and disfiguring. After the first 
few mouthfuls of solid bread a sort of padding seemed to take place 
and she could go on forgetful." 

This kind of thing annoys Kensirrgton. I do not say that it 
really matters but that it is compatible with what really matters. 
Because of such passages it is a pity that Miss Richardson could : 
not use the original title of her series: "Pilgrimage," for it shows 
what she is really after. Each book marks a stage in Miriam's 
pilgrimage. We get the first hint of where she is going to in the 
opening of the tenth chapter of Pointed Roofs: "Into all the gather- 
ings at Waldstrasse the outside world came like a presence. It re- 
moved the sense of pressure, of being confronted and challenged. 
Everything that was said seemed to be incidental to it, like remarks 
dropped in a low tone between individuals at a great conference." 
In Backwater the author's intention becomes still clearer. In Honey- 
comb it is transparently clear: 

"Her room was a great square of happy light . . . happy, happy. 
She gathered up all the sadness she had ever known and flung it 
from her. All the dark things of the past flashed with a strange 
beauty as she flung them out. The light had been there all the 
time; but she had known it only at moments. Now she knew what 
she wanted. Bright mornings, beautiful bright rooms, a wilderness of 
beauty all round her all the time — at any cost." 

And yet not that: 

"Something that was not touched, that sang far away down 
inside the gloom, that cared nothing for the creditors and could get 
away down and down into the twilight far away from the everlast- 
ing accusations of humanity .... Deeper down was something cool 
and fresh — endless — an endless garden. In happiness it came 
up and made everything in the world into a garden. Sorrow blotted 
it out; but it was always there, waiting and looking on. It had 
looked on in Germany and had loved the music and the words and 
the happiness of the German girls, and at Banbury Park, giving her 
no peace until she got away. 

"And now it had come to the surface and was with her all the 
time." 



The Little Review ii 



There are two essays of Remy de Gourmont in Promenades Lit- 
teraires, one on "I'Originalite de Maeterlinck," one on "La Legon de 
Saint-Antoine." Certain passages might have been written concern- 
ing the art of Dorothy Richardson: — 

"Si la vie en soi est un bienfait, iet il faut I'accepter comme 
telle on la nier, le fait meme de vivre le contient tout entier, et les 
grands mouvements de la sensibilite, loin de I'enrichir, 1' appauvris- 
Sent au contraire, en concentrant sur quelques partis de nous-memes, 
envahies au hasard par la destinee 1' effort d' attention qui serait 
plus uniformenent reparti sur 1' ensemble de notre conscience vitale. 
De ce point de vue une vie ou il semblerait ne rien se passer que d' 
elementaire et quotidien serait mieux remplie qu'une autre vie riche 
en apparence d' incidents et d' aventures" .... "II y a peut-etre un 
sentiment nouveau a creer, celui de 1' amour de la vie pour la vie 
elle-meme, abstraction faite des grandes joies qu'elle ne donne pas 
a tous, et qu' die ne donne peut-etre a personne . . . Notre paradis, 
c' est la journee qui passe ,1a minute qui s' envole, le moment qui 
n'est dija plus. Telle est la legon de Saint Antoine." 



THE CRITERION 

"Art", said the chimpanzee, "which / have to study before / 
can understand it, is fatally lacking somewhere." "Upon this prin- 
cipal", said the chimpanzee, "we must reject Mr. Browning's 
Sordellor 



12 The Little Review 



ELIMUS 

B. Windeler 

DRIVING rain beat on the deserted quay, clearing black scum 
from the man-messed waters of the basin — 
Derelict bottles jostled against the. hard stone sides, and the 
vulture cranes kept sentinel, wrapped in their own warm steam. 
Elimus leaned on the bulwarks. 
He did not like it. 

He had imagined other lands sunny; the family had never 
spoken of rain — that was wrong of them — perhaps they didn't 
know — he must tell them. 

There was shouting from a tug; he could not hear what they 
were saying: — 

JOHN PARKER 

COLLINGWOOD 

ColHngwood was an admiral — 
Sweat drips squeezed from octopus hawsers, clutching their prey — 
a coir rack wringing staccato cries from engine room bells, stilling 
slow pulse throbs. 

The cranes turned on their iron heels noseing fresh carcase to 
be disembowled; little bunches of oilskin-men swayed on the quay 

— black phrases hugging- its wharf doll. 

Elimus shuddered .... should he give the steward a sovereign? 

That was a lot! ^ 

There was a trample of feet overhead; the gangway was down 

— narrow path to destinies: — He was almost afraid of it. 

His hand-bag was on the seat behind him — that was all right, 
people were such thieves abroad; he must guard against that. 

The steward, pale vacuous face with mendicant smile on stubb, 
sidled along the deck. 

— Perhaps fifteen shillings! 

He only shaved every other day because he said it made his 
face sore — gentlemen shaved every day. 



The Little Review 13 

— A sovereign. 

Thank you, Sir, . . . . er, will you pay your wine bill? 

— Of course he would. 

He was rather proud of his wine bill, he paid it and told the 
steward to keep the change. He put the receipt in his notebook, in 
his breast-pocket, and buttoned his coat: 

— That made more than a sovereign he had given him! 

He was sorry to leave the ship: the steward was very kind. 

Over the gangway, cinema-moving of wet people and the sharp 
form of the sixpence hunter. Times' plutocrats lolled collar and 
coatless, dealing in unseen futures, loftily watching needy afflu- 
ence — minute-racked jobbers on life's exchange. He saw his box 
hoisted from the forehold, and dumped on the quay; it fell in a 
puddle. 

They were very rough — 

He asked a man if there were any cabs. 

The man said: 

— ''Search me." 

More boxes swung into the wet air: camouflage of Ego's 
nakedness cased in variegated wrappers, jibbeted, — a grease paint 
give away, to the cold gaze of unconcerned by-passers. 

Someone brought a trolly from the open door of a warehouse; 
Elimus found one and pushed his box inside. 

His socks felt wet: he should have put on his thick boots — but 
the brown ones looked better. 

He could leave his box inside if he liked. 

— Take it off the trolly .... someone else wanted that! They 
didn't give receipts. — Should he leave it? — Hard faced expletive 
men nodded to each other. There was labour of cameraderies' old 
jest, giving birth to new laughter: a smell of damp clothes and 
onion breath. 

He felt very lonely. 

He took an envelope from his pocket and read the address; 
he knew it by heart already. 

Electric Light, Power and Telephone Co., 

121 West Street. 

Mr. Spurge. 



14 The Little Review 

— A paper pass to the Olympic games of chance fortunes. 

It was nice of Uncle Robert to give him that: he wished he had 
taken a higher degree; but telephones. — He felt safe on telephones. 

Rains, grey back cloth lifted, and the evening sun sank throw- 
ing a last beam: yellow limelight through cloud shutters on a Noah's 
Ark town. 

West Street was the third turning up the hill, he couldn't miss it. 

He could see the church. 

Dabbled feet trod with knight-moves over wet cobbles as he 
walked from the wharf up the main street, closely gripping his bag 
in the quick falling dusk. 

Saloon-bar's harbour lights gleamed on a pavement sea — bright 
ports of synthetic sunshine. 

A door opened flinging stale smoke-borne gusts of tongues, 
clinking glass and spitting, on to the damp air of the darkening 
street. 

Elimus thought he would go in — he was a man now. He might 
miss Mr. Spurge though! . . . that wouldn't do; he mustn't start like" 
that. 

He tramped on. 

— Sixty-nine, seventy-one, seventy-three .... some had no 
numbers — a hundred and seventeen, a hundred and nineteen 

— A low building squat on wood piles puffed its chest to the 
reflected glory of the "Power and Telephone" sign in red and white 
lamps across its bosom. One felt it wore a dicky. 

There was a boy at a desk, ambushed behind bunches of globe 
fruit on brass stalks in the window. 

Elimus went in stumbling over two steps at the door. 

The boy sat behind a hard wood counter, nail biting — a smell 
of ceiling wax and boredom. 

Was Mr. Spurge in? 

The boy said: 

— What time? 

Elimus felt for his watch, he had not expected that. 
The boy turned round solemnly: 

— Gee, here's a guy — noap, — say. mister, happen you've 
heard of appointments! — Are you called any? 

Elimus vaguely felt something was wrong, he proffered his talis- 
man. ' 



1 



T he Little Review 15 

— I have a letter for Mr. Spurge: — my name's Elimus — 
Elimus Hackett. (This an afterthought.) 

— My .... beheve you me mister, Mr. Spurge ain't takin no 
talk from most anyone — noap: that's so, sure. 

Elimus grappled with this, chewing it over cow-like; he could 
make nothing of it and was beginning again, when a door opened on 
the left and a small man came in. 

Sallow with pince-nez over mild eyes, he had a dull beard and 
looked rather dusty. The boy indicated Elimus with his thumb: — 
"got a letter." 

— Are you Mr. Spurge? Elimus asked. He was. 

— Uncle Robert — Robert Hackett; he's my uncle, you know. 
— Who did you say? 

— Uncle Robert — Robert Hackett; he's my uncle, you know. 

— Dear me, dear me; ... yes, yes; Hackett! I remember Hac- 
kett, .... come inside. 

They went through the door labelled "Mr. Spurge" — the 
R was missing: there was a big desk and two hard chairs, all covered 
with the extraordinary charms of a metaphone vividly depicted on 
small pamphlets. 

— Ah, .... let me see, yes . . . um, we have so few openings 
you know .... Ah, . . telegraph — telephones — yes, yes: — and 
how was the family? 

Elimus did not care about the family, he knew his subject and 
he talked: panic of early failure seized him — he would take any- 
thing. 

A new line to be run up north — yes, he didn't mind rough- 
ing it. 

Dugdale was on it — capable man, Dugdale; — no, he didn't 
know him yet. 

— Out there now, at Rocklake; not far though — about a hun- 
dred miles .... he could start at once — yes, — he would call again 
in the morning and settle things up. That would be very nice. 

Elimus found himself in the street again, a wild joy hugged 
him, dragging him alTxig breathless, splashing in wet puddles. The 
syren song of future's success whistled in his ears, magnified in an- 
ticipation's megaphone — he must write to the family — that was it 
— write to the family. Bright lights laughed back at him reflecting 
spark torrents from hope's volcanic eruption, 



li The Little Review 

A knot of men appeared before him — they were good fellows 
.... they were all good fellows. 

— Come on, . . . eh? 

Bright glare from unshaded globes on bottle array; there is 
winking amongst the glass people on oblivion's door-step — pewter 
beams from the back row: table islands with shadowy rock men on 
a sawdust sea: — thick noise, smoke, and white faces seen a long 
way off. 

— The bar-tender's face came very close, Elimus wanted to 
smack it! 

— He shook hands instead. 

• — "All right, old chap," — another dnnk all round. — .... 
Pulsing life, buoyant, glorious: he felt it was a fine place and said 
so — he said it was a fine country. 

- His mind revelled, unharnessed from family's infecting go-cart, 
kicking over the smug traces of suburban exemplarity. Loosed in 
this tiny paddock he took for life's prairies, he ambled gingerly 
about, conceiving himself as buck jumping in a vast ring of sun 
splashed freedom. 

A woman laughed behind him. He turned round and took off 
his cap elaborately. He offered her a chair — he would show them 
how to treat ladies! 

— She would have port. 

— Two ports .... 

His mind sensed a new interest; he felt protective .... 

She said he was a nice boy. 

She called for a "green mint" — port gave her heart burn. 

Elimus was very sorry .... had she tried hot water? •— 

She threw back her cloak and opened a small reticule; she had 
a tiny mirror and powdered her nose: a faint smell of patchouli, and 
a slight stirring beneath the convex folds of her thin white blouse. 

Elimus was deeply interested! 

She smiled — he was aware of her smiling before he could raise I 
his eyes — he smiled too: they were great friends ... he had onlyj; 
just arrived: — No, he hadn't thought of an hotel yet, were they [: 
really all so dirty? Of course he wouldn't like that — he was most 
particular himself. 

His mind groped for something to say, he wanted to be amusing 



The Little Review 17 

and felt vaguely dull, hypnotised by the rhythmical movement be- 
neath the white blouse. 

He ordered a cigar. She ordered a "green mint." — 

The bar-tender's name was George — 

Elimus remembered his box — that troubled him — he must 
get his box: damn boxes! 

She said: 

— All right, kiddie — and stroked his hand: he liked that, she 
was very kind. 

He felt a little sleepy; she would look after him — she knew 
of a nice place. 

He had to lean forward to hear what she was saying — that 
was a nice smell .... 

— Should they go home? 

Elimus nodded, he got-up, kicking a brass spittoon as he rose 
and stood watching it spin solemnly .... it did not spin any more. 

She took his arm, calling him "dearie" — he felt quite safe — 
very happy. 

It was cold outside. — 

— They would soon be home now. 



The morning sun shone on broad hats, shadowing dark faces, 
diamonding chins, catching the scurrying recollections of night's 
"moments de delices" to spill them in its shade: — mind's morning 
mouth wash drowning smug toffee thoughts of a past evening. — 
Amazon rug beating, and private views at intimate garments 
galleries. 

Elimus walked down the main street; there was a difference; 
he looked at it much as one revisiting half forgotten scenes of 
childhood. 

— How small it appeared now! 

He remembered that doorway — the cabbage smell came from 
there; it had a man in it then — pipe smoking: he wondered if 
he were inside. There was the same tin in the gutter at the comer 
— he had trodden on that — and lower down the rusty hoop iron 
from a tub. 



i8 The Little Review 



West Street would be up there, atid at the bottom the old 
wharf and his old ship. 

His mind already clothed these with the dust fog of gaudy 
chariot wheeled progress, looking back on them as past sign posts 
of family-museum interest to a generation yet unborn. 

He was accustomed to spend some time in this museum of his: 
the "objets d'interets" with which his rccollective imagination would 
crowd it, held for him a subtle attraction. 

— The house in which he was born, his early games, his nurse; 
the coloured cows, — age seven! — He was very artistic . . . . 
it would be of interest one day. 

Himself as a young man — series of photographs in a heavily 
bound Ibum, or better, a complete cinema roll showing his many 
activities. 

He saw the ship and the wharf now as models, with an in- 
scription : 

The ship on which grandfatb'jr Elimus sailed! 

The wharf at which grandfather Elimus landed! 

— It seemed a long whHe ago. 

A shell-less animal collecting such protective covering as he 
could find from the mis-fits thrown off by forceful individuality, he 
would reflect, chameleon-like, a caricatured matching of environ- 
ments background, rapidly, and without any effort. 

He had landed in the warmth of Uncle Robert's bland suitings, 
and was not quite sure what he had on now. He felt rather naked, 
and became surly — antagonistc. 

The wharf, piled with lumber, a forest's morgue; echoed to the 
clatter song of winches — children on a nursery floor playing with 
toy bricks — waving derrick arms, grasping, swinging, flinging 
down first one pile then another. Keen aired activity's song mocked 
the dull minors of his foot steps. 

He asked for his box brusquely: — it was there, in the same 
place, he could take it. 

— No one smiled. 

Active antagon'sm died, leaving morose lava flow. He took his 
box and went out. 

He .supposed he could get lunch somewhere — . 

— He would find an hotel. 



The Little Review 19 

Mr. Spurge said he could take the evening train to Rocklake; 
he had wired Dugdale. 

Elimus thanked him: he was on probation; he would show 
them! The company gave him his ticket — first class, that was nice; 
he felt they were discriminative — he liked that too. 

He passed a small printing office and thought of having cards 
printed with the name of the firm on the bottom. 

Mr. Elimus Hackett, 
Electric Light, 'Power and Telephone Company 

He would see about that. 

The hotelmanager had shares in it and said it was a good thing. 
Elimus talked; it would seem that he had been specially sent for! 
Mr. Spurge was an old friend — a family connection, they were go- 
ing to do big things. — 

The company was all right, Elimus could tell him that. 
Would he join in a drink? The manager "didn't mind" — he 
listened. He was not busy. 

Afterwards he thought of his shares and went to see Mr. Spurge. 
Elimus took some sandwiches and a bottle of whiskey; there would 
be a "diner" on the train. 

He said that was quite right: he didn't mind roughing it! 
There was too much dining at home — too much luxury — he didn't 
believe in that! 

The Station — two stones of coloured bricks, a red and yellow 
reflection of the growing rays of townships' sunrise — beamed on 
its acolytes. -* ^l-^'tllOT 

They were proud of it. Elimus was proud of it! He said it 
was fine! 

Train's orchestra, beating its rhythmical song into the night, 
woke word echoes in his lulled senses: I'm going to get on — I'm 
going to get on — I'm going to get on; changing to gradients, I 
said I would, I said I would, I said I would — as the flag stations 
passed. "■^'^^^■fiJ 

The conductor called Deerleap! He changed there. The 

cylindrical heater in the waiting room was cherry red a smell 

of oil lamps and resin. 



20 T h e Lit tie Review 



— It was cold outside .... How late the loop train was. — 
The oil lamps of Rocklake's log station smiled wanly on Elimus' , 

pale face. ; 

He felt very tired. \ 

There was a buggy outside. The man said: 

— You're for Mr. Dugdale, you've to come to the farm. 
Elimus said: 

— Sure. 

The buggy driver looked at him and sniffed. Elimus thought 
him very dull: they drove in silence. 

Log's firelight twinkled on the wood floor of the kitchen as 
Elimus went in; he was glad of the warmth. A man was standing 
alone warming his back. 

— Are you Mr. Dugdale? Elimus asked. 
— Yes, you Hackett? 

Elimus said he was, and that he had just arrived. Dugdale 
nodded to a chair. The family had gone to bed it was nearly ten 
o'clock. 

The line was being worked further north — a few miles. — 
This was the base — Dugdale had his waggons here. Elimus would 
go up in the morning, there was a canvas shack for him. 

Dugdale gave him supper, and asked what he knew. Elimus 
would go up in the morning, there was a canvas shack for him. 

Dugdale gave him supper, and asked what he knew. Elimus 
told him: he offered him a "fag". Dugdale didn't smoke cigarettes. 

It was all very strange: he thought of his Uncle and the plat- 
form at Paddington, they had come to see him off. Aunt Agatha 
had kissed him! The porter had smiled. — It was silly of Aunt Aga- 
tha to kiss him, he was a man now .... Dugdale was very hard — 
so was he — he would show them! 

Frost's bright fingers clutched at the hard earth — a twinkling 
in still pine woods, and the sharp call of fur-people over still air. 

Muffled men tramped with metallic feet, hugging thoughts of 
hot coffee and camp f roust. From the west heavy cloud-banks of 
snow, grey blankets of premature dusk, drifted up over the iron 
world. 

Men said there would be a "fall."