NO. IX OCTOBER, 1912

STEPHENSWIFT&COMPANYLTD

RHYTHM

MONTH-LY

L

MUSIC

-URE LITERAT-

16 KING STREET COVENT GARDEN LONDON

CONTENTS VOL. II N O . IX

Page Mabel. By W. W. Gibson . . . . . . 185 Fuel. By Lord Dunsany . . . . . . . 186 Head. By S. J. Peploe . . . . . . 188 New Dresses. By Katherine Mansfield . . . 189 Caricature of Katherine Mansfield. By Georges Banks 195 Head. By H. Gaudier-Brzeska . . . . . 198 Torment. By J. Middleton Murry . . . . 202 Design. By Charles Fontenay . .. . . . 203 The End of the World. By Gilbert Cannan . . 204 Head. By S. J. Peploe . . . . . . 206 The Present. By Leonide Andreieff. Translated from

the Russian . . . . . . . . 203 Portrait of Himself. By Pablo Picasso . . . 210 Le Voyage en Cythere. By Lady Margaret Sackville 214 Drawing. By S. J. Peploe . . . . . 217 The Little Girl. By Lili Heron . . 218 Head. By J. D. Fergusson. . . . . . 222 Sunday Lunch. By The Tiger . . . . . 223 The Story. By Arthur Crossthwaite . . . . 225 Les Poetes Nouveaux. By Tristan Dereme . . 226 Head. By S. J. Peploe . . . . . 227 Reviews. By G.C., K M . , J.M.M., W.W.G.

H.K.L., etc 232 Revue des Revues. By Francis Carco . . . 236

OCTOBER, 1912 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Editor: JOHN MIDDLETON MURRY. Assisted by KATHERINE MANSFIELD.

Art-Editor: JOHN DUNCAN FERGUSSON. Foreign Correspondents:

France . . . Literature: FRANCIS CARCO Poetry: TRISTAN DEREME Theatre: GEORGES BANKS

ANNE ESTELLE RICE Poland . . . FLORYAN SOBIENIOWSKI Russia . . . MICHAEL LYKIARDOPOULOS America . . JULIAN PARK

"A splendid bed well covered around with a tent and adorned with a canopy''—THE MAHAVAMSA.

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ii.

185

MABEL When Nigger Dick and Hell-for-Women slouched Into the taproom of the "Duck and De'il," The three Dalmatian pups slunk in at heel And down among the slushy saw-dust crouched; But Mabel would not leave the windy street For any gaudy tavern's reek and heat— Not she! for Mabel was no spotted dog To crawl among the steaming muddy feet, Beneath a bench and slumber like a log.

And so she set her hoofs, and stayed outside, Though Hell-for-Women pushed the swing-door wide, And "Mabe l , darling! Mabel, darling !" cried; And Nigger Dick thrust out his head and cursed Until his tongue burned with so hot a thirst; H e turned and swore that he'd not split his throat To save the soul of any giddy goat.

And then they left her, stubborn, wild and white, Snuffing the wet air of the windy night: And as she stood beneath a cold blue star That pierced the narrow strip of midnight sky Between the sleeping houses black and high, The glare and glitter of the reeking bar, And all the filth and squalor of the street Were blotted o u t . . .

and she was lost between The beetling crags of some deep, dark ravine In Andalusian solitudes of stone, A trembling, young, bewildered nanny-goat Within the cold blue heart of night alone . . . Until her ears pricked, tingling to a bleat, As, far above her, on a naked scar, The dews of morning dripping from his beard, Rejoicing in his strength the herd-king reared, Shaking the darkness from his shaggy coat.

W I L F R I D W I L S O N GIBSON.

I know of three kinds of fuel that give a good bright fire. One comes of the fall, and splash into streaming marshes, of forests older than many of our mountains, and another comes of the passing away of generations of heather, and another of the doom of stalwart ships. The first is the dark dull coal whose rejoicing all men know.

When you go back beyond Antiquity you come to Always, where the tracks that were made by the huge strides of Time seem to be no more than a row of little dots.

From this season of Always comes our antique coal. He is like in his ways to the neglected poets. How silently, how uncared for he entered into his night. And how long afterwards he is the joy of men and the cause of the telling of little tales of an evening. Year in year out he gathered forgotten sunlight. It is well for us. His is a dark, unsympathizing world to those that delve for him. Even so is the poet strange and unlovely to the many.

See now; he casts his cloak over all the cities of men. There are sold in London also the timbers of old ships when their evil

days have found them. These burn with a sea-blue flame because the old storms burn with

them. I imagine these regal prowlers of the sea leaving for the last time the long blue ways of empire and coming proudly up the Thames to their doom with all the dignity of their golden garb as King Charles went to Whitehall. I imagine around them the unlovely, dark, and puritanic steamboats, and around them a roaring that is not the roaring they know, and a storm that they met with in Biscayan seas that is clinging still to their throats and whitening, as it comes, and amazing Thames.

I imagine them meeting in the knacker's yard and telling for the last time tales of Ind and tales of treasure in uncharted isles.

I see the knacker creeping up to them at night with his horrible instru­ments, while they dream of marvellous quests.

FUEL

186

F U E L 187 I see the riving of undauntable timbers, and decks that were undefeated

of the sea. Down crash the figure-heads that fought with Poseidon, to be hence­

forth with old unworshipped things. Fallen are all the riggings never to sing again. And all the while the winds that knew the masts wail up and down the

knacker's dreadful yard. The old antagonists of storms are gone. They burn well, these ships. But when I may have my choice by what fire I will take my warmth

and dream my dreams or listen to friendly voices that tell old tales I let it be a fire of what we call "turf," which is the " pea t " of the English. In such a fire are good visions.

And there I should like best to sit with a poet, one of those men that have strange eyes, when it was late and he began to talk of wild, impos­sible things:—when it was late and ghosts that creaked about the room began to believe him when he prophesied the downfall of ugly cities or told of heavenly Jerusalems. Then are there beautiful depths in the glowing turf, and the ashes are soft and grey like newly drifted snow on banks at night. Not in vain then has faded thrice a thousand times the heather's purple cloak and withered in the wind and gone down and rested.

If ever you come to a town where there is the smell of peat burning, you will find a wind in the street, and a rainy sky, and a listless people that have kindly hearts. And the years having cloaked the thatches with weeds and moss will have done their worst to it and do little more, for the folk grow old there slowly. And there you will meet old customs and old ways, whatever year your almanac may say, and hear the English tongue of an older age purely and beautifully spoken. Such a town to me when by chance I come to one is as a harbour sheltered from the years, and if I drive through it in an Irish car I feel as though I rode awhile at anchor, while the long years lashed themselves upon other shores. And the bog beyond it, purple in August with heather, misty, hill-bordered and silent, a land where no man moves, makes me think, when I see it, of some immortal dream given to one that was dead, in exchange for eternal life.

If in some tumultuous city I ever pass one house whence the odour of turf arises, it is as though a friend should clasp my hand while I wandered lonely and lost in the vale of some Lunar crater.

It is a fair thing to see the turf well alight and to sit near to it with friends and dream, and to hope that the remembered years will come again before Death overtakes us, as children on the eve that is sacred to child-

188 RHYTHM hood delay their sleep and hope for Father Christmas. Ah, but there was a mystery in the chimney then that we will not bring again though we burn frankincense and cassia and myrrh, and all the spices of Arabia, and foundered timbers that the Armada lost, or mouldered wainscoting of haunted rooms.

DUNSANY.

S. J. PEPLOE.

Frau Binzer and her mother sat at the dining-room table putting the finishing touches to some green cashmere dresses. They were to be worn by the two Fraulein Binzers at church on the following day, with apple-green sashes, and straw hats with ribbon tails. Frau Binzer had set her heart on it, and this being a late night for Andreas, who was attending a meeting of the Political League, she and the old mother had the dining-room to themselves, and could make " a peaceful l i t ter" as she expressed it. The red cloth was taken off the table—where stood the wedding present sewing machine, a brown work basket, the "mater ial ," and some torn fashion journals. Frau Binzer worked the machine, slowly, for she feared the green thread would give out, and had a sort of tired hope that it might last longer if she was careful to use a little at a time—the old woman sat in a rocking chair, her skirt turned back, and her felt slippered feet on a hassock, tying the machine threads and stitching some narrow lace on the necks and cuffs. The gas jet flickered. Now and again the old woman glanced up at the jet and said, " T h e r e ' s water in the pipe, Anna, that's what's the matter," then was silent, to say again a moment later, " T h e r e must be water in that pipe, Anna," and again, with quite a burst of energy, " Now there is—I'm certain of i t ."

Anna frowned at the sewing machine. ' ' The way mother harps on things—it gets frightfully on my nerves," she thought. " A n d always when there's no earthly opportunity to better a thing. . . . I suppose it's old age—but most aggravating." Aloud she said: "Mothe r , I'm having a really substantial hem in this dress of Rosa's—the child has got so leggy, lately. And don't put any lace on Elena's cuffs; it will make a distinction, and besides she's so careless about rubbing her hands on anything grubby." " O , there's plenty," said the old woman. " I ' l l put it a little higher up." And she wondered why Anna had such a down on Elena—Andreas was just the same—they seemed to want to hurt Elena's feelings—the dis­tinction was merely an excuse.

" Well ," said Frau Binzer, " you didn't see Elena's clothes when I took them off to-night. Black from head to foot after a week. And when I compared them before her eyes with Rosa's she mere shrugged, you

189

NEW DRESSES

190 RHYTHM know that habit she's got, and began stuttering. I really shall have to see Erb about her stuttering, even to give her a good fright, I believe that it's merely an affectation she's picked up at school—that she can help it."

" Anna, you know she's always stuttered. You did just the same when you were her age, she's highly strung." The old woman took off her spectacles, breathed on them, and rubbed them with a corner of her sewing apron.

" Well, the last thing in the world to do her any good is to let her imagine that," answered Anna, shaking out one of the green frocks, and pricking at the pleats with her needle. " She is treated exactly like Rosa, and the Boy hasn't a nerve. Did you see him when I put him on the rock­ing horse to-day, for the first time. He simply gurgled with joy. He's more the image of his father every day."

"Yes, he certainly is a thorough Binzer," asserted the old woman, nodding her head.

" N o w that's another thing about Elena," said Anna, " the peculiar way she treats Boy, staring at him and frightening him as she does. You remember when he was a baby how she used to take away his bottle to see what he would do? Rosa is perfect with the child—but Elena . . . " The old woman put down her work on the table. A little silence fell, and through the silence the loud ticking of the dining-room clock. She wanted to speak her mind to Anna once and for all about the way she and Andreas were treating Elena, ruining the child, but the ticking noise distracted her. She could not think of the words and sat there stupidly, her brain going "tick, tick," to the dining-room clock.

"How loudly that clock ticks," was all she said. " O , there's mother—off the subject again—giving me no help or en­

couragement," thought Anna. She glanced at the clock. "Mother, if you've finished that frock, would you go into the kitchen

and beat up some coffee, and perhaps cut a plate of ham. Andreas will be in directly. I'm practically through with this second frock by myself." She held it up for inspection. "Aren't they charming! They ought to last the children a good two years, and then I expect they'll do for school— lengthened, and perhaps dyed." " I 'm glad we decided on the more expensive material," said the old woman.

Left alone in the dining-room Anna's frown deepened, and her mouth drooped—a sharp line showed from nose to chin. She breathed deeply, and pushed back her hair. There seemed to be no air in the room, she felt stuffed up, and it seemed so useless to be tiring herself out with fine sewing for Elena. One never got through with children, and never had

N E W DRESSES 191 any gratitude from them—except Rosa—who was exceptional. Another sign of old age in mother was her absurd point of view about Elena, and her ' ' touchiness " on the subject. There was one thing. She was determined to keep Elena apart from Boy. H e had all his father's sensitiveness to unsympathetic influences—a blessing that the girls were at school all day!

At last the dresses were finished and folded over the back of the chair. She carried the sewing machine over to the book-shelves, spread the table-cloth, and went over to the window. The blind was up, she could see the garden quite plainly : there must be a moon about. And then she caught sight of something shining on the garden seat. A book, yes it must be a book, left there to get soaked through by the dew. She went out into the hall, put on her goloshes, gathered up her skirt, and ran into the garden. Yes, it was a book. She picked it up carefully—damp already—and the cover bulging. She shrugged her shoulders in the way that her little daughter had caught from her. In the shadowy garden that smelled of grass and rose leaves, Anna's heart hardened. Then the gate clicked and she saw Andreas striding up the front path.

" A n d r e a s , " she called. "He l l o , " he cried, " w h a t on earth are you doing down t h e r e . . .

Moon gazing, Anna." She ran forward and kissed him. " O , look at this book," she said. "Elena 's been leaving it about,

again. My dear, how you smell of cigars." Said Andreas: ' ' You've got to smoke a decent cigar when you're with

these other chaps. Looks so bad if you don't. But come inside, Anna; you haven't got anything on. Let the book go, hang! you're cold, my dear, you're shivering." H e put his arm round her shoulder. " See the moon over there, by the chimney ? Fine night. By jove! I had the fellows roaring to-night—I made a colossal joke." One of them said: "Li fe is a game of cards, and I, without thinking, just straight out . . . " Andreas paused by the door and held up a finger. " I said . . . well I 've forgotten the exact words, but they shouted, my dear, simply shouted. No, I'll remember what I said in bed to-night; you know I always do."

" I ' l l take this book into the kitchen to dry on the stove rack," said Anna, and she thought, as she banged the pages—"Andreas has been drinking beer again, that means indigestion to-morrow. N o use mention­ing Elena to-night."

When Andreas had finished the supper, he lay back in the chair, pick­ing his teeth, and patted his knee for Anna to come and sit there.

" H a l l o , " he said, jumping her up and down, "wha t ' s the green fan­dangles on the chair back? What have you and mother been up to, e h ? "

192 R H Y T H M Said Anna, airily, casting a most careless glance at the green dresses, " Only some frocks for the children. Remnants for Sunday."

The old woman put the plate and cup and saucer together, then lighted a candle.

" I think I'll go to bed," she said, cheerfully. " O dear me, how un­wise of mother," thought Anna. " S h e makes Andreas suspect by going away like that, as she always does if there's any unpleasantness brewing."

" N o , don't go to bed yet, mother," cried Andreas, jovially. " L e t ' s have a look at the things." She passed him over the dresses, faintly smiling. Andreas rubbed them through his fingers.

" S o these are the remnants, are they, A n n a ? Don't feel much like the Sunday trousers my mother used to make me out of an ironing blanket. How much did you pay for this a metre, Anna ? "

Anna took the dresses from him, and played with a button of his waistcoat.

" F o r g e t the exact price, darling, mother and I rather skimped them, even though they were so cheap. Da, what can great big men bother about clothes . . . Was Schafer there, to-night?"

" Y e s , he says their kid was a bit bandy-legged, at just the same age as Boy. H e told me of a new kind of chair for children that the draper has just got in—makes them sit with their legs straight. By the way, have you got this month's draper's bill ? "

She had been waiting for that—had known it was coming. She slipped off his knee and yawned.

" O, dear me," she said, " I think I'll follow mother. Bed's the place for me." She stared at Andreas, vacantly. " Bill—Bill did you say, dear? O, I'll look it out in the morning."

" No, Anna, hold on." Andreas got up and went over to the cupboard where the bill file was kept. " To-morrow's no good—because it's Sunday. I want to get that account off my chest before I turn in. Sit down there —in the rocking-chair—you needn't s tand!"

She dropped into the chair, and began humming, all the while her thoughts coldly busy, and her eyes fixed on her husband's broad back as he bent over the cupboard door. H e dawdled over finding the file.

" H e ' s keeping me in suspense on purpose," she thought. " W e can afford it—otherwise why should I do it ? I know our income and our expenditure. I'm not a fool. They ' re a hell upon earth every month, these bills." And she thought of her bed upstairs, yearned for it, imagining she had never felt so tired in her life.

" H e r e we a re , " said Andreas. H e slammed the file on to the table.

CARICATURE OF KATHERINE MANSFIELD GEORGES BANKS

N E W DRESSES 195 " D r a w up your chair. . . . " "Bruckner , seven metres green cashmere at five marks a metre—

thirty-five marks ." H e read the item twice—then folded the sheet over, and bent towards Anna. H e was flushed and his breath smelt of beer. She knew exactly how he took things in that mood, and she raised her eyebrows and nodded.

" Do you mean to tell me," stormed Andreas, " that lot over there cost thirty-five marks—that stuff you've been mucking up for the children. Good God! Anybody would think you'd married a millionaire. You could buy your mother a trousseau with that money. You're making yourself a laughing stock for the whole town. How do you think I can buy Boy a chair or anything else—if you chuck away my earnings like that ? Time and again you impress upon me the impossibility of keeping Elena decent; and then you go decking her out the next moment in thirty-five marks worth of green cashmere. . . . "

On and on stormed the voice. " He'll have calmed down in the morning, when the beer's worked off,"

thought Anna, and later, as she toiled up to bed, "When he sees how they'll last, he'll understand. . . . "

A brilliant Sunday morning. Andreas and Anna quite reconciled, sitting in the dining-room waiting for church time to the tune of Binzer junior, who steadily thumped the shelf of his high-chair, with a gravy spoon given him from the breakfast table by his father.

" That beggar's got muscle," said Andreas, proudly. " I ' v e timed him by my watch. He's kept that up for five minutes without stopping."

"Ext raord inary , " said Anna, buttoning her gloves. I think he's had that spoon almost long enough now, dear, don't you. I'm so afraid of him putting it into his mouth."

" O , I've got an eye on him." Andreas stood over his small son. " G o it, old man. Tell mother boys like to kick up a row."

Anna kept silent. At any rate it would keep his eye off the children when they came down in those cashmeres. She was still wondering if she had drummed into their minds often enough the supreme importance of being careful and of taking them off immediately after church before dinner, and why Elena was fidgetty when she was pulled about at all, when the door opened and the old woman ushered them in, complete to the straw hats with ribbon tails.

She could not help thrilling, they looked so very superior—Rosa carry­ing her prayer book in a white case embroidered with a pink woollen

196 R H Y T H M cross. But she feigned indifference immediately, and the lateness of the hour. Not a word more on the subject from Andreas even with the thirty-five marks worth walking hand in hand before him all the way to church. Anna decided that was really generous and noble of him. She looked up at him, walking with the shoulders thrown back, how fine he looked in that long black coat with the white silk tie just showing, and the children looked worthy of him. She squeezed his hand in church—conveying by that silent pressure—it was for your sake I made the dresses, of course you can't understand that, but really Andreas. And she fully believed it.

On their way home the Binzer family met Doctor Erb, out walking with a black dog carrying his stick in its mouth. Doctor Erb stopped and asked after Boy so intelligently that Andreas invited him to dinner.

"Gome and pick a bone with us and see Boy for yourself," he said. And Doctor Erb accepted. H e walked beside H e r r Binzer and shouted over his shoulder, "Elena, keep an eye on my boy baby, will you, and see he doesn't swallow that walking stick. Because if he does a tree will grow right out of his mouth or it will go to his tail and make it so stiff that a wag will knock you into kingdom come!"

" O h , Doctor E r b ! " laughed Elena, stooping over the dog, "Gome along, doggie, give it up, there's a good boy!"

"Elena, your dress!" warned Anna. "Yes , indeed," said Doctor Erb. " T h e y are looking top notchers to­

day—the two young ladies." "Well , it really is Rosa's colour," said Anna. " H e r complexion is so

much more vivid than Elena's." Rosa blushed. Doctor Erb's eyes twinkled, and he kept a tight rein on

himself from saying she looked like a tomato in a lettuce salad. "Tha t child wants taking down a peg," he decided. " G i v e me Elena

every time. She'll come to her own yet, and lead them just the dance they need."

Boy was having his mid-day sleep when they arrived home, and Doctor Erb begged that Elena might show him round the garden. Andreas, repenting already of his generosity, gladly assented, and Anna went into the kitchen to interview the servant girl.

" Mumma, let me come too and taste the gravy," begged Rosa. " H u h ! " muttered Doctor Erb, "good riddance." H e established himself on the garden bench—put up his feet and took

off his hat, to give the sun " a chance of growing a second crop," he told Elena.

She asked, soberly: "Doc to r Erb, do you really like my dress."

N E W DRESSES 197 " O f course I do, my lady. Don't y o u ? " " O yes. I'd like to be born and die in it. But it was such a fuss—try-

ings on, you know, and pullings, and 'don'ts. ' I believe mother would kill me if it got hurt. I even knelt on my petticoat all through church because of dust on the hassock."

" B a d as that," asked Doctor Erb, rolling his eyes at Elena. " O far worse," said the child, then burst into laughter and shouted

"He l l i sh ! " dancing over the lawn. " T a k e care, they'll hear you, Elena." " O booh! It's just dirty old cashmere—serve them right. They can't

see me if they're not here to see and so it doesn't matter. It's only with them I feel funny."

" H a v e n ' t you got to remove your finery before dinner." " N o , because you're here ." " O , my prophetic soul," groaned Doctor Erb. Coffee was served in the garden. The servant girl brought out some

cane chairs and a rug for Boy. The children were told to go away and play. " L e a v e off worrying Doctor Erb, Elena," said Andreas. " Y o u

mustn't be a plague to people who are not members of your own family." Elena pouted, and dragged over to the swing for comfort. She swung high, and thought Doctor Erb was a most beautiful man—and wondered if his dog had finished the plate of bones in the back yard. Decided to go and see. Slower she swung, then took a flying leap; her tight skirt caught on a nail—there was a sharp, tearing sound—quickly she glanced at the others —they had not noticed—and then at the frock—at a hole big enough to stick her hand through. She felt neither frightened nor sorry. I'll go and change it, she thought.

"Elena , where are you going to ," called Anna. " I n t o the house for a book." The old woman noticed that the child held her skirt in a peculiar way.

Her petticoat string must have come untied. But she made no remark. Once in the bedroom Elena unbuttoned the frock, slipped out of it, and wondered what to do next. Hide it somewhere—she glanced all round the room—there was nowhere safe from them. Except the top of the cupboard—but even standing on a chair she could not throw so high—it fell back on top of her every time—the horrid, hateful thing. Then her eyes lighted on her school satchel hanging on the end of the bed post. Wrap it in her school pinafore—put it in the bottom of the bag with the pencil case on top. They'd never look there. She returned to the garden in the every-day dress—but forgot about the book.

HENRI GAUDIER-BRZESKA.

N E W DRESSES 199 " N n-n," said Anna smiling, ironically. " What a new leaf for Doctor

Erb's benefit. Look, mother, Elena has changed without being told to ." " G o m e here, dear, and be done up properly." She whispered to

Elena: " W h e r e did you leave your d r e s s ? " "Le f t it on the side of the bed. Where I took it off," sang Elena. Doctor Erb was talking to Andreas of the advantages derived from

public school education for the sons of commercial men, but he had his eye on the scene, and watching Elena, he smelt a rat—smelt a Hamelin tribe of them. • • • « • • • * * • » • • • •

Confusion and consternation reigned. One of the green cashmeres had disappeared—spirited off the face of the earth—during the time that Elena took it off and the children's tea.

"Show me the exact spot," scolded Frau Binzer for the twentieth time. "Elena , tell the t ruth."

" Mumma, I swear I left it on the floor." " Well, it's no good swearing if it's not there. It can't have been stolen!" " I did see a very funny looking man in a white cap walking up and

down the road and staring in the windows as I came up to change." Sharply Anna eyed her daughter.

" Now," she said, " I know you are telling lies." She turned to the old woman, in her voice something of pride and

joyous satisfaction—"you hear, mother, this cock-and-bull s t o ry?" When they were near the end of the bed Elena blushed and turned

away from them. And now and again she wanted to shout " I tore it, I tore it," and she fancied she had said it and seen their faces, just as some­times in bed she dreamed she had got up and dressed. But as the evening wore on she grew quite careless—only glad of one thing—people had to go to sleep at night. Viciously she stared at the sun shining through the window space and making a pattern of the curtain on the bare nursery floor. And then she looked at Rosa, painting a text at the nursery table with a whole egg cup full of water to herself. . . . Andreas visited their bedroom the last thing. She heard him come creaking into their room and hid under the bedclothes. But Rosa betrayed her.

" Elena's not asleep," piped Rosa. Andreas sat by the bedside pulling his moustache. " If it were not Sunday, Elena, I would whip you. As it is, and I

must be at the office early to-morrow, I shall give you a sound smacking after tea in the evening. . . . Do you hear me ? "

She grunted.

200 R H Y T H M " Y o u love your father and mother, don't y o u ? " N o answer. Rosa gave Elena a dig with her foot. "Wel l , " said Andreas, sighing deeply, " I suppose you love J e s u s ? " " Rosa's scratched my leg with her toe nail," answered Elena. Andreas strode out of the room and flung himself on to his own bed,

with his outdoor boots on the starched bolster, noticed Anna, but he was too overcome for her to venture a protest. The old woman was in the bedroom too, idly combing the hairs from Anna's brush. Andreas told them the story, and was gratified to observe Anna's tears.

' ' It is Rosa's turn for her toe nails after the bath next Saturday," com­mented the old woman.

In the middle of the night Andreas dug his elbow in Frau Binzer. " I ' v e got an idea," he said, " Erb's at the bottom of this." " No . . . how . . . why . . . where . . . bottom of what ? " "Those damned green dresses." "Wouldn ' t be surprised," she managed to articulate, thinking—

"imagine his rage if I woke him up to tell him an idiotic thing like tha t !"

" Is the qnadige Frau at home," asked Doctor Erb. " N o , sir, qnadige Frau is out visiting," answered the servant girl. " I s H e r r Binzer—anywhere a b o u t ? " " O no, sir, he's never home midday." "Show me in to the drawing-room." The servant girl opened the drawing-room door, cocked her eye at

the doctor's bag. She wished he would leave it in the hall—even if she could feel the outside without opening it. . . . But the doctor kept it in his hand.

The old woman sat in the drawing-room, a roll of knitting on her lap. He r head had fallen back—her mouth was open—she was asleep—and quietly snoring. She started up at the sound of the doctor's footsteps and straightened her cap.

" O Doctor—you did take me by surprise. I was dreaming that Andreas had bought Anna five little canaries. Please to sit down!"

" N o thanks. I just popped in on the chance of catching you alone. . . . You see this bag.

The old woman nodded. ' ' Now are you any good at opening bags, qnadige Frau ? " "Wel l , my husband was a great traveller and once I spent a whole

night in a railway train."

N E W DRESSES 201 " Well, have a go at opening this one." The old woman knelt on the floor—her fingers trembled. "The re ' s nothing startling ins ide?" she asked. " W e l l it won't bite exactly," said Doctor Erb. The catch sprang open—the bag yawned like a toothless mouth and

she saw, folded in its depths—green cashmere—with narrow lace on the neck and sleeves.

" Fancy t h a t ! " said the old woman mildly. " May I take it out, Doctor." She professed neither astonishment nor pleasure—and Erb felt disappointed.

"Elena ' s dress," he said, and, bending towards her, raised his voice: " tha t young spark's Sunday rig out."

" I ' m not deaf, Doctor," answered the old woman. "Yes , I thought it looked like it. I told Anna only this morning it was bound to turn up somewhere." She shook the crumpled frock, and looked it over. "Things always do if you give them time ; I've noticed that so often—it's such a blessing."

" Y o u know, Brechenmacher—the postman—gastric ulcers—called there this morning—and saw this brought in by Lena who'd got it from Elena on her way to school. Said the kid fished it out of her satchel rolled in a pinafore and said her mother had told her to give it away because it did not fit her. When I saw the tear I understood yesterday's ' new leaf,' as Frau Anna put it. Was up to the dodge in a jiffy. Got the dress— bought some stuff at Bruckners and made my sister Bertha sew it while I had dinner. I knew what would be happening this end of the line—and I knew you'd see Elena through for the sake of getting one at Andreas."

" How thoughtful of you, Doctor," said the old woman, " I ' l l tell Anna I found it under my dolman."

"Yes , that's your ticket," said Doctor Erb. "But of course Elena would have forgotten the whipping by to-morrow morning, and I'd promised her a new doll. . . . " the old woman spoke regretfully.

Doctor Erb snapped his bag together. " It's no good talking to the old bird," he thought. " S h e doesn't take in half I say. Don't seem to have got any forrader than doing Elena out of a doll."

# * *

On the following Sunday the two Fraulein Binzers in green cashmere dresses with apple green sashes and straw hats with ribbon tails sat in church between their father and mother. Elena knelt on the dusty hassock without lifting her skirt. But it did not matter—Anna quite forgot to notice. K A T H E R I N E M A N S F I E L D .

202

TORMENT

I see your eyes in every woman's face. They torture me ; for something yet remains Of that old love. The stab of long past pains

Stabs yet again in every woman's grace.

I will forget. Is not my life my own To make or mar, without a woman's eyes To search my soul with fire that never dies,

The flame of longing for a love o'erthrown?

My life is mine. The thousand-barbed stings Of old desire are spent, and I will turn Expectant, when the fires no longer burn,

To all the life that each to-morrow brings.

You cannot hold me; not your puckered mouth Hungry for kisses, nor your pleading face Will turn me from the struggle of the race,

Nor from my will the soul-tormenting drouth.

I am my master; yet I see you still. In every corner of my life you hide, You call to me and beckon me aside,

And break the bending forces of my will.

And I must come. Your eyes, your glinting hair Your bended neck, the shimmer of your dress Pluck at my heart-strings, and a sudden press

Of passion in my soul that quivers bare.

TORMENT 203 " I come my darling. Kiss me once again.

And let us be the lovers that we were. Kiss me and twine your fingers in my hair

As long ago, for ended is our pain."

" My life is yours, to do with what you will. You are my mistress. I have won the prize Of that surpassing love that never dies.

Kiss me, and now my inmost soul is still."

The wan fire flickers. As I wake, the day Breaks cold upon me lonely in my room, Listless and broken, and the morning gloom

Writhes through the curtains, deathly grey. JOHN MIDDLETON MURRY.

FONTENAY.

Je t'aime

204

OBSERVATIONS AND OPINIONS III.

THE END OF T H E WORLD. It is only the outside and the inside of a door.—

George Meredith. When I was a little boy at school—a large

establishment conducted a la Strasbourg in the manufacture of cerveau gras—there were three black days when, like a hot wind rushing through a wood before a storm, there ran a panic through the place. There had been dirty weather, a frost, and then fog, and it had been whispered, from what quarter I know not, that the end of the world was at hand. As the fog grew denser the rumour gained credence and an awful silence descended upon the place: boys crept stealthily and fearfully from form-room to form-room and repeated their lessons as though they were the last general confession. Many boys hid themselves away in the lavatories and cellars and were hunted out by the prefects. . . . On the third FERGUSSON. day there was an almost intolerable tension of nerves. The school was in a narrow winding street in the heart of a manufacturing city. On the opposite side of the street were great warehouses. Our form-room looked out on these. About half-past two in the afternoon, when, in a dream, we were line by line translating, with reference to the notes of some Swiss schoolmaster, the Jungfrau von Orleans of Schiller, there came a rumbling sound like the brewing of thunder, and a tearing crash, like the rending of clouds. A little boy behind me started to his feet, a desk fell over at the back of the room, outside in the corridor a door banged, a Jew named Kraus fainted. No­body prayed: there was hardly a whimper. We were too frightened to be anything but heroic, or, rather, we had passed beyond fear. We were not sure but we were dead and had reached that bourn from whence no man returneth. The usher—(how he would dislike being called " the usher") —descended from his little platform and carried Kraus out into the pas­sage and sent the monitor flying for water. Slowly, very slowly, we groped back to the knowledge that the building was not so much as shaken, that

OBSERVATIONS AND OPINIONS 205 everything was as it had been, that the crisis had come and gone and taken with it our terrors. Some of us, out of re-action, cried. It was a very painful scene. I was one of the first to recover and I went to the window and looked out to see an enormous tin-plate that had been dropped from the seventh floor of a warehouse into the street. A horse had been killed and there was a great pool of blood in the gutter. It had been the end of the world only for the horse.

Since then I have time and again found the same panic fears in grown men and women when any change, particular or general, has seemed imminent. They have hated and dreaded change, besides which there is nothing in this world permanent. They would if they could, I verily believe, stop the seasons in their course. They live in terror of the end of the world. They are from day to day in mortal fear of death, though, when it comes, ninety-nine out of a hundred human beings accept it as naturally as every year they accept the coming of winter, though many, to be on the safe side, make their peace with the accredited representative of the Creator of All Things, since there is always the possibility that there may lie a retrospective justice beyond the grave. All the evidence points the other way, but very few are bold enough, like Lucretius, re­ligiously to believe that death is final. Without such a belief there cannot be anything but hesitation, half-thoughts, and half-desires; there must always be a leakage of faith; life must for ever be poisoned by the fear of death, not because it is the end of the world for each individual, but because it may not be the end. The imagination is baffled. Directly a man turns from the contemplation of life he descends, like a second-rate artist, from imagination to invention. Every Heaven that man ever contrived has been trite and empty, a sky without stars, a moony wilderness, and the communications of alleged revenants have always been trivial.

On the other hand, directly a man's imagination turns from the profit­less study of a possible immortality, he learns to see the world by the only light vouchsafed to him, the light of the sun, the moon and the stars fall­ing upon the mirror of his soul. By that light he sees that life is good, that he holds his life in trust from the men who were before him, that, when his work is accomplished, he may hand it down to those who shall come after him. He perceives himself to be as changing and as purposeful as the clouds and the light of day, as free and as joyous. So perceiving, he dis­covers in himself a new courage which has altogether driven out fear and made him well-nigh proof against panic or any other epidemic of the mind. Living in a world of slaves, full power of direct action may be denied him, but nothing can stand in the way of spiritual action.

206 RHYTHM There is in the world to-day a greater percentage—to please the

statistically-minded the figures may be put at 1 per thousand—of such men than there has ever been. They are looking forward to the day when industrialism shall overbear its continents. When that day comes and the flood has drowned the wicked—(the story of Noah is a profound fable)— it will be more possible than ever before to begin the real constructive work of the world, the tidy organization of human affairs. Till then there is the work of making the men. You must make men before you can make anything else. That is the work which artists and philosophers and all honest men have been doing since first man perceived that he was not as the beasts of the field and that he could by work refine and purify the processes of his life so that it should win a greater glory of beauty, the beauty of active religion.

GILBERT CANNAN.

S. J. PEPLOE.

MARGARET THOMPSON.

THE PRESENT "You' l l come for cer ta in?" Senista asked for the third time. For the

third time Sazonka reassured him: " I ' l l come—you bet I'll come. Tha t would be a bit too rough if I didn't come. I'll come for certain."

They were silent again. Lying at full length Senista pulled the grey hospital blanket up to his chin. He stared at Sazonka. H e wanted him to stay longer—to reassure him again somehow that he would not be left lonely and ill and frightened. Sazonka wanted to go, but he could not think how to manage it withouthurting the boy. He cleared his throat, fidgeted in his chair, then sat back determinedly as if he never meant to move again. If there had been something to talk about he would have stayed willingly, but there was nothing. Funny ideas came into his head. . . H e kept want­ing to call Senista by his full name—Senista Erofeievitch, which was idiotic: for Senista was only a little apprentice and Sazonka was a clever worker and a great drunkard. People only called him Sazonka for short, and only a fortnight ago he had beaten Senista. Ah, that was cruel of him—and he could not possibly mention it. Again he began working his way out of his chair, and again half way up he sat back as before.

" W h a t an ugly business ! Feeling b a d ? " Senista nodded his head and said in a weak voice " Y o u must go. If you

don't he'll kick up a fuss." "Tha t ' s t rue." Sazonka was delighted with the excuse. " T h a t ' s just

what he told m e . " ' ' Look sharp!" he said . ' ' Come straight back. N o pubs!" What an old devil! But now that it was quite easy to go Sazonka felt terribly sorry for little, big-headed Senista. H e was stirred by the strange­ness of the place, the rows and rows of beds with white faced men in them— the air smelling of iodoform and sick creatures. His own strength and health seemed to hold him back, too. H e looked straight into the boy's beseeching eyes.

207

208 RHYTHM "Don't be afraid, Senista." In a firm voice he repeated," I'll come. As

soon as I'm free I'll come to see you. Great God! Aren't we men ? We know what duty is, too . . . Do you believe me, boy—yes or n o ? "

Senista smiled. His lips were parched and blackened. "Yes, I believe you."

"That's all right." Sazonka was triumphant. He was happy and re­lieved. He felt that he could speak now of that blow he'd given him accidentally a fortnight ago. He touched the little boy's shoulder with his fingers. " I f you were hit, you know, it wasn't meant to hurt you. But your head's too inviting—so big and smooth."

Senista smiled again. Sazonka got up. He was very tall. His carefully combed hair covered his head like a rich, delicate cap. His big grey eyes sparkled and smiled unconsciously. ' ' Well, good-bye then!" He stood motionless, feeling that that wasn't enough, he ought to say something more friendly, something that would keep Senista happy in the hospital, some­thing that would make it easy for himself to leave. He shifted from one foot to the other, ridiculous in his boyish confusion. Senista helped him out again. "Good-bye!" came the thin, childish voice. Very simply, like a great man, he held out his hand from under the blanket to Sazonka, like an equal. Sazonka understood that that was what he wanted to bring him peace. He held the shrunken fingers respectfully in his great strong hand, kept them there a moment and let them go with a sigh. There was some­thing strange and sad in the touch of the little feverish fingers. . . Could it be that Senista was not only the equal of every man, but even higher and more free than they. . . That was because the child now belonged to an invisible master, who was strong and terrible. He could call him Senista Erofeievitch without being ridiculous. "You'll come?" asked Senista for the fourth time. The question drove away the majestic, terrible thing that had shadowed him for a moment with its silent wings. He was a sick child again, inspiring the old pity, the old deep pity. When Sazonka left the hospital he carried away with him the smell of iodoform and the pleading voice.

"You'll come, won't you?" And Sazonka answered—spreading his arms: "Dear little soul!

Aren't we men? We're men, after all."

II. Easter was very near. There was so much work at the tailor's that

Sazonka only managed to get drunk once one Sunday evening, and then only half. All the long bright spring days from cock-crow to nightfall he

T H E P R E S E N T 209 sat cross-legged on the bench by the window, wrinkling his eyebrows and growling discontentedly. In the morning the window was in shadow and the cold came in through the cracks; but about noon the sun proclaimed himself in a narrow yellow ray, dancing with shining particles of dust. Half an hour later the heap of cuttings and scissors on the table shone blindingly brilliant. It was hot as summer; he had to open the window. Then on the wave of strong fresh air that carried with it a smell of stables, drying mud and buds ready to burst into flower, a stupid feeble fly entered with the countless voices of the street. On the slope beneath the shop hens were pecking and clucking for happiness and wallowing in the puddles; on the other side of the street where the ground was already dry children played knucklebones. There was freshness in their joyful echoing laughter and in the sound of the metal rings with which they played. Very seldom did a carriage pass through this part of the town. On rare occasions a peasant from the country near drove his wagon by, floundering in the ditches full of mud. The clattering and jolting called up visions of spring and wide fields.

When Sazonka began to get cramp in his back and his numb fingers could hold the needle no longer he ran out into the street barefoot, with­out his belt; took great leaps over the puddles and joined in the children's games. His vigour used to stupefy them with wonder. After that he rested. One day he said to the youngsters:

"D 'you know Senista's still in the hospital?" The children were fascinated by their game and received the news with cold indifference.

" H e must have a present. I want to take him one . . . " went on Sazonka.

They pricked up their ears at "present ." Michka the "Pigling "holding on to his trousers with one hand and his whip with the other, gravely advised:

"G ive him a penny." That was what Michka's grandfather had promised him. It seemed to

him the ideal of human happiness. However, there was no time to discuss the question of the present. Sazonka ran back to the shop and started work again. His eyes were swollen, his colour yellow and pale like a sick man's. The freckles on his nose and round his eyes were darker and more numerous than before. Only his carefully combed hair gave his head always the same cheerful look, and when Gavril Ivanovitch the master looked at him, he began to think of a little red bar-parlour and brandy and commenced to swear terribly.

Sazonka's thoughts were sad and troubled. For hours on end he

PORTRAIT OF HIMSELF. PABLO PICASSO.

T H E P R E S E N T 211 clumsily pondered one single idea in his brain. H e dreamed either of new boots or an accordeon. But most often he thought of Senista and the pre­sent he would give him. The sewing-machine thrummed a monotonous lullaby. Now and then his master shouted. But it was always the same picture in Sazonka's tired brain. He was arriving at the hospital and was giving Senista a present wrapped in an Indian handkerchief with a great border. Often he was so sleepy that he forgot who Senista was, and could not recall his face; but he saw very clearly the Indian handkerchief that he was to buy. It even seemed to him that the knots were not tight enough . . . Sazonka proclaimed to everybody, master, mistress, customers, child­ren, that he was going to see the little invalid on the first day of Easter.

"Tha t ' s what's to be done," he repeated. " A s soon as I've done my hair, I'm going down there. I'll say, ' M y boy, that's for y o u ! ' " But as he spoke, he saw another picture, the great open door of a public-house with a counter stained with brandy far inside. H e was filled with bitterness. He felt his unconquerable failing. H e wanted to shout loud, to go on shouting.

"I ' l l go to see Senista. I will go. His head filled with a grey swirling mist. Only the Indian handkerchief showed through. The sight gave him no joy, but only a harsh and threatening warning.

I I I . The first two days of Easter Sazonka spent his time drinking. H e

fought, was knocked about, and slept at the police-station. It was only on the fourth day that he managed to start for the hospital.

The street was flooded with sunlight, and dappled with the brilliant colours of red cotton shirts, and the joyful brightness of white teeth chewing sunflower seeds. Here and there men were playing the accordeon, or having a game of knucklebones ; a cock was crowing against his neigh­bour. Sazonka saw nothing. One eye was closed up, his lip split. H e was sombre and preoccupied. His hair was not combed. It fell disordered over his head in little streaks. H e was ashamed at having been drunk and false to his word. H e was ashamed to show himself to Senista, reeking of burnt brandy, in untidy clothes, and without his splendid blouse, and his red woollen waistcoat. The nearer he came to the hospital, the more com­fort he felt. His eyes dropped more and more often towards his right hand in which he cautiously held the handkerchief and the present. H e could see Senista's face, his dry lips and beseeching eyes.

" M y boy, are you . . . . ? O h ! my G o d ! . . . . " said Sazonka, and hurried on.

212 R H Y T H M There was the great yellow hospital, the windows edged in black, like

gloomy, terrible eyes. There was the long corridor, the smell of iodoform, and the dumb feeling of pain and terror; there was the sick-room Senista's bed

" But where is Senista? " "Who d' you want?" asked a nurse. " A little boy, Senista used to be there. His name was Senista

Erofeievitch. There . . . . in the corner there . . . ." Sazonka pointed at the empty bed.

" You'd better find out downstairs, and not come into the ward like that," said the nurse, rudely.

" He was there—in that bed," Sazonka repeated, growing paler and paler.

" Your Senista's dead . . . . Dead ! I tell you! " " Ah, is that so ? " Sazonka was astonished and polite. He became so

pale that the freckles showed like ink upon his face. " When did it happen?"

"Yesterday evening." " Might I . . . . ? " Sazonka hesitated. " Why not." The nurse was indifferent. "Ask where the mortuary is.

They'll show it you. Don't be frightened. He was very ill, too weak to live."

Sazonka's tongue asked the way very politely. His legs carried him steadily to the place. His eyes saw nothing at all. He only saw things again when he stared fixedly at the face of dead Senista. Then he felt the terrible cold of the room, and he saw everything about him. The sun was very bright indeed ; but through the window the sky showed always grey and cold as autumn. Now and then a fly buzzed somewhere. Drops of water fell one by one sadly, and the noise trembled in the air for a long while.

Sazonka stepped back and said aloud: ' ' Good-bye, Senista Erofeievitch!" Then he knelt down, touched the boards with his forehead, and rose

again. " Forgive me, Senista Erofeievitch," he went on very distinctly;

again he sank on to his knees, and bent his head to the ground until it began to ache.

The fly no longer buzzed. There was silence—the silence which belongs to death only. Drops fell steadily into a copper basin, falling and weeping, sweetly, peacefully

T H E P R E S E N T 213

IV. The hospital was at the edge of the town where the country began.

Sazonka wandered away to where fields spread freely, unweighted by trees or houses, and the wind seemed to be their free and weary breathing. Sazonka took a path, turned to the left and went straight to the stream, crossing fallow and stubble. Sometimes the earth was still soft; and his heels made little dark holes.

When he reached the hill Sazonka lay down in a grass-covered hollow where the air was motionless and warm as in a greenhouse. H e shut his eyes. Like a weary red wave the sun's rays struck his eyelids. Very high in the blue air a lark was singing. H e took great breaths and thought of nothing at all. The water had already gone down. The river had left behind traces of its violence a long way all down the far bank—great polished stones resting upon each other, standing in white pyramids against the burning pitiless rays that pierced and ate them through. In his absorption Sazonka moved his arm. It rested upon something hard covered with a cloth.

It was the present. H e had completely forgotten his parcel. H e looked at it with frightened

eyes as if it had come by itself to stand by his side. H e was afraid to touch it. A stabbing, stormy pity, a fury of violence rose within him. H e looked at the Indian handkerchief and thought how Senista had waited for him on the first day of the holiday, then the second and the third—how he had turned to the door to see his visitor enter. The child died alone, forgotten, like a tiny dog thrown into a ditch. That evening he might have seen th£ present with his failing eyes; his childish heart would have rejoiced at it, and felt no sorrow, no fear, no bitter grief at his loneliness.

Sazonka rolled weeping over on the ground; his hands gripping his thick hair. H e sobbed. H e lifted his arms to heaven, groping to justify himself.

" G r e a t God, aren't we m e n ? " . . . H e fell face downward on the ground, falling upon his split lip, rigid,

in a fit of silent despair. Tiny blades of grass touched his face very softly. A strong comforting smell rose from the wet ground, setting loose a great power, a passionate appeal to life. Eternal mother earth took her guilty son to her bosom and comforted his sad heart with the warmth of her love and hope.

Far away in the city the Easter chimes were ringing gaily. . . .

L E O N I D E A N D R E I E F F .

round and Philomele. Arlequin.

Philomele.

Arlequin.

Philomele.

Arlequin.

Philomele. Arlequin. Philomele. Arlequin.

214

LE VOYAGE EN CYTHERE

T H E R E T U R N

An old garden with high yew-hedges. Beneath a group of elms is the marble bust of a laughing faun, garlanded with roses— but the roses are dead.

{Philomele is seated on a marble bench— she has a disconsolate, woe-begone air, and one of the ivory sticks of her fan is broken. Suddenly Arlequin enters : he appears worn and travel-stained. Philomele starts, turns

looks at him angrily without smiling.) A h ! you—returned!

Your most unhappy slave Comes, full of deep humility, to crave Forgiveness.

Good! I see that past all doubt You have been punished.

Like a flame put out I come, to be rekindled by your lips. A h ! but the motion of those hateful ships The comfortless cold waters!—Never more Shall I, preserve me heaven; leave the shore! I am punished truly—

Yet how eagerly You turned away that morning and left me Upon the shore alone, unkissed!—How then You have the courage to return again, I cannot guess!

A shameful fugitive I come.

Nay, shameless rather. Princess, forgive!

Forgive!—I did not even miss you! Low

Before your feet, behold all grey with woe, A wise man and a changed!—Alas! those days

LE VOYAGE EN CYTHERE Spent on the wet deplorable sea-ways, A nightmare, horrible indeed.

Philomele. You seem Not to have found Cythera then?

Arlequin. A dream, A dream, distraught it is and nothing more— A treacherous dream!

Philomele. What all that rosy shore Where very love dwells and all happiness? —The poet's land!

Arlequin. 'Tis but a dream—and less! Philomele. But all those wondrous tales then? Arlequin. All are lies! Philomele. You found small favour in Queen Venus' eyes

I understand—poor dupe! Arlequin. I was but led

By a false rumour—and the others sped Sadly, even as I.

Philomele. The others?—Yes— Where are they?

Arlequin. Truly I know not, Princess. Wrecked on some savage rock perchance, or cast On a desert island. I can but hope at last They will return as I.

Philomele. But did you not Then reach Cythera?

Arlequin. Ah! the accursed spot! And thrice accursed the poets who sing thereof! Dedicated to disastrous love— Love the destroyer, Amor infelix—

Philomele. Thus I warned you!

Arlequin. Hear the ills that fell on us When we embarked—and I alas! gone mad Left you whose eyes alone can make me glad, Whose lips the sweetest in the world recall—

Philomele. Continue. Arlequin. Full of laughter were we all;

Our barque most gaily decked as well-beseemed Those who set sail towards happiness long dreamed,

216

Philomele.

Arlequin.

Philomele.

Arlequin. Philomele.

RHYTHM Long thought of, and our sails were all of silk Creamy and white like softly curdled milk. Our oars were gold to meet the angry seas, And even as gold we glittered. The Marquise Was wittier than I have ever known—

Enough! How long it takes to reach the isle of love! Pardon Princess; a brief unhappy tale It is when all is done. Thus we set sail, And shortly ere the close of the third night Saw very near the isle of our delight— Then gleefully we rose and hand in hand Stood on the decks to greet that fortunate land. But then alas! a sudden wind up leapt And tore our sails in shreds: the Marquise wept: I seized the helm, yet little I could do; We drove ashore, the ship was broken in two Upon the blackest rocks in all the world! A gaunt wave seized upon me and up hurled Me on the highest, where all drenched with spray I lay and shivered for a night and day, Until a fishing-boat—but I will tell The rest when you command me. Philomele, Have you no pity?

None,—and yet to speak Truth, this has been the very dreariest week That ever living mortal maid has known! I could not live in Paradise alone! What with no man to praise or call me fair! For three whole days I have not done my hair. I cannot fan myself although the heat Is insupportable—I cannot eat. How often did I wish I had faced death On the high seas! Why even the faun's wreath Is faded—see what untold misery, Perverse and fickle, you have brought on me! But you forgive?

Only because I must— Another day and I should fall to dust, And so I pardon.

LE VOYAGE EN CYTHERE 217 Arlequin. This is holy ground!

Princess I swoon, for now I have surely found Cythera; 'twas love's self that made me fail.

Philomile (anxiously) And am I fair still?

Arlequin (looking at her critically) Perhaps a little p a l e -

Otherwise like Queen Venus' self. Philomile. Alas!

'Tis three days since I dared consult my glass. I tremble now, but yet, a touch of red You think ?—The melancholy life I've led Has surely left its mark. I'll not be long, Get your guitar and make me a new song, And hold yourself forgiven—more or less!— Arlequin wait, I go to change my dress!

MARGARET SACKVILLE.

S. J. PEPLOE.

218

THE LITTLE

GIRL

To the little girl he was a figure to be feared and avoided. Every morning before going to business he came into the nursery and gave her a perfunctory kiss to which she responded with "Good-bye, Father ." And oh, the glad sense of relief when she heard the noise of the buggy growing fainter and fainter down the long road!

In the evening, leaning over the banisters at his home-coming, she heard his loud voice in the hall. "Bring my tea into the smoking room Hasn't the paper come yet? Have they taken it into the kitchen again? Mother, go and see if my paper's out there—and bring me my slippers."

"Kass ," mother would call to her, " i f you're a good girl you can come down and take off Father's boots." Slowly the little girl would slip down the stairs, holding tightly to the banisters with one hand—more slowly still, across the hall and push open the smoking-room door.

By that time he had his spectacles on and looked at her over them in a way that was terrifying to the little girl.

' ' Well, Kass, get a move on and pull off these boots and take them outside. Been a good girl to-day ? "

" I d-d-don't know, Father ." " Y o u d-d-don't know? If you stutter like that Mother will have to

take you to the doctor." She never stuttered with other people—had quite given it up—only

with Father because then she was trying so hard to say the words properly. "Wha t ' s the matter? What are you looking so wretched about?

Mother, I wish you would teach this child not to appear on the brink of suicide. . . . Here, Kass, carry my teacup back to the table—carefully; your hands jog like an old lady. And try to keep your handkerchief in your pocket, not up your sleeve."

"Y-y-yes, Father ." On Sundays she sat in the same pew with him in church, listening

while he sang in a loud, clear voice, watching while he made little notes

T H E LITTLE GIRL 219 during the sermon with the stump of a blue pencil on the back of an envelope—his eyes narrowed to a slit—one hand beating a silent tattoo on the pew ledge. He said his prayers so loudly that she was certain God heard him above the clergyman.

He was so big—that was what frightened the little girl—his hands and his neck—especially his mouth when he yawned. Thinking about him alone in the nursery was like thinking about a giant.

On Sunday afternoons Grandmother sent her down to the drawing-room, dressed in her "brown velvet," to have a "nice talk with Mother and Father." But the little girl always found Mother reading the Sketch and Father stretched out on the couch, his handkerchief on his face, feet propped on one of the best sofa pillows, and so soundly sleeping that he snored.

She, perched on the piano stool, gravely watched him until he woke and stretched, and asked the time—then looked round at her.

" Don't stare so, Kass. You look like a little brown owl." One day, when she was kept indoors with a cold, the Grandmother

told her that Father's birthday was next week and suggested she should make him a pincushion for a present out of a beautiful piece of yellow silk.

Laboriously, with a double cotton, the little girl stitched three sides. But what to fill it with? That was the question. The Grandmother was out in the garden, and she wandered into Mother's bedroom to look for "scraps." On the bed table she discovered a great many sheets of fine paper, gathered them up, shredded them into tiny pieces and stuffed her case, then sewed up the fourth side.

That night there was a hue and cry over the house. Father's great speech for the Harbour Board had been lost. Rooms were ransacked— servants questioned. Finally Mother came into the nursery.

" Kass, I suppose you didn't see some papers on a table in our room?" "Oh, yes," she said. " I tore them up for my s'prise." " What!" screamed Mother. "Gome straight down to the dining-room

this instant." And she was dragged down to where Father was pacing to and fro,

hands behind his back. "Wel l ? "sharply. Mother explained. He stopped and stared in a stupefied manner at the child. "Did you do t h a t ? " " N-n-no," she whispered. " Mother, go up to the nursery and fetch down the damned thing—see

that the child's put to bed this instant."

220 R H Y T H M Crying too much to explain she lay in the shadowed room watching the

evening light sift through the Venetian blinds and trace a sad little pattern on the floor.

Then Father came into the room with a ruler in his hands. " I am going to whip you for this," he said. " O h , no, no," she screamed, cowering down under the bedclothes. He pulled them aside. "Si t up," he commanded, " and hold out your hands. You must be

taught once and for all not to touch what does not belong to you." " B u t it was for your b-b-birthday." . . . Down came the ruler on her little, pink palms. Hours later, when the Grandmother had wrapped her in a shawl and

rocked her in the rocking chair the child cuddled close to her soft body. " W h y did Jesus make Fathers f o r ? " she snivelled. " H e r e ' s a clean 'hanky, ' darling, with some of my lavender water

on it. Go to sleep, pet, you'll forget all about it in the morning. I tried to explain to Father but he was too upset to listen to-night."

But the child never forgot. Next time she saw him she whipped both hands behind her back, and a red colour flew into her cheeks.

The Macdonalds lived in the next door house. Five children there were. Looking through a hole in the vegetable garden fence the little girl saw them playing " tag " in the evening—the Father with the " baby Mac " on his shoulders, two little girls hanging on to his coat tails—ran round and round the flower beds, shaking with laughter. Once she saw the boys turn the hose on him—turn the hose on him—and he made a great grab at them, tickling them until they got hiccoughs.

Then it was she decided there were different sorts of Fathers. Suddenly, one day, Mother became ill, and she and Grandmother drove

into town in a closed carriage. The little girl was left alone in the house with Alice, the "general ."

That was all right in the daytime, but while Alice was putting her to bed she grew suddenly afraid.

" What'll I do if I have n igh tmare?" she asked. " I often have night­mare and then Grannie takes me into her bed—I can't stay in the dark— it all gets 'whispery ' . . . What ' l l I do if I do ? "

" Y o u just go to sleep, child," said Alice, pulling off her socks and whacking them against the bedrail, "and don't you holler out and wake your poor Pa."

But the same old nightmare came—the butcher with a knife and a rope who grew nearer and nearer, smiling that dreadful smile, while she could

T H E L I T T L E G I R L 221 not move—could only stand still, crying out "Grandma, Grand wo." She woke shivering, to see Father beside her bed, a candle in his hand.

" What 's the m a t t e r ? " he said. " O h , a butcher—a knife—I want Grannie." H e blew out the candle,

bent down and caught up the child in his arms, carrying her along the passage to the big bedroom. A newspaper was on the bed—a half-smoked cigar balanced against his reading lamp. He pitched the paper on to the floor —threw the cigar into the fireplace—then carefully tucked up the child. He lay down beside her. Half asleep still, still with the butcher's smile all about her, it seemed, she crept close to him, snuggled her head under his arm, held tightly to his pyjama jacket.

Then the dark did not matter; she lay still. " H e r e , rub your feet against my legs and get them warm," said Father. Tired out, he slept before the little girl. A funny feeling came over

her. Poor Fa ther ! Not so big after all—and with no one to look after him. . . . He was harder than the Grandmother, but it was a nice hard­ness. . . . And every day he had to work and was too tired to be a M r Macdonald. . . . She had torn up all his beautiful writing. . . . She stirred suddenly, and sighed.

"What ' s the m a t t e r ? " asked Father. "Another d r e a m ? " " O h , " said the little girl, " m y head's on your heart ; I can hear it

going. What a big heart you've got, Father dear." L I L I H E R O N .

J.D.FERGUSSON.

223

SUNDAY LUNCH Sunday lunch is the last of the cannibal feasts. It is the wild, tre­

mendous orgy of the upper classes, the hunting, killing, eating ground of all the George-the-Fifth-and-Mary English artists. Pray do not imagine that I consider it to be ever so dimly related to Sunday dinner. N e v e r ! Sunday dinner consists of a number of perfectly respectable dead ladies and gentlemen eating perfectly respectable funeral bakemeats with all those fine memories of what the British beef and blood has stood for, with all that delicate fastidiousness as to the fruit in season, of the eternal and comfortable pie. Sunday lunch is followed by a feeling of excessive excite­ment, by a general flush, a wild glitter of the eye, a desire to sit close to people, to lean over backs of chairs, to light your cigarette at some one else's cigarette, to look up and thank them while doing so. And above all there is that sense of agitating intimacy—that true esprit de corps of the cannibal gathering. Different indeed is the close to the Sunday dinner. It has never been known to come to a decided finish, but it dies down and dwindles and fades away like a village glee singing Handel's " L a r g o , " until finally it drops into sofas and chairs and creeps to box-ottomans and beds, with illustrated magazines, digesting itself asleep until tea time. The Society for the Cultivation of Cannibalism waxes most fat and kicks hardest (strictly under the table) in Chelsea, in St John's Wood, in certain select squares, and (God help them) gardens. Its members are legion, for there is no city in this narrow world which contains so vast a number of artists as London. Why, in London you cannot read the books for the authors, you cannot see the pictures for the studios, you simply cannot hear the music for the musicians' photographs. And they are so careless—so proud of their calling. "Look at m e ! Behold me, I am an artist!" Mark their continued generosity of speech—"We artists; artists like ourselves." See them make sacrifice to their Deity—not with wreath or garland or lovely words or fragrant spices. They will not demand of her as of old time the gift of true vision and the grace of truth. "Ah , no," they say, " w e shall give her of ourselves. The stuffs of our most expensive

THOMPSON

224 R H Y T H M dresses, our furniture, our butcher's bills, our divorce cases, our thrilling adulteries. We men shall have her into the smoking room and split her sides with our dirty stories, we women shall sit with her on the bedside brushing our side curls and talking of sex until the dawn kisses to tearful splendour the pink rose of morning. And we shall always remain great friends for we shall never tell the truth to each other."

From half-past one until two of the clock the cannibal artists gather together. They are shown into drawing rooms by marionettes in white aprons and caps or marionettes in black suits and foreign complexions. The form of greeting is expansive, critical and reminding. Hostess to female cannibal: " Y o u dear ! How glad I am to see you!" They kiss. Hostess glances rapidly over guest, narrows her eyes and nods. "Swee t ! " Raises her eyebrows. " N e w ? From the little French shop?" Takes the guest's arm. " N o w I want to introduce you to Kaila Scarrotski. He's Hungarian. And he's been doing those naked backs for that cafe. And I know you know all about Hungary, and those extraordinary places. He's just read your 'Pallors of Passion' and he swears you've Slav blood." She presses the guest's hand thereby conveying: " P r o v e you have. Remember I didn't ask you to my lunch to wait until the food was served and then eat it and go. Beat your tom-tom, dear." When male meets male the greeting is shorter. "Glad you came." Takes guest aside. " I say, that French danc­ing woman's here. Over there—on the leopard skin—with the Chinese fan. Pitch into her, there's a good chap." The marionette reappears. "Lunch is served." They pay no attention whatever to the marionette, but walk defiantly into the dining-room as though they knew the fact perfectly well and had no need of the telling. They seat themselves, still with this air of immense unconcern, and a sort of "Whatever you give me to eat and the forks and knives thereof will not surprise me, I'm absolutely indifferent to food. I haven't the faintest idea of what there is on the table." And then, quite suddenly, with most deliberate lightness, a victim is seized by the cannibals. "S'pose you've read Fanton's 'Grass W i d o w e r ! ' " " Y e s . " " N o t as good as the 'Evergreen Pe ta l s . ' " " N o , " " I did not think so either." "Tailed off." "So long-winded." "Fifty pounds." "But there were bits, half lines, you know, and adjectives." The knife pauses. "Oh, but have you read his l a t e s t ?" "Nothing. All about ships or something. Not a hint of passion." Down comes the knife, James Fanton is handed round.

" I haven't read it yet." " N o t like ' T h e Old Custom.' Well, it can't be as good." " . . .Writing in the Daily Mail..." " T h r e e to four thousand a year." " A middle-class mind but interesting." The knife wavers. "But

S U N D A Y L U N C H 225 can't keep the big mould for more than a paragraph." His bones are picked.

This obvious slaughter of the absentees is only a preliminary to a finer, more keen and difficult doing to death of each other. With kind looks and little laughs and questions the cannibals prick with the knife. " I liked your curtain-raiser frightfully. But when are you going to give us a really long play ? Why are you so against plot ? Of course I'm old-fashioned. I'm ashamed. I still like action on the stage . . . " " I went to your show yes­terday. There were the funniest people there. People absolutely ignorant— you know the kind. And trying to be facetious, not to be able to distinguish a cabbage from a baby. I boiled with rage. . . ." "But if they offered you eighty pounds in America for a short poem, why ever didn't you write i t ? " " I think it's brave of you to advertise so much, I really do, I wish I had the courage—but at the last moment I can't. I never shall be able."

With ever greater skill and daring the cannibals draw blood, or the stuff like blood that flows in their veins.

But the horrible tragedy of the Sunday lunch is this: However often the Society kills and eats itself, it is never real enough to die, it is never brave enough to consider itself well eaten.

T H E T I G E R .

THE STORY There's nothing to tell. My heart is dead.

For all the breathless hours are past. Even the memory weighs like lead,

And I am weary and aghast.

My heart is dead. Why should I tell ? Many a man has watched his soul

Wither and die. It is not well That sick hearts should torment the whole.

I cannot see her pleading eyes. Even the bitter-sweet is fled.

But this dead love that never dies . . . . There 's nothing to tell. My heart is dead.

A R T H U R C R O S S T H W A I T E .

226 RHYTHM

I I I . - P O E T E S NOUVEAUX. Henri Fabre, le naturaliste, celui que Darwin appelait l'observateur

inimitable et qui apporte a l'exposition de ses souvenirs entomologiques une simple bonhomie qui n'est pas toujours denuee de malice et qui rappelle, avec plus de cordialite et moins de seche elegance, les spirituelles finesses dont Fontenelle assaisonnait ses causeries astronomiques,—Henri Fabre a ecrit que la mante religieuse est un insecte beaucoup moins celebre que la cigale parce qu'elle ne mene pas grand tapage. " Si le ciel, dit il, l'eut gratifiee de cymbales, premiere condition de la popularite, elle eclip-serait le renom de la celebre chanteuse." Et ces paroles me font songer a quelques ecrivains—MM. Francis Carco, Jean Pellerin, Leon Verane, Claudien, etc. . . .—qui travaillent sans secouer les cymbales du scandale et de la reclame, sans publier de tumultueux manifestes et qui n'estiment pas indispensable d'avertir la presse s'ils partent pour les bains de mer ou changent de veston.

Ils usent d'un langage precis pour exprimer des emotions parfois im-precises et connaissent le sens des mots qu'ils emploient et le maniere de les lier pour en former des phrases.

Un tel eloge peut, en certains pays, paraitre ironique ou naif. Il ne l'est guere chez nous ou l'on voit louer et congratuler tels faiseurs de livres qui n'ont cure de la syntaxe et dedaignent l'orthographe. Dans la boutique de leur malheureux editeur, s'entassent par leurs soins volumes sur volumes et de ce vain amas de papier imprime ils se construisent un piedestal et s'elevent ainsi dans l'admiration du populaire, mais ne montent si haut, comme chante Claudien d'Alexandrie, que pour tomber d'une chute plus lourde.

Les poetes dont je parle sont plus sobres, car rien n'engage a la concision (M. Remy de Gourmont l'a deja note) comme l'abondance des idees. Ils ont le souci d'enfermer une impression en quelques lignes et d'etre brefs pour serrer plus etroitement leur pensee et toucher a la perfection; et quand on

LETTRE DE FRANCE

S.J. PEPLOE

L E T T R E D E F R A N C E 229 lit leurs ouvrages, il faut—suivant le conseil du vieux Guez de Balzac parlant de Malherbe—peser les mots et non pas les compter.

Une ame lyrique qui se manifeste a travers un visage pale et rase et des complets impeccables: c'est Francis Carco. Il chante les petits cabarets et les visages de la nature. Il a publie deux recueils: Instincts et la Boheme et mon Coeur; et ni les bars aveuglants et tumultueux de Montmatre, ni la lumiere stridente des music-halls et ni les fetes et le luxe de la Cote d 'Azur n'ont pu emousser sa belle ferveur; et quand je le vois danser dans l'amer-tume de cette epoque, en secouant comme une joyeuse oriflamme sa riche fraicheur et son inalterable jeunesse, ou que je songe a son energie souriante, si rare parmi nos poetes trop souvent imbibes de larmes ou infestes d'un sentimentalisme flasque, je pense, en le trouvant si different du milieu ou il propage ses chants, que "ve r s les iles Chelidoines, comme ecrivait St. Francois de Sales, il y a des fontaines d'eau bien douces au milieu de la mer."

Le poete maintenant se refugie dans les paysages; il les regarde, les sent, les goute et les peint avec passion par petites touches vives et minutieuses qui eloquent les larges ensembles. Sa maniere rappelle a la fois l'impressionnisme pictural et la methode des poetes japonais, ecrivains de haikais, Basho, Onitsoura, Boucon, Tchiyo et les autres qui d'un petit pinceau tracerent de grandes choses. Je citerai ce fragment:

"L 'ombre du clocher noir entre dans la boutique, Un lilas, debordant les grilles d'un jardin, Se balance et je vois luire et trembler soudain Des foullis bleus, la route et l'auberge rustique.

Des pigeons, mollement arrives sur le vent, Tournent dans l'azur pale en eployant leurs ailes . . . "

et celui-ci: "Matin gris, paresse ingenue . . .

Sur l'horizon, Les vieux noyers de l'avenue Et le toit bleu de la maison. Le vent berce les feuilles rousses

D'un peuplier. On dirait qu'a brusques secousses Il pleut soudain dans l'air mouille . . . "

N e sent-on pas dans ces quelques vers*, dans ces paysages de quelle nature sont ce calme et cet abandon et quelle sourde vigueur y fermente?

* Voir en outre le poeme tres caracteristique cite par M. John Middleton Murry dans le dernier No., p. 123.

230 R H Y T H M Francis Carco a essaye de traduire par des rhythmes et des images les

inclinations les plus profondes d'un coeur humain, les tendances cachees et comme instinctives par quoi se manifeste cette volonte de vivre qui est comme la lampe et la cle de nos actions. Objet des plus importants que se puisse proposer un artiste, si c'est sur ce desir d'etre que s'epanouissent tous nos sentiments, toutes nos idees, comme d'une meme terre jaillissent mille plantes—rose, fenouil, menthe, orchidee, cigue— vigoureuses ou etiolees, precieuses ou communes, salutaires ou veneneuses. C'est ce souci d'evoquer les secretes assises de la sensibility qui transparait aussi bien dans les proses d'Instincts que dans les poemes de la Boheme et mon coeur. Mais que l'on ne croie point que pour chanter les choses les plus generales, le poete ait du se servir, comme le conseille Buffon, des termes les plus generaux et, par consequent, les plus abstraits. Il n'en est r ien; sa poesie est, avant tout, concrete; elle hait l'abstraction et, par une sorte d'intuition, epouse si etroitement la forme et la matiere des choses, qu'elle donne l'impression d'etre une poesie physique, beaucoup plus faite pour agir sur la sensibilite que pour emouvoir l'intelligence.

Francis Carco peint des decors (salles de bar, arbres, prairies, etc. . . .), mais il les peint comme il les voit, c'est-a-dire que delaissant le realisme photographique, il nous livre seulement ses sensations les plus vives en face de l'objet et, de la sorte, nous met dans son etat d'ame par la seule evoca­tion du milieu qui a conditionne son sentiment. Voici, en exemple, une courte prose :*

"Le Boulevard.—La fraicheur vive du boulevard pourri d'automne. Les larges feuilles des platanes degringolent. C'est un ecroulement imprevu et bizarre dans la lumiere croisee des lampes a'arc. Il tombe une petite pluie menue, serree, que le vent incline parfois sur les visages. La nuit est parfumee de l'odeur des feuillages gates: elle sent encore l'ambre et l'oeillet, la poudre, le fard et le caoutchouc des impermeables."

Il n'y a la, comme on a pu voir, pas un mot direct sur la pensee intime du poete. Son sentiment nous est traduit par le decor, ou plutot par ce qu'il a retenu du decor: parfums des voluptes passees, feuilles qui tombent, pluie sur les lampes, automne.

Il se voue simplement et sans arriere-pensee a la joie de vivre, au bonheur de respirer, de regarder les teintes du soleil dans les feuilles des hetres ou d'ecouter verlainiennement le bruit de l'averse "pa r terre et sur les toits." Il n'est plus qu'une sensibilite extremement fine qui reagit au moindre souffle. On comprend des lors l'importance que prend dans sa poesie la question de la pluie et du beau temps et qu'il consacre un

* Voir aussi " Aix en Provence," Rhythm, No. 1, p. 20.

LETTRE DE F R A N C E 231 poeme a exprimer sa confuse et vive emotion devant un feuillage mouille.

On s'etonnera de ce que cette poesie, que l'on devine penetree d'une belle et noble joie, prenne assez souvent un aspect melancolique et mineur et que ce poete s'abandonne parfois a la tristesse, lui qui chante delibere-ment: Carpe diem, comme Horace et signerait volontiers cette tannka qu'ecrivit, il y a douze siecles, le japonais Tabibito: "Puisque c'est un fait—Que tous les hommes vivants—Finissent par mourir—Mieux vaut etre gai—Pendant qu'on est de ce monde." Mais il convient d'analyser cette tristesse et de noter que le poete a peut-etre pour elle un penchant aussi vif que pour le bonheur. Triste ou gaie, une emotion est toujours une ivresse nouvelle, une richesse inattendue pour ces coeurs avides de sentir. On connait les vers de La Fontaine:

" J'aime le jeu, l'amour, les livres, la musique, La ville et la campagne, enfin tout: il n'est rien

Qui ne me soit souverain bien Jusqu'au sombre plaisir d'un coeur melancolique."

Oui, tout est digne d'etre aime dans la maison de Jupiter, comme disaient les stoiciens; tout est beau pour le poete dans la vie " vivante," passionnee, intense, heroique que Frederic Nietzsche preferait a la vie banalement et platement heureuse; et d'ailleurs si les coups du sort sont trop rudes, le poete retrouvera sa belle vivacite pour chanter non sans ironie ni symbole:

" E t puis laisse pleuvoir s'il pleut . . . Sois philosophe a ta maniere, Choisis ta meilleure bruyere Pour la fumer au coin du feu."

Tel est cet ficrivain allegre et lyrique qui nous montre par sa poesie mobile et concrete que Ton peut avoir une conception serieuse et meme tragique de la vie sans pour cela abandonner le sourire.

T R I S T A N D E R E M E . NOTE.—J'ai , dans ma derniere Lettre, groupe un certain nombre d'eerivains sous l'oriflamme de l'Abbaye,

faute d'une enseigne qui exprimat les tendances communes que l'on trouve dans leurs livres. Mais je ne voudrais pas que l'on en deduistt que ces auteurs ont tous appartenu a l'Abbaye de Creteil, fondee en Octobre, 1906, par le peintre Albert Gleizes et les poetes Alexandre Mercereau, Henri-Martin Barzun, Rene Arcos et Charles Vildrac, phalanstere d'artistes muni d'un atelier d'imprimerie ou chaque membre s'engageait a'fournir plusieurs heures de travail par jour.—Le groupe initial se divisa par la suite en deux parties: l'une ou l'on trouve MM. Mercereau et Barzun; l 'autre s'unit a MM. Remains et Chenneviere. T.D.

232

REVIEWS

FIRES. Books II. and III. By Wilfrid Wilson Gibson. Elkin Mathews. 1s. net each. Very quietly, while politicians and reformers are patching the rents and holes in the surface of modern

society, the poets are creeping into its heart and discovering to it its own loveliness. They are fertilizing it, warming it with the light of their vision. In a world that brags of its commercial sense and business adroitness the artists are truly the only practical men. Other men build upon sand or marshy ground: the artist digs down to the bed-rock of humanity for the building of his Palace of Truth. Mr Wilfrid Gibson is one of the bravest spirits of our time. Where the majority of our few thoughtful writers stop short at the excessive arid soul-destroying wealth of the rich and the excessive and soul-destroying poverty of the poor, he is of the cheerful human company who declare: " The poor also are men and women. Dig deep enough into their lives and you shall find jewels of pity, and love, and heroism and true fellowship. They are nearer to life than the rich. Though they be the slaves of economic tyranny, yet are they more nearly free from the tyranny of untruth."

There are twelve tales in the collection, and before five of them one can only yield to a frank and healthy admiration. These are The Crane, The Oven, The Dancing Seal, The Lilac Tree and The Hare. The hero of the first is a cripple, lying in his bed day in day out, while, for romance, his imagination fastens on the huge crane that he can see through the window. Life is supported in him for that humble play by his mother, a poor sempstress:

Out of the darkness, suddenly The crane's long arm swung over me, Among the stars, high overhead . . . And then it dipped and clutched my bed : And I had not a breath to cry, Before it swung me through the sky Above the sleeping city high, Where blinding stars went blazing by . . .

And the mother, slave to the past, lives wholly is the days gone by.

In The Ovens you shall find an amazing visualizing power. Mr Gibson will draw you a tree in winter fretted against the leaden sky, not only twig by twig, but so that you shall live in the life of the tree, just as you live in the life of the old tramp slouching along in the bitter wind by the black oily canal:

And each star pricked, an icy pin, Through his old jacket worn and thin: The raw wind rasped his shrinking skin As if stark naked to its bite; Yet, cutting through him like a knife, I t could not cut the thread of life.

And again, the tramp and the girl, sitting by the ovens, painfully thawing: And in the ashes, side by side, They sat together, dazed and dumb, With eyes upon the ovens' glare, Each looking nakedly on life.

The Dancing Seal is pure frolic, the frolic of a dour solitary, surely a tale found in the Hebrides, where the seals, the nearest and friendliest creatures to man, are embraced by the deep-rooted story-telling instinct and translated into the borderland between pure fantasy and poetic reality which is the region of folk-song.

REVIEWS 233 The Lilac Tree and The Hare are dramatic and really creative. They are filled with the tenderness of true

insight and the most beautiful sympathy. Men and women are enslaved only by their own minds, and these two tales tell of the deliverance by love and the natural fulfilment of human destiny of the minds of the men and women from an obsession. The fixed idea is the enemy of the human soul: love is its conqueror. The Lilac Tree tells of the blight of jealousy falling upon the young wife of a widower. The lilac tree in bloom, he has said, makes him think of the dead woman. During the conception of her child she grows jealous of the lilac tree, and in a frenzy she hacks its roots and kills it. The coming of the child, that common miracle of many of our lives, makes an end of bitterness:

But when she waked again at noon And looked upon her sleeping child, And laid her hand upon its head, No more the mother's heart was wild, For hate and fear were dead: And all her brooding bitterness Broke into tears of tenderness.

In The Hart love has an easier task. A gipsy and a wild man of the hills are the victims of the shadow of the past. Both are glowing with health, living from moment to moment, taking, each year, six months of the joy of the road—tasting it because they are worthy of it. The story in outline is commonplace enough—a hate­ful pursuer—an elopement—grand finale of truth and happiness (i.e., joy even through sorrow) ever after until death them do part. It is impossible to select any quotation which more than another could show the tingling delight in the scents and sounds and sights of the moorland and the wind on the heath that thrills through the poet as his imagination races after his hare-catching tramp, and his wild gipsy girl. The whole essence of Lavengro is in this poem of a few bunched, stumpy lines. It is a real achievement. This poet renounces all literary graces, and will have no machinery more complicated than the verse-form of Struwwelpeter. For his matter he has found the true manner. Through every line of his work there breathes a rare honesty—and in literature honesty has always been far to seek—the dignity of sincerity, and the glow of a healthy imagination rejoicing in the exercise of its true function, the understanding of human life in its relation to the unchanging laws of the universe, and the revelation of its innermost beauty. Such work is really constructive. It cannot but find its public, and it must bear fruit a hundredfold. G .C .

ON THE TRUTH OF DECORATIVE ART. By Lionel de Fonseka. Greening. 2s. 6d. net. This is in many ways an interesting and stimulating book. It is a challenge to the ideals and practice of

Western art by the East. " I n the West, expression is held to be the function of art . In the East we believe that the end of art is decoration." The author is sometimes at the mercy of a phrase. Granted that the bias of Eastern art is towards "decoration," and that of the Western towards personal expression, it is a serious mis­take to substitute, if only in thought, "pure expression" and "pure decoration" for the unqualified terms. All that is best in all art aims at a combination of both these elements. Sometimes the balance has swayed to one side or the other. The art of the West is by nature more personal than the art of the East, which is national. But even in the case of Egyptian art and literature, where the extreme of absolute impersonality was reached, it is impossible to deny the presence of individuality. In the recently published Mahavamsa of Mr de Fonseka's own country, Ceylon, there are evident to the critic undeniable traces of a marked personality. It is impossible to distinguish expression from decoration as absolutely as the writer would maintain. Whether the personal bias of Western art is a pis-aller is a more difficult question, and one which seems impossible of solution. The un­doubted fact is that modern movements in the plastic arts tend more and more towards the "decorat ive." Modern art consciously emphasizes rhythm of a sweeping and salient nature; and for this reason it is often, and wrongly, charged with being essentially a retrograde movement. Among many really penetrating apercus on modern art and literature, the writer makes a very grave blunder in failing to see that "Post-Impressionist A r t " is in some sense a return to the decorative tradition of the East. And even if Mr de Fonseka failed to per­ceive this somewhat obvious fact, he should at least have taken care to avoid the pseudo-medical abuse of the Nordau school.

The truth is that the dispute admits of no solution. The artistic differences of East and West cannot be composed by a dialogue. Western civilization is based upon a philosophy of individual effort (for which the Northern climate may ultimately be responsible), the civilization of the East upon a philosophy of quietism. There is truth in either camp, and even though to strike a balance be difficult, it is in that way that the greatest creation lies. There has been far too much contempt for form in the West of recent years; but that is better than to be shackled by the conventions of the East when they are grown sterile. Yet although we may quarrel

234 RHYTHM with Mr de Fouseka's intransigeance in contempt for the West, it is incumbent upon us to acknowledge that the issues raised by this book are profound; and though we question whether the dialogue form adopted is really adequate, we are glad that we have to reckon with a really serious contribution to aesthetics, only slightly less valuable than Mr Binyon's "Fl ight of the Dragon." J .M.M.

MORTADELLO, OR THE ANGEL OF V E N I C E : A Comedy. By Aleister Crowley. Wieland & Co. "Mortadel lo" is Mr Crowley's thirty-third book (not counting his "Collected Works," in three volumes),

and yet it is an amazingly juvenile performance. I gather, from the fatuously facetious "Preface," that the author, himself, regards the thing as a mere lark; but, at its giddiest, it is a dull, stupid, dreary affair. The stale situations, the childish "comedy," and the puerile grossness, are incredibly school-boyish; though the verse in which the play is written is damnably accomplished. Mr Crowley manipulates his medium with a deadly dex­terity. He works the Alexandrine for all it is worth; and gets unexpected amusement out of it by the skilful surprise of unexpected internal rhymes. He is a master of metrical artifice. Possibly, I may be taking a hoax too seriously; but it seems to me a thousand pities that so much talent should be wasted on such wormy material, when the fresh stuff of poetry is ever ready to the poet's hand. So few poems have been written as yet; there are so many to be written; and men were never more in need of the poet's interpretation of the world about them than at the present day: so much passion, so much wonder, so much humour, are waiting for ex­pression : and here is Mr Crowley with boyish glee rehashing stale tales of fornicators and strumpets in ancient Venice! He is a clever cook; but we are sick of such concoctions. The would-be-dog-of-a-bard is the dullest of bores; and smutty stories, tricked out in fancy dress for the furtive delectation of hobbledehoys, are the cheapest and nastiest kind of entertainment. Mr Crowley certainly carries the thing off with a swagger: but the man who plays the fool with his instrument must always pay the penalty; and this work should damage the author's reputation in the minds of grown men. But before I shut the book, I must, in fairness to Mr Crowley, quote something of his own apology which he prints in his witless "Preface": and so give the author the last word.

He writes: "Th is comedy is perhaps my first serious attempt at a work of ar t ; previous lucubrations of mine having been either works of necessity or of piety: that is, or I felt obliged to tell the truth about something, or I was definitely inspired.

"But the Angel of Venice (I protest) is a very cunning concoction. I have been revolving certain ex­positions by M. Henri Davray of Verlaine's skill in treating the Alexandrine; and I couldn't let it stay there! Hence the form. I had also been meditating on Maeterlinck's method of obtaining atmosphere: but this went awry.

" With regard to the matter of my proposed masterpiece, my mind was perfectly clear. " I t must look like a Monticelli; it must smell like a Muse ambre; it must feel like July and August of

1911 in Paris; and above all it must taste like the Truffes au Champagne of the Cafe Riche. How it sounded didn't matter so much. . . .

"Enough of this disastrous affair. The play is ruined; if I offer it to the public, it is that they may learn the great moral lesson, not to mix their drinks." W.W.G.

DENYS OF AUXERRE. By James Barton. Christophers. 5s. net. Mr James Barton is an accomplished writer of verse. This may seem an unduly severe pronouncement;

but, after all, every poet must begin by learning to play the traditional tunes, if he would master his instrument. He must learn all that there is to be learned, if only that he may forget it the more absolutely when the time comes for doing his own work. As ignorance is not innocence in moral matters, so ignorance is not originality in the matter of art. An artist must know a tradition through and through, if he would break with it. He must find himself, through others. When he has discovered what he can do with ease, he will be keen to tackle the things that he can only do with difficulty ; and will realize that nothing else is worth doing.

Denys of Auxerre is interesting 'prentice-work, a credit-exercise, as exercises go. Mr Barton has a considerable metrical gift, and fine enthusiasm ; but his work shows no sign of any dramatic instinct. The play, as a play, lacks grip. It has little cohesion ; and the action is absurdly confused. The plot has been suggested by the story of " Denys of Auxerre " in Pater's " Imaginary Portraits "; and, though we do not quarrel with it because its inspiration is entirely literary, we feel that Mr Barton should have brought more to the story than he has done. The book lacks purpose—and by purpose we do not mean ethical, but aesthetic purpose. It contains no discoveries. It is little more than an expression of the author's high spirits, of his excitement about what he has read about thirteenth-century Auxerre. A work of art is never about anything. It is the thing itself, a creation. We shall look with interest for Mr Barton's next volume, but he must beware of repeating himself. A second Denys of Auxerre would bore us horribly. W.W.G.

REVIEWS 235 AN ANTHOLOGY OF MODERN BOHEMIAN POETRY. By

P. Selver. Henry T. Drane, London. 3s. 6d. net. " It is a noble, highly cultivated language, of whose kinship Russia may well be proud. Its facility for

representing the finest shades of thought renders it peculiarly adapted to lyric poetry," Thus Mr Selver, speaking of the Bohemian language in the introduction to his anthology ; and it is just this facility that makes his task of translation so extremely difficult. A good translation is not unlike a good reproduction of a drawing. It is dependent for success upon many of the same qualities—simple and sure treatment, directness of purpose, very clear treatment of the subject, preferably on a broad scale. Granted these, there is no reason whatever why a translation should be a "paper rose without perfume or colour." Such poems as may be said to belong to this category, Mr Selver has translated ably and well; but the works of the more obscure writers—of men who have escaped the blessed tradition of the folk song, to express more consciously, perhaps, the "finest shades "—he has failed to interpret. But Bohemian poetry is so vivid, its life is so intense and sincere, one is able to welcome with great pleasure Mr Selver's uneven labours. Those songs, which are written in the mould of the folk song, find their most complete expression in a collection of "Songs of Evening," by Vileslav Halek. Here is one :—

Now all is sleeping in the world Save the heart within my breast. God knows, it is the heart alone That ne'er lies down to rest. Upon God's earth, all now is mute, But the heart its song desires ; God knows, it is the heart alone That never, never tires.

Thought is by slumber overcome, Night changes place with day ; The heart keeps watch—aye in the breast ; And there o'er love holds sway."

And here is a charming poem by Antonin Sova.—" Alder Trees."— " Y e Alder Trees, to me how dear At eve, with fragrant coolness near ; When o'er the water bent alone Your shadow here and there was thrown.

Somewhere the fishers' voices trailing, Within the depths of night are quailing ; The mill-sails, as they rustle low, Have stirred within me old-time woe.

Among the reeds a snipe, black speck The pond with ripples did bedeck; And likewise in my soul, me seems, Has strayed the bird of golden dreams."

It is easy to find fault with Mr Selver's choice of words in the last verses of both these little poems, but it is the spirit of them which, to me, goes to the heart like the music of the Bohemian people, with the same ultimate and melancholy appeal. K.M.

WAYFARERS. By Lenore van der Veer. Putnam. 1s. net. These wayfarers, patients in a consumptive's home above Pontresina, are astoundingly free from ordinary

jealousies and pettiness. A few shadows would have made them live more vividly. That an exile from Siberia, idealist and assassin, an Italian youth of godlike beauty, a young and sad American woman, a lovely frail English girl, and a French widow, a "chic, dark little thing," should live united by " a most perfect sympathy," tasks belief. Frau Gruber, mistress and mother of the Pension, is more alive than her guests. She lives before our eyes as she waddles round at night to tuck up her ' ' Kinder," carrying a fat candlestick shaped in the form of a friar, which we have dubbed " H e r r Gruber." A more realistic treatment might have spoilt the grace and charm of the book. Its gentle humour and sadness reveal a nature eager to turn from pain and ugliness to happiness, especially the happiness of others. H.K.L.

236 RHYTHM REVUE DES REVUES.

Les Reflexions sur le Roman que M. Albert Thibaudet publie dans la Nouvelle Revue Francaise* (aout) sont d'un tres grand jugement. La question du roman inquiete aujourd'hui critiques et ecrivains, car nous sortons d'une longue crise d'atermoiment, de faiblesse et d'epuisantes subtilites. Une reaction se produit: "Il semble que certains hommes—ecrit M. Thibaudet—les createurs de vie, apportent la conscience d'existences possibles dans l'existence reelle, S'ils prennent pour sujet de leur ceuvre cette existence reelle, elle se reduit en cendre, elle devient fant6me sous la main qui la touche. Elle a eu sa vie, elle n'a pas droit a une autre. Le genie du roman fait vivre le possible, il ne fait pas vivre le reel." Il faut remonter a la source meme. Ces Reflexions le prouvent. Elles classent le roman actuel en trois categories : " le roman brut, qui peint une epoque ; le roman passif qui deroule une vie ; le roman actif, qui isole une crise." Enfin, rapprochant le genre d'aujourd hui de ce qu'il fut, M. Thibaudet—qui ne conclue pas—affirme que " l'esthetique propre du roman est bien, comme les classiques l'avaient vu, une esthetique de composition desserree de temps, d'espace. . . ." Ces remarques sont excellentes ; ne refutant pas de parti-pris les Pages de Critique et de Doctrine (2 vol., Librairie Plon, Paris) de M. Paul Bourget, elles en degagent une intelligence plus lucide et se rattachent a ces grandes lignes d'ordre general que l'auteur du Disciple parait toujours s'efforcer de meconnaitre . . . M. Alphonse Roux, dans une intro­duction a l'anthologie des prosateurs francais+ pose a son tour la question: " Le naturalisme a sombre ; le stylisme parait un jeu ; le cosmopolitisme, en depit de l'accueil reserve a MM. d'Annunzio et Blasco Ibanez, n'est plus qu'une abdication et l'individualisme se classe de plus en plus parmi les erreurs; le dilettantisme sceptique est considere comme un rapetissement de l'etre humain. Ya-t-il done rupture complete du present avec le passe immediat ? " Certes. Mais l'anthologie qui suit ces pages leur enleve de leur signification puis qu'elle presente, a cote de nos meilleurs prosateurs, bon nombre de steriles "marcheurs" du symbolisme et de representants du puffisme le plus indecent. Pareille anthologie est difficile a realiser. Celle de la Renaissance Contemporaine n'est pas tres significative du moment, bien qu'elle groupe autour des maitres de notre pensee et de notre sensibilite (Paul Adam, Henri Bergson, Romain Rolland, Colette Willy) les ecrivains " jeunes" les plus estimables: MM. Andre Billy, Fernand Divoire, Alexandre Mercereau, Mario Meunier, Paul Reboux, Alphonse Seche, etc.

II y a moins de confusion chez les poetes. La Phalange publie de M. Francis Viele-Griffin un tres beau poeme, dont je detaehe cette strophe si pure et si tendre :

Comme du jour et de la nuit fondus en un baiser de mai est nee cette lune limpide qui luit sur les peupliers parfumes.

M. Viele-Griffin est peut-etre le seul grand poete que le Symbolisme nous ait directement transmis. Sa grace elegante et delicate retient longtemps le souvenir. Les Marges, Vers et Prose,\\ avec des poemes de MM. Marc Lafargue, Louis Mandin, Leon Verane, Roger Frene, Toulet, le delicieux ironiste, Rene Bizet et MM. Saint-Georges de Bouhelier, Leon Deubel, Theo Varlet, etc., affirment les tendances d'un ideal poetique tres defini, La fougue et la finesse, la serenite dedaigneuse et la vivacite, la variete, la richesse de moyens sont ici reunies dans un bel exemple de clarte amoureuse du rythme et du gout francais. Un remarquable article de Tristan Dereme, sur Jules Laforgue (Vers et Prose) merite d'etre recueilli en volume pour sa nettete et sa franchise d'allure. Les Marches de l'Est (25 aout) contiennent une harmonieuse suite de poemes: Les Roses du Valois, de M. Georges Ducrocq. F R A N C I S CARCO.

* La Nlle Revue Franchise (1 rue St Benoit, Paris). + Publiee par La Renaissance Contemporaine (41 rue Monge, Paris).

La Phalange (84 rue Lauriston, Paris). § Les Marges (5 rue Chaptal, Paris). || Vers et Prose (75 rue Racine, Paris). 3 Les Marches de l'Est (84 rue de Vaugirard, Paris).

BOOKS RECEIVED The Panel. Ford Madox Hueffer. Constable, 6s.; The Trespasser. D. H. Lawrence. Duckworth, 6s.;

The Listeners. Walter de la Mare. Constable, 2s. 6d. ; John in Prison. Unwin, 3s. 6d. ; Rodin. Muriel Ciolkowska. Methuen, 2s. 6d.; The Vigil of Venus. " Q." Methuen, 3s. 6d.; Dessins de N . Theophilaktoff. Moseou. Oxford Mountaineering Essays. Arnold, 5s.; Poems. Adam Lindsay Gordon. Constable, 2s. 6d.; The Book of Wonder. Lord Dunsany. Illustrated by S. H . Sime. Heinemann, 6s. ; Marriage. H. G . Wells. Macmillan, 6s.

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"An audacious excursus of fancy pieced together with the fertile skill of a consummate artist. . . . Mr Ransome's translation is one of the best things he has done. In the truest sense he has captured the quintessential spirit of the book with rare fe-licity and sensitiveness of expression."-Athenaeum.

" It is a subtle book, full of gaiety and thought, and as dangerous & unpleasant to those who have been too long swaddled in traditional beliefs as a mountain breeze is dangerous & unpleasant to one who has sat too long in a hot room."—Observer.

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