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Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
violins, sixteen second violins, twelve violas, ten violoncellos, eight
double basses, and a tenor voice. This huge orchestra, plus the
detailed analysis of his work furnished by the composer, explains
Schlemihl. It is an attempt to out-Richard Richard Strauss, and, like
almost all such attempts, it fails. Reznicek recounts the life and fate
of a modern man pursued by misfortune who goes to destruction in
the conflict between his ideal and his material existence. A
compound essentially of Tod und Verklärung, Tyll Eulenspiegel and
Ein Heldenleben, but at no time reaching the heights attained by
Strauss in all three of these tone poems. Imitators somehow almost
always fall down in two ways—they devote far too little attention to
what they want to say and far too much to their manner of saying it.
And as a not unnatural result of this, they forget, or appear to forget
at any rate, that melody is the prime essential in great music.
Wagner had melodic genius, as we all realize today, and that Strauss
has it is no longer open to very serious questioning. Reznicek hasn’t.
His music is all rather good, but none of it good enough to grip you
as the finest music does. It has no great moments but only moments
of very great sound. The house fairly quaked at some of the
fortissimos. And yet Schlemihl would be pleasant enough were it not
so pretentiously bombastic and did it not last twice too long. But the
mere existence of Ein Heldenleben, Tyll Eulenspiegel and Tod und
Verklärung deprives Schlemihl of any greater claim than that.
After these two pieces Scheinpflug’s Overture to a Comedy of
Shakespeare proved quite simple and enjoyable. It is a musicianly
piece of work lacking neither in melodic invention nor in skilful
orchestration. The Allegretto Graziosa, in which an old English tune
from the Fitz William Virginal Book is introduced, is wholly delightful.
And having said that much, one really has said all. The overture can
have no possible chance of immortality; it is not great music, it is not
intensely interesting or unusually delectable: one feels rather that
such compositions as this are the by-products of the daily practice of
the art of music by men of no little talent but very little genius. As
such, they demand an occasional hearing—today Scheinpflug has
the stage: tomorrow someone else—what matter who, since none
are really masters.
 An occasional performance of Strauss’s early Symphonic Suite, Aus
Italien, is probably quite justifiable because of his imposing
importance among the composers of today. When a musician attains
greatness almost everything he ever wrote becomes of interest to
his disciples. Aus Italien calls for little comment. First performed in
1887, it is difficult today to realize the great uproar and rage it
evoked. Now it seems quite tame. It was indeed Strauss’s “first step
towards independence,” and it is interesting as the connecting link
between his very early work and Don Juan and its successors. Its
first movement “On The Campagna” is probably the most successful,
reaching as it does gravely grey and tragic heights. A sense of
oppressiveness fairly overwhelms the listener and there are chords
that are exquisite. “Amid Rome’s Ruins” is not nearly so sustained
and well-knit. The opening of the third movement, “On the Shore of
Sorrento,” depicts with wonderful effectiveness the brilliance of an
Italian sea under a dazzling sun—a brilliance that no one who has
seen it is likely ever to forget. Strauss, for all his reputed blare and
noise, handles his orchestra pianissimo in a manner immeasurably
more impressive than anyone else of his time. (The opening bars of
Tod und Verklärung and the love scene in Don Juan immediately
come to mind). And you can measure a generation’s progress in
orchestration by the unruffled placidity with which people nowadays
listen to the at-one-time “brilliant, tumultuous, audacious, unusual,
and bold” finale—“Neapolitan Folk-Life.”
Even the casual concert-goer must notice the amazing duplications
that are being offered this season. For two or three seasons a
particular composition is neglected; then suddenly it is played five
times in half as many weeks. Stransky plays Don Juan; a week later
Muck, as it were, shows us how it ought to be played. The
Symphony Society plays Brahms’s Second Symphony and shortly
thereafter Muck administers his reproach to Damrosch. Is there any
reason why conductors shouldn’t meet occasionally and plan to
avoid such ways? Muck appears the chief offender. His program
stated that he was playing Ropartz’s Fourth Symphony for the first
time in New York, but Stransky had played it only eight days earlier.
When will we hear it again?
 For this Symphony deserves another hearing. The only work by a
Frenchman that Dr. Muck has offered this season, it is far more
satisfying than any of his other novelties. The restless swing of the
opening theme grips you at once—and your curiosity is piqued as
the violins sing against the “Kernel” in the horns. The Adagio is not
so successful—the theme sung by the English horn is not sufficiently
melodious. You need only compare it with the heart-breaking Largo
of Dvorak’s Aus Der Neuen Welt. But there are the most engaging
rhythms—many of them typically Scotch in their snap. In fact did
Ropartz’s gift for melody (it is far from negligible) approach his
rhythmic talent, he might produce really great music. As it is, this
Fourth Symphony interests and gratifies. But it is too long. Its three
movements are played without a pause and one’s attention flags at
times. It seems likely that this is inevitable in absolute music: only a
program can really hold one’s attention for almost forty minutes.
Strauss does it in Ein Heldenleben; but Don Juan, Tyll Eulenspiegel
and Tod und Verklärung last only about twenty minutes each,
despite the fascinating explanations that the program notes always
give of their musical contents. Ropartz’s Fourth Symphony would be
much better if played with pauses, and the sections are so clearly
indicated that this could be done without great difficulty. But, on the
whole, a hearing of his work makes one wish for more French music,
with its charming, clear-cut rhythms so typical of the Gaul. (To my
mind Ropartz’s indebtedness to César Franck is a matter of
comparative unimportance. Disciple or not, he has brought to his
task of writing music freshness and charm, a fund of melody and a
quite adequate technique).
After listening to these five compositions, what effect would
Beethoven’s Egmont Overture naturally have? Relief,—pure unalloyed
relief. And it confirms one in the feeling that relief is ever going to be
one of the prime functions thrust by the musicians of today upon the
greatest master of them all. Invariably he brings us back to earth,
and as we sit listening to him in smug contentment, we can say over,
without fear of contradiction: “This after all is music.”
 While Hearing a Little Song
(Solveigs Lied)

Maxwell Bodenheim

A song flew lazily

Over my upturned head.
It dropped and I could see
The ivoried limbs, the spread
Of swaying, dream-colored wings,
And barely sense the drift
Of slender, cloud-voiced rings
Of notes which seemed to lift
The oval of my soul
Up to their lingering death ...
A purplish pallor stole
Down to my leaden breath,—
It was my melted soul
And the soft death of the throng
Of notes from the slim song.
 A Hard Bed
George Burman Foster

W arfare against suffering, this is man’s most natural fight.

Suffering is an attack upon man, upon his will to live. On this
account, he has a right to protect himself from suffering, to
hold suffering far from him.
But the struggle seems futile. The host of sufferings seems
illimitable. For each old suffering which we thought we had
vanquished, ten new ones come of which we had never dreamt.
Indeed, the capacity to suffer grows with the growth of man. The
feeling of pain grows as the senses become sharper and finer. The
higher a man’s development, the stronger becomes his ability to feel
life’s pains. Even if we could exchange all the sufferings of life for
pure joy and bliss, this latter life would be suffering still, a surfeit
and a search, and I doubt not we would long for an hour of some
old anguish again that would redeem us from a pleasure now grown
oppressive and intolerable.
Shall we, then, hate life? Shall we say that it were better not to be
than to be? We might, did we not find strength and comfort in and
with every suffering,—did we not allow every item or event of
experience the democratic right to a trial by a jury of its peers and
to our trust that it is worth while until it shall prove that it is not,—
did we not experience that up from the abyss of every suffering,
painful as it seems, a path leads to a summit where all sufferings are
only shadows of a blinding flood and fullness of light; that all
articulate and fit into the eternal process of an upward-striving life.
There is no question but that this is the workable view of life to
present to the heart of man, draining, as one must, pain’s bitter cup
for one’s self. But the sufferings one feels for others, sufferings in
which one’s love, expressed in sympathy and pity, is complicated—
this is another matter, here one may fall into mischievous aberration.
There can be no doubt that the pain of our pity for others may be
more painful than the pain of our own lives. In the throes of such
pity, the woes of our own lives may seem small indeed, and finally
fade away. To behold a human being that is deeply dear to us suffer
is worse than it would be to suffer in his place. And if the man of
moral elevation of soul feels equal in the end to all that brings pain
to his own life, all the more defenseless does he feel with regard to
the great all-prevailing misery which, in pity, celebrates its triumphal
entry into his heart. Love is our noblest human power, and it is love
that lets us feel such misery, it is love whose wealth of recognition
and experience renders it possible for us to descry sorrow’s abysses,
to anticipate them even in advance of the poor sufferer himself.
Now, may love be good, and pity bad? What a problem is here!
May we war a two-fold warfare, one against suffering and one
against pity? Ought we? War upon pity—would not that be in
contradiction to all that our own generation especially calls good and
great? Our generation has done its best to develop in the human
heart an ever-enlarging capacity for pity—what would it say to a
warrior who pitilessly took up arms against pity?
Friedrich Nietzsche was such a warrior, single-handed and alone!
And the venomous verbal onslaught upon Nietzsche by those who
did not understand him was equalled only by those who did. At first
Nietzsche’s own success consisted in supplying his opponents with
new weapons against himself. Of all the words which have been
used as bludgeons to break the head of this most resolute rebel
against our previous moral view of life, Nietzsche’s piercing words
concerning pity and the pitiful have most occupied the attention of
his enemies. This may not deter us from looking unabashed the
great question squarely in the face. In the end, is pity something to
be overcome, a disease of the old culture? Does the path of the new
culture lead men out and beyond and above pity? This is no longer a
Nietzsche question merely. This is a question of the moral life of our
time. Perhaps this is the last weightiest question which our time can
put to men of dignity and depth of thought.
However, it is only fair to say at the outset that no one has any
right to fly into a rage at Nietzsche in particular for summoning men
to arms against pity, since, if rage is in order at all, the conventional
practices of our previous life furnished therefor occasion enough.
Aye, there is an old wide-spread fashion of averting the strain of pity
which is so mean and cool that almost anybody could fly into a
frenzy over it—the fashion, not of triumphing over pity, but of
cowardly flight from pity. Consider the whole conception of life of the
so-called favorites of fortune. To what lengths do they go that they
may be spared the sight of misfortune, that they may not be
agitated by a touch of pity! How they avoid, if at all possible, every
place that would remind them that there are want and misery,
hunger and sorrow, in the world—as the Parisians did, until Zola, the
most calumniated author of the nineteenth century, dragged these
things, with their ensuing vices, out into the light of day and made
the French people look at them! How furious they are, as the French
were at great Zola, at anybody who dares to open their eyes to the
sad and harrowing realities of life! Nay, they have invented a special
art and religion that shall succeed in sparing them pity; the former
to conjure up a make-believe world in which life shall be all sunshine
and gladness; the latter to advocate the doctrine that all pain is
punishment from God, and that, since God must be just, He will
properly parcel out and administer pain and suffering. We do not
need to bestir ourselves in behalf of sufferers; that would be a
wrong against God; a doubt of the Everlasting Justice; hence all may
not feel pity for the wicked man upon whom God visits His wrath
and punishment! Thus the “good people” and the just harden their
hearts. They have stones which they heave at the poor sinner—
especially at a “sinful woman”—but no mercy, no pity, for those who
are not as they are, and do not think and feel and act as they do.
They grow chesty: “Yes, if others were as good as we are, then it
would be as well with them as it is with us!” With such pride they
choke all feeling of kinship and connection with others. Where pride
grows, no pity can thrive. And at last pity itself becomes a kind of
pride, a sorry self-reflection as in a mirror. The most subtle and
dangerous way for men to free themselves from the pain of pity,
when they cannot stave it off completely, is to make it a thing of
pride and praise: “I thank Thee, God, that I am not like the hard-
hearted!” Then they revel and riot in their pity, then they rejoice that
they are so good-hearted, so tender-hearted, because they can see
no suffering without being touched and melted to tears. And the
pitiful call this their morality and their virtue. They make a “delicacy”
of their pity to set before themselves at the table of life when all of
life’s other gratifications and indulgences begin to grow stale and
tasteless. The tears of emotion that gush generously forth at the
spectacle of suffering humanity—even of frail and faulty humanity—
taste so good! Many is the time they have felt the weary weight of
this unintelligible world on listening to a sad story or seeing a play,
and screwed up melancholy and doleful countenances—maybe pity
can be put among the things that can make life, always requiring to
be braced up a bit, a trifle more interesting. And so pity is at last
honored with a place among the articles of luxury with which they
enrich and adorn their lives—their lives, always surprising them with
some fresh sign of poverty and patches!
But if all guilt be revenged upon earth, punishment of this misuse
of pity may not be stayed. It is doubly punished and revenged—
upon him who practices it and upon him upon whom it is practiced.
Or do we not know that the pharisees of pity become ever more
feeble and sentimental men, losing all power and energy of will
through pure emotionality? Or do we not know that most crafty
business speculation, speculation in pity, in which sufferers magnify
their least pains, expert in making an impression with their “cases”
in order to arouse the interest of the pitiful, an interest which need
not always be relieved by the clink of coin, but which makes ready
its punishment much more frequently with idle hours spent in
dreaming and weeping, with the unprofitable breathing-out of
pathos and reproach? Often enough the enthusiasts of the kind and
tender heart do not know what they do, but they rob men of the
marrow of life, they emasculate and coddle the soul; and the
emotional debauchery in which they live, requires ever stronger
stimulus which ever operates more enervatingly still.
Contemplating these devastations wrought everywhere in life by
love’s softness, one begins to cherish some respect for a Nietzsche
who preached to men “a hard bed,” love’s hardness. To be sure, if
one is to understand this preaching, one must keep in mind what the
preacher says: “My brethren, give heed unto each hour, in which
your spirit wisheth to speak in parables: there is the origin of your
virtue.” Nietzsche speaks in parables. For instance, his words on war
and warriors—a good war hallowing every cause—these, too, are
parables. And hardness, bravery, praised by him as the strength and
consecration of life, truly this is not the barbarity of prize-fighting or
the brutality of lynching; this is the high mind fearlessly going its
own way, stampeded by no danger into thinking and acting and
being other than what it holds to be right. Danger is but the acid
test which such a mind applies to the ingredients of its life. To such
a mind, hardness is the characteristic of the gem, of the diamond,
which thus guarantees its genuineness, its sparkling worth.
Zarathustra-Nietzsche loves everything which steels the will and
augments life’s force. Therefore he loves his foe, for, thanks to his
foe, he never comes to a standstill and stagnates. Therefore his true
friend is the one who has become his best foe, who makes him
sweat, who summons him to risk hot war with him, to break a lance
with him in an intellectual passage at arms in which the soul
struggles for its own yea and nay. So, similarly, this Zarathustra-
Nietzsche hates pity. Why? Not because he is a brute. “Kind unto the
sick is Zarathustra.... Would that they were convalescent and
conquering and creating a higher body for themselves!” Not
because, as we have seen, so much of pity is for self’s sake and not
for the sake of service, though this is an essential part of the answer.
Then why? Because it works an embarrassment for man, because it
knows no shame, no reverence, in the presence of the giant forces
which, for every brave soul, is concealed in great and deep pain.
Therefore he combats pity because it is a passion and not an action,
and yet life is not for passionists but for pragmatists. “All great love
is lifted above all its pity, for it seeketh to create what it loveth....
But all creators are hard.” “If thou hast a suffering friend, be a couch
for his suffering, but a hard bed, as it were, a field-bed; thus thou
wilt be of most use for him.”
Hearken ye, O Reader, to another Transvaluer of values Whose
Person Nietzsche “the Crucified,” excoriated at ill-starred moments,
but did so on the basis of that very “high mind” for which He,
rejecting pity, went to His Crucifixion! “And Jesus, Pilate handed over
to their will. As they led him off he was followed by a large multitude
of the people and also of women who beat their breasts and
lamented him; but Jesus turned to them and said, ‘Daughters of
Jerusalem, weep not for me!’”
Now, as it seems to me, this Nietzsche preaching is not so far
removed from that other preaching which we are otherwise wont to
call a gospel, a good, a glad message! For this glad message was
not a lamentation, but a hymn of heroism and of victory, a call to
creation! And I take the liberty to repeat that the Preacher of this
glad message forbade pity for himself even in his dark and desolate
hour—do you think what that hour was?—when he appealed to
weak and wailing and weeping womanly souls, Weep not for me,
weep for yourselves! And He Who Himself wills no pity, Who bears in
Himself a greatness which is elevated above all pity, would he have
willed to have men so weak and pitiful as we often enough today
imagine the Ideal of a Christ-man to be?
What, now, if the true pitiful love, the true mercy to men, were to
harden them, to make them free from what meant only suffering to
them? It is, to be sure, very much more difficult to make men
themselves “hard,” so that the burden lying on their backs can not
crush them than it is to indulge their weakness and sensitiveness
and to leave them as they are. Indulgent parental hearts would a
thousand times rather remove all life’s burdens from their children
than to place burdens upon their children which they might learn to
bear. So often our pity plays us a sorry trick—we would rather do
something for men than to repress our pity, silence it, and then
teach men how they themselves can do what is good and necessary
for them. We speak of a ministrant love, meaning a love which
knows nothing higher than to provide comforts, avert trials, spare
vexations, and everything which could shake a man to his
foundations. How much greater a service of love it would be to lead
man to himself, make him strong that he might be equal to what we
had thought we must take away from him! Pray, not for easier tasks,
lighter burdens, but for more power! This Nietzschean love is not
only a greater love, it also requires a greater, more tiresome work, it
requires a constant conquest of our pitying weakness, it requires a
courageous faith in man and a firm earnest appraisal of his power.
And how entirely different a service of friendship do we render a
friend if we show a hard love to him, if he break a tooth on us, as
Nietzsche says, because we do not flatter and fit him, but compel
him, out of love compel him, to assert himself against us, and to
withstand our defense of our rights against him! Foolish men seek
their friends among the Jasagern, most preferably, among those who
are of their own opinion in everything. They then call this an ideal
friendship: two souls and one thought, two hearts and one beat! But
in such a friendship, their best, their own soul, their sense of truth,
and their courage for the truth, soon rusts. To spare a friend the
disillusion which he would suffer if he felt an antagonism, an
opposition, in the friendship, they have pity on him, they learn to
keep silent, and silence soon becomes a lie. Since they dare not
cause the friend the grief of discovering to him these lies, they lie
more, lie life-long,—all out of pity, out of their weak tender love.
How much nobler and greater that friendship whose ideal Nietzsche
sketches for us, in which we are gripped from the outset in a friend’s
contradiction and hostility! We seek and love in him precisely what is
not attuned to us, but is his own, and must forever remain his very
own. Such hard love which gives the friend a “camp-bed” and not
one as “soft as downy pillows are” and requires the like in return is
the proudest manliest friendship, is alone what brings our sluggish
and pampered natures forward, and makes us stronger, freer, richer
in understanding and experience. Every genuine love should be a
spur, freedom, to us, not an easy berth and a trammel in life.
We cannot, we ought not, refrain from pity in life. We cannot, we
ought not, stave it artificially from us. Pity belongs to man as man. It
comes stealing upon him, and ought so to come. But when it has
come, he ought not to be enmeshed in it. Still less ought he to let it
grow rank. He should ennoble it, overcome it, with strong will and
energetic deed. For pity is yet suffering and all suffering summons
men to conflict, to defense. The sign that such overcoming has
succeeded is that rejoicing-together has been born of suffering-
together—is that the conflict has issued in a victory in which hard
militant love triumphs over every weakness, and is grateful to the
hardness which has given it such a victory!
In his brilliant book on Nietzsche, “Who Is to Be Master of the
World,” Ludovici writes powerfully as follows: “What the units of a
herd most earnestly seek and find, is smug ease, not necessarily
mastership. For mastership entails responsibility, insight, nerve,
courage and hardness towards one’s self, that control of one’s self
which all good commanders must have, and which is the very
antithesis of the gregarious man’s attitude towards himself....
Hardness?—He knows nothing of the hardness that can command
his heart, his mouth, before it attends to the command of others; he
knows nothing of the hardness that can dispel the doubts of a whole
continent, that can lead the rabble and the ruck to deeds of
anomalous nobility, or that can impose silence upon the overweening
importunities of an assembled nation. He knows this hardness, that
he could coldly watch the enemy of his private and insignificant little
interests, burnt at the stake; he knows this hardness, that he would
let a great national plan miscarry for the sake of a mess of pottage;
—the gregarious man and future socialist has this so-called
hardness; but so have all those who burn with resentment,—so have
all parasites and silent worm-gnawers at the frame-work of great
architecture.”
But not Nietzsche’s interpreter, but Nietzsche himself, shall have
the last word: “Praises are what maketh hard!—I do not praise the
land where butter and honey—flow! To learn to look away from one’s
self is necessary in order to see many things: this hardener is
needed by every mountain climber.”
Also Sprach Aristoteles—Zarathustra!
 George Middleton’s One-Act Plays
Clayton Hamilton

T he one-act play is an art-form that is worthy of careful

cultivation. It shows the same relation to the full-length drama
as the short-story shows to the novel. It makes a virtue of
economy of means. It aims to produce a single dramatic effect with
the greatest economy of means that is consistent with the utmost
emphasis. A one-act play, in exhibiting the present, should imply the
past and intimate the future. The author has no leisure for laborious
exposition; but his mere projection of a single situation should sum
up in itself the accumulated results of many antecedent causes. The
one-act play, at its best, can no more serve as a single act of a
longer drama than the short-story can serve as a single chapter of a
novel. The form is complete, concise, and self-sustaining; and it
requires an extraordinary focus of imagination.
No other American dramatist has so carefully cultivated this
special type of drama as George Middleton. His recently-published
volume of one-act plays, entitled Possession, was preceded by two
other volumes, called Embers and Tradition. Each of these books
contains half a dozen plays. From the fact that Mr. Middleton has
chosen to publish these eighteen one-act plays in advance of their
production, it is not to be inferred that he is a believer in the closet-
drama. A closet-drama may be defined as a play that, being unfit for
production in the theatre, is fit only to be locked up in a closet. Mr.
Middleton is not a literary amateur, but a professional and practical
playwright. He has produced more than half a dozen full-length
plays in the commercial theatre; and such artists as Julia Marlowe,
Margaret Anglin, George Fawcett, and the late E. M. Holland have
appeared in dramas of his composition. All of Mr. Middleton’s one-act
plays are written for the stage; and—to quote from his own preface
to Possession—he conceives “the value of play publication not as a
substitute for production but as an alternative for those whose
dramas may offer little attraction to the manager because of theme
or treatment.”
At present there is, unfortunately, scarcely any market in the
American theatre for one-act plays that take life seriously. It is
against our custom to provide a full-length drama with a curtain-
raiser or an after-piece; and the field for one-act plays in vaudeville
is restricted to slap-stick comedies and yelling melodramas. It is for
this reason that Mr. Middleton has been required to choose
publication as an alternative for production, in the case of these
diminutive dramas. The trouble is not at all that his pieces are
unsuited to the stage: they are admirable in technique, and—like all
good plays—they would be more interesting in the theatre than in
the library. The trouble is only that—for wholly artificial and
accidental reasons—the commercial theatre in America at present is
inhospitable to the one-act play.
Mr. Middleton’s one-act plays reveal a wide range of subject-
matter and a corresponding versatility of treatment. No one of them
is similar to any of the others. Yet, pervading this variety of subject
and of mood, there is discernible an underlying unity. Each of them
deals essentially with woman—and with modern woman in relation
to our modern social system. Woman is, at present, a transitional
creature, evolving from the thing that man considered her to be in
the far-away period of wax flowers and horse-hair furniture to the
being that she considers herself about to become in the unachieved,
potential future; and Mr. Middleton has caught her in this period of
transition, and has depicted her, under many different lights, colored
with her virtues and discolored with her faults.
Many of the most poignant and dramatic problems of present-day
society arise from the fact that the evolution of woman is proceeding
more rapidly than the evolution of her environment. While
individuals advance, traditions linger. Mr. Middleton’s favorite subject
seems to be a conflict between an advanced woman and a lingering
tradition. The author is himself a radical, and his sympathy is forever
on the side of the revolutionary individual; but his technical
treatment is so fair to both sides of the contention that it remains
possible for conservative readers to rank themselves against the
individual on the side of the lingering tradition. Scarcely any of Mr.
Middleton’s women would be pleasant to have around the house.
Since most of them are discontented with the conditions of their
lives, they naturally make the worst of these conditions instead of
making the best of them. Hell hath no fury like a woman in revolt;
and many readers may dislike Mr. Middleton’s heroines more heartily
than he seems to like them himself. But to be able to dislike a
character is a proof that that character is real, and must be
considered as a tribute to the author’s art. The heroine of The
Unborn, in Mr. Middleton’s latest volume, refuses to have children
because motherhood might interfere with “her work,”—the work, in
this case, being merely a habit of attending to minor matters in her
husband’s photographic studio; but the intensity of impatience with
which the reader listens to her twaddle is an indication that this
character is really representative of a silly type of creature that is not
infrequently encountered in actual life. Again, in the play called
Possession, a woman who has been divorced for adultery attempts
to kidnap her little daughter from the house of her former husband,
to whose custody the child had, of course, been awarded by the
courts. Her adultery was inexcusable, because it had been
occasioned not by an irresistible and overwhelming love but merely
by a superfluity of leisure; and her attempt to kidnap the child was
treacherous and ignominious. She excuses herself, however, by
telling her husband that the process of child-birth had been painful,
and that, therefore, despite the judgment of the courts, their little
daughter belonged more to her than to him. The reader is, of
course, annoyed by all this nonsense; but this annoyance, once
again, must be regarded as a tribute to the reality of the author’s
characterization. No heroine who was not a living human being could
make the auditor so ardently desire to climb upon the stage and talk
back to her.
 Fortunately, it is not at all necessary to like Mr. Middleton’s women
in order to like his plays. One may admire Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler
without wishing to be married to the heroine; and the pleasant thing
about Mr. Middleton’s women is that, while the reader is permitted to
observe and study them, he is also allowed to realize with hearty
thankfulness that he will never have to live with any of them. The
world in which his women move is a world of discontent. This
discontent is truly representative of the present transitional period in
the evolution of society; but it is not representative of that perennial
reality of life that remains oblivious of periods and dates. At all
times, the really womanly woman has been a lover of her life and
has not found it difficult to feel at home at home.
 New York Letter
George Soule

I t would be difficult to imagine a more fantastic occasion than a

debate in New York on the justice of the cause of the Allies vs.
that of Germany between Cecil Chesterton and George Sylvester
Viereck. The gods permitted it to happen last week, much to the
chagrin of the Allies, for the hyphenated Germans took good care to
fill the hall and hiss every offensive statement. Mr. Chesterton, an
honest fighter and a clever polemicist, who has leapt through every
phase of radicalism into the enfolding charity of the Catholic Church,
deserves to be known for his journalistic achievements and his
exposure of graft in high places almost as much as for his brother
Gilbert. Mr. Viereck, a sublime egotist, has come into sudden favor
with his countrymen by editing Das Vaterland, although before that
he had taken every known means to secure notoriety for a naturally
obscure individual. He began as a poet of strange verse, both in
German and English. When it became apparent that it wasn’t going
to sell, he issued a last volume which he called his “swan song,” with
the announcement that as this commercial age was unappreciative
of his poetry he would write no more, and anyone who wanted a last
chance to value him at it must buy this book. For himself, he was
going to get in line with the genius of the century and become a Big
Business Man, for he must make himself felt. He announced in a
stentorian wail his admiration for Theodore Roosevelt, and was
much chagrined when that celebrity would not let him trail along on
the skirts of his ample publicity. Later on, when Alfred Noyes began
to sell in large quantities, Mr. Viereck resumed his dictatorship of
poetry, and by scurrilous attacks attempted to draw Mr. Noyes’s fire
—and newspaper space. Now German Patriotism has lifted him to
the headlines.
If Poetic Justice was present at the debate, she probably did not
receive much enlightenment on the questions which are now vexing
her in Europe. To quote any of the substance of the debate would be
an insult to her intelligence.
A more serious event was Richard Bennet’s recent production of
Brieux’s Maternity. Considering the deadly earnestness with which
author and cast struggled to inculcate lessons, the apathy of the
public in respect to moral instruction was pathetic. On the night of
my visit there was exactly one normal “theatre-goer” in the house.
There was a sprinkling of people who had long admitted what Brieux
has to say, and went from “high-brow” reasons. There was a young
society matron who had escaped from her husband for the evening
and is taking an amateurish interest in social questions. There were
numerous persons who are always on the lookout for a chance to
cackle at what they consider broad humor. These blonde ladies
furnished an interesting refutation of one of Brieux’s theories. In one
scene various women tell their troubles, emphasizing the fact that all
women are united in their sorrows and understand them, whereas
men do not. Immediately after this the drunken husband returns and
disgusts and outrages the wife. There were many laughs in the
audience to greet him—but not one from a man. Even the blonde
ladies’ fat escorts tried to quiet them while the rest of us were
hissing.
Granville Barker opens this week with Androcles and the Lion and
some of the other recent London productions. A number of the
backers of the old “New Theatre” are guaranteeing his expenses, a
fact which is a historical corroboration for Mr. Barker’s wit. When he
was brought over as the chosen manager for that institution, he
objected to the immense size of the house. “But the alterations you
suggest would cost us a million dollars,” he was told. “If you don’t
make them, it will cost you three million,” he replied, and sailed back
to London. His popularity with the New Theatre guarantors has been
steadily increasing from that day to this.
 There is even a rumor that if the present experiment succeeds,
the New Theatre project will be resumed. This whisper aroused an
answering howl from the American managers and actors. Why
should good American money be spent in encouraging English
talent, especially in such a disastrous season? they wailed. The
answer was, in effect, the one that should be made to the whole
“made in America” propaganda. What has American production done
that it should be encouraged? When “made in America” comes to
have any relation to honesty and intelligence, it will be time enough
to invoke “patriotism” in its favor. In the meantime, the more
disastrous foreign competition can be to our present shoddy
products, the better.
This ironic year has produced few more strange reversals than the
one which has brought Mr. McClure to the status of an employee of
Mr. Munsey. When a man has apparently won his life campaign and
written so engagingly of it as has Mr. McClure in his Autobiography,
we begin to regard him as beyond the touch of the fates. Perhaps
the present eventuality should be taken, however, merely as another
proof that in our present arrangement of things it is less profitable to
have a touch of genius than to become the owner of trust
companies. At any rate McClure’s Magazine has apparently not
profited much in recent years by Mr. McClure’s separation from its
editorial policy.
There is one real consolation in a season which has brought such
material devastation to commercial managers and magazines. When
conventionally-planned “successes” don’t succeed, success comes to
have less meaning. People who are after money in the promotion of
artistic products are in their desperation more ready to try less
“safe” ways of getting it, while the others have a decidedly better
chance of gaining a respectful public attention.
 Music

Kreisler and Shattuck

I n certain realms, words are opaque and stupid things. In others—

oh, comforting thought!—they seem to become transparent and
almost intelligent. Following this out consistently, it becomes easy
to write a page about Arthur Shattuck, pianist, and very difficult to
say anything at all about Fritz Kreisler, violinist.
Arthur Shattuck was a disappointment. His faults, in a lesser man,
would have been considered the sign of mere mediocrity; but in
himself, they are obtrusive and disagreeable. An exasperating
contrast existed between what may be called his style, with its
rhythmic sureness and its admirable perspectives, and his great lack
of tonal beauty. He cracks out hard tones. Any particular phrase of
Mr. Boyle’s concerto for piano with orchestra, when passed on from
the orchestra to the solo instrument, lost its lyric curve and became
flat and lifeless under Mr. Shattuck’s long, aggressive hands. When
another pianist, Ernest Hutcheson, played the same work with the
composer conducting the New York Philharmonic, a certain
phenomenon was lacking which appeared when Frederick Stock
conducted the work with the Chicago Symphony. This phenomenon
(let it be whispered) was a strange prominence of the brass choir of
the orchestra in certain portions of the work which led one to believe
that Mr. Stock was, perhaps, more interested in the orchestral
accompaniment than in the performance of the soloist. If this were
as true as it appeared, it is on a par with another startling fact:—that
the public is really learning something about tone-values and the
possible beauties of piano music. What else could account for the
numerous confessions caught in snatches in the corridors and
stairways, the composite of which was, “He left me cold”?... Arthur
Shattuck is a millionaire.
A compassionate attitude toward Chicago was considerably
relieved by the sight of the Auditorium-full which paid to hear
Kreisler. Think of so many people being moved by such good taste!
And, what was better still, they all behaved well. Kreisler deserved
their tribute of attentive silence. Such violin playing hasn’t been
heard in Chicago since the same artist was here last season. There is
no describing Kreisler’s tone; a magic circle of stillness encloses it,
which words have not learned to cross. In the memory it is a living
beauty, penetrant and bewitching. Praise and appreciation are
miserable things in the presence of this man’s music. Fritz Kreisler is
a genius.
HERMAN SCHUCHERT.
 Book Discussion

Ellen Key’s Steady Vision

The Younger Generation, by Ellen Key. [G. P. Putnam’s, New York.]

I n the present amusing reign of boisterous propagandic voices, it is

good to find a thinker who describes the exciting truth in simple
terms. The many are able to catch glimpses of the truth; between
glimpses, they shout and wave their inefficient arms for the
enlightenment of their brothers, and for their own joy. The few see
the truth steadily and, because they see steadily, become so
passionately enthusiastic that they are driven to express themselves
in quiet, mighty phrases. Such phrases imprint vital ideas upon the
mind of the seeker, while pitiable confusion alone results from the
shouts and wavings. In The Younger Generation, Ellen Key tells
simply and surely her conclusions about vital things.
Conservative judgment is at once a splendid balance and a terrific
barrier in the world of ideas. Intense enthusiasm, when it displays
itself, often combines blindness with sight. It has always seemed to
be asking too much to expect in one person a finely balanced
enthusiasm in which the conservative element does not hamper the
divine qualities of youth—courage, impetuosity, and an ever-fresh
perception. Not to be extravagant, but to characterize her fairly, one
may say that this Swedish woman writes as if she possessed the
virtues commonly attributed to both age and youth. She is vigorous,
free-hearted, and calm—enthusiastic, fiery, and sane—a champion of
revolution when and wherever it breaks the path for evolution.
Reaching deftly into anarchism, christianity, feminism,
individualism, socialism, and other good glimpses of the truth, she
secures the elements for a strangely consistent wisdom.

Parents of the new generation will feel it to be a blasphemy

against life—another name for God—that the beings their love
has called into existence, the beings who bear the heritage of all
past generations and the potentialities of all those to come,
should be prematurely torn from the chain of development.
Every such link that is wrenched away from unborn experiences,
from unfinished work, was a beginning which might have had
the most far-reaching effects within the race.... It is not death
that the men of the new age are afraid of, but only premature
and meaningless death.

“Women ought not to be content until governments have been

deprived of the power of plunging nations into war.”—Ellen Key
doesn’t ask the ladies to fidget and whimper at afternoon teas, nor
to operate upon male-kind with their verbal lancets, nor to adopt
circuitous resolutions about affairs of which they know nothing; but
her suggestion, here as elsewhere, is simple and practical—so very
simple that the ladies will smile down upon it as something
delightfully girlish and unsophisticated. It is safe to speculate that
not one of the smilers could, in her comfortable condescension, live
up to this humble and powerful procedure:—“Women can always
and everywhere ennoble the feelings, refine an idea of justice, and
sharpen the judgment of those who come under their influence. The
indirect result of this influence will then be that war will become
more and more insufferable to the feelings, repugnant to the sense
of justice, and absurd to the intelligence. When thus the eyes of the
best among the nation are opened to the true nature of war, they
will be finally opened also to the way to real, not armed, peace.” And
as it is the secret and boasted and forgotten desire of every woman
to influence a man, or men, these profoundly plain suggestions
would seem to be sown in a fertile field. There is hope in this. Then
she says, on another page: “To win over men’s brains to the idea of
solidarity, that is the surest way of working for peace.” And this,
being a more complex remark, will probably upset everything gained
by the clarity of the preceding quotations; but it is given here to
repay the time otherwise wasted by the many for whom simplicity
has lost its god-like charm. Solidarity is a great idea, partly because
it is something to be shouted about. But the first element in
solidarity, human kindness, has never seemed “strong” to a shouting
age.
One of the firm demands which Ellen Key makes in her future
“Charter for Children” is “the right of all children to disinheritance; in
other words, their being placed in the beneficent necessity of
making full use of their completely developed powers.” After
reminding us of the strenuous manners of a past age in which the
children of any conquered city were dashed hideously against the
walls, she claims that “the judgment upon our time will be more
severe. For the people of antiquity knew not what they did, when
they caused the blood of children to flow like water. But our age
allows millions of children to be worn out, starved, maltreated,
neglected, to be tortured in school, and to become degenerate and
criminal; and yet it knows the consequences, to the race and to the
community, that all this involves. And why? Because we are not yet
willing to reckon in life-values instead of in gold-values.”
What a frantic rage must there be in the souls of the truly social-
minded when this terrific indictment is pronounced in their hearing!
But the appalling nightmare will go on until the frantic element is
overcome, and the rage is focused to a point of white heat—an
intense simplicity.
HERMAN SCHUCHERT.

Two Conrad Reviews

Joseph Conrad: A Study, Richard Curle. [Doubleday, Page and Company, New
York.]

“The business of criticism,” says Mr. Curle, “is to surmount this

impasse between conviction and the power to convince.” Judged by
this test, his study of Joseph Conrad is undoubtedly successful: it is
hard indeed to imagine any reader reaching the end of it without
believing that Conrad is a very great writer. A careful reading of the
numerous and often lengthy quotations from Conrad’s books should
alone convince the persons Mr. Curle is most anxious to convert—
those who know nothing about them.
But Joseph Conrad has two obvious faults. In the first place, Mr.
Curle is quite too modest—almost haltingly so. His pages abound in
such phrases as “I dare say”, “I cannot help”, “I think”, and the like.
That’s all very honest, but Americans prefer the more lordly manner.
One feels really, that while the critic may speak in such fashion to
himself, he should give us only his conclusions—and no apologies for
them to boot. In the second place, Mr. Curle seems to think that he
is very brave in putting forth this book, that the critics haven’t
appreciated Conrad at all, and that since he does there must be a
real quarrel between him and them. Now as a matter of fact this is
not so. Probably no living writer has had a fraction of the hearty
recognition from the best critics that Conrad has. True, he has (until
six months ago) woefully lacked anything like popularity and the
material rewards it brings—but very few of those whose opinion
carries weight will hesitate to agree with most of the fine things that
Mr. Curle says about the author of Chance. Mr. Curle’s attitude simply
arouses unfriendly antagonism on the part of his readers who know
and love their Conrad.
So much for its faults. They are not of serious importance and
should not obscure the really splendid qualities of Mr. Curle’s book. It
abounds in acutely perceptive remarks—often extremely well put. In
the course of seven chapters on Conrad’s Psychology, Men, Women,
Irony and Sardonic Humour, Prose and the Artist, he piles up an
overwhelming evidence of the man’s greatness. Is there a man alive,
has any English novelist ever lived about whom one could wax so
easily, so madly enthusiastic? True, to some Conrad does not appeal.
They have never caught the glorious glamour of his pages—the
solemn grandeur of his magnificent prose. Probably the surest way
to win converts would be to compile a small book of extracts from
his works, carefully graded according to their difficulty.
 When I was still at college I was curious about Conrad. A well-
meaning bookseller sold me Lord Jim. I tried to read it, but fifty
pages was as far as I could go. I tried again, but with even less
success. Then one day at Interlaken I found a Tauchnitz copy of A
Set of Six. Before I had quite finished the last story I lost the book—
changing trains. But Conrad has never since seemed obscure to me.
A beginner in French would never try to appreciate the shimmering
pages of Flaubert; nor would even the Yankee farm-hand feed his
baby pie. More than any living writer has Conrad needed some one
to present him to the public. This his American publishers have tried
of late to do. Mr. Curle’s book will add to their success in so far as
they manage to persuade people to read it. Except for those who
have begun with Lord Jim, Nostromo, or Chance, I have never found
anyone, who, having read one book by Conrad, was content to stop
there. Mr. Curle thinks Nostromo Conrad’s greatest work. It is now,
with Europe in the throes of a bloody conflict, that one realizes more
and more how Conrad’s men and women, far removed from the
problems of a Wells, a Chesterton, or a Shaw—problems which
appear suddenly to be of very little importance after all—bulk great
and ever greater. There they loom—like Rodin’s Balzac against the
glowering sky.
ALFRED KNOPF.
A Set of Six, by Joseph Conrad. [Doubleday, Page and Company, New York.]

In this first American edition of his Set of Six, Conrad is revealed as

an artist par excellence. You find no subjective emotionalism on the
part of the author in any of his six tales, in spite of their subtitles—
Romantic, Indignant, Pathetic, and the like. You see in him the
wistful observer of characters and situations, which he presents with
impassionate objectivity, with the impartiality of a painter who
lovingly draws his object, whether it is ugly or beautiful, whether it is
a villain or a saint. Conrad possesses a wonderful skill in setting up a
background, which, at times, appears of more importance than the
plot. He makes you feel equally at home in the atmosphere of
Napoleonic France and of France of the Restoration, of revolutionary
Peru and of a Neapolitan amusement garden. You enjoy the tales
greatly, you admire the clever craftsmanship of the story-teller, but
you close the book with an empty feeling, as if you had listened to
brilliant anecdotes in a bachelors’ club.
K.

Amy Lowell’s Poetry

Sword Blades and Poppy Seed, by Amy Lowell. [The Macmillan Company, New
York.]

In one of his letters, Byron says: “To withdraw myself from myself
has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at
all.” Such a confession seems strange coming from a poet, and it is a
confession of quite a different character which is written on every
page of Miss Lowell’s book of poems. There one finds in every line
the expression of a personality which tries to realize itself and
succeeds in doing so. The unity as well as the interest of the book is
in this very development of a strong personality, of which a new and
original aspect is revealed in every poem.
What charms us at once in this personality, and renders the
reading of the book a constant enchantment, is a most wonderful
imagination—an imagination at the same time creative and
representative, rich, varied, overflowing with images and themes. All
that life and nature offer is the domain of this imagination; it wakes
up at the most unexpected moment and seizes the unseen detail,
giving us an idea of the wonderful wanderings through which it must
take the person fortunate enough to possess it. Now it is a temple;
now a church; now a beggar; a blue scarf; the distant notes of a
flute; or the nocturnal noises of a London street, which starts it on
its way. At other times we find the imagination at play with itself, so
to speak, creating out of nothing a historical or legendary
atmosphere, or opening a philosophical vista, as in The Great
Adventure of Max Breuck, The Basket, or the poem from which the
book takes its name. Each one of these poems (and several others
also) has its own special atmosphere, precise in its complexity and
different from all the others.
In the style itself, in the development of the subjects, one finds
the same quality. It seems as if the pen were too slow to note the
multiple images which offer themselves to the mind of the poet.
They accumulate themselves, sometimes, in a manner not unlike
that of Victor Hugo, forming long periods in which the idea is turned
in all possible ways, presented from all angles and in every natural
or artificial light.
It is not only the richness of the images, but their quality, which
reveals the power of Miss Lowell’s imagination. We all experience at
every minute of our lives an infinity of sensations of which we are
more or less conscious. It might almost be said that we are poets in
exactly the measure that we realize and enjoy our sensations. The
real poet not only registers his sensations, but is able to awaken in
the mind of his readers the sudden recollection of those visual or
auditive impressions which have never before reached his
consciousness. This is what often delights us in Sword Blades and
Poppy Seed. It gratifies us to feel that we are able to understand
these subtle comparisons, these curious and unexpected alliances of
words, such as those in the first poem of the book, where, to define
certain shades of porcelains the poet speaks

Of lustres with so evanescent a sheen

Their colours are felt, but never seen.

Also in the first poem entitled Miscast, where she speaks of her mind
as

So keen, that it nicks off the floating fringes of passers-by,

So sharp, that the air would turn its edge
Were it to be twisted in flight.

To help her imagination, Miss Lowell possesses a faculty which

belongs only to the happy few: the gift of words. The astonishing
description of arms and vases in the first poem is but one example,
if one of the best, of this rare gift.
It is necessary also, in order to study thoroughly this interesting
and complex personality, to mention the great dramatic quality of
some of the long poems in the book. From that point of view, The
Great Adventure of Max Breuck seems to me the most interesting.
And there is much to be said of the sincerity and depth of sentiment
in such poems as A Gift, Stupidity, Patience, Absence. All these short
poems have something unique about them and constitute one of the
greatest charms, and an important part of the value, of the book. It
is almost incredible that a little poem like Obligation, for example,
should contain such a world of thought and restrained sentiment in
its ten short lines. I have chosen this poem as the type of this genre,
because it characterizes perhaps better than any other this very
special trait of Miss Lowell’s talent:

Hold your apron wide

That I may pour my gifts into it,
So that scarcely shall your two arms hinder them
From falling to the ground.

I would pour them upon you

And cover you,
For greatly do I feel this need
Of giving you something,
Even these poor things.

Dearest of my heart.

There is, in these few lines, a simplicity so naive, a sincerity so

complete, and at the same time such an intensity of feeling, that we
almost feel while reading it as if we were composing it ourselves.
And everybody knows that this is the mark of genius. It is rare to
attain such perfection in thought and in form as we find in these
short poems, which stand on their stems, straight and pure, like wild
flowers opening their hearts to the sun.
 I should like, in conclusion, to speak of the very new and effective
attempts of the author in the free use of all possible rhythms. The
preface presents the author’s point of view, but I may add that she
has been especially skilful in the adaptation of the rhythms to the
subjects, a thing which requires great poetic tact and musical sense.
To study this side of the book would carry us too far, for to do it
properly a long article written especially on the subject would be
necessary.
To those who love poetry, and who are at the same time
interested in the progress of new schools, this book must be of the
greatest value.
MAGDELAINE CARRET.

The Man and the Artist

Achievement, by E. Temple Thurston. [D. Appleton and Company, New York.]

“Every man knows himself; but there are few women with all their
experience of men who act as if they knew anything about them.”
“For it is only in moments that men are dispassionate about women,
while half their lives through women are being dispassionate about
men.” Why is it that such glistening generalities prove invariably
attractive to the “general reader”? Perhaps the poor maligned g. r.
fancies he is getting “tips” on the values of his neighbors’ lives, or
interminable “good leads” as to his own adventures. Perhaps the
fatuous distinctions merely tickle the sex-vanity. Undoubtedly the
same word-wisdom, offered in regard to mankind and without the
alluring distinction between man and woman, would secure but half
the attention. This attention seems no whit slackened if the
generalities are manifestly unfair by reason of their fealty to
traditionalism, as Mr. Thurston’s statements of this ilk are apt to be.
The foregoing generality is not unfair to Mr. Thurston, since this
attractive bait is offered without stint in his latest novel
Achievement. In fact, the theme of the book is that ancient
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