Part 5

A life of one’s own that shall yet serve the life of all—there is the consummation devoutly to be wished! In these days we hear much about decadence and the decadent. What does that mean? At bottom, the decadent seeks to escape the diremption of the modern man between the individual and the social, by affirming the former and negating the latter. The individual, the social cell, detaches itself from the whole organization, from the social body, without considering that he thereby dooms himself to death. The cell can just as little exist without the organism, as the organism without the cell. Decadence is the last word which anti-social individualism has to say to our time. The history of this individualism is the judgment of this individualism. The man who fundamentally detaches himself from society cuts the arteries of life. Still the man must be his own man, and not another, even that he may give a service of his own to society, as a cell must be its own cell and not another if it is to construct and constitute the organism of which it is so small a part. Besides, man is not entirely like a cell. He is in an important sense a supersocial being, as the cell is not super-organic. So we may as well go on with our discussion of the Nietzschean uniqueness and _own-ness_ of personality. Personality is both super-individual and supersocial. We have its truth in value-judgment and not simply in existence-judgment.

Somewhere in the old forgotten gospels there is a grim stirring word: Enter by the narrow gate, for the gate is broad and the road is wide that leads to destruction, and many enter that way. But the road that leads to life is both narrow and close, and there are few who find it.

Yes, indeed! It is a narrow, a very narrow gate through which men enter into life; a small, a very small path that leads to this narrow gate. There is room for only one man at a time—only one! There is one precaution with which man must sharpen all his wits, if he is to have regard for the way, so that he may at no moment lose sight of the way; or if his feet are not to lose their hold and slip, if he is not to grow dizzy and plunge into the abyss. This is not every man’s thing; it costs stress and strain and tension; it needs sharp eyes, cool head, firm and brave heart. It is much easier to stroll along the broad way, where one keeps step with another, where many wander along together; and if there but be one that is the guide of all, then of course all follow that one step by step. On this broad way no one need take upon himself any responsibility for the right way. Should the leader mislead his blind followers, the latter would disbelieve their own eyes rather than their leader, would “confess” that the false broad way was nevertheless the right way, rather than condemn their own blindness and indolence. These are the _Herdenmenschen_, the herd men who cannot understand that there is a strength which only the man feels who stands alone. These are the men who have no stay in themselves and seek their stay, therefore, in dependence upon others; possess no supplies of their own, and ever therefore only consume the capital which others amass.

Friedrich Nietzsche summoned men out and away from this herd. Friedrich Nietzsche warned men of the broad way and guided their minds to the solitary paths which are difficult and perilous indeed, but along which the true life is to be lived. These small paths, these are the paths of the creative: “Where man becomes a new force, and a new law, a wheel rolling of itself, and a first mover!” There every force of his being becomes a living creative force. No thought is repeated, no feeling, no decision, is a copy of something which was before. This is a new faith in man. He does not need to live by borrowing. There is a stratum in his own soul, in whose hidden depths veins of gold are concealed, gold that he needs but to mine in order to have a worth of his own, a wealth of his own. This is a new love to the man who conceals undreamt of riches underneath his poor shell, divine living seedcorn preserved with germinating power underneath all the burden of the dead that overlay him. Here Nietzsche, the godless one, chimes with the godly Gallet who values the error which man of himself finds more highly than the truth he learns by rote. To be sure, man possesses this that is his very own, this power of the creator, in his soul, not in his coat, not in his manners, not in life’s forms of social intercourse. The man is still far from having everything his very own, if he be only different from others, if he only says “no” to what others say “yes.” There are people enough whom one might call reverse _Herdenmenschen_. They esteem themselves original because they act, think, speak differently from what they see everybody else doing, and yet they are only the counterpart of others, they receive the impulse of their life, not from what is living in their ownselves, but from opposition to what they themselves are not. What they call beautiful is not beautiful to them because it grips their souls, fills their hearts with the free joy of vision, but because others cannot endure it, and call it ugly. The good for which they strive is not good because they have themselves thereby become stronger, greater, better, and will always become stronger, greater, better thereby, but a caprice which they follow, making it a law to themselves, because others may not do so. As if anyone could live on negation, or create by digging mole tracks in the fields and meadows of men! Even the small path is path, and every path has a goal, and the goal of every path is a “yes” and not a “no!” Therefore, Friedrich Nietzsche, Contemner of _Pöbel_, of the plebeian mass, would count all as _Pöbel_ who held themselves aloof from the broad way purely because they saw how many there were that trod it. He would also call the most select and sought-after exclusivists _Herdenmenschen_ were they to derive the reason of their action and passion merely from the mania and disease to be different from the herd.

Plain, indeed, then, is Nietzsche’s great requirement. Let every man honor and safeguard his unrepeatable miracle, and be something on his own account. This cultural requirement is supplementation and development of the moral ideal of the great German prophet at the beginning of the nineteenth century, speaking as he did out of the blackest night of a people’s life. Fichte, too, would create a folk, no _Pöbel_. To be folk, all that is _Pöbel_ must be overcome. _Pöbel_, that is all that lives herd-like, and borrows the impulse of its action and passion from others, not from itself; or, more accurately, _Pöbel_, to speak with Nietzsche, is wherever man is not himself, but his neighbor! _Pöbel_ signifies, therefore, not a human class, not a social layer of the population, but a _disposition_. Everywhere there are aristocratic _Pöbel_, wherever men pride themselves on reciprocally surpassing each other in flunkey-like ways of thinking. There is a political, a partisan _Pöbel_ which counts it human duty to help increase the great pride that runs after a leader on the broad way of the herd. There are _Pöbel_ in science and in art, wherever men do not dare to ally themselves with a cause, a principle, a work, until some “authority” has pronounced judgment in the matter. There are pious _Pöbel_ who cock their ears for what their neighbor believes, who, even in questions of conscience and of heart, are impressed by large numbers and determined by vast herds. _Pöbel_ shouts its “hosanna” and its “Crucify him” without knowing what it does, and blasphemes every body who does not shout with it. To what shall I compare this generation? It is like children sitting in the marketplace, who call to their playmates, “We piped to you and you would not dance, we lamented and you would not beat your breasts.”

We are all influenced by what the medicinal psychologist is wont to call “suggestion”—influenced, that is, by alien thoughts, alien expressions of will. What we repeatedly hear comes to lose its strangeness; we come to think that we have understood it and appropriated it. Our taste, our moral judgment, our religious faith, these and such as these are probably far more alien than domestic, far more the life of others than our own,—in a word, suggestion. We have not tested the alien, elaborated it, made it our own. We have let these uncritically empty themselves into the vessel of our spirit where they coalesce, motley enough at times, with the rest of the content. There is, therefore, something of _Pöbel_ in all of us, whether we control others or are controlled by others. To form out of _Pöbel_ strong and free personalities of our very own,—as a cell is formed from the precellular stuff of life, as the flowers and fruit of a tree are elaborated from the sap and substance at their disposal,—this is the first and best service we can render society. To form out of _Pöbel_ a folk, not a distinctionless mass that wanders along the broad way to damnation,—a community of men, where each walks the narrow path of life, no herd in which the individual only has his number and answers when it is called,—a body with many members, each member having its own life and its own soul,—_also sprach Jesu-Fichte-Nietzsche_!

The Prophecy of Gwic’hlan

(_Translated by Edward Ramos from the French of Hersart de la Villemarque_)

I

When the sun sets, when the sea snores, I sing upon the sill of my door. When I was young, I used to sing; and I still sing who am grown old. I sing of the night, of the day, and none the less I am discontent. If my head is low, if I am discontented, it is not without cause. It is not that I am afraid; I am not afraid to be killed. It is not that I am afraid; I have lived long enough. When one does not look for me, I am found; and when one looks for me, he finds me not. Little import that which advenes: that which ought to be will be. And one must die three times, before he come to repose.

II

I see the wild-boar that comes out of the wood; he drinks very much, and he has a wounded foot. His jaws are drooping, blood-covered, and his bristles are whitened with age. He is followed by his tribe, grunting from hunger.[5] The sea-horse[6] comes to meet him; he makes the river banks tremble in horror. He is as white as the brilliant snow; he has silver horns on his forehead. The water boils under him from the thunder-fire of his nostrils. Other sea-horses surround him, close packed as herbs by a swamp. “Hold fast! hold fast! sea-horse; hit him on the head; hit hard, hit! The bare feet slip in the blood! harder! have at them! harder! I see blood flowing like a river! hit hard! hit them! strike harder! I see the blood rise to his knees! I see blood like a lake! Harder! have at them! harder! Thou may’st rest thyself tomorrow. Hit hard! Hit hard, sea-horse! Hit him on the head! Hit hard! Hit!”

[5] Wild-boar and his brood—the men of Bretagne and their leader.

[6] Sea-horse—the Norsemen.

III

As I lay soft wrapt in sleep in my cold tomb, I heard the eagle call in the midst of the night. He summoned his brood and all the birds of the heavens. He said to them in calling: “Rise you quickly upon your two wings! It is not of the rotten flesh of dogs or of sheep; it is of the flesh of Christians that we will be eating!” “Old sea-crow, listen; tell me—what do you hold there?” “I hold the head of the Chief of the Army; I wish to have his two red eyes. I tear out his two eyes, because he has torn out thine own.” “And you, fox, tell me—what do you hold there?” “I hold his heart, which was false as mine is; The heart which desired your death, and long ago plotted your death.” “And you, tell me, Toad, what do you there, at the corner of his mouth?” “I, I am put here to await his soul in passage: It will remain in me as long as I shall live in punishment for the crime he has committed against the Bard who no longer lives between Roc’allaz and Porzguenn.”

Editorials and Announcements

_Rupert Brooke on the War_

In her Letter from London two months ago Miss Amy Lowell made a reference to Harold Munro’s Poetry Book Shop in London which may have seemed a little unfair to people who know the high aim of Mr. Munro in that undertaking of his. Miss Lowell did not intend it to be so; in fact she plans for an early number of THE LITTLE REVIEW an article which shall set forth the interesting work that is being done there. In the meantime we have been shown a letter from Robert Brooke, one of the Poetry Book Shop group, which is certainly not open to the charge of “preciousness”. Mr. Brooke is in the War; he is a Naval Sub-Lieutenant for service on land, attached to the Second Naval Battalion and was sent with the relief force to Antwerp “just too late”. The letter reads: “There I saw a city bombarded and a hundred thousand refugees, sat in the trenches, marched all night, and did other typical and interesting things. Now we’re back for more training. I will probably get out again by Christmas.... There’s nothing to say, except that the tragedy of Belgium is the greatest and worst of any country for centuries. It’s ghastly for anyone who liked Germany as well as I did.... I’m afraid fifty years won’t give them the continuity and loveliness of life back again! Most people are enlisting. —— and his brother have gone into cavalry; I’m here: among my fellow officers being Denis Brown, one of the best musicians in England; Kelly, the pianist who won the Diamond Sculls; one of the Asquiths; a man who has been mining in the Soudan; a New Zealander—an Olympic swimmer; an infinitely pleasant American youth, called ——, who was hurriedly naturalized “to fight for justice” ... and a thousand more oddities. In the end, those of us who come back will start writing great new plays.” Our London correspondent, Mr. E. Buxton Shanks, sends a note with infinite pathos in it. “I enclose a letter for December,” he writes. “Unfortunately it may be my last. The greater part of my regiment went to France last Monday and I expect to follow it before long, so that this may be not only my last Letter to THE LITTLE REVIEW, but also my last piece of literature for ever and ever.”

_Russia in Storm_

From Russian newspapers and private letters that have been smuggled through into this country we learn about the great resurrection that is taking place in the land of extremes. The war has shaken the dormant giant, and life is pulsating with tremendous vigor. The abolition of liquor-trade has had an unbelievable effect on the population; the fact that this reform was promulgated by the government which has thereby lost nearly a billion yearly revenue, is of inestimable significance. The Czar and his counsellors have finally awakened to recognize the impossibility of reigning over a country without citizens, and liberal reforms on a wide scope are being announced. Nationalities and parties are united under a new slogan: “Down with Nationalism! Long live Patriotism!” Even the reactionary organs have abandoned their chauvinistic tone, and they preach equality and freedom and the abolition of the bureaucratic régime which they ascribe to Germanistic influences. The revolutionary parties, however, are not intoxicated with the momentary upheaval; they have had too many bitter experiences to be lulled by promises from the throne. Of all the warring nations the Russian socialists were the only party to take an openly antagonistic attitude towards their government. They were demonstratively absent from the Douma when the war manifesto was announced, and later they gave out a declaration in which they expressed their condemnation of the government and its policy. Recently an official communication stated a discovered conspiracy among the radical members of the Douma. It is clear that the revolutionists intend to forge the iron while it is hot; this time affords them a rare opportunity for forcing the Autocrat to yield to the demands of the people and in defiance of popular sentiments and drummed up patriotism, the uncompromising fighters brave their way forward to the ultimate goal. It is great life in Russia!

_Alexander Berkman on the Crime of Prisons_

Mr. Alexander Berkman, author of _Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist_, which is reviewed in this issue, will deliver two lectures in Chicago, Sunday, December 6, in Room 512 of the Masonic Temple. His subject in the afternoon will be _War and Culture_; in the evening _The Psychology of Crime and Prisons_.

Winter Rain

EUNICE TIETJENS

Winter now has come again; All the gentle summer rain Has grown chill, and stings like pain, And it whispers of things slain, Love of mine.

I had thought to bury love, All the ways and wiles thereof Buried deep and buried rough— But it has not been enough, Heart of mine.

Though I buried him so deep,— Tramped his grave and piled it steep, Strewed with flowers the aching heap,— Yet it seems he cannot sleep, Soul of mine.

And the drops of winter rain, In the grave where he is lain Drip and drip, and sting like pain, Till my love grows live again, Life of mine!

Home as an Emotional Adventure

MARGARET C. ANDERSON

I was going Home!

It was seven o’clock on a clear, cold, snowless night in December—the ideal night for a journey. Behind me, Chicago:—noise, jangle, rush, and dirt; great crowds of people; a hall room of agonizing ugliness, with walks of a green tone that produces a sort of savage mental biliousness and furniture of striped oak that makes you pray for destruction by fire; frayed rugs the color of cold dishwater and painted woodwork that peels off like a healing sore; smells of impromptu laundry work, and dust that sticks like a hopeful creditor; an outlook of bare brick walls, and air through the window that should have been put through a sieve before entering. All these—and one thing more which makes them as nothing: the huge glory of accomplishment.

Before me?... It was snowing hard as we steamed in. There came a clanging of brakes, a cold blast of snowy air through the opened doors, a rush of expectant people; and then, shining in the glow of a flickering station light, one of the loveliest faces I’ve ever seen—my sister’s,—and one of the noblest—my “Dad’s.” Then a whirring taxi, a luxurious adjustment to comfort in its dark depths, a confusion of “So _glad_ you’re here,” and “Mother’s waiting at home”; a surging of all my appreciation at the beauty of young Betty, with her rich furs and stunningly simple hat and exquisitely untouched face; a long dash through familiar streets until we reached the more open spaces—the Country Club district where there are only a few homes and a great expanse of park and trees; and finally a snorting and jerking as we drew up before a white house from which lights were shining.

Now this little house is all white, with green shutters and shingles, with a small formal entrance porch, like a Wallace Nutting print, in front, and a large white-pillared, glass-enclosed living-porch on one side. A red brick walk of the New England type leads up to it, and great trees stand like sentinels at the back. On a winter night, when the red walk and the terrace are covered with soft snow, when the little cedar trees massed around the entrance sparkle with icy frost, when the warm light from the windows touches the whiteness with an amethyst radiance—well, it’s the kind of house that all good dreamers sometimes have the reward of dreaming about. And when Mother opened the door, letting out another stream of light and showing her there against the warm red background of the hall, I was convinced that getting home was like being invited to paradise.

Of course we talked and laughed for an hour; and underneath it all I was conscious, above everything, of the red and white room in which we sat; of the roaring, singing fire; of the shadows it threw on the luxurious rugs and old mahogany; of the book-lined walls; of the scattered magazines on the long table; of the chiming grandfather’s clock; of the soft lights; and—more than all—of the vase of white roses against the red wall.

“But you must hear the new Victrola records!” Mother cried. And so I lay back in a deep chair with my face to the fire, and listened—listened with my soul, I think, to some of the world’s great music: Sembrich and Melba and Homer and Gluck; Paderewski and Pachmann, orchestras, operas, and old, old songs; and finally my favorites—the violin ones. There was Kreisler, with his perfect art, playing old Vienna waltzes, haunting Provence folk songs, quaint seventeenth-century gavottes and dances; Maud Powell putting new beauty into the Schubert _Ave Maria_, and that exquisite tone-picture of Saint-Saëns called _The Swan_; and last of all Mischa Elman, with his deep, passionate singing of Bach’s _Air for the G String_ and Tschaikovsky’s _Ye Who Have Yearned Alone_. There’s a beauty about those last ones that is almost terrible, so close is it to the heart of human sorrow.

“Well,” said Dad, a little later, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but _I’m_ going to bed. And first I mean to have some milk and a piece of pumpkin pie. Does that attract a city girl?”

It did—to the extent of three glasses of milk, besides the pie. “You’ll not sleep,” warned Mother; but I retorted that I didn’t care; I was too happy to sleep, anyhow. And, besides, the kitchen, in its immaculate gray and whiteness, was so refreshing that I wanted to stay there awhile. Large baskets of grape fruits and oranges and red apples stood on the pantry shelves; the stove was polished until it looked like a Sapolio advertisement; and a clock, ticking loudly, gave the room that curious sense of loneliness that a kitchen needs. I can conceive of a library without books, or a fireplace without a fire, but never of a kitchen without a loud-ticking clock.

After a while we all trooped up to bed—up the white staircase with the mahogany rail, and into fresh white bedrooms in such perfect harmony with the snow outside.

“This house is positively sensuous!” I told Mother. “It’s an emotional adventure just to come into it....”

I climbed into a big mahogany four-poster; but not to sleep—oh no! I sat bolt upright with the silk comfortlet (oh luxury of luxuries!) around my knees, and gazed out the windows: for from both of them I saw a fairyland. It was all white—all except the amethyst shimmerings of boulevard lights; and white flakes dropped one by one through the amethyst. Away in the distance on both sides were faint outlines of woods—bare, brown woods now covered warmly with snow. And over it all a complete and absolute stillness. Just as in spring I used to feel fairies leaping from every separate violet and tulip and hyacinth for their twilight dance on the wet grass, so now I felt a great company of snow fairies dancing in the faint rays of amethyst that darted into the woods—dancing and singing and glittering in their silver frostiness. And then a slow quiet wind would sound far off in the branches of the oak trees; and gradually the fairy carnival ceased and I went ecstatically to sleep.

The next morning, after breakfast in a dining-room of old blue and white and mahogany, I stated my ideas of what one ought to do in such a house. “I don’t want to go anyplace or see anyone or do anything. Don’t plan luncheons or teas or other things. It will take a week to store up all the impressions I want to. So please just let me stay here quietly and absorb the atmosphere.”