Part 1

THE LITTLE REVIEW

_Literature_ _Drama_ _Music_ _Art_

MARGARET C. ANDERSON EDITOR

JUNE-JULY, 1915

Literary Journalism in Chicago Lucien Cary Epigrams Richard Aldington Education by Children Will Levington Comfort Notes of a Cosmopolite Alexander S. Kaun “The Artist in Life” Margaret C. Anderson Poems Clara Shanafelt Slobberdom, Sneerdom, and Boredom Ben Hecht The Death of Anton Tarasovitch Florence Kiper Frank Rupert Brooke (A Memory) Arthur Davison Ficke A Photograph of Rupert Brooke by Eugene Hutchinson To a West Indian Alligator Eunice Tietjens Epitaphs Witter Bynner Editorials and Announcements The Submarine (from the Italian of Luciano Folgore by Anne Simon) Blaa-Blaa-Blaa “The Scavenger” The Nine!—Exhibit! Book Discussion The Reader Critic

Published Monthly

15 cents a copy

MARGARET C. ANDERSON, Publisher Fine Arts Building CHICAGO

$1.50 a year

Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago

THE LITTLE REVIEW

Vol. II

JUNE-JULY, 1915

No. 4

Literary Journalism in Chicago

LUCIAN CARY

Nothing succeeds like an indiscretion. I was indiscreet enough last winter to speak my mind (a little of it) about THE LITTLE REVIEW, _The Dial_, _Poetry_, _The Drama_, and the audience to which these papers appeal. The result is that I have been flattered or intimidated into speaking it ever since. In the present instance both methods have been used most charmingly—and shamelessly. You see, Miss Anderson and I live in the same village. And yet I said nothing, and have nothing to say about any paper except what everybody knows.

Everybody knows that _The Friday Literary Review_ of _The Chicago Evening Post_ under Mr. Francis Hackett and, later, under Mr. Floyd Dell gave us the most alert, the most eager, the most intelligent, and the best-written discussion of literature in the United States. That eight-page supplement did what had hardly been done west of England before: it made book reviews worth reading. There was almost as much difference between the _Friday Review_ and _The Dial_ as there is between Mr. George Bernard Shaw and Mr. Nicholas Murray Butler, almost as much difference between the _Friday Review_ and _The New York Times Literary Supplement_ as there is between M. Anatole France and Mr. Henry Van Dyke. There was good writing in the _Friday Review_ and good thinking behind it. It was almost never dull; and if it was young it was not wholly unsophisticated; and if it was sometimes dead wrong it was not stupid. If there were half as many persons interested in the discussion of ideas as most of us like to believe the _Friday Review_ would inevitably have continued. It would, that’s all. But as things are it was fated. Neither the mechanics nor the economics of daily journalism permitted it. The _Post_ could not continue to give us—it quite literally gave us—eight pages of what so few of us wanted so much.

Everybody knows that if a weekly paper dealing not only with literature but with all the other arts in the spirit and with the journalistic competence of the _Friday Review_ were established in Chicago everybody would have to read it.

That is the point I wished to make. It is perfectly obvious that THE LITTLE REVIEW is not the kind of newspaper of the arts I have in mind. THE LITTLE REVIEW is published only once a month. It is therefore not a newspaper, but a magazine. It is three times as good as _The Drama_, which is published only once a quarter. But my point is that we ought to have something four times as good as THE LITTLE REVIEW: in short, a weekly. It may be that THE LITTLE REVIEW has other failings than its infrequency. But why consider these lesser matters? THE LITTLE REVIEW has one virtue in addition to its eagerness. It is informal. Informality is the breath of life to journalism. Nobody can write anything the way people want him to unless he feels perfectly free to write the way he wants to. It is far more a matter of manners than a matter of truth. A journal which insists on formality almost never has any good writing in it. Good writing is nothing but the artistic expression of a personality. Scientifically speaking, it can be nothing else. Not that one must be thinking about expressing his personality in order to write well. The very point is that he must not be thinking about it. He has got to be thinking about what he has to say and nothing else. Take the use of “I” as an apparently trivial but actually significant example. If the paper for which he is writing regards the use of “I” as a breach of good form a man will find that one finger of his left hand is mysteriously drawn to the shift key and one finger of his right hand to the key between the “u” and the “o” in order to make an “I” all the time he is punching his typewriter. The least excusable riot of “I’s” I ever saw in print was in a journal of literary discussion which believes in the reality of that invention of the old-fashioned logician, “objective criticism,” and which regards the use of “I” by any but elderly gentlemen of the walnuts and wine school as impossible. I did it myself in the absence of the editor. In a paper which does not in the least object to the use of “I” writers soon forget all about it, and when they do that they begin to use it only when it is effective. It is the virtue of THE LITTLE REVIEW that it permits its contributors to use “I” as often as they please; that it permits them to make fools of themselves occasionally. This means that it is not impossible to write well for THE LITTLE REVIEW. I do not say that it is not possible to write badly for THE LITTLE REVIEW. Perfect freedom to be idiotic does not inevitably eliminate idiocy.

But I have no more compliments for THE LITTLE REVIEW.

_Poetry_ is another matter. Miss Monroe’s magazine has printed some bad verse. But this is not, as its most envious critics imagine, its distinction. Every magazine prints bad verse. _Poetry_ has printed poetry that nobody else dared to print. _Poetry_ has boldly discussed the poetic controversy when everybody else hid behind language. _Poetry_ introduced us to Rabindranath Tagore, to Vachel Lindsay, in a way, to Edgar Lee Masters. _Poetry_ printed Ford Hueffer’s poem _On Heaven_. _Poetry_ has heard of Remy de Gourmont and the _Mercure de France_—an incredible achievement for a Chicago literary journal. _Poetry_ has done more than any other paper to furnish a meeting ground for writers in Chicago. If _Poetry_ were concerned about novels it would not decide two or three years after intelligent people had discovered _Jean Christophe_ that M. Romain Rolland is a successor to Tolstoi and, for the first time, print a few paragraphs about him. If _Poetry_ were interested in psychology it would not ignore Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung. But _Poetry_ is not interested in these things. Its great wealth is devoted only to poetry and it comes out only once a month.

It is a pity. For the spirit of _Poetry_ is nearer to the spirit of the old _Friday Literary Review_ than anything else in Chicago. That is the spirit I like, that seems suited to the place and the occasion. But it needs a weekly paper of wide scope to express itself.

A man is an artist to the extent to which he regards everything that inartistic people call “form” as the actual substance, as the “principal” thing.—_Nietzsche._

Epigrams

RICHARD ALDINGTON

Blue

(_A Conceit_)

The noon sky, a distended vast blue sail; The sea, a parquet of coloured wood; The rock-flowers, sinister indigo sponges; Lavender leaping up, scented sulphur flames; Little butterflies, resting shut-winged, fluttering, Eyelids winking over watchet eyes.

The Retort Discourteous

They say we like London—O Hell!— They tell Us we shall never sell Our works (as if we cared). We’re “high brow” and long-haired Because we don’t Cheat and cant. We can’t rhythm; we can’t rhyme, Just because their rag-time Bores us.

These twangling lyrists are too pure for sense; So they chime, Rhyme And time, And Slime, All praise their virtuous impotence.

Christine

I know a woman who is natural As any simple cannibal; This is a great misfortune, for her lot Is to reside with people who are not.

Education by Children

WILL LEVINGTON COMFORT

A little girl of eleven was working here in the study through the long forenoon. In the midst of it, we each looked up and out through the barred window to the nearest elm, where a song-sparrow had just finished a perfect expression of the thing as he felt it. The song was more elaborate, perhaps, because the morning was lofty and glorious. Old Mother Nature smelled like a tea-rose that morning; one would know from that without the sense of direction that the wind was from the south. The song from the sunlight among the new elm leaves was so joyous that it choked us. It stood out from all the songs of the morning, because it was so near, and we had each been called by it from the pleasant mystery of our tasks.

The little girl leaned toward the window. We heard the other bird answer from the distance, and then _ours_ sang again—and again. We sipped the ecstacy in the hushes. Like a flicker the little bird was gone—a leaning forward on the branch, and then a blur ... and presently the words in the room:

“... sang four songs and flew away.”

It was a word-portrait, and told me much that I wanted. The number, of course, was not mental, clearly a part of the inner impression. However, no explanation will help if the art of the saying is not apparent. I told the thing as it is here, to a class later in the day, and a woman said:

“Why, those six words make a Japanese poem.”

I wonder if it is oriental? Rather I think it belongs especially to our new generation, the elect of which seems to know innately that an expression of truth in itself is a master-stroke. Somehow the prison-house has not closed altogether upon the elect of the new generation. There are lines in the new poetry that could come forth, and have their being, only from the inner giant that heretofore has been asleep except in the hearts of the rarest few whose mothers mated with Gods, merely using men for a symbol and the gift of matter....

As I believe that the literary generation which has the floor in America today is the weakest and the bleakest that ever made semi-darkness of good sunlight, so I believe that the elect of the new generation contains individuals who are true heaven-borns; that they bring their own light with them and do not stand about stretched for reflection; that they refuse to allow the world-lie to shut the passages of power within them, between the zone of dreams and the more temperate zones of matter. They have refused to accept us—that is the splendid truth.

The new generation does not argue with us. They are not a race of talkers. They do not accept what they find and begin to build upon that, as all but the masters have done heretofore. They are making even their own footings and abutments. And to such clean and sure beginnings magic strength has come. The fashions and the mannerisms which we knew and thought of as the heart of things; the artfulness of speech and written word, the age of advertising which twisted its lie into the very physical structure of our brains; the countless reserves and covers to hide our want of inspiration (for light cannot pass through a twisted passage)—all these, the new age has put away. It meets life face to face—and a more subtle and formidable devil is required for its workers than that which seduced us.

The few great workmen heretofore have come up in the lie, and in midlife, the sutures closing—they were warned because they had labored like men. For their work’s sake and for their religion, which is the same to great men, they perceived that they must tear the lie out of their hearts, even if they bled to death. We call it their illumination, but it was a very deep and dark passage for them. _Except that ye become as little children_—that was all they knew, perhaps, but quite enough.... And the old masters invariably put their story down for us to read: Rodin, Puvis de Chavannes, Whitman, Balzac, Tolstoi—only to mention a little group of the nearer names—all have told the story. In their later years they told no other story.

In the beginning they served men, as they fancied men wanted to be served, but after they confronted the lie of it, they dared to listen to reality from their own nature. They fought the fight for that cosmic simplicity which is the natural flowering of the child mind, and which modern education patronizingly dresses down at every appearance. The masters wrenched open with all their remaining strength the doors of the prison-house, and become more and more like children unto the end.

* * * * *

... I do not ask a finer fate than to write about the _New Age_ and _Children_ and _Education by Children_ for THE LITTLE REVIEW. I think of _you_ as one of its throbbing centers. I can say it better than that—I think of you as a brown Arabian tent in which the world’s desire is just rousing from sleep. I would like to be one of the larks of the morning, whose song makes it impossible for you to doze again. I would not come too near—lest you find me old, the brandings of past upon me. Yet because of the years, I think I know what will be that “more formidable and subtle devil” waiting to make you forget your way.

He is not a stranger. He is always near when people dare to be simple. There are many who call him a God still, but they do not use their eyes. You who see so directly must never forget that bad curve of him below the shoulders. Forever, the artists lying to themselves have tried to cover that bad curve of Pan as it sweeps down into the haunches of a goat. Pan is the first devil you meet when you reach that rectitude of heart which dares to be naked and unashamed.

Whole races of artists have lied about Pan because they listened to the haunting music of his pipes. It calls sweetly, but does not satisfy. How many Pan has called—and left them sitting among the rocks with mindless eyes and hands that fiddle with emptiness!... Pan is so sad and level-eyed. He does not explain. He does not promise—too wise for that. He lures and enchants. He makes you pity him with a pity that is red as the lusts of flesh.

You know that red in the breast! It is the red that drives away the dream of peace, yet the pity of him deludes you. You look again and again, and the curve of his back does not break the dream, as before. You think that because you pity him, you cannot fall; and all the pull of the ground tells you that your _very thought of falling_ is a breath from the old shames—your dead, but as yet unburied heritage, from generations that learned the lie to itself.

You touch the hair of the goat, and say it is Nature. But Pan is not Nature—a hybrid, half of man’s making, rather. Your eyes fall to the cloven hoof, but return to the level steady eye, smiling with such soft sadness that your heart quickens for him, and you listen, as he says: “All Gods have animal bodies and cloven hoofs, but I alone have dared to reveal mine.” ... “How brave you are!” Your heart answers, and the throb of him bewilders you with passion.... You who are so high must fall far, when you let go.

... And many of you will want to fall. Pan has come to you because you _dare_.... You have murdered the old shames, you have torn down the ancient and mouldering churches. You do not require the blood, the thorn, the spikes, but I wonder if even you of a glorious generation, do not still require the Cross?... It is because you see so surely and are level-eyed that Pan is back in the world for you; and it is very strange but true that you must first meet Pan and pass him by, before you can enter into the woodlands with that valid God of Nature, whose back is a challenge to aspiration, and whose feet are of the purity of the saints.

To M.

Beautiful slave, I kiss your lips abloom— Do you not hear the surging voices Beyond the tomb Wherein you guard the candles of the dead?

Do you not hear the winds that crown The towers with clouds Dancing up and down, Fluttering your shrouds? Do you not hear the music of the dawn, The strong exultant voices swelling, Welling like the sweep of eager birds Beyond your somber dwelling Where each somber wall enclosing flings Back in your ear The moaning passion of dead things?

Beautiful slave, I kiss your parted lips abloom. O the splendor of the voids beyond The stifling tomb Wherein you keep your vigil by the dead. You are too weary-spirited To look at dawn, too tired-eyed to look upon the sun, Too weak to stand against the winds. What then? Farewell? No, let me— I will find the face of God With you among the worms.

ANON.

Notes of a Cosmopolite

ALEXANDER S. KAUN

Mit dem Nationalhaß ist es ein eigenes Ding. Auf den untersten Stufen der Kultur wird man ihn immer am stärksten und heftigsten finden. Es giebt aber eine Stufe, wo er ganz verschwindet, wo man gewissermaßen über den Nationen steht und man ein Glück oder Weh seines Nachbarvolkes fühlt, als wärs dem eigenen Volk begegnet.—_Goethe._

_Uncle Sam vs. Onkel Michel_

You remember the story of the king parading every morning before his meek subjects who expressed their great admiration for the sovereign’s gorgeous raiment, until a certain simpleton shouted: “Why, the king is nude!” I do not recall the end of the story, nor how the impudent sceptic was punished; but the part I do remember recurs to me every time some elemental power comes along and sweeps away the ephemeral figments from the body of mankind. Mars has more than once played the part of the rude simpleton; this god has neither tact nor manners; with his heavy boot he dots the i’s and compels us to name pigs pigs. His first victim falls the frail web of diplomatic niceties. Talleyrand’s cynicism about the function of the diplomat’s tongue to conceal truth has become bankrupt: who takes seriously nowadays the casuistry of the manicolored Books issued by the belligerents? Even Tartuffian England has had to doff the robe of idealism and to admit through the _Times_ that it would have fought regardless of whether the neutrality of Belgium had been infringed upon or not. Good. One of the salutary results of the war (let us hope there will be more than one good result) has already been realized in the wholesale unmasquing of international politics; it will do immense good for mankind-Caliban to see his real image.

The United States holds fast to its tradition of lagging behind the rest of the world. Messrs. Wilson and Bryan still employ the rusty weapon of “putting one over” through transparent bluff. “Too proud to fight” has become a classic _mot_ the world over, to the sheer delight of European humorists and cartoonists after their wits had been exhausted over the memorable “Watchful Waiting.” The admirable English of the President has demonstrated its effectiveness time and again: nearly each eloquent Note has been responded to by a German torpedo. “America asks nothing for herself but what she has a right to ask for humanity itself”—what obsolete verbosity! Who is this Mme. Humanity in whose name we demand the right to send shells to Europe unhampered by the intended victims of those shells? An American weekly, outspokenly pro-British, has cynically summed up the situation: “The British government will not allow a German woman to obtain food from the United States with which to feed her children, in spite of the fact that it is buying rifles in the United States with which to kill her husband.” We can neither blame England for her practical purposes, nor reproach the United States for her desire to accommodate a good customer: business is business; but why these appeals in the name of humanity? Why the indignant outcries against Germany’s successful attempts to check the supply of ammunition for her enemies? The brutal Lusitania affair has merely proved the consistent and consequential policy of Germany; had she not carried out her threats she would have found herself in the ridiculous position of our government which seldom goes beyond threats. Talk about the murder of women and children in time of war! I heard of a polite Frenchman who hurled himself from the top story of the Masonic Temple and removed his hat to apologize before a lady on one of the balconies whose hat he happened to brush on his downward flight. Well, the Germans are not polite.

What is the significance of Mr. Bryan’s resignation? Let us hope it is of no import; let us hope it may cause a change in tone, but not in action. For this country to be dragged into the whirlpool of the world war would be a more unpardonable folly than the puerile Vera Cruz affair. Our entrance into the war would change the actual situation of the fighting powers as much as the solemn declaration of war by the Liliputian San Marino has changed it; in the absence of an army deserving mention we could depend solely upon our navy which would be able to accomplish nothing more than joining in some calm bay the invincible fleet of the Ruler of the Waves and indulge in philosophical watchful waiting. On the other hand official war against Germany will doubtless produce internal friction of the gravest importance. I say _official_, for unofficially we have been on the side of the Allies for many months despite our theoretical neutrality. Think of the sentiments of the German soldiers when they are showered upon with shells bearing the labels of American manufacturers. Had we not supplied England and France with ammunition, who knows but that they would have found themselves in the same predicament as Russia, that is, in the position of an orchestra without instruments? When we shall have declared war against Germany we shall hardly be in power to harm her more than we have done heretofore; the Allies will do the killing, and we, the manufacturing. But the cat’s-paw-game is ungentlemanly, especially when it is done officially. To be sure, Mr. Wilson is a gentleman; hence our firm hope that he will do nothing more grave than enriching English literature with exemplary Notography.

_Vincisti, Teutonia!_

In his Frankfurt letters Heine wrote:

I have never felt inclined to repose confidence in Prussia. I have rather been filled with anxiety as I gazed upon this Prussian eagle, and while others boasted of the bold way in which he glared at the sun my attention was drawn more and more to his claws. I never trusted this Prussian, this tall canting hero in gaiters, with his big paunch and his large jaws, and his corporal’s stick, which he dips in holy water before he lays it about your back. I am not overfond of this philosophical Christian militarism, this hodge-podge of thin beer, lies, and sand. I utterly loathe this Prussia, this stiff, hypocritical, sanctimonious Prussia, this Tartuffe among the nations.