COPYRIGHT 1020 BY J.
HARRIS 'WELSH
Vol. -hP/ - ) ) WESTHAMPTON NUMBER, 1929
Last night I saw a ring of smoke Float and circle and rise About th e head of the slender moon Like the veil of a mourning bride.
The moon was yellow and dusty tonight; It scraped the brown pines as it came. Now the gold is silver, the dust a shadow. The ghost of the sun is a dream . -Johnni e Adams.
GERTRUDE MURRELL
THE lovely lady, Princess Metternich, liked to think of herself as a patron of the arts, the gentle grace whose overseeing influence was felt and appreciated by all great artists. This was what she liked about D' Annunzio-he seemed to realize her exalted position in the world of culture. Even now, as she waited for him to be announced, she smiled in anticipation of the honeyed compliments he would lay on her altar. That morning at eight, the little poem with its little flower had come as usual. What did it matter if he had sent dozens of other such poems and flowers to dozens of other women? True, it lessened the compliment , but she knew that with his fiery creative spirit, each poem was new , and the ones sent to her were dedicated to her alone. The situati on was really quite satisfactory.
As D'Annunzio was announced, the Princess Metternich noticed with a sort of wonder, how handsome he was in spite of the odd way his head was shaved. She thought he would have been better looking otherwise, but that, she supposed was part of his arti stic temperament.
He came to her across the floor gracefully-his black eyes and white teeth gleaming and on his face that penetratingly ingraciating smile. His eyes were daringly personal, though his manner was formal, as he kissed her polished finger tips rather lingeringly. She made a place for him beside her and he began to speak with a voice resonant and golden ( the same voice that later was to sway a nation into war) , to paint the triumph which awaited her.
"All that is sparkling and brilliant in Vienna looks up to your highness tonight-the royal court theatre, the theatre of the longlived Hapsburgs will be filled with the culture of Europ e, t o see the most brilliant performance ever witnessed in Vienna; all under the patronage of your highness. Sarah Bernhardt from Paris, Ellen Terry from London, Gertrude Schlieman from Berlin, all come at the call of the slighte st m ovement of your fingers."
"Yes," cooed the princess in deepest contentment, "I wrote and they came-not only the actors, my clear, but playwrights, poets, musicians, composers and leaders in all the arts will be there-in the theatre of the Hapsburgs, and mine for tonight. Then after the play all are coming here to mingle and talk with one another and me."
D'Annunzio again pressed her hand to his lips.
"Long after our bodies have sunk into oblivion, mothers will tell their children of how in the season of 1892 Vienna was more gay and more brilliant than ever before or after, due to the Princess Metternich."
So through the afternoon, his voice tolled on-so measured and beautiful, the Princess was ?oothed into a waking slumber. Be it told, her head drooped his way and her body slid deeper in the cushions and leaned towards him. He was tense, carried away by his own poesy and his voice cut through the stillness with a question, which brought her feet to the ground with a jar.
"My Lady, could you love a commoner, though a poet?"
My lady looked startled and with a hardening of her soft features, she said slowly, "Don't be a cad."
D' Annunzio flushed violently and angrily ... never before had he been refused by a pursued woman. He sprang up quickly.
"Madam, I have an important engagement ... you will excuse me," and with a stiff bow, he left. The Princess looked after him regretfully but her thoughts were soon turned on her coming triumph.
D'Annunzio stormed up the street. How could he have been so careless. He had known that she wasn't ready yet for such a proposal ... by a mere slip, he had lost the backing of one of the most powerful women in Vienna, one who by her right of birth could have produced his plays at the court theatre, to be played by the greatest of actors and actresses. It had seemed so simple, but he had not counted on her self-love as being pitted against his reckless selfishness.
He wondered angrily what he would do with his evening. He did not care to go to the court theatre now, and yet, all of his friends would be there. Poof! there were other theatres in Vienna and one Eleanora Duse was playing his old favorite "La Dame aux Camelias." He remembered vaguely having heard Duse's name before but if she was at all good, he could lose himself in the delight of the play.
There were not many people to hear this first performance of the "La Dame aux Camelias" and D' Annunzio in his elegant evening dress was seated on the front row of the dimly lighted theatre. He watched with indolent interest the entrance of Margaret Gautier but in a moment he was in the grip of a great actress, gay or unutterably sad, carrying him with her into the subtlest shades of emotion. He, who knew the lines so well, felt them vibrate with a new life. He
found himself in pain, over her wistfulness, her sweet melancholy, her lovely laugh and the tragedy of the beauty that lay within her.
Between acts, he sat analysing the performance, trying to put his finger mentally on her chief power, her technique, yes and no, her beauty, no. Yes, it was her hands ... they were lovely dainty hands, that pictured and painted with vivid color every and any action or emotion that Duse wished. His mind's eye saw Duse putting extra strength into his own voluptious lines ... her plastic voice using his own brilliantly colored words. That was as it should be, he decided.
He wrote a poem to her hands before he left the theatre, and sent it to her. Then shrugging his shoulders and drawing on his white gloves, he made his way to the palace of the Princess Metternich, an odd light in his black eyes. He was smiling now.
The mirrors of the long room reflected many times the hundreds of lights from crystal chandaliers. Above the hum of the talking came from nowhere the strains of an old minuet. Later he learned that in another room, a young Pole, Paderewski, was playing one of his own compositions. D' Annunzio stood gazing over the crowd. The Princess Metternich stood surrounded by nobles of birth and art. Yet, other groups were almost as brilliant. He noted the Princess was gorgeously gowned in yellow, matching the yellow gold of her hair. The dress was daringly low and her fair skin was a background for a wonderful necklace of diamonds and topaz.
Among the crowd he recognized men and women whom he knew by their fame only and his eye glittered at the opportunity to make desired acquaintances.
He was pleased at the whispers and glances when he was announced but he was more pleased at the open surprise of the Princess. He made his formal greetings and mixed into the crowd. He had himself introduced to the director of the company from the Comedie Fra111;aiseand from him to one group after another, and with each the natural question was :
"What did you think of the performance?" To each he replied, "I preferred to see that wonderful Eleanora Duse than go to the Court Theatre. Have you seen her? No? She will one day be known as the greatest actress Europe has ever produced. Her wistfulness, her beauty, her every shade of emotion like the surface of a deep still water, momentarily responsive to subtle tremors of light and shadow and her hands ... her hands are as if the dawn made them with a
breath and their beauty and lightness gave her the aspect of being a winged thing. They said realms more than tongue or eyes ever could."
From group to group he went spreading Eleanora Duse's fame. When he was through, every one was asking, "Where is she?" "Where did she come from ?" "What has she done?" "Where can we see her?" "Why isn't she playing at the Court Theatre?" This was his opportunity.
Soon empty seats appeared at the Court Theatre and long lines were waiting outside the theatre of Duse. Too late, the Princess Metternich decided to attach her to the court forces. Duse declined her invitation in a brief note which was dictated by D'Annunzio. * * * * *
The next few years were the happiest of Eleanora Duse's life, particularly that mad first ten days ... each morning a poem and a white rose and each night a shower of white roses. He said that was how she seemed to him like a white rose, or rather a delicate crushable whiteness with a heart and soul of fairy gold, and her hands were like the petals, and then those deliciously intimate conversations, mingled with the gaiety of Vienna after mid-night, the music, the laughter, the happy air and Europe's most accomplished lover. At the end of ten days came the gift of "La Gioconda," a play made for her, to fit her possibilities and dedicated to her to live through the ages. The play was like a crystal rose to hold all the loveliness she had attained. She didn't realize until afterwards the prophesy in it nor did she understand that he regarded her as merely a purveyor of his art, a creature to be used and thrown aside. She gave him an unselfish, all-surrounding love and he used it ruthlessly. She bought a villa on the Grand Canal at Venice, and with her money, he bought a villa on the other side. With her money he made love to other women as it suited him. She was heard to say later very bitterly, "Everytime we went walking he asked me for some Louis d'or and we went walking very often."
In 1899 when she saw his old affection entirely slipping away, she tried to recall it by playing in a series of his own plays. It helped for a time because he was always at his best when talking about himself. It was then that she first played "La Gioconda" and it was then that she had her brightest success, but her triumphant career was brought to a close with a tragic abruptness.
D'Annunzio published "The Flame" that gave to the public all her innermost thoughts, laid bare her soul to be picked over, gave the details of her pitiful marriage to a mediocre actor, who left her, and of her daughter, who never saw her act until she was grown ... all her femininities ... all, everything, that made up her privacy.
There had been a terrible scene when she pied imploringly for him to destroy it. He said that the book was good and what right had she to deny him the fame and the glory of it. She paid him not to publish it and he broke his word of honor.
Eleanora Duse was completely crushed ... her delicate sensitiveness was so hurt that even her sense of beauty seemed gone. She retired from a public life, living in utter seclusion, refusing to keep her engagements.
D'Annunzio only smiled at first and offered no word of apology, he counted on her love of the stage to bring her back but as months went by he became alarmed. There was no one else who could bring his plays to such a degree of perfecti ,on. More than that, they weren't being played by anybody and so he waited for a full moon on the canals at Venice when the singing of the gondoliers was most beautiful and everything was shinning with an ecstatic light. Then he called at her house of aloneness. She was sitting on her balcony, the moon making a saintly halo of her glorious white hair and his heart was enthralled by her wistfulness ... a little. He went quietly to her ... taking both her delicate hands in his and with his golden voice began the well-known speech of Lucio:
"Hear me, hear me. All the sorrows you have suffered, the wounds you have received without a cry, the tears you have hidden lest I should have shame and remorse, the smiles with which you have relieved your agonies, your infinite pity for my wanderings, your immeasurable courage in the face of death, your hard fight for my love, your hope always alight beside my bed, your watches, caresses, continual tenderness, expectation, silence, joy, all that is deep, all that is sweet and heroic in you, I know it all, I feel it all, dear soul; and, if violence is enough to break a yoke, if blood is enough for redemption. ( Oh ! let me speak.) I bless the evening and the hour that brought me into this house of your martyrdom and of your faith to renew once more at your hands those divine hands, that tremble, the gift of life."
And he waited for her to answer in the words of the play, "No more, say no more. My heart cannot bear it. You suffocate me with
joy. I longed for one word from you, only one, no more; and all at once you flood me with love, you fill up every rim, you raise me to the other side of hope, you outpass my dreams, you give me happiness beyond all expectation."
But Duse only swayed slightly and in a clear cold voice said, "Gabriele, that speech was ill-chosen. You forget what came afterwards."
After twelve years of devoting herself to building up another privacy, her fortunes impaired by the war, Duse was led back to the stage. She had thought that she would never act again, as if the blow had taken away her ability but she had known the stage from childhood and it called to her as an outlet of pent-up emotions. It was on the stage that she had won fame and glory . . . a slave for all hurts and she was tired of being known as "the most alone woman in the world." She scarcely considered D'Annunzio's plays ... these plays were made to fit her as she had been but now she had outgrown that shell.
In 1927 Duse presented Ibsen's "Lady of the Seas" in New York. She was received with a furor of demonstration. Her name was blazoned in the papers as the greatest actress of the age. The public paid huge prices to see her and the critics, as one, sung paens of praise. And it was of her hands they sung ... "dainty fairy-like pointers of pictures," "a masterpiece of hand technique," "a new art brought into being."
At the end of her first performance her dressing room was filled with flowers. Between acts her maid was delightedly unpacking them. As she neared the bottom of the pile of boxes there was a particularly large box and when she opened them, she gave a gasp of delight.
"Oh! madam, here is a sheaf of roses cabled from Vienna . . . from Signor Gabriele D' Annunzio !"
Duse had a fleeting look of hurt in her eyes ... the white roses ... at one time, the happiest time of her life, he had filled her rooms with white roses. The memories they brought were painful but it was rather sweet of him to send them. She walked over to the box to gather them into her arms and press the blooms against her soft cheeks with her lovely hands. She stooped and a look of hurt disappointment spread over her face. He had forgotten; the roses were not white but brilliantly red. She turned aside limply and was heard to whisper chokingly: "Life is not worth the pain it brings."
Dull, throbbing, mystical pains, Clutching at one's heart strings, Causing them to wail and vibrate ; Laying bare to wayward glances
A soul filled with passion and longing . A longing for a chance to express itself, A clean open path stretched before it With no dull, mystical pains piercing it, Choking out the beauty of its expression.
Who can realize How much one thoughtless word Can sting a soul?
-Hattie Habel.
Soft, white, fleecy flakes, Whirling 'round and 'round Into gray empty space, Fall lightly to the earth Upon the damp sod And melt into small pools
The sky is a cloud And the world is a cloud Of dullness .
-Hat tie Habel.
ELIZABETH GILL
THERE is something fascinating about those little Chinese shops which we have dubbed "tea-rooms" or "restaurants"; they are so withdrawn, so quiet, so entirely different from their neighbors of the same name. There, go people who are tired of over much efficiency, who have leisure in which to wait for the preparation of some exotic dish and in which to enjoy it, slowly and contemplatively, as it was meant ... people who desire the experience of savoring the Orient upon their tongues. The approach is often made by means of a stairway, a not unusual stairway, except that it is carpeted to silence the noise of footfalls, but there familiarity ends. As you push open the noiselessly swinging door you feel yourself drawn into a different atmosphere.
There is a half-light , a twilight, over the room. From the ceiling hang beautifully wrought lanterns of painted silk and wood, which seem, in the dim light, even more fragile than they are. Upon the walls are delicate bits of finger-nail painting ... stories of gods and heroes painted by a yellow skinned artist who sharpened his long nails to a point, bit the points until they were softened, and dipped them as brushes into his color pots. Or perhaps there are plaques of needle painting inset along the walls . . . whole landscapes in incredibly fine embroidery with nuances of color that only oils should be able to achieve. Around the room are many little tables, standing near the walls, withdrawing into corners, or out in the center of the room . Yet anywhere you sit you are alone. Each table has its peculiar isolation, which is not encroached upon. No one, uprising suddenly, knocks his chair against your own and rushes off with hardly an apology; no one passing, jogs your elbow and jerks your thoughts back into reality. No one passes the magic circle about you except the softly-moving servant, who bows and asks your pleasure in a rippling language which sounds quite foreign, yet which you understand. Until you tell him what you wish, he remains attentive with head bent, and at the word he bows again and moves off noiselessly. You look, in a sort of trance, at the painted stories on the wall and wish that you knew Chinese mythologly as weH as you know the Greek. You recognize a Buddha and some of his acolytes, but there are other personages, seated solemnly on clouds, whom you cannot name. Equally solemn mortals in fantastic robes
sail about in little boats with eyes raised piously toward the sky. A mortals importance seems to be indicated by his size ... you wonder how the huge golden emperor manages to keep from swamping his narrow boat and sending the tiny oarsman down head-first among the slimy roots of the sacred lotus lilies.
A sudden, silent breeze comes in at the window near the hanging chimes and touches them into music, and straightway you are in a Chinese garden listening to faint pagoda bells. There 'is pale green grass in the garden, grass as cool as the tinkling breeze. You lie upon it under a blossoming tree, and while the scented petals sift down upon your face , look off through a rift in the low-hanging branches to where the slow stream comes winding down, spanned by a crescent bridge. A lady is crossing the bridge, a dainty little lady dressed in lavender. She is carrying a bird cage made of carved teakwood and in it is a great white bird. Slowly she ascends to the center of the arch and pauses there a moment; then lifts the cage and with a slow, sad gesture opens the little door ....
An apologetic murmur breaks the trance, or rather draws you gently out of it; your servant is beside you bearing rice and tea and a bowl of fu-yon upon a wooden tray. At your grave nod . . . you do not smile as you might elsewhere at perfect service ... he sets them out before you; the meat, the rice, the tea in a pot as green as jade. You wistfully remember that in ancient China the tea-pot for the Son of Heaven's tea was really of carved jade, and you wish that, instead of a fork, the boy had brought you chops-sticks, even though you'd never learned to use them gracefully.
But the garden that you lay in? There it is upon the wall, withdrawn until it fits a narrow frame ten inches square. The brook has frozen as it flows, for all the sunshine on it, and the flower-petals half way to the ground, and the lady with her cage uplifted, and the white bird looking out at freedom forever through an open door . Odd that it should all turn to a picture, but quite in the order of things here.
As you sip your clear, brown tea, you are thinking still of gardens . . . gardens and tea . . . Li Po the incomparable entertaining the great Tu Fu at tea in the emperor's garden ( or at wine; much more i,n the picture for such a wine-bibbing poet!).
And surely they spoke of poetry and what each had written lately, as well as of life and death and the inferiority of this year's harvest of the vineyards. And you go dreaming on about the beauty of
Chinese poetry, and the little you know of it, but always you return to these two masters and to a certain long poem of each of them, which ends in a picture that has caught at your imagination. Thus Li Po's:
"... There are shadows in the blue pavilion of dancers, and music rising and falling, In the month of peach-bloom and plum-bloom, in the silken-screened recess, Love is the burden of sweet voices, and the brief night melting, and the long caress."
and thus Tu Fu's:
"'Tis then the black dragon, breathing pearls, looms out of the darkness, ' Tis then the river-god beats the drum, and the shoaling monsters rise. The naiads leave their dim retreats, faintly their revels finds us, And the pale streamers of their quickened lutes gleam for an instant far away."
And there, you tell yourself, proud of your own astuteness, is the difference between the poets themselves, and the likeness.
However, the time is passing. You slowly rise and move slowly out lest you should, too, suddenly interrupt the mood. As you pass down the carpeted steps toward the door to the street, you are wishing, as people have always wished, that the ancient days were here again; you are envying the young Marco Polo his journeyings over the long-lost Kan - Suh into the Flowery Kingdom. Even though the imperial highway crossed the phanton - haunted Lop, the journey would be nothing to the end. It would be worth hunger and thirst and fear and the blinding sandstorms ... you push open the door and a lusty swirl of wind blows the street dust into your eyes.
Perhaps the stars are holes in the sky And the twinkling, angels passing by. So when we look up in the sky, And a certain star we cannot see, The peep-hole's covered with an angel's eye Looking down at you and me.
-Gertrude Murrell
CELESTE LANE
years ago my father decided to take me with him to Transylvania, an insignificant country of Europe. He had become involved in some business transaction there and found that his presence was necessary to carry them out successfully. It happened that I had been suffering from a nervous breakdown about this time, and he thought that an ocean voyage might do me good. I had been trying to squeeze four years of college work into three years, and I am afraid that the exertion was too great for my limited mental capacity. I became a most piteous object ... subject to fainting, crying, hysterics, and sleep-walking. The whole family was upset over my condition, and welcomed anything that might relieve the anxiety of the household. Consequently, I was hurried off to Europe.
I spent most of the voyage over in reading everything I could find in the ship's library concerning Transylvania. There was one book which interested me especially, "Dracula." It was a horrible sort of story, dealing with vampires, and portraying them vividly as creatures which actually existed. During the day I would read it ravenously, but at night I would be afraid to touch it. After getting in bed I would imagine some figure to be beside my bed, ready to press his scarlet lips to my throat, and draw my blood into his own body as soon as I lost consciousness. I would not tell my father of my terror at the coming of night as I knew he would take the book from me; moreover, I was ashamed of my childish fright, and resolved to conquer it.
We arrived in the village of Kimpolung, my father's headquarters, after having traveled all day in an old black coach, drawn by a pair of large black horses. The roads were terrible, the weather damp and cold, and, from what we could gather with our scant knowledge of German, the prospects of a comfortable room very slight. As we drove down the muddy street, the people would turn and stare at us as though we were curiosities. Father and I both began to feel that it was a mistake to have brought me along in my weak condition. It was entirely too late to go back now; so I tried to pretend I had taken cold to cover up the fact that I was crying.
At last the coach stopped before the ancient inn, where one of father's men, a Mr. Sechrest, was waiting for us. He had seen that
large fires had been built in our rooms, and that everything was as comfortable as the old innkeeper could make it. My little room was much more cheerful than I had expected ; the motherly woman had put ffowers on my table. I did not notice them until morning, though; I was too tired to notice anything that night.
I cried most of the night from pure exhaustion ... too tired to even go to sleep. Father slept so soundly that he did not hear me from the next room until nearly morning. He then got up and gave me a hypodermic. He always hated to give me any kind of dope, but Jn account of my nervousness, he had found it necessary to aclmin1ster morphine in small doses on several occasions.
Having once gotten to sleep, I slept quite soundly until I was awakened by the dinner-gong next day. At first I did not know where I was, but the fact finally penetrated my muddy brain that I had at last arrived in the country of Transylvania with its mysterious vampires. As the coming of clay had brought back my enthusiasm for adventures in this strange country, I dressed hurriedly and went down stairs.
"Good morning, miss. Did you rest well?" the innkeeper asked as I came clown the steps.
"Oh, about as well as might be expected after that terrible journey, thank you," I answered, smiling. "Do you know where my father is?"
"Dr. Kennedy left right after breakfast, miss. He said not to wake you, but to let you sleep as long as you would. He said tell you to take a little walk and you would feel better, but not to go far." The old woman spoke slowly so that I might have less difficulty in understanding her German. She went with me into the diningroom and sat with me while I ate dinner. She seemed to be quite upset over something, and desirous of communicating her information to me. Several times she would start to tell me something then abruptly break her sentence and finish with something commonplace. I saw that she did not know how to begin, and tried to make her feel at ease by discussing things she would know most about.
"I have heard right much about your country since I first decided to come. They say that it is supposed to be inhabited by vampires. Do any of the people actually believe that?" I started to laugh at the idea, not dreaming that any sane person could possibly believe in such things. I swallowed the laugh before it got started, as the
look on the woman's face halted me. She had turned white as one of the ghouls themselves.
"Yes, and there will be one more by tonight! The Lord help us!" she whispered, shivering. She was plainly frightened, but her fright was accompanied by a morbid sort of pleasurable anticipation, I thought.
I completely forgot dinner in my excitement over hearing her tale.
"How do you know? Oh, do tell me," I begged.
"Sh-sh-sh-," she cautioned me. "Do not talk so loud. You never kn.ow ... you never know .... " She glanced around to make sure no one was listening; then she leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "Baja de Rama." After pronouncing these three words, she sat back as though she considered me completely enlightened now.
"Well, who is that?" I asked, trying to control my agitation.
"You have not heard of him, the evil one who has been terrorizing our land for years by his cruel deeds?" She was astonished at my ignorance.
"Why, no; I don't think I have."
"He has been robbing and killing innocent ones for years. They caught him last week and are hanging him now. There are many who think there will be more harm than good done by it. The Lord protect us!" the poor woman stopped with a groan.
"Why do they think that? I should imagine they would feel much safer if he were dead."
"Ah, child, the soul of a criminal does not find rest; it will return to seek the blood of its earthly enemies." By this time she was trembling violently, and much of her consternation had communicated itself to me.
"And the funny part about it is that they actually believe ·it," boomed father's voice outside the door.
"Well, well, so you. decided to get up at last," he said as he came m.
"Oh, father, have you heard about Baja de Rama?" I cried without answering his question.
"That's just what we were talking about when we came in, my dear. Mr. Sechrest was telling me that the people had petitioned the authorities to be allowed to furnish a vault in which to place the body so that it cannot get out."
"Praise the Lord!" exclaimed the old innkeeper, who was hovering near.
After she had left the room to get their dinner, father said: "That old woman expresses the sentiment of the whole place."
"What makes them so superstitious, father? Other people aren't that way in other countries."
"Daughter, it must be because the place is so inaccessible and unhealthy on account of its damp climate that very few tourists ever penetrate beyond its borders. The natives have not really had the opportunity to become fully civilized. They still adhere to their old beliefs and customs with great tenacity, deriving great pleasure from them as well as working themselves into a state of mental terror. They firmly believe the things they tell, and tell them so convincingly that, if given the proper conditions, they might cause the most severe materialist to feel nervous."
"Yes, you are quite right, doctor," Mr. Sechrest said. "During the three months I have been here I have caught myself wondering several times. It would not take long for the atmosphere to convert a stronger man than I."
That afternoon I went to walk through the little town alone. Everything was strange to me, and I was equally strange to everybody. I was eager to make friends with the people so that my brief stay might be as pleasant as possible. The people seemed to enjoy having me stop and speak to their children and pat them on the head. Many of the parents would stand and talk to me for several minutes. Time passed so quickly that I did not realize how late it was until the sun was low in the sky. Being afraid that father might be worried about me, I decided to hurry back. The narrow street was extremely muddy, and I had to be careful not to get my feet wet. Suddenly I heard a woman scream, "Hurry!" I rushed on across, then stopped to see what was wrong. She came running out of a near-by house, and grabbing me by the arm, cried: "Look! Baja de Rama's bier ! You crossed his path ! You are doomed."
I glanced down the road and saw an old wagon approaching with a long black box on it. I had not noticed it in my hurry to cross the muddy road.
"Why do they bury him so late in the afternoon?'' I asked.
"It is a custom to bury executed ones at dusk. Then they cannot return for a week. It gives one time to prepare." She crossed
herself, and bowed her head as the wagon with its awesome burden squeaked by. -
"Make haste to leave within the week. You will be first!" She hurried off after uttering this warning, and would not answer when I called after her.
I ran the rest of the way to the inn, and panted out my adventure to my father. He put his arms around me and laughed loudl y, "There, there, don't excite yourself. You know there is nothing to fear from the crude beliefs of these simple -minded people. Come eat a hot supper, and you will feel better. We were getting impati ent waiting for you."
His words quieted me somewhat, but I had the feeling that he, too, was rather upset over the occurrence. I managed to get to sleep without a hypodermic, but I made father promise to leave the door between our rooms open so that I might call him if I needed him. I slept soundly the first of the night, but toward morning I was awakened by my father's leading me slowly to my bed. He said he had heard a slight noise in my room, and upon getting up to investigate, had found me sitting on the window sill with m y feet dangling outside. He gave me a hypodermic, and sat by my bed until I got to sleep again. This was the first time I had been troubled by sleep-walking since I had been in Transylvania.
The next six days of our visit were quite uneventful, except in the change of the attitude of the people toward me. They would look at me pityingly, shake their heads, and cross themselves. It got on my nerves so much that I refused to leave the inn without father or Mr. Sechrest to accompany me.
The seventh day opened with a terrific storm. It rained in torrents all day, depressing me considerably. I did nothing but wander from one window to another, wishing that I were back in America.
When father came in, he proposed a game of cards, thinking I needed some diversion. Just as I began to get interested a muffled knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," father shouted to drown the tumult outside.
The door slowly opened and a woman crept in. She glanced over her shoulder as though she were afraid. Then she came over to me and fell on her knees.
"Leave quickly," she begged. "You do not know the risk you run."
"Why, what do you mean, my woman," demanded father, "by attempting to frighten my daughter like this?"
"I do not try to frighten her; I warn her. She knows not th e risk she runs by staying in this accursed village Baja de Rama was powerful during life; he will have more power in his pres ent stat e. Your daughter has oommitted a great sin and will have to pay," the creature finished with a moan.
Father got up angrily , and pl!llled her to her feet . "No more o f this nonsense ," he cried. "You are enough to make one have nightmares all night. Miss Kennedy is not feeling well tonight and should not be excited . She ne@<:!s r est. It might be well for you, too, to go home and sleep off your obse ssion."
Before I could say anything the woman had gone, and father was gazing thoughtfully into the fire. I told him I believed her t o have been the woman who had warned me the night of Baja de Rama's burial, a week before. As the idea struck me that it had been exactly one week before, I gave an involuntary shudder.
"What's the matter? Are you cold or frightened?" Mr. Sechrest asked .
"Just a litle chilly," I answered without looking at him. "I think I'll go to bed."
"I think it would be a good idea for us both. We can play card s any time, but weather like this was made for sleeping."
I told them good-night, and went up stairs to bed.
After dropping asleep, my next conscious feeling was that of intense cold. I felt w~t all over, and could feel water trickling down my face. I thought perhaps the window had blown open , and that it was raining on me; I could not open my eyes to find o ut , n or could I reach down to pull up more cover. Suddenly a terrific clap o f thund er released me from this lethargy, and I discovered that I wa s standin g in a cemetery beside a grave . On the wooden headpiece in big letters were carved these words, "Baja de Rama." I was t oo fright ened and cold to move, but stood there staring at the long gra y grave , fascinated; for there before my eyes the vault of Baja d e Rama was slowly rising out of the ground. All the horrible tal es I had ever heard flashed through my head, filling me with such abj ec t terror that I lost consciousness.
When I came to I was back in my room at the inn, father an d Mr. Sechrest were standing by the window talking in low tones , and the innkeeper was sitting beside me. I heard father say, "I t hink
she will get along all right now." I tried to sit up and say something, but he came over and pushed me back. "Go to sleep, daughter, you are too weak to talk," he said.
Several days later they told me a week had passed since the eventful night of Baja de Rama's spectacular return to the upper world. I had been delirious with pneumonia ever since because of the three hours' exposure before they found me. Father explained how the vault, being airtight and filled with air, rose to the surface when so much water got in the grave before the ground had time to harden. He compared it to the gas tanks which have to hurried two or three times. The fact that I witnessed the rise of Baja de Rama's body was explainable only as a wonderful coincidence.
The Faded Vision
"Man's life is as the frost upon the pane Traced swiftly, and then wiped away again."
Once, in the morning sun, I woke to find A silver tracery upon my window glass ; A perfect forest painted, trees and grass, And bushes bended by the snow and wind.
The slanting rays set trees and grass agleam With sparkles dancing gaily, laughing there As if the world were far away from care, And joy had filled the earth, with the first beam.
The sun rose higher ... gradually the whole Scene faded ; all the beauty now is gone ; But that one tapestry I looked upon Left an unchanged beauty in my soul.
-Margaret Flick.
BETTY HARRISON
ACRICKET, under the steps of our log cabin, seemed to be warning ..me of the approach of some unforgetable thing. I listened intently to the silence which breathed forth only the cricket's queerly-wrought song. It was the song of birth, of living, of a life that never dies . Then, as if grown tired of it all the cricket suddenly ceased to sing.
Hardly had he uttered his last note when the rattle of wagon wheels made the silence no longer itself. A command, "Back up, there, Bill! Whoa, boy, whoa!" followed in a deep, somewhat hoarse voice. I got up and went to the back door. My trunk ( we had just come up to the mountains that day), seemingly suspended alone in the air, awaited me outside the door. He was there, in full force and under full force. I could not see his face or his body. The trunk's weight had bent him almost double. Nothing but a pair of feet, in rusty black shoes, covered partly by the dirty, ragged edge of blue overalls, was visible. I ventured a "Can't I help, Mister?" and in reply received a "Shore, Mam. Jest 'old that there door open wide for me." I did as I was requested and this strengthy personage carried my trunk to my room.
Having disposed of his load, he stood up, measuring about five feet, ten inches, allowing three inches for the hump many years of trunk carrying had left in his shoulders. I guessed his age to be about seventy-five. I marveled at such strength in so small and so old a man. His face was forced to look dirty because of the uneven, unkempt, grey and black beard that sprouted out in all directions. His dirty, blue overall hung limply on his worn body. I looked into his eyes. Their perfect blue beauty smiled at me, and told me that behind them lay an abundance of sense ... a sense of humor, of pain, of merely living with life itself.
"Old Man Morrow's what they call me, Mam. Sam Morrow, that's me, myself. Been livin' round these parts all my life. Me, and my children, and my grandchildren, and my great-grandchildren, we ain't had no want to go nowhere else. Glad to see ye git here, Mam. Fifty cents, Mam. That makes bread for my twentythree, Mam. Shore, Mam, Susie ... she's my third ... she'll do yer washin' fer yer. Good-day, Mam."
Old Man Morrow climbed slowly into his rickety wagon, touche·d
an almost blind horse with his whip, smiled again with his blue eyes, and jogged slowly down the road.
I was impressed, very greatly impressed with this old man. Later I found out through some of the other ancients who, likewise, had been living in these mountains for years, that old Sam was their chief character. It might be said ... their scandal-maker. It had been his pleasure to conquer three wives. Maggie, "Sis" Liz, and Susie. Of course, "Sis" Liz had the honor only three weeks after Maggie's death, and Susie, a month after "Sis" Liz. They had been hard-working wives for old Sam. He had shown his gratitude by hauling trunks for a meagre fifty cents each.
In the meantime there had been children ... flocks of them ... twenty-three in all. Can you imagine a man of today with such a number of heirs? I thought then of the cricket's song of birth, of living, of a life that never dies. It was Old Man Morrow's song, too. I had been warned and had met that unforgetable thing, in the form of an aged mountaineer, with his humped shoulder, his smiling blue eyes, and his twenty-three children.
To Isadora Duncan
She stands there, silent and unaware Of the pillars of stone That might fall to bury her. Her arms outstretched to some Native god of beauty, Invoking the solemn spirit Of the ghosts that danced Hand in hand with the undulating Light, around the white, blunt pillars.
They would not crush her, She who lived so close to their own 1>lan Of grace and harmony. Now she stands ... A dauntless spirit, born too late, Calling upon the native gods With painful ecstacy
To take her to the solemn dead And lie uncovered in the Parthenon.
-Mary Catherine Williamson.
C. 0. H.
RAINDROPS on the window; clear white glass with leaden tracery; grey lead so smoothly wet, and sudden swiftly driving gusts of rain that rest upon the glass in films infinitesimally thin. Within we are many. And we add to that soft, swishing sound of water falling on dull-dampened bricks the crackling of mere sheets of paper, white with changing blue symbols; the concrete imag e of the lecturer's inspiration.
There is a glorious strength about her face; a shining as if she herself must make the day less dull. Yet she has not caught within her being the sunlight all-too-yellowed by time. She sheds a silvery light, a light of deep and pleasing satisfaction found through happy contemplation of books and thoughts and persons ages old. Yes, her light is silvery pure and clear, and even shines reflected in the edge of spur white organdy that fits around her neck.
And as she talks, we think we'll go to Oxford or to Cambridge; matters not. To hold within our hands the musty manuscripts of great delight. To find real thrill in a stray diphthong. To rest within the warm color of a stained-glass window.
* * * * *
The sun is bright and hard today. Cold air rushes in to chill still further the steel chairs we sit upon, and the smooth cold surface of the lecturer's desk. He stands before us, neat and exact as measurements electrically marked. He explains atomic arrangement in a inolecule. We listen and observe the periodic chart with symbols black on white securely printed. We listen and we find a fascination in such imaginative conception of space.
And now we think we'll spend our days in a chemist's laborator y ; with clear -cut crystals and definitely mixed solutions. We'll learn to make a camphor synthetically, and integrate to find thermodynamic force.
* * * * *
And now the day is hazy, with vapor-clouds nsmg from still water, and buds of trees that prematurely swell in the warm atmosphere. We are pleased with the smell of wet earth. We enjoy th e parts of blue sky showing through the mist, and meeting on the walk someone we care for. \Ve think we will quite calmly do nothing at all.
KATHERINE TYLER
THE two rather small houses stood side by side, silver houses, both of them. From the porches around to the chimneys was of sterling, but already the rear part was beginning to turn from silver washed to the yellowish metal underneath, which should have remained hidden a few hundred years longer. Oh, at least three or four hundred years more, for they . had been new but a little while ago. It had not been long since the tiny angel workmen had knocked away busily with their little hammers in order to get the two houses finished in time. Because, of course, it would be too dreadful for some one to come and have no home at all, when he'd been down on the earth sending things up as faithfully as he could. Pippo, the angel who was in charge of these two particular ones, had never yet had to give a man an unfinished place to stop in, but since he was not sure which would be needed first, it was hard to know which of these two he should have his helpers hammer and mold and shape the faster. Every little white--that is, perhaps once every year or so-he would send his small carts clown to the storage places at the foot of the long steep hill and have them bring up all the gold and silver and other less fine materials which had been sent for these houses, being careful not to mix them, naturally. For that would be violating all the laws of the angel code.
Strangely enough, whenever the carts were unloaded, one here, the other there . . . the materials for these two houses seemed to be always the same. Some silver for this one, some for the other, a little gold for each, and occasionally a jewel or two to go to one or the other. At last Pippo had them complete and had begun to add the silver left over to the walks and fence outside ... when once as the sun shone very bright he had just finished a special jeweled flower with its head even higher than the silver fence, and he looked up from his task to see a person panting up the steep pathway. Soon another came the same way, and both had stopped happily when Pippo told them that here were their houses The Woman looked content as she entered her garden; the Man's face showed a great peace when he saw the silver and gold and jewels he had sent Pippo to work with.
Into their respective gateways they turned, silent, alone, yet as though they had been entering them for years and years. And now,
centuries later, they still lived in the two silver-plated houses with the sterling fronts and the insets of gold and jewels.
Patiently they lived, and righteously, waiting for the time when the King should see fit to tear down their houses and send then back, back down to the place from which they had come, on the earth, to start over again and to begin anew the task of sending silver and gold and jewels to the storage place.
The Woman sat on the steps of her house and viewed the outside street complacently, continuously. The Man, likewise seated on his porch, did the same. Right in the center of the steep pathway were they. Far down the hill was an iron gate where the same angel sat century after century with his great white book before him, and he admitted people to the City according to what he found written therein. Out beyond the iron gate there was nothing, only clouds and mists of varied hues. The Man and Woman knew that down there just beside the gate the path was very narrow; it was rough and muddy and not a pleasant place to live. The houses which one found along here also were of mud, but those who lived in them seemed as happy as anyone in the City. The more one climbed the hill the prettier his surroundings became. After the tiny mud homes were bigger ones of the same material; then came brick ones of different sizes; then the stone ones; and next were those of silver, such as the Man and the Woman lived in. Those houses farther up the hill were beautiful to behold, small gold ones, huge gold ones, and a few there were which were jeweled in their entirety, great sparkling dazzling structures over which the angels had worked long and steadily. The streets too were gold and shining and very, very broad · on the top of the hillside, and they were as smooth as the muddy ones below were rough.
On the very crest of the hill was the most gorgeous house of all. This palace was so large and beautiful that all the others in the City could not equal its grandeur and splendor. Here the Beloved King of His people reigned. It was He who decided their destiny, He who appointed who was to return to the earth and when, and all of His people waited obediently on His word. The sun, which never set, shone most brightly on this palace, but some sun-light reached the whole City, even the smallest mud houses down near the gate, and it made the people happy; it made those down at the foot of the hill see the bright shining things; it made them realize that when He
should send them back down to earth they would try hard to send prettier materials to the storage house.
The gold gong up on the hill chimed twice. This meant that now was the time to talk to the person who lived next to you, so slowly the Woman rose from the silver step she had been resting on and walked through her garden to the fence which separated her from the Man. Here he stood waiting for her.
"Are you all right?"
The Woman nodded her head in assent and answered him.
"What have you been doing this year? It doesn't seem long since I asked you that the last time the gong chimed."
"No, it doesn't. Well, I've just been sitting in my silver house and on .-iy silver steps, thinking, the same as you've done, I suppose."
"Yes," replied the Woman, "I've done the same thing exactly. A few months ago I was thinking about how funny it all is anyway down there on the earth. So much hurrying and bothering and doing peculiar things just to be pleased with everyone and everything. When here we are in the City, far more content than down there. And we don't ever have to worry about a thing, just sit in your house and be happy."
The Man looked at her and said :
"Queer how our houses are side by side, isn't it? I wonder how it happened. We must have done just about the same while we were down there, I guess. But of course, that's all right, as it should be, I reckon, being as we lived together so long, and tried to do our best and raised the children as well as we knew how. See that amyethyst flower over there? Remember that's from the time we gave the beggar our bread and did without it ourselves."
"Yes, I do recall that time. Bread ... wasn't it queer then to eat bread? I've almost forgotten how it seemed to eat! We had to eat and sleep. Sleep was a funny thing too ... you shut your eyes and that was all! Sometimes now I shut mine but nothing ever happens."
"When do you suppose the King will call for us to go back · to the earth? We're happy here, but of course we must wait for that."
The Woman looked at the Man.
"Pippo gave me warning last year," she said quietly, "the next time the diamond on the turret of the King's house flashes fiery reel I am to be ready ... ready to climb to His palace and bid Him farewell and go off with the angels through the mists and clouds back tb the earth ... to begin anew."
"But what about me?" the Man wondered.
"Oh, your turn will soon come ... do not fear over that."
"Will you not miss me on the earth?" he asked her next.
"Miss you? Why, no. We do not need each other now, and surely you must know that when we start afresh I will no longer remember you or anything, nor will you."
The Man thought a little and said suddenly to the Woman : "Perhaps we have been here before! Perhaps we have taken several trips to the earth and back again ! Whom have I lived with on the earth before you? Oh, I don't know !"
"Exactly," she answered him slowly.
Then they felt a great light around them, and the Man and the Woman looked simultaneously at the King's house, whose diamond turret shone brighter than the fiery sun.
Without a word the Woman walked out of her silver gate and up toward the golden palace.
Thou serpent, dragon with the five sharp claws, A coiling body and a monstrous head, Whose eyes pierce longingly that lustrous ball, Is it the pearl of immortality you seek?
To lead you to that happy land, Where from your hideous form a soul will nse That's pure and good and bright; To mock your outer scaly self?
They tell me that your spirit is benign, Your tood deeds long been left unnumbered, Whenever evil stalks through the land Your goodness is an aid to all mankind. Why must you, then, as ugly, gaudy monster
Portray the thing tradition says you're not?
-Alice Richardson.
MARY CATHERINE WILLIAMSON
TO me the water has always been a source of pleasantness and imagination. No matter if it be a laughing sunlit brook falling over a green rock; a mountain lake with one side roaring over the slopes of the Kentucky hill; the undulating sea, the path of adventure and the pitfall of death. Always I have wanted a small, mean hut beside a still blue lake. The house would not be so profusely decorated that my mind would be occupied by the grandeur of my home rather than by the beauty of the water. A small place is all that I want, warm and cozy, a shelter from the icy wind sweeping over the lake to beat against my green shutters; the door of the house near the trees so at night the breeze might lull me to sleep. The firm white sand would be my couch of dreams, with the water helping my imagination. In the spring, I might swim through the clean smelling blue to a little sand bar which I had seen from the window in the upper story. My aspect of life would be different here; alone and helpless until I became conscious that my little house rested against a large hill. The tall grey trees might remind me of life, stripped of beauty, which means a bare and desolate soul. Yet I knew that the winter wind had stripped them of their greenness. I prayed that a devastating power might never come to strip my soul from this fanciful dreaming. Flying on the crest of a wave, then higher into the air was a graceful sea gull. Satisfied with his world, and I with mine ... all alone except the blue lake. I had never felt any sense of fear living there alone. The water seemed to be a superior power protecting me. I hope that the sea will invigorate me to long living, enjoying my simple life. I want to become so much of the sea that when death takes me , I will be at peace on the sandbar, and the seagulls will realize a companion has gone.
RUTH HALE
AGAIN the voices rose from the hall below, unintelligible, yet disagreeable in their harshness. Annoyed, he threw aside his book and wandered aimlessly about the room. It was a handsome room, with its tall imposing furniture and thick, soft carpet. At the window he scornfully shoved aside the heavy silk drapery and leaned against the shining glass. He was lonesome. Downstairs his mother and father were quarreling, bitterly and endlessly, it seemed. Outside the tall trees nodded lazily in the afternoon sun. On the gras s were funny little shadows the branches made, shaping strange, huge animals and crooked old men and chubby little boys. He smiled delightedly and wished to go down and touch the shadows . But mother had said to stay in his room. Yes, he must stay.
Far down the street could be seen a small boy running playfully beside a frisking little dog. He was gaining on the little playmate . . now he was in the lead. His bare feet carried him swiftly along the street, nimbly evading the bouncing pursuer. As he neared the tall gray mansion he stopped the chase and stared open mouthed, frankly curious, at the velvet-like lawn, the wide circling walks, and the large pillars on either side the numberless steps. At the window he saw a small face watching him. The little face brightened and smiled ever so slightly. Couldn't he just wave? No mother would not like it, he knew If he could only ask the little boy to come in , but he was already past the window. His little feet dragged listlessly as he turned for one last look ... the little boy at the window was still watching. And he was still watching when the last shadow of the little dog faded as they turned a corner. He had been out on the street ... playing ... with a dog, the wistful little boy thought , and he had been barefooted. Barefooted! His toes wiggled inquisitively in their neat patent leathers. Could there be a world where mothers let barefooted little boys run down the street with dirty little dogs? Maybe far, far away, where he saw smoke curling up to the sky ... maybe there lived those mothers. That was far on the other side of the city, he knew, for he had asked father why it always looked shadowy and dark over there, and he had said the factory smoke filled that section. "Just be glad you're on this side of the city," he remembered his saying . Why should he be glad? And why had father coughed and said: "Now run along and play?"
He would like to run after the little boy and go with him to see just what made it all look so shadowy. But never, never would mother consent. Se he leaned against the pane and wondered if the smoky shadows were really crooked old men and chubby little boys, or were just make-believe, like the kind the trees made. They couldn't be make-believe, for the little boy had been real. Some day he would go and see for himself see just what he could find in those shadows.
That had been years ago. The wistful little boy had grown into a man ... yet in one corner of his heart was treasured the longing of the little boy.
Richard Phillips lounged lazily on the arm of a chair as he listened to his mother phoning. "Be a sport and give central a moment's respite," he teased good-naturedly as she put down the phone and glanced again at the long list before her.
"Your plea for mercy comes too late ... the orders are actually finished ... and there is, it seems, nothing left to cause me to chase frantically about in a paroxysm of eleventh-hour fright." She looked up at him and laughed. Her sensitive face was almost pretty for the moment, lighted by the transient smile. It was not, ordinarily, a happy face. About the mouth had come harsh, tell-tale lines; beneath her cold, calculating eyes dark shadows remained as grim reminders of nights of agonizing sleeplessness.
Richard watched the smile play over her features, then give way once more to the stern, set expression of defiant endurance. He loved his mother ( in a way), but he did not feel as though he really knew her. Always she had seemed so far away, even in her kindest moments of sudden affection. She loved him, he knew, yet he could not feel that the love made any great bond between them. For the last few months they had been closer than ever before; as the man of the house, he filled the responsible position with dignity. The dinner and musicale to be given that night was to be his first experience as host. "Oh, well, if there's nothing to be done I'd better trot along ... as a man of the world, I must needs brush up on the proper length of time to hold a visitor's hand in the shaking process, et cetera." His mock ignorance was amusing as he desperately grabbed the phone directory in a feverish search for the demanded information.
"Be your natural self and I will be proud to call you my son," she assured him as she started up the steps to her room.
"Wowie ... just suppose!" he said mischievously. "You'd be overwhelmed with demands as to who let in the barbarian if I followed your formula," he called back.
She caught her lip quickly between her teeth. Why had he said that? Could there be an alien feeling in him untouched by the apparently successful veneering of artistocracy? Could shadows of the past loom black and sickening among those acquired characteristics? Of course, there had been a terrifying amount of uncertainty in the adoption, but for years she had felt reassured, for he had proven all that she could have desired. Their first triumph had been in successfully concealing the adoption from the world, and, best of all, from him. He had been a tractable child, and had been easily disciplined. Now that he was a man his very bearing suggested ageold culture. Yes, it had been a success. He would probably be in a few years even more in demand in social circles than her husband had been. And she had enough confidence in his honor to believe that he would be fairer, too. Somehow she couldn't imagine Richard's saying to his wife, "I love another woman; you may keep the boy." He seemed above it; thoroughly apart from any such action. Yet she had not been surprised at her husband ... it was characteristic of his whole life ... grab what you want when you want it. No, she did not blame him ... he had a life to live, to enjoy as much as he knew how, and he had found a more enjoyable way of spending it. Tonight she had hopes of finding a more enjoyable way of spending her life; it would include the repetition of a husband's "I love another woman," but that was Life ... give and take.
Downstairs the front door slammed. Richard stood for a moment and looked out before him at the dull gray smoke coloring the sky across the city. Hatless, he rushed blindly down the steps, down the walk, and on down the street toward the factory district. He felt like a bad little boy running away because the preacher was corning to dinner. Dinner that night, to him, meant the beginning of a series of similar dinners, dances, and parties; an endless tumult of mad searchings for happiness. He loathed it with his very soul. Yet he was his mother's son ... and his father's son ... a father who had left the protection of the mother entirely in the hands of their boy. The responsibility bound him; he felt that he must make up for his father's weakness. He almost hated his father ... until he realized that some day, he, too, might act as his father had ... no, he couldn't.
He would fight against it if he had inherited his father's weak will and selfishness.
On and on he walked. The streets grew narrow, the pavements rough and broken. Tiny houses, uniform in design, were placed close together row after row. It semed strange and new ... he walked more slowly. In the tiny yards were adorably dirty little children, just like the little barefoot boy of long ago. On the tiny porches sat wrinkled old men and feeble old women, watching the healthy youngsters as they ran and played. In the tiny houses were happy wives, cooking supper for their families; rich appetizing odors filled the air. Down the street came the husbands, looking expectantly toward the respective gates which would open into the yards which harbored their children, their wives ; their very lives. They were healthily tired, and looked calmly satisfied as they walked together, joking and laughing. They had been working for those they loved ; true happiness.
No longer did he look far away into uncertain shadows; he was in their very midst. It was real, alive with life. He loved it; thrilled to it; and was happy.
The lights of the city flared on. It was growing dark. The dinner ... mother ... yes, the dinner. Stumblingly he dragged himself along the broken pavement; through the wide, glittering streets; up the long, circling path, the numberless stone steps to the massive door of the huge gray mansion. The door slammed.
"Is that you, son? It's time to dress for dinner."
"Yes, mother."
My heart is like a leaf, dear, And your love is like the wind That sends the leaf on high, dear, In ecstasy of rarest kind , Then suddenly chops it down To the hard, cold dark, dark ground, To longingly await another gust While turning quietly to dust.
-Gertrnile Murrell .
THE great yellow river tossed its tawny waters like a huge lion impatiently switching his tail. Huge and tiny bits of driftwood swirled like snarls caught in its grasp. Great trees which must have stood for centuries with proud-tossed heads now twisted and withered in the clutches of the river that had once been friend and nourisher.
The Missouri was in flood and we stood looking at the swift flow of the water. A girl stood apart from the others and looked with wide deep-set eyes. The eyes had a strange power over me as I looked closer at the girl. They were dull bits of grey cloud hiding the combined fear and exaltation of her soul.
A sudden crushing sound and the bank on the farther side of the river, undermined by the biting flood crumbled into the river. The look of fear glinted thru the dull cloud of grey and a blackness followed. The exaltation was gone. Perhaps the soul of the girl had fallen with the bank; perhaps it was only a sudden fear.
When the moon is darkened With a thin sheet of cloud, It is like my heart, when it is Veiled in sorrowing.
Like a lone phantom bird
Of the night singing Is my heart, when it Knows not its song.
I thought you loved me
But when I found it was Not so, I was lonely as A stretch of white beach sand When the tide is low.
-Mary Catherine Williamson.
LAURETTA TAYLOR
WHEN I was asked to write a preface to a new edition of the "Beggar's Opera," I determined to find out why this play has held the boards for two hundred years, playing to overflowing houses at every performance. Curious to know what popularity it created at its first performances, I began to dig back through dusty magazines and mouldy books. In the backward search, I stumbled on a collection of letters, one of which I give you here.
LONDON,February 19, 1728. My dear:
"Even the beckoning waters of Bath cannot charm me away from London at this season, for she is turned topsy-turvy with excitement and gossip. The cause of all the disturbance is that fascinating Mr. John Gay whose poems and previous dramatic attempts are familiar to you. 2
"On January 29 last, we attended the premiere of his new farce, which he calls the 'Beggar's Opera,' at Lincoln's Inn Fields. 3 There had already been mention of it in the papers, that Cibber had refused it, and that Mr. Rich had finally decided to take a chance on it at Lincoln's. Mr. Congreve had announced that 'it would either take greatly, or be damned confoundedly,' so everyone was on edge to see what Mr. G. had done in this new offering.
My Lady Mary ·wortley Montague made her first appearance in public since her return from Constantinople. She wore a pair of Oriental ear-rings thickly set with emeralds, which will doubtless be the fashion as soon as an impudent jeweler can duplicatl them ir, green glass. The Duke of Queensberry and his lady brought Mrs. Howard 4 and Mrs. Campbell, 5 the latter looking more lovely than ever. For my part I think she far excels Lady Mary in beauty, but of course no one can equal Lady Mary's wardrobe. Sir Robert 6 and his lady occupied a box with friends, Sir R. looking unusually well in spite of his recent differences with the king. Dr. Arbuthnot 7 and Mr. Pope were ambling about behind scenes with other close friends of Mr. G.
Before the end of the first act we were all in a riot of laughter. Everyone could see that Mr. G. was poking thrusts at Sir R. He
( to throw off suspicion) applauded very heavily but, I believe, did not quite succeed in hiding his embarrassment. Our young playright is evidently still smarting under his so-called fall from court favor a few months ago, when he indignantly refused the post of gentlemanusher to the baby Princess Louisa. He thinks Sir R. prevailed upon her Majesty to offer him so mean a place because of Mr. G.'s Tory inclinations. For my part I think he is wrong to assume this attitude, for the queen offered him the best she could and the position would have assured him £200 a year and much leisure time for his pen.
Mr. G. laid his scene at Newgate prison, whose doors, as you know, are so easily unlocked at the clink of coins. The story is built up on bribes and highwaymen who satirize and mock our London court life. When Polly's mother wishes to remonstrate with her for marrying she used these words : "Why thou wilt be as ill used and as much neglected as if thou hadst married a lord!" Lucy, the jealous mistress, tells her father that "1ove, sir, is a misfortune that may happen to the most descreet woman, and in love we are all fools." I have been three times and could quote more, but that would spoil it for you.
The airs are perfectly delightful being adapted in part from old ballads and in part from popular songs.
Miss Lavinia Fenton has beoome overnight our favorite, because of her virginal beauty and her pleasing voice. She is a daughter of old Fenton who keeps the coffee-bar at Charing Cross. All the ladies are wearing her picture which can be gotten from almost any shop. Gossip is abroad that the Duke of B. 8 is much infatuated with her charms and has attended every performance. Poor Lady B. !
We hear snatches from the songs all day in the streets and shops, and wherever we go for pleasure at night; even the criers have taken them up. Speaking of criers reminds me of an anecdote the Earl of Ainsworth told at Lady Mary's last week. He said a friend of his was so annoyed by the cries of a candlemaker that he called him in and offered him some coins if he would agree not to come into his street again. The next night no less than a hundred candlemakers made their way to the same street, hoping to be as successful as their brother.
A new fashion was started by the Duchess when she appeared at one of her teas with a fan engraved with words and tunes from her protege's play. Later she brought in to her guests a screen handsomely painted with scenes from the Opera. Especially attractive was
a copy from the prison scene with the two ladies, Lucy and Polly, much agitated over the fate of their husband, Macheath. Underneath were incribed the lines that have become by-words in society: "How happy could I be with either, Were t' other dear charmer away!"
All the ladies are clamoring for screens now and I have ordered one that has been promised me within a fortnight.
Last night their Majesties honored the twenty-first performance. Its continued popularity indicates a long season. 9 The other play houses are neglected by our good citizens who all pour to Lincoln's every night. Almost no one attends the Opera, 10 and two of the companies are returning home next week. Plans are in progress for sending the company on tour when the London season is over. 11 You must not come back to London without seeing it, else you will have nothing to talk about.
Madame Fenton's salary has been raised six fold, and Mr. G. is realizing no mean reward for his efforts. He is still under the roof of the Queensberries, who seem determined he shall not lose the profits of this success.1 2 Rumor has it the author is preparing a sequel opera, but this is not certain as yet. 1 3
I think of you often, and wish you were here to share the gossip of this frivolous capital, which has been so captivated by the gallant Mr . G.
If you have endured my prattle thus far, I beg to remain in your most affectionate graces, M. 0.
After Walpole barred the production of "Polly," the Duchess of Queensberry began soliciting for copies at court and was dismissed. Her husband then resigned his place. Mrs. Howard and five or six other prominent women seriously endangered their favor by championing his cause. It appears that Gay was as irresponsive as a child, and because of this weakness was petted by all the women of his acquaintance. His intimates, Pope, Addison and Swift were ever helping him out of difficulties, mostly financial.
By the letter we are to conclude that London went wild over the new ballad-opera. The middle classes liked it because, being in English , they could understand it, and they rejoiced in the fun made on Italian opera which had always been above their comprehension. Court and political circles appreciated its sharp cuts at the existing state of government.
But why is it still popular to all classes in England and America today? The answer seems to be that Anglo-Saxon audiences still enjoy pure fun and humanness and satire, especially when accompanied by beautiful old ballad tunes. Our modern literary authorities say that the "Beggar's Opera" is not literature; but if it gives an evening's pleasure and diversion from everyday sameness, surely it is worthwhile. Let us be moderate Epicurians, striving for a medium between, "What intellectual fruits are you picking from knowledge's literary branch?", and "Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow ye die."
1 The letter was written by Margaret, the Duchess of Oldcastle to one of her friends wintering at the famous watering place, Bath.
2 Gay had produced a comedy, "The Wife of Bath," in 1711-12, and "The What D ' Ye Call It" in 1715.
3 Lincoln's Inn Fields was a theatre of which John Rich was the producer and manager.
4 Mrs. Howard, later Countess Suffolk, was the mistress of George II for about twenty years. ·
5 Mrs. Campbell was the former Mary Bellenden who, as maid of honor to Caroline, then Princess of Wales, had attracted the attention of George, Prince of Wales. She would have nothing to do with him, and in 1720 married secretly.
0 Sir Robert Walpole.
7Dr. Arbuthnot had been physician to Queen Anne, and was a close friend of Gay's as was Pope.
8The Duke of Bolton, who finally ran away with and married Miss Fenton after the death of his wife.
9 The play ran for sixty-three continuous performances, an unprecedented run for any play up to that time.
10 The "Beggar's Opera" ruined the season for Italian opera.
11 The play was taken on tour to Bath and Bristol where it ran for forty and fifty continuous performances
12 In 1720, Gay had lost what fortune he had gained from writing, when the South Sea Bubble burst.
18 Gay did write a sequel, "Polly,'' which was forbidden production. His friends urged him to publish it, which he did. This play in book form brought him more profit than the production of his "Beggar's Opera."
I'm a vagabond by trade, and a hobo by profession, And I roam the roads at midnight when the sun has gone to bed, And my will is like the wind that wanders everywhere and nowhere, And no one knows or even wonders where I'll lay my head.
I've been to California, where the days are always summer, And the nights are always winter ( for I've felt them in my toes) And I've been to Minnesota, where the pine trees ever whisper And I've been to Alabama, "where the sweet magnolia grows."
There are just all kinds of weather, and places, and people-There are shiny days and cloudy days, and sunbeams and showers, And this is my philosophy-you might as well enjoy them In a room where all your walls are trees and all your rugs are flowers.
-Margaret Flick .
Member Intercollegiate Press Association of f/irginia
ELMER POTIER
J. HARRIS WELSH -
H. G. KINCHELOE
LAWRENCE BLOOMBERG
BRUCE MORRISSETTE -
LLOYD CASTER -
Editor-in-Chief Business Manager Assistant Editor Assistant Editor Assistant Editor
Assistant Business Manager Staff Artist
CATHERINE BRANCH
NATALIE EVANS
MARGARET LOWE
Editor-in-Chief Business Manager Assistant Editor
THEMESSENGER is publishedeverymonthfromNovemberto June inclusiveby the studentsof The Universityof Richmond.Contributionsare welcomedfromall membe,s of the studentbodyand fromthe alumni. Manuscriptsnot foundavailablefor publication will be returned. Subscriptionrates are TwoDollarsper year; singlecopiesThirty-five cents . Allbusinesscommunicationsshouldbe addressedto the BusinessManagers. Enteredas second-classmatterin the postofficeat The Universityof Richmond.
THIS month THE MESSENGERis adopting a new plan. All work printed is that contributed by Westhampton College. The following issue will be devoted entirely to contributions from Richmond College. We feel that in doing this each college has a chance to show its individuality, its atmosphere, and something of its literary ability. This separate grouping of the colleges in the magazin e is not carried out to separate the two colleges. We feel that it will lead to greater unity and understanding through keener appreciation of what each one gives. The last issue of THE MESSENGERfor this year will appear under the old plan with Richmond and Westhampton College contributing together.
-CATHERINE BRANCH.