TH E MESSENGER is published three times during a session by the Students of Westha mpton College I and is made up of their contributions. All manuscripts not ava ilable for publishing will be returned.
Edi torials
" Quatrains," Louise Dinwiddie
"Ka tie," Katherine Brugh
"Ap ropos of Emily Dickinson," Frances Rawlings
"Ra in, " Sue Cook McClure
"Sever al Thoughts," Elizabeth Gill .
"N ight Song," Mary Lucile Saunders
"Kw an g Ying," Marydee Lowe
"Ca thedral Visions," Geneva H. Bennett
"Storm , " Sue Cook McClure .
"Phantasmagoria," Katharine Lugar
The MESSENGER
VALERIE LEMASiUR'I.ER Editor-in-Chief
EVELYN DUNCAN Assistant Editor
FRANCES RAWLINGS Assistant Editor
MARION CLARK Business Manager
EDITORIALS
Now That Spring Is Here . . .
JT is pleasant to find in fingering through a thin pile of contributions, that someone has thought of Emily Dickinson. Certainly no one has known Spring more intimately than she. "Dear March come in!", she calls in friendly fashion. It is as though she had a guest for tea-a guest whose every gesture she can explore with the prodding freshness of her mind, and turn into small songs of herself.
What young writer does not desire to translate the bright enigma of Spring into words, to capture that almost remote intimacy with nature which he feels and can not explain. Ectasy, straining for expression, falls all too easily into ruts of verbal triteness where others have lain many times before. And Spring, young symbol of the clear beginning of things, is violated.
You who might err thus, seek your own path .... There you will find and know exquisitely that lithe, exciting entity-Your Spring.
The Golden Apple
WE had thought to ourself, long ago, "perhaps if we had something bright to dangle just above reach, you would look and stretch your arms, and grow in the stretching. But alas I it was not possible ... We had only words, words!
It is therefore, with intense gratitude that we look toward Mortarboard which has so kindly produced the golden apple.
Yes it is the short-story contest to which we refer. If you do not already know the conditions, they are these: your [ 3 ]
brain child should measure at least 2,500 words and may exhibit as many as 4,000; it should be presented to Miss Capitaine, president of Mortarboard, no later than the fifteenth of April when it will be judged most competently by Misses Keller, Lutz, and Ross of our faculty, and Dr. Goode, of Richmond College; every student in the college is eligible, and someone will find herself holding the golden apple.
We feel that Mortarboard has shown great intelligence and foresight in fostering this contest. We only hope that it will prove an incentive to writing and provoke interest where words have failed utterly. -V. L .
To Write, One Must First Read
JHAD just come up from the Radio Room; the evening had been most enjoyably spent for I had been reading critical essays while listening to an infrequent but doubly pleasant program on the Radio, a City Service Concert. I my mind I had been seeing the lives of a few famous dramatists, pictures that had been deftly sketched against the background of music; the brilliant rythm of the orchestra , molded harmonies of a quartet, the lyric beauty of the soprano's voice. This listening to the artistries of music and learning of the artists of drama had filled my mind with the stimulus to go and do likewise. Association with artistic activity breeds creative ability. Without hearing music one could never sing, without seeing beauty one could never paint, without reading one could never write. Writing has never been particularily original in its place as one of the Arts; similar to the fields of music and painting it requires talent, hard work, and the ability to portray successfully the desired ideal. In its parts or in its whole the field of literature has been nearest humanity and also nearest to escaping the limits set on mortals. Speech was the first of the arts, song must have been next, drawing [ 4 ]
probably came very soon but without writing we would never have advanced. Small wonder when one understands the simple greatness of literature that the attitude of the College writer is astounding in its indifference.
The student has a real admiration for the Arts whether it be music, painting or writing but rarely is the attitude of the young writer understandable in comparison with that of the immature musician or painter. The violinist completes his piece to a burst of applause and one remembers the long hours of practice that must have been needed to build up that marvelous array from swift technique to rich melody; a painting wins the acclaim of the critics and those who know, even while admiring the work of the artist, do not forget the innumerable times he must have painted before his strokes gained that accurate deftness and feeling for life; but an excellent writer's work is published and startlingly few are those who consider the many books he must have read before he could have made his own literature. Without talent there can be no Art but without experience the artistry of the genius can never be immortally great.
A student is asked would a musician succeed without ever hearing music and the answer is no; should the student be asked to give an essential of the artist the reply would be a knowledge of painting; but few students think reading a necessary culture for writing. People are always wishing they could write but they never have time to read; a paper is returned with the suggestion to notice the style of Flaubert by which to improve the work and a blank stare is the student's usual response. Complete ignorance of literature but an expectancy to write!
For many writing is the only attainable art, certainly for the greater part of the students it is the field of literature that is nearest to their understanding, and for those who want to write, literature is the field of preparation. Time is necessarily limited and terrifically crowded for the college student and more often than not one is forced to put off writing because of a compact schedule; but in those minutes that turn up unexpectedly, possibly an hour a week, spend that time in reading. Try carrying around one [ 5 ]
of those modern library editions and open it whenever you can so manage, you will be training your mind in the feeling for literature so that when you can have the time for writing you will not be hampered by a lack of preparation.
I don't mean necessarily reading what people consider "high-brow" literature all the time or forcing yourself to read what has no appeal to your interest, I mean reading whatever you like when you like it. A good radio concert isn't all classical music, it is the variety from swift jazz to superb symphonic orchestration that makes up the entertaining program; a schedule for the theater isn't all Shakespeare and Ibsen, there are modern reviews, musical comedies and contemporary dramas to be enjoyed, movie entertainment isn't solely sophisticated or purely slap stick , it's the combination and variety of both that make one g o to the show; and a program for reading shouldn't be merely from the list of the Contest Pieces of Literature, but should range according to your own desires. What you are reading has a definite value, ranging in accordance with whatever type it may be; but one of the essentialitie s is that the very act of reading keeps your mind open to th e world of words and their usage to build up for your reading acquaintance a world of characters 1and their actions . An alert mind is one requirement for the student write r and without reading, and a goodly amount of it, the mind can not have any of the necessary preparations for writing . Just as one would be horrified to do concert playing on th e piano without having ever heard a piano concert, o r astounded at anyone trying to become an actress withou t ever having seen a play; so should one be merciless in th e criticism of the young writer who never does any reading . Without reading one can never truly write. -M. L. S. [ 6 J
Quatrains
BY LOUISE DINWIDDIE
The world is oh so somber, On a night that's wet with rain. It's nice to watch my own small light Make diamonds on the window-pane.
Why do you walk so proud, And hold your head so high, Don't you know there are dreams that lie at your feet, Nearer than those in the sky?
Sometimes I need a greater depth, Than that If eel within my soul, Perhaps, just like a goldfish feels, That swims around in one small bowl!
THE MESSENGER Katie
BY KATHERINE BRUGH
THERE was nothing in the mean little room except a lard bucket of dirty scrub-water-and Katie. Of cour se Katie would be there. Wherever the family lived , just l et a spot of grease, or a smut of coal dust appear, and ther e Katie would be with a ready scrub-rag. A whole house t o clean, however, was far more serious than a grease spo t. Indeed, it was quite a job for a fourteen-year-old. Moth er wanted to help, of course, but she had come from the ho spital only the day before. But help or no help, there wer e three rooms to be cleaned of chinches, grease, tobacc o juice, and cockroaches.
In the morning, the family would move in. Mentall y, the child pictured the procedure-and shuddered. Behin d a gaunt, palsied horse, would be a rickety wagon pile d high with furniture (if it could be called by so respectab le a term): two unwieldy cheap beds, with half the pain t scraped off; a box of dishes wrapped in rags and bed quilts; a half-dozen unmatched chairs; a pine table Katie 's father had made; and a huge, wood-burning stove for th e kitchen. These, and a few other miscellaneous pieces comprised the entire family possessions.
Katie sighed wearily, and thoughtfully wrung out th e faded blue shirt-tail she used as scrub-rag. So this was th e realization of her dream to live down here in the valley- a lousy section-house. Humph I They might as well hav e continued to live up there on the mountain, where h er father mined coal, as to move into this filthy shack th e railroad provided for its foremen. At least, she could be ar coal dust better than cockroaches. But if one had a fath er who thought moving was a picnic, one had to put up wit h a great many aggravating things-this greasy floor, fo r example. At the thought, Katie gave the rag a last viole nt swipe across the rough boards, then angrily soused it dow n [ 8 J
into the lard bucket, slopping out dirty scrub-water on her clean floor.
"Oh, what's the use?" wailed the child-woman almost in tears, as she again wrung out the degenerate shirt-tail and sopped up the spreading water she had spilled. From without, came the loud hissing sound of coal rushing down a long chute. Railroad cars were being filled at the tipple.
"More dirt," sighed Katie, wearily, as she straightened up from her work. "That darned coal dust gets on my white dress every time I hang it on the line. Oh, what's the use of fighting against it, anyway? Just as well go on and be grimy and eat garlic, like the Hunks who work in the mines. What good does all this struggle do, anyhow?" Katie, unthinkingly, scraped a piece of black tobacco from the wall with her finger nail. A cockroach ran out, and went scurrying into a crack.
"Good Lord-cockroaches," mourned the child, "cockroaches." Then hysterically, "cockroaches and coal dust, coal dust and cockroaches, ha, ha, ha, what a joke. Oh, I can't stand it," she wailed, as she fled through the doorway. It had always been her habit to cry out-of-doors. There was more space, for one thing, and one was less liable to be caught and called a "cry-baby."
"D-darn that thing," she sobbed, as she stumbled over an empty tomato can. Then she got a sight of the yard. "Oh my God," she gasped. It would easily have passed for a city dump. There were empty tin cans, half-rotted rags and pieces of rusty barbed - wire, and struggling up amongst them was a wild tangle of wire-grass and chickweed.
Frantic, Katie turned this way and that, wildly seeking relief from the crushing horror of filth. A black, swampy strip of land stretched along one end of the yard, but beyond that, there rose a mossy hill, gloriously green under the clear sunlight. It was a beautiful little hill. At its foot, along the edge of the marsh, grew a profusion of wild fern, and above blossomed a great mass of rhododendron and laurel. T~ward this haven the child hurriedly made her way, sobbing more violently than before. In her blind
[ 9 J
progress, she became entangled in a pile of rusty wire. The barbs scratched her bare legs, and brought red trickles of blood. In trying to extricate herself, she became more and more entangled. She cried out many times in pain before she finally freed herself. Slowly, she limped on toward the hill. Now, even the wild beauty of the hill hurt her heart. "Ugh, what was that cold, clammy thing sucking her downward? What had she gotten into?" Katie looked around, frightened. Black slimy mud and sassafras bushes . The cold mud oozed up through her toes, and spread over her bleeding feet.
"Gee, that feels good," said Katie, and scooped up big handfuls which she rubbed over the scratches the barbed wire had torn in her little brown legs. She wiped her eyes across the grimy sleeve of her dress, and still sniffling , straightened up to continue her painful flight. What was that white thing over there, rising up out of the black mud? It couldn't be a white rag, because all the rags in the yard were black with dirt. Besides, this stood up stiff and proud, and there were green blades waving below it. "Some kind of flower," Katie thought, "I'll wade over there and see." The mud was more than ankle deep and clammy cold, but the child was too curious to halt. Now she was beside it. "Oh you lovely, lovely thing," she said, and felt a strong impulse to kneel in the mud to the gleaming white lily, that grew there, out of the black slime.
"And I thought the days of miracles had passed," Katie laughed a little shakily to herself, "but now" ... and she looked about her :-slimy black mud and decaying plants ; wire-grass, chick-weed, tin cans, half-rotted rags, rusty barbed-wire; a dirty yellow section-house, with newspapers pasted over the broken window panes. Upward and beyond, dotting the mountain side, hundreds of box-like houses, dull gray, with long slender underpinningshouses on stilts, she called them. Then, running up, up the mountain side, like the backbone of a great prehistoric mammal, was the track to the coal mine-that deep, black hole, where grimy humans labored from dawn until sunset for their daily bread, never seeing the gleaming sun, [ 10 ]
just working in the pale reflection of their own little carbide lamps.
How could so white a lily have come into such a place of darkness, of filth and squalor? It was like a gay visitor from another world, a world where everything was clean and sweet and good, and not like ... Katie trembled, for she had almost opened the door to the secret chamber of her mind. That was her storage room for all the terrible things she dare not think about. Funny, how such a pure object had nearly caused her to peep into that chamber of horror.
Shadows-there were shadows over the marsh. The slanting rays of a departing sun made gray patterns beneath the sassafras bushes. But the lily only gleamed the more.
"Oh, my fairy goddess," whispered the child, reverently, "my brave, proud goddess. Did you come all the way from another world just to help me-just to show me that white can grow from darkness? I'm going to put you in Mother's room, that's what I'm going to do, and you can help her as you have me. She needs it"-the child added grimly.
Katie grasped the stem lightly, and slid her hand downward into the slime. She must have a long stem with it, for Mother's blue vase was quite tall. It was going to be hard to break off-bound to be ... a flower like that must have a tough stem. She bent the stem a tiny bit with her fingers. It snapped. The flower lay in her hand. Why that was almost too easy. But perhaps all lilies had brittle stems ... silly to be disappointed over a little thing like that.
"Why, you little fool, you have your white goddess in your hand. Why don't you enjoy it? Look at it. Smell its sweet fragrance."
The words "frankincense, myrrh" passed through her mind, followed by visions of grassy meadows, sweet with clover blossom. Katie closed her eyes, and buried her nose in the flower cup.
An expression of surprise came into her face, then bewilderment, and at last-horror. With a nauseated "Ugh," she flung the lily violently from her and watched the black slime suck it in, hungrily. But a breeze from the mossy hill brought back its odor-the soured smell of a wet, mangy dog.
[ 11 ]
Apropos of Emily Dickinson
BY FRANCES RAWLINGS
"I have a bit of fiat in my soul, And can myself create my little world."
-THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.
THEworld at present is enamoured of Emily Dickinson, the mystic recluse, and half forgets Emily Dickinson, the dynamic poet. The glamour of intrigue always surrounds a soul that shuns scrutiny and dares to assert independence of worldliness.
"There is a solitude of space, A solitude of sea, A solitude of death, but these Society shall be, Compared with that profounder site That polar privacy, A soul admitted to itself: Finite infinity."
Loneliness is no criterion of self-sufficiency; nor , does such subterfuge deceive the world's inborn curiosity. The world demanded an answer; Emily Dickinson responded with an enigma.
She withdrew from the outer reality, and then with unaffected naievete offered it an image of itself, just as stilled water reflects the change of restless nature. A secluded lake measures in depth the height of a tree and portrays in detail the range of hue from spring to fall and fall to spring. It notes the wind that shifts the clouds about the sky and traces on its polished surface the labyrinth paths of the star-design. Thus an element of nature inscribes its poetry of the world and the epitomes of humanity. The living must be disregarded to attain life, for life lived is a pitiful melee of facts. Multitudinous tangible things crowd the quintessence of the moment to insignificance. Yet it is these trivial incidents that often fill our remembrance. Just off hand, that memory should be the [ 12 ]
receptacle of trifles seems wanton dissipation of brain energy; and it is not logical that nature, always frugal of mental gifts, would squander her store with no cause. It is not that nature was lavish, but that our sensitiveness was untrammeled by a weary imagination and our minds are too literal to distinguish the incident from the experience. Emily Dickinson, a person in whose innate consciousness of all implications a situation might lodge, made personal experience futile.
It was life uttering omens of eternity that endured the penetrating analysis of her microscopic thought.
"Immortal is an ample word When what we need is by, But when it leaves us for a time 'Tis a necessity. Of heaven above the firmst proof We fundamental know, Except for its marauding hand It had been heaven below."
Mystic loneliness crystallized life 'into words as terse as adamant. Little value of heaping inanity on inanity by definition of multifarious principles with phrases as vague in meaning I She directed her concentration to the breaking up of all enveloping emotions into their simpler components. Hers was the creation of the art of intensity without the fetters of detail.
"Adventure must unto itself
The soul condemned to be Attended by a single hound Its own identity."
James, who wrote the classic of psychology as Holmes the classic of literature, noted the absence of definition as a hindrance to understanding the subtle choice of design each generation contributes to the finishing of life's mosaic. Conjecture's veil is as impenetrable about the nature of humanity's primordial experiences as about the true substance of sidereal bodies. The English language has no ex[ 13 J
pression of the transition between the thing thought and its stimulus.
And though ,Emily Dickinson has not defined the inter stellar vacueties, she has stripped words of all assumed implications and revealed the "barrenness of their reality." That she chose the medium of poetry is her declaration of the inherent loveliness of words, mere words. The quality of inward rhythm contained in a word makes her poetry the music of the mind translated; for the eye is more concerned with intrinsic harmony than technical form.
"Could mortal lip devine
The undeveloped freight Of a delivered syllable 'Twould crumble with the weight."
Rain
BY SuE CooK McCLURE
15 J
The night is dark.
I look, and see That God has seized a broom And swept the stars from the sky. I hear His mower mumble Over the clouds, Sparks fiy from its blades, The thunder rolls away in Space. And now God has taken up His silver watering pot And is pouring sheets of rain Upon his garden.
Being SEVERAL THOUGHTS
Upon the Subject of the Likeness and Unlikeness
Between Robert Burton
(which named himself Democritus Junior, after that sage who continually fell a-laughing at the absurdities of men)
and John Donne
Sometime Dean of Saint Paul's; didactically, and perhaps wrongly, put, without citation of authorities, because the author believes them to be drawn entirely from a study of the works of these men and from accounts of their lives, rather than from opinions formerly given by any other critic upon this subject.
BY ELIZABETH GILL
THEman Donne was extraordinary. No one ever Ii ved more intensely nor died more zealously; his whole life was a preparation for death, and yet an active, fervid, passionate preparation which bears no more resemblance to the apathetic endurance of a holy monk awaiting his translation than does a tongue of flame to a tombstone-both equally symbolic of dissolution.
He had a mind at once curiously simple and curiously complex. In his writings he goes straight for his ·objective without deviation, and yet examines into all things having to do with it (but only insofar as they bear upon the main thought), as 1though clearing away obstacles in his path. He is like an excellent debater, leaving no stone unturned to prove his point, yet never letting himself be led from it; allowing never an idea, no matter how deeply probed, 1to escape control and mar the perfect structure of his brief. His personality was exaltedly and unselfishly egoistic. He was a man of action who acted as his own desires prompted him, not considering other people because the thought of considering them never entered his consciousness; but when at last his course of action brought him [ 16]
face to face with the knowledge that there were other things to be done beside pleasing himself, he simply continued that course in an altered direction and made doing those things his supreme pleasure.
In him is joined that profound melancholy of love and religion which Burton treats conjoinedly; but he does not r ecognize their relation. If he examines his own mind, it i s to determine its exact state at a given time, not to discover the subtly contributing factors which influenced that state. If he saw the relationship, at times, between body and mind, he did not perceive the extraordinary unity of those elements in himself, so that "what he wrote of Elizabeth Drury is peculiarly true of him: his body thought."*
Like Bacon, he took all knowledge for his province, and grew to love learning so passionately that it troubled him and became almost an evil in his sight. Likei ;Bacon, too, he was completely serious. Wit, he had in plenty, and a strange mastery of the mathematics of the mind. Lightness he had, and even gaiety upon occasion. But of real humor he had not a trace. For him it was the one impossible quality. The ability to laugh at himself would have destroyed him.
Not so Democritus Junior. Burton was the most thorough humorist of his age, and, probably, of a good many other ages. He saw himself and others as clearly as it is possible to see and not be over whelmed in comprehending. Man of study, man of thought more than man of action, he looked into his own mind and found what made it function. A thorough and benign psycho-analyst, he looked into the minds of other people, through their strange behavior, and found the prospect heartrendingly funny.
His erudition was as great as Donne's, but there was less method in it. Often they quote from the same authorities, but Donne with more precision; and often we find the same ideas in both, but only ideas which might ~ell be current at that time. Fundamentally they are as different as possible.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in their writings. If Donne is at once simple and complex, Burton is at once
*Williamson, John-The Donne Tradition-p. 24. [ 17]
complex and simple, in that order. Donne builds his reasoning after the form of a tree which has a definite main trunk, but which sends off innumerable twigs and branches into intricate subdivisions. Burton's method is like a' network of small streams which wander off in all directions, yet which finally and gradually unite into a more and more powerful river. He selects a title which may mean anything, proceeds to write, or, rather, talk, about everything that comes into his head, and eventually arrives at conclusions so much more portentious than those of other, more careful, men,-so much greater, even, than what he actually says in words,-that they are somehow rather awful, wonderful.
He finds them so, himself. Desiring to know something a bout everything, he discovers a great deal about one thing, life, and is aghast at it. Unlike Donne, again, he pursues his interest in people and things, even to the casting of horoscopes and the brewing of medicinal herbs, until he is suddenly brought face to face with himself. He finds life so inexpressibly tragic that he is forced to laugh lest too much learning make him mad; and yet, remembering the mad laughter of Democritus, he dares not even laugh too heartily.
And so he makes himself, so far ; as in him lies, a mere spectator, a looker-on at the piece in which he plays; withdraws himself from the pitiful emotions of people. But not far enough, I think-not far enough.
I must remember to inquire into the life of Democritus himself, and discover the manner of his taking off. As to Burton's I am fairly sure: the ability to laugh at himself destroyed him.
AuTHOR's NOTE: Burton had cast his own horoscope and foretold the hour of his own death. It was whispered among the students of Christ Church College, Oxford, where he lived and died, "that rather than there should be a mistake in1 the calculation, he sent up his soul to heaven through a slip about his neck." (Account of the author, from the Anatomy of Melancholy.) This report, as yet unverified, fits in well with the epitaph which he wrote for himself shortly before his death:
Paucis notus, paucioribus ignotus, Hie jacet Democritus junior Cui vitam dedit et mortem Melancholia.
Night Song
BY MARY LUCILE SAUNDERS
The thoughts of night are deep with the darkness of the sky:
The pictures of night are bright with the sheen of the stars: The sayings of night are rich with the softness of the air: And beautiful is night with wonder that brings to me a real love/
For then with the night you come close in the calm of avocation
And gather me near your being with the strength of the night.
[ 19 J
Kwang Ying
BY MARYDEE LOWE
THEAugust sun beat relentlessly upon the crumbling antiquity of the temple court. Its rays grew more intense , almost stifling, as evening wore on. The leaves simmered pitifully while the azaleas and chrysanthemums strove in vain to protect their wilting splendor. .
The kwang was deserted except for a sentinal who lay stretched out in the speckled shade of the crenelated wall. A bee droned lazily about a lotus bud and a fly buzzed around and around the fan-covered face. Angrily the . watchman struck the air before him as if the incessant nois e disturbed his thoughts. He turned on his half-naked side ; the grey ruins cut sharply across his vision. It was stupid , exceedingly stupid to regard them with awe and reverence . He was not afraid of the hideous gods that lined the fou r walls. Even the sight of the red eyes protruding from th e leering countenance of the center image caused not a tremble in him.
What of the six outstretched arms with their eager , hungry talons? What of the tales of horror whispere d here, muttered there? It was all nonsense. He was not so superstitious; he believed in the new ideals, the new ways .
The crooked mirrors, spirit screens, feng-tien and ring s around the neck were but foolish fantasies. The idol was a glorious dream to him-a dream that would unfold int o realism bringing wealth and joy. For was it not known fa r and wide that a priceless jewel, a pigeon ruby, lay nestle d within its depths? His hands twitched and his eyes beneat h their cover clearly defined the burning beauty.
At last after months of secret planning, the strange di sappearance of the guard gave him entrance into the ol d court yard. He was impatient. The tale of the sacre d cobra did not trouble him. Perhaps it had lived once i n the ruins, but it must be dead long before now. True, th e priests came early for the midnights chants and left th e gates unlocked behind them. The sacred presence migh t want to wander out awhile.
[ 20 l
The figure turned again. The fan lay disregarded on the hard dirt. Would night never fall?
BONG I-BONG I-BONG I
The drums beat out their mournful monotone. Three more hours. He tried to sleep but red darts leaped forth eluding again and again his clutching fingers. He paced around the court. W a~ he nervous? Not at all, but the temple loomed so grotesquely in the falling darkness. He sat mopping the clinging hair from his forehead.
BONG I-BONG I-BONG I
He saw the lanterns approaching, outlining dimly the white figures. They crossed the court, entered the gate. Silence I Then the low chant of the worshipers could be heard. Rising and falling it broke the solitude. In single file the weird spectres came out, glancing neither to right nor to left.
He was alone, he and the glowing jewel. Stealthily he crep~ over the ground. He felt gropingly along the wooden opemng.
CRE-EE-KI
Panting, he leaned against the nearest god. His heart thumped noisily; but he was inside. The gleaming eyes lured him on. He crossed the narrow space and skimming the curved fingers, circled around the god to the back. His scraping nails frantically found the bronze ring. The metal moved. A black moldiness rushed forth from the gaping hole. A bare arm slid through.
H1s-sss-ss I
A dull thud shook the temple. A shiny coil receded. SILENCE.
[ 21 ]
Cathedral Visions
BY GENEVA H. BENNETT
Chartres
Out of the twilight stillness of the shadows near the western door I step into the strains of light from the rose window. Like a spider-web touched with dew the gemmed rays of the sun glisten and play with the myriad colors. I stand very still, hoping a fairy will emerge from the shadows and pluck the beams of light. Such music that would be-a fairy Te Deum on a jeweled violin. The vaulted roof is thrown into splendid relief. How like the hands of a virgin lifted in prayer, giving the impression of fingers stretching up into the ether! Up, up the walls go until it seems there can be no horizontal world. It must all reach up into the infinite of blue. The light from the rose window melts into the candle glow before the altar. Even the flames of the altar candles taper up to vie with the walls. The amethystine light of the side aisles deepens into dusky shadows. A door in the transept opens and I vanish through the shadows into a world of glaring sunlight and hard realities.
Notre Dame de Paris
On the other side of the doors is Paris-the city of glinting wines, dancing eyes, heavy fragrance of the night. And on this side of the doors is a flower that opens as my eyes become accustomed to the light. Tense excitement throbs in my veins, for is not this the heart of France, her Holy of Holies? As I walk down the lateral aisles where dwells a solemn mystery of the past, the hunched-back figure of Quasimodo darts among the pillars. Before the altar kneels Napoleon receiving from the Pope the crown of France. The stones of the floor re-echo his heavy tread as he passes out of the cathedral on his way to St. Helena. As I sit there beneath the rose windows of the transept, I hear the rustle of brocaded silks and the click of a heel on the [ 22 J
pavement-Mary, Queen of Scots, has been married to the Dauphin and she is going out to new adventures that end on a block in London. Only the perfect stillness is left. A feeling of wonder, of awe suffuses my whole being-and in my heart I carry out a bit of quiet peace interwoven with the jewels from a stained-glass window.
Montserrat
Hidden among sharp pinnacles of rock in Catalonia is Montserrat, where once stood the castle of the Holy Grail. High above the altar of the chapel is the Grail of the peasant folk, kneeling below. The image of the Virgin, black with age, has become a living talisman in the lives of the people. The sacred light, issuing from it, extinguishes even that of the candles. At her feet are laid the very souls of her people, in their effort to grasp the ultimate reality of life. Through the prayerful silence comes communion with the Most High, a deep draught from the Holy Grail that shall kindle sleeping souls, refresh the weary ones, suffuse the spirit with a profound ecstasy. God becomes an experience, an all-pervading Power in whom all things are one. The incense fumes bear up their supplications, and a deep peace is left in their hearts. Slowly, with measured steps they go out to the world, their heads bent in sacred reverence. For have not they realized absolute truth and tasted absolute blessedness? Have not they sought and found the vision of the Holy Grail?
[ 23 ]
Storm
Bv SuE CooK McCLURE
Lightning slits the heavy sky
Like a silver knife,'
Thunder growls, bear-like, In its cloudy throat,'
Whispering trees shudder
In their fright
And turn their leaves
To shield their eyes,-
Hasty raindrops splash And beat upon the earth
A crescendo tune
Like the chattering of tap-dancers' feet,' Thunder;rain and wind
Play a strange, wild symphony,'
Trees weave a sombre scene
Upon the tapestry of rain.
Phantasmagoria
BY KATHARINE LUGAR
(An imaginative sketch, the outgr,owth of a reading of Dr. Lowes' revelation of Coleridge in "The Road to Xanadu.")
JTwas late as I sat in the library, waiting for my uncle, who is a doctor, to come in from his calls. The deep, quiet tones of the clock had just told an hour at which I should have been in bed, but for an important message that I must deliver. Knowing the leisurely and conversational habits of his calls, I selected a book and prepared myself to wait by drawing my favorite chair nearer to the low lamp. I chose my book thoughtfully, to fit the mood of reverie into which the atmosphere of the dimly-lighted room had drawn me. The hour was late and I alone was awake in a world of sleeping people. The dark-panelled walls of the library reflected the dim lights; an alluring scent came from Aladdin's Lamp in which I had set incense to burning; the shadowy corners and treasured old maps made a perfect setting for word and thought adventures. I took from its niche Beebe's fascinating book of a far away corner of the world, "Galapagos, World's End." I read for some time, and then for a moment I sat idly turning the pages, glancing at the brightly colored plates. An old Spanish map with the heading "Mapa trazado en 1793 par las marinas espanoles de la fragata 'Santa Gertrudis' " seemed familiar, and I rose to compare it with one that hung on the wall. No, it was not the same; but its colorful drawings and suggested legends were even more fascinating; my book for the moment forgotten, I studied its delightful details. Strange southern lands, ships, and monsters, drew my imagination; down at the bottom a mighty creature, half horse, half fish, guarded the edge of the world beyond which, so the lengend beside it read, dwelt peoples of strange form who held knowledge of ~he mysteries of the universe. Beyond the monster, guardian of the horizon, no earthly man might pass .... With a sigh for lost traditions I turned to my chair. Immersed in reverie I lifted my eyes, my closed book still in hand, and watched the thin line of pungent smoke that [ 25]
rose from Aladdin's Lamp. As I with half-shut eyes followed its wavering delicacy, a sudden small breeze blew it into a cloud until in its center I saw white sails dipping and fluttering-and I was away, with a brave crew adventuring on an uncharted sea. Five centuries slipped from my mind and I was on a quest for a word, a certain word which tradition said would answer all the questionings of man about the secrets of this unknowable world. This word was to be found in those lands beyond the horizon where strange monsters and peoples lived. For sixty days we sailed; by day the hot sun, and by night the silver moon showed a broad untroubled sea pushing against a blue horizon. Our adventuring spirits sank and rose with the sails in the intermittent breezes. The younger members of our crew grew restless and dissatisfied and began to murmur about turning back, but our white-haired minstrel, from whose lips we had first heard the strange tale, counseled patience. The night of the sixtieth day brought renewed hope and confidence. Though the world darkened, a glow of light shone in the south.
"Ah," said the seer, "behold our destination, my comrades. By morning we shall have reached the horizon beyond which there is no night. I have told you of the mountain here which rises from the sea and at whose peak an immense ball of ice reflects the rays of the sun over all this universe at all times, so that there is never any darkness. And thereby we shall find the one man, to whom the word for which we are searching, is known. Let us hope for success in our venture which the new day will begin for us."
There was no rest aboard the ship that night; a spirit of revelry possessed the youths, and the elders tossed with restless thoughts; as the dawn broke every soul on board stood at the rail for the first glimpse of the long-sought world. Nothing barred our way, but as we drew near the horizon, on our right there rose from the sea a mighty creature with the body and fins of a fish and the long neck and head of a horse. This strange monster was three times as long as our small ship and its body was covered with scales that glittered so brightly in the sun that we were
almost blinded. Terrified, we awaited destruction but as the monster reared its enormous head to crush ~s our helm~man with a masterly turn of the wheel guided the vessel beneath its long neck out of sight, and so over the line of the horizon.
A shout arose as we saw ourselves saved. The joy of deliverance bouyed our spirits to extreme heights. Now surely no obstacle could hinder our success in finding that golden Word. Land I We sailed breathlessly around the small island. To the south we saw figures among the trees. They were too far away for us to distinguish their forms. In our scramble to land we failed to see the creatures slip away. Silence was over everything so deeply that even we spoke in hushed voices. The birds uttered no sound, and the wind in the trees rustled the leaves in subdued accents. Presently we heard a sound of movement farther inland, and as we turned to go toward it, a pair of feet rose from an opening in the ground in front of us, and the toes wriggled a round like an ant's feelers. All around us feet slowly appeared out of the holes and were followed by bodies, heads, and hands on which the creatures were walking. They surrounded us, as surprised to see us stand on our feet as we to see them otherwise.
The minstrel spoke to them, telling of our quest, and they seemed to understand his words, for their toes wiggled i n silent communication, but they spoke no word. Then one, taller than the rest, who seemed to be a leader, with a beckoning wave of a foot led us to the top of a hill where he pointed to a distant edge of land. We took this to mean that what we sought was to be found there. The group, of whom there were about ninety or a hundred, gathered at the shore to see us off, waving their feet in friendliest fa~hi on and, no doubt, shouting directions and good luck with their toes.
We steered for that edge of land, which appeared to be another small island but as we approached, it moved away from us so that for l~ng hours we followed it at a constant distance. Despondency settled over the ship l!ke a gray fog. Strained hour followed strained hour, until suddenly -the speck of land stopped in its meandering course and [ 27]
we drew near to it, half-doubtfully. Much movement stirred the waves at the shore line. Presently we saw a group of fierce little men with long painted tails, which they used as whips, driving some very large men into rude grass huts. As we watched amazed, a man, the last of the harried group of slaves, broke from the rest, ran from the tailed creatures to the shore, and swam toward us. The baffled midgets, who were covered with long dark hair, and had very long arms and very short legs, jumped up and down and screamed in their rage. We dragged the fleeing slave on board. He was a strange being with sixteen fingers 1 and sixteen toes, webbed like a duck's. In our own language he answered our questions: his race was in slavery to the race of Pearl-Eaters who made them dive for pearls which they made into a kind of broth. When the pearl supply was exhausted in one place they made the webb-toed slaves push the floating island to another and more fertile spot. They were a fierce and cruel race, he told us, and killed or enslaved all strangers who came there. We rewarded him for this warning, but he grieved that he knew no more of the custodian of the Word than that there lived on an island nearby a very old and wise man who might help us. By his directions we came to this land and were given a fair welcome. Here the people had lips which they used as umbrellas in the sun 2 and very large ears in which they carried their young. We were conducted by a curious crowd to the abode of the seer who in slow detail told us that the Word for which we were searching was known to only one man, a member of no known race, a wanderer from island to island, one who never tarried long. Now we were forced to sail from place to place without a certain destination, stopping at every port only to be told that the elusive stranger had moved on. We could get no idea of his appearance as all were as vague about this as about when he had last been there. Our wanderings became as changeable as the wind and the Word for which we had risked so much seemed as distant and as unattainable as the ball of ice that gave this world eternal day. Our
1 Lowes: The Road to Xanadu, p. 119.
2 lbid., p. 119. [ 28]
interest both in the phenomena of light and of the Word had increased greatly as long spans of unmeasured time passed. We often despaired of ever seeing the light and gaining the Word.
But we pushed on in our unfruitful visits: to the islands where lived the race whose heads were in their chests 3 • ' then we headed for the land where the people had necks as long as those of herons so that they had only to lower their heads far down into the water to catch the fish, which they ate raw, in their enormous mouths. We had started for this island but missed our bearings and came to a place where a race dwelt with only one leg, "who sit in the sun and hold their single foot as a parasol above their head' 14 ; then to the island where the people walked backward because their feet grew that way. Here we receivd our first hopful news: the man had just left there and had gone to the land of the ice mountain where the race of Brittle Men dwelt.
Were we, after so long a time, to have a successful end to our wanderings? Our hopes, which had been so of ten disappointed, swelled again as we set sail. Before we reached the island of Brittle Men we passed by the island of the people who had no ears and others who had no noses, the islands of the Gorgons and of the Sirens. At last, far ahead of us, a mountain rose from the sea and from its top a great light blazed. This must be the ice mountain with the great shining ball of ice at its peak. At the foot of the mountain was a small island on which lived the Brittle Men whose transparent, glass-like skins revealed fascinating anatomy, and whose brittle joints snapped off and as magically grew immediately on again. Our excited landing was entirely unobserved by the ice men .. One ?ld man sitting in the sun, after a disinter~sted c01,1siderati~n of our babblings, pointed to a low hut mto which he said he had seen the stranger go.
We rushed for the door, and then, afraid to enter for fear of disapointment, stood dumbly groupe~ an~ trembling outside. Finally our minstrel lifted up his voice and
'Notes: Ibid., p. 119.
•Notes: Ibid., p. 120.
[ 29]
called. We held our breaths to detect the slightest response. A long silence followed. Then the door slowly opened and in the shadows we could see the vague outlin e of a form and a pair of glowing eyes. Here at last befor e us stood the man to whom alone of all men the Word was known. We gazed at him for a long minute; then everyone spoke at once so that there was a confusion of voices and no words distinguishable. Holding up his hand for silence , our minstrel told him of our quest for the Word which would solve all the mysteries of the universe. He drew us into the house with a silent gesture; wordless, we filed past him into the shadowy interior. Grouped in the semi-darkness of the bare room, we felt rather than saw his presence; we were held by eyes that glowed brilliantly through the smoky atmosphere. The deep, quiet tones of his voice broke the momentous silence.
"Hear me, ye seekers after the Word of all knowledge. Attend me carefully. In my youth my father, the aged seer, entrusted to me the Word, telling me that I must bear the burden of this encompassing wisdom until one from the World should come to hear it from me. You, 0 minstrel, are that one and I have waited for many years, seeking in all lands for news of your coming. Do you therefore now hear this Word from me and bear it back with you to the World."
He paused for a moment and no sound broke the stillness. The faintest odor of incense filled the room; the sighing of the wind outside came in to us as we waited among shadows. He opened his lips to speak .... Lights flooded the library, dissolving the mists of imagination, and brought me back unwillingly to the realism of the present, my chair and my book. My uncle had returned. The incense rose once more in a thin blue line of smoke; the clock ticked quietly; the maps hung in their places on the walls; but the shadowy corners were gone and with them my reverie. With a deep sigh for the vanished world which my pregnant imagination had peopled with the strange creatures of the old maps and legends, I rose from my chair; and, forgetful of my message, stumbled down the stairway, striving to orientate myself once more with the world of fact after my sojourn in the realms of fancy. [ 30 ]
