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Volume LIi i

FEBRUARY, 1927

Number 4

University of Richmond Students Cordially Invited to

ST. PAUL'S AND

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UNIVERSITYOF RICHMOND INCLUDES

1. Richmond College, a College of Liberal Arts for Men.

2. Westhampton College, a College of Liberal Arts for Women. 3. The T. C. Williams School of Law, a Professional School of Law, offering the Degree of LL. B. 4.

The Summer School. W. L. Prince, M.A., Director. Richmond College for Men W. L. PRINCE,

M. A., DEAN

Richmond College for Men is an old and well-endowed College of Liberal Arts, which is recognized everywhere as a Standard American College. Its degrees are accepted at face value in the great graduate and technical schools of America. Its alumni are so widely scattered through the nation that the new graduate immediately joins a large and friendly group of men holding positions of power and influence. The College occupies modern and well-equipped buildings, on a beautiful campus of 150 acres in the western suburbs of Richmond.

Westhampton College MAY LANSFIELD

KELLER,

PH.

D.,

DEAN

Westhampton College for Women, co-ordinate with Richmond College for Men, is housed in handsome buildings on a campus of 140 acres, separated from the Richmond College campus by a beautiful lake of about nine acres. All degrees are given by the University of Richmond, and those conferred on women are, in all respects, equivalent to those conferred on men. While the two institutions are co-ordinate, they are not co-educational.

The T. C. Williams School of Law J. H. BARNETT,

JR.,

LL. B., SECRETARY

Three years required for degree of LL. B. in the Morning Division, four years in the Evening Division. Strong faculty of ten professors. Large Library. Moderate Fees. Open to both Men and Vlomen. Students who so desire can work their way. For catalogue, booklet, or views, or other information concerning entrance into any College, address the Dean or Secretary.

F. W. BOATWRIGHT

President

THE

MESSENGER

Students' Literary Monthly since 1876 EDITORIALDEPARTMENT • Richmond

W. E. SLAUGHTER •

Westhampton

College College

BUSINESSDEPARTMENT JAMES H. GORDON • Richmond GRAY ROBINSON Westhampton

College College

JEAN MAcCARTY .

Vol. Lil

FEBRUARY,

1927

No. 4

CONTENTS L'APATHIE

(Poem)

A. R L. THE

GARDEN (Short

Story)

Harry HYMN TO MODERNISM (Poem)

Lyles

H.M.C. THE SHADOWSOF DARKNESS (Sketch) . M. S. Shockley HOPE (Poem) Dorothy Gwaltney TWILIGHT (Poem) Jr. J. W. Kincheloe, DoN (One-Act Play) Leslie L. Jones To BEAUTY (Poem) R. Ben Cheatham AVIGNON ON A WINTER'S EVE (Translation) Jean MacCarty THE QUARREL (Poem) R.H. Bowen FUNERAL ORATION FOR THE BUTTON (Essay) Helen Covey THE BARGAIN (Poem) Mildred Anderson GIBBS THE BEGGAR (Sketch) Catherine Branch "PAX VOBISCUM" (Essay) . Janet Page EXCHANGES Ami stead C. Gordon BooK REVIEWS: Allegra-by Galahad-John Erskine THE EDITORIAL PEN $2.00 THE COLLEGE YEAR

11 12 13

21 22 25 26 27 28 31 32 34 34 37

35 CENTS A COPY

THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to June inclusive by the students of the University of Richmond in Virginia. Contributions are welcomed from all members of the student body and from the alumni. Manuscripts not found available for publication wi11 be returned. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers. Entered as second-class matter at the postoffice at the University of RichVirginia. Copyright, 1926, by W. E. Slaughter.

k::ond,

L'APATHIE They smile knowingly And whisper "her heart is broken" they say also "she is deeply hurt" perhaps they are right I cannot tell. I know only that I have nothing to do. In my youth I chose a task and deuicated my life to its performance. Skeins of silk of rarest hue and texture out of devotion and self sacrifice I spun Slowly, incessantly, and wove them one by one into a cloak that would protect him from the disappoinmetnts and failure that inevitably come. This much I accomplished. Daily to replace a thread by one still more enduring was to be my eternal task. Today he found a cloak more dazzling than mine. He drew it on, and my life's work half-finished lies at his feet in shreds while I stand by and listlessly crumple the newly-spun threads.

-A.E.L.

THE GARDEN HARRY

LYLES

Death is a strange thing. Through it events are often linked up for us that seemingly have no relation, yet Death reaches out into the past and brings before our startled eyes the romance-the beauty, the hopes of Life. It teaches us over and over that all Life is worth while-even the most squalid-the most miserable. It happened during my internship at St. Francis. An emergency call, one afternoon, led me to the most squalid section of New Orleans. A section . of bleak, clapboarded shanties leaning against one another-like a row of ancient veterans afraid to face the world alone, and finding comfort in the misery of their fellows. At the door of one of them a bent, old negro met me and led the way to a dirty-brown little room-to the bed of an old woman-dying. but sit helplessly, while I could do nothing for her-nothing her pulse-beats grew weaker-the breath came in painful gasps-and the heavings of the age-mottled breast became slower-slower. The old negro crouched in one corner alone, moaning and mumbling to himself-face buried in enormous black hands-body swaying back and forth. wait with the old negro until shadows I could do nothing-but a crept over the scene, softening the miserable furnishings-and of bed the across itself flung window the of silhouette moon-made my patient. Only the large, dark, pits of her eyes relieved the stark, dead-white, of a face framed in streaked gray hair. A weird scene-as the moonlight pierced the shadows-all the haunting fragrance of a summer's night permeated the room. Then the last moment came-she stared insanely at the moona thin hand clutched mine-blue lips moved feebly-a faint whisper, "Jean-Jean, mio." I drew the ragged blan:ket over swollen, staring eyes and led the moaning negro from the room-the haunting fragrance of night jas~ mine in a room with Death. It was uncanny. Death is something no one ever becomes accustomed to. No matter how common it may be to them-they always shudder and draw apart-even the most experienced medical men-the soldiersall of them. So it was with me that evening-I could not relieve my mind of the death of that old woman. All the way back to my lodging-house that evening her stark, white face seemed to haunt me.

THE

MESSENGER

I had a friend in the lodging-house-the only one to whom I could talk. He was an old professor of music. He was an unusual old man. In a one-room studio at "Madam Rosina's" he gave lessons on the piano. There were only a few pupils-probably because he hated this giving of lessons-for "Madam" would often tell me of an outbreak of temper, when a pupil would be told to return no more. I had known the old man for two years, the length of my lodging with "Madam." But neither the other lodgers nor "Madam" herself, who usually knew all about everyone who lodged with her-no one knew of the past life of Professor Lorand. Occasionally he would play for me fragments from the great masters, Beethoven, Chopin and Liszt. A picturesque figure he was at the piano-long, white hair streaming carelessly over thin shoulders-large, dark eyes dreaming out into the distance-and the slender body swaying under the influence of music. It was then the lines in the long, narrow face would seem to fade-even two deep lines from the high-bridged nose, that split a wrinkled cheek from his mouth, tight lines saying to one, "See, I have known Life with its disappointments-its joys-its heartbreaks and its love," even these lines seemed to lose themselves in the dreaming face of a boy. On the evening of the death of the old woman-Professor Lorand seemed unusually restless. All through dinner he was abstractedstaring out over the cheap lodging-house table-as if he saw a vision. Several times, I caught the white head bent-listening-listening as if some voice called softly to him from the past-called to him and he could not hear. After dinner I asked him to play for me. He refused impatiently and strode up to his little studio alone. An hour later as I sat alone on the great old porch, I heard a step beside me and saw him standing by my side. He suggested that we take a walk. We walked through several shabby old streets before we came to a little park, surrounded by a high board fence. Throughout our entire walk the old professor had been silent, striding along, head bent down, as though he were alone. When we entered this parkwith its winding walks, white in the moonlight-the fountain spraying flashes of silvery light over pale white lilies-the pale gold of the orange trees and the ghostliness of night jasmine all blending into a symphony of moon-drenched beauty-when we entered into this bit of paradise I could not suppress an exclamation. For the first time the old professor spoke-something about a "Garden of dreams."

THE

GARDEN

After selecting a little stone bench-one was suddenly aware of scent of night jasmine. Never an almost unbearable fragrance-the had I experienced it so intensely before. It brought back to me-a miserable room-an old woman calling out "Jean-Jean, niio." We were silent for a long while, Professor Lorand and I, each own memories. Once turning to busy with his own thoughts-his ask a question, I caught the old man staring out into the shadowsoblivious of his surroundings. Suddenly he turned to me, "Have you ever heard of Jean Moret?" I thought-and then remembered a great musician notorious for Corelli, his many love affairs, all of which ended unhappily-Anita Petrovitch, a Russian dancer-it was prima donna of Milan-Anna of Jean Moret. Eternally unbecause herself killed she whispered happy-his life a haunted weariness. Yes, I told the Professor, I had heard of Moret. "Moret knew this garden," said the professor, "he often came here during his youth. A long-long while ago. Moret spent the happiest days of his unhappy life here." The old man stopped and turned to me, "Would you like to hear of him?" I told him that I would. This park was once the garden to a quadroon woman's home. for one She lived in an old-fashioned frame house alone-except daughter. One would have never known the daughter was of mixed bloods. In her veins ran the bloods of the French, the Spanish and the Negro. She combined all that is beautiful of the three races in herself. Her skin was of ivory whiteness-her eyes, large and dark, seemed ever dreaming behind the long lashes-the face was delicately moulded-and the head was always drawn back by the weight of her enormous blue-black hair, giving her the proud poise of a prinProfessor Lorand hesitated, drawing one slender white cess---". hand across his brow. Then he continued in a voice curiously hoarse, curiously low : "Jean Moret was just a boy-a hot-headed imperious youth. He night throughout one summer. She met Zalli here-secretly-every soft warm body-her very soul into his keepgave everything-her questioning-all that she had to ing. Without hesitancy-without then-he did not know-could boy a just give. Ah, Jean Moret was not realize her love." The old man peered long into the garden as if he saw among the orange trees and the ghostly night jasminesomeone standing.

THE

MESSENGER

"Jean's family found out-they were furiously angry. Their son of Old French stock-and a quadroon girl-a disgrace. They sent him away. "In the years that passed Jean Moret forgot Zalli. He became a great pianist-famous. His music became everything to him. Then other women came into his life-women whom he soon tired of. He found himself seeking a nameless something he could not understand. A something that seemed to haunt him-drive him toward a mysterious goal-an ideal. For years this thing hounded Jean Moret-lashed him-until once on a tour of America-he visited New Orleans and this old garden. As he stood amidst the fragrance of the jasmine-all the romance of his boyhood came back to him-he seemed to see Zalli standing among the shadows stretching out so£t arms to him. And then he knew-he knew that all his life he had sought an ideal he had already known-love that he had cast aside, even as one casts aside an affair that has become tiresome. Ever insisting had been that love-though his conscious mind had forgotten, in his heart there remained an ideal he could never deny-a love he could never replace." Professor Lorand's voice drifted into silence. He stared out into the shadows of the old garden. The almost unbearable fragrance of the jasmine brought back to me-the last painful words of a dying woman, "Jean-Jean, mio." I started to tell him-but I did not-for I realized that he already knew-he knew.

LIFE Life is a crazy quilt A gay fabric Of many colors, And of our own weaving . Its background's grey Well splotched with black, Though here a scarlet thread, And there a touch of white, And sometimes, if we look, We find a thread of gold.

-'29,

Westhampton College.

HYMN TO MODERNISM Just the thoughts of dim trails leading Deep into dark wildernesses Start some poets on their singing. But to me a lovelier sight is Our own path across the campus When it's shrouded in a rain mist. Pale sky I love, soft with rain clouds, And the tall trees drowsy headed In the peaceful hush of showers. I love autumn leaves down-hangingBrown and silky in their wetnessFrom the tree boughs smooth with moisture. Even do I love the gravel, Shining just a bit with rain drops. A washed-clean odor haunts the pathway Scarlet-scalloped with pine needles. I used to think things like that, really. Nature made me bubble over Into sentimental bosh. But now I am a modern. My eyes have been opened, and I see: Dim grey drizzle brings Chill and discomfort From a sickly sky. Narrow trees with limp leaves Crave upward all along The tawny broad pathway, Blood-stained, Along the edges with sodden Red pine needles As it sprawls up And down over the hills. The slimy gravel of the path Embraces passionately a passive Black fountain pen That somebody has lost and will worry about all day long. and the still lake crouches between two rounded Hills and holds its breath i will do Anything to be Modern .... -H.

M. C.

THE SHADOWS OF DARKNESS M. s. SHOCKLEY With a steady throb the rain beat down upon the roof of the little log hut. The Stygian blackness of the night was shattered at intervals by long jagged flashes of light, like the finger of a jealous God pointing his wrath at a cringing world. The roll of the thunder was tossed about by the mountain crags, now low and ominous and then rising in mighty swells as the wrathful God roared his anger and hate at the black masses of mountains which reared their rugged heads defiantly in the face of the fury of the storm. The low-roofed cabin cowered against the slope of the hill in terror of the mighty forces which waged their thunderous conflict back and forth among the recesses of the mountains. A pitiful little light flickered at the window and tried to make its way out into the storm, but turned back as if afraid to venture into the awful blackness of the night. Inside the cabin a man paced the rough floor restlessly. As he moved back and forth before the light his shadow hovered about the bare walls of the room, now short and thick, and then spreading out to take the form of some black monster which hounded him to and fro relentlessly. The mind of the man was a writhing turmoil of emotions. The thought of the thing his wife had just told him beat upon his consciousness like the blows of a trip-hammer. Involuntarily he shuddered. He had never loved her. At best she had been little more than a servant to him. And now this. . . . Outside the storm mounted in anger. The steady drone of the rain on the tin roof became a deafening roar. The thunder pealed sonorously and died away in sullen mutterings that echoed back and forth among the mountain ranges. The man paused in the middle of the room and stood stiffly, listening with strained attentiveness to the sound of the woman's muffled breathing which was faintly audible above the beat of the rain. For a long moment he stood looking intently at the door which opened into the room where his wife lay sleeping. Abruptly he turned and with redoubled energy strode up and down the length of the room. As though momentarily exhausted the forces of the storm ceased their warfare. A stillness and a silence which was by contrast so

THE

SHADOWS

OF DARKNESS

intense that it seemed oppressive weighted heavily upon the mountains. The blackness became even more dense, as if the shadows of darkness had gathered from afar to watch some act which was particularly pleasing to them. In the close stillness of the cabin the man felt the hush as if it were a pause before a climax. Suddenly he stopped. He crossed the floor with quick steps and entered the room where the woman lay sleeping. All was still. . The shadows of darkness hovered closer. . . . There was no sound of a struggle. A faint gasp was all. The woman who would have been a mother was dead. The man came out of the room. He held up his clenched hands and stared hard at them. He laughed gaspingly. . . . With a rush the rain began again. It beat down upon the tin roof with a mighty roar of unconfined rage. In the distance the thunder rumbled and slowly died away. A blinding flash of lightning rent the night. A peal of thunder burst the air like the trumpet of a wrathful God. On the floor of the cabin the form of a man lay distorted in an awful death. Once more blackness settled down over the mountains. rain droned on.

HOPE There's a dea 'd wax moon in the sky. 'Tis pinned to the crepe at Heaven's girthA symbol of pain and a world's lost mirth. There's a dead dream-hope in my heart, And a broken sigh. There's a burnt red rim to the EastA flame that is sharp like the keen, blue steel; 'Tis poignant and sweet, and a bit unreal. There's a kind, cool fire in my heart, And a prayer feast.

-Dorothy

Gwaltney.

The

TWILIGHT Twilight's duskiness is falling Over forest, field, and stream; Starlight pierce s growing darkness With a pale and twinkling gleam. Now the day is calmly closing, Gone the bright and lovely light; Now the darkness, all enfolding, Gently ushers in the night. Nature kneels in silent prayer At this ending of a dayArms extended in the gloaming, In a silent sort of way. Earth lays quiet 'neath the shadows Cast by somber drooping trees, In whose branches scarcely rustles E 'en a faint or fitful breeze. Phoebus rules the light and darkness In his curved and mighty sweep; Fast and hard he drives his horses That the world may wake or sleep. Sunlight stirs the earth each morning From its slumber long and deepRestful twilight blesses evening, Hushing earth to quiet sleep.

-J.

W. Kincheloe, Jr.

DON A Play in One Act LESLIE L. JONES THE SCENE: A Cemetery. Near center, a well-kept grave covered with ivy and bordered with a row of thick, low-growing, crimson flowers. At top of grave, a broad headstone of modern design displaying the single word: CORTWRIGHT. A smaller stone, at foot of grave, bears the following inscription : DONALD CORTWRIGHT Born January 31, 1898 Killed in Action, Martinsart, France July 28, 1918 At right of grave is a long stone seat. The section is near the crest of a hill, so that, in the rear, can only be seen blue sky against which appear the tops of several tall tombstones located on the reverse slope. Some short, shrub-like trees stand out against the sky line. It is May 30, 1923, about six o'clock in the afternoon. As the curtain rises the sound of a slowly-moving motor car is heard from the right rear. Becoming gradually louder, the noise ceases altogether. A MAN enters right front. He is of medium height, slender, and walks with a slight limp. He is apparently about twenty-five years old. In his arms he carries a large bunch of red poppies. Reading the inscription carefully, and standing between the grave and seat, he removes his hat. He speaks slowly and with restrained emotion. MAN: Don! Don! ( Looking intently upon the grave, he scatters the poppies slowly and irregularly over it. In the distance, left rear, a bug,le sounds "Taps." A few notes are played before the MAN is aroused from his reverie. Starti.ng suddenly, he drops both hat and flowers, comes smartly to attention, and stands at the salute. He is looking off left rear and does not see the GrnL enter. She comes in right front, and seeing him, stops near the footstone. She is of more than ordinary beauty, tastefully dressed, and appears to be about twenty-two or twenty-three years old. They both stand very quietly for some moments after the bugle has stopped.) GrRL (softly) : Did you know him? (The MAN starts suddenly and whee.ts about. Seeing her his surprise increases.) MAN : Audrey! Miss Cortwright! GrnL: So you did know him?

THE MESSENGER MAN (recovering his poise, quietly): GIRL:

Yes, I buried him.

Buried him?

MAN : In France. GIRL:

Oh!

MAN : In Martinsart. Somme. GIRL:

Ah!

On the side of a hill sloping down to the

So you are Sergeant

(hesitating)

Sergeant Brown-

ing? MAN: Allan Browning. And you are his sister. your picture, and he talked of you frequently.

He showed me

( There is a pause.) GIRL:

Did . . . did he ever talk of anyone else?

MAN: Oh, yes. GIRL:

Of Martha.

Of a girl named Martha.

Oh!

(Pause.) MAN : You are so much like Don.

It was a shock, seeing you.

AUDREY: We were twins. BROWNING: I know. as he did of Martha.

He spoke .of you often.

Almost as much

AUDREY: Almost as much? BROWNING: Er

. . . yes.

At times more, perhaps.

(She sits upon bench.) AUDREY: Oh, the poppies ! Did you bring them? There were _none here this morning. It was you who brought them? BROWNING: Yes. AUDREY: How lovely they are ! BROWNING: You will think me terribly sentimental, but, you see, when I buried him, over there, there were poppies growing along the Somme-the only bits of beauty left-and that night, I threw some of them over the place where he lay.

(A pause.

Twil ight deepens slowly.)

AUDREY: Mr. Browning? BROWNING: Yes? AUDREY: Tell me about Don.

DON

BROWNING: About Don? AUDREY: Yes. BROWNING: What shall I tell you about Don? AUDREY: The truth, Mr. Browning, all of the truth. BROWNING: The truth? Surely, Miss Cortwright-AUDREY: The truth, Mr. Browning, all of the truth. BROWNING: But I do not understand. AUDREY: Do not let us play hide and seek. (Pause.) Mr. Browning, I did not know Don for nineteen years for nothing. Nineteen years I lived with him. Nineteen years I was a part of him, closer than most brothers and sisters. (Pause.) Mr. Browning, Don was a coward. BROWNING: Miss Cortwright ! AUDREY: Oh, I know what the citation says. At home we have his Medal of Honor, and his Croix de Guerre. And dozens of newspaper clippings extolling his bravery. Mr. Browning, Don was a coward. Do not let us play hide and seek. I have waited five years to talk with you . . . with someone who was with him over there. He mentioned you of ten in his letters. He was very fond of you, and you know the truth. Tell me what happened. Exactly what happened. (Pause.) I know what the citation says ... but why? Nineteen years I was a part of him. When we were little children they all used to say that I should have been the boy. He was timid, and bashful, and easily frightened. And so sensitive. The other children would tease him, hurt him. I would get into many fights protecting him from them. It was I who made him enlist. He was a coward, Mr. Browning, but I loved him dearly. And he loved me. Did he not tell you how well he loved me? That he loved me better than any one? Than any one else? BROWNING: He talked of you very often. AUDREY (bitterly): And of Martha. (Pause.) Tell me about Don, Mr. Browning. Tell me everything about Don. What happened that summer in France? BROWNING: You do not really know? You cannot guess? AUDREY: Guess? All I know is that he wrote me-it was his la?t letter-saying that he would soon be safe. That you were helping to get him transferred from the infantry. That he hated to leave you, who had been so kind, but that he could not stand it any longer, and that he would be sent to the postoffice department, or somewhere, miles behind the lines. That was his last letter to any of us.

THE MESSENGER

The next week mother received a telegram from the War Department. He had been killed. And then later came the medals-for gallantry in action. We could scarcely believe that, we who · had known him well. I cannot understand it yet. . . . Sergeant Browning, you know what happened. Tell me. Tell me how he really died.

(Pause.) Both why and how. He died BROWNING: I will tell you . . ... in my arms. like a brave man ... ? arms your In : AUDREY BROWNING: Yes. (Pause.) He died because of a letter. AUDREY: A letter ? BROWNING: A letter from you. AUDREY: From me? What do you mean, Sergeant Browning? What do you mean, a letter from me? BROWNING: I loved Don, and yet . . . you are right. He was a coward. Perhaps that is why I was attracted to him. He should not have been with the infantry. He hated the whole business, the war, the muck, the swearing, the drinking. At first, the men called him Gladys. He would have nothing to do with the girls, or the cognac, or cards. And so they called him Gladys until . . . until there had been a few little scraps, and some extra fatigue duty properly distributed. I was his platoon sergeant, you know, and I felt sorry for him. He seemed so young and out of place, although he was older than lots of us. AUDREY: Thank you, Sarge, thank you. You do not mind if I call you that? He always called you Sarge in his letters. He thought lots of you. BROWNING: And I of him. . . . Some of us actually enjoyed the mess, but the whole business was painful to Don. Not only his natural fear of discomfort, but the thought that he might never see Martha again, troubled him more than anything. Sometimes he would say to me, "Sarge, that's what makes it so hard. If it were not for her I could stand it better. But not to ever see her again, or kiss her again-the thought of that steals what little nerve I have." And the closer we got to the lines, the worse he became. He went into a blue funk. He should never have been put in the infantry. He should never have been in the army. I would try to laugh him out of his mood by saying that I had at least four fiancees back home, and that if I got bounced off, four hearts would be broken, not one. But he would only talk of Martha, and . .

DON AUDREY: But you said he talked of me?

BROWNING: He did. And of ten. But sweetheart and sister ... there's a difference, you know. AUDREY(bitterly):

I know.

(Pause.)

And then?

BROWNING: Well, I felt so sorry for him that I pulled a few wires and got the captain to request his transfer to some noncombatant service. AUDREY: Sarge, tell me the truth. Would you have liked Don as well, would you have still loved him, if he had been transferred? BROWNING(hesitating): It did hurt me to see him funk out, but then, I loved him so that I could not bear to have him break up in the lines. It did hurt me to have him want to go. AUDREY: But could you have still thought as much of him? BROWNING: I-I

believe not.

AUDREY: Neither could I. That's why I made him join the infantry. (Pause.) But tell me the rest. This letter? BROWNING: It came the same day as the orders trans£ erring Don. We were in close support, and were to take over the front in the morning. It was a wicked place. Lines and lines of ambulances had been passing us all the week. There was some hold up of the advance and we were to attack in the morning. We were all packed and on the point of moving up when the last mail was distributed. Don's orders came about the same time. The captain sent them to me, and I hurried off to give them to Don and start him for the rear. I had left him behind a low hedge, white as a sheet and well done up. When I found him he was reading a letter, and his face was strangely flushed. "Here's your orders," I said, "Good-bye and luck to you." He didn't seem to hear me. I shook him by the shoulder and thrust the papers into his hand. "You're trans£ erred, lad," I told him, "grab your junk and hike for the railhead. The battalion's going up in half an hour." He looked at the orders dully for a moment, and then, suddenly, leaping up, he tore them to shreds, threw them down and stamped upon them. Then looking at me fiercely he shouted right in my face, "Damn your orders ! Damn your postoffice ! Damn your old war!" Then he stalked off. AUDREY: He said that? that?

He said damn your old war?

Don said

BROWNING: And more than that when I talked to him late that evening. I could not stop with him just then. We were moving out,

THE MESSENGER

and I had the platoon to look after. Just about twilight, as we were waiting behind the crest of a hill before relieving the front line battalion, I had a chance to talk to him. He was much calmer. Too calm, maybe, and pale, and tight-lipped. It was then he showed me your letter. AUDREY: My letter? It was my letter that did that? BROWNING: It was the letter in which you told him that Martha had been married.

(Pause.) And what did he say of Martha, then? BROWNING: Nothing. He never mentioned her name again. He was badly broken up, and ranted a bit about women, saying that none of them were any good except you. AUDREY: Except me! So he did love me best. Didn't he, Sarge? Didn't he love me best? BROWNING: He never spoke of Martha again. He spoke very little at all after that. The next morning he committed suicide. AUDREY: Suicide? AUDREY: Oh.

That is, he won his medal. I had 1 BROWNING: The same thing. tried to make him go back, but he had stuck right at my heels, pale, tight-lipped, silent. . . . We got into an awful mess that morning. By nine o'clock half the platoon was dead, the rest shaky and wornout. It was Martinsart we had been trying to take. They shoved us back time after time. We were in a bad way. All our officers were dead. About noon Don and I lay in a shell hole near Martinsart. He had stuck right with me and I never saw a man more indifferent to death. What was left of the platoon lay scattered about us in other holes and the J errys were pelting us with all sorts of stuff. There was a machine gun nest not forty yards in front of us, a strong position with at least three guns. All our attacks had failed right there. It was just about noon when one of our airplanes swooped low and dropped a message. The metal tube fell near us and Don scrambled out and brought it back. The enemy, it said, was organizing a counter-attack under cover of Martinsart. I said to Don, "They're coming at us, lad." "Thank God," he said, and for the first time since your letter gentleness crept into his eyes. He seized my hand and held it tightly. "Good-bye, Sarge," he said, and leaping out of the hole, he went straight at the machine guns. AUDREY: Straight at the guns?

Oh, Don!

BROWNING: I don't know how he got across that field. I saw him throw a hand grenade into the post and then leap down into

DON

their midst. There had been nine men in that post. I counted them later. When I got there, the platoon just behind me, seven of them were dead. The other two were crowded into one corner of the trench with Don raging like a madman. He got one of them through the throat, but the other, just as I fired, drove his bayonet into Don's breast.

(There is a pause.) AUDREY: Did he . . . did he die at once? BROWNING: Almost. I could not stop then. The Bosche were coming through the town. It was a race, but we won. We took the outer houses and held on until the rest of the company could get up. Then we drove them off, and I hurried back to Don. He was scarcely breathing. There were dozens of bullets in him, and that horrible gash in his breast. I took him in my arms. His eyes opened slowly, then closed. He tried to raise his arms. One of them was shattered and lay limp. The other crept slowly up my breast and around my neck, and with a convulsive jerk he drew my face down to his, and then . . . and then he kissed me . . . on the lips. AUDREY: Kissed you?

On your lips?

BROWNING: It was the bitterest, and sweetest moment I have ever known. AUDREY: Kissed you on your lips?

(A pause.) AUDREY: Did he say nothin \~ · Did he speak again? BROWNING: He could scarcely whisper, but just as he died-for he died then-I heard him murmur, "Audrey! Audrey!" AUDREY: He said that?

He said, "Audrey!

Audrey!"

BROWNING: And then he died.

(A pause.) He was thinking of AUDREY: He said, "Audrey! Audrey!" me. Better than loved me, loved me, loved He me . . . of me! anyone . . . than everyone. Oh, I am glad, glad, glad! I am glad I did it. It gave him back to me. (A pause. She moves closer to him.) AUDREY: You will hate me. You will despise me, but I do not care. For now he is mine. He was mine when he died. Mine, mine, that letter which you say killed mine! (Pause.) That letter ...

THE MESSENGER

him that letter was a lie. A lie ! You understand? A lie ! Martha never married anyone. (Pause.) BROWNING: Martha . ., . that letter . . . that letter was not true? AUDREY: Oh, can't you see? You say you loved him, and she said she loved him. But I, I loved him-I love him today-more than all of you, than all of you, than all of you together. (Pause.) And so I lied. It was a lie I wrote him, and it gave him back to me. He was mine. . . . He is mine today. (Pause.) AUDREY: Do you not hate me? Despise me? BROWNING: Despise you? You? I could not do that. It would be like hating Don. The same eyes, the same hair, the same lips. It would be like hating Don. I couldn't hate Don.

(There is a long pause.) BROWNING: Good-bye . . . Audrey. (He takes her hand, bends over and kisses it. a moment.)

They stand silent

AUDREY (suddenly): That was my kiss he gave you! Give me my kiss! Give me Don's kiss!

My kiss!

BROWNING: Audrey ! Audrey! AUDREY: Give me my kiss, Sarge, give me my kiss.

(They are standing close together. There is a pause. Suddenly taking her in his arms, Browning kisses her. Simultaneously they murmur): BROWNING } Don! Don! A UDREY (They move apart. The Girl stares vaca.ntly off into the distance. Browning gazes at her with amazement. ;Lookmg once more at the grave, he walks slowly off right. The Girl renwins standing with a look of exaltation on her face. The noise of ,a starting motor can be heard, and then the sound of wheels moving slowly away. Gently the Girl sinks down beside the grave. lPJacing her right arm across the mound, protectingly, caressingly, she presses her body close to the earth.) AUDREY: Sweetheart!

Sweetheart! SLOWCURTAIN

TO BEAUTY I remember once in Spring When I was but a child That a lady, a lovely lady, and beautiful, so tall, slender, and beautiful, one day at dusk when I was picking daffodils On the side of a winding road On the side of a silent stream, Took me in her arms, kissed me, And again kissed me. She took me in her arms and while I was afraid her glowing eyes drew my arms, so soft and young, around her, and I longed to hold her closethe lady, tall, and beautiful, so lovely and so beautiful, who kissed me and held me Close to her sighing breast, left me, with a sob, left mePicking daffodils. Through long, long days I have longed To feel the tender breast of that woman, To be held in her tender arms And have her kiss me, kiss me again. I have sighed, oh! sighed for the glowing eyes That have ever kept me loving beauty that have taught me to love, to love a woman, a dark beautiful woman who held me in her arms, kissed me, And left me, picking daffodils When I was a child. -R. Ben Cheatham.

AVIGNON ON A WINTER'S EVE (From the French of Charles Benoit)

JEA?{ MACCARTY Is it autumn which has tinted Avignon with this "uniform hue of dried leaves" of which Stendhal speaks? Never has the "Ville Sonnante" of Master Frarn;ois Rabelais appeared to me so bare or so lugubrious. Doubtless the rain is the cause-the rain which has washed its ancient wa11s, and this leaden sky which weighs heavily upon its Renaissance fa<;ades. In the solitude of · evening, especia11y, these massive Italian fa<;ades take on their fu11 character of austere beauty: "La Rue de la Masse," ''l' Hotel Crillon" rears its Florentine embossments in a thick harsh shadow. One dreams of Strozzi. But one must draw back in order to judge of these grotesque masks with women's faces, and of these garlands, and space is lacking. In front of one opens the gaping portico of a seventeenth century hotel ; I am at a loss to know how two carriages could pass between its wa11s. The last hotel was transformed in the year II into a prison for women: a ditch dug in the soil here has left a sinister reminder. I hasten my steps.

Directly I am in "la Rue Galante," which is not at a11 what one would think, for it is "la Rue des Guirlandes" on account of the workers there who formerly were engaged in garland making. Lately its name has been changed by the community. An old house in that neighborhood has lured me for a long time. Jean Franc;ois Palasse, an eighteenth century painter, lived there. But other more distant memories call to me: "la Place du Change," where the bankers clustered; "la Rue Rouge," where the goldsmiths assembled; "la Rue du Vieux-Sextier," "la Rue Bonnetterie," where the drapers did their trading. Thus spring up the semi-forgotten haunts of old corporations. What charm do these disused names give to a stroll. As I come upon a venerable wall of which the rafters of the upper story extend beyond the cross barred windows, the town seems transformed. Was it, perhaps, only because I was unaccustomed to it? Avignon appears to be born again in the brilliant light. The show windows of con£ectioneries in the ancient "Rue des Marc hands" sparkle. What animation replaces the gloomy torpor of the neighborhoods which I have just passed through. In the artificial illumi-

AVIGNON

ON A WINTER,S

EVE

nation from the gas the women of Avignon acquire a strange beauty: women with loosened hair appear at the windows revealing unusual beauty. Is it not Stendhal who called it above all "the city of beautiful women" and said there, "to meet on every side a song from eyes of which one never dreamt when one was in Paris?" But Stendhal was more concerned with love than with archaeology. Indeed, on the sharp, slippery pavement appears an unaccustomed procession of fair passers by. After the solitude of grey fa<;ades, how these fresh bright faces rest one! Perhaps the neighborhood of a workshop may be the explanation for this feminine crowd. The streets seem more alive than in the day: the men and women of Avignon are accustomed every evening to take the air in the "Cours.JJ The women walk erect, haughty and disdainful, wearing the latest styles from Paris. Ah! what a pity one can't admire those proven<;al coiffures as at Aries, on a market day, in "la Place du Forum.)) However, must I confess that even in these styles borrowed from the capital, the descendants of Laura have held me under the spell of their tantalizing graces in the half light of a sombre twilight? But now the street lamps are being lighted.

Stendhal wrote m 1837 in his Memoirs of a Tourist "that on entering Avignon one believes that one is in an Italian city. Has the papal city changed much since? With a stone baluster in front of me and the head of a ram which stretches out from above the doorway of an ancient slaughter house in "la Rue de la BoucherieJJ under the canvas which extends from one flag walk to another, am . I indeed to be blamed if the illusion of Italy has made me dream while I was wide awake? In my ears echoes the virile Tuscan accent as at Florence . . . in truth, am I not really in "la Rue des Monnetiers" or in "Calzaioli" near the "Palais-Vieu:r"? I am going to "la Place du Marc he" or to "la Place aux H erbes." But arrived in front of the forbidding buildings of the hideous new market, it is neither the fa<;ade of "Golden San Michele)) nor the "House of Wool Carders" connected by a bridge, which I discover. I come up before the Gothic portico of Sainte-Pierre. How far away seems the enchantment of "Sainte-Ivfarie-des-Fleurs" ! The spell has vanished. At least, oh beautiful Florence, I have believed myself passing through you one evening while wandering about the streets of Avignon. Thus perhaps Petrarch came here to dream of what he held dearest in the world: Milan, Arca, Parma. But the lover of Laura cursed Avignon as the "Babylon" of his age.

THE

MESSENGER

Did this fierce precursor of "Irredentisme" suspect that Avignon of the Popes would preserve through the centuries, in this corner of Provence, the perfume of his Italy? Why does "la Rue des Teinturiers" still draw me back to memories of Italy? The Sorge stagnates there in a filthy canal in which steep the foundations of black dwellings. I remember a certain canal of Padua, on the edge of which I saw a young girl lean out of a window and smile. . . . Here the scarce muddy water lasted a long time to encourage the prosperous industry of madder dyeing which had been installed in this vicinity. Today the water wheels, worm eaten and covered with moss, appear useless, but they are still turning. Passing in front of a bridge which gives access to an open porch, I hear the re-echo of sacred songs. Penitents, clothed in grey robes encircled with cords, and carrying a candle in their hands, file out through the door. The throng precedes the priest who holds the ostensory underneath a canopy of brilliant antique gold. I am reminded that this "Brotherhood of Grey Penitents" was founded by Louis VIII, King of France. And it is with this odor of incense and this golden vision of a procession that I leave Avignon, certainly without joy, but dreaming still of Florence, of "la pianzza del Duormo" and of the "Freres de la Misericorde!' who brings me back again to the Penitents of "la Rue des Teintitrierl' and to the City of Popes. . . .

VICTORS Life, for many people, is a losing fight, a fight that is carried on by continually heating the poker in the fire to drive a wolf away from the door. Victors are those who can laugh even while the last embers are growing cold beneath their eyes.

-S.

THE QUARREL We had quarreled, she and I, She had stormed her pretty way, Flared and flushed, and now we sat Silent as the sultry day; Silent as the thirsting leaves. Then, across the tasseled hill Ran a little rain-wind, crying Darkened skies-and suddenly Swift and beautiful, the rainClouds had parted, and the sun, Grown more kindly, shone again . We saw the wheat on windy heights, Rippling like a golden sea; Wild birds filled the air with song; Dripping clover coaxed the bee; Pigeons preened their rainbow wings, And the sweet one by my side, Brushed the tear drops from her eyes Tossed her head and gayly cried : See how clear the sky is now, Did we quarrel? What about? Lovers all should love July. -R . H. Bowen.

FUNERAL ORATION FOR THE BUTTON HELEN

COVEY

America's interest in international affairs is glutted with the rise and fall of Russian rulers. Her enjoyment of tragedy is satisfied by the difficulties of the German housing system. She overlooks the more momentous and tragic situation-the passing of the button. The beginning of the use of buttons marked the dawn of civilization, for it signified that man had developed sufficient mentality to find a securer fastening than the thorn. It also indicated that man had graduated from the swaddling clothes of humanity, the animal skin; for what housewifely cave-woman would have been able to embroider a button-hole in the hide of a bear or lion? From that era until recently the dressed-up world has been ruled by that great triumvirate : the button, the hole, and the hook-these three, and the greatest of these is unquestionably the button. Its period of greatest supremacy was in full swing at the beginning of this century. The gentlemen were all tightly confined in their respective garments by specimens of the Genus Buttonus. The ladies -how gracefully and completely they submitted to the dominion of that Arbiter of Apparel, in the days when gloves buttoned up to the shoulder and shoes buttoned up to the knee ! Then, "Button must have been synonmous with "Cupid," for the stock picture of conjugal felicity is that of a smiling husband deftly putting the finishing touches to his wife's costume-in other words, fastening the eighty-seven pearl buttons, one-fourth of an inch in diameter, into the eighty-seven microscopic button-holes down the back of her starched white shirt-waist. He loved to do it! It required much more skill to make the buttons and holes come out even that it did to make a grand slam at Tidclle-de-Winks. He was proud that his wife had singled him out from among her many relations to make a display of patience and skill at that difficult, but popular indoor sport-buttoning in. Now, in these buttonless clays, how can a husband be happy? This rite of the eighty-seven buttons was one of the most effective temper-preservers of the age. It had formerly been the custom to count up to one hundred before saying those angry words, but it was found more effective to button up to fifty. The delay was longer, but the invectives were more profuse and eloquent.

FUNERAL

ORATION

FOR THE

BUTTON

There can be no cause for complaint about the usefulness of the button; not its presence, but its absence is the cause of annoyance. The bachelor who sewed one on with silent prayer and later spent hours in silent swearing because it failed to give him the necessary support, should blame the inefficacy of the prayer rather than the unfaithfulness of the button. But alas! now, men have only two on their coats. Women have deserted them entirely for the treacherous and flimsy snap; eightyseven pearl buttons could supply the modern girl from her cradle to her grave. From the high station of being absolutely necessary, the button has been relegated to the parasitic position of casual ornamentation. Unless the government imposes a heavy tax on snaps, or some leader of fashion can be photographed at the races in a gown very ostensibly and extravagantly buttoned up, the button will in ten years be as extinct a. the dodo.

BARGAIN He wove a veil of song for her Beneath an apple tree, Whose gnarled old boughs were covered up By spring's gay revelry. Till she forgot that winter's wind Would . blow the blooms away, And tender songs would starve and die If fall should come one day. She only saw the rainbow's thread Beneath a crest of hills, A gay bright bluebird darting by A row of daffodils, A gipsy life beneath the stars, A surging silver sea, She traded warmth for tender song, Beneath an apple tree.

-Mildred

Anderson.

GIBBS THE BEGGAR CATHERINE

BRANCH

"Gibbs the Beggar'll get you," threatened Mammy in her darkeylike attempt to keep us from walking through the plantation roads at home in Georgia. Gibbs the Beggar was the bogie-man of our existence. He turned up at all points in our happy child-life; he was a source of great terror to us. Therefore, Mammy, who ruled our childhood sometimes kindly , sometimes with an iron hand, availed herself of this method of frightening us into doing her way. Gibbs the Beggar inherited his epithet from his father, who before him was called likewise. The reason for his bearing the name is unknown. His father had been a beggar, but the Gibbs of this paper made his living by raising and selling vegetables in summer, and peddling apples and turnips in winter. I can see him now driving up the back way to our house in his ramshackle, old wagon, each wheel making an acute angle with the ground; he always drove a broken-down, moth-eaten white horse, blind in one eye, and fierce in the other. Gibbs the Beggar wore very loosely fitting , drab-brown clothes, clean and faded. "Any turnips or apples today?" he would invariably call out in his slow, drawling way. And if, perchance, we were in need of either, he would eagerly show his turnips and apples to Lewis, the big, black negro cook. Once my brother and I were brave enough to slip up and peep into the back of his wagon. It seemed to please him exceedingly, for he rewarded us with his largest ripe-red apples, and, his face overflowing with smiles, said, "How d'ye do, little folks? How d'ye do?" This incident lessened somewhat our fear of Gibbs the Beggar, and we tried afterward to call him "Billy Gibbs," which was his real name. But, somehow, Gibbs the Beggar he remained. Many years before I was born, his father and mother came to the southeastern section of Georgia and settled there. His father was half-crazed, as a man who has lost his mind over some great trouble. It was rumored that he was self-exiled from Canada on account of being involved in dishonorable financial affairs. People who have seen her say that the mother was a woman of refinement and means. In his madness the first Gibbs became a beggar. This strange man and woman built a hut on the untenanted plantation next to my father's. In this same one-room hut lived Gibbs the Beggar. It was made of logs, notched and held together by mud.

GIBBS THE

BEGGAR

One end was taken up by an enormous fireplace; in the opposite side was a door of rough and irregular planks; a window, about four feet square with a hinged blind, opened on the West. In one corner stood an old iron cot, from which white paint had peeled, leaving it spotted. On this a brown woolen blanket. Near the cot he had nailed a plank to the wall to serve as a shelf. Here were his few books, indicative that his father or mother or both had been to some degree educated people : a small hand-book of Georgia laws, Gulliver s Travels , Robinson Crusoe, and a volume of Shakespeare's plays. Above the shelf hung a glass lamp with a tin reflector behind it. A dilapidated rush -bottom chair and an antique trunk completed the furnishings. There was no flooring; underfoot was only hard yellow clay, worn smooth. Back of the hut, there was a small garden fenced in by pine railings. Here Gibbs the Beggar raised vegetables in summer. From this plot of ground came the vegetables and melons he sold in the city fifteen miles away. Often I have seen him with his rickety old horse and wagon, peddling up and down the streets of Augusta, and never did he return home until he had sold everything which so overloaded his wagon. Sometimes, returning from Augusta late at night, I have passed him on the road. He would be bent and holding the reins loosely in his hands, while the horse walked slowly along. He always hung a smoky lantern on the back of the wagon. Someone would remark as we passed, "There goes Gibbs the Beggar. Isn't he the queerest!" And he was behind us, a figure of loneliness and mystery plodding homeward in the blackness of night. But I doubt whether Gibbs the Beggar ever knew what it was to feel loneliness. He had not known human intercouse of any kind since very early childhood except in trading his vegetables and fruits. Then, he saw people and passed on, satisfied that he had taken and given in return. He never sought companionship; and he would probably not have found it, if he had sought. He held the negroes in great fear of him because they thought that he was the ghost-like personage who carried the fiery cross in the Ku Klux Klan ceremonials and celebrations. Because he lived alone and apart he was supposed to be able to work magic and con Jure. For me, Gibbs the Beggar furnished much enjoyment. Sometimes he was a hermit, giving his life to his religious feeling. Or he was a miser and buried his money, as the darkies said, in pots under his fireplace. Perhaps he was a famous author or doctor or

THE

MESSENGER

scientist who at the right and critical moment would reveal his identity. I used even to try to imagine him as a musician, tired of the world; but I never heard of his having a violin. "And it is only great violinists who hide themselves," I would muse. There did come a critical moment in Gibbs the Beggar's life. When the plantation on which his hut was built was at length reinhabited, the owners demanded that he leave the place, saying that neither he nor his father had ever owned the plot of ground. Excitement ran high in my mind as to where Gibbs the Beggar, that poor, forlorn old man, who it seemed had reached a perfect state of indifference, would go. Then, returning home from the movies one night, my father and I saw his smoky lantern glimmering before us. "There's Gibbs the Beggar," my father remarked. "Did you hear how he kept his hut?" At my reply "No," he went on. "How on earth he ever found it out, no one knows. But he did find out that by the law of squatters, the plot of ground is his. You see his father and he have lived on that same piece of ground for about sixty years. They have built a home, imch as it is, and cultivated the land, so now it belongs to him alone." Gibbs the Beggar was behind us, toiling onward in the dark night. The smoky lantern light gleamed faintly in black air.

"PAX VOBISCUM" JANET

PAGE

Romance has left town. It is no longer wanted because it has gone out of date . It vanished along with hooped skirts and knights and golden oak side-boards, for times have changed and Romance belongs in the same class with Peter Pan and Santa Oaus, myths to keep the children amused when their parents are too busy to explain Newton's Law of Gravitation. We are no longer the gullible people we used to be; you can't fool us because we're going to fool you first. This is an era of Cynicism and lines, even the book agents have found that out. There are no longer the romantic figures that used to clutter up the past. The long haired violinist at the Movie Palace labors under difficulties. We suspect that he lives in one room and cooks his breakfast over the gas jet, and there's nothing romantic about burnt toast, especially if you burnt it yourself. The haunted gleam in his dark eyes might have fooled somebody ten years ago, but not us. We know he isn't thinking of Capri; the neighbors had a party last night and the noise kept him awake. The long haired violinist leaves the stage unapplauded; the picture begins, something snappy with a lurid title. The audience is all attention. The village belle doesn't have us fooled any longer. Her beauty isn't the gift of the gods; the advertisements have straightened that out for us. She uses Wilton's Skin Soap and Stark's Youth Cream You can't fool us; we go to coland Fender's Face Preparations. lege. In olden days her knight would have told her she looked like a dresden china shepherdess and let it go at that, not now; you can't fool her either, and if you think she plans to waste that sweetness on the desert air, you have another thought coming. Out we go to show the neighbors, that is if they're at the Movie Palace or the Roof Garden or wherever we're going. If gallant Bill has planned to cheat the gods of pleasure by wearing his niftiest tweed suit and flashiest neck tie and springing a perfect line, he must have thought his girl-friend was a moron. You can't fool us; we go to college. Romance didn't have a chance in an atmosphere like that. It needed moon-light and stars and canoes adrift on a silver sea and girls with long-flowing tresses who believed everything you told 'em. That is why Romance had to leave town. Where did it go? Oh well, we might as well tell you, just outside the city limits where the speed isn't limited to twenty-five per. When will it come back? Oh I don't know, what do you say?

EXCHANGES "So Primitive," in the December number of The William and Mary Literary Magazine, is worthy of a first-class professional magazine. This essay is exceptionally well-written and contains an excelJen moral. "There Are Night and Day, Brother," a narrative essay, is the best piece in the November issue of The Frontier. This issue was nothing to boast of.

The Barnacle Quarter.ly for December contains an interesting book review that departs from the usual order of this class of criticism. The review, which contains opinions on a number of recent novels, is written in dialogue form as the conversation of two girls. This style adds a bit of interest to critical opinions that might otherwise be rather dry. We wish to commend Cecil Maggi for his picture of the sleeping monk in The Arch for November. The satire on Mencken by Elizabeth Anne Romaine in the same issue shows a spice of irony that attracts and amuses the reader. "The Burial," though in places coarse and even vulgar, gives an excellent character portrait of "Old Hinchey." "Yellow River," in The Archive for November gives a clear picture of a river wharf, but the frequent repetition of the word "nigger" throughout the piece gives a monotony that detracts from the effect of the sketch. "A Cup of Life" in The Carolinian for December paints a beautiful picture of the joyous aide of life, and is well done. "The Tomb of Rondolier," however, by the same author, is interesting as to plot, but sounds a little amateurish for the writer ( a professor of psychology), and in places smacks of phrases that we've heard before.

The Hampden-Sidney Magazine for December contains a highly interesting informative article on the game of chess. "The Athletics of the Intellect" gives a pleasing history and other entertaining data on the game. The editors of the Wells Callege Chronicle are, we think, very clever young ladies with delightful senses of humor; but they seem to be making a terrible rumpus about the "quality and quantity of poetry" in other magazines not to have presented a better display

EXCHANGES

in their own. But, perhaps, it too suffers from a dearth of contributary material. In the recent issue the humorous verses are the only ones that saved the situation ; and in general the poetry seems written by prose writers turned poets for the occasion. The Chameleon of Davidson College is always an interesting magazine, but our exchange critic thinks that there are times when it tries to be "high brow." The sketches of the "Three Ladies" by the lone co-ed were really the best prose presented within its covers. The poetry is rather exceptional in quality, and we liked the book reviews. Did you, however, ever hear the story of the man who died because he lacked a sense of humor? We like parts of the Mary Baldwin Miscellany. We do not, however, think it puts its "grown-upest" foot forward. Some of the contributions are really quite childish. The cuts are very attractive and some of the poems, especially "Rain" and "Love." We almost liked "Where is Love," but it is too cynical. The prose wasn't half so good as it should be in a magazine of good quality.

ARGENTINE

CLOUDS

Eras of verdant pasture lands Unfold away; Trying to find their boundary line So lawlessly. No bordering village makes its threat To place this spot; Geography and men forget What men have sought. The shapeless fringe of forest dense Limits the earth, And forces vision higher. Thence The universe. Ascending higher than those trees, Forsaking hours, Those rising, folding, billows heave, Argentine clouds. Enchantment of a childhood myth, Those clouds do wake: Majestic visions, power of youth, Nor let them break.

-Ben

Sowell.

BOOK REVIEWS Allegra, by Armistead C. Gordon.

Minton, Balch (1926)

In this romantic history of the illustrious, insouciant Byron, we are charmed by an excellency of phrasing, a profundity of wit, and a grip of interest that cause us to disdain the call to supper. Vivacious little coquettes and beautiful women rollic and roam through the pages of this romantic biography. The book is interspersed with flashes of brilliant wit that marks the author for a rising popularity in America as a humorous romancer. "Allegra" is principally the story of Byron and his loves. There they are-English gentlewomen, French coquettes, Spanish senoritas, Italian beauties-a wonderful collection of flashing, brilliant members of the fair sex. But Byron's ever changing humors allowed him to love no one of them for any length of time. He was captivated by the charm of a beautiful face only to tire of it and forsake it for a new attraction. Many were the broken hearts and shattered feminine dreams that he left behind as signs that he had passed. His own physical beauty was a source of vanity and conceit to him and he joyed in winning and breaking women's hearts. "Allegra" gives in connection with Byron's history a generous account of Shelley's later life as it was connected with Bryon's, since Byron and the Shelleys were closely associated during a good part of Byron's most eventful years. "The glorious Apollo" entertained an intimate friendship for Shelley till the birth of Allegra, the child of Byron and Clare Clairmont. When Shelley took the part of protector to the unfortunate girl, Byron broke this friendship and the two poets seldom met again. Shelley frequently attempted a reconciliation but the stubborn Byron would have none of it as long as Shelley and his wife kept Miss Clairmont with them. There is a marked contrast between the first and last parts of the book. The first half is filled with the exotic joy of youth, its foolish mistakes, its carefree rampages. In the latter half there comes the saddened life of the now wiser men and women. The reader goes with them through the wistful reminiscences of the days when Youth ruled supreme and cares did not enter into life-when there was a delight in roguish escapades. The reader feels with Mary Shelley the sorrow for her husband's tragic, untimely death, and watches with Byron the burning of Shelley's body on the funeral pyre beside the surging sea. Then there comes the saddest scene

BOOK REVIEWS

of all, the death of the magnificent Byron himself. The reader is surprised at Byron's violent fits of anger in his last sickness and · longs to comfort and quiet the raging soul of the slowly dying poet. The touching scene of the deathbed when the poet lies restful, temper calmed, asleep, is a scene to stir the heart of anyone. There is a tired look on the poet's face, his heaving bosom moves up and down more slowly-slowly-then stops. The soul of Byron has passed on.

Galahad, John Erskine.

Bobbs Merrill (1926)

John Erskine is a master of fiction ! The fact was established when he wrote "The Private Life of Helen of Troy"; now "Galahad" serves as the exclamation mark which lends emphasis to the statement. No need to argue over the respective merits of "Helen" and "Galahad." Suffice it to say that each requires superlatives. An understanding of these two books is almost a literary necessity. But do not read "Galahad" from a sense of duty. Read it the first time solely for the enjoyment of an interesting story charmingly told; read it the second time to appreciate the delightful style in which the book is written; and then read it a third time to ponder over the problems which are so frankly and so sensibly discussed. Undoubtedly "Galahad" will be one of the most notable books of the year. The story is a familiar one. Lancelot and Guinevere were lovers. Elaine, daughter of King Pelles, becomes infatuated with Lancelot and persuades him against his wishes to become her paramour . Galahad was their son. When Galahad reaches manhood and comes to court at Camelot, Queen Guinevere falls in love with him, but he learns of the stigma attached to his birth and rides away. Some time later Lancelot chances to meet Elaine, daughter of Sir Bernard of Astolot. She offers him her love, but he denies her and she dies of a broken heart. Lancelot enters a monastery. It seems particularly ironic that in the first instance when Lancelot stoops to sin with Elaine the result is Galahad, a great and famous man. With the second Elaine, Lancelot behaves as a model of chastity, and a beautiful and pure girl dies for want of his affections. Lancelot is doubtful as to the value of his sense of right and wrong. The story is delightfully told. The author handles his characters effectively, and the delicate situations are managed with delicious humor. There is unquestioned art in the manner which Erskine

THE

MESSENGER

adopts for the telling of his tale. He goes ahead in a simple and straight-forward way and the results are at times indescribably droll. "Galahad" is the sort of book which high school girls read surreptitiously and discuss with giggles. The most extraordinary thing about the book is that there is · not a dull line in it. The conversation is brilliant, the wit is sparkling, and the style is exquisite. The attitude of the author is tinged with irony and tempered with humor. One of "Galahad's" most admirable aspects is that the author does not stoop to petty sarcasm. The treatment of the relationship of the sexes is frank and penetrating. Obviously Erskine is not afraid to say what he thinks, but throughout the book he uses the utmost delicacy and good taste. This is one of the most prominent books in the field of newer fiction. Its charm is individual and distinctive. It is infinitely better to read "Galahad" than to read about "Galahad." Our interest is captivated from the first by the manner in which Erskine makes his characters really live for us. He has taken the old skeletons of a dim legend, brought them into our own world, and introduced them to us as actual men and women. Author, Guinevere, Lancelot, and all the rest of that mystic company come to life before our very eyes. They speak and act as if they were truly alive. This is not blasphemy; it is art. And what is more, it is immeasurably clever art. Erskine says of the tale, "We shall tell the story as it happened in our world to people like ourselves or only a little betterthe story, that is, before poets lifted it out of its origin and used it as a language for remote and mystical things." As to the unorthodox views of the author we need say nothing. Intelligent people will interpret the statements for themselves ; and nothing we might say would help to explain the matter to the rest. Some child always cries whenever bubbles burst. No; we won't excommunicate Erskine just yet. In the words of Lancelot, "Can't a man s. s. -M. be in a way of grace and still ask questions?"

THE MESSENGER RICHMOND

COLLEGE

W. E.

SLAUGHTER,

]AMES

GORDON,

M. S. SHOCKLEY, Assistant Editor H. G. KINCHELOE, Exchange Editor LLOYD CASTER,

WESTHAMPTON JEAN

MACCARTY,

GRAY ROBINSON, ELINOR

PHYSIOC,

Assistant Editor

Editor-in-Chief Business Manager Asst. Bus. Mgr. Asst. Bus. Mgr.

WELLFORD

TAYLOR,

REGINALD

TATE,

Staff Artist

COLLEGE

Editor-in-Chief Business Manager MILDRED ANDERSON,

Asst. Bus. Mgr.

THE EDITORIAL PEN UTILIZE YOUR MUSIC Out of the ether, from thick wooded fields, and even seeping through the humblest of walls, comes music. But from where does it come so incessantly as out of fraternity houses or rooms? The college student is awakened in the early morning by the phonograph, is carried through the clay on wings of song, and finally is lulled to sleep at night with the monotony of it. Verily, it has become a subconscious part of his existence. At no other time has there been such an abundance of it; at no other time has there been such a development of it. It is during the leisure days of college more than at any other time, perhaps, that one feasts upon music. The portable machine seems to have become an essential of the well-equipped student's room. And it is kept playing: without thought one record is snatched off, another taken from the dusty pile, a twist of the handle, and we're off again! And again, and again-until the long day closes. Why not put this flood of melody to some practical use? For some time music has been used in hospitals. Beginning on a large scale during the \Vorlcl War, carefully prepared concerts were given in the place of anesthetics where the patient was too weak for the chemical application. "Hospital music" is now a recognized aid and necessity, and is used to brighten patients and restore hope to the severely ill, so that the physical ailment may be combatted by an optimistic mind.

THE

MESSENGER

A little subjective analysis during the playing of divers phonograph records will disclose the varied effects each has upon the emotions of the listener. One may produce the tingling of exhileration, another may provoke tears, while yet another, with a prevalence of minors, may cause restlessness. Who of us has not experienced the flow of soul during the playing of a dreamy waltz? These effects considered and recorded will disclose the fact that there lies in the black crevices of these circular discs great potential power ready at an instant's choice to produce a known effect upon the student's temperament. The wise and ingenious person will have a catalog of "hospital music" containing those pieces which affect him most, with the impulses listed. With the aid of these records he will then find it fairly easy to prepare himself for any activity, by acquiring the proper mental attitude-or mood-through the appropriate musical number. As an example, we give a part of our own practical schedule. The selections given here apply to our particular make-up. Another person might have different re-actions. Upon rising in the morning we play at once the old "Washington Post March" because it has been found that the rhythmic arrangement of this piece is the most effective for expelling inertia and putting pep into the drowsy mind. When the noon hour passes and the brain pains from the strain of morning classes, the narcotic is found in such a The musical eletranquilizing melody as the simple "Estrellita." and there excitedness mental the ments of this piece seem to calm results a composure, a normalcy, a balance . . If the afternoon's recreation or activity requires energy, the necessary mental invigoration is secured by a rendition of "La Marseillaise." Before leaving for the evening's social engagement, the desired humor is promptly acquired by the playing of the particular record aptly chosen to produce that desired effect. These are but a few examples of the use that can be made of a carefuly prepared and practical schedule for one's daily music. In this way the unusual interruptions that come to the monotony of habitual existence may be augmented or relieved. To drive oneself to study, to build up confidence before examination, to relieve melancholia, to console-each will require its own peculiar opus, or possibly repertoire. Would it not be a benefit to the student if he would put his daily musical enjoyment into practical use? With but a few weeks of -W. E. S. experimentation and introspection it might be done.

THE

EDITORIAL

PEN

YOUTH APPRAISING

YOUTH

Recently I had the pleasure of reading two* unpublished manuscripts written by college students in which they expressed very different opinions as to whether the youth of today is thinking. With the full permission of the authors I am going to give some of their ideas. Older people are always passing judgment on youth. It may be of interest to find out what youth thinks of itself. Always youth has been called light hearted, heedless, and frivolous. Rarely has the epithet, "thoughtful," been applied to youth. One of the above mentioned authors sets out to show that youth does think, and deeply. She says it thinks not only of finding truth, but of passing it on to better the world. She imputes high minded thinking to youth. Schemes for world peace and unity; the desire for self-improvement in order to benefit the community; examination into religious matters -all these thoughts revolve in the mind of youth and occupy it continually. The other author says that the mind of youth is concerned solely with the questions: "What shall we eat?" "What shall we drink?" "Wherewithall shall we be clothed?" and above all, "Where shall we go to have a good time?" She admits that a minority of youth is thinking today perhaps more than ever before. But she says that the large number of dormant brains in young men and women is discouraging. She takes the working classes as an example of the average young person, and says that when he uses his brain, it is only to worry, never to think. Might not this be said also of the college student? The college student is supposed to think, but isn't a large part of his time spent in worrying, and wondering how he is ever going to get his work done? Instead of putting forth some systematic effort, he potters about for a while, and then goes off to talk to his neighbor about his worries. This is just why youth is accused of not thinking things through. It is naturally impulsive, and it prefers to seize some striking idea, whether true or false, and accept it. Mr. Rosenthal, the great German pianist and aesthete, recently visited Richmond, and commented on the absence of artists among the youth of America. He remarked on its impetuousness and desire to accomplish something immediately. There are no great artists because youth is unwilling to devote the time necessary to the triumph of art. If a young man has the ability to become a great musician, he prefers to make money by selling phonograph records.

* Miss Catherine

Branch and Miss Helen Covey.

THE

MESSENGER

The material questions which one of our authors says youth is concerned with surely do not reflect profound thought, but may these questions not be matters upon which youth has to think more now than perhaps ever before? More young people are supporting themselves today than perhaps before. Of course, in the facetious meaning of the questions, it is probably true that youth does spend much time in thinking of clothes and "good times," but then has not youth an eye for beauty, and a bubbling spirit which must have Our author complains of the little disan outlet in amusement? crimination shown by youth in the matter of "good times." She says that it exists through the day engaged in uncongenial tasks. It waits impatiently for "life" at night. This "life" consists of a dinner or a dance. This, she says, shows that their ideas of enjoyment are not highly developed. It must be admitted that "having a good time" is somewhat of an obsession with youth. It perhaps does not have a good time, but it is simply seeking after an ideal, as our first author says that youth is always doing. Happiness always varies with the individual. It always depends upon education and natural endowments. A girl once said to her friend, "My, how can you enjoy college or get anything out of it? When you go to the library you do nothing but read a book, instead of looking up and seeing people and talking to them. You will never get to the dances in that way." Now, it all depends upon one's point of view. Perhaps dinners and dances are happiness for some; other things constitute happiness for others. In the opinion of our pessimistic author, the life that the average young person leads is not conducive to thought. Days spent in dancing do not lead to a state of physical fitness, which in turn would promote clear thinking. This may also be a warning to college students. Days spent in going to classes, in cramming parallel, in rushing from one social engagement to another do not leave much time for thought. The two authors are at variance over the matter of jazz and noise. One thinks that the noise and confusion in which the youth of today grows up inhibits thought. Where can one go for quiet, and how can one think without it? Our idealist sees in jazz an expression of thought by frankness, dear to all youth. By "a flash and a flare" it asserts its radicalism, and thus enlightens the world. Perhaps, after all, youth in the large is not concerning itself with lofty ideals, nor is it limiting itself to petty questions. But we must admit, I think, that the youth of today has made a great advance. Its present state of emancipation shows that some thought has been

THE

EDITORIAL

PEN

expended. Naturally, many young people have not been trained to use their minds, because they have had very little education. Today, however, youth is receiving education and being taught to think. Girls are thinking because they have asserted their independence. The modern flapper is rather wide awake. She may not have profound ideas to express about books or world problems, but she has thoughts about practical, every day problems. Her ideas are not just rehashes of what someone else has said, because she lives in a world of facts herself, and has to face them, and work out what is best for her. Youth is idealistic and beauty loving. We find youth pausing before the aesthetic always. Of course, the appreciation varies with cultivation, but many uncultured people have a deep sense of beauty. Surely, youth has ideals. Ideals are not limited to college people, either. All youth is discussing problems with a more or less degree of profundity. Boys have long known more about civic problems than girls, but now girls, too, are reading the papers, and formulating their own opinions. This was unheard of a couple of generations ago. Youth feels its social responsibilities, and tries to take its place in the community. Youth is thinking!

-J . MAcC.

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