a great personality, whether that encounter be in body or through the
medium of the written word. In the case of Emma Goldman I should judge
the latter to be the severer test, for on the printed page she must
stand and fall by the content of her message, unaided by the glamor of
personal magnetism and eloquence of the lecture platform. For my own
part, I should have preferred to have met her as the fiery orator than
as the purveyor of academic wares. And yet in this present performance
she comes forward not in the guise of the accustomed critic--on the
contrary she is very often quite uncritical--but rather as the social
interpreter. In other words, Emma Goldman is here what she has always
been: the propagandist, with the modern drama as her latest text.
And she has a mighty text! Because "any mode of creative work, which
with true perception portrays social wrongs earnestly and boldly, may be
a greater menace to our social fabric and a more powerful inspiration
than the wildest harangue of the soapbox orator," she has chosen the
drama as the fittest medium "to arouse the intellectuals of this
country, to make them realize their relation to the people, to the
social unrest permeating the atmosphere." The great iconoclasts of our
time who have spoken through the drama--Ibsen, Strindberg, Sudermann,
Hauptmann, Wedekind, Brieux, Shaw, Galsworthy, Tolstoi, Tchekhof,
Gorki--she has gathered together within one pair of covers to show us
that their message is her message:--Change not Compromise.
As she puts it in her foreword:
They know that society has gone beyond the stage of patching up,
and that man must throw off the dead weight of the past, with all
its ghosts and spooks, if he is to go foot free to meet the
future.
Again and again she returns to her theme. In summarizing Ibsen's stand:
Already in _Brand_, Henrick Ibsen demanded all or nothing,--no
weak-kneed moderation, no compromise of any sort in the struggle
for the ideal.
In praise of the author of _Damaged Goods_:
Brieux is among the very few modern dramatists who go to the
bottom of this question by insisting on a complete social and
economic change, which alone can free us from the scourge of
syphilis and other social plagues.
In connection with Yeats's _Where There is Nothing_:
It embodies the spirit of revolt itself, of that most
constructive revolt which begins with the destruction of every
obstacle in the path of the new life that is to grow on the
débris of the old, when the paralyzing yoke of institutionalism
shall have been broken, and man left free to enjoy Life and
Laughter.
Those who are a bit dubious of the "Life and Laughter" that will follow
the wholesale destruction of the past will have no difficulty in
discovering the shortcomings of Miss Goldman's method. They are the
obvious ones which of necessity befall the single-minded
propagandist:--the intrusion of dogma and platitude into the discussion,
the wearying insistence upon "the moral" of each play, the uncritical
attitude of too-ready acquiescence in the veracity of each dramatic
picture of life, etc. Such critics might point out that the artist, in
spite of Strindberg's dictum, cannot be a mere "lay preacher
popularizing the pressing questions of his time"; that insofar as he
approaches art, he does not preach; that it is by virtue of this power
that Hervieux, for example, is a greater artist than his better-known
contemporary, Brieux. (By the way, why did Miss Goldman omit the
greatest of the French social dramatists?) These critics might even
throw in a word for the institutions of the past which Miss Goldman
believes can be as easily shed as an outworn cloak.
But one must not be an orthodox Anarchist to recognize the
superficiality of these shortcomings which are the inevitable luggage of
the preacher. For Miss Goldman is a preacher. Any interpreter works in
accordance with his creed. Having taken to heart the fate of Lot's wife,
Miss Goldman has turned her back fiercely upon the past. Grant her this
hypothesis and she is always logical and coherent and never irrelevant.
And why shouldn't we encourage her to forge boldly ahead, disdainful of
the old bondage? We need her courage, her single-mindedness, and the aim
to which she has vowed them. She is not alone, for many who know her not
chant the same litany. As for the danger to society that lurks in her
philosophy, we must not forget that the great conservative mass is
leavened slowly. And in the end it is time alone who can give the
verdict--whether we shall patch up the old fabric, or destroy and begin
our weaving anew.
MARGUERITE SWAWITE.
The Whining of a Rejected One
_Oscar Wilde and Myself_, by Lord Alfred Douglas. [Duffield and
Company, New York.]
Emma Goldman gave this laconic epithet to this latest pearl of
scandal-literature. Mylord is very much in earnest, hence his pitiful
failure to see the humorous side of his pathetic self-spanking. The
modest title of the book obviously suggests the two-fold purpose of the
titular harlequin--his own aggrandizement and the dethronement of the
Prince of Paradoxes. He excellently succeeds in obtaining the reverse
result of his first endeavor; not even his pugilistic father, the
Marquis of Queensbury, could have given him a more thorough boxing than
the one he so earnestly performs over his own ears. As to his other
ambition, that of vying with the laurels of Herostrates in his attempt
to belittle the dead lion, we must admit his success in one point, in
proving the morbid vanity of Wilde. What but the passion for titular
acquaintances could have induced the author of _Salome_ to chum with
Bosie Douglas, this burlesque snob, so utterly shallow, petty, so
hopelessly stupid and arrogant?
I don't know what to admire more: the "ethics" of the publisher or the
sense of humor of the author.
K.
A New Short Story Writer
_Life Is a Dream_, by Richard Curle. [Doubleday, Page and Company,
New York.]
It is to be hoped that Richard Curle will not long remain a name
unfamiliar to American readers, for he is a writer of marked and unusual
talent. _Life Is a Dream_ is the first of his books to be published in
this country, and, consisting as it does of short stories, it can
scarcely find as large an audience as it deserves. For there can be no
doubt that volumes of short stories have only a modest sale--Kipling and
O. Henry to the contrary notwithstanding.
In Curle's case this is a great pity, for the stories in _Life Is a
Dream_ are every one of them remarkable and they have not been printed
elsewhere. They are not what we are accustomed to; almost any magazine
editor would reject them, if only because they have none of that "punch"
which so largely characterizes the work of Kipling and O. Henry, not to
mention the other and far smaller people. It is difficult for the man
who writes stories without "punch" to procure a hearing; the great
popular magazines will have none of him; style, craftsmanship, subtle
psychology, exquisite color--none of these (and Curle is a master of
them all) can quite atone for lack of that predominant American quality.
And that is why Richard Curle, working as he has thus far in a genre
that appeals, however strongly, still to only a few, may be long in
securing the recognition that is already quite his due.
There are nine stories of varying length in the present volume. They
take you to the corners of the earth--London, Damascus, Spain, the West
Indies, the high seas, Central America--and their spirit is well
suggested in the title of the collection--_La Vida Es Sueno_. Truly they
are such stuff as dreams are made of. Curle's feeling for the colorful
word, the precise phrase is remarkable; in a moment one feels almost
bodily transported to a strange and fascinating land. And then the story
is unfolded--for these are real stories and never mere impressionistic
sketches. They may not be about the sort of people you are likely to
number among your friends, but they are about very human folk just the
same. They have a subtlety that is never too involved and an engaging
frankness which is one of Curle's greatest charms.
_Old Hoskyns_, almost homely in its simplicity, is a very touching tale.
_Going Home_ is an exquisite bit of irony. _The Look Out Man_--slight
though it is--is profoundly tragic. In _A Remittance Man_, little by
little, like a mosaic, a shrewd, penetrating, and very convincing
picture is built up of a man who has lost his grip on life. And so they
go--Curle knows the people of his tales so well! He is careful never to
tell you too much about them--there is ample opportunity after each
narrative for pleasant speculation--but one never feels that the real
story he set out to tell has not been fully told.
It is equally important that Curle knows intimately the places he
chooses as settings for his stories. Most of this knowledge he has
gained in his amazingly extensive travels. Aside from North America he
has visited almost every corner of the earth. And yet it is none the
less very remarkable--this curious ability to paint atmosphere--a talent
not too often associated with those who write in English. Conrad has it,
and the greater continental writers--and Curle has studied them to
advantage. I should have myself to possess this same ability to make you
realize the peculiar fascination of such a story as _The Emerald
Seeker_. It is a fine and thrilling yarn; no matter that--there are many
who can tell a rattling tale. But I doubt if any could approach Curle's
masterly sketching of his milieu--a page or two, and in a very real
sense you feel yourself in the heart of tropical Central America.
Finally and best of all, you know that the color is never there merely
for its own sake; there is always a real story to be told and to its
telling the background merely adds distinction. It is difficult--trying
to show the peculiar charm and interest of Curle's work. But once you
read him, it becomes very apparent.
Richard Curle is only thirty years old. If the promise of _Life Is a
Dream_ is fulfilled, he should be one of the really significant writers
of his day. He has traveled widely and is widely read; he knows not only
men and places, but books as well--particularly the works of the great
Russian and Frenchmen. Among living writers he admires especially Joseph
Conrad, with whose work his own has a certain kinship. Curiously enough
he has written the first adequate book on Conrad and it is shortly to be
published in America. It will reveal Curle as a critic of sympathy,
insight and independence. Meanwhile every lover of good fiction,
everyone who cares for skillful craftsmanship in literature, and all
those adventurous persons who would see strange lands and people should
read _Life Is a Dream_.
ALFRED A. KNOPF.
A New Study of William Morris
_William Morris_, by A. Clutton-Brock. [Henry Holt and Company, New
York.]
I dislike that method which many historians pursue, treating the past as
a matter of death instead of life. For a baggage of rags and a jumble of
bleached bones I have no concern. Yesterday is a thing I will not
consider. History is a proof of one thing only:--that circumstance is a
fraud, and that personality is a durability with eternity. The soul
writes its autobiography, and those used for the syllables survive the
seasons and the years. Rule and custom and people who are no more than
these are for the scrap heap. Night comes and swallows the dead. History
is nothing except for its exceptions. Nature's royal men we discover
despite their uniforms. We note not their habiliments; they have a
natural tongue and true approach and are masters of the seconds. They
breathe life lustily still. These are the verities. They are descriptive
not of antiquity but of the mind which is now. They show us who we are.
We love them because of this. Every time we read them we embark on a new
voyage, and discover to ourselves a treasure island of which hitherto we
had not the slightest knowledge. Trojans of truth, they lift their
spears to the central sun, to proclaim the splendor of the individual,
the great reality of the Now. Through them we are made aware how rich we
are, we begin to realize somewhat of our depths; they provide a new
courage, give a new hope, and inspire us for the struggle ahead with the
quality of an unwonted self-reliance.
I have probably gone beyond my office in making these remarks, but the
temptation provided by the biography of William Morris proved so strong
that I could not forego them. Here is a man of whom we cannot know too
much. An artist who gave his life for art--what shall we say of him?
Mr. Brock has told a little of the man, sometimes in an interesting way,
but he does not make us intimate with him. However, as he tells us in
his preface, he had no pretensions. He is lucid and thoughtful, he is
excellent in his criticism of Morris's poetry, and on the whole gives us
a book well worthy of an hour's quietude. The facts given are good by
way of an introduction--sufficient to send one in quest for greater
knowledge of the man.
One of Nature's henchmen, fresh, bold, Viking in the marrow, with a
spirit of steel, a man for whom the sea would smile, poet, painter,
stainer of glass, weaver of carpets, spinning a world with the strains
of his song, socialist and revolutionist, Morris comes as a teasing wind
through the dank atmosphere of nineteenth-century commercialism, daring
conventions and going his way a body all soul, a majesty supreme to the
last.
We get a little of the air of the man when we read these lines from the
_Sigurd_. I quote from the biography:
There was a dwelling of Kings ere the world was waxen old,
Dukes were the door wards there, and the roofs were thatched with
gold;
Earls were the wrights that wrought it, and silver nailed the doors;
Earls' wives were the weaving women, queens' daughters strewed the
floor.
And the masters of its song craft were the mightiest men that cast
The sails of the storm of battle adown the bickering blast.
One cannot but remark the manhood and courage of this. A Luxury of Life.
A freedom here that would fill the winds. It is not to be wondered that
such a man should chafe under the tyranny of skin-girt stupidity, and
feel a loathing toward the flannel-souled people who in his time were
already making machines of men and building a world around them of
ugliness,--cities without bearing, without character, without mirth,
without life. Cities of the dead, where ghosts might abide.
It is in the realm of art, however, that we must look for Morris would
we view him in the light. Art gave the world a child who would lead it
by the hand to the Princess Beautiful that the maiden should have a
lover to woo. A child--yes; and a warrior too, who would do battle with
any of her enemies. I would not say that he knew more of art in its
relation to life than did Ruskin, Wilde, and Whistler; he was, however,
far more active of the purpose. He saw that art was not a mere thing for
the galleries, where Mediocrity can sniff and vaunt its conceits; for
him it was serious of all nature, of the whole circle and the endless
series of circles.
That which gives ear to the tongues of stones and from marble delivers
its soul, he wanted Life to seek. There was a spice in art for Morris
which made it dangerous for milk-sops. Art for him was a Reality; the
existence around him a fraud, and Life a cowardice. He had Truth on his
side; he hated shams and he joined the socialist movement because he saw
here a means for their overturning. In a very interesting chapter Mr.
Brock tells how Morris, after breakfasting with Burne-Jones, would go
out to some street corner and lecture on socialism to a throng of
workingmen, some dirty and in rags. He had his courage--this man.
There dwells in each of us a heroism of which the last has not been
spoken. Carlyle was drunk with it, Emerson wrote it, Morris lived it. A
great artist, but a greater man. Life for him was a cavalier
extravagance--thus would he have all men live. To make the world live,
we must give of our living. Breathe life into all things that they too
will have manners and extend a friendship's greetings.
For practical people Morris is still anathema; for human beings,
however, he is yet a comrade in the struggle. Mr. Brock's study of him
is therefore welcome, coming as it does with fresh intelligence of his
nature. His book most certainly is a thing to be read.
G. F.
Exaggerated Mushrooms
_Minions of the Moon_, by Madison Cawein. [Stewart and Kidd,
Cincinnati.]
At a glance the book seems merely a collection of unusual
nursery-rhymes, but after a careful reading one finds little glimmers of
poetry, like faded flowers touched with sulphur and pressed between the
leaves of a very inane volume. If you have the sublime suggestion of
patience necessary to turn the leaves of the book you will rather
delight in fingering the flowers. They are moon-light flowers. Mr.
Cawein is at his best when he goes into his usual tremulous raptures
over moon-light. His moon-light poems actually drip with slim, wistful
(to use a much-abused word) color. If he could forget elfs, fairies, and
mushrooms for more than a moment, Madison Cawein would reach the
plateaus, if not the mountain-tips of poetry. But he can only cast out
the trite child which has taken possession of him, now and then. Strange
to say, though three or four of the poems in the volume are good, they
do not contain a line worth quoting. Their halfbeauty lies in the
ensemble. As for the rest of the book, I can best describe it by saying
that one feels inclined to turn over the page.
M. B.
Sentence Reviews
(Inclusion in this category does not preclude a more extended
notice.)
_The Widowing of Mrs. Holroyd_, by D. H. Lawrence. [Mitchell Kennerley,
New York.] A three-act drama, by a young English poet, that feels into
new recesses of the problem of sex relationships. Clear thinking, acute
analysis, and provocative criticisms of life make this a notable
addition to _The Modern Drama Series_.
_An Island Outpost_, by Mary E. Waller. [Little, Brown and Company,
Boston.] "I respect the clam," says Miss Waller; "it has certain
reserves." She also says: "Liberty is the restraint of controlled
intelligence," and she tells us that a million ideas unloaded on an
unwarned public will cause befogment of its reasoning powers. Miss
Waller in her _Island Outpost_ has not shown the reserve of the clam,
nor the restraint of controlled intelligence, but has unloaded her
"million ideas on a million subjects unannounced and uncatalogued."
Socrates, Swedes, and Simians, Hull House and Helsingfors, Praxiteles
and Plum Jelly, Clucking Hens and Chemistry, Philanthropic Frenzies,
Psychiatry Astigmatic, Outlooks, and Intellectual Miasma overlap each
other in "indecent haste"--and to cap all comes an analogy taken from
old "turned carpets," suggestive of prehistoric methods of sanitation to
a mere "Westerner."
_Gillespie_, by J. MacDougall Hay. [George H. Doran Company, New York.]
A big story of heroic Scotch life by a new writer who has tremendous
power. It makes that kind of profound personal impressions which a
well-bred man refuses to discuss.
_Songs and Poems_, by Martin Schütze. [The Laurentian Publishers,
Chicago.] The discriminating reader who is a bit wearied of the "free
verse" of "free poets" will find refreshing contrast in this slender
volume of Mr. Schütze. Here there is beauty combined with delicate
craftsmanship; lines finely wrought, fresh rhythms, uncommon phrasing.
The contents reveals a happy versatility: there are a variety of Songs,
some Poems, Discourses, and Epigrams.
_When Love Flies Out o' the Window_, by Leonard Merrick. [Mitchell
Kennerley, New York.] A pretty story of the love affair of a charming
chorus girl and a novelist-journalist. It should make good late summer
reading, for the route of true love is not over-smooth, and the end is
happy. We recommend the earlier portion of the book as done in the
inimitable Merrick fashion. It is rather too bad that this author's
sustained performances fall so far below his short stories.
_The Man and the Woman_, by Arthur L. Salmon. [Forbes and Company,
Chicago.] A comforting little volume for smug Victorian women of both
sexes.
_Short Plays_, by Mary Macmillan. [Stewart and Kidd Company,
Cincinnati.] Ten short plays deftly done, and sufficiently varied in
theme to meet the diverse demands of the woman's club, the girls'
school, and the amateur dramatic society.
_English Drama of the Restoration and Eighteenth Century_, by George
Henry Nettleton. [The Macmillan Company, New York.] Interesting to
academic students of the historical facts of the early periods of the
modern English drama.
_Erna Vitek_, by Alfred Kreymborg. [Albert and Charles Boni, New York.]
This further enterprise of a new and daring publishing house is an
attempt, and a promising one at that, at the naturalistic American
novel. But it is only an attempt. Mr. Kreymborg's style is marred by the
very frequent use of journalese. He has an excellent plot, but the
treatment has somewhat failed to do it justice. Also, it seems to us
that the episode narrated in the book would have made a far better short
story than a novel. Despite these defects of juvenility, the book gives
promise of future work by this author that will surely count. Also one
obtains a refreshing insight into the real New York Bohemia.
_A Stepdaughter of the Prairie_, by Margaret Lynn. [The Macmillan
Company, New York.] Vivid impressions of pioneer life in the Missouri
Valley by a writer who knows the wide prairies of that region.
_Business: A Profession_, by Louis D. Brandeis. [Small, Maynard and
Company, Boston.] A book composed of the lectures, essays and
discussions which gave rise to the efficiency idea in big business
management. It belongs on the shelf with President Wilson's _The New
Freedom_.
_London and Paris_, by Prof. John C. Van Dyke. [Charles Scribner's Sons,
New York.] Two additions to the _New Guides to Old Masters Series_ that
point out to conventional visitors the things that they should see when
they look at the pictures in the famous galleries of London and Paris.
_Letters from a Living Dead Man_, dictated to Elsa Barker. [Mitchell
Kennerley, New York.] Unimportant even if true, which they are alleged
to be. Psychical researchers will salt this thing down with their
"facts."
_Where Rolls the Oregon_, by Dallas Lore Sharp. [Houghton Mifflin
Company, Boston.] A group of delightful impressions of "the vast
outdoors of Oregon" by an interpretative observer whose zestful
phraseology is full of local atmosphere. A number of charming halftones
are included.
_The Red Light of Mars_, by George Bronson-Howard. [Mitchell Kennerley,
New York.] This philosophical comedy in three acts, which adds
creditable variety and interest to _The Modern Drama Series_, will be
staged this season. Being typically American in spirit, it lacks iron in
the body of its thought.
_Bambi_, by Marjorie Benton Cook. [Doubleday, Page and Company, New
York.] "_Bambi_" is altogether delightful. After marrying a writer of
impossible plays, she endeavors to support him and to teach him to
support himself. She becomes an author, and with her delicious vanity,
and knowledge of her ability to wind men around her tiny finger, uses
her own fame as a lever to place her husband among the successful
playwrights. This sprightly midget is one of the most lovable characters
we have met in many moons.
The Reader Critic
"_Gaudeamus_":
In these historic days I cannot think of your September issue in other
terms than as of a Zeppelin hurling bombs into the enemy's strongholds.
From the first to the last page (yes, even the letters!) I read the copy
to an imaginary beating of drums, blasting of trumpets, fluttering of
banners. When I reached the last line, I relaxed in nervous expectation
of the results of the grandiose charge: Will there be no explosion, no
earthquake?
I ask this question in dead earnest. THE LITTLE REVIEW has become
definite in one point--in its uncompromising warfare against the rotten
features of the existing order. In this one issue you have attacked with
the fervor of unhesitating youth some of the stanchest fortified
dunghills of American life and art. From _Armageddon_, that merciless
bomb into the camp of provincial complacency prevailing in this country,
through the execution of academical _Grocers_, through the venomous
_Democrat_ that reveals the beauty of constructive hatred, down to the
palpitating letter of the "Boy-Reader" who deals a tender death-blow to
the despotic authoritativness of parenthood,--I scent war powder! And
with hope and anxiety I put the question once more: