Will there be no response to the call of the clarion? Will your

battle-cry not be echoed by young America, who for the first time hear a

free unmercenarized word? Will your courageous gospel not stir the

hearts of college men and women, those who have not yet been completely

philistinized by their "vocational guides"; college men and women who in

other countries have always been the torch-bearers, the advance-guard

and martyrs in the fights for truth and ideals? Will THE LITTLE REVIEW

not succeed in creating a _Drang und Sturm_ epoch?

A negative answer would spell a death-verdict for the future of this

over-dollarized land.

_An Interested Reader, Chicago_:

THE LITTLE REVIEW bubbles over with enthusiasm and love of life. Here is

an instance of a losing fight with life--perhaps it may interest you.

A childhood spent in the slums of a large city--not in the camaraderie

spirit of the slums but within the close bounds of a little clean

apartment presided over by an aristocratic-notioned mother. Absolute

barrenness of childhood experience--not a toy, never even a rag doll,

not a tree, not a flower, not a picture of any beauty--a household of

petty quarreling and incessant scrubbing and cleaning, and strict

adherence to duties. As the child, now grown, thinks back, she knows

that there was always a subconscious feeling of revolt. She would often

go off for many hours knowing that punishment would follow; she

destroyed much that caused tears in her efforts to create, she craved

and found affection where life was a little richer.

And then came books--avid, unsystematic reading. But life was never

touched intimately and directly from any angle but one of barrenness,

pettiness. A routined school course enriched living by a deep and

lasting friendship. Continually the inner revolt and the outward

conforming dragged along together. And then came a time of complete

awakening, of burning whys, with realization of a dual existence and a

desire for sincerity in living above all things. Life demands some sort

of a medium of expression which has its beginning in childhood

experience. A maturing mind just beginning on impressions that should

have come in childhood is a sorry spectacle. Its desires are so out of

proportion to its human possibilities that it flounders and does

nothing. It finds in itself capacities dulled for want of stimulation,

it looks on things and sees them out of relation to itself. One grows to

despise human beings, to hate living--to see that there is beauty and

radiance in the world only for the chosen ones who respond to it

intimately and not only through day dreams.

Youth is not always synonymous with love of life; the gutter does not

always hold a reflection of the sky, and a conversation or even

understanding with one's parents but seldom solves the problem of soul

imprisonment. Breaking the bars of immediate environment is not so

wonderful a thing for an independent adult, but how is one to overcome

the barriers of a wasted childhood?

_C. A. Z., Chicago_:

What splendid letters those are from George Soule! Every one has been

really worth while and inspiring. Especially the advice and warning he

gives in his last: "Let us go to the theatres next fall prepared to

trace the beginnings of a new stage art in this country; in the

meantime, however, not hoping to escape the flood of cheap and

artistically vicious stuff with which the commercial managers will

attempt to drown our sensibilities."

Perhaps after this warning one ought not become agitated or angry with

any of the productions of those showmen who are frankly in the business

for the sake of revenue. However, when the "super"-showman, who is said

by the press-agent to possess unconquerable ideals, does something that

is supposed to be the uttermost of stage production--and fails--well,

then one can't help becoming irritated. In a production of _Joseph and

His Brethren_ which I saw recently there is evidence that he is aware of

the presence of new ideas in the theatre. But nowhere is it perfect

enough or fearlessly new enough to be satisfying. What new ideas are

used are swamped under, in their imperfection, by the mass of "excellent

mediocrity" that Mr. Soule speaks of. In every act is present that

hideous compromise--rank mixture of the old theatrical devices with a

cautious lifting of some daring modernists' best ideas. But the pictures

received applause. Most came for the scene that jarred most. It was a

moon-light garden scene. The backdrop and sense of distance were

perfect, but stuck prominently in the foreground, on either side of the

stage, were huge clusters of pink blossoms. The applause for that was

great--just as Soule predicted.

Mixing ideals--so-called--with the business of attracting the crowd for

what it brings to the box-office may produce a super-showman and make of

him a millionaire, but it does not advance the cause of the theatre. Not

only is the production to be quarreled with, but the drama itself is of

mongrel character. Everywhere is evident that catering to the ordinary

theatrical taste:--entire speeches from the bible alongside those of

modern idiom and thought together with re-arrangements and useless

additions to the already satisfying detail of the scriptures.

After a "smashing" finale with the gorgeously garmented multitude waving

dusty palms in a private house I decided to dismiss the entire show as

fruitless, so far as the "new note" was concerned. However, one critic

writes that the German and Russian moderns were suggested in some scenes

and that the chief female character might have been costumed by Bakst

himself! That arouses one to the danger of the thing. Is this the final

word in the theatre and what we are to expect as the best this season?

_Marion Thayer MacMillan, Cincinnati_:

The July number of THE LITTLE REVIEW is before me, and the demure brown

cover brings a smile as I recall the stimulating sparkle and scarlet

audacities hidden beneath. After Nietzsche's notion of the Wagnerite, it

is at least interesting to read Mr. Brooke's description of pâte de

foi-gras at the opera. The talk of Dr. Brandes and the tedious speaker

is a gladsome thing, but most of all I was held by _The Renaissance of

Parenthood_. It is a large subject for one article and too large for a

letter; nevertheless I must quarrel with one of your implications. I

refuse to admit that one can deduce anything whatever from the writings

of Mr. George Bernard Shaw. Don't mistake me: I feel sure that I agree

with everything you think about him--"aye more." But I deny that you can

justly follow any statement of his with "hence." When a man takes his

authorized and adoring biographer and tells him "Lo! here is the house

where I first saw the light," and, when the adoring and authorized one

comes a cropper because he deduces from this remark that the self-same

house is the birth place of his idol, it behooves one to walk warily

with this God! No doubt to read the profound and playful prophet

philosopher is to conclude that he believes "the old-fashioned game in

which the mother sacrificed everything was unfair and unnecessary and

wasteful." Equally, however, there is no doubt that G. B. S. himself

holds an entirely opposite point of view since he emphatically affirms:

"When others thought I should be working to support my mother, I made

her work to support me. Five years after I was entirely capable of

earning a living, I kept her at it so that I could learn to write

English"; and, to prove his rightness, he cries: "And now look who's

here!"

To Serve an Idea

There is no more vivid thing in life. All those people who are vitally

interested in THE LITTLE REVIEW and its idea, its spirit and its growth,

may want to become part of a group which has just been suggested by

several of our contributors and readers. An attempt to influence the

art, music, literature, and life of Chicago is an exciting and worthy

one, and should have its opportunity of expression. Such an opportunity

is planned in a series of gatherings--the first to be held in 917 Fine

Arts Building at eight o'clock on Saturday evening, October 10. For

further details, address The Little Review Association, 917 Fine Arts

Building, Chicago.

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COMMISSIONS ON SUBSCRIPTIONS

THE LITTLE REVIEW, 917 Fine Arts Bldg., Chicago

We want circulation solicitors in every city in the country.

Liberal commissions. For particulars address _William Saphier_,

circulation manager.

_$1.50 a year_ _15 cents a copy_

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The Little Review, October 1914 (Vol. 1, No. 7) · 第 6 / 7 段