ultra-distinguished chin a trifle elevated, his hands locked
behind his back. He is evidently searching for words. In a
moment, the door of the green-room swings open and a well-dressed
man is seen bidding good-bye to Madame Frizza. The stranger takes
no notice of the group of critics as he brushes past and hurries
away. Then a most charming voice welcomes the five critics. The
Madame is greeted by four blushes and one scowl. The scowling one,
Mr. Krupp, is the first one to enter the green-room. Close behind
him come the embarrassed four.
MADAME BONJOLINE. Gentlemen, this is so good of you. And how did you
like my recital? I hope it pleased you—yes?
There is a moment of silence which, as it becomes awkward, is broken
by
DONALD WORCESTER. Some concert, all right.
MADAME BONJOLINE. How good of you. I am happy.
BEN DULLARD KRUPP. I confess I find myself unable to understand the
judgment which places Debussy at the first of a program. Now why did
you——
MADAME BONJOLINE. Ah,—ho, ho, ha, ha—that is our little joke, gentlemen,
is it not? I suppose no one knew that I played Rachmaninoff instead of
Debussy at the start—no one but ourselves. I changed my mind after I was
out on the platform.
BEN DULLARD KRUPP. I was—blgh-h!—that is, Mr. Stalk was at my office to
see me about my coming American orchestra concert, at which I myself
conduct, and so I was detained, and did not get to hear your opening
number.
DONALD WORCESTER. How did you manage to get along without Brahms,
Madame. I should be interested——
MADAME BONJOLINE. Oh, you did not hear my third encore, then—the Brahms
B-minor Capriccio. I am so sorry you missed it.
DONALD WORCESTER. Oh, was that Brahms? I thought it sounded rather
chunky, now that I recall it.
EDWARD MORLESS. Would it seem too—well, let us say—American to you if I
were to ask you to lunch with me, Madame Bonjoline? I should be
extremely happy to have that pleasure.
MADAME BONJOLINE. Ah, but the pleasure is mine. I shall be delighted to
accept—that is, if there is time. I make that condition only.
EDWARD MORLESS. Thank you, thank you, Madame.
XILEF BOWOWSKI. Madame Bonjoline, do you remember the date of
publication of the Gliere Prelude which you played today? It has
completely slipped my mind.
MADAME (laughing). My good sir, I could not recall it to save my soul.
DONALD WORCESTER. I wish your playing sounded as good as it looks,
Madame.
MADAME BONJOLINE. How delightfully American you are! So frank, so
utterly frank! But that reminds me: my friend, James Shooneker—perhaps
you saw him; he left just as you came in—told me that my playing looked
as good as it sounded. How strange a coincidence! You all know him, of
course. For Europe, he is the great critic. He is in Chicago for a short
time, and he is going to review my recital for a magazine here—I believe
it is called _Le Petit Revue_, or something like that.
BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Oh, yes; that effusive young lady’s journal, _The
Little Review_. I have heard of it. Ha!
DONALD WORCESTER. Their poor musical writer was in your audience this
afternoon, Madame.
BEN DULLARD KRUPP. He’s one of those chaps you can meet three or four
times and still never recognize on the street.
MADAME BONJOLINE. So? At any rate, James Shooneker is going to “write
up” (I believe you say) my recital. I understand that this number of
_The Little Review_ is coming from the press in the morning, and his
article will appear in it.
CARBON HATCHETT. So, indeed. This Mr. Shooneker, if I remember
correctly, has written a book—what is the title of it?
MADAME BONJOLINE. Och! He has written so many, many books! I do not know
which one you mean.
The charms of the woman, her little moues, smiles, and quick
gestures, are entangling the five men. Conversation becomes
increasingly difficult. The writers leave the green-room and, on
the outside with the door closed, they glance nervously at one
another.
EDWARD MORLESS. Say: this James Shooneker,—who’s he?
BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Who cares who he is? His stuff won’t get far in that
sheet.
EDWARD MORLESS. Of course not. I just wondered. For my part, I’ve had a
terrible afternoon.
DONALD WORCESTER. But Ed, think of tonight. You’ve got to listen to
Walter Spratt’s piano-playing.
CARBON HATCHETT. Do you call that playing?
Nothing seems to relieve the collective nervousness of the five
judges. At the outer door, they separate. Ben Dullard Krupp makes
his way to McChug’s book-store and, after one swift glance up the
street and another down the street, he pushes strenuously through
the whirling doors. With swinging tread, he marches down the
broad center aisle and hails a busy clerk. Yes, the clerk has
sometimes heard of James Shooneker and—yes,—they have a book or
two of his—just a minute. Then a convulsive terror seizes Ben
Dullard Krupp, for on the other side of the same counter stands
Donald Worcester. The younger approaches the elder with
unaccustomed familiarity, having him, at the moment, on the hip,
as it were.
DONALD WORCESTER. Looking up Shooneker? Here’s one of his
things,—_Half-tones in Modern Music_.
BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Oh, yes; that. I remember reading it when I was
scarcely more than a boy.
DONALD WORCESTER. It was published in 1909, I see.
BEN DULLARD KRUPP. Must be a later edition, then. Oh, pshaw! What’s the
use of waiting for that clerk? I think I have a complete set of
Shooneker packed away at home.
DONALD WORCESTER. That so? Well, I’ll tell the clerk you couldn’t wait.
Maybe I’d like the book myself, if it’s worth anything at all.
The presence in Chicago of one James Shooneker is like some
fearfully disturbing shadow behind each of the five writers.
Bowowski, within half an hour after the recital, has three
helpers in the Public Library searching for every printed word of
Shooneker. After a tasteless dinner, Ben Dullard Krupp scares
three piano pupils out of their wits by an unusual amount of
shouting and stamping; this, also, should be attributed to the
visiting author. Worcester seeks his desk in the editorial room
and crams on “Pathetic Spaces”—Shooneker’s latest book, according
to the clerk. But the young critic’s attention strays from the
pages of print to the lady in the green-room ... lovely person,
if she can’t play the piano. Worcester has an impulse to use
the telephone, and soon it masters him. He calls up Madame
Bonjoline’s hotel and, as she is out, leaves a message—he will
call in person at eight o’clock. Then a note is written, which he
despatches to her by messenger. After that, there is time to
think things over. Was there ever anyone as charming as she? And
she has expressed her admiration for his frank manner and open
criticism. Perhaps——Now the Madame is not willing to admit him at
first; but he is insistent, and she permits him to enter. James
Shooneker is seated by the window. Worcester, like a guilty boy,
shakes hands with him and mumbles acknowledgement. But soon the
celebrated critic has him at his ease, and the young journalist
is talking with his accustomed candor. Then, continuing in the
same friendly manner,
JAMES SHOONEKER. Mr. Worcester, you might be interested in knowing the
reason for my Chicago visit. In fact, it is only fair you should know.
DONALD WORCESTER. Sure!
JAMES SHOONEKER. Very well then. Your paper, the Worst Glaring Nuisance,
as its catch-word has it, has sent for me to fill the vacancy created by
your resignation.
DONALD WORCESTER. Who’s bluff is this?
JAMES SHOONEKER. It is true. I have your place offered me. Now, I don’t
want to seem arbitrary, but here’s my proposition: In the first place,
cut out your infatuation for Madame Bonjoline. That’s the main
condition, if you want me to leave Chicago. The second thing is perhaps
more important to yourself, and that is that you promise to take a long
course in counterpoint and musical history under some good authority, if
you can find one in the United States. Perhaps you would do well to tap
the boundless information of your friend, Bowowski. These are my only
demands. I don’t want your job. I’ll drop a note to your editor and tell
him he doesn’t appreciate you. But you will have to forget your
aspirations for the Madame, and behave yourself with a dignity becoming
your position. You mustn’t make yourself ridiculous over Frizza, and for
her sake—
DONALD WORCESTER. Shooneker, you certainly are a brick! You certainly
are! I can’t help being a bit dazed with Madame, but I’ll keep it all to
myself. You’re a peach!
MADAME BONJOLINE. See, James, how perfectly American he is! I told you
he would be. Isn’t he a dear boy?
JAMES SHOONEKER. You like the conditions, then?
DONALD WORCESTER. Bully! I appreciate them. And say, didn’t you write a
book once called _The Insane Melons_?
JAMES SHOONEKER. Yes, I have a book with a title something like that.
Why do you ask?
DONALD WORCESTER. If you’ve got one with you, I’d like a signed copy.
JAMES SHOONEKER. I’m very sorry, but I didn’t bring any with me. Perhaps
I can send you one later.
DONALD WORCESTER. Fine! I wish you would. That’s treating me mighty
good.
MADAME BONJOLINE. You deserve it, my boy.
In a confusion of thanks, apologies, and compliments, Worcester
leaves the room and returns to the office, where an article is
written which harbors no doubt that Madame Frizza is a great
pianist. About the same hour, Mr. Morless is passing in a copy of
his own criticism, stating that the Madame is a fairly promising
amateur. The menacing cloud of Shooneker seems to hang over him;
it has nearly prevented his passing in the article. And Ben
Dullard Krupp, without a regular post, mails his lengthy and
scathing opinion of the Madame to a weekly paper, in the hope of
securing a steady allotment of their space. To him, also, the
thought of an “outside” critic in their midst is irritating and,
at times, threatening. What was HE going to say about her? His
word might have weight. Suppose ... and Krupp wishes now he could
reach into the mail-box and pull out his article. But the panic
passes; he recalls several of his pet phrases, and this restores
full confidence in his own finality.
Again—the same dining-room in the “Cave Dwellers,” with three of
the critics disposing of an early lunch, almost early enough to be
called breakfast.
BOWOWSKI. They can’t print more than a couple hundred.
HATCHETT. Somebody told me they had several thousand paid subscriptions,
and then printed a bunch of extras.
KRUPP. What difference does that make? The point is: what will they sell
for? I’m good for my share, but there’s a limit, you know. Do you
suppose that if I offered to do their musical criticism, they would
destroy this issue as it stands?
HATCHETT. You can’t tell. It isn’t “they” but “she.” You’re dealing with
a woman, a young one at that.
KRUPP. Oh, Hell; I can get around that difficulty. Waiter! Bring me a
telephone! Hurry up!
BOWOWSKI. Do you realize, gentlemen, that it is more than possible, in
fact it is even likely, considerably more than probable, that we are
right in the case of Madame Bonjoline, and that one James Shooneker is
in error?
HATCHETT. By George! That’s so, isn’t it!
KRUPP. There’s no question about it. Just wait a minute now, while I
call up this “Little Revolt”—ha! ha!—and see how they jump at the
mention of my name.
Ben Dullard Krupp is informed over the wire that the new issue of_
THE LITTLE REVIEW _in large quantities is already in the mails, etc.
In fact, at the same moment, the famous Shooneker is glancing
through his own contribution; he swears at a misprint and puts
the magazine in his suitcase, to read on the train. Madame
Bonjoline does not open her copy, having read the article
concerning herself from manuscript, two weeks before.
KRUPP. Rank insolence, I call it!
HATCHETT. What’s the matter? Won’t they sell?
KRUPP. She says the mails are flooded with the impudent sheet.
BOWOWSKI. Horrible! Horrible, indeed!
KRUPP. It’s a great pity somebody couldn’t loosen up and say something
about this Shooneker. How did I know who he was, or that his opinion was
worth anything? Fine chance I’ll have now of getting on The Saturday
Blade!
BOWOWSKI. Perhaps if you had been able to curb your unfounded hatred of
Tchaikowsky for a moment, we wouldn’t have been placed in this
ridiculous position.
KRUPP. Blgh-gg-h! It’s bad music, rotten! and I don’t care who knows I
said it. This country is simply spineless when it comes to having an
opinion about music. Why, I’ve got enough opinion to supply the nation,
and they need it. That’s why I put on my American concerts. They’ve got
to learn that I’m the only prophet in America’s musical future. I feel
that it’s my duty—
HATCHETT. Tchaikowsky has written some very good—
KRUPP. Tchaikowsky! Man! if you mention that mediocrity’s unhallowed
name again, I’ll go completely mad!
BOWOWSKI. Great Heavens! Tim is coming to put us out, just on account of
your infernal shouting. And look! With him! Shooneker! How perfectly
horrible!
KRUPP. Blgh-gh-h!
Abashed and silent, the three judges leave the table and get into
their coats with more celerity than is comfortable. They glimpse
a faint smile on the face of their jinx as they hasten out. The
waiter, Tim, conceals his own mirth. Two critics rush down the
street without a word. Calling after them is
KRUPP. I don’t care who he is. I know I was right in saying—
A Shorn Strindberg
MARGUERITE SWAWITE.
Had Mme. Strindberg deliberately planned to revenge herself upon him who
was once her husband, she could have devised no subtler way of wounding
that redoubtable sham-hater than the manner in which she chose to speak
of him before the Chicago public. As I sat in the prickly darkness, with
its accompanying rumble of Beethoven, I half-expected the musty
atmosphere of legerdemain to be scattered by the great August’s derisive
laughter. But the promise of occult things was not fulfilled, for with
the cessation of the music came a rosy glow, and then a gracious lady
with a wistful presence. And she seemed quite at ease in her mise en
scène.
She read to us of herself, of Prince Hassan’s feast in Paris, of her
theatrical meeting with Strindberg, and of how he talked with her all
the evening and later walked home with her; of how she stopped on the
bridge to toss snowballs and Strindberg dried her hands upon his
handkerchief; and of how she dreamed of him that memorable night—a
strange symbolic dream. And as she read, her face was as quiet water
rippled by gentle vagrant breezes.
The remainder of the meeting was distinguished by the fact that there
was light, but the spirit of the seance persisted. Madame pleaded for
questions, but the little audience seemed frozen into inarticulateness.
Those few who did venture stammered for a moment and then drooped into
silence. Madame, however, was not discouraged. She read us Strindberg’s
views on divorce. In reply to the mumbled questions she replied that she
considered eugenics impractical and indelicate, that her husband had
believed intensely in peace and had written a beautiful story in its
favor, which she had meant to read us but to which an accident had
occurred; that Strindberg was a democrat in theory but an aristocrat in
feeling; that he was not a misogynist, but had reviled bad women because
he loved good women; that _The Father_ was a plea for the sanctity of
the home, the sanctity of woman.... Until it seemed that she was not
speaking of the bitter-tongued, fiery-souled Swede, but of some
complacent American, say, Augustus Thomas. And then someone said that it
was past ten, and Madame thanked us and disappeared.
As we swung down Michigan Avenue in the fresh night air I smiled to
think that over across the water they still thought of us as the
“hayseed” among the nations to whom the “gold brick” might be disposed
with impunity—and with exceeding profit. But we are learning....
Vers Libre and Advertisements
JOHN GOULD FLETCHER
In common with all the judicious readers of American magazines and
newspapers, I have learned to look on the advertising pages for the best
examples of news the journalist can offer. It is only reasonable that
this should be the case. Advertisement writers are the best-paid, least
rewarded, and best-trained authors that America possesses. Compared to
these, even the income of a Robert Chambers pales into insignificance.
Moreover, they understand the public thoroughly and do not attempt to
overstrain its attention by overseriousness, or exhaust its nerves by
sentimentality. That is, the best ones do not. There may be some
exceptions, but in the main I have found American advertisements
refreshingly readable.
It had never occurred to me, however, that there might be gems of poetic
ability hidden away in these tantalizing concoctions—these cocktails of
prose. But I must revise my estimate. Without wishing to boom or
discourage anyone’s products I cannot resist quoting some recent
advertisements that I and I alone have discovered, seized, and gloated
upon. After all, I approach the subject purely from the angle of form.
What student of poetic form could afford to ignore the following:
SERVE A HOT MUFFIN SUPPER
Light flaky muffins, _oven hot_ and _golden topped_, a suppertime
goody that certainly will strike that hungry _spot_. Serve them
with the finest, richest syrup you can buy anywhere. That’s
“Velva,” with the best of flavor, nourishing goodness and the
satisfying elements that put real strength into growing children.
Give them Velva three times a _day_. They’ll say, “_Great_,” when
they eat it on your _flaky_ hot biscuits or on _waffles_ or
_batter cakes_.
I hope the unknown author of this little masterpiece will excuse my
italics. The public simply will not see beauties that are not pushed
under its nose. If the public could realize how much more difficult as
well as more musical this style of writing, with its rich assonances and
rhymes on _day_, _say_, _great_, _flaky_, _cakes_, is, than the insipid
tinklings of the lyrists who feebly strum in pathetically threadbare
metres through the pages of most magazines, then we would have a
revolution in verse-writing. That we have not yet arrived at the
revolution is proved by the fact that a talent of this order confines
itself to writing syrup advertisements.
Take another case. The following appeared in a well known monthly. The
editor doubtless looks on free verse as the rankest heresy:
A pipe, a maid,
A sheet of ice,
The glow of life—
And that glow doubled
By the glow of “Lady Strike”
Cuddling warm in the bowl;
This is the life
In the good old winter-time!
I do not say this is without faults. With the substance I have,
naturally, nothing to do. But as regards form, which of your scribblers
of cosmic bathos and “uplift stuff” could more cunningly weave _pipe_,
_ice_, _life_, _strike_, and _time_ into a stanza that has half as much
swing and verve, as this? Note also the absence of adjectives. In short,
here is poetry with a “punch” to it.
My last example is the most ambitious of all. I present it exactly as it
was written without comment. It appeared in _The North American Review_:
_Univernish_
Compared with old-method varnishes,
it is convenience and certainty.
It means one finishing varnish
for the job, instead of two or three.
It does away with the extra cans
and the extra cleanings of brushes.
It avoids mistakes and accidents.
It is safe and sure and fool-proof.
Compared with other new-method varnishes,
it is a vital improvement.
It is the new-method varnish
which does not thicken in the can
nor clog the painter’s brush.
It remains a clear, pure liquid.
It is easy working and free-flowing.
It requires vastly less labor.
It gives a smooth, clean finish
which is especially beautiful
and durable.
We think we are quite conservative
in saying that it saves twenty per cent
of the finishing cost.
Gentlemen of the poets’ profession, be ashamed of yourselves! How can
you expect to find readers by lazily sticking to your antiquated
formulas, when even the advertisement writers in the very magazines you
do your work for, are getting quite up-to-date?
Extreme Unction
MARY ALDIS
CHARACTERS:
A DYING PROSTITUTE
A SOCIETY LADY
A SALVATION ARMY LASSIE
A DOCTOR
A NURSE
SCENE:
The screened space around a high narrow bed in a Hospital ward.
Record-card hanging above. The Screens have antiseptic white sheets
over them.
When the curtain rises the nurse is straightening and tucking in
with uncomfortable tightness the white counterpane of the bed. On
the bed, with eyes closed, lies what is left of a girl of 18 or
20. The nurse takes the thermometer from the girl’s mouth, looks
at it, shakes her head and makes a record note on the chart. She
gives the girl water to drink and leaves her with a final pull to
straighten the bed clothes. The girl tosses restlessly—moans a
little and impatiently kicks at and pulls the bed clothes out at the
foot, exclaiming “God, I wish they’d lemme ’lone!”
(The Lady enters)
THE LADY. Hattie dear, were you sleeping? No? See, I’ve brought you some
roses. Aren’t they fresh and sweet? Shall I put them in water?
THE GIRL. I don’ want ’em!
THE LADY. All right dear. We’ll just put them aside. I know sometimes
the perfume is too strong if one isn’t quite oneself. Shall I read to
you?
THE GIRL. If you want to.
THE LADY. What shall I read?
THE GIRL. I don’ care.
THE LADY. A story perhaps?
THE GIRL. All right—Fire it off.
THE LADY. And then afterward, Hattie dear, perhaps if you’d let me, the
twenty-third psalm. It’s so gentle and quiet! You might go to sleep—and
when you awakened you’d hear those comforting words.
THE GIRL. Is that the one about the valley? God, but I’m sick of it!
Gives me the jimmies. Got a story?
(THE LADY puts the flowers back in their box—takes off her wrap and
settles herself to read aloud from a magazine):
Marianna Lane swung back and forth, back and forth, in the
hammock, tapping her small, brown toe on the porch as she swung.
It was a charming porch, framed in clematis and woodbine, but
Marianna had no eye for its good points. She was lying with two
slim arms clasped behind her head, staring vacantly up at the
ceiling and composing a poem. On the wicker table beside her
stood a glass of malted milk and a teaspoon. They were not the
subject of the poem, but they were nevertheless responsible for
it. In the first place, Marianna would _not_ drink her
twelve-o’clock malted milk, and as she was forbidden to go off
the porch until she had done so, there seemed to be nothing
better to do than to cultivate the muse in the hammock. After
patiently sipping malted milk for eight years, Marianna had
suddenly rebelled. In the second place, her cousin Frank, who
lived in the next house, had been inspired by this beverage to
make up an insulting ditty.
“Grocerman, bring a can
Baby-food for Mary Ann!”
The girl listens for a moment with a faint show of interest, then
goes back to her restless tossing.
THE GIRL (interrupting). Say,—d’ye know I’m done for?
THE LADY. Oh no! You’re getting better every day.
THE GIRL. Oh quit it—I’m goin’! I tell ye. I’ve got a head piece on me,
haven’t I? I can tell—they’ve stopped doin’ all them things to me. The
doctor just sets down there where you are and looks at me—and say—he’s
got gump that doctor. He’s the only one knows I know.
THE LADY. You mustn’t talk like that. I’m sure you’re going to get well
(girl makes an angry snort). Now try and lie quiet. You mustn’t get
excited, you know, it isn’t good for sick people. I’ll go on with the
story. You’ll see. Now listen, will you, dear? It’s quite interesting.
(Reads.)
“Grocerman, bring a can
Baby-food for Mary Ann!”
he sang loudly over the hedge whenever he caught sight of
Marianna’s middy blouse and yellow pigtails. That was yesterday.
To-day the malted milk was standing untouched upon the wicker
table, and Marianna in the hammock was trying to think up an
offensive rhyme for Frank. When she found it, she intended to go
around on the other side of the house and shout it as loud as
ever she could in the direction of her uncle’s garden. This, it
is true, was a tame revenge. What Marianna really wanted to do
was to go over and pinch her cousin Frank; but that, unhappily,
was out of the question, as Frank had a cold, and she was
strictly forbidden to go near anybody with a cold.[3]
THE GIRL (interrupting). Lady, where d’ you think you’re goin’ to when
you kick it? Tell me!
THE LADY. Why—I don’t know—To Heaven, I hope—but you mustn’t—
THE GIRL. What makes you think you’re goin’ to Heaven?