DEFINITION AND SOURCE OF POETRY-Charles : Plisnier UDU
THE Cl!METERY-Hoelderlin
LITTLE RED RIDING Hoon-Archibald Butts
HARBORSONG-Paul Bowles
LONDON LETTER - Sidney Hunt
EDITORIAL •
FINGERS-] sabel Taliaferro
DOLLS ON A STAIRWAY-Margaret Hilton
EVERYBODY Is So STUPID-Evelyn Duncan
THE FIR.EFLY AND THE WORM-Katherine Brugh . CHINESE
Lucille Saunders
ELEGY
(Pour f election du sepulchre de Mlle.---)
Go, fauns, Cover her body with afternoons. Annoint her virginity with violated roses; Trample your fragile hooves in her hair. You, naiads, Lift her into fountains, Into the twilight of myrrh-groves. 0 leaves of my long anguish, Fall softly on her white remembrance; Grieve lightly, my interior flutes. 0 amorous flowers, hide her narrow grave Beneath these shadowy perfumes.
NATURAL ORDER
GEORGES LINZE
Translated by P. F. B.
T ET us determine order and disorder. All things are relative to L the judge (me). Nature consecrates the arranged and the unarranged. Let us omit the personality of nature, and organisms. There remains : "The unarranged is important." For who knows but that this order is the result of an unknown, slow rhythm? However: certain landscapes are ridiculous: this rugged woodland corner upsets one like indigestion; the plain grows dull or makes one melancholy ; mountains sometimes smother or distract one, while the causeway, that sometimes astonishes. Man opposes the virgin forest to the pure sculpture of the staircase.
I arrange. My park and my house. Compared to the aims of philosophy and the Faith, the pride of our symmetry is a supreme autosuggestion. My park: projection between my walls of seclusion, of my intimate hymn. The brain produces its pleasure. The brain discovers or constructs in its own image. The brain loves sensually or filially that which responds to these postulates. Moreover, it is able to consider the precision which belongs to usefulness.
Living a lyrical act, brings about materializations like a medium. We become- more and more conscious. We enter into space like a boat-pilot - brain. We = invisible substances of the air, invisible juices of the soil, cosmic influences.
Immediate operation: one step: to decipher Mars, to make a study of cats, to weigh Neptune, a marked planet. Goal? to determine the nature of the overwhelming interior of the globe, full (logically) of reasoning agglomerates. Mediate operation: to locate the Earth, to locate ourselves in the landscape.
ANATOMY OF THE LANDSCAPE
The landscape has a thousand internal figures. The landscape, a selection of our individuality, helps us to locate, like any one chosen thread of a piece of cloth. For our eye has little force and follows the horizon that does not exist. Man's gaze turns like a compass. To establish the planetary curves is already
THE MESSENGER
to be wise. The landscape in reality extends continentwise and then doubles up at the antipode.
Each being displaces the landscape. Omnipresence would give us the truth. Intelligence and intuition are like an X-ray, which tears away the flesh down to the skeleton. Living, a lyrical act, becomes a perpetual and profound color-blindness. The union of cerebral and visual forces helps to balance certain contemporary works. This will suffice to characterize our epoch and to rid appreciation of neurasthenia.
Speed is a beginning of omnipresence. By it, man rubs out the countryside as if with a sponge. But there is the persistence of images. Various sections of the countryside become synthetized in a short time. Distance and duration are incompatible today. Will we ever know the joy of planets bathing in the nuances of space?
SPRING
Holderlin ( 1770-1843)
When anew the earth's light Appears, the green valley shines
With spring rains
And the alive whiteness of the flowers near the stream, And a gayer day has leaned upon man.
One has more and more power to see, making clear differences, The springtime sky remains up there in peace
In order that without being upset man may lift
The year's charm
And consider the perfection of existence.
NOW
IDO not know whether plastic art will disappear before the end of man like a plesiosaurus, or like a mouse, or even whether our conception of "beauty" (I forget its capital) is but a fancy, almost physiological. But it seems to me that the holding together of humanity of which painting will have been the religious agent is not ready to die out.
Spiritual exaltation and sentimental valor accumulated around lines and colors will remain a thing whose secret rhythms will be none the less significant, and whose grandeur will have demonstrated (against Taine and his determinism) that man is sometimes something besides a salacious gorilla.
VANDERCAMMEN,Brussels,
1930.
The theatre is not a moral institution. The theatre is not an immoral institution. The theatre is not an intervening agency for works of literature and their representatives. The theatre is neither a temple nor a brothel. The theatre is the articulate form of optical and acoustical action. The actors in the theatre, humans and objects, are the bearers of this action. The theatre is a play of the senses. Combining the organic and artistic logical relations of the visible and audible makes a play a work of art. Action transmits no thoughts. Thoughts are an abstraction of a conscious fixation. The theatre transmits no perceptions. Perceptions are the results of conscious experiences. The theatre transmits no emotions. Emotions are the combinations of perceptions. The present-day theatre has no connection with the theatre as art. The present-day theatre is the intellectual observance and representation of life, therefore it illustrates subjective and accidental phases in individual application. The theatre as art is an organism produced by the artistic, logical relations of sensitive actions to each other. The theatre must be freed from literature ( the record of facts and their abstractions) and from play-acting ( imitations of human actions and reactions) before it can and will be art. The material of the theatre is color, form, cadence and tone in action. The union of these elments creates the art theatre. All else is amusement, for "kultur" citizens and "kultur" artists .
.
. . HERWARTHWALDEN,Berlin, 1927.
THE MESSENGER
There is but one virtue, imprudence, which alas! is not included in the conventional virtues ( the sign of which is on the contrary prudence, and the prerogative of which is boredom), if indeed the best way of dealing with conventional people is to be generous towards them and if joy is the only efficacious apology for evil when faced with good, which necessary bores and is bored.
If intercourse with conventional people has never developed anybody's personality and if nevertheless everybody prefers it to frequenting more peculiar types, it is only because we would rather he bored than robbed or killed, in which we are mistaken.
In our moments of perfect lucidity we notice that boredom is always stagnant and is a little below the heart, which it sometimes submerges. Therefore it merely becomes a question of lightening one's heart, so as not to be exposed to the temptation of seeking for evil as a form of distraction nor yet for good. He who overcomes boredom no longer requires either evil or good. It is simply a matter of being slightly above evil or good and of giving oneself up to the joy of generosity; by being constant to the principle of generosity, one does away with morality .
. . .
MARCELJouHANDEAU,
Paris, 1929.
The art of the modern book has, of course, no relation to the expensive hashes of seventeenth century type, printers' flowers, etc., served up to voracious book-collectors as superlative examples of the revival of book-art. With revivals and resurrections, religious or artistic, we are bored stiff. We are bored stiff with our feeble fauves and the maidenly good-taste that passes for art-appreciation in many circles, with the critics who heaved such thunderous sighs of relief at the reintroduction of representation in painting, with those who can see only one thing at a time, in short, with all those whose pineal eye has finally disappeared. How to remain young: keep that third eye alertness.
. .. SIDNEY HUNT, London, 1927.
(POEMS OF AMERICANWORKMEN ... Paris, "Les Revues."
Translated into French by M. Guterman and P. Morhange.)
Here it would seem will be centered the entire question concerning proletarian literature and poetry; because for the first time to our knowledge, we find ourselves before the actual writings of workmen. To wish to class these writers as belonging to one or another
camp would be the surest sign of an utter lack of comprehension. From reading the collection, we know one thing, and one thing only: that men are unhappy,-unhappy among millions of others-but these men have not been able to keep to themselves this feeling, too full of rage and bitterness. Against the implacable law of steel which forges more faithfully in its own image each day these bodies and these spirits, certain ones have rebelled. The invectives which constitute their poems are not a part of a lyricism of convention, but are an explosion of that truly valuable kind of poetry which consists of being itself and which consists of killing, because the hand, which is also our hand, holds the knife as alone we can hold it:
"My mouth burns. A stinking taste chokes it without stop Like hot sand. And my heart howls My hate for you."
POEM
JEAN
GIONO
"Rude au travail, accoutume a vivre de peu, notre jeunesse dompte la terre avec le boyau." (L'Eneide, livre IX.)
- I see from here the rustic terrace, and in the shade of the limetree the wooden table upon which I left, bitten into, my corn-cake and the violet onion.
-I see the varnished jar in which I planted the crinkled carnation, and I hear the bees in the thick tracts of sunlight that dry the garlic and make the delicate egg-plants horny.
-But they are my reposeful games which I anticipate. What will be left to me when I sit down in the odor-tinted freshness, if I already taste, in the middle of my work, the joys of light, colors and shade?
-We shall continue hoeing the vines which scale the hill.
My spade rises and falls with a flying, then a deaf noise; it bites into the earth, which separates in black waves where the cut weeds lather like a green scum.
Soon, when thei midday sun will place its heavy foot on the nape of my neck, I shall go under the shivering lime-tree.
DEFINITION AND SOURCE OF POETRY
PART II OF AN ESSAY: Poesie et Marxisme
CHARLES PLISNIER
Translated by P. F. B.
WHETHER people know it or not-the thing is of no importance-it is not without some prejudice, some preconceived system of dealing with it, that they accost the finish poetical work. What a temptation to force his thing which can no longer defend itself, and which already appears quite subdued to coincide with a well-ordered plan which satisfies the "mind," gives one the illusion of a faultless science, or holds within its limits all the universe! And why should they go to find that invisible core, when so many tangible elements come first to their mind-forms, rhythms, images! But, are those things the poem or only the birds' plumage?
As far as I am concerned, I shall place myself here, decidedly, with the poet. That is not to say that being here I deny the value of the critics' work. However, I have a species of certitude that this step brings me a bit nearer to the mystery, carries me just inside its essence, elusive as it may be. A species of certitude that if the line I am going to draw intersects several times at certain points that of the other seekers, I shall find there a reason to rejoice.
I understand quite well that it is a question here solely of poetry.
But I fear that of the word itself is born some misunderstanding. We must then, Callinus, for fear of arguing in different languages, agree first on that score.
For my part, I call prose: all writing desired to deal with operations of the intellect-observations, reflective thought, reasonings, constructions; poetry: all writing which is meant to free man from an obsession foreign to his consciousness. And thus you understand immediately that if for me prose has as an end to communicate with men, poetry has no end but itself.
Prose is a matter of choice. It puts into play the reasoning faculties. Not that genius must never have a part in it. But it is a genius of action which has given itself an aim, an object, a subject; which has elected a material to work with, which has drawn up a plan; whch proposes, composes, disposes; orders a certain gait or conduct, tests its material, utilizes grammar, and finally, makes no error
it has not chosen to. To apply historic materialism to such a work is to me almost a truism.
Poetry is a matter of obedience. And what obedience! That which commands is a tyrant one cannot see. One must take the pen, write. It is the only thing one knows. The subject appears to one, without one's willing the manner in which the words are formed or follow upon each other. "The first verse is a gift of the gods," said someone who would have become perhaps a great poet, if his pride had allowed him a longer term of obedience. 1
The command is like a sky whose clouds gather and disperse. What is in play here is the birth of things which otherwise would never have been born. What! is concerned is the dark bestiary of the unconscious faculties. To use a formula with some sort of scientific appearance, I shall say schematically that poetry presupposes a state of abolition or at least of a diminution more or less great of the activity of the centre 0.
You wonder, Callinus, if these definitions embrace all poetry. You make me observe that an epic poem recognizes a plan; that one would not know . how to let the heroes of a tragedy wander at will like a waking dream, and that besides there are novels filled with a strange substance, even essays shaken with poetry. Doubtless there are. Who would deny the existence of these thousands of intermediate states, between the "prose des geometres" and pure lyric? There is poetry in Faust and in Macbeth. It is in the funeral oration of Henrietta of England and in Eloa. But it is there exactly in direct proportion to the extent to which the novelist, the dramatist, the orator, the epicwriter, forgot his objective to obey only his own dictates. There is that much more of it when they forget even more completely and put themselves in another's place. Poetry is properly lyric, and it is lyrical elaboration that I intend to describe.
So much does lyricism show necessity, fatality, so much does it embrace the entire organism, so much does it seem linked to the vital, most essential functions, one would almost need the language used to describe illness and clinical experiences. Is it not a malady to devote oneself to lyricism? Writing-is it not an attempt to cure?
One can contest even the foundation of the Freudian edifice. The fact remains that Freud has shed upon these questions the greatest light it was possible, in the present state of the sciences, to project
THE MESSENGER
from the exterior. He gave answers to them which men will not be able to forget. 2
In truth, others before him had disengaged the characteristic mental inequalibrium which presupposes poetry. It is the pythian delirium, that interior god of the ancients-a kind of sacred madness. Freud, the first, linked poetical phenomena to certain other badly explained phenomena of mental pathology: neuroses, the dream, mystical practices. He found there the only explanation which entirely satisfies the mind. 3
This is not the place to analyze Freudian hypotheses. All the poets who have truly known the lyrical delirium, will consider them, I think, as verified, if they question themselves, know themselves, ever so little.
lValery. Apropos d'Adonis.
2Especially: Introduction to Psychoanalysis and Totems and Taboos.
3It is not to be taken for granted that this is the only intelligent reaction to Freud. In fact, the generalization seems incompatible with the refreshingly unbiased attitude of the rest of the article.-Tr. note.
UDU
Mist, mist, who in the morning would hang outside the curtain, you would fill the mouths and lungs of the camels sleeping in the paddock.
You, waiting in a silence of many snmll sounds, would see the sky open at the edge of the plain.
Each pale ray that sprang up past the hills two days' journey back, would form at last a white curtain: low above the plain.
Shadowless light that would begin a stealthy exploration of the sleeping quarters, how many times had you found the mist already there masquerading as the servant's breath?
There would be a bird to complain as it rose into the strange sky and when the dogs barked at the morning the sea like a dish of fruit would turn in the waker's mind, sweet to contemplate.
( Star in the west, still uttering your diminishing song as you fell below the plateau, who remembered that you were following the night over some land?)
THE CEMETERY
Holderlin (1770-1843)
Silent spot who shine green with young grass, Where man and woman sleep, where the crosses wait, Where friends come led from the outside; Where the windows are brilliant with clear glass.
When the high sky's light falls upon you
At noon, when the spring is staying with you, When a gray cloud there, humid . . . And softly the day hurries away with beauty.
What silence is not on the gray wall
Over which a tree hangs with fruit; With a black, wet with rose, foliage of mourning. The fruit is thick on the branch.
In the church there is a dark tranquility
And the altar is also small in this night ; There are few lovely things, But on the fields many a grasshopper sings in summer.
There if someone hears the sermons of the priest (The crowd of friends gathers beside) Who is with the dead man, what life, And what spirit shall be pious without being disturbed?
LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD
ARCHIBALD BUTTS
(Ed. Note: Mr. Butts, whose amazing excursus upon the Shakespearean authorship created a furor in a recent issue of THE MESSENGER,has kindly consented to publish some of the results of his present research into the origins of the better-known fairy tales. Mr. Butts believes that the modern child is entitled to the stories in their original form without the mythical and pseudoethical accretion with which the intervening centuries have burdened them. As soon as he has completed his work on Goode is Shakespeare, he plans to issue the results of his fairy tale research: in three volumes 12 mo. to be entitled Stories From the Brothers Grim or Slanderson's Fairy Tales for the Modern Child.)
UPON the downfall of the royalists in 1645, Lady Imogene Stafford, belle of the court of Charles I, retired to her Northumberland estates and prepared to pass the rest of her days in peace and religious meditation. Her decision was a result of a series of circumstances. In the first place, the collapse of the family fortunes following hard upon the death of her august and obliging husband on the field of Marston Moor rendered it impossible to maintain the London residence with anything approaching its former brilliance; moreover the cessation of court activities and the emigration of the younger nobility abandoned London to the puritans-an atmosphere not altogether compatible with Lady Imogene's well-known temperament. In the second place, Lady Imogene was left with a daughter, a maid of sixteen. It had been her hope within the year to have introduced the child at court-when the approach of the revolution had scattered the court to the winds. A social career being out of the question, Lady Imogene had planned a more chaste if less interesting future for the maiden. She brought her North with a view to marriage with one of the wealthy and highly respectable country gentry of Northumbria.
But while regarding her unselfish maternal schemes with proper approbation, one must confess that Lady Imogene's principal reason for her migration was a matter of far more personal interest: her famous beauty was fading. Those last years in London had been difficult. The hours of preparation for each public appearance, the tedious and unimaginary delicate application of cosmetics to lend the appropriate rose flush to the skin, the tortures of diet, the false curls, the artificial contours, the ever-increasing dread with which she approached the envious and unkindly scrutiny of her rivals-all this could now be forgotten forever. She frankly abandoned herself to
old age and obesity. And only when face and figure were past mending did she realize with regret how greatly she had been sustained by those peculiar pleasures attendant upon genteel and well-worded flattery. But Lady Imogene was a prudent woman . If she longed for masculine attention, she did not permit her desires to become generally known. She directed attention, rather, toward her daughter, the Honorable Mary Stafford, and with such success that she speedily brought about a match with a neighboring lord of modest rank and worse manners , but who was reputed to have profited quite acceptably through his interest in a local manufactory of fertilizers.
Very soon, Lady Imogene had acquired throughout Northumberland a reputation for wisdom and faultless exercise of the virtues. Meanwhile, her neighbor, Sir Francis Wolfe, watching the good lady's operations with not unkindly amusement , kept his counsel. He had known Lady Imogene at court.
As soon as Monk had restored the Stuarts to the throne of England and titled gentlemen could once more feel themselves reasonably safe off their own estates, a general migration of the nobility started for London. Sir Francis, upon setting out, stopped by at Stafford House to inquire into Lady Imogene's intentions. She was still a handsome creature, but he noted with a pang of regret how her hair was beginning to show streaks of grey.
"N'.ay, Lord Wolfe," she told 1 him, "I shall never return to court. For I am now a grandmother."
"And I, dear lady? Have I not three stalwart sons, two of whom have seen battle?"
"Ah yes , Sir Francis, but men like you never become old. A few white hairs serve only to make the beard more enticing. But I, no; if I left as belle of London, at least I shall not return as dowager of Northumbria. Court is for the young. I shall abide here in prayer and meditation in hope that I may see paradise at last."
She clasped her lovely hands, raised her eyes like a Murillo madonna, and gazed devoutly at the crystal chandelier.
In deepest gloom, Sir Francis left the mansion. With Lady Imogene, high priestess of gaiety at the court of the first Charles, turning for solace to prayer and meditation, he conjectured soberly whether the joyous folly of former days were capable of , being recaptured.
Lady Imogene continued to dwell in Northumbria and was seen no more in London. Whatever worldly passions continued to smoulder
THE MESSENGER
in her withering bosom were sublimated into a craving for certain delicious plum cakes her daughter Mary, now Lady Mary Hood, made with her own hands. Twice a week, Alice, Lady Mary's daughter, would visit her august and lonely grandmother with a heaping basket of these dainties. When she had been a very little girl, Alice had made the five-mile journey to Stafford House in a carriage with her governess, but, now that she was beginning to consider herself a young lady, she regularly made the trip on horseback. A trusted groom was appointed to accompany her, but the office of bodyguard was an exhausting one, for, Alice being an expert horsewoman, it was often more than the fellow could do to keep his charge in sight.
As she approached womanhood, Alice commenced to exhibit many of those charming characteristics which had made her grandmother a favorite in London. Accordingly, Lady Imogene hastened to seize every opportunity the child's visits afforded to impress upon her the most approved maxims of piety and righteousness. But Alice, it must be confessed, was too full of the joy of living to pay more than passing heed to the grandame's preachments. She had proper respect for Lady Imogene's undisputed nobility of character and high moral principles, but could not bring herself completely into accordance with the dowager's strict ideas of circumspection, and indeed, also, Alice often inadvertently subjected her grandmother's sensibilities to regretable shock.
Now it happened that at about the time of which we are speaking Lord Robert, youngest son of Sir Francis Wolfe, in the midst of a particularly active social season, suddenly quitted London for a few days of shooting on the family estate. He brought with him quantities of baggage and numbers of servants and disposed himself as befitted a gentleman. He followed the hound$ once or twice, but discovering the wild life of Northumbria to have become so tame by years of safety as to afford little sport to the gentleman hunter, he cursed his indolent neighbors whose peaceful proclivities had brought about such a condition and, turning his attention to his father's excellent wellstocked wine cellars, settled down to a protracted session of spirited drinking. It was during the forenoon of the third day of Lord Robert's immersion in this pastime that, chancing to glance out the window, he beheld the charming spectacle of a young woman clad in the best country fashions and wearing a crimson riding cloak
going at a gallop across his fields-her groom far behind. He inquired her name and, upon learning that this was the Honorable Alice Hood, recalled something of her grandmother's fame at court and determined to bring about an encounter with the granddaughter. "For," said he, "I perceive she has inherited something of the Stafford spirit."
He handled the matter with commendable adroitness as became a son of Sir Francis Wolfe. Having allowed himself a day or two to re g ain a state of passable soberness, he issued orders to the effect that all trespassers upon his preserves henceforth incontinently should be brought before him. Accordingly, upon her next trip bearing cakes to Stafford House, Alice, in pursuing her customary course regardless of boundaries or properties, speedily found herself under arrest. Sir Robert received the news with high satisfaction and made haste to garb himself in dazzling array; then, mounting his favorite hunter and placing himself before a picturesque background of live oaks and adoring lackeys , he ordered the miscreant to be brought before him. Upon perceiving how the fair young prisoner approached timidly upon the back of her white palfrey led by a rough fellow, Sir Robert affected great rage. He was deeply mortified. That the daughter of Lady Mary Hood and the granddaughter of Lady Imogene Stafford should have been treated like a common poacher! He was frankly ashamed of his men at not having been able to perceive visible signs of the lady's rank. Would she accept a thousand apologies? Would she permit Sir Robert to accompany her to the boundary of his estates to prevent any recurrence of so distressing a mistake?
And so Lord Robert Wolfe rode gallantly by the side of the Honorable Alice Hood-rode blithely, his great white plume waving in the breeze. And a discreet hundred yards behind in yellow-topped boots rode the groom from Hood House
Alice thought she had never heard anyone speak so genteely as Sir Robert. He spoke of the weather, the fields, and the autumn skies -all drab enough topics in the mouths of her rustic neighbors, but very fine-sounding indeed when embellished with the delicate wording and London accent of this charming young knight. Her heart beat more rapidly when· he quoted from the poets-and she noted with approval how he never once permitted a sentiment to slip into his conversation that had not been made scintillant with the phrases of the more approved writers. It was all very brilliant and Alice was
THE MESSENGER
not a little bewildered by so much learning and such polite and witty speech. But when he began to speak of London and the court, her eyes opened very wide. She had always supposed the court to be a stronghold of unspeakable wickedness. She told him so.
"Everyone, my child, who has never been there, believes court to be a stronghold of unspeakable wickedness."
"But my grandmother, Lady Imogene Stafford, has been often at court and she calls it a snare of Satan."
Sir Robert laughed gaily.
"When she is too old to enjoy it, she calls it a snare of Satan!"
"Sir Robert, I forbid you to speak so.. In Northumbria she is known as a paragon of all the virtues."
Sir Robert laughed again and told her what her august grandmother was called in London. Alice was properly shocked.
"Sir, you are very wicked, I am sure, to say such things."
"Very wicked indeed, dear child, but not too wicked to perceive in you an angel of beauty and perfection."
He took her little browri hand in his big white one. She made as if to withdraw it, but seeing how Sir Robert had no intention of releasing his hold, thought better of it and decided not to make a scene. Besides, no young man had ever held her hand like this before.
"Can I not make you realize," he continued softly, "that here in the dreary N orthlands you are wasting your beauty and your wit?
. . . since it is easy to see you are no fool. Why, you would be the most sought-after of all the ladies of London. Within a year the king himself would be at your feet, for Charles is no mean judge of women."
"I must not listen to you," she replied very much pleased. "I know the court to be a very sinful place. I have heard that the king himself often goes ahunting on the blessed Sabbath."
Sir Robert looked at her in astonishment.
"Is that all you have heard?"
"Is not that very wicked?"
"Very wicked," he agreed. "But when one considers what fun one has at court--"
"And do you think, sir, that we have no fun in Northumbria? Why, at home we have games every Saturday night."
"Games? That must be charming. We sometimes play games, too."
Then he described to her an ancient game they played at court. Alice was horrified, but allowed that there might be some interesting points in the pastime. However, she told him, such pastime were not for her. The granddaughter of the virtuous Lady Imogene must draw the line somewhere.
"Lady Imogene has had great influence upon you, I perceived."
"From my earliest childhood, she has been my model and ideal. I really could not do anything my grandmother would not do."
"I see," said Sir Robert smiling.
Now they had reached the edge of the Wolfe estate and the moment of parting had come. But again Sir Robert was conceived of a brilliant idea.
"A fine mare you are riding."
"Yes, this is my pet, Florizel. I'm very proud of her."
"Is she speedy?"
"Oh, quite. No horse in this neighborhood can even approach her at a long run."
"And yet I daresay with my Arabian hunter here, I could take the long route by Fordham Highgate to Stafford House and get there before you could arrive cutting straight across 1 the fields."
"Done!" she said with spirit as she turned and galloped off toward Stafford.
Sir Robert was singing as he passed like wind through Fordham Highgate.
Tradition has it that Alice Hood did not keep up the brave pace at which she started, but paused to listen to the birds sing and to pick posies. This is not altogether true; if she slackened her pace it was because she fell into a daydream about the gallant Sir Robert Wolfe and the astonishing games they were said to play at court. Only when Stafford House was looming up before her did she recall that she was running a race and so passed full tilt through the gates and down the wide carriage road. Th<:jdomestic who met her at the door had seen no one that answered to Sir Robert's description. She thanked him and ran upstairs to Lady Imogene's chamber with some vague notion of getting quickly through her mission in time to return to Hood House in the pleasant company of the gallant young knight. She burst into the great oak-panelled chamber without knocking.
THE MESSENGER
This was imprudent, for as she did so, there came a muffled cry and in the uncertain sober light Alice caught a brief glimpse of someone or something that hastily left the room-slamming the door opposite. Moreover, as she adjusted her eyes to the dimness, she observed how the heavy bedcurtains were closed-an unusual circumstance. She paused uncertainly. Her gaze wandered about the room, taking in the tall pictures of saints, the holy images, and other pious objects with which her worthy grandmother surrounded herself. Seeing nothing out of place, she stepped lightly across the floor and threw open the bedcurtains. There was certainly someone in the bed, but it did not look at all like Lady Imogene. The face was buried in the pillow, but there was the large white hand which lay upon the coverlet.
"O grandmother," she cried, "what big hands you have!"
"All the better to clasp your little ones," said Sir Robert as he turned toward her.*
The brothers Grimm relate how certain woodsmen passing at this moment, rescued little Alice Hood of the red riding cloak and killed the wicked Wolfe, but that is the degenerated form of the story prepared to prevent little children of a former era from being frightened. As a matter of fact, half an hour later Lady Imogene stood shivering in bare feet at her own chamber door. She would have gone in after her slippers, but her reputation for discretion was not unfounded. From within came a faint tinkling sound as of campanelli di camello al lontano.
*A series of ejaculations at this point have been purposely deleted. Their general tenor, however, may readily be infered from the test of the brothers Grimm which may be found in any child's fairy tale book.
HARBORSONG
PAUL BOWLES
-or the wind that plays in space and among the sandhills carries a jazzsong above the waves and sails and the crayfish move tearless among the piles of seaweed. White pebbles close to the edge of the river where sing the soft banjos of the wind fleeing from the ocean come one step closer to me, lend me your bodies ; here it is so far from the night. She said to me: never. I shall never understand what you think. And what does it matter? The jazzsong finishes with a laugh of salt and the wind whistles by the window.
The smoke of her cigarette which moves slowly in the gay room disappearing violently through the window is like her. She does not see me. Where the sailboats run and the sailors laugh at the lobsters the bed of the bay is soft and the wind that plays in space and among the sandhills does not hear the motors by the pond. The wind that carries the foxtrot from the faroff city does not see the train's black smoke when it arrives panting at noon.
I shall never understand you, you and your sandwiches! and the pines on the promontory say nothing. The foxes playing among the sandhills make pretty tracks.
Can you imagine; it's exactly like a tango from Nueva Gerona !
LONDON LETTER
SIDNEY HUNT
Dear, P. B.:
You were right to want to meet Schwitters. I met some friends of his last year. They say he's a great kid though 42. His Merz was great stuff-the best thing of its kind, in my view-a lively temper of! mind with no sob yearns and no snob-yearns about it. No outlet here for any advance beyond Sitwellianism and hightoned boudoir stuff; that's why mine goes out only to German and American papers -you get too much hitting below; the belt here where you get really sick of people with insides full of tuningforks and stewed prewnes, not to mention their useful formula against anything new, which is that It's All Been Done Before in Sterne's marbled page. Apart from people London's not so dusty ;--expensive, yes-but you don't notice that when you're used to it. And of course London's a nice holiday from art, as a German friend put it, and of course there are one or two-people. I suppose Ray died because it was too tender and beautiful. All the same with my incurable love of isolated effort I still have it in my mind to start up something again in a magazine.
Goodbye,
S. H.
(Sidney Hunt is an English artist and writer whose paintings and drawings have been in transition, Tambour, and Ray, and whose poems have been in Der Sturm, transition, Tambour, Morada, Pagany, blues, etc. He published two issues of the "too tender and beautiful" Ray, which remain achievements in format and typography.-Ed. note.)
THE MESSENGER
Member Intercollegiate Press llssociation of Virginia
RICHMOND COLLEGE
BRUCE ARCHER MORRISSETTE
THOMAS DUKE
H. G. KINCHELOE
WILLIAM BERRY
YANK BATTIATO
LUTHER WELLS
WESTHAMPTON COLLEGE
ELIZABETH GILL •
MAUDE MAHANEY •
JOHNNIE ADAMS •
Editor-in-Chief
Business Manager
Assistant Editor
llssistant Editor
Assistant Editor Staff llrtist
Editor-in-Chief
Business Manager . II ssistant Editor
THE MESSENGER is published every month from November to April inclusive by the students of the University of Richmond. Contributions are welcomed from members of the student bodies and faculties of both colleges, and from alumni. Manuscripts not found suitable for publication will be returned. Subscription rates are two dollars per year; thirty-five cents per single copy. All business communications should be addressed to the Business Managers.
Entered as second-class matter in the postoffice at the University of Richmond.
EDITORIAL
YOU will observe in this issue that schism has beset us; the ladies have drawn haughtily apart, and are holding their private bacchanalia behind these pages. It has been "thought best," by the more advanced Westhamptonites, that no Tower Hill screed henceforth should undergo the indignity of being published amid the subversive Soviet tracts of Messrs. Bowles, Linze, Plisnier, Goll, etc., and the perfumed anti-Lesbianism of unsigned, utter Last Songs for Bilitis. No more shall outraged Miss Trotskys feel it categorically imperative to write athletic, inchoate letters to The Collegian suggesting the burning of the whole issue, with the Richmond College Editor on top in the middle of the Hockey Field; no more need Literary Societies hold debates on "Should The Messenger Exist." For the ladies have drawn apart, and now you have only to look into the following dozen or so pages to find those Paterian hard gem-like flames which will impart to your moments, 0 douces jeunes filles, blanches, comme lys et plus qu,e la rose vermeilles, the "highest quality as they pass."
FINGERS
ISABEL TALIAFERRO
Always there in front of me, they point. Long streaks of flame before the sun is up; And pearl ringed fingers in the spider's web.
Tall pines that stretch out arms and wave their fingers, Green and silver.
Long grasses of autumn fields bow to the sweep of wind And beckon.
And on the sea-long fingers of the blue that only sailors know Reach out to seize, draw back, and fall away into the even green. In fall and spring dark, far-off clouds wing slowly near, Thin bird lines fingering north or south.
And in the sky a chain of stars leads on, The river, Eridanus, to the Greeks. And comet fingers fall, a million miles away, Silently, from darkness into darkness.
All leave behind the thoughtDo fingers point to farther stars?
DOLLS ON A STAIRWAY
MARGARET HILTON
BERNARD MARTIN.
MYRA MARTIN, his sister.
KATE MARTIN, his other sister.
GEORGE MARTIN, his brother.
THE scene is played on the top stairway landing of the old house which has been, for generations, the home of the Martin family. There is a great stairway, twisting its way from the floor of the house to the attic, winding through a now empty house, through rooms which have been darkened and unused for weeks. The landing is large and has served as a sitting room.
At the right, the top few steps of the stairway are seen leading up to the landing. A soft light, shot through with rays of deep red and old blue, comes through a great stained glass window which covers a large portion of the back wall. The design of the window consists of several figures clothed in dark red, deep purple and old blue. These figures seem to be circling and twisting about some central object, but the object itself is hidden by the winding figures. Apart from this group there stands one figure, alone, clothed in white. She appears to be uninterested in the rest, seeming rather to turn her eyes to the far away hills which form the background of the scene.
To the left of the stage several steps conclude the stairway and end in a door which leads to the attic. This door is hung with a heavy curtain, dark blue, almost black.
In the center of the stage in front of the window, is a long carved table of the period Italian Renaissance. This table is bare and reflects dimly the colors of the window. At either end of the table there is a chair. Beneath the window is a long low seat with bookcases at each end.
It is late afternoon when the play opens. The light through the window shines directly upon the table and the center of the landing.
Throughout the play the light shifts westward, and the shadows gradually lengthen towards the left of the stage, until, in the final moments the last ray of the sun rests upon the stairs which lead to the dark curtained door. When the curtain is raised it discloses Bernard Martin sitting in the armchair at the right end of the table.
THE MESSENGER
He sits low in his chair, meditating. Bernard Martin is the oldest of the four Martins, a rather young man, just rounding the forty corner, given to quiet gray tweeds and dark blue broadcloth in the way of clothes, and to well balanced, and considerate decisions in the way of thoughts. He does not judge his fellow beings without much weighing of opinion, and whe!l(_he has reached a decision concerning one of them, he is not at all certain that his conclusion is correct. As a city official, he enjoys some little success and influence, and a slight reputation as a philosopher.
As he sits, there are heard below, the voices of three persons ascending the stairway. At the foot of the stairs, the voices are tinged with the sounds of the outside world, enthusiastic and commonplace. As they wind up through the empty rooms, they become more hushed, more infected with the quiet solemnity of the house.
Myra Martin is the first to enter. She is a young woman to whom a growing family represents a world's absorbin g responsibility. George Martin follows her , a young man of thirty, keen to every business opportunity, with such an air of enthusiasm that one feels him crashing his way through every situation, successful, daring, somewhat regardless of other's feelings, or rather, n ot understanding them. He is followed by Kate, his twin and his femjnine counterpart. She is an artist whose creed is the beauty of shining colors and brilliant light, of gorgeous scenes and exotic effects. She cares little for, and cannot understand the softer grace of life, and beauty which rises at times out of ugliness.
Here is the beauty of vivid youth, and cannot grasp the beauty which rises out of the eternal struggle between the lovely and the unlovable.
MYRA: You here already, Bernard? We came by for you, but you had gone on ahead.
BERNARD( straightening from his reverie) : Yes, I started early so that I could walk.
MYRA: You have time to walk. The rest of us must hurry.
BERNARD:I take the time to walk. I'd rather, it's a good day out.
GEORGE:You walk because you can't afford to ride. That's pretty frank, but it's the truth.
BERNARD: Yes, that is the truth. Perhaps if I could ride I wouldn't be as happy as I am walking.
GEORGE: You never tried it out to see. You don't care to exert
DOLLSON A STAIRWAY
yourself to get the money to buy a car, so you content yourself by saying that you wouldn't be as happy if you could ride.
BERNARD:And you have never tried walking.
(The women have been laying aside their wraps. They all seat themselves. There is a moment of silence, as if the four whose interests now lie so far apart, are groping their way back to old knowledge of each other.)
MYRA (nodding her head toward the window seat) : We used to play dolls on that seat, Bernard.
BERNARD:That was before you had live dolls to fuss over, Myra. You made so much over your dolls, always changing their dresses, or putting them to bed, getting them up or making them learn their manners. You didn't give them any rest. I remember you wanted your dolls to be the well behaved heads of families. George, there, wanted his all to be millionaires.
KATE: I had a Japanese doll, I remember and one that I wanted to be an actress. George, you used to help me dress them. But your dolls, Bernard-you were so strange about them. You would forget them for days and say that other things were more important. Then you would feverishly dress one and let the rest go. Then you would tell us that clothes didn't matter, or else you would tire of : the whole game and say that dolls were a foolish girl's game.
BERNARD:My dolls mus1Jhave been the black sheep of the family, except Lettie's.
GEORGE: Somehow I can't remember Lettie's , dolls.
BERNARD: Lettie's were never very well cared for, but they did interesting things.
KATE: Yes, rather interesting, but not very exciting, even for a doll. One of them discovered a new world, but she made him die on the way home. I wanted her to let him come back with colors flying and crowds on the pier.
MYRA: And I remember that she used to keep a piece of all their dresses and she couldn't bear to break one even though she got a new one to take its place. I am afraid she treated Father like that-too careful of his wishes and too tender hearted with him. She let the best time of her life go by to stay here with him after we had all left and that was ten whole years ago.
BERNARD: Not tender hearted or weak, she wasn't exactly that. She didn't care about the things we did.
GEORGE: Sentimental - entirely sentimental - let all the best
THE MESSENGER
things in her life go by for old tom foolery that couldn't mean a thing in her life-life keeping this old house and taking all the care of Father when a trained nurse could have done it better. When we urged her to put a furnace in this cold place, she said that the fireplaces were much more beautiful and appropriate, but they kept her wearing a shawl and gave her rheumatism.
KATE: She did love beautiful thing s , mostly old furniture and books. She had good taste in books and pictures and she knew a little about them, but she was so old fashioned, and almost foolish in the way she felt about all the old things here.
MYRA: I'll never forget the way she looked at you when you asked her to let you have the mahogany spinet made into a writing desk. What was it that she said to you?
KATE: She said, "Kate, no words that you could ever write on such a desk would compare with an ivory keyboard on which old tunes were played." And I never quite dared to mention the subject again.
GEORGE: Sentiment, just plain sentimental. And when she could have had her life to live for herself after Father died-she had to die. Rather tragic, I call it.
BERNARD: Tragic, yes. And somehow I have imagined that she died for sentiment.
MYRA(gasping): Bernard! That wasn't it. You know very well that it was double pneumonia.
(There is a silence. Then B ernard laughs. It startles him that he had laughed in such a manner, that he has laughed at all. It startles the group~ for it is not his laugh at all, it is too gentle, too comprehending. It is a laugh that has grouped its way through tears to understanding, and is so apart from the man that it seems not to belong to him. It is a tolerant little laugh that sees many things outside the present. The three gasp. There is a moment of bewilderd silence, from which Myra is the first to speak.)
MYRA: Bernard, that wasn't a bit like you. Are you well?
BERNARD: I can't understand it myself. It didn't seem to come from my own throat, yet it seemed to express my thoughts somehow.
KATE: What was it that you were thinking of?
BERNARD: Letty-and her dolls.
KATE (puzzled) : Oh!
(There is a moment of silence. Then Kate speaks again.)
KATE: We've been here a long time. That shadow has crawled
DOLLSON A STAIRWAY
half way across the table. Can't we finish this and go? The landing isn't as bright as it used to be.
MYRA: This whole house-it seems so unnatural, so dead.
BERNARD:The spirit and the understanding is gone out of it. And I know, now, that they were Letty.
GEORGE: Well, let's get to the point of this meeting. What we have to do today is divide up the goods in this house and decide what we are going to do with the property.
BERNARD:What do you suggest?
GEORGE: I think the best way will be to sell it, all of it, the house and furnishings together. That will save fighting over each piece. We can simply divide the money, since an equal division is all that the will provides.
KATE: I think that will be best. Yet I would like to have that spinet.
MYRA: That's not what Letty would have wanted. She would have wanted one of us to keep the house and take care of all the old things that she kept, not for their value, but for what they meant.
BERNARD:There is one thing that we've overlooked. That attic, there, and all that is there behind the curtain, was left to Letty. No one else was to go up there.
KATE: But Letty died before the will could be carried out.
GEORGE:We'll have to find out what is there in order to settle the estate.
MfRA: No, that belongs to Letty. We can divide the rest.
GEORGE: But when we sell the house.
MYRA: We don't need to sell the house.
(And Myra laughs. It is the same laugh, strange, yet full of understanding. Kate and George are surprised and annoyed, but Bernard smiles.)
MYRA: I don't understand. I never, laughed that way before. It was the same as your laugh, Bernard.
BERNARD: Yes, it was the same laugh. Now you understand. (Their eyes meet, as if the laugh ha,d lifted a curtain between them, and they see each other in a new light.)
KATE: This house is geting too dark and gloomy. Let's hurry and go.
GEORGE:Well, what are we going to do? You two want to keep the house. And Kate and I want to sell it. Then that attic--
THE MESSENGER
KATE: Whatever is up there can't be of very much value. And even if it is, it belongs to us.
BERNARD: No, there can't be anything of value there, so why not leave it as it is. It belongs to Letty.
KATE: But Letty is dead and it doesn't matter. It really belongs to us.
MYRA: No, it still belongs to Letty. And I think we should leave it untouched.
KATE: That's carrying sentiment too far. We can be sensible about this. What harm can there be in going up into the attic?'
GEORGE: It's the only sensible thing to do, and yet I don't like to do it.
BERNARD: I'd rather that you didn't go, Kate.
KATE: Why?
BERNARD : I don't know.
KATE: George, you come with me. We'll go up there. Sentiment like this is beyond reason. Letty is dead. We can't alter that. And she can't claim her things. By the common sense you have to admit that they belong to us.
(She rises and starts towards the stairs. George follows her. At the foot of the steps they stop. George puts his foot on the first step. He stops.)
GEORGE:I can't go up there, Kate. Something seems to be across the step and keeps me from going up the stairs. (He hesitates and turns back.) I rather th~nk you two are right. We had better keep the house together, you and Myra and I. (And George laughs. It is perhaps a bit more stubborn and low, but it is the same laugh. This time they take little notice of it except Kate, who looks hurt and surprised. The rest smile knowingly.)
KATE (scornfully): I won't let sentiment rule me. I can go up there and I can find out what is behind that curtain. And I shall show you that there is nothing which shouldn't belong to us. (She starts up the steps. The first she climbs resolutely, boldly. As she nears the top she is l'ess sure. The three stand below, their eyes fastened on her. The last of the sunlight bathes the stairs and the figure ascending them. When she reaches the curtain she wavers, puts her hand out-touching it timidly, then with a slight defiant tossing of her head she throws it back. She enters, and the curtain falls back in place. There is a silence while the three stand in the now darkened room. Then from behind the curtain comes aj strange laugh.)
EVERYBODY IS SO STUPID
EVELYN DUNCAN
"I never had a bit of fun
After I reached the age of one."
IJUST love tomatoes. In fact they are the only vegetable I don't have to make myself eat, but they always give me indigestion. Such pains. Nobody knows how I suffer. Please pass the salt. Not that anybody cares, and I don't care whether anybody cares or not. People irritate me, but I certainly can't stay by myself all the time. You have no idea how lonesome I get. I'd take some pepper if I could get it. My boarding house is so lonesome. I just rush away. So much noise, but its just as bad on the street. No, I don't want any spinach. Radios drive me wild (as I was saying before that waitress passed the spinach), and I detest onions. But there's no use moving to another boarding house. There's no such thing as a good one. Besides the last time I moved I left a pair of step-ins. Somebody stole them after I left, because when I went back they weren't there and I couldn't get any more like them. I'll just have to worry along with three pairs. I won't get an odd pair. It drives me wild to have my underclothes of different patterns. It's the same way with handkerchiefs. I just throw away the ones people give me at Christmas. Such a waste. I want mine all white, so I buy myself three dozen. I don't see why people give Christmas presents anyway. I hate to give them and I hate to get them. But everybody's so stupid. Nobody ever does anything sensible. Now look at that waitress bringing me pie. I distinctly said apple sauce. Well, she is taking it to that fat woman over here. I hate fat women. They are so big. I don't see why anybody should take up so much space. Speaking of spacemy room is too small. No, I don't want to take a larger one. It's too much trouble to keep it clean. I hate to clean up. Somebody always did it for me at home. I can't stand a mess, but anything's better than no privacy. I never got any at home. Why should anybody live at home? Everybody does in Europe. It's awful. I hate Europe. They jabber so fast. I bet they can't even understand each other. I don't want to understand them
myself. I hate foreign languages. "How do you do, Mrs. Mackay?" I hate to speak to people. I feel so silly grinning like a fool. I kept one of my school children in today for being silly. Not that it will do her any good. They're all silly. I would have kept the whole class in, but I was so sick of looking at them, I couldn't stand it, so I just kept the silliest. The whole roomful gab and laugh all day. If they have to laugh, I wish they'd stay away from me to do it. I hate to hear people laugh. Well, I reckon I'll drink water I hate water, but I hate tea and coffee worse and milk makes me sick. Liquor? A drop has never touched my lips and never will. It would cheer me up? I don't want to be cheered up. I hate cheerful people. They grin too much. What, you're going? Well , I hate to eat alone, but nobody considers me. I've just got my dessert left anyway. Good-night. I betcha you'll catch cold in that thin coat.
SAID THE FIREFLY TO THE WORM
KATHERINE BRUGH
A long and lonesome worm, one night, Wriggling home by a firefly's light, Decried the fate that made him go, The journey on his belly-O . He said to the firefly, soaring high, "I wish that I, like you, could fly Above the world with light ablaze, That all the world my glow might praise." With scorn, the firefly turned his head, "Away, fool worm, be gone," he said, "And never let me hear you whine For a pair of wings and a lamp like mine; For, while you in cool earth lie curled, I burn and burn, to light the world."
"Dearest Mother:"
CHINESE BLOCKS
MARY LUCILE SAUNDERS
No. 2: LETTERS
"Baptist Mission, "Shiu Chow, S. China.
She was tired of writing letters to the homeland, tired of being forcedly happy and spontaneous in them . . . especially now that the board had cut down appropriations, just when the Women's Bible School was beginning to do well . . they wouldn't dare cut a station short if it were as big as Canton that was the fairness of those in power the money went to the big stations about which they could boast, could point to with pride as being "the biggest and finest mission station in China" . . . as for the small stations interior, precious little chance they had of being built up . . . oh! well.
"I'm rather tardy, per custom, in answering your last, but I have been a little more rushed than usual-also a little lazier these last few weeks. This summer sun would make even you lazy, although I must say I can't quite imagine you as other than bustling, very business-like, through your affairs.
"The country is in a little unrest at the present, but don't believe any of the wild tales the papers may tell. I have often wondered, and still do for that matter, just where in the world they get such stories. The people are disturbed, but that is to be expected with all this internal conflict between the North and the South, coupled with Russia's opposition and increasing power. But we are perfectly safe, not for the fact of our being missionaries, but because we are not British and in business. The Chinese certainly do have a hatred for the poor British business man ....
"The hospital keeps me on the run most of the time, although on a whole it is somewhat more encouraging than usual. We are all somewhat under a tension as the cholera season approaches, but I think if we can make the Chinese keep their heads we shall pull through all right. If this heat doesn't break soon, though, I am afraid it will mean a typhoid epidemic, too.
"I know this will gladden you. There were three new con-
THE MESSENGER
verts from our last revival meeting a short time ago. Mr. Rankin did the preaching. We were all so proud of him. It was the first big meeting that he had ever held and he really did quite well. He was most scared that he would forget his Chinese, but his fluency amazed us all."
Just a few more paragraphs and she could close with a decent conscience. There was such a heavy silence about . . . if it would only last until she could finish this letter, she might get some sleep. It was this craving for rest, this gnawing in her head that was getting under her nerves and breaking them down.
She almost wished she were like that merchant from the country. It had taken the whole hospital staff to control him during the worst of his attack and she and the Chinese orderly had fought all night to save him. Early this morning he had died, raving like a dog that had bit him, but he hadn't realized what he was suffering, or known what agony he was undergoing-he was too far gone for that.
Why wasn't she insensible? She had to face enough the whimpering cries of the captured soldiers as they were led to execution mere boys couldn't be expected to face death calmly . . . the heavy breathing of soldiers who had chanced to slip and had been beaten until they didn't even wince under the blows, but lay sprawled, a senseless, inert mass the frenzy of the executioners as they shot at their bound victims, so skillfully missing the fatal parts that the condemned men could be heard pleading an hour or so after the command had first been given . . . and now in response to the pastor's plea for decency, the officials have chosen the lot in front of the house for the execution grounds no one leaves the house who does not have to pass by those sprawling forms, heedless of the scorching sun why couldn't she go under and escape all this? But she simply must finish her letter. She had been speaking of Mr. Rankin.
"That reminds me, Mother, of a good joke on him, that I don't think I have written you. I think it was the first evening of the revival and he had to end the meeting with a prayer. Bravely he started off and for a while he did so well that we all sat back in our seats with ease and thanksgiving. But time passed and the prayer continued. The Chinese began fidgeting,
CHINESEBLOCKS
this child and that child got up and ran out, and finally even I looked up. You never saw such a look of helplessness on a man's face. At first I was blank and then came discernment. He had forgotten how to close a prayer and was still praying in hopes that the inspiration would be forthcoming. Finally he lost faith and stepping up to his teacher spoke a few words. The old fellow rose to the occasion and grandly pronounced the benediction. Even now we all laugh and tease the poor man until he wants to slay us all.
"You'll pardon me if I close, but I simply am too sleepy to think, much less write a decent letter. I'm living as healthy as ever.
"Best love, "GRACE."
Now she would go to the hospital it was too late to get any sleep before inspection. There was her pencil and pad it was the last one she had and there wouldn't be any more until the next mail came in from U S. and her quinine was running low some could be gotten at the dispensary. She almost forgot; her pith hat . . . good thing that she had looked back, otherwise there might have been some more weeks of agony in the dark room where even the absence of light aggravated the pains of sunstroke.
EDITORIAL-WESTHAMPTON
HERE it is-the first issue in which the new plan has been put into effect. Westhampton has decided to improve the quality and variety of its material. The student body believes that the best way to do this is to separate the work of the two schools, for a time at least, so that each school can see exactly what is being done so that each division will stand or fall under its own merit.
The arrangement is not permanent. It will probably be in effect for this year only, because we do not want to disrupt the unity of the magazine entirely. If, however, at the end of that time it has succeeded in making the students of each college feel their personal responsibility for the success of THE MESSENGER, it will have served its purpose.
-WESTHAMPTON EDITOR-IN-CHIEF.
A FANTASY
ADELAIDEHOLLOWAY
Characters: MARY. THE SHOEMAKER. THE BAKER'SBOY. THE HUNTER.
Characters in the Dream:
Mary as she wishes she were. The Shoemaker, her father. A Prince disguised as a hunter.
THE scene is laid in a distant land many years ago. The characters wear the traditional fairy-story costumes. Mary herself is not especially pretty; neither is she ugly. Her hair is a plain, brownish color. The other characters need no description. In her dream Mary is a beautiful, golden-haired creature. Here, also, the costumes are of the same design, but are more colorful and fantastic.
SCEN'E I.
Before the Shoemaker's house on the edge of a great forest. It is a small thatched cottage with a door and steps to the right and a window to the left. There is a table under the window. A fence of low, white palings, with a gate, can be seen on either side of the house, which stands a little to the right of the center of the stage. The light is subdued, because of the tall trees and the time of day. Mary sits on the edge of the table, dreaming. The sound of the Shoemaker's hammer from within is heard as the curtain rises. The Shoemaker comes out of the house.
MARY (with a start): Oh! You startled me!
SHOEMAKER:Did I? What were you doing for me to scare you?
MARY: Just dreaming. How soon you have finished that pair!
SHOEMAKER:Not so quickly as you think. You spend too much time dreaming, Mary. Look at them now. Aren't they a fine pair?
MARY: Yes. Who are they for ?
SHOEMAKER:The Baker. It is a good job, even if I do say it, as shouldn't. I'll get a nice sum for them, too.
MARY: Shall I get supper now?
SHOEMAKER:No. Wait awhile. The Baker promised to come for them. He should be here soon now.
MARY: I hope he'll hurry.
SHOEMAKER:So do I. I'm hungry after working all day.
(A horn is heard in the forest.)
MARY : What was that?
SHOEMAKER:It sounded like a hunter's horn.
MARY : Who might it be?
SHOEMAKER:J don't know.
(The Baker's Boy enters from the left, carrying a large bundle. He is very much excited.)
BAKER ' S BoY: Master was too busy to come for his shoes so he sent me.
SHOEMAKER:Why should he be so busy today? It's not a holiday if I remember rightly.
BAKER ' S Boy: You must not have heard, then.
SHOEMAKER:Heard what?
BAKER ' S Boy: That the Prince is spending the night at the village. Master has been baking all day-the best pies and pastries.
SHOEMAKER:It's a lucky day for him.
BAKER'SBoY: The Prince has been hunting all day in the forest.
MARY: That must have been his horn we heard, Father.
BAKER'SBoY: Yes. I heard it, too, as I was coming. They're expecting him to pass this way any minute now. Oh! Master wants new soles on these shoes. And where are the new ones? He'll want them to wear when he waits on the Prince at supper.
MARY: You had better hurry then, or you'll be late.
( They hear the riders coming toward them in the forest.)
BAKER'SBoy: Listen! Hear them? I've got to go. Oh! Master would like to get these shoes in the morning if you can have them ready.
SHOEMAKER:I think I can.
BAKER'SBoy: If you come now, you can see the Prince when he passes.
(They all go out left. The sound of the horses' hoofs grows louder and then dies away. Mary and the Shoemaker return.)
THE MESSENGER
MARY: Could you see the Prince, Father?
SHOEMAKER:No. I couldn't tell which he was. They all looked alike to me.
MARY: Maybe he is lost in the forest. Maybe a wicked old witch has turned him and his horse and dogs into stone, the way the witch did in that story Mother used to tell me.
SHOEMAKER: Nonsense, child! You shouldn't keep such silly notions in your head. Come, now, and get the supper. Is everything ready?
MARY: Yes, Father.
(They move the table which is under the window toward the cent er of the stage and to the left. The Shoemaker brings stools from the/ house and plaires them on each side of the table. Mary spreads the1 cloth and then places an earthen bowl of vegetables, a piece of cheese, a loaf of bread, a jug of milk, two wooden spoons, a knife, and two plates on the table. It is darker, with a light in the house. Suddenly a loud knocking is heard at the back o~ the house.)
MARY (jumping up) : What was that ?
SHOEMAKER:Someone at the back door, I suppose. Go quickly and see.
(Mary goes around the house through the gate at the left. The Shoemaker rises and peers around the corner. Mary returns with the Hunter.)
HUNTER: Good evening.
SHOEMAKER:Good evening. What can I do for you?
HUNTER: Am I far from the village?
SHOEMAKER: You're in it now, sir, though our house is a bit far from the rest. Are you one of the Prince's men?
HUNTER: Yes. My horse gave out on me and they left me behind. I would have been lost if I hadn't seen your light.
SHOEMAKER: Won't you stay and eat with us? We were just sitting down when we heard your knock.
HUNTER: No, thank you. I'll be needed at the village. I must get along.
MARY: Weren't you afraid, sir? This forest is enchanted, you know.
SHOEMAKER: Nonsense, Mary! Hush! Don't mind her, sir; she's a queer child. Still, she's a good daughter to me.
HUNTER: If you will just show me the road--
A FANTASY
SHOEMAKER: It's right there. (He points left.) You can't miss it. The village is to your right. You'll be there in a few minutes. Good night to you, sir.
HUNTER : Thank you. (He goes out left; they sit down again.)
MARY: Maybe that was the Prince, Father. He had such nice manners. Perhaps he lost his way following an enchanted stag.
SHOEMAKER: Nonsense, child! What fancies fill your head! Do you suppose they would have left the Prince by himself in the forest?
(CURTAIN)
SCENE II.
(The scene is the same. There is a soft, dreamy music as the curtain rises and as Mary enters from the house, she wears a long, clinging night gown and carries cushions, which she arranges on the steps. The light is dim.)
MARY (dreamily, as she sits on the steps): I wonder if he could have been the Prince. I wonder-a real Prince-(her voice fades. As she sits there, her dream appears on the stage to the left).
THE DREAM
(Mary and the Shoemaker enter from the left carrying a table similar to the one under the window, but green. Mary spreads the pale green cloth and brings in the food and places it. The Shoemaker gets two stools and places one on each side of the table. They sit and eat. There is the sound of a horn in the forest. The lights become glowing and unearthly.)
MARY: What was that?
SHOEMAKER: It sounded like a hunter's horn.
MARY: Who mighf it be?
SHOEMAKER: Didn't you know? The Prince has been hunting in the forest today. He plans to spend the night in the village. (There is the sound of many people riding toward them in the forest.)
SHOEMAKER: Listen! You can hear them now. Let us go and watch them as they pass. (They go out left. The sound of the hoofs grow louder and fades away. Mary and the Shoemaker return.)
MARY: Could you see the Prince, Father?
SHOEMAKER: No. I couldn't tell which he was. They all looked alike to me.
THE MESSENGER
MARY: Maybe he is lost in the forest. Perhaps a wicked old witch has turned him and his horse and dogs into stones the way the witch did in that story Mother used to tell me.
SHOEMAKER:I hardly think that could happen, dear. Come, let us finish our supper. ( They sit down to the table and eat for a while in silence. There is a sudden loud knocking.)
MARY (jitmping up) : What was that?
SHOEMAKER:Someone at the back door, I suppose. Go quickly and see. (She goes out through the trees at the back and returns with the Prince disguised as a hunter.)
PRINCE: Good evening.
SHOEMAKER: Good evening, sir. Is there anything I can do for you?
PRINCE: Yes. Is there a village near?
SHOEMAKER:You are in one now, sir, though our house is a bit far from the rest. Are you of the Prince's party?
PRINCE: Well, yes-in a way.
SHOEMAKER:How did you get separated from the others?
PRINCE: It was quite early in the afternoon that I lost them. I happened to catch a glimpse of a pure white stag as I was riding along. At first, I thought it was just the sunlight or my imagination, but it kept attracting my attention until I could not help following it. I have been riding after it all afternoon, but just a few minutes ago it vanished completely. I should have been lost if I had not seen your light.
MARY: It must have been an enchanted stag to vanish so completely.
PRINCE: I have begun to think so myself.
MARY: And if it was an enchanted stag you must be a prince, for such things are seen only by those of royal blood. You are the Prince, aren't you?
PRINCE: Yes, I am the Prince. And you, will you be my Princess?
MARY: Yes, I would like to be your Princess.
SHOEMAKER:0 sir, you surely cannot make my daughter into a Princess!
PRINCE (ardently) : Oh, yes I can. She is more beautiful than any maiden I have ever seen, and I shall make her my bride.
SHOEMAKER:Far be it from me to stand in the way. Will your highness stay and eat with us?
PRINCE: Thank you, but I must not. My followers will worry about me if I do not join them soon. (To Mary) : Good-bye. Will you be ready to come with me when I leave in the morning? (He kisses her hand romantically.)
MARY (softly) : Yes.
( 'CURTAIN)
SCENE III.
(The scene is the same. It is late the next morning. The sound of the Shoemaker's hammer can be heard within. The hammering stops and the Shoemaker appears at the door. The light is bright. He comes out talking, expecting to find a listener outside.)
SHOEMAKER:Well, well! Here I am through putting those soles on, and the Baker hasn't sent for them yet. It's a wonder. Mary! Oh Mary!
(Mary enters from the forest toward the back.) Run see if you can see the Baker or the Baker's Boy coming. I'd like to hear what they say about the Prince's visit. (Mary goes out left.)
MARY ( calling) : It's the Baker's Boy, and he's almost here. (Re-enters.) Do you suppose the Prince has gone yet?
SHOEMAKER:I don't know when they were going. (The Baker's Boy enters from the left.)
BAKER'SBoy: Do you have the shoes ready?
SHOEMAKER:Yes; has the Prince gone?
BAKER'SBoY: Sure. They left early this morning. You ought to have been at the inn last night. All the men and horses and dogsa regular hullabaloo !
MARY (eagerly) : What did the Prince look like? We didn't really see him last night, you know.
BAKER's Boy: Oh! He wasn't much-kind of fat and middleaged. And cross! The hunt must not have agreed with him.
MARY ( her dreams shattered) : Oh dear! I thought he would be young and handsome.
BAKER's BoY: (paying no attention) : But there was some real excitement this morning. They whipped one of the grooms for lagging behind and then riding his horse to death trying to catch up. He said that the horse wasn't any good from the first, and that he couldn't help if it had died on his hands. But, of course, they didn't listen to that. He was a handsome fellow, too.
