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DOLORES DEL RIO* tells why it's good business for her to smoke Luckies
"That $50,000 insurance is a studio precaution against my holding up a picture," says Miss Del Rio. "So I take no chances on an irritated throat. No matter how much I use my voice in acting, I always find Luckies gentle."
They will he gentle on your throat, too. Here's why Luckies' exclusive "Toasting" process expels certain harsh irritants found in all tobacco. This makes Luckies' fine tobaccos even finer ... a light smoke.
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•DOLORES DEL RIO
STARRING IN THE 20th CENTURY-FOX PICTURE, "SHANGHAI DEADLINE"
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i
MARCH 15th is the DEADLINE!
By 6 P.M. on that date all entries in the PDE-MESSENGERshort-story
contest must be received at THE MESSENGERoffice in the Playhouse or
by post, addressed: THE MESSENGER,P . 0. Box 173, University of
Richmond.
Contestants are reminded that lengths may vary from twenty-five hun-
dred to seventy-five hundred words and that the theme and style of the
story may be of the writer's choice.
The contest is closed to members of PDE and THE MESSENGERstaff.
i THE MESSENGERI
UNIVERSITYOF RICHMOND
-=<:><:><:><::Y<::YCYCY:;:y<:;:y<:;:y<:;::-o,,<:;::-o,,<:;::-o,,<~~=',<=',<=',<:--,.<:--,.<',.<',.<',.<--..<'--..<'-.,,,-C---.<'---.<----.~
GEORGE SCHEER , Editor-in-Chief; J. H KELLOGG, Richmond College Editor; LAVIN!:\ : WINSTON , ]11/esth a mpton College Editor; STUART GRAHAM, PAUL SAUNIER, JR., ROYALL BRANDIS, MARTHA ELLIS, MARIE KEYSER, EUGENIA JOEL, Assistant Editors,· R. M. C.
: HARRIS, JR. , B11siness Manager; JOHN S. HARRIS, MILDRED HARRELL, Assistant Business : M anagers. 25c per issue; $ l.00 per year.
By ETHEL O'BRIEN
THE THINKER,sitting in his usual position on a granite rock, perceived an Old Man and a mule cart, slowly wending their way up the rocky slope. As the man and his mules drew nigh, there loomed into sight in the cart a gigantic pair of scales.
''Where are you going with your scales, Old Man?" queried the Thinker.
The Old Man smiled, 'Tm a peddler, young chap, an' this here pair o' scales is the last piece o' my wares. Fer nigh on seventy years now I've tried to sell 'em, but no one'll buy 'em."
"Are they broken, Old Man?"
"No, though I can't say as you might think they were, son."
"How so?" asked the Thinker.
The Old Man placed a heavy rock on the scales, but they did not move. "You see, son, these here scales don't weigh quantities; they weigh qualities. Only trouble is, I've never been able to find the right ones. Now I've gotta be gettin' along."
When the Old Man had disappeared from sight, the Thinker again became immersed in thought. "Qualities," he pondered. Then he cast his telescopic eyes far down into the valley, where a prosperous city lay. He gazed long at the sight of men, like ants, industriously building up and tearing down the rudiments of their civilization, and he saw that they all lacked the sense of quality. Above all, he noted that the lack of this sense of quality
find the 1lzinlce't,.$'till
was most apparent in their literature and art, for of course it is in literature and art that the weaknesses of a people's intellect must needs show up.
"Just why," he reflected, "did this people have no sense of quality, and therefore no sense of true art or true literature?" Then he bethought himself of a statement of Oscar Wilde's: "An age that has no criticism is either an age in which art is immobile, hieratic, and confined to the reproduction of formal forms, or an age that possesses no art at all. There has never been a creative age that has not been critical too."
"No criticism." This people in this age did not take the time or the trouble to criticize what they had produced. They were much too busy producing more of what had already been produced, much too smugly satisfied with themselves to allow for criticism.
The Thinker prepared to study the situation, but before he could collect all his materials, he received an order from the government commissioning him to figure up the approximate cost of gilding the lilies of the fields.
II
Meanwhile the Old Man had arrived at the city. His gigantic scales caused a sensation. No one was interested in the fact that they did not work; it was their size that mattered. The largest cigarette manufacturer in the country offered to rent them as an advertisement for his product. Amateur photographers flocked about them in an effort to make trick shots. The mayor invited the peddler to dinner, while the mayor's wife inveigled him into
1 J
speaking at the Ladies' Delphian Society on the following Tuesday. The Old Man smilingly agreed to all proposals, but the next morning when they went to look for him, he and his scales and his mules were gone.
Searching parties were immediately sent out in all directions, the wrong directions, of course, for the Old Man with his mules and his scales was quietly reposing under the shade of a huge elm tree at the end of the mayor's back yard.
III
"Qualities!" murmered the peddler. "Sure do wish I could find the right ones." He looked sadly at his scales as usual. Then he pulled a book out of his pocket.
"Picked this up off the mayor's parlor table, mules." He stroked one of the mule's nose.
"By a fellow named Bacon-seems as if I've heard of him somewheres before. It's a book o' essays. Says here in the front that this Bacon was born in 1560 an' died in 1626. King James o' England made him a knight 'cause he liked his writin' so much.
"Looka here, Jeff, on this page in the front where there's some sayin's o' people that've really studied him. Here's a Mr. Sidney Lee, who wrote a book on him. Says, 'for terseness and pithiness of expression there is nothing in English to match Bacon's style in the essays.'
That means, mules, he said a lot, but quicklike . . . 'his reflections on human life which he embodied there, his comments on human nature, especially on human infirmities, owe most of their force to the stimulating vigor which he breathed into English words.' . . .
An' that says that he jostled the words up so as to sort of reincarnate 'em.
"There's a Mr. Burke says, 'who is there, that upon hearing the name of Lord Bacon, does not instantly recognize everything of genius in the most profound, everything of
discovery the most penetrating, everything of observation on human life the most distinguished and refined.' "
The peddler pulled a hunk of chewing tobacco from his pocket and commenced to digress on his subject, all the while chewing contently.
"Says here, Sadie, what he did was to write down anything he thought had quality to it, -' cause he wrote other things too, on scientific an' religious subjects-then he divided the stuff into sets, an' sewed 'em up with his ideas-called 'em essays. There's one on truth, an' one on· adversity, an' one on atheism, an' here's one on studies. Let's read a little bit, mules. Says here: 'read not to contradict and confute; nor to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and discourse; but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others are to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested ... .' " Here he paused and chewed off another corner from his tobacco.
"There's a heap o' downright common sense in that hunk, mules. Just think o' the people that like to say a book's bad 'cause they think that makes 'em seem as if they were smart. An' take all these people that j es' read a book 'cause somebody else is readin' it. Jumpin' Jehosophat! Will you remember how everybody was readin' somethin' called Anthony Adverse an' somethin' else called Gone With The Wind last year? Then there's a heap o' people j es' read so as they can talk about it, or maybe so as they'll have somethin' to talk about. You know, Sadie, seems to me that they oughta post this sentence o' Bacon's on every bill board in the country, same's they do with those toothpaste ads. Guess your mind's j es' as important as your teeth.
"Gettin' down to this last part . . . 'to weigh and consider' in other words what [ 2]
you oughta do with a book is to put it on a set o' scales an' see if . . . Jumpin' Jehosophat! Maybe that's what I can use these scales fer!
"Will you look? Mules, will you look? It's amovin', by gum, it's amovin'. Say, where's that carse darn mayor? ... Ugh ... "
In his excitement, the Old Man nearly strangled himself on the cud of tobacco. Finally he managed to cough it up. Then, yelling for the mayor at the top of his lungs, he drove up to the house. But neither the mayor nor anyone else was there. Still shouting, the Old Man drove into the town, where the remnant of the befuddled searching party ran to him.
IV
"Looka here! Looka here, everybody!" He pointed to the scales in triumph. "They're aworkin'. I jes' put this book o' Bacon's on 'em, an' they started to work. I knew they'd weigh qualities, only I never would've found what qualities, if this here book hadn't told me. See, it says here: 'read not to contradict and confute; nor to believe and take for granted; nor to talk and discourse; but to weigh and consider.' To weigh and consider, that's the point!"
A young man with a shock of black hair sauntered up to the peddler and addressed him in bored tones.
"Old man, all Bacon is saying in that sentence is that we should criticize the literature we read."
"Seems to me, son, that that's a pretty good idee."
"My dear man, I am a poet. 1 am far too busy creating literature to waste time criticizing what other people write."
"And that's your trouble, Wilfred. I've always said you talked too much and thought too little. It's the same way with your writing -you write too much and read too little. Ask your mother if I haven't said that."
A stout matron with a determined look in her eye thrust herself through the crowd. After sending a triumphant look in the young man's direction, she turned to the peddler.
"Old man-I don't know your name-I've just been reading the most fascinating book. Here, I have it with me. I do think you ought to read it-Wilfred! Wilfred! Where are you going? Now you stay right here, young man . What I'm going to say partially concerns you. Goodness knows, I've put up with enough of your talk-even if you are my own nephew.
"Where was I? Oh, yes. This book-it's by Mary M. Colum. She's Irish, Mrs. Murphy. You wouldn't know her, would you? No? I thought you probably wouldn't. I guess Ireland is a pretty big place after all, even if it is only an island.
"Well, to get back to Mrs. Colum. She was brought up-here on page three she says it herself-'surrounded by writers, saturated in literature, rocked and dandled to its sounds and syllables.' My, that must have been lovely. Oh, er, then she studied abroad and wrote for the London-it tells on the fly-leaf-the London Nation and New Statesmen. Mr. Butler Yeats and Lord Alfred Douglas praised her work. Now, Wilfred, if you could get a Lord to praise your poems, instead of that love-sick girl of yours, I'd be quiet. The trouble with you is that all the girls tell you how poetic 1.n<l sensitive you are. Stuff and nonsense, all of it! Only time I've ever seen you sensitive is when it came to doing a little honest work. You don't even-oh, what's the use of talking to you?
"Let me see-where was I reading-oh, er -she joined the Abbey Theatre Group when she was in college, and afterwards married Padric Colum, who was a member of the group too I think that is so nice-the two of [3]
them working side by side, both interested in the same things. He writes poetry, and she criticizes it and inspires him to go on to greater heights."
The dear lady paused impressively so that her hearers might gather the full import of what she was saying.
"Mrs. Colum is regarded, on both sides of the Atlantic, as one of the leading contemporary critics. Now that is something to think about. Even over there in all those foreign countries people realize what a good critic she is.
"She writes in all the leading magazines and papers. Those of you who have read Scribner}s or the Forum must have seen some of her articles. I hadn't noticed them, but after I read this book, I looked them up. Oh, yes, she writes for the New Yark Herald Tribune too. Which reminds me-we have that in the library, you know. I happened to pick it up just a few weeks ago-that's why I read this book. A Mr. Carl Van Doren wrote the most fascinating review of it in the book section. Here, I have that with me, too-I'm preparing a little paper on it for the West End Women's Delphian Society-This is what he says about Mrs. Colum: 'All her criticism has the quality of light. She perceives and reasons with equal sureness.' Isn't that . . . "
The peddler stopped this flow of words for amoment by nudging her.
"What would be the name of the book you're talkin' about, ma'am?"
"O, dear me!-did I forget-It's called From These Roots.
"Now Wilfred, this is what I wanted you to hear. It's on page two of her book. 'It is not the form or character which is the decisive factor in determining whether any kind of writing is creative literature or not-it is the mind-(Wilfred )-behind it.'
"Then she goes on to say that that is the main trouble with American literature. Here, I'll read it: To produce works like Main Street or An American Tragedy a criticism is needed, but an even deeper criticism is needed before we can produce works like "Kubla Khan" or the "Ode To A Nightingale," or Faust! or Les Fleurs Du Mal/
"Wilfred, I know I have been picking on you, but, well, you are my own nephew, and I think you have a certain amount of sense, even though you do your best to conceal it. Now, why can't you profit by this and really write something that your family won't be ashamed. of?"
"Matildy! Matildy!"
"Yes, Mrs. Taylor, did you want to say something?"
An apologetic looking little woman in a grey suit stepped up to the front of the group.
• "If you don't mind, Matildy, I was just thinking of the report I read last week to the East End Ladies' Delphian Society on Dorthea Brande's Letters to Phillipa and Mr. Joseph Wood Krutch's Experience and Art. I don't think the West End Delphians have gotten around to discussing them yet, so you'll excuse me, if I say a few words, Matildy? Thank you.
"Well, Mr. Krutch says he thinks the criticism of literature shouldn't be thought of as a science because science states positive, unprejudiced facts, and criticism can hardly be unprejudiced. There's one sentence in particular that I remember. Mr. Krutch says: 'Criticism rationalizes and gives temporary form to our experiences with literature, just as literature rationalizes and gives temporary form to our experiences, with nature.'
"Don't you think that is nicely put, Matildy? Of course-the rest of you as well"Now Miss Brande in Letters to Phillipa [4]
was trying to show her god-daughter what you're trying to show Wilfred, Matildy. She says what we older people ought to do is to make ourselves good enough critics so as to be able to tell our young folks what is the matter with books they read. Young people are so inquisitive now-a-days. It's not enough to tell them a book isn't good, you have to tell them what's wrong with it.
"Thank you, Matildy-and ladies and gentlemen, of course."
"Thank you, Mrs. Taylor. I'm sure we all derived a great deal from what you said. And I do hope, Wilfred, that you will take the trouble to read Letters to Phillipa. I'm sure it would do you a lot of good.
"There's one more thing I want to say about Mrs. Colum's book, before I go. Here it is in the back. 'If enough disinterested and competent minds had devoted themselves to the development of new ideas in art . . . it would not have been possible for literature to have gotten itself into the rut it is in at the present time.'
"Ladies and gentlemen, I feel it is up to us! Wilfred, wait a minute, and I'll walk home with you.''
Sometime later when the Thinker had .finished his calculations for the government on the cost of gilding the lilies of the .fields, he again cast his eyes down into the city.
Much to his surprise, he saw the Old Man sitting on the mayor's front porch, contentedly chewing tobacco and reading a book. "He must have sold the scales," mused the Thinker, and he started to look for them. His attention was called to a loud bray. He saw the source in the city park. The sight that met his eyes was one to be wondered at exceedingly. For there, knee deep in clover, stood the old peddler's mules, brushed a glossy gray, with garlands of flowers around their necks. "Well," exclaimed the Thinker, a bit aghast. Then, letting his gaze wander about the city in search of other things, his eyes caught sight of the scales standing forth impressively in the market place. Looking closer, he saw that there was a book in each pan. Above one book was the inscription, "Lord Bacon adjured us to criticize," and above the other, "Mrs. Colum taught us how to criticize."
"Well," sighed the Thinker, "I suppose they really believe they've .figured out the problem.'' And he smiled. ., ., .,
Pea'tlso!q'teatP'tice
These be Princely pearls Christ, dead Cresar, trusting most His enemies . . . Mother love . . . a friend . And Peace.
D.E. T.
By KIRA NICHOLSKY
WO THINGS so different, yet so alike; so far apart, so mutually near. The first a picture, ·akin to Corot's twilightsa misty, indefinite, spiritual beauty enwraps the scene; the second, you, whose strange, interesting face I cannot forget. Both have ethereal aloofness, strange, drawing fascination; both have a haunting melancholy, which is like a sad tune you cannot forget, and at times, when gay and sparkling laughter flows from your lips, you grow sad with remembrance. You would not want to be compared to such a picture, you would scoff, mock, and laugh at things you know are sacred, you, whose heart and soul yearn for beauty, cry out for, demand, claim it, draw it to you, absorb it, and throw away the sordid remains. You laugh because you care; you mock because you ache and hurt, because you cannot see how others can be so careless with beauty, so heedless of it. You are the proud heir of a gay, glittering, madly-moving world; you belong to those whose habit is to laugh. You laugh-I know there's heartbreak in it; I know the golden fields of grain, the careless clouds, the woodland ' s autumn glory, the seagull's wing across the setting sun, the white foam of salty spray, the blossoms trembling on a branch, are your own kingdom. Your fragile eyes, your sometimes elfish smile, give you away. No, do not laugh, that brittle meaningless jingle; you know, and knowing, please don't mock.
Should you pretend? Your friends aren't
[6)
real, they crave excitement, joy; they crave mad laughter, madder music, lights and noise, and gay and happy crowds. You want all those? But no, I know, for are you not a spiritual likeness of another? Another, whose ethereal , poetic beauty makes me weep, whose fascinating, elfish face I see before my eyes, as he bends down to touch a floating water lily, whose face I see so piteous, yet lovely as he looked down at blossoms trampled and carelessly flung by. You love those things; you love real things that will last ever, when your happy friends are gone, to find another they can laugh more with.
You like to walk in slow and slanting rain, you love strong wind, and gusts of winter storms, thunder and lightning zigzagging across the sky; you like soft lights and poems . You write small snatches, just to hide away. You love the twilight merging into night, that soft indefinite time, so short and fleeing soon. You like uncertainty and tainted skies reproach, the whispered secrets of the wind and howling torrents, steep mountain sides and sudden drops. You love all these, you love all beauty, you live in a gay, materialistic, thoughtless world. You fascinate me, draw me to you.
Your soft, caressing tones enchant and bring me visions of the worlds I know you know. Why do you shrink? Why do you hide it all behind an artificial , cynical laugh and a hypocrisy of thought? You can't deceive me, your eyes haunt me, and I know you-the sad aloof idealist, the mad enchanting elf.
By STUART GRAHAM
A SURVEY of some of the rules in Southern women's colleges is almost as amusing as a glance through the popu-
nunnery. From a modern viewpoint, however, college should prepare the girl for life, and the confines of a convent can hardly be said to afford such preparation. lar magazine feature, called "It's the Law," in which the author reminds us that in Willimantic, Connecticut, an ordinance decrees that a horse must carry a tail light when travelling after dark, and
that in Phoenix, Arizona, a law requires every man to wear pants when he comes to town. The college regulations seem far from humorous, however, to the girls who are forced to live under them-and, strange as it may seem ,to the layman, some incredible rules are strictly enforced.
Sociologists will tell you that such rules are excellent examples of what they term "cultural lag." In this they mean that the customs, mores, and general character of society have undergone profound changes, but that certain institutions and regulations have failed to keep pace. In such a case, affirm the sociologists, discord will inevitably occur. Mauve Decade rules won't work in a streamlined age.
Def enders of the present system will contend that strict regulations are needed in colleges, probably inferring that there is need for a present-day counterpart of the ancient
True, there are, undoubtedly, some mothers who like to feel that their "problem-child" '-· daughters are constantly under strict supervision and surveillance. Their senti-
ments are easily understandable, but college in the accepted sense is, or should be, quite another thing from a respectable reform school. One thing is certain -that the majority of mothers would not object if their daughters were allowed as much freedom as they enjoy at home. A single glance at the rules is sufficient to show that wholesale revision would be necessary to provide such freedom.
A sociologist would render a sweeping indictment against the strict regulations of Southern women's schools on still another ground. The increasing tendency for women college graduates to remain unmarried is a source of much worry to sociologists. They s.ee the cream of the race failing to reproduce its kind . They see the race dying out from the top . They place, and righteously, a good part of the blame for this on the schools themselves.
There are two reasons a girl doesn't marry: [ 7]
because she can't get a husband, or because she doesn't want one. The colleges, directly or indirectly, contribute to both these causes. The average age of a girl graduating from college is twenty-two, at which age half of the women in the United States are already married. Unless the girl, while in college, is allowed some freedom in making contacts with boys, she is at a distinct disadvantage in competing for a husband with other less restricted or younger girls, and this disadvantage increases progressively as the girl grows older. On the other hand, unless a girl is permitted to make contacts, she is likely to get the mistaken idea that she will be unable to find a mate of her own level, one ideally suited to her own intelligence and personality. She is likely to conclude that marriage is an unworthy state and that she should pass it up for the simpler alternative of following a career. Because of these considerations, colleges, which should, theoretically, be the best marriage marts, are instead unsurpassed spinster factories.
The generalities touched on thus far have been the object of much serious thought and research. It is well at this point, however, to pass on to particular sets of rules, rules that are sometimes so petty as to appear ridiculous, and sometimes so contrary to modern trends as to constitute a serious problem. For purposes of example, four typical Southern schools have been chosen. These institutions, while affording by no means a complete picture of the situation, still form a fairly accurate crosssection of outmoded regulatory systems.
The schools differ slightly in character. Westhampton, with which we are more or less familiar, is a coordinate school, a unit of the University, but, nevertheless, quite literally segregated from the other divisions. Harrisonburg State Teachers' College, at Harrisonburg, Virginia; is all that its name im-
plies: a larger school typical of most statemaintained teachers' colleges. St. Mary's is a fashionable boarding school and junior college in Raleigh, North Carolina, while Alabama College, at Montevallo, represents women's colleges in the deep South.
Facetious aspects of college regulations are quite evident in unwritten rules of the schools, as well as in those guiding principles embodied in handbooks. The interpretation of a Westhampton ruling which permits girls to attend afternoon athletic events on the Richmond College campus, but forbids conversation with boys, is a classic. If the boys persist in forcing conversation, the girls are instructed to say, politely and firmly, "I can't talk to you today. If it's important, wait until Friday."
In this, the hey-day of dancing as the social pastime, dancing prohibitions seem, to put it mildly, incongruous. Westhampton forbids all dancing on the first floor (just why location on the second or third floor makes dancing more acceptable is left for the reader to decide), while Harrisonburg does not permit students to dance in any public place in Harrisonburg or vicinity, nor in private homes in Harrisonburg, except homes of professors. Other tidbits gleaned from handbooks include: ( 1) at Alabama College, students arriving at or leaving school by bus or train must use a taxi (possible collusion between college officials and taxi company!); (2) at Alabama, students may not enter a store on Sunday, and may not even patronize a drug store or roadhouse, while riding on Sunday; (3) at Westhampton, students may not play jazz on the drawing room piano; ( 4) at Westhampton, students may not walk down by the lake, entertain back of the building, or in the Greek theatre after dark; (5) at St. Mary's, no pajamas may be worn under other clothes. Perhaps the best illustration of cultural lag [8]
lies in the regulations regarding automobile riding and chaperonage. In this age when automobiles far outnumber bathtubs, and the government is seriously considering stuffing a few chaperones for museum pieces, the rules on the books seem incredible. At W esthampton, girls may go riding with men only during daylight hours and only when accompanied by a senior or two juniors as chaperones-that is, after they have signed up for permission with the House President. Permission for riding before 6 P.M. (none is granted after!) at Harrisonburg must be obtained direct from the dean of women, unless the driver is a parent, faculty member, or woman in good standing with the college. Riding at Alabama college also requires chaperones in the person of two juniors or two seniors, and it must stop abruptly at 6. Students there may not sit in a car on campus or talk to young men who are sitting in cars.
Although increasing permissions granted girls for attending dances and other social or athletic events would indicate a gradual relaxing of rules, women college students still have just cause for complaint. At Alabama College, St. Mary's, and Harrisonburg, a visiting list must be filed in the dean's office at the beginning of the semester and the names thereupon approved by practically everyone from dean and parents to the dormitory janitor.
In a week in which there are no dance permissions, Westhampton freshmen may have, by actual count, three and a half hours of night dates Sophomores may have four hours, and juniors, six hours. These estimates include Sunday night dates, one hour of which must be spent in vespers. At Alabama the situation is even worse, freshmen and sophomores being
allowed only five dates, averaging two and one-half hours each, per month. Add to these figures one, or, at most, two, afternoon dates per week (none for freshmen!), and you have a complete picture of the dating situation. While it is generally true that seniors of most schools have unlimited dating privileges until 10 P.M., it must be remembered that dates must be kept within certain narrow, prescribed boundaries, and that dating facilities are generally deplorably inadequate.
The foregoing paragraphs have merely attempted to enumerate a series of undistorted, uncolored facts for consideration. As to what, if anything, can be done to remedy the conditions outlined, opinions will surely differ. It is the fond hope of the sociologist, however, that college authorities will follow the example of the old Romans, who, when they were unsuccessful in changing human nature by law, legislated to make human nature legal.
Poiutless?
A flaming meteor blazes through the sky And night is day with the glory of its light. Then behold it into fragments fly And vanish from sight.
The brilliant green of leaves in June Upon an awakening tree in summer's early days
Is short lived, and vanishes soon In autumn fires' haze.
The life most beautiful is often one Which ends abruptly. Just memories remain. But is it not enough just to have spun A web of beauty in some brain?
-GILBERT SIEGEL.
PLAYHOUSE VARIETIES
or "All the W odd' s a stage, And Life's a vaudeville."
[ A comedy-drama in prologue and three acts J
By HENRY SNELLINGS, JR.
Prologue: The prologue shall consist of the voices of the stately Dramatia and the beautiful Historia, as they look down from Mount Olympus, surveying the result of their labors.
Man from his most pagan and primitive state has been essentially a dramatic creature The scenes of his action have not always been on the rostrum or before the footlights. In fact, some of history's ,most interesting scenes have been enacted backstage in real life. In Biblical days we see Abraham with his son Isaac laid out on a make-shift altar, ready to be sacrificed, when the voice of God instructed Abraham to spare his son. We are thrilled when we hear of the Carthaginian Queen Dido throwing herself on a burning pyre, because her Aeneas had left for other lands. Antony acted a part in a real play, when he said, "Friends, Romans, Countrymen." Nero, fiddling while Rome burns, has been the theme of many plays. Bocaccio's Decameron is good drama in any man's country, even if it was acted in a drawing room instead of on a stage. Once a cow got in a dramatic frame of mind and kicked over a lamp that started the great Chicago fire.
And men have received just as great a thrill in the make-believe of the theatre. The kings of France had their own private stage and kept
troops of actors in the palace. The great event of the guilds of the middle ages was their annual "morality" plays. In the days when Elizabethan sea-dogs were scouring the seven seas, the old Globe was filled to capacity whenever Bill Shakespeare or his confreres had an offering. Even the great George Washington delighted in playing "Cato" with his legendary love, Sally Cary.
This might be the general train of a conversation among the goddesses of Olympus.
ACT I
SCENE: The old Richmond College on Lombardy Street. Perhaps in a raised corner of a basement storeroom.
College boys like to act. And Richmond College was near the famous Mozart Academy, the Hippodrome and Strand Theatres. So the boys of the down-town school early got the feel of gas footlights and drop scenery by gazing at old Joe Jefferson, Jeanne Eagles, and other thespians that we moderns know not of. Nationally famed "black-face artists" came to Richmond when the minstrel craze was sweeping the country. And it must have swept into sedate Richmond College, for the first time that we hear any mention of a formal drama on the campus was in 1897 when the Glee Club presented their widely acclaimed show. So enthusiastic were they that a small group got together and formed the "Mask and Wig Club" for that wicked pastime called "play acting." And to the present they have enjoyed a varied and checkered career.
At first their productions were presented on the small stage of old Thomas Hall. As their initial presentation the Mask and Wiggers offered a little French play called f ean Henri et la Pere. According to the Spider write-up, it was "enthusiastically received." By 1905 the organization was feeling its
[ 10]
age and, consequently, became a little more ton Colleges did most of the work connected conservative in its outlook. Therefore, it with the pageant, which was under the direcchanged its name to the matter-of-fact, "Dra- tion of Miss Emily Brown. The students were matic Club." But under this name it had an so impressed with her personally and ·her interesting and progressive life. In 1910 the methods that they asked her to help them with club put on its most ambitious production. their dramatic activities on the campus. She Presented in the auditorium of the Woman's had just returned from study in London and Club, it was the perennially popular Two New York and instilled in her embryo actors Gentlemen of Verona. Little scenery and few some of her own enthusiasm for the art of the lights were used, but it was a big success. theatre.
Moving out to the new campus at West- On the Playhouse stage (the small one behampton was just like getting established in a hind the arch on the present stage) that had new home, and in the melee dramatic interest in its day been a bandstand, a bar, and was tended to lag. And for several years there later to be a zoology lab, the Dramatic Club of wasn't much thespianic activity. 1916 offered Shaw's You Never Can Tell, 1916, however, saw a change. Legend, and and later The Magistrate. Dean May L. Keller the facts, so far as we can ascertain, say that and Professor R. B. Handy were active with on April 23 of that year, William Shake- this group. They did the preliminary work, speare had been dead three hundred years. So, and Miss Brown whipped the players into as a tercentenary memorial to the Bard of shape. Avon, a wave of Shakespearian festivals Previous to 1923, no definite schedule was spread over England and America. Richmond, followed for the presentation of plays. Whenalways classically fond of Shakespeare, had ever the boys felt - the urge to act coming on, her festival. From the newspaper and maga- they would get together and read over some zine articles of the period we see that it was plays and pick one that appealed to their masa great affair. No more appropriate setting culine tastes. Then probably Dr. R. C. Mccould be found than the beautiful University Danel, who was Ralph in those days, and secof Richmond campus. And so on a memorable retary of the Richmond Players, would stroll day, amid its lake and pines and Gothic build- across the lake (as we do now) and nonings, were scattered miniature Shakespearian chalantly approach Mary Weaver, a popular stages. On them different scenes from the Westhampton actress of that day. "Mary," he works of The Master were enacted. There was might have said, "What' cha say we give a a general admission fee to the grounds, and play?" "Sure, Ralph," she would reply, "We one was privileged to wander about as inclina- were just reading some plays over here. I've tion directed-laughing with Falstaff, rejoic- got a couple with me that we liked .... What ing in the love of Romeo and Juliet, or thrilled do you think of them?" And then the war with "Friends, Romans, Countrymen." It was would usually begin. For the boys and girls a full day. From morning 'til night, on every could seldom, if ever, agree as to what would part of the campus, young people could be make a good play. seen in strange costumes, presenting scenes Finally the case would be carried to Dean from Shakespeare's popular plays. Keller, who would discuss the suggested plays The students of Richmond and W esthamp- and then contact Miss Brown. With the final
[ 11}
selection made, the boys would be told in slightly more polished terms to take it or leave it. They usually took it, and the old Red Cross Building saw some corking good plays as the result, or so say the Collegian reviews and the old grads, who made their histrionic overtures there.
But this was no way for an up-and-coming organization to work, so "the curtain comes down on the first act of the Little Theatre across the lake."
ACT II
SCENE: Let us! for convenience sake! say the Westhampton Blue Room! the Red Cross Building! and the far-famed ( and cursed) Playhouse.
It was fall of '23, and Miss Brown, who was living on the campus that year, approached the dramatic organizations on each side of the lake with the idea that they join forces and try working as one. The boys and girls were overjoyed at the idea, and proceeded with plans for the organization. All, however, was not "a bed of roses." There were many obstacles and prejudices to overcome, for never since the founding of Westhampton College had there been a mixed group. It was unheard of. Why, boys and girls meeting together in the same organization! But the voice of liberals prevailed, and the University of Richmond Players was established. (Though, even here, the authorities stipulated that there should be an alternate Richmond College president and a Westhampton vice-president and vice versa. As the barriers against combined organizations were dropped, this proviso became a dead letter.)
So in the splintery Red Cross Building, with no scenery and tin-can lights, the new organization went to work with renewed vrgor. It undertook many productions, and
enthusiasm ran high. Among the plays seeing their inception during this period were: Merely Mary Ann! You Never Can Tell! Feast of the Red Barn! Alice Sit by the Fire! South Sea Dust! Lady Frederick! Bidders! Dover Road! Grumpy! Milestones. The Wonder Hat! Romeo and f uliet! and The Merchant of Venice! were presented in the cloister of Ryland Hall or Richmond College Administration Building as part of the annual commencement program. Great preparations had been made for the famous balcony scene in Romeo and f uliet. The balcony had been made, and the show was on. When the time came for the lovely Juliet to come out on ·her balcony, the prop men remembered that they had forgotten to put a platform behind the scenery for her to stand on. In desperation a board was laid across two boys' backs, and the young lady calmly took her place. The audience, revelling in the eternal beauty of the scene, did not see the agony of suspense that was making it possible.
Before each show, Miss Brown would "borrow" Chief Burns, and between them they would hang curtains and try to collect a few properties. She proudly recalls one year, when she was preparing for Shakespeare, that a boy came over from Richmond College to aid her in her preparations. Though she doesn't remember his name, he occupies a very warm place in her heart to this day. It might have been Charles McDaniel, prominent Player of his time, who is now doing his acting as United Press correspondent on the Chinese front.
Not receiving any financial aid frorri the college or student government bodies, the Players found the going hard sledding, financially, even though the Red Cross Building was practically filled for each production. In the fall of 1927, a new constitution was adopted, giving the busine ss manager almost [ 12}
unlimited powers and also paying Miss Brown on a percentage basis.
Out to reestablish the Players in campus favor, the dramatic group took their Merchant of Venice which had been presented the previous spring, on a short tour. Twentyfive made the trip in a chartered bus to Loudon and the following night to Leesburg. The Players were enthusiastically received and had a fine time in the homes of their sponsors. The "old fellows" still recall the trip with fond memories. They remember that they arrived in Leesburg three hours late, having just enough time to set up the scenery. But the show had to go on. They worked with feverish haste, foregoing even the delicious, mountain supper that had been prepared for them. Necessity gave them added strength, and exactly at 8: 30 the curtain began to rise on a street scene in Venice.
So thrilled was the campus about this venture that three full columns in the Collegian were given to an account of the trip ( or perhaps they were short on news). Be that as it may, they began immediately to plan for a trip the following year. That same spring they received an offer to put on the "Merchant" in Blacksburg; so the thespians again enbussed. These tours were the topic of mention and conversation for the next several years, being pointed to as the goal which they should ever afterwards seek to equal. In this respect, to date, they never have.
The old Red Cross Building was the scene of many outstanding plays around this period. Among them were Shenandoah) a sword-androses romance of the Civil War, Kempy) Swan) Suppressed Desires) The Rivals) Wild Duck) Lady Windemere's Fan.
Increasing in their fame were the annual Shakespeare plays presented each year as a
part of the Commencement program in the cloister of Ryland Hall. Using three sections for the different scenes, the Gothic architecture of the building made a very effective background. Besides those plays before mentioned, the Bard's Taming of the Shrew) Hamlet) and The Merchant of Venice were produced here.
As a fitting dedication for the beautiful Greek Theatre, the University Players presented the famous Greek tragedy, Electra) in the fall of 1929. The following spring, The Merry Wives of Windsor was the offering in the new theatre. From the recurrence of their names it would appear that Elmer Potter and Lydia Hatfield were the actors declared by the campus "most likely to succeed."
Each year the senior play was the BIG event. It was presented under the sponsorship of the University Players at the old Strand Theatre. Now the Booker-T, it was then "dark" and was opened especially for this occasion. For days it was scoured with disinfectant, and often on the night of the production faint whiffs of it could be detected. On the night of "the play," the boys came in their tails ( if they had any) and the girls in their silks and ermines. It was a gala affair. The fraternities reserved boxes and hung Greek-lettered pennants over the side, and Dr. Boatwright and his party always led the group of educational and civic leaders present. We might try something of the kind today-but the Playhouse is not very conducive to tails and ermine.
The next general group to file across the stage on the pageant of drama at the University was the one that preceded us. It was the period that produced Joe Holland and Betty Burns (Nuckols). Joe has since become one of the outstanding Shakespearian actors of today. He has played in several productions with Katherine Cornell and is at present filling
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the title role of the much discussed modem version of Julius Cc:esar:
The makeshift stage in the Red Cross "gymnasium" was never suitable or properly equipped for dramatic productions. When the biology department moved from the Playhouse into newly completed Maryland Hall, the old barn was changed into a theatre and a student activities building. The administration gave Miss Brown carte blanc in the renovation of the building-as long as she did not spend over $200. And she, with her coworkers, stretched those dollars farther than one of F.D.'s fifty-nine cent ones.
The dedicatory play, Meet the Prince 1 was buffeted about like the sailors in the shipwreck scene of The Tempest. The serious illness of Miss Brown first halted the rehearsals and caused considerable postponing. Finally "Bus" Gray, who was playing the leading role, took over the directoral reins and put the play on. And a good job he did of it, too.
Other productions filling the bill during the period of 1931-1935 were Prunella 1 Mary 1 Mary 1 Quite Contrary 1 The Thirteenth Chair 1 The Ninth Guest 1 Outward Bound 1 Hay Fever 1 The Silver King 1 Journey's End 1 The Swan. Among the Shakespearian offerings were Twelfth Night 1 Richard III 1 and The Merry Wives of Windsor.
In Richard III 1 Joe Holland, who had just played the role in London, returned to take the leading part. Plans were made for a thrilling and stirring production. And it was a good show - for a collegiate group - but "Richard" did not make much of a campus hit. A few amusing technical errors occurred during the production. At one point, Richard was supposed to address his men from the top of a colonnade. The spot dramatically moved up to the selected position-but there was no Richard. Consternation reigned, as Joe threw
away an apple he was nibbling and vaulted for the top.
Beverley Britton, Vernon Richardson, Jacquelin Johnson, and Mary Mills were the other leading members of the Players at this time, filling either a large or small role in almost all of the productions.
Though the University Players did not know it, the curtain was about to fall on the second act of their story. As we see this small group working on Richard III 1 the curtain slowly covers the stage.
ACT III
SCENE: The fall of 1935. Still in the airconditioned Playhouse along with the Web, Collegian, Messenger, and a few bats.
Sooner or later everyone of us grows up. And so it was with the University Players. Sorry to see their beloved Miss Brown go, and yet thrilled at the prospect of having a fulltime professional director, the Players welcomed California's, Mexico's and North Carolina's Alton Williams. Having just completed his work under the famous "Prof" Koch at the University of North Carolina, he brought to campus dramatics a new spirit and enthusiasm for the theatre. Treated more as a thrilling game to be played than a delicate art to be touched with reverend fingers, a new type of drama began to arise at Richmond.
The curtain rose for the 1935 season on a picturesque scene in the Grecian mountains. It was the setting for the fantasy Devil in the Cheese. This gave the technicians their grande opportunity to do some real work-and they did. As the action of the play moved on, the title figure came to life and began wielding his magic powers, among them the enabling of a person to see within another's head. Milton Lesnik, as a successful business man, wanted to see what his daughter Goldina
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(Helene Miller) could see in that young rector Harold Phillips gave their best. But aviator (Clyde Hardy), who had crashed into when you try to put on a musical comedy with the mountains. So the next four scenes took a volunteer orchestra rehearsing only twice, place "in Goldina's head." And it kept the the odds are too great. It was a good stunt, stage crew trotting double time to change the and with a good campus orchestra could be scenes from a yacht to the beach of a Southern made an outstanding student event. tropical isle, to their little cottage home, all But back to our more serious productions. as the action of the play was going on. Some- The 1935 spring offering was Pollock's The times they didn't quite make connections, and Enemy. Set in the dreary atmosphere of a so Lesnik went on adlibbing lines which were dingy Austrian room, the ravages of war were better than the original, but rather disconcert- poignantly pictured. The transformation of ing to some of the actors. peaceful students and playing children into
It was a good season, with the one-acts com- fighting lunatics; the riots for bread; the rise ing in December, the Rigmarole just after of servants into millionaires-all were picexams, Channing Pollock's anti-war drama tured in this room. Many said that the set and The Enemy and closing with Shakespeare's acting combined to make it the best producComedy of Errors. tion, either professional or otherwise, ever Griffin Garnett, as president of the Players, offered on the campus. begged, threatened, or cajoled nearly every- Mr. Williams came to Richmond with the one on campus, who had the slightest degree idea that Shakespeare was not some drab old of talent in any field, into taking part in his fell ow who wrote lines over three hundred Rigmarole show. Though it was clearly an years ago, but was such a good playright that amateur group trying to imitate Broadway, his plays are good drama today. And none those who packed the aisles thoroughly en- was better than his medley of mistaken idenjoyed it (until it began to drag out after tity, The Comedy of Errors. Richmond Col11: 30). lege drafted its three sets of twins (Robert-
The highlight of the show was the "girls" sons, Millers, and Kings) and proceeded to of the pony ballet, composed partly of some give Mr. Williams and the rest of the cast a of our present illustrious members of the bad case of double vision. The production Student Government, going through their gave the Commencement visitors an evening tricky routine with amateur precision. And of good, fast-moving comedy, and many went people are still talking about the song that away saying, "By George, I never knew ShakeHilda Kirby sang-though not one in a hun- speare was like that. . . . Good direction. dred could tell you its name. (I know I ... Bill Shakespeare knew his stuff.... couldn't.) Why that was darn good."
Last year, in an effort to liven up the show, By the next fall (1936) the influence of the the scene was laid in a Negro night club and so-called "zanny" comedy was beginning to the story of a dusky maiden spurned used as a be felt, so for the Player's first offering, the plot on which to hang the original songs antics of the mad Rimplegars were depicted (splendid), fraternity skits (terrible), dance in a play appropriately called Three Cornered routines (good), singing (O.K.). It was a Moon. This type of high comedy is the most fairly good show, and those working with di- difficult form of drama to put across the foot-
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lights, but Martha Ann Freeman, Dick Scammon, Bill Saunders, and others performed their task so ably that the audience was either in a deep "belly laugh" or an inward chuckle throughout the show.
The one-acts, Rigmarole 1 and the eerie Black Flamingo completed the winter season, with Shakespeare's charming fantasy, The Tempest filling the Commencement spot. Black Flamingo answered the campus conception of a "darn good show," but The Tempest was a little too ambitious a production for us to essay.
Generally speaking, that brings our show up to this year and the gently biting sarcasm of George Bernard Shaw in his Arms and the Man. With Sally Moore Barnes playing the fair Raina and Carlson Thomas as her "chocolate cream soldier," pleasant fun was poked at th~ whole idea of war and those who make it. The supporting cast made an interesting study of the divergent personalities as portrayed by the students.
The central theme of the Carolina Playmakers, where Mr. Williams did his graduate work, was the development of a native folk drama. Their director, "Prof" Koch, argued that the simple tales of our legendary and historic past, the everyday events of today, the crises of our native youth in a modern society, make a much more powerful drama than some lofty theme of cosmopolitan society, dancing and loving on the Riviera, or a comedy of professional fools on Broadway. As a part of Mr. Williams' effort to arouse interest in the development of a Virginia folk drama, the one-act bill was composed entirely of Carolina Folk-Plays. Ranging from the farcial comedy of a patent medicine doctor, to a mail order proposal, to the stark tragedy of life in a Carolina mill town, all shades of intere§t w~re appealed to.
The mere cataloging of plays presented, however, cannot give a true or complete picture of the Players at work ( or at play).
Along with the usual concerted attempt to develop dramatic talent among the student body, particular emphasis was made on the improvement of the technical ends of the productions. And so, before each play, anyone coming into the Playhouse would find Westhampton's social butterflies, clad in paint spattered coveralls working side by side with Phi Betas and football players from Richmond, doing sawing, painting, nailing, upholstering, necessary for the make-believe of the stage.
Beginning with the elaborate Devil in the Cheese set, an increasingly high standard has been maintained. The Ene~y set, though only one interior, was authentic in every detail, and it, as much as any other factor, helped to create the mood of the play. It is usually agreed, however, that the gloomy castle created for Black Flamingo was the best of them all. And the stylized scenery created for the Rigmaroles produced many novel and unusual effects. The dice and card motif of last year's show would have done credit to any Broadway club.
These elaborate settings made necessary the purchase of much additional equipment. During the last few years a new cyclorama, sky drop, ' new flats, switchboard, lighting equipment, and stage properties have been collected. Before a switchboard was put on the stage, one was jammed up in a small back room, and light cues had to be relayed through three persons to get to the electrician. Many close shaves and misplaced effects were the result.
For technical work a thoroughly equipped shop has been developed, with facilities either for making delicate wood inlays or the [ 16]
.finishing of massive timbers as used in the Black Flamingo set.
With their professional director, splendid equipment, and background of fourteen years' experience, the Players pride themselves on their precision and methodicalness. But even with such a group as they ( !) hitches sometimes occur. But, so the sages say, variety is the spice of life.
Paul Green's story of how a Negro girl " skeared her pappy into letting her marry up wif her man," told in The Man Who Died at Twelve O'clock, has had its share of vicissitudes on the Playhouse stage. It was .firstpresented in the fall of '36 on the bill of one-acts. The title role was .filled by our football, basketball and blackface ace, Bill Robertson ('37). The night of the play he had to help the Spiders whip Hampden-Sydney before he could don his burnt cork. Nine-thirty passed ( the latest time at which he was to be due) , nine-forty-five, ten. Harold Phillips, who was ·directing the play, was pretty nearly out by this time . Messengers said that Bill would be right over. And at three-after-ten, in came the hero, with a grin on his face and one shoe on. The play began as the last cork was applied and the kinky wig put in place.
This year when the same play was put on as a part of the Orientation Week program, the costumer who had agreed to furnish the devil's costume unexpectedly closed shop and left us holding the bag. Every costumer and pawnshop in Richmond was searched, but there was a dearth of devils. So that night
after supper, from scraps of red cambric found in our collection, Caroline Spenser double-quicked to make a suit. As the curtain rose, she was sewing on a long red tail.
And in the performance of Quare Medicine, neither the cast, nor the audience could keep in their seats, for wondering whether or not Billy Griggs' beard would stay on. By the time he had said his last speech, only three strands connected his mustachio with his chin. But "the show must go on!" and valiently he carried out his part, never once breaking.
It is these experiences and incidents that make the Players live for us. Smooth waters are all right on a moonlight night, but it is really a show when the waves begin to break and thunder begins to roar.
Drama on the campus, and the Players in particular, have been helped by the establishment of a department of drama and the inauguration of classes in the various phases of dramatic arts. This seems destined to put drama on an even .firmer basis, and to point more clearly to its development in the future.
As the lights begin to dim, we see Mr. Williams, Harold Phillips, and some of the other Players looking at the plans of the new collegiate theatre just built at Amherst. The lights deepen into darkness and we hear a dreamy "Someday. . . . Perhaps. . . "
CURTAIN
(Future acts in the making.)
AUTHOR ' S Norn: The majority of the information incorporated in this article was secured through the courtesy of Miss Lucy T. Throckmorton, Miss Emily Brown, and B everley Britton.
[ 17]
'Oictato-'tisthewordforADVISOR
(EDITORIAL)
WHILE THE December MESSENGERwas magazines to ours, we would not, in all probcoming off the presses, we were in Lexington, ability, appreciate the ramifications of "daring attending a convention of the Virginia Inter- article." collegiate Press Association. One surprising Every editorial staff member with whom fact we brought away from our discussions we talked expressed amazement when told with fell ow-editors has evoked no little there had been no administrative repercusthought since our return to the office. sions from the story, that no one had been
We had set out deliberately to ascertain threatened with dismissal from THE MESwith what reaction the article in our October SENGER,and no ruling at the University of number, rrour Enemy Within," an expose of Richmond provided for faculty literary "adconditions in the Richmond College dormi- visors." tories, was received on other campuses; for Many schools, we learned, require that all one of the sundry charges brought against us material selected by the editors of their magalocally was that of damaging the prestige of zine for publication be examined, before gothe University by its publication. This had, ing to press, by "advisors"-a genteel word of course, been taken into consideration be- for learned, mature persons who. tell naughtyfore the investigation was completed, and we boy editors what is nice and what isn't nice. had decided that over-emphasis had been In one case a page-one story of vast imporplaced on this aspect. tance, one that might have aroused even the
We were right. Somewhat typical of the public press, was stripped from the forms at attitude of others is the passage from Cargoes the printshop on orders from the "advisors." of Hollins College: "In the MESSENGERfrom In another instance, the editors of a magazine Richmond College, there is an excellent edi- had awarded a prize to a piece of writing subtorial accusing the college dormitories of be- mitted in a contest. After the winner had been ing 'outmoded, antiquated, unsanitary.' We named, the "advisors" reversed first and sechope it has some effect, because it is a daring ond awards over the editors' decision! Since article, written by one who evidently feels pis our trip, another college magazine, a combisubject deeply." nation of the humor-literary group, has been
There is more in this quotation than first forced to suspend publication, because of the meets the eye. It is not our intention just now "radicalism" of its editor who has been disto revive the question of what shall be done charged. to remedy the attacked situation, because we In short, we are indeed fortunate that ours have reason to believe that action in the matter is one of the few colleges in the state devoid is forthcoming. of censorship, except that laid by the editors
But we want to focus attention on that word upon their respective publications, one dic"daring." Had we not attended the conven- tated solely by common-sense, decency, and tion and queried several editors of similar fair play.
[ 18]
"FeelthyBeezniss"
(EDITORIAL)
THEREAREALWAYS a few persons who are ever ready to read vulgar meanings into innocent words, thoughts, and expressions. Running true to form, a number of members of this minority class objected to the word "skronch" which appeared in a story in our December number. We don't want to disappoint any of our chop-licking customers, but, in fairness to the author of the story and to anyone else concerned, we must report that "skronch" is gibberish.
"Skronch" sprang into being as an innocuous combination of one vowel and several consonants, similar combinations of which frequently result in interesting inharmonious mouth-fillers and ear-arresters. "Skronch" isn't even a good, healthy hybrid. Other examples of such delightfully harebrained coinage are: "nghyakh," "glop," "squeedunk," and any of the Cab Calloway-type vocal emissions. All are without any universal meanings All can be assigned meanings appropriate to the occasion. None can be justified on philological grounds, since all are happily devoid of stuffy etymologies. The only "dirty" meaning of "skronch," then, is that put there by the prurient mind of the reader.
"Skronch" is used locally in a number of ways: as a transitive verb, as an intransitive verb, as a greeting, as an exclamation, as a password, and as a title. A low meaning may be inferred in each use and need not be inf erred in any. Personal choice here has wide range. No erotic or obscene meaning was implied in the story. If we want to express disapproval of someone, we snarl, "Skronch you!" If we feel that we've been deprived of our just rewards, we say, "Prof. Bones sure
skronched me." As an exclamation, "skronch" is roughly equivalent to "Bah!", "Rats!", T ommyrot !", except that "Skronch !" undeniably has more color. By popular usage, "skronch" has come thus to mean something resembling "squelch." But why elaborate further?
This whole matter, essentially trivial though it is, illustrates once more the eagerness of some persons-unfortunately, not always a minority-for reading matter supposed to be spicy or risque. A variation of this tendency is the vigilant searching for unintended offcolor significance, as in the "skronch" case. This situation disgusts us. The "skronch" case probably disgusts the diseased-mind boys more, however, because this time they were , fooled. "Skronch" doesn't mean what they hoped it would. As we pointed out, it doesn't mean anything! Better luck next time. If we wanted to be vindictive toward these sly individuals, we might even say "Skronch you!" -f -f -f
The 1936-37 MESSENGERwas awarded first prize for excellence among literary magazines in its class at the Virginia Intercollegiate Press Association convention, held at Lexington in December. We are tremendously pleased to see the efforts of last year's editors, Russell S. Tate, Francis W. Tyndall, and Margaret Dudley, in reestablishing the book as a joint publication of Richmond and Westhampton Colleges and one of influence thusly recognized.
[ 19]
"qoiu9 to chu'tchdoesu' t make ~ou a Clt1tistiauau~ mo'teftiau 9oiu9to a 9a1ta9emake&~ouau automobile"
By MARY ARNOLD ALTHOUGHGROWTHhas
altered my views, I have always employed a studied program of thought and behavior within the church. Looking backward, I am frequently amused by the distinctly separated pigeonholes in my development as a churchgoer. Though now I feel my perspective is somewhat the ultimate one for me, I can never quite forget the humor that the cinematic story of my early adventures in church emanates. For those days of counting sleeping neighbors, comparing in kittenish manner the apparel of Jean and Martha, pressing back laughter at the buzzing fly making neat three-point landings on the smooth pate of Mr. Doe were happy and have led me to the richer conception of church I now have.
Compulsory church attendance was wordlessly established in our household, and in my early childhood I was resigned to it with the innocent acceptance of fate, characteristic of the very young. Once inside church, however, my thoughts were my own, and I immediately adopted my premeditated routine, which at that age consisted of incessant twists, squirms, and wiggles that I doggedly maintained until I was thoroughly convinced that the entire congregation longed to take me over its collective knee.
Then, with a smug little smile, I would
change my tactics. At the "let-us-pray" point of the service, if completely certain of an audience, I would clasp my hands together, bowing my head demurely, well aware of the sweet picture of childish piety I presented. I could sometimes manage to stand on the pew, scan the congregation for a watchful and appreciative eye, and, finding it, immediately go through my babyish tricks, smiling impishly at the momentarily delighted spectators. As their interest waned, my next course of action was to walk along the pew, jolting hats from the row of heads in front of me. When the benediction was mercifully pronounced, hundreds of tired souls departed from the church, souls void of beautiful feel ings, and filled with malice toward one small child. But my black, guileful little heart knew no pangs of remorse. I had bigger, more important things to think about. I had to find out what had become of Chester Gump, who, when last seen, was standing at the brink of a poison-filled pit in the depths of China, with a hundred green-eyed monsters behind him.
As I approached the unfortunate age of ten, I inevitably began to lose the rougish charm I had previously used to best advantage. My legs lengthened alarmingly, and I rapidly developed into that unattractive age called "gawky." Being of average intelligence, I was [ 20}
not slow to realize that I could no longer get away with my cute little tricks. Hence, Sunday morning church came to mean a choice of two alternatives: to try with various rough and yet unskillful methods to be exempt from church, or, that failing, to adopt a new plan of action within church. The latter invariably became the case, as my timely and dramatic illnesses were always disposed of by a knowing smile from Mother, who would assure me sweetly that I would feel much better after church. Consequently, my program became revised, lacking much of the spirit and dash of the rejected one. I now sat quietly between Mother and Dad, carrying on mental conversations with myself. My favorite topic was the everpresent argument of whether the pastor bore more resemblance to a penguin or to a walrus. We would discuss it at great length-myself and I-but we inevitably compromised by agreeing that it was clearly a tie, as his drooping jowls and waddling carriage marked him as being definitely of the walrus type, and yet the full dress attire on his particular physical stature labeled him as being of the penguin variety.
My next diversion was to listen for the choir to whistle on their "s's. " Then I would take fiendish delight in listening for errors in the responsive reading, at which I became convulsed with forbidden laughter. I was often reduced merely to staring at the ceiling; consequently, I can still remember that the ceilingdome is divided into six sections, with eight cross beams to a section, each beam being studded with forty-eight gold knobs.
At the sensitive age of fourteen I commenced to think about clothes and boys. Early Sunday morning I began to worry about what I should wear, and later in church I began to worry-after a careful survey around meabout what I should have worn. My mental
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activities at this age were mostly directed at retrimming hats in the congregation. However, the core of my thoughts was always absorbed by an overwhelming envy of my older sister, whose young man now attended church with us. My one ambition was to reach her status, and, accordingly, her privilege, which was to me the essence of romance.
I realized a few years later from experience that my ideal was a fragile air castle, for being accompanied to church by one's young man was to be accompanied by relentless embarrassment and uneasiness. It was during this period that I first discovered that hats-all hats-big or small, picturesque or tricky, were unbearably unbecoming to me. Walking up the aisle with my Mr. Non de Script, was walking endless miles through a treacherous chaos of whispers, which mercilessly reached our reddening ears: from the very young, a singsong chant of "Mary's got a fell a'," from the very old a whisper, "Miss Arnold's growin' up! See her with a beau?" (Detestable word!)
Arriving at last at our pew, we were always confronted by another problem in the bulky form of Mr. X, large and balloon-shaped. I ref er to the dirigible balloon, not the red, green, or yellow kind that characterize fair grounds. Trustee of the bank and pillar of the church, he occupied the extreme end of our pew in a state of semi-somnambulism, as surely as the pastor occupied the pulpit in one of gusto and fervence. It was always a most perplexing decision, whether we should attempt to squeeze through the small space between his pudgy knees and the back of the next pew, or to arouse him enough to indicate the necessity of his arising, risking the embarrassment of his loud grunts. Either method presented a disturbingly vivid picture in my mind of its possible failure.
Once safely seated, new difficulties arose. I
became more and more aware of my unflattering, Sunday morning appearance, and even more acutely aware of Mr. Non de Script's awareness thereof. Sharing the heavy hymnal with him presented the unmistakable fact to Mr. Non de Script that my vocal accomplishments were exceedingly poor, and, as my voice wandered uncertainly to false notes, I yearned for the carefree days when I could crawl around on pews with nothing more to contend with than a "no-no" look from Mother.
At eighteen, which is more-or-less conceded to be mental maturity, my attitude toward church underwent the most radical and fortunate change of all. Whether it was a subtle change or an impulsive one I do not know. My vain ideas of dress were replaced by the desire simply to be clothed appropriately. Whether or not I was accompanied by a man was of little importance. I began to enjoy church as church.
Perhaps, this metamorphosis came when I accidentally overheard an interesting portion of the sermon. Perhaps, the choir offered a particularly beautiful selection. But I am more inclined merely to credit myself with having developed a deeper mental capacity and appreciation. In view of all this, I have again adopted a new and comfortable routine of thought. I listen experimentally to the first part of the sermon. If it does not please me, I dispense with that and dedicate the remaining time to catching up on thoughts of a religious nature.
One cannot always stop during the busy week to sort her ideals and standards and ponder over right and wrong. Sunday morning brings a chance to reflect back over the past week, and it provides me with the inspiration and desire to meet the problems of the approaching one in a more Christian fashion. I do not always listen to the pastor's prayer. Quite of ten I originate my own, suiting my own emotions, difficulties, and circumstances. I no longer dread church; I welcome it, sometimes as a peaceful setting for my religious moods and silent communication with Him, sometimes as an opportunity to listen to someone, who is more versed than I, talk to me on a subject about which he knows much, and I little. I no longer see services dismissed with a mental expression of glee; I see them go with an inexpressible feeling that I have either learned or experienced something for which I am a better person.
I can now see the pastor as an intelligent human being, without absurd similarities diverting my mind. I have nearly forgotten that there are forty-eight gold knobs on each beam of the ceiling. But best of all, I am on my way toward a fullness of religious appreciation, which I am sincere in wanting to develop, that the curtains separating my mind from Knowledge, my heart from Love, and my soul from God may be lowered, so that more distinctly I may hear the Voice, more truly I may be in the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of Man.
The other night
The moon was bright And shone on fence and path That turned and ran, a silver sliver,
Behind the hill, a pile, a mass
Of dark stark Oaks. One stood dim Against the bright Stars; and from one limb
Hung a slight Form, twisting and turning. Under was burning
A leaping fire that seared and sheared Rags from a tortured body. A multitude of masked men Became enmeshed
In the odor of scorching flesh. At the bottom of the hill
An old man, ill, Bent, leaning on a cane, Wept bitterly. Tears coursed down his brown
Wrinkled face. "Oh, God, that sane Men act thus!"
In the east the cold grey dawn Broke. The sun Was rising as the wan Old man turned and stumbled on, Sobbing, "My son, my son!"
-ROBERT MURRILL.
SUNRISEON THEAMAZON
By OWEN TATE
FROM ACROSS the lake a strong voice has come telling us that woman is so hampered by convention and by the active opposition of men that she is unequal at present, but in the future she will rise to equality and, possibly, dominance. It has been said that the girls are ham-strung by fear of public opinion to the extent that they have no chance to live their own lives and to exert their individuality. The bone of contention seems to have two main protuberances: woman does not have an equal chance with man in the business world, and ·woman does not have the same freedom of choice in her love life.
If it is granted that this is a true brief of the case as was stated in "Twilight of the Gods," then let the discussion continue.
The successful business woman of today is holding her job, not because "the female is deadlier than the male," and not because some kind hearted boss believes that women ought to have a place in commerce, but for the simple reason that she contributes valuable service to her employer. She receives a salary in payment for work performed. She is not hired to wear skirts, but to do work. If the quality of her work falls to a point at which her services no longer render her employer a profit, then she will be replaced by some one better fitted to do the job. The employer will try to hire the most capable person available regardless of sex.
Labor is hired to do work, and if the work brings a profit on the capital invested, the owner of the capital doesn't give a damn whether the employees are male, female, or neuter. Competence in work, instead of sexual potency, is the requisite of the employee. Were your skirts or your trousers made by a man or a woman? You don't care which. You are interested only in the quality of the goods. It has been said that the world is striving to keep the woman in the home and that man resents her influx into the positions that he has formerly held. We readily concede that man hates for woman to get his job. Now, will the militant ladies be kind enough to admit that a woman might hate to see a man get her job? Let's get close to earth with a hypothetical case, in which there is one vacancy to be filled and four applicants. Two of these applicants are men and two are women. Suppose one of the women gets the job. Both of the men will react as individuals and say, "I should have gotten that job." And equally important, the jobless woman will say, "I should have gotten that job." A man trying to get a job wants that position for himself and doesn't want to see any other man or a woman getting it. In the competition for jobs, the men fight each other as hard as they fight the women, and it is just. Men or women who find themselves unable to meet the competition have no right to blame the opposite sex. The employer hires ability, not anatomy.
"Twilight of the Gods" tells us that woman is tied by convention so tightly that she does not have the same freedom in her love life that man possesses. The case in point of a woman
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who defied convention was taken from H. G. Wells' Ann Veronica. It seems that Ann was a modern girl, who wanted to live her own life; so she approached a married man and requested him to be her lover. We haven't gotten around to reading the book yet, but, according to the author of the article, Ann wins. If we scrap existing conventions-and why should we not ?-woman has the right to as free a sex life as any man. Of course, marriage will then be an excresence of love and will be discarded. Ann will have children, because that is a fundamental desire, having nothing to do with convention, but her children won't have any last name, for surnames are conventional. It may be that Ann will have to work very hard to support herself and offspring, and, if her lover believes in the dominance of women, then she will have to support him too. If Ann's pretty young daughter lives her own life so independently that she becomes diseased, poor, and has only her freedom left, she may want to return to the shelter of her father's home. But, alas! she won't know who her father is! We believe that most of the conventions regarding love have been set up by women to fill a definite need. In a society without conventions, the man could always escape responsibility for his acts, but there would be no escape for the woman.
Beyond question, woman is inhibited by conventions. The fear of gossiping neighbors exerts a tremendous influence on the behavior of everyone, but on women most of all. In our own Southland, the double standard has created a wide gap between what is acceptable conduct for men and for women. While the man sows his wild oats with a minimum of disapproval from his contemporaries, the girl who does the same thing is likely to lose caste for a lifetime. Admittedly, this is unfair, and the solution lies in changing the conventions
which have brought these conditions about. How to change the modes of civilization is a problem for Solomon.
But it hardly seems necessary for the modern young woman to pattern herself after , Ann Veronica. Isn't it enough to give woman the same rights and privileges of the chase that man has without also giving her unlimited precepts? It becomes evident that we advocate a modification of convention rather than a complete destruction. Let the customs be changed so that woman can seek a mate with all the freedom of choice that man exercises, but let us not advocate that it is "the rightest of all conceivable things" for a girl to steal another woman's husband. There has never been a time when men have had the right to pay amorous attentions to married women, and there is no necessity for permitting women to seek married men. Convention has caused many girls to accept a man for a husband who would not have been their first choice had they been given the right actively to participate in courtship. Convention has been judged and found guilty, but is the death penalty required? Anarchy lies in the ashes of exterminated convention.
Many of us old settlers are smugly conservative. We think that the modern miss can contrive to be individualistic, unique, distinctive, and at the same time live her own life without breaking every existing rule. Why, oh why, must the ladies be so thorough in their house cleaning?
Women tilt against a windmill when they contend that they are not given a fair chance in business. As for conventions, the girls have a real grievance there-and we say, "More power to you." If the campaign goes well, perhaps, in a thousand years, we poor mortals who wear pants will have something like an even break at getting a seat on the street car.
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By PAUL SAUNIER, JR.
JOHNNYWASMUCHDISCOURAGEDover his last trip away from home and he had sworn that he would never, never again go to a place as crazy as that to which he had been on his last adventure. But in spite of
crossed a bridge, while the other charged up the hill on the right toward the big swamp by the barn.
Q bed-timesfoi~
to'tWesthampton
When the dust had settled, and the road cooled off enough to walk on, Johnny started again. When he reached the his fear of getting mixed up in another crazy place like the one he had recently been to, where, if you remember, people pinned things on strangers, . threw at each other, and lived in big grey barns by swamps, Johnny
decided that he would just have to do something.
So one Friday morning he started out. He started quite early and had gone almost a whole mile, all downhill, when he heard a loud hum, like a fleet of Martin Bombers that he had once heard fly over his house. He was then at the big curve in the road about a hundred yarqs before you come to the sign "Westhampton College," and he stepped off the road to look up and see what was flying over. The noise suddenly got louder, and when he looked behind him, where it now seemed to be coming from, he saw the cause of the noise . There was a solid line of automobiles tearing down the hill, and they rounded the curve with terrible screeches. They were going so fast that Johnny couldn't see who was in them or what they were doing.
After it rounded the curve, which Johnny thought rather unusual, the column split. One group careened around a left-angle turn and
[ 26]
sign " , Westhampton College," he turned left. He was afraid to go to the right because he was wearing a new suit, and he thought that somebody might throw him down again and get it
all dirty.
He went on up the hill past what he thought was a church, and on farther, until he was walking across a large field. This field was bounded on two sides by large brick buildings, and Johnny was walking toward one of these when he saw the young lady who lived next door walking toward him. He called out to her.
She looked around furtively and then smiled and spoke to him.
She asked him what he was doing there, and Johnny told her that he was just looking around. As they kept on talking, she told him that this place was a college. Johnny asked her some questions about it, and she was answering some of them, when he noticed a very strange sight behind her.
There was a little lady coming over the hill in back of the girl. This lady was followed by a pack of dogs of various descriptions. At first he couldn't believe that she was walking, because he had never before seen anyone move
so fast on foot. He was, in fact, almost sure rows. They were just beginning to shoot at for quite a few seconds that she was riding some targets about fifty yards to Johnny's left. something, because the lower half of her body The first arrow made a rather -ragged hole was just a blur, but when she came closer, and in the knot in Johnny's tie; so he moved her legs slowed down so that they could be around in back of the young women, where seen distinctly, he saw that she was walking. only an occasional arrow came close. After The hounds had been running at top speed, watching them for some time, he noticed that but they were still several hundred yards be- young women were coming in and out of the hind. doors of the large, new-looking, brick build-
The little lady stopped about two and a half ing farther behind the girls. So he decided to inches in back of the girl and took out a stop- take shelter in it for awhile. watch. The girl got very nervous but she kept When he first went in and looked directly on talking and also took out a watch. in front of him, he thought that he must be in Johnny felt very uneasy at the way the little the local jail. There were some heavy doors lady was staring at him, but he didn't say any- with peep-holes in them, and the general barething about it. Her hair was dressed exactly ness of the place made him feel as if there like that of Psyche, of whom Johnny had read ought to be a guard around somewhere. But in his story books, and at first Johnny thought he didn't see one; so he turned to the right and that she was Psyche. But then he decided that entered a tremendous room. this lady looked just a little younger than There were chairs and tables placed around Pysche ought to have looked by now. the outer edges of the room, where, Johnny
She was very small and somehow reminded thought, people could relax and watch the Johnny of a pretzel, though he couldn't think hockey games going on in the middle. When exactly why. he remembered that his friend had told him
Suddenly the girl to whom Johnny was that they played all of their hockey outside, talking broke off in the middle of a sentence he figured that it must be used for something and walked away. The lady said to one of the else. It was a little too small for either a dogs, in a disgusted voice, "Oh Galli-Curci! football field or a baseball diamond. Johnny Only nine and a half!" and disappeared over decided that it was a tennis court and that the the horizon. nets were down.
The hounds, who had just gotten there, He was standing there, looking at the court were lying around panting, but they got up and wondering how a ball would bounce on and attempted to follow the little lady anyway. that sod, when he heard a noise downstairs. Johnny, of course, thought all this very The more he listened, the louder it seemed to strange. But then he gave it up as a bad riddle become. He made up his mind to go down and looked around for a place to explore. and investigate the sounds. It sounded like Out on the big field, which his friend had someone was fighting down there. told him was a "hockey field," he saw a group He went down the nearest stairs he could of young women. Some of them were dressed find. As he reached the bottom floor he saw a in shorts, and the rest in some odd garments railroad ticket office, directly in front of him. which reminded Johnny of his grandmother's Since he didn't see any signs to the tracks, he bloomers, and they all carried bows and ar- decided that they probably were reached
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through the big room of red and blue leather furniture on his left, which was occupied by a crowd of young women draped over the furniture in very unusual positions . On his right was a door, through which all the noise was comrng.
He knocked several times, but, when nothing happened, he went on in anyway As soon as he entered the room, which seemed to be a sort of restaurant, he was sure that someone was staring at him. It almost hurt. He became more and more positive that someone was trying to look a hole through him. He wanted to find this person who was glaring at him so hard. He looked carefully around the room, checked up on everyone in sight, and when none of them, who were all young women, seemed to be looking at him, he didn't know what to do He could see no sign of anyone else who could be peeking around a door or anything, but he did happen to notice a big pile of papers on a desk in the far corner of the room The more he looked at the pile the surer he became that the glarer was crouched behind the pile of papers. Yes! The person who was staring at him was staring through the big pile of papers!
Suddenly someone sprang from behind the papers and lit behind the candy counter on Johnny's right. He saw that it was a lady, neatly dressed in white. She leaned at Johnny and asked him what he wanted.
Johnny thought he ought to buy something, or perhaps the lady would bite him. He gave her a nickel and asked for a Baby Ruth. She took the coin, and asked him if he wanted some lovely biscuits. He said that he didn't believe he did, so she fumbled around behind the counter for awhile and finally gave him a pack of Camels and a five-dollar bill. Then she started back to her papers and said, "Anything else?"
Johnny sagged into a chair to try to think the thing out. It was a deep question. The crowd of young women in the place made such a racket that he couldn't think very well. He decided that he needed a good stiff drink to bolster him up. He had made up his mind to order a malted milk this time, instead of just a milk, so he began looking around for someone to wait on him. He didn't want to ask the lady, because he could see that she was very ferociously adding some figures at the desk, but because at least half of the young women in the place wore smocks, Johnny thought they must be waitresses. He asked one, as she came by, if she would wait on him.
She laughed and went on.
He tried several more times with other smocked young women, but was met each time by amused laughs.
Just then he happened to look toward the windows, and he saw that the little lady of the hounds was staring at him, watch in hand, from the outside. He got panicky and started running upstairs.
In his excitement he forgot to stop running at the main floor, and before he knew it he found himself on the top floor of the building. There was an open door there, and Johnny went through it.
In the room in which he now found himself was a group of young women, in various stages of undress, prancing around in time to the pounding which an older lady, who seemed to be in charge, was contributing. The young women would occasionally stop and assume awkward poses with their hands, or feet, or both, in the air, and then would go into some angular contortions ( funny poses, Willy).
When the lady saw Johnny, she at first gasped, and then began gnashing her teeth
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at him. Johnny was just about to stand for the chalk, the wild-eyed young women would t his, for a change, and ask her why she was look tense, their faces would assume weird g nashing at him, when he noticed that the expressions, and they would lean forward in li ttle lady of the hounds was hanging onto their seats. Whenever he stopped the noise for the window ledge outside, watch in hand. a moment, the girls would fall back in the Johnny tore down the steps. seats, expressions showing great relief.
It was getting him down! Everywhere he Johnny saw that it was a class of "epilepw ent the little lady was timing him! But he tics," such as he had once seen in Williamsfinally got control of himself again and walk- burg. He went on down the hall. ed boldly out onto the field again, holding his As he passed another door, he heard somepocket-knife in front of him. one chanting, "By and large, by and large ,
As he got on the field again, he saw that by and large!"
t here was an arrow sticking through one of the He stopped at the next door. In this room g irls who had been shooting around the tar- there was another group of young women, but g ets, and the others were all gathered around these were all staring at a tall red-haired lady t rying to pull it out. They finally succeeded, as she paced about the room. She seemed to and all went back to their shooting. be showing the girls the principles of fast
When Johnny saw them start again, he ran walking. Johnny saw that she couldn't hold a fo r the other building as fast as he could, and candle to the little lady with the timing comso he wasn't hurt seriously by the arrows. He plex, but he had to admit that this was pretty d ashed into the building and leaned against a good. She was averaging about five seconds wall, breathing hard. fiat for every time about the room. The girls
As soon as he got his breath back, he de- displayed wonderful neck ability, being able cided to do some more exploring . He went on to turn their heads completely around to watch up some stairs into another hall, which he the lady without moving their bodies. w alked down quietly. He stopped in front of Johnny got so interested in watching the a door out of which a strange riveting-ma- lady walk that he foolishly moved into her chine-like noise was coming, and watched path once, and was knocked over against the what was going on. wall. "Very apropos," said the lady "Indeed,
In the room was a young man wearing rim- most apropos!" less spectacles. This young man was standing Johnny left. by a blackboard at the front of the room, while He went on down the stairs again, and he at the rear there were a lot of classroom seats had reached the main floor when his eye such as those in Johnny's school. There were caught a sign, "Puppet Theatre." There was tw enty or more young women in these seats. an arrow on the sign, which pointed down
The man would say something every now some steps. Johnny went on down. He loved to and then, and occasionally write on the board see puppet shows and he thought that perhaps He would beat on the board with a piece of he could chisel in, like his big brother, who chalk every few seconds. As the banging went to Richmond College, always did. would start and stop the young women would When he came into the room where the r ise and fall nervously in their seats. Every puppets were, a man whom Johnny thought t ime the man began to beat on the board with looked a lot like a concert violinist he had once
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seen, was working over some of the figures. Suddenly the man handed Johnny a string on which was dangling a puppet figure of a blonde girl and said, "Hold this, and don't let it drop!" The man worked a minute longer, looked at his watch, put on his coat, turned out the lights, and went out.
Johnny was left, as the old saying goes, holding the bag.
After some time of holding the thing, Johnny got tired and let it down very easily. Then he tried to get out. He had a terrible time, because every time he moved a few feet he got all tangled up in some strings or other strange things. Once he was feeling around and put his hand on a lizard about three feet long, which scared him awfully. He almost thought he was going to get out right after that, but he tripped over some more things and got all scrambled up again.
Finally he got to the door, and when he was in the light again, he saw that it was now twenty minutes after twelve by his watch.
As he reached the big field, he saw that there were just lots and lots of young women lined up on the hill going down to the lake. Others were coming out of all the doors in sight and heading in the same direction. The little lady and the hounds were acting like the sheep dogs that Johnny had seen in the movies, barking at all the young women and herding them into line. When all the girls had been placed in the line and were standing stiffly, eyes ahead, the little lady walked to the front of the column and shouted, "Forward, march!"
The column moved forward in perfect step.
The little lady led the procession down to the big church by the lake, where Johnny could see a crowd gathering. He ran beside the column down to the church, and arrived there just before the little lady did. He then saw a very strange thing.
The crowd, which Johny saw was composed of young men, divided and made a lane for the little lady and her regiment to enter the church. The little lady scowled at all the young men, and this resulted in a general backward movement, since each of the young men tried to hide behind the other. About a hundred of the fellows went in the lake because of this movement, but they all came back up to the church, as soon as the little lady had gone in.
Soon everyone was in, and Johnny followed the crowd.
When he got in, he saw that all the boys were sitting on one side of the large church, while the pews on the other side seated the young women. Several barbed wire fences, about six inches apart, separated the two sexes. In little guard stations, about every ten feet along the aisle, were standing middle-aged women with what Johnny had seen called "Tommy-guns" in the funny-papers. There was a high runway on iron supports over these women, and on this runway the hounds coursed at regular intervals.
The little lady had taken a seat on the front row of the pews, but she looked continuously at the situation behind her, staring over her back like an owl.
Johnny sat down with the young men.
He immediately noticed the ~ay the young men and young women looked at each other. They never looked at anything but the other crowd across the aisle. Johnny saw one young woman point toward the men and say to another, "What are they?" The other young woman didn't seem to know.
After listening to the general hubbub for awhile, Johnny happened to notice that one of the older men of those sitting on the raised platform in the back of the place was standing up in a sort of pulpit. Johnny saw that his mouth was moving, but he decided that he was
[ 30]
just talking to some friends in the front row. But, since all those in the two front rows were looking at the man, Johnny moved up toward the front to hear what the man was saying.
Just as he got past the third row from the front, he began to catch the man's words. He was saying, "And it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you by far the most outstanding speaker who has ever graced our campus, Mr. R. Hugh Listnintoome. He is, as we all know, a man of rare executive ability. He is now in charge of eight WP A workers, who are retarring the roads in Akkymac County. It gives me great pleasure to introduce Mr. Listnintoome."
The only people who clapped were those in the first two rows.
Johnny soon tired of hearing the man speak, since the fell ow stuttered, lisped, and spoke broken English. Johnny went out of a side door.
He waited outside for the strange occasion to be over. In about an hour, the people started coming out, but, within a minute after they had first started to come out, the little lady and the hounds had herded the young women back up the hill, and the young men had drooped off to their side of the lake.
Johnny was following the young women up the hill, thinking that he would try to get something to eat in the restaurant in the jail building, when he noticed his friend up on the
as the lady squealed, "Ah, Diana! Ten minutes!" Then she drew back her arm.
When Johnny woke up, the stars were shining. The lights in the buildings were on, and he could smell something cooking. He could hear people wailing and others clearing away dishes, so he knew that supper must be over, and my, was he hungry! He went on up to the building which seemed to smell the best, thinking that perhaps he could get something to eat.
As he walked across the field he saw two lines of impatient young women stamping around. About every five minutes, there would be some yells at the heads of the lines, and the whole business would move up about ·five inches. Johnny didn't know what to make of this, but he followed the lines up to their heads.
He found that they went into the older brick building and then turned into a little room, in which there were two telephone booths. Each of the two lines of panting young women went into a telephone booth. The little lady, now without the hounds, was standing there holding the stop-watch. Suddenly she stamped her foot, which made the building shake, and the girls in the lines tore the two girls using the phones out of the booths. Four maids carried them, kicking and screaming, into another room.
Johnny stood there and watched it happen again. The little lady stamped her foot field again. When he got up there he started and the same thing happened to the girls another conversation with her, and, as he had who had gotten into the booths when the first been expecting, th e ath letic little lady ap- two girls had been torn out. Johnny crept up peared again. But in stead of timing him, she behind the lady and saw that it was at fivestepped behind a tree when she was about fifty minute intervals that she would give the sigyards away. nal.
In a few minutes she zipped from behind The lines, which Johnny had seen stretching the tree, watch in hand again, and rushed over almost all the way across the field, grew more to the two. The girl fell over in a dead faint and more bloodthirsty, and would tear the
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girls out of the booths every five minutes with increasing fury.
Johnny left this interesting situation to wander down the hall and see what lay that way. He saw a line of doors along the hall, and he asked a young woman what they were. She looked around carefully, then leaned over and whispered, "Date rooms!" They looked to Johnny like the picture of the Sing-Sing cell block that he had seen in his new Children ' s Club book, Spike McGulligan Evades the Chair
He opened one of the doors and looked in. The room was brightly lighted, and, when Johnny looked up to see where all the light was coming from, he saw a powerful light bulb, which was locked into its socket with a large padlock. In the room were two straightbacked chairs, in one of which a young man was sitting, while a young woman occupied the other seat. The two were tied hand and foot, and an older woman was standing in back of them listening carefully to every word the two said. When the boy and girl looked embarrassed at seeing Johnny, he backed out.
As he went on, he passed a funny light coming from under a stairway. He followed it, and when he peeked under the stairs, he saw three girls reading books by the light of a flashlight. They were absorbed in their reading, and didn ' t even notice Johnny. They had been reading so hard that they had let the blanket, which usually kept the light from coming out into the hall slip down, and it was this light that Johnny had seen. The books were the same ones that he had seen on his past adventure at the crazy place, with names like
Ballyhoo, Esquire! College Humor, and True Romances.
He pinned the blanket up again for the young women and went on. He could hear the clinking of dishes in the rear of the building and he followed his ears to see if he could chisel some food. He could hear someone singing very ferociously in the room from which the dish noises were coming. When he opened the door to the room, the person, who sounded like the boy who used to come to his house and sing "I Hear You Calling Me" at his big sister, and whom his father used to call " that damned belligerent baritone," hit a high note that broke several dishes and left Johnny's ears paralyzed . In about ten minutes, when he could hear and think again, he turned back toward where he came into this funny place.
Johnny decided right there that, although this place was cleaner and had nicer buildings than the one to which he had been on his last trip, the people acted crazier, and the place itself kept reminding him of a jail. He was on his way down the hall when he passed the "date rooms," where he saw that the little lady had evidently left her timing job to someone else. She was now careening up and down the hall opening and shutting all the little doors. Occasionally she would leap across the hall and make a random peek, but she usually took them in regular order.
Johnny ran down the hall, past the lady , past the screaming lines, across the field, past the church, and got on the road to home . As he puffed homeward he thought to himself , "That's what I get for not sticking at home like I said I was going to! ''
GONE TO TEXAS.
By John W. Thomason, Jr. Charles Scribner's Sons. New York. 274 pp. $2.75.
The same flamboyant elan, the same vigorous dexterity of pen, the same rare gift for catching the feel of an olden time that stepped Jeb Stuart and his other works from the file to commanding positions characterize Marine Major John W. Thomason, Jr.'s novel, Gone to Texas.
The rough Texas of 1868, with its rebels still fighting, its arguments blasted out with army pistols, its former servants dispensing laws at the State House in Austin, and its youth carrying the torch of Houston for an empire in Mexico, is the ideal setting for a Thomason story; and Second Lieutenant Edward Cantrell, veteran of the late war and now of the Twenty-ninth Infantry, United States Army, stationed at Fort Carmen, and only twenty-three, is the perfect hero.
Lieutenant Edward Cantrell, aboard the steam packet Geraldine-New Orleans to Galvestonhad occasion to notice a fellow-passenger, in closecut frock coat, rakish hat, with iron-grey hair and a limp, for his cold eyes seemed to pierce right through the blue of the young man's uniform, and his manner was bitterly antagonistic and aloof. But a better reason ~or meeting the old gentleman on deck was the girl with the black hair and smoky blue eyes, who always walked on his arm. From the loquacious purser the lieutenant learned that he was Major Leonidas Hawkes, the lovely miss, Brandon Hawkes, his niece and ward, and that their plantation was not far from his assigned post on the Rio Grande border.
That she was a rebel "spitfire" and a gentle devil, he came to know for himself, when she cleverly succeeded in having him incarcerated for a shooting her cousin had done, and, on their second meeting, banged a hole into him with a long Adams pistol.
But, then, she nursed him through pneumonia a nd the bullet wound and fell in love with him. The dream he had lived with since coming to Texas vanished, however, when Brandon complied with her uncle's wishes and sent away that "Nawthe ' n person, wearing the ve'y uniform which means the suppression - the violent suppression - of Southe'n
liberties." And so Second Lieutenant Edward Cantrell rode away on a misty morning with Trooper Smedes, his friend and nurse from the fort, and knew he had no luck in Texas.
But, inevitably, the hell-raising old major , his beautiful niece, and the prepossessing soldier met again, and things were set straight between them.
This is the stuff of ethereal romance. But , while it has all the old ingredients, Southern pride, the fiery rebel, and the lovely girl with steel in her temper, plantations and horses , this is not another magnolias-and-white-columns-in-the-moonlight story. Instead, a deft hand has done the mixing and out has come a story of jolly good wit, with sparkle and verve. The author does not deal deeply with emotions or states of the mind; he has retained his usual, effective detachment and writes his romance in the lightest vein. And pen-and-ink sketches, as fine as any the writer has ever done , enhance a novel you will want to buy and make your own.
GEORGE SCHEER.
THE BRIEF HOUR OF FRANCOIS VILLON.
By John Erskine. Bobbs Merrill Company. New York. $2.50.
John Erskine's penchant for making human beings out of historical puppets is given free play in this collection of short stories about Master Villon, the vagabonding adventurer of France and the Middle Ages, who was at once a philosopher, philanderer, and poet. He rollicked from pillar to post, "singing for his supper"-frequently going without it-evading the gendarmes and the guards, loved and dreaded, boastful and rough. Ruefully bland in the complacency with which he accepted the inevitable, he had few scruples about sharing a strange bed and even fewer when it came to helping himself to anything which he felt he deserved more than the owner.
The effortless suavity of his existence reminds one of nothing so much as a footl oos e Robin Hood , whose Sherwood was the whole of France , who lived and loved on the run, leaving in his wake a trail of verse and broken hearts. He came out of physical scrapes, leaving portions of his hide behind , out of emotional upheavals , leavin g in verse bits of his personality. Wherever he went the ladies looked forward hopefully to his return - so did th e ir husbands!
Francois Villon travelled under all extremes of [ 33]
circumstances, but he always travelled. The noose was more than once around his neck, and of ten he fled by foot from the shadow of it. He travelled once under the protection of the King, and several times he rode in state on the horses, indeed in the clothes, of those sent out to arrest him. Only once did he stop in his wanderings, and that was to seek respectability as a tutor and notary.
In the difficult task of translating poetry from the French, John Erskine has excelled himself. The ballads, rondeaus, and rondels are as faithfully translated both in content and spirit as it is possible to do so.
While Erskine's characterization contains too much unrecorded detail to permit its being listed as biography, the feeling of plausability rings so strong that one cannot help believing that, in forsaking history, he has returned Francois Villon, in literature, to the ranks of the living.
ROBERT J.MARTIN.
CONVERSATION AT MIDNIGHT.
By Edna St. Vincent Millay. Harper and Brothers. New York. 126 pp. $2.
Conversation at Midnight has come as a thunderous shock, shattering for some worshippers of Edna St. Vincent Millay the gilded crown of poetic illusions and signifying for a new following a sudden spurt of intellectual advancement. Utterly departing from her former pedestal of personal lyrics, metrically correct and rhythmically trimmed and tuned, Millay's new book is a dramatic dialogue of ideas, not patterned after the singing splendor of Second April, nor the "intellectual emotionalism" of Fatal Interview, but presenting what one critic has called "a deliberate mixture of Maxwell Anderson, Ogden Nash, Noel Coward, and Robinson Jeffers "
Setting forth objectively a cross-current of prejudices, statements, beliefs in today's cosmopolitan thought, Conversation at Midnight presents the various opinions of a group of seven men: Merton, a wealthy American stock-broker; John, a gifted painter; Pygmolion, a disillusioned, attractive, gayshort-story writer; Carl, a communist and a poet; Father Anselmo, a Roman Catholic priest; Lucus, an advertising writer; and Ricardo, a wealthy and cultured bachelor , in whose home the discussion takes place. This interior affords Millay an opportunity to surround her ideas with her usual ::esthetic, colorful, dramatic stage-setting .
Among the clamoring and mingled voices uplifted in this volume, it is readily seen that of them all Ricardo speaks from the true heart of Millay, for here the reader comes closest to finding the old poet that he knew and her characteristics of cynicism, disillusionment, futility expressed in breathless lines.
"The heart, whose only office is to beat, beats on, is not confused; If yesterday it staggered, it does not remember,"
says Ricardo, stirring in one's mind those other lines from a sonnet in Fatal Interview:
"The heart once broken is a heart no more, And is absolved from all a heart must be "
Trying to animate and give individuality to a number of persons, however, Millay has had to control her own point of view which always before was flaunted in full array.
Critics and readers continue to disagree about the merits of this volume. Perhaps, the versatility of this able artist is the answer to conflicting ideas. The gilded crown making a halo of rhythm around love, beauty, and death has not necessarily been discarded; possibly a new, golden sceptre has been received by this contemporary queen of lyric verse. Who knows whether Conversation at Midnight heralds a new Millay, or whether the old Millay has put a new point in her pen?
MARGARET CARPENTER.
THE STUBBORN WAY. By Baxter Hathaway. Macmillan Company. New York. 336 pp. $2 50.
Life in its dull and sordid aspects is seldom intriguing reading for the average man, who has come to seek romance, glamour, unusual persons in novels. This book is so constructed that the detail of the plot forces itself into clear outline, vividly marking the thread of an average life.
Choosing the stubborn way, a young man went to work, after a meager high school education, in a paper mill. Economic conditions necessitated the step, and three years of monotony had almost beaten out of him what aspirations he had had. With gripping strength, Hathaway portrays the struggle the boy has with himself in his desire to rise above the inexorableness of the system. The youth had even fallen to a cheap affair with a waitress, living the life of the hands, trying to accept their views. But on finding a girl in sympathy
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with him, Wally Stevenson found the driving power he sought and conquered over the grasp of his job.
Description in this novel is its most outstanding, single feature . Clear-cut, rapid-fire images enable one to imagine smoke in a dusky room, the thundering chatter of incessantly grinding reels of pulp, the timeless drone of motors, the undertone of conversation and curses One can feel too keenly the exhaustion of the workers after a thirty-hour shift, when, with weighted eyelids and unwilling feet, they obey the commands of machines.
Heart-rending are the pictures of the inward conflict that Wally faces. In his brief affair with the waitress, readers are inclined to believe that he has ruined himself by lowering to the plane of brute license. His torture of mind is so great that one assumes the mood and discovers himself speculating on the justice of Wally's later actions. But his relationship with Serena is touching and convincing enough to recolor the story.
Like a plain friend, The Stubborn Way grows on one. At first, readers are likely to be disappointed, especially in the first chapters. As a whole, the book becomes a masterpiece of character-sketching and a study in the problems of men of today. Not a true masterpiece; but a book worth keeping. That is Baxter Hathaway's work. It breathes the very spirit of youth; youth and age will appreciate its truth.
BEN McCLURE.
'( '( '(
Exams over, we, the pitiable editors, faced the bleak task of assembling the magazine from two poems and one cover-cut. Harassed by visions of the printer's-poor, long-suffering soul-anguished plea for prompt, clean copy, we approached everyone we could find for promised material. Everyone but us had something pleasant to do or some-
where pleasant to go and was so sorry , as he consigned us a place to g o. All the campus fictioneers were devoting themselves to their PDE prize shortstory contest. So we rallied what we wuld, swore lustily at every dismal , belated page of copy, applied the pencil, and served it up If Eros doesn ' t steal our contributors' thunder come spring, however, the next job will be an aspirin to our headache, which is somewhat relieved already, now that the presses are beginning to roll. It took three readings for our stupid collective editorial mind to appreciate the satire of ETHEL O'BRIEN'S allegorical essay on the dogmatism of the ubiquitous critics and the gullibility of their audiences . And we, too , smile with the Thinker. We were happy when we saw OWEN TA TE take up the cudgels for men in his reply to Miss Babcock' s article on women and convention. Vigor and bluntness in his style belie the man, whom we know to be modest abo ut both his work and ideas MARY ARNOLD , who says she has never written anything that satisfies her, has done something that satisfies us in her "Evolution of a Churchgoer." It is encouraging to find this rational view expounded by a college student, all of whom are reputedly happy Holy Rollers or cynical anti-psalmsingers . . . . HENRY SNELLINGS, Business Manager of the Players , wrote for us the first history of this group that has come to assume an increasingly important place in University life In it he preserves much human interest stuff that might otherwise be lost. . . . For some months now , we h a ve urged GILBERT SIEGEL, of New York , to write an article which he discussed with us on why he came South to school, what he expected to gain , what he feels he has gained . Instead , we got "Pointless?" And that's our gain . . . . ROBERT MURRILL , biology major , is another n a me new to the book; his " Lynch" reve a ls a sensitivity of feelin g g enerally believed lackin g in the science boys. His verse pronouncedly refutes that belief.
"HEALTHY NERVES ARE A MUST WITH ME!"
Fourteen different times the headlines hav e flashed: RALPH GREENLEAF WINS WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP. He is counted the greatest pocket billiard player of all time. Cool under fire. Often pulling from behind with brilliant runs of 59 and 76 to win.
" Even before I won my first big championship I'd already picked Camel as my cigarette, " said Ralph in a special inter v iew during recent championship play in Phil a delphia. "I'd say the most important rule in this game is to have healthy nerves. It pays to be sure of the mildness of your cigarette. And on that score, I think, Camels have a lot extra to offer. One of the main reasons why I've stuck to Camels for 20 years isthey don't ruffle my nerves."
And America as a nation shows the same preference for finer tobaccos that Ralph Greenleaf does! Camels are the largest-selling cigarette in America DO PEOPLE APPRECIATE THE
Fencing experts, too, appreciate Camel's finer tobaccos. As BELA DE TUSCAN, the famous instructor, says: " The fast action in fencing is very tiring, and I welcome the 'lift' I get with a Camel. "
"I'm devoted to Camels, " says HELEN HOWARD, top-flight spring- board diver, of Miami, Florida "They're my one and only cigarette! They don ' t irritate my throat. Most of the girls I know smoke Camels, too."
JAMES L. CLARK, famous scientist and explorer, says:
" I choose Camels for steady smoking- always carry plenty of Camels with me into the wilderness. I'm in seep with the millions who say: 'I'd walk a mile for a Camel!' Many's the time I've actually done it. "
" The way these light boats bounce around is enough to knock the daylights out of my digestion! That ' s why I ( enjoy Camels so much at mealtime They help my digestion to keep on a smooth and even keel, " says MULFORD SCULL, veteran outboard motorboat racer.