A11 OVER THE SOUTH, tobacco experts like Arthur Noell know Luckies pay higher prices to get the finer leaf.
In buying tobacco, as in buying most other things, you get what you pay for. And Lucky Strike's more expensive tobaccos are worth the money because they're milder.
Before the auctions open, Lucky Strike analyzes tobacco samples-finds out just where and how much of the finer, naturally milder leaf is going up for sale-then pays the price to get it.
That's important to you, especially if you're smoking more today. For the more you smoke, the more you want such a genuinely mild cigarette.
Among independent tobacco experts-auctioneers, ::: ~------.,,, buyers and warehousemen-Luckies are the 2 to 1 favorite. Why not smoke the smoke tobacco experts smoke?
LEANDER SAUNDERS, JR. HELEN HILL STRAUGHAN GETTIER
Associate Editors
JOHN DECKER
MARY GRACE SCHERER PAT ABERNETHY
JANICE LANE
Art St aff
ED LUTTRELL
Bminess Manager
BOB CARTER
SIMPSON WILLIAMS Assistant Bminess Manager ROBERT BLACK
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New Ideas and Angles
In recent leisure reading we have found some unusual contributions to literature, worth calling attention to-here a new idea; there, a new angle of approach. A statement made by William L. Shirer in his write-up of Germany in Life a few weeks ago has aroused quite a bit of interest and debate. In discussing the current drama in Germany, Mr. Shirer said that the plays of Shakespeare and George Bernard Shaw were the most popular today. There is a possible explanation of the appeal of Shaw- he enjoyed poking fun at his own people, the English. But we have yet to hear an adequate interpretation of the popularity of Shakespeare. Perhaps you can suggest one.
The adult's comments on war are brought to us constantly in books, magazines, and news broadcasts. Recently, however, more attention is being paid to the position of the child in the war torn world. The captain of a ship carrying Dutch refugees to America encouraged an eleven year old boy to write, in more detail, his diary of the period of the German occupation of Holland. After it was completed the diary was published, entitled My Sister and I, and signed with the fictitious name Dirk Van Der Heide. It's amazing to realize the child's awareness of the situation and his courage,
and to see how different are his observations from those of his elders.
There was a time when many of us, reading of Tahiti, Pitcairn Island, and other South Sea Islands, felt a certain envy for the peaceful, romantic existence of the natives. Later on, after enlightenment we realized that stronger northern countries had " civilized," colonized, and exploited the haunts of men like Nordoff and Hall. But now the tables are turned again! In the recent issue of Harpers is an article called "South Sea War Babies" describing how, because of the wars in Europe these islands can no longer depend on support and supplies from the mother country. In the dilemma the wise old chiefs, remembering former ways of life, have taught this generation of natives how to cultivate the land, make their own boats for fishing, make their own clothing, etc. The effect of this return to the original modes of life on the natives' temperament is amazing. The experiment of the chiefs has proved fascinating.
* * * *
Is There Something To Defend?
Within the last six months, in newspapers, magazines, and books, there have been articles def ending the youth of this generation, saying that they do have their eyes open, that they have enough emotional and intellectual maturity to meet the challenge of the world today, and that they are capable of building a sound future for civilization. Those writers who defend us in this way sound optimistic. They seem to have complete faith in our ability. Are we worthy of this?
On this campus, students repeatedly remark, "Oh, let's not talk about war," or "No, I don ' t read the papers; they're too full of war," and again, " Dial a station where there's some music; who wants to hear news broadcasts?" As college students we will be expected to lead the thinking and action of our generation. Can we lead intelligently and wisely if we now have a philosophy of escape?
But perhaps this philosophy is only that of the minority. The answer to this question is important to us, as editors of your cam pus magazine; there[ 2 J
fore, we have devised a method which may in some way measure the true sentiments of the student body. On page 8 there is a ballot designed to determine your philosophy towards reading so that we may better understand how to edit your magazrne.
Only if you answer the ballot honestly , will it be truly indicative of your thinking.
"The Play's the Thing
Throughout history and literature the play has been important. It was used to "catch the conscience of the king''; · it was the setting for the murder of one of our greatest presidents; it was used (by Ibsen) to educate women. For thousands of years it has been one of the most significant mediums of expression. And yet for many of the dramatic performances on this campus , the Playhouse is half empty Why?
The Department of Dramatic Arts is growing rapidly. Every year a larger number of students enj oy the courses provided in that field. Under the a ble direction of Professor Alton Williams they enthusiastically produce several plays. Dozens of students try out for the productions and cooperate in making the shows go on. And then they have to pl a y to rows and rows of empty seats. The fault lies with us.
The plays are inexpensive; the Playhouse is conveniently located; the actors are o ur fellow students . And above all the plays given are not "a rty ." They are chosen for the enjoyment c f the student body.
The support given creative art on our campus is a measure of the intellectual and cultural development of the student body . Let us be an appreciativ e aud ien ce .
College Editors
After enjoying a brief editorial which appeared in a back issue of Th e N ew Y ork er, we decided to reprint it for your appreciation. "We have an increasing respect for undergraduate publications, callow as they are . They are the real liberal journals of the country , because their editors are twenty-one. At twenty-one an editor h a s the lovely
tart quality of the unripe. Socially, he is conservativ e- more conservative, probably, than he will ever be again; but, editorially, he is a rainbow of radical thought-largely, we believe, because of the sudden orgiastic pleasure of literary expression . He has a distinctive literary style, instantly recognizable: a kind of pedantic sarcasm. The first flush of printer ' s ink is like wine; that is why campus papers are so alive . . . . "
Letters to the Editor
Dear Editor:
Having recently visited in Germany , I am greatly aware of the contrast between life in the United States and there One of the most startling contrasts is one which few Americans have realized- that of family life. I thought that a glimpse of this situation might interest you. Since Sunday, as the day of leisure, once belonged to the German family as it still does to the American, I use this as a focus.
If we look into the home of an average American on a Sunday, we will find a happy family talking, or listening to some music-at least you will nearly always find mother , father and children together. The father will probably instruct his son in table manners, or work some geometric problems with him, while the mother might show her daughter how to knit. Few Americans can really realize how fortunate they are in having a home, having parents in whom they can trust, and having someone who looks after them If we compare this happy life of an average American with the war torn and hateful Germany, we can only say, "Thank God for America!"
But what is it that is actually happening in Germany? I ask myself. Well, we find one of the most frightening and saddest aspects of the Hitler regime - the total destruction of the life of the German family and its internal loyalties. In former times , Sunday was a day for family activities On Sunday morning the whole family awoke with an air of expectancy. Father, mother and all the rest would dress hurriedly in their "Sunday clothes," put on their best manners and would make ready [ 3 J
for a day of real enjoyment. Breakfast was taken rather late in the morning since daddy did not have to be at his job. This was always a leisurely meal. Eggs were served to everybody, and even cheese and some delicatesses were included in the menu. It was a pleasure just to watch a family, to see the smiles and happy looks everybody had, to see how carefree they looked and spoke.
After breakfast, church services were attended. There being few automobiles, a great many people would walk to church. Everywhere one would hear the cheerful greeting, "Guten Morgen." An atmosphere of love and peace would greet one at the church door. Entering, one would find the congregat.ion, hands folded in deep and ardent prayers, asking God to be with them for the next week, and praying for the welfare and happiness . of the family. At the end of the service one would receive the blessing of the preacher which would comfort so many. After the church services were over, the majority of the people would go on long bicycle rides or hikes into the mountains. They would take their lunches, and the family would enjoy what the Americans call a "picnic." When it was too cold or rainy for outdoor activity, the family remained at home. Then it was that various members joined in music and songs of their great composers like Brahms and Heine; sometimes Goethe's and Lessing's poetry was read. Often the parents took this opportunity to instruct their children in ideals and beliefs. On such occasions parents really came to know and enjoy their children; and the children, to know and enjoy their parents. Sundays spent this way helped to form and cement the bonds of love that held the family together.
But all that is changed now. Parents no longer guide their children's thoughts or actions at all, for fear they will incur the displeasure of that fearful god-the State. Breakfast on Sunday no longer is a leisurely meal in harmony, nor is it a meal one can enjoy. Dairy products like butter, eggs, and cheese have ceased to exist. Sunday morning is no longer spent at church or at home. No, it is spent in preparation for activities to take place in the afternoon at the headquarters of the "Hitlerjugend." To this organization every German-but
only if he can trace his Aryan family tree back to seventeen hundred-has to belong. If in the family there is a boy of six or a girl of seventeen, military training is expected of them Thus, Sunday is devoted entirely to party activities. Churches are seldom attended, and prayers are not frequently offered. For how can one still offer a prayer and receive a blessing if one is only allowed to believe in Hitler's blessing? How can one honestly pray if one must now say "Hitler, bless us?"
No longer has the parent any active role in the education of the child. This, too, is in the hands of the dictator-the dictator who himself is unschooled, and who hardly knows how to speak a good German tongue? But Hitler only wants a strong and militaristic youth. He does not want thoughtful, educated men. His enforcement of these ideals has thrown Germany out of her rank in the scientific and educational world.
In the new regime there is no place for the family. Loyalty to the state is of prime importance. Children are encouraged to spy upon their parents and to report their finding to the dreaded Gestapo, which will then take "care" of their victims. In these and other ways the institution upon which cultural civilization has rested, the family, is rapidly being destroyed in Germany. . . F. D. C.
* * * *
If War Comes
Drums, shouts, Making steady hearts beat faster. Posters, headlines, Screaming bloody mouths of hatred. Music, lifting, Gayly driving men to believing. Masses, monsters, Cheering on annihilation.
You, Darling, Standing tall in doubtful waiting. Hope, duty, Fencing lightly through your senses. Blood, breeding, Struggling madly in your body. Useless musing, You can't volunteer, you're drafted.
- FLOSSIE LAFOON.
GUESTEDITORIAL
In answer to a letter asking permission to reprint an editorial appearing in the December 25th issue of the Richmond N e ws Leader , of which he is the editor, Dr. Douglas S. Freeman wrote: "It will be entirely agreeable to me for you to reprint in THE MESSENGER , the editorial of which you speak. Needless to say, I am much interested in that publication which I edited thirty-seven years ago."
DISCOURAGINGPOETRY
" The editor grows daily more discouraged over the quality of the poetry that continues to pour into Th e Lyric. It seems to become more and more difficult to gather together in a year, forty pages of verse, that is worth printing ' '
Thus writes Leigh Hanes in the autumn number of The L y ric, that admirable little magazine of verse published quarterly in Roanoke . Mr. Hanes' standard for his publication, like the standard of his own poetry, is insistently high. Doubtless he rejects much that others of taste less refined might put into print. If his experience is in line with that of newspapers , he must be appalled at the evidence of haste and carelessness of much that is submitted for publication.
Anyone who has to read over the verse that comes to a newspaper will learn the names of a few contributors who most commendably take pains. One may be quite sure that the words of these writers have been weighed and wisely chosen. For the rest, one cannot escape the conclusion that the verse is " dashed off" and that, if it is made to rhyme , the limp of the metre and the awkwardness of the words are disregarded by the writers.
Much of this hasty verse recalls one of the treasured stories of The News Lead er, a story that we hope will be permanently a part of the lore of Richmond journalism. One day there came to us through the mail a poem of perhaps ten quatrains. Attached was a note from the author to the effect that as the poem had been written to promote a certain "Relief Day," it should be printed by such and such a date. The verses were much too poor to use, and they were put away in the files for their author. When he came to inquire about them, it was suggested that as the paper seldom could print " occasional " poems, he would do well to inquire in advance before writing one which was of the
"now-or-never" sort. Nonchantly the writer put the unused manuscript in his pocket and said: "Oh, that's all right. I wrote this poem in fifteen minutes in the lobby of Murphy's Hotel one night last week, and I'm glad to give that much time any evening to a good cause."
How many aspiring writers fail because they think, in much the same illusion of inspiring writing, that fifteen minutes, or an hour, or a day, or one draft or two will complete a poem or an article. Quite recently, one of the ablest of Virginia poets remarked on this subject that even a short poem - say twenty lines- calls for an average of a week of concentrated thought, experimentation and composition. That is the time required by a mistress of her art. Can the beginner hope to spend fewer hours at his task?
A university professor appealed plaintively to his class the other day to devote more attention to revising manuscripts. For smooth and thoughtful composition, he said , a writer requires three times as long as for making the first complete draft. Why, the teacher inquired , did not the students do that?
One of them replied candidly , " It's because we do not know enough about writing to know what's wrong with our articles." That explanation revealed an unfamiliar phase of the ancient maxim that "Art is long." Too many persons attempt to write before they have read enough to know the difference between the good and the bad. They are not willing to employ even the sound and simple method of his self-taught lessons from The S pect cttor that Benjamin Franklin describes in his Autobiography. This is a safe rule for any young writer: Study slowly, in succession, typical chapter or article by recognized masters. Read each of these over and over until the story ceases to interest you. Then say to yourself, "What did the writer set out to do?" Having determined that, analyze, stage by stage, how he did it. If the treatment is factual, as in a news story or an article, set down on a sheet of paper the facts the original author had , and then see how he put them together. Then practice, and practice, and practice. There is no better way of learning to write. Were some of the would-be contributors to Mr. Hanes' magazine to follow that method, they would send more poetry of promise to a magazine that has itself contributed much to better literary art in Virginia.
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President, Scholar and Friend
DR.BOATWRIGHT
By S. JOSEPH WORNOM, JR., '41
IN service, the oldest university president in the United States, Frederic William Boatwright has devoted more than fifty-seven years of his life to the University of Richmond as student, athletic director, instructor, professor, dean, and president.
The Richmond Times-Dispatch , in according President Boatwright a place on its Virginia Honor Roll for 1940 said, "President Boatwright is honored and respected by his faculty and students for his sound scholarship, his tolerance of diverse points of view, his calmness in difficult situations and his readiness to def end members of his teaching staff from unwarranted criticism and attack. He believes in allowing freedom of opinion on the University's campus and is quick to defend
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those who sometimes express views which are not altogether in harmony with those of the majority."
Dr. Boatwright was born at White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, January 28, 1868. Last month he celebrated his seventy-third birthday; yet at the age of three he was laid out for burial. Several doctors pronounced him dead from drowning after he was rescued from a mill-race near his home. However, eighteen hours later he survived. And today he is quite well and active; he still swings an ax every morning before breakfast and, whenever the opportunity comes, he shoulders a gun and tramps through the woods and fields to hunt.
At the tender age of fifteen, after serving as a printer's devil, young "Fred" Boatwright, son of
the Reverend Baker Boatwright-then pastor of a a college president would be a backward step from church in Powhatan County, saddled a horse and their "democratic" government, promptly kindled suitcase saddlebow and set out to matriculate in his a bonfire and burned the 11 baby member" of the father's Alma Mater. In his student days, Dr. faculty in effigy.
Boatwright became a member of the Philologian Young Boatwright had no time to get wrought Society-his father having been one of the four up over the fury of the students caused by the aporganizers of the society-editor-in-chief of THE pointment. He was concerned with more imporMESSENGER,winner of the Steel Medal for read- tant matters. Since the retirement of Dr. Tiberius ing, and the Gwyn Medal for philosophy. Gracchus Jones in 1869, the college had been with-
Graduating with honors in 1887, he was ap- out a president and had been governed by the facpointed instructor in Greek. In 1888 he obtained ulty and chairman appointed annually. Although his masters degree, was given additional classes in the college had a highly creditable history runGreek, and was appointed Athletic Director. After ning through almost two-thirds of a century, its a year or so, he went to Europe to study at Leipsic, funds were embarrassingly limited, due, in some Halle, and Sorbonne, before returning to become measure, to the board's mistake some thirty-five Richmond College's first Professor of Modern years previous in investing the institution's reLanguages. sources in Confederate bonds.
Returning from this year and a half in Europe, When President Boatwright took over the reins Dr. Boatwright went in December to Louisville, in 1895 the total income was less than $30,000, Kentucky, to marry his fiancee, Ellen Moore the endowment was less than a quarter of a million Thomas. After the wedding and reception the dollars, buildings needed repair, a faculty of nine newly-married couple boarded the train for Rich- members had to be paid, and the college's high mond. But just before the train pulled out, Dr. educational standards had to be maintained and Boatwright discovered that their tickets were di£- strengthened for the 183 students. The young colferent. Immediately he jumped off the train to lege professor found no comfort in the current retake care of the mistake. And when he returned, port of Dr. Charles H. Ryland, the school's finanthe train had gone-with his bride. cial secretary. "No year during my service has When Mrs. Boatwright realized the situation equalled that which now closes in uncertainty and she had only one alternative, to get off the train anxiety," he said. "My public and private appeals as soon as possible and return to Louisville But for money have met only with expressions of symin the meantime Dr. Boatwright in desperation pathy and regret." hired a hack and raced to catch the train. He ar- Boatwright' s duties during the early years were rived at the next station in time to see the train pull threefold-professor, dean, and president. Durout. From there he sent telegrams down the line ing his spare time he went out seeking money with and again galloped down the road at full speed. which to operate the school. And his efforts must Still unable to catch up with his wife's train, he have been effective. In 1914 the college moved returned to Louisville as a last resort, thinking she from the city to its present location in the western might have sent a message there. At the hotel he extremity of Richmond. The same year Westfound her, laughing and talking with some of her hampton College was organized on a pine-enfriends. Their apparent light treatment of the dosed site across the lake from Richmond College. situation that had disturbed him so greatly, made The T. C. Williams School of Law had been him so angry that he could hardly speak to them. established in 1870; the Summer School was added But Mrs. Boatwright' s explanation-that she had in 1920, the graduate department, a year later, and come back to the hotel as the logical place to meet the Evening School of Business Administration him and that her friends were merely keeping her was formed in 1924. With the exception of Riebcompany until be arrived-calmed him. However, mond College and the Law School, all units have in his search for his bride, he had used most of his been organized during the administration of ready cash, and laughingly admits that he barely President Boatwright. He has watched the instibad enough to get them to Richmond. tution grow from 183 students to 2,000 students
Settled in Richmond, he continued for four today and from a half million dollars to $6,000,years as college professor, and then one day to the 000 in endowment and property, and to a plant 0£ amazement of all, the students read that Frederic fourteen buildings. William Boatwright had been offered the presi- A study of the long parade of students through dency and-above all-had accepted. The indig- the years has led Dr. Boatwright to the conclusion nant students and faculty members, believing that that while "human nature does not change," the [ 7]
quality of college work has greatly improved. He recalls when the only qualifications for college entrance were that the applicant should be sixteen years of age, white, and should wear pants. Today there is a stricter selection of freshmen, and standards and technique have been improved. Formerly, the emphasis was placed on teaching, he says, but today it is on learning, with the student being led to do his own thinking. Now, President Boatwright believes that the present European war will tend to emphasize further vocational training in American colleges . He is a firm believer in the dual system of college-that is, the operation of both tax-supported and privately-supported institutions. It is his opinion that the two types furnish a stimulus for each other. He explained that tax-supported schools lay stress on learning while church or endowed schools emphasize spiritual values on "being, rather than doing."
The Watchman-Examiner , national Baptist paper, in saluting Dr. Boatwright with his picture on the front cover said, "How any man can crowd so much into a single life is amazing, but Dr. Boatwright is and has been a man who is strengthened daily by the Lord whom he diligently serves. "
He is a quiet and modest man with rich intelligence and wide experience. He is loyal and faithful to his associates and friends. He possesses rare wisdom and his opinions and decisions are held in high regard by all. Today, after more than a half century of service to his Alma Mater , Dr . Boatwright is loved , respected , admired , and revered by students , faculty , and hosts of alumni and friends throughout the United States
Dr. Boatwright has LLD. degrees from Mercer University in 1895, from Georgetown College in 1913, and from Baylor University in 1921. Among his many activities and capacities, he is past president of the American Baptist Education Society, Virginia Association of Colleges, former member of the board of directors of the Association of American Colleges, president of the Board of Trustees of Averett College in Danville, listed in Who's Who in the United States , and is a member of Phi Beta Kappa, Omicron Delta Kappa, and Phi Kappa Sigma fraternities. He is the author of a syllabi of French and German literatures . He is a deacon and active member of First Baptist Church of Richmond , member of the Richmond Rotary Club, and recently given an honorary membership in the Richmond Kiwanis Club, an award made annually to "the most outstanding citizen of Richmond."
BALLOT
How do you read? This ballot is designed to determine your philosophy of reading today so that the editors may better understand how to edit your magazine. Please fill this in according to your hon est opinion; otherwise it will be of no value. Tear it out and mail it to THE MESSENGERor else put it under the office door.
1. Which of the following magazines do you read outside of class assignments? Regularly Occasi on ally Nev er
Read ers Digest
Atlantic Monthly
Harpers'
Cosmopolitan or same type
Popular Mechanics
Saturday Evening Post
2. Do you discuss spontaneously in student groups the current national and international problems?
D Yes. D No.
3. Would you like to see in your campus magazine articles which show awareness of the world in which we must live after our relatively sheltered college life?
D Yes. D No.
4. Is your recreational reading purely for pleasure? _____ _ chiefly for information? _____ _ or a combination of both? _____ _
5. What types of material most appeal to you? D Short Stories. D Poetry. D Discussion on Current Events. D Light Verse. D Biographical Sketches. [ 8 J
HOOKER'SLANE
By LUCY ELLEN McDONOUGH, '42
MEN watched her as she walked-her long slender legs swinging, and the gold bracelet about her ankle catching up the sunlight. She was aware of their attention , but not once did she give any sign of the fact. Past the stores , through the streets , along the avenue, a lways she walked in this same defiant way; but today her head was a little higher, her back a little straighter, and her long slender legs more impatient.
As she hurried by, children looked up, delighted a t the sweet scent of perfume , and the noise of her short taffeta skirt, and they smiled at her They thou g ht her pretty, and sometimes they spoke to her; out she did not notice. Her head was too high a nd she was too busy ignoring the men who always stared at her.
Women who saw her took one look and then excha ng ed knowing glances, after which they hastened t o glare at their male companiions who made no effort to conceal their interest
The g iri turned a corner and continued down a narro w street, cluttered with tiny shops and houses th a t had dirty windows. Along the curb stood occasional trash cans, piled with papers and garb. ag e , where dogs of ten rooted; at times, big rats scurried to shelter, carrying large hunks of decayed fo o d.
She darted in one of the dirty little houses , and in a m oment came out again and hurried off down the street.
When she had turned the corner , she walked a little more slowly, looked around her, and once more resumed her independent attitude. Straight on she walked, humming a tune and swinging her long, graceful arms. As she approached a small second-hand book store, a man and a girl emer g ed into the street and made their way towards her . When she saw them, a little of the bri g htness left her dark face, but not for an instant did her expression change, nor did her humming stop. Rather , it became louder and gayer , and she lifted her head still higher. The man and the girl were laughing to each other and they seemed not to see her; but she knew that he had seen. On they came. Her eyes did not leave his face.
Then he was before her. Their eyes met. But he looked at the ground and went by.
Contemptuously she tossed her head, and the thick black curls gleamed in the sun. A scornful smile twisted her deep red lips, but in her eyes was a strange, bewildered look.
A short stocky man in need of a shave was standing in the door of a barber shop, from which position he had watched the little incident with great interest and a sort of inner amusement. As the girl approached, he leaned on the other side of the door and took the cigar out of his mouth.
"Hello, Bess," he said in a flat, dry voice.
The girl started. She swung round and faced him, her lips curled in a half-snarl. The man laughed as she stood there, silent, black eyes flashing, white teeth bared, her long body bent, like a tiger poised to spring. Through a thick haze of cigar smoke he smiled at her, his eyes narrow slits. He knew she would not speak .
"Too good for you now, eh?"
Her mouth twitched.
"Just like all the rest, ain't he?"
He waited for her reaction, but he knew it would not come. Too many times he had waited in vain, tormenting her, insulting her
"Why don't you get married, Bess? Somebody your own kind."
He paused a moment. Intent, she did not move.
"Why don ' t you stop chasing after guys too good for you? Go on home. "
Her nostrils dilated.
Growing tired of her animal-like scrutiny, he yelled at her.
" Damn you, go on home!"
She wheeled and walked swiftly down the street and the gold chain about her ankle once more gleamed in the sun.
A few minutes later she stood at the entrance to the park. On a bench at the other side she could see a man, and she knew he was waiting for her. Waiting for her! Once more her eyes wore their happy, expectant look, and she took out her little compact and tucked her unruly black curls back into place. Hastily, she pulled up her mesh hose and smoothed her tightly fitting dress. Then she began
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to walk across the park to the man who was waiting for her.
He had called her this morning at the office. It was important, he said. He had something to tell her. Remembering the look in his eyes when he had le£t her the night before, she had smiled. She never let him take her home. She mustn ' t let him see. Instead he left her in front of the little hotel on Elm Street, She could walk the rest of the way, she said, and he did not know that she did not keep on down Elm Street, but cut back through Hooker's Lane. She would never tell him. Perhaps she would not have to now Perhaps-but she remembered the man with the girl, whom she had not had to tell. He had found out.
The man on the bench turned around and saw her. When she waved to him , he did not get up, but merely smiled as she began to run.
"Hello , Mildred," he said.
She looked at him eag erly and breathlessly as she waited for him to go on, but he only sat and smiled. He tossed a package into her lap.
" Brought you something," he said , and he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
She looked at the little bundle, and she was disappointed . It was too big to be a ring. But never mind. That could come later. Like a little child she tore open the box and took out a gold bracelet that had "To Mildred from Jim" engraved on it. Delightedly she made him put it on for her.
" That's just a little going away present," he told her casually. "Thought you might like it."
She looked up at him, and for a moment she sat quite still. Then she repeated "Going away," in a husky voice. If he noticed her stunned behavior, he paid no attention to it , for he continued his conversation casually.
'Tm leaving day after tomorrow for Chicago. My fiancee lives there, and we' re going to be married next week."
"Married!" It was a whisper. She couldn't believe it. Those wonderful night rides in the country with her head on his shoulder and the fresh night breeze blowing through her thick black hair; those visits to little movie theatres on the other side of town where he had held her hand; their long walks in the dark of night when she had felt
so close to him, so completely his! She could not give him up.
" Married! Chicago ? 0 h, Jim!"
She caught his hand and he seemed a little uncomfortable. No one could resist those black eyes.
"Oh, surely, Mildred, you must have realized - "
But he was interrupted. Before them stood a little negro girl in a filthy pink dress, torn and ragged.
"Bess," the little black child said, and tugged at the girl's dress.
But the girl only stared at her. She grew tense She stiffened from her narrow feet to her coal black hair. Her black eyes were wide and the long curly lashes showed up boldly against her dark, smooth skin.
"Bess," the little nigger whimpered ag ain . " Bess, come on home Ma wants you."
The man sent the girl a startled look. She was standing now, looking down at the child.
" My God;" he whispered.
The little nigger sat down beside him on the bench and picked her nose.
"Bess, Ma wants you to come home . They ' s nothin' to eat. Ma says you· to brin g home some chi ttlin' s."
The tall girl looked at the man on the bench. He stared at her, horrified. She looked at the little black girl beside him She was still picking her nose and whimpering. For several moments she stood there , expressionless, until at last the pickaninny rose and tugged at her taffeta skirt ag ain.
"Come home, Bess," she whined. "Ma says come home."
The man was still silent. Then he said " My God!" again, got up and backed away. The girl's mouth twisted once more into the scornful smile , and she took the child's hand.
" Here, Mary," she said as she handed her the gold bracelet with "To Mildred from Jim" engraved on it , and they turned and walked away. The girl's head was high and her eyes defiant as she walked along holding the little nigger ' s hand. Her long slender legs swung easily as they turned down Hooker's Lane, and the bright gold chain about her ankle sparkled in the sunlight.
PulsatingRythm
By VIRGINIA THOMPSON, '43
SOMEW HERE in the deep South, down around Alabama, where the climate is lazy, the tearing music of boogie woogie originated. The negro workers were the first to beat it out on rickety pianos, using no music, but plunking on the keys the pulsating rhythm of their emotions. This was the beginning step in the development of the now popular boogie woogie, which is the kind of music you feel and don't describe!
Originally, this music was no more than varying improvisations of a slap-slap bass which appealed to its rhythm conscious listeners , but in time, as the music of the white man and the negro began to mix, boogie woogie showed tendencies of a sub leading melody.
Although Clarence Smith, an Alabama-born negro, is recognized as the father of this boogie style, it is known that a similar type of music, then dubbed "honky tonk," was played as far back as 1904 in cheap dance halls around Bayou La Fouche in Louisiana. However, "Pinetop" Smith does deserve the credit of really being master of boogie woogie until his death in 1929. He only made eight records but these were tops in their category. One of the earliest, and the best, I think, of his recordings is "Jump Steady Blues." A negro dialogue introduces the record thusly: "Good ole' Pinetop--whut y'all doin' sittin' round hyar' wif yore haid hangin' down lookin' so sad? "
"I jes sittin' hyar thinkin' bout all dese piano players runnin' round hyar makin' big money playin' on dese here records."
"Well-why don't you play on some of dese records?"
"Dat's a good idea-Think ah'll start right now."
At this point a slow, taunting boogie bass breaks in with a four beat count. As variation from the steady tempo, "Pinetop" gives out with swells and crawls, that really put it to you. Appropriately enough, it ends with a plunk and:
"How's dat ?"
"Ah man, Pinetop, dat oughta git it."
This record in the original is valued by collectors at a hundred dollars, but it was rerecorded in 1928, and can be obtained at any record shop.
Following "Jump Stead Blues," Pinetop came through with "Pinetop's Boogie Woogie," and "Pinetop's Blues." The former is more or less a musical monologue with a boogie bass thumping through in hot style, while the latter is, as it suggests, a combination of boogie with a minor blues melody dominant at intervals.
Even with the excellent form displayed in the above mentioned records, boogie woogie for some time remained "honest jazz," and was appreciated only among the boogie artists themselves. Because of this, several boogie artists of the early twenties never received recognition. In 1938 however, the Boogie Woogie Trio was formed, comprised of Meade "Lux" Lewis, Albert Ammons, and Pete Johnson. They set New York on fire with their scorching style, and their music became commercial jazz for the general public. From here, prominent orchestra leaders took their cue, and tore off several records in this invigorating manner of rhythm
Will Bradley came through first with his recordings of "Beat Me Daddy, Eight to the Bar," and "Scrub Me Mamrna, With a Boogie Beat." These were followed by Bob Crosby's recordings of "Gin Mill Blues" and "Boogie Woogie Maxixe," Woody Herman's "Indian Boogie Woogie," and Andy Kirk's "Little Joe from Chicago." The last mentioned has a killer beat, with a neat clarinet interlude tearing into the regular tempo. Crosby really draws it out in "Gin Mill Blues," which differs from other boogie compositions, in that it has a melody in the treble, and also one in the bass. This is very unique, and in this recording it is pushed to the front with the help of the clarinet and drums.
It took twenty or thirty years for this new pattern of rhythmic interpretation to come into the public's consciousness, but now here, it is taking its just place in the history of American music.
ItWillAllCometo Pass
By MURRAY BARR, '41
My name is Ricardo Andre Francisco Margottes. Ricardo for my grandfather on my mother's side, Andre for my father, and Francisco for our priest. That is my name, but you would never know it because everyone calls me Coco. They know me as Coco Margottes, the third and youngest son of Andre Margottes, the school-teacher. Before Valencia and Barcelona and Madrid fell , my brothers and my friends at school all called me Coco. And even now - even after my brothers and my friends are gone, I am still called Coco by the prison guards and by the other prisoners. I am glad that they still call me Coco; it reminds me of all the times that the people of our town called me that. That was a long time ago My brother Pi pinto - he died at Barcelona he would always shout for me in the morning: "Coco, Coco you're late again for school." But good Pipinto, he was never cross, he was always patient with me. Good Pipinto, he would always take me with him: to fish in the sea with him and his friends, to Marguerita' s for sweets; and once, he even took me along to Madrid with him. But that was a long time ago. Long before the dark days at Valencia and Barcelona and Madrid. He was g ood , my brother Pi pinto; good like a rain-shower on a hot summer day; he was good like the cool wind from the mountains.
But he is no more. He died at Barcelona. Some
Fascist killed him. The city was being bombed from an outpost, and he volunteered to go with his friend Carlos to destroy this outpost. They crept three kilometers on their stomachs, and when they got to the enemy's camp they found the Fascist scum taking turns to see who could make more destruction in the city Pipinto and Carlos found an unguarded machine gun and gave them all the fun that they were looking for. But as they were making their way back to the city, some one shot Pipinto in the head and he died. They wounded Carlos, but being the loyal friend to Pipinto that he was, he carried him almost the whole three kilometers while he himself had two bullets in his leg. My good brother Pipinto is dead. And he is good no more. He is good for the earth and for the worms in the earth, but for nothing else. His great shoulders and his strong, sturdy legs will fatten the worms, and they'll make the earth send up rich crops; and for what? For Franco's Spain? Poor Pi pinto. He's good for the earth, but he is not good for the living.
Next Easter Sunday is my birthday; I will be nineteen. It's been a long time since anyone has remembered my birthday. Padre Francisco would always say something about my birthday in church, and everyone in town knew that it was my birthday. But here in prison in Zaragoza there is no one from my home town to remember me, and therefore I am all alone. But it could be worse, they tell me here. I could be dead like my mother and Padre Francisco , like my father in Madrid, like my [ 12]
brothers Pipinto and Jose; all of them dead before their time. At least I am alive, and that is more than can be said for them; that is what they tell me here. I have been here in this prison in Zaragoza for twenty-seven months now. Until last Christmas I had a death penalty on my head; now I am much better off. As a Christmas present it has since been changed to life imprisonment. The kind General Franco has done me this Christian turn. He thinks that I am too young to die, but at the same time old enough to begin to spend the rest of my life in prison He is a kind man, General Franco - would that the Lord Jesus had taken him to His bosom long before this. Nay-that's too good for him; would God that he had remained unborn in his mother's womb. But what good does it do to wish him ill? It will come to pass, just as everything must come to pass. Everything will come to pass in time. In time.
Being a prisoner for twenty-seven months is a long time; but I have not minded it-too much. I have not been idle. At first I was; I would do nothing all day, and at night I could not sleep. Twice I tried to escape, and twice they caught me. A few lashes both times, solitary confinement for a month, and water but once a day. It wasn't too bad. It made me think, and a little thinking cannot hurt anyone. That is what Padre Francisco always said. Now I am no longer a trouble to the guards. In fact, they are beginning to do little favors for me. Things like mailing a letter for me, getting me a book that I would like to have, bringing me something extra to eat, and other important little things I spend my days and my nights-for the most part-reading and studying. One of my fellow-prisoners who is from Vienna is teaching me German and French in exchange for lessons in Spanish He was a doctor in Vienna and he says that he came to fight for the Loyalists because he wanted to save Spain from Hitler and Mussolini. That is what we do all day and half the night, we read and we talk. These days I am getting acquainted with the German poet Heine. Already I can recite from memory the opening stanzas of "Die Heimkehr." The doctors says that it is a good thing to know because in Germany all of Heine's works have been burned, and it is good that such a poem is not forgotten. The doctor is very ambitious, and he is always busy with his studies. Already he converses with great ease. We seem as if we are quite contented, as if we are great scholars; but actually, we are just marking time. We are just waiting. We are just waiting for our day to come. And it will come-in time. Some days do not go so well for me as others.
They are the days when I sleep and I dream that I am home and Pipinto is calling me because I am late for school. And sometimes Pipinto calls to me so loudly and often: "C~co, Coco, you're late again for school." And still half asleep, I run to the barred window and I cry out: "Pipinto -good Pipinto, where are you." Sometimes I cry so much that I cannot catch my breath; it is then that my friend the doctor seizes me firmly and quiets me. Other times, in the middle of my lessons, it will suddenly come to me in a flash that I am all alone, and that there is no one in the whole world that cares for Coco. No one to worry whether Coco is cold or hungry. No one to remember Coco's birthday; no one to remember anything about him. This fear of being alone in the world, without my mother and father, without my brothers frightens me and I become hysterical. I do not know what would become of me without my friend the doctor. Though these past few months, it has not been so bad with me. I am getting used to being alone. Now-like the others, I am marking time. Just waiting. Waiting. Sometimes I think that I have forgotten my mother because I can only remember her when she died. I try to remember how she looked in our house-when she talked or when she was sitting down; but always it is the same picture of her praying in the church. Before the war I spent my whole life with my mother; I did everything with her. And yet all that I can remember of her is the time when she was kneeling in the church before she died. She was so frightened-my mother. I can hear her praying: "Ave Maria, Mother of God -help us this hour to believe in Thy Glory for we are poor humble people that want to live. Mother of God, we believe in You; then help us now in this hour of need." She never finished that prayer to the Mother of God. You would think that bombs would have respect for prayers that are being made to the Mother of God. But they do not. They have respect for no one-not even for the Mother of God. I would not have minded so much if the bomb had ended my life; I was not praying. But my mother, she trusted in Her, she believed -I heard her say it with my own ears. She believed with her whole life, but she was killed anyway. Maybe it was because the Mother of God was not listening. Or maybe-maybe there is no Mother of God, just as there is no God? Because if there was, She would have heard my mother call to Her, and She would have done something about it. Padre Francisco was right when he said that a little thinking cannot hurt anyone. My mother's death made me think, and I know that
13]
it would have been better to seek some shelter from the bombs instead of praying.
I know now that prayers do not help at all. When a Fascist is coming at you with a bayonet gun to kill you, you must kill him; otherwise, he will kill you first. But -killing him is not enough; you must kill him in such a way that the others that are following after him will be so horrified that they will flee for their lives. Only that will save the day. What would I do? I would amputate their fingers, one by one. I V:,6uldpour salt on their open wounds. It is not that I am bitter; but it is because they have killed my people. You can hardly call that a good reason for being bitter. Perhaps if I_had been bitter, I would have fought to the very fa.st bullet instead of letting them take me alive to Madrid. They would have surely killed me; and a very good reason they would have had too. It was because of my doings that a whole squad of Franco's dogs died in the Calle de Granada. I am not sorry, I would do it again if I were given the chance. They made a great mistake when they did not put an end to me and to the others like me. Because for us the war is not yet over. How could we live--and here in Spain too! when we know of all that is going on? How could we be silent when every day another one of our friends would disappear. For that is the way Franco works, that is the way of his fifth column. If you have too much to say, you suddenly disappear. That is not the life for us, to purse our lips, to bite our tongues because there are injustices to be talked out. No-that's not for us.
It is true that those of us who.are not imprisoned go about their work from day to day quietly and patiently. They close their ears so that they cannot hear of all the vileness that is happening about them. They close their eyes, or else they look away, so that they will not see the foul crimes that are trying to kill them. They may close th.eir ears and their eyes that are set in their head, but they have ears and eyes elsewhere - in their hearts-and they
know, only too well what is happening in Spain. And those of us-the thousands of us-that are in prison, here in Zaragoza and in Madrid and in Tarragona and in the many other prisons in Spain, we all know what is going on outside. We all know the same thing. We know that we are waiting. We know that when night comes to Spain, there are bands of men whispering by candlelight in deserted cellars in Burgos, in Zamora, in Toledo, and in Tereul. We know that the captain of the arsenal at R--- is a friend. We know that in Salamanca there are those who were leaders and who are making plans, and who will lead us again. We know that all over Spain there are men working in small numbers for one goal. We know that Spain has friends in Mexico and in South America who are waiting for the signal to prove their undying love for Spain. We know now that there is no such thing as honor in war; we have learned a trick or so about fifth columning ourselves. It is taking time, but it shall all come to pass. And this time there will be no doubt as to who will be the victor.
And the victory will be Spain's. The old Spain that belonged to my mother and father, and to my brothers Pipinto and Jose. Spain will live again. And people will walk in the open again, and they will say out loud from their hearts: "Salud, amigos." And maybe after many years when they have put the terrible years that were, behind them, maybe they'll begin to laugh and to dance again. For what is Spain without laughter and dancing? Maybe then I shall not be sorry that my good brother Pipinto died; because then I shall know that he died for Spain. Oh yes-Spain will come into her own again; it will takes years and years until the fields will be the same again, until old wounds are healed, until every Spaniard has found a way of life again. We all have our work to do until the day comes; and it is coming. I am sure of that just as I am sure that my name is Coco Margottes. It shall all come to pass in time. In time.
* * * *
You lie. Deep •foside · You f eef the strange swift tide That haunts my soul; Your restless spirit hovers nearThen shies away in fear
Of my mad ecstasy; I hear its longing sigh As it hastens by Afraid to stay: You lie--
If you deny your love for me.
-ANTOINETTE WIRTH, '41.
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FLOWINGMUSIC
By BEN ROUZIE, '44
]FROM fur-bearing tearlets of petulent wives to the dramatic, acquittal-bearing flow of criminal lawyers, the pastime of crying seems to affect our living seriously and often Women, men occasionally, children: their styles of crying are diverse and interesting. They cry for joy, for sorrow, for sympathy, for pain, for a new coat, for gosh sake.
Here's what some successful authors, men who watched life closely and immortalized its then current run of drips, have written concerning one of life's most discomforting and yet most relieving of emotional displays.
Rudyard Kipling, newspaperman and dry-eyed woman hater, liked kids with soupy optics and little soup-bowl tummies. He wrote about many types of crying; and since the catty snarl of a new baby isn't real crying, we'll look at Kipling's next youngest weeper. Here's the twerp by the same name in "The Story of Muhammad Din " :
"He sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was coming, and fled, followed by a long , dry howl which reached the servants' quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done "
This type of crying is a kick-back from the Later Stone Age. It's merely a modified howl. When Neanderthal Man Oojibobblwok was embarrassed , in pain, in trouble, or in doubt, he let all the other Neanderthal men and all the Neanderthal women and all the smeary-faced little Neanderthal children know all about it. He howled. This type of weeping is perhaps more colorful than any other distinct contemporary type, especially when the exponent smears his cherubic little face all over his little hands. But at this stage of the concert the howling is no longer dry.
Another of Kipling's subscribers to the soborific exercise is a big brave Tommy. And judging from the author's account of the juicist, Mr. Atkins turned on plenty of volume in "The Man Who " was:
"It is a horrible thing to hear a man cry. A woman can sob from the top of her palate, or from her lips, or anywhere else, but a man cries from his diaphragm, and it rends him to pieces."
This situation might be considered rare. In Kipling's story the eloquent weeper is in the British officers' mess: which is not a predicament, but a sort of gentlemanly drinking bout. There's a potted Russian named Dirkovitch ( who must not be confused by a potted geranium) lurking at one end of the table near the brandy, for which the weeper was probably rending himself to pieces (he is not to be confused with Mr. Chips) Or he might have seen the potted geranium ( which must not be confused with a potted Russian named Dirkovitch)
Delicate as rare French lace, yet natural as a common French louse (April, 1917 to November , 1918), is this account of feminine sniffing in "Madame Tellier's Excursion:"
" Just as the sparks from an engine will set fire to dry grass, so the tears of Rosa and her companion affected the whole congregation in a moment. Men , women , old men , and lads in new blouses were soon sobbing ; something superhuman seemed to be han g in g over their heads - a spirit, the powerful breath of an invisible and allpowerful being."
Let this be a lesson to you If an all-powerful breath is hanging over your oead, tell him: "By jove, buy clove. It takes your breath away." But this type of weeping is just about as familiar as "stardust," happening whenever marriages do. " Elvira is so young and pretty," sobs the mother as Elvira's slightly elongated but soulful incisor (singular) intimidates the minister and Elivra ' s golden young transformation takes a turn for the worse over one ear - the cauliflower one. From the mother's frantic sobs the spectators take up the chant, and whoosh! they ' re filling in background tones for "Ballad for Americans." But Elvira isn't sobbing. She ' s as self-assured as a slot machine now that she's found her soul mate and tricked him into sticking his neck out when she sticks out her finger.
This type of weeping might be called sympathetic. All the women in the audience are in sympathy with the bride, all the men with the sucker.
In De Maupassant ' s " The Signal, " Madame de Grangerie began to cry, says the author. Since she was on the horns of a dilemma , they were prob[ 16]
ably blowing in harmony with her piping.
"Madame de Grangerie began to cry, shedding those pretty bright tears which make women more charming. She sobbed out, without wiping her eyes, so as not to make them red."
Madame de Grangerie was a charming woman, says Maupaussant, and she was probably keeping in good emotional and physical shape and practicing up on being charming in this quotation. Note that she didn't wipe her eyes. That was for the dewy-eyed effect. And anyway, what man wants a red-eyed wench scaring him out of his wits every time she hoists an eyelid?
Weeping in harmony (Hey Butch, come on over, we need a bass) is rare as an Eskimo sunrise in January, but Vicki Baum has witnessed the mystic rite and written about it in Shanghai '37: "At night they sang Russian songs and all had tears in their eyes, for they loved to weep and their homesick souls were always full to over-flowing."
Oh, yes; their dark brown Russian souls "were always full to overflowing"; so they overflowed through the Russians' melancholy Dark Eyes. Imagine a tall, wide White Russian with narrow droopy red eyes, sobbing bass with a Yo-HoHeave-Ho swing. And imagine delightfully unhappy White Russians with him, sobbing in tenor, soprano, contralto, baritone, vodka tenor. Too, just imagine how the Russians who "loved to weep" would give Stalin the old ha-ha if their emotions were reversed and overflowed through their mouths.
Vicki Baum on the next tragic page of Shanghai '3 7 offers a nice little picture and a nice little suggestion that still another element might figure in tear tearing:
"There she crouched, bent double with weeping; she felt such an insuperable longing for Papotschka, for the smell of brilliantine in his silken mustache. "
So now comes an odor, no less! And along with sobbing, as if that weren't enough, the dear little idjit, with all the propriety of a pick-up truck, ties knots in herself about it. It's darned convenient, say I, what with the way America goes in big for things, that mustaches went out with the torch singer's torch in the 1900's. With the aid of brilliantine and an unbald lip, all our women would be knots.
Maupassant didn't suggest it, but his melancholy heroine in "Ball-of-Fat" might have felt better if
she'd doubled up and laughed instead of sitting "erect, her eyes fixed" ( drops in 'em, no doubt) ; " the tears came and glistened in the corners of her eyes, and then two great drops, detaching themselves from the rest, rolled down like little streams of water that filter through rock, and falling regularly, rebounded upon her breast. She sat erect, her eyes fixed, her face rigid and pale, hoping that no one would notice her."
This is known as the "sneaky-weep" type. The wishy-washy tearlets come out in broad daylight in a furtive, guilty little flood. Over funny portions of the face they sneak along, tickling no end. The fact that they "filter through rock" suggests that both stone-headed women and hard-faced men subscribe to this type. As relieving as a secondstring guard, they get a lot off the chest-and messy little spots on the chest-of the weeper; they're tears of self-pity and indignation, sometimes chagrin, and they give you a thorough going over, the drips.
Oscar Wilde was a guy who wrote a lot; and though anybody not a connoiseur of crying might throw out some of his nice rubbish, here's a honey from "The Ballad of Reading Gaol." This guy Gaol was really accomplished, no stuff.
"The man in red who reads the Law Gave him three weeks of life, Three little weeks in which to heel
His soul of his soul's strife, And cleanse from every blot of blood
The hand that held the knife.
And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, The hand that held the steel:
For only blood can wipe out blood, And only tears can heal."
This type definitely proves that some individuals, notably those of the criminal type are equipped to cry lava soap-in liquid form. Tears of this quality usually appear following a sentence, perhaps a long and tedious one like this, and are said to be ineffective if not used within twenty-four hours after cried.
Thusly runs the scale of flowing music, which has sent the royal jewels to hock, has watered the flowering of distraction, and has washed clean the seins of humanity in which are entangled poor numerous fish of this damp world. So when you hear the siren strains of weeping, beware of: smlfphvg. And remember the Johnstown Flood!
WltilerlieClockHeld~wa~
By EDGAR ARENDALL, '41
THE steady throbbing of the clock staccatoed against the walls. Whistling winds and creaking boards chimed in spasmodically. A hoot owl contributed a querulous call from the distance, sounding a background for the steady tick of the clock.
The old timepiece was said to have been brought over from the old country by the first Mansfields, but conflicting stories arose during the fifty years that followed, for some thought that the original had been stolen and a cheap imitation put in its place. Cobwebs grayed the edges, and unseen fingers had left furrows across the face.
Shrouded by the trees, Mansfield Manor stood silent vigil in the night. They call the house haunted now-since the night of which I speak. Only passers-by pause to question about the place, and frightened townspeople always hasten to speed them on.
Through a back window one day, eight years before, had come the old man. Buffeted around by life, the shadowy frame showed hidden muscles of steel-but it was the face that made the dogs howl and the little children run in fear. An accident with a hot poker when he was three had left the creature bereft of the left side of his face. Only scarred skin covered the skull bone. Where there should have been an eye was a small indentation, which in the darkness seemed to glow with a peculiar light. His right arm had been caught under a fast-moving freight, and only a nub remained. No wonder it was that society had vomitted him up. He landed in Mansfield Manor and claimed it for his own. His un-
spoken claim went unquestioned, for time had broken down the finery of past years, and only a shabby skeleton of the old house remained. That first day the old man discovered the clock, and his lips sucked together with wonder. How majestic - how powerful. Then he had started it, and the steady beating had excited him inside. Standing there, enveloped by the sound, he saw the shadows move, and they brought him strength; the wind blew in through the window, and he opened his lungs for it. Moonlight filtered in through the window and spotlighted his slouched ecstasy.
The old man wound the clock every day, though it was reputed to run for a week on one winding. Every night, after laying his pallet on the floor, the creature would go to the clock and pull the cord that wound it. Then he would sit and sway with the sound until its monotony made him rest. For eight years, every night, he had done that. It was four years before that he had first talked to the swinging pendulum. It came as a natural consequence, for the ticking of the clock bad comforted him in his hours of loneliness, and gave him a peculiar sense of strength when he needed it most. Then he began to confide in it.
Four years before, he had stood there and told the clock how empty his life was before he came to this house, and how happy he was here. The swinging pendulum nodded agreement. The ticking seemed to grow louder, more resolute. After that, there had been many con£erences, always with the same result. The clock wanted to hear.
Every fourth tick was louder
than the rest, making a peculiar rhythm result-a to recapture her. The clocked drummed incessantshuffling sound-steady movement. For hours the ly in his head as he brought her back up. Then old man would sit and listen-first carelessly- down again, and he let her lie. then more attentively-until finally he swayed in The constant throbbing of the clock echoed and time with the sound. It was then that he felt all- reechoed in his head eerie noises, reminispowerful. The drumming of the clock, the still- cent of gloom, coupled with the rotting timber and ness of the night, the depth of the darkness-the creaking boards to support the wild laughter that ticking. The old man used to take boards and echoed through the dark passageways and moonbreak them in two before the clock's leering face. less rooms. The ominous darkness had muttered
Then a flower one day-the broken plant with- threats at the moon until it had slithered behind a ered and died. The knocking of the clock drummed cloud and stayed there. A howling dog in the approval. distance brought the creature to himself with a
Then the first cat had come into the house--he start. Quickly, jerkily, he fell down the stairs and had taken it in front of the clock, and there he out into the courtyard. The child lay half on a waited for the ticking to catch up with the drum- pile of rubbish, and half on clean hard ground. ming of the cat's heart-then he tore the cat's Her back, exposed to the glare of the night shone body apart, and the blood had stained the floor. pale between the folds of her dress. The old man Spent from the effort, the old man had gone to hated white skin. He took her, threw her across bed, and sleep that night was peaceful. He lis- his shoulders, and started back up. tened to the shouting of approval from the clock. It was then that he first heard the barking of the Then the steady droning carried him off to sleep. bloodhounds leading the posse. They had not
The next morning the sight of the blood noticed at first that she was not around, and it was brought back the scene of the night before, and long before the posse could be organized. They he reveled in his glory again. All that day the started out, frightened, determined. Mansfield creature walked around with a beating in his Manor-no one had been there since Benjamin head. It was comforting to him. Mansfield had died so mysteriously a decade ago. By nightfall, the smell had become repugnant; They pushed on, a few more eager running ahead. so he threw the body out the window. It dropped The old man, eye gleaming with the sudden apthree stories, and in the moonlight, the old man pearance of the moon, hobbled back up the stairs. could see that it had smeared as it hit. A crooked It was a clear night with the wind high enough to smile of delight creased his face, and he ran down rock the old house on its foundations. The the stairs. He picked up the remains, then clam- rickety stairs grunted as they strained to support bered on up again. This time he pitched the corpse his weight. The clock at the head of the stairs toward some broken bottles, and they cut deeply peered with eagerness as he brought the body into the hide. He laughed to the witnessing sky, back. The ticking became louder and faster-inand listened to the beating of his companion-the cessantly thumping against the walls. The old clock. man pressed on, feeling the passionate strength
Then one day, he killed her. She had wandered that the droning gave him. off from the others while they were playing, and The posse was now in the courtyard below-the he had caught her. For two weeks he had waited dogs barking and the men shouting. Threats and behind the hedge for her to come near. Waiting. curses-wrath and terror combined to loose the
She was a pretty little thing-just four. The tongues of the men. Then through the window golden pigtail tickled his face as he carried her, one of the stragglers spied him. They rushed and it annoyed him. He threw her down in front toward the stairs. The old man fastened his eye of the clock, and held her under his foot while he on the little girl; they followed his gaze and talked and laughed at the clock. The ticking in- cringed back. Staring eyes took in every detailcreased two-fold, pounding in his head. For two the tattered clothes, the bruised, bleeding lips, the hours he held the body in front of the clock, and mangled limbs-and the sight of the old man, listened to the crashing of the ticks. Faster and swaying brokenly, with arms dangling and fingers louder, faster and louder, FASTER and LOUD- spasmodically clutching together. ER. Spurred by revenge and anger, they pushed for-
Then he threw her where he had thrown the ward, but the old man had found a chair, and the cat, and watched the rigid body smash to limpness. first man was crushed under it. There stood the He let her lie for hours where she hit, as he horrible creature, back to the wall and the clock, watched from the window-then he went down body swaying in rhythm with the drumming of [ 19]
the pendulum, legs apart, lips drawn back, hideous laughter pouring from his lips. They stopped, then tried to push forward, but missiles struck to kill and maim. Then silence. The laughter ceased. Silence. SILENCE.
More ominous than the sound of the clock, silence wracked their minds. THE CLOCK HAD STOPPED TICKING-that was what it was. A mufiled groan came from above.
Then the leaders forced their way upward-and they saw him there, grovelling on the floor in front of the clock. A horrible, ghastly picture it was.
The nub which had been an arm clutched fertively at the side of the clock, while the other clung to the pendulum and swayed. The one good eye fixedly stared at the clock face, while the darkness obliterated the other half of his face.
The next day, called by the horror of the incident, hundreds of people crowded around in the house. Then they examined the clock. Someone pulled the winding cord, and the clock started up again. The ticking filled the room and escaped into the yard. The old man had forgotten to wind it. That day he died.
March'41
March 1-3-Last days of Chrysler Exhibit at Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
March 3-5-James Barton in "Tobacco Road" at Lyric Theatre. Only matinee performance to be given on March 3rd.
March 3-W estminster Choir at the Mosque, matinee and evening.
March 4-Chinese Art Exhibit sponsored by Nostrae Filiae at the William Byrd Community House.
March 5-24-Virginia Photographic Salon at Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
March 7-Florence Lowe, contralto. Concert in Westhampton Activities Building.
March 8-"The Headless Horseman," to be presented by Senior Class of Westhampton in the University Playhouse.
March 11-12-Talullah Bankhead in "The Little Foxes" at the Lyric Theatre.
March 14-15-"Family Portrait," presented by University Players in the • University Playhouse.
March 26-April 10-Marcia Silvette, Art Instructor, University of Richmond, presents one-man show at Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
March 27-Ballet Russe at Mosque.
March 28-30-Westhampton Student Pilgrimage to Washington, D. C.
PinkilepliantsComeSoutli
By EDWIN T. WILLIAMS
KHIN, milk-white, long-fingered hand lazily outlined with a stub pencil the sun-wrought shadows on a white table cloth in the Cafe Guerbois. It was the habit of artist Paul Gardinez to "doodle" aimlessly while swapping pleasantry with Renoir, Monet, Manet, Degas, and other artists of Paris who gathered here at meal time. The conversation was more nimble today than usual, as word had gone around that the dealers were on the look-out for something new for a wealthy patron's collection. There was much speculation as to which of them would cage the goose with the golden egg.
Gardinez arranged his napkin and straightened his shoulders as the waitress approached with his order of thick vegetable soup-one of the Cafe Guerbois specials. As the soup was being placed, one of those always-in-a-hurry people burst through the door, down the aisle, smashed into the waitress and scattered the soup across the table. She screamed and raged. The offender began a stream of apologies. The manager sprinted over. The patrons craned their necks and gathered around. A girl came to the rescue with a cloth. But Paul just stared at the table, transfixed. Green pea balls and ivory cubes of potato swam in reddish liquid; half-moons of celery, white rice, yellow corn, and fragments of beef dispersed themselves among Gardinez' pencil-ramblings up and down the cloth. Paul's trance was broken in time for him to jump to his feet, grab the girl with the cloth, and yell above the clatter, "Don't touch a thing." The whole place stopped in mid-air as he peeled off a bank note and bought the soup-smirched table on the spot-just to save them the trouble of cleaning it up. Bedlam broke again as he and the scrub boy filed through the door with the table between them.
All afternoon the neighborhood buzzed with the incident and the curious pounded his studio door, but to no avail, as artist Paul Gardinez had barred himself in and gone to work. First he mixed a pot of transparent glue and poured it over the soup smeared table. While this was hardening ~e kicked somebody's dusty old ancestor out of a big frame which he nailed to the table top. Then with saw and scissors all of the cloth and board outside of the frame wa~ cut off. Next, some umber-mixed
[ 21]
gesso was spread on the rough edges and dabbed here and there on the frame. And then with a pair of screw eyes and a piece of wire he completed the masterpiece. Needless to say, the wealthy goose laid the golden egg for Gardinez. . . . To some people that "masterpiece" might seem typical of the type now showing in the Chrysler Exhibit at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts.
To most of us the first viewing of these works of art excited disgust, tickled our funny bones, brought reminiscenses of our last case of seasickness, or of peering from under an icebag at the red spears which the rising sun was hurling at the pink elephants and green alligators that lurked in the regular patterns of our bedroom wall paper.
These reactions are as they should be. Man has always been shocked, repulsed, and suspicious of any departures from the normal way of doing things. "In the infancy of Impressionism in Paris the works of Edouard Manet and his friends were rejected by the Salon jury of that year ( 1863). Under command of the Emperor, Napoleon III, the innovators were given a room for their exhibit." 1 In 1910 when the Cubism was first shown in Paris and in 1913 when the Armory show in New York departed from the usual, in their showings, they were ridiculed. And so today we are just following a pattern in casting aspersions upon the current showing at the Virginia Museum.
The works of art shown are a progressive record of the best in the recent movements of free creative expression and also examples of the Old Masters and ancient art which these movements studied in their efforts to bring new life to the stagnated late nineteenth century art that was fast dying on its feet. They were not painted to please a public, but were wrought in the testing of new theories, in the experimental manner of a scientist proving his own thesis. The greatness of these works lies in their freedom from the shackles of the conventional in art. They are important in their contributions to techniques and new approaches which have been many, and as guides for present day artists to study. Interested in showing youth the best in modern art Mr. Chrysler has often loaned canvases for study to what has been called
1 The Encyclopedia Americana , vol. 14, p. 727.
America's most eager public-the young people in preparatory schools and colleges.
Let us consider further that in forming opinions about art, there are fundamentals that must be followed in order to derive accurate conclusions. We must approach the subject open -mindedly, fully realizing that we are naturally biased in favor of that which we understand and with which we are familiar. A glance is not sufficient for passing judgment on creative work. It takes from three to six hours to absorb a book, which the novelist has spent months and years producing. The artist spends just as much time projecting his thoughts into visual form on the canvas; therefore, his efforts demand proper consideration.
Let us decide what the artist is attempting to convey and whether he has accomplished his purpose. Of course a knowledge of his techniques and the theories of the school he follows is an aid in this decision. If he has attained that purpose, then his effort has been successful. But this does not mean that we have to like it. Yet the work must satisfy our individual taste. By the same token, there is no reason why one artist should paint like any other artist.
This painting like other artists, this copying of nature with other men's techniques so sapped the life-blood and individuality of the late nineteenth century that in desperation for something different the new movements were born. What were these new movements and their techniques? A quick survey of them will help make the Chrysler Exhibit intelligible to the layman .
Certain discoveries made about 1860 by MichelEugene Chevreul, (1786-1889) a French chemist connected with a rug-dyeing business, concerning the simultaneous contrast of colors furnished the impulses for the development of the school of Impressionism under Jean Carot, ( 1796-1875), with Monet, Manet, Pissarro, Sisley, and others as contemporaries. The work of these men had a very far-reaching influence on modern art, as it introduced a fundamental change in color perception, in the treatment of light and atmosphere, and changed the point of view of painters in regard to art and nature. These painters used no mixtures and painted only with the seven colors of the spectrum. The individual rays of each of these colors blended at a certain distance so as to act like sunlight itself upon the eye of the beholder. It had the advantage of leaving to each color its proper strength. Light became the sole subject of the picture, the interest of the object on which it played being secondary. John S. Sargent is among the Americans influenced by this school.
Paul Cezanne (1838-1906), a pupil of Camille Pissarro, brought Impressionism from adolescence to maturity by his discovery of its weaknesses in its lack of solidity and design. These he corrected through the application to Impressionistic techniques gleanings from his study of the color and form of the Renaissance Masters.
The first of the Post Impressionistic schools was Fauvism ( 1906). Lead by George Braque ( 1882) , Matisse, and Van Dongin, it was a revolt against naturalism in art, which they regarded as no better than recording an inventory on canvas of natural effects. Their aspiration was to add to painting and sculpture, aesthetic theories disregarded by the Old Masters, but found in the primitive works of the ancient Greeks and Egyptians, the early Byzantine mosaicists, and the recently popularized negro art.
Naturalism , which was opposed to Fauvism, was described by Adolphe Basler as the " School of the Greasy Dishcloth." Its adherents: Bouche, Conrad Kickere , Gritchenbo, and others were more or less academic and expressed the misery of life in dirty and dismal tones, interpreting the natural only as the ugly. This of course was a reaction against beauty as an essential in art.
Cubism (1910) founded by the Spanish Post Impressionist Pablo Picasso and, it is believed, named by Matisse, was an attempt to reduce nature to its geometric elements by use of the cube. The cube by virtue of its third dimension symbolizes a depth or entirety as distinguished from flat surfaces with their two dimensions. The beauty of the work resides in the design itself, not in the objects which were the pretext for the work. Picasso, Georges Braque, Jean Metzinger, Fernand Leger were some of the members of this group. Georges Braque who is working with this method has evolved an art of design, which is derived from nature.
A product of the unrest following the World War was Surrealism. Technically these painters imitated Braque and Picasso; although they were opposed to Cubism and attempted to substitute for its objective conception one which was entirely subjective. Their doctrine derived from Freudism believed in the expression of thought without control of reason and sought to paint dreams and subconscious states of mind. They tried to suggest the mystery of the subconscious by ordinary objects which they transfigured into strange, grotesque, unnatural or sentimental forms. Joan Miro, Dali, Masson and Pierre Roy worked with this school. Distortion which cropped up here and there among the schools is illustrated in the exhibit by an
22]
old master, El Greco (Theotocopuli, Domenico 1542-1614). He used color and form as a means of emphasizing dramatic expression, with a result that, to many, is exaggeration and distortion. The figures are elongated, the limbs twisted, and strange streaks of light flash across the canvases. He did not represent nature as it was, but used it for his own ends. The statue of a kneeling girl by the modern, Lembreaux, also illustrates distortion.
Art today, as might be expected from the turmoil following so many movements in a short time, is in a period of transition and confusion. Cezanne seems to be the main inspiring force for the young artist, but there is no particular school, and the aims of the individual artist are varied.
From this brief survey we get a glimpse of the reasons behind the works shown in the Chrysler collection. These schools have produced some canvases that will live through the ages, and some that will be lost in oblivion. In all of their ramifications they have held high the beacon of individual effort in search of new and better ways. They have borne the burden of costly experimentation while we have clung to them as they were going through the deep waters of artistic confusion to the brink of tomorrow. Does not all progress depend upon the efforts of the burden-bearers? In the circus world, it is the lumbering grey elephants. But in the world of art, it is the tempermental pink elephants.
Froma MonasteryGarden
ROBERT J. MARTIN, III
These flowers bloom and fade away,
But they have Jived.
The fullness of their roots and stalks,
The beauty of their petals
Hang as heavy in the memory
As once their perfume, on warm, summer air, Gave life and meaning to my prayers.
Then I too was both young and filled with strength; Groping eagerly in dusty tomes,
Intoning orisons in search of some life-giving soil
In which my roots could find a sustinance for mind and soul.
I watched these flowers grow, And others like them, rising to full strength In spring and summer;
Covered and guarded their sere beds in winter, Proud in the knowledge that the thoughts I treasured Had themselves survived through times of travail And of suffering.
Long, gray days and low, dark, leaden skies I met with "Aves" and fond hopes of years to come, When spring and warm encouragement would burgeon forth In fruits and harvests of rich increase and reward.
But now the spring has come, And as I turn the soil with thoughtful hand, A st~ange unrest has stirred my soul to depths I thought lay hidden far beneath the creeds and wisdom Of the consecrated years
These roots draw strength and life from death; The soil the earth which I have long forborne, Has giv~n up its nourishment that beauty and perfection Might spring from sordid depths I did not dig t~e ground that roots could live, But that, in time as nature moves,
The dreams I kept before me whi le I worked Might turn from visions into things of lovliness and form, Filling the world with color and their fragrance.
Year after year I've seen this come to pass And gloried in the small part I have played. Beneath my eyes, within my tender care, This garden has put forth its blooms And sung its Maker's praise.
But, now that spring has come, I see What I have on ly vaguely felt before, And, on my knees before my budded teachers, I weep sadly.
These tears that sparkle like dewdrops upon their leaves Reflect the sorrows of my heart; But, while their dew refreshes them with every dawn, My tears have fallen in the evening of my life With all the bitterness of too few springs beyond.
My flowers bow before me, mutely silent in their sympathy For I am much like them.
In all respects save one I parallel their simple lives Yet, from the dust of books and struggles of self conflict, I turned my back on what they tried in vain to show me Until now
For now, as I hear childrens' laughter Borne on perfumed breezes past my garden wall, I touch, with reverent finger tips, The tear stained earth whose greatest gift I lost in seeking truth.
Oh, God of Mercy, let me never see these flowers fall, For when their peta ls drop to earth, As trusting as a baby's head upon its mothr's breast, They have the promise of another spring And seeds of others like themselves. Where I have only dust.
ThouShaltNotKill
By JOHN DECKER, '43
0UR horses were clambering down the tanned the color of the desert. He wore what side of a g reat pile of rock known to the appeared to be a piece of burlap around his waist. natives of that forlorn wilderness as the He was covered with dust and flies, and his hair Deep Creek Mountains. The baking heat , the was matted and unkempt. He did not even seem staring sun, the clouds of dust rising from the trail to hear the gentle thud of our horses ' hoofs as we forced even our wind-burnt old rode past him He looked like a g uide to admit that he had never ~- statue cut from the dead earth of ;~,-,~',. had such a disagreeable ride from \ p!~":"'1 f the desert itself. the country village of Woodruff to i The only shelter in sig ht was a the noisy boom-town of Enterprise. ~,'.:'.:_ 1111 shallow cave at the back of the
During the descent, we suddenly ,, ~ ,, J shadeless glade . In it we could
rounded a promontory on the side f;.- · """"\ ,::
easily see a jug of water and several of the mountain and came upon a 11t '-,Jt loaves of bread. A great pile of place where the indistinct trail di-
J, dead leaves lay in the back shadows vided itself. The left fork was ,~ ' ( i of the cavern. much less worn but appeared to be t,' _.:,._
- } The man, the water, the loaves , easier, and so we started down it. and the pile of leaves were the only The horses were brought up with a start, however, signs of life in all that mighty panorama Even when we heard the guide call after us, "Don ' t go the path seemed to have been burned away by the that way!" sun. The cloudless, hot blue sky looked down
We came back to the fork and demanded why upon the rocky glade and the gleaming w hite we shouldn't go to the left. The o ld man with a desert below it mockingly, as if to say, " You'll strange inflection in his voice told us that there never see a cloud up here You'll never get water was something down there that we would not like from me! " The desolation of the scene would into see. " The people in these parts never use the deed break the strongest spirit. left fork," he said.
As soon as we had seen that ghastly apparition, Eagerly we queried what was down there, and we spurred on our horses to be able to pass him as he gave us reply in the most mysterious and fear- soon as possible. We were not afraid of him, but fol words I have ever heard uttered. "A man." we were afraid We glanced back only once and "Will he harm us?" glimpsed his dull and sullen face covered with a
"No, he never harmed anyone, but it is not a mass of hair. We saw also his sightless eyes pleasant sight," said our taciturn guide. staring at us maliciously even though he could not know we were there. We hurried on saying never " Why shouldn't we go then?" a word
" If you must go, go! But you'll never take th e Where the two paths joined again, we met the left fork again." old mountaineer who had warned us against the Wheeling the horses, we turned and rode again side trip. He greeted us with a slightly questiondown the mountainside on the left fork. After a ing smile, and we spoke first with quiet , frightride of only a few moments, we came to a slight ened voices. rise which we topped, and there below us in a "Who is he?" dusty glade was a strange and awful sight. A man was seated on a rock with his arms folded and "What's he doing th ere?" his eyes fastened on the glaring, glittering Great "Is he crazy?"
Salt Desert which spread away below us. As we "How long has he been there?" came over the rise he did not move a muscle His Again the old man smiled at our excitement back and head as well as his arms and legs were and raised his hand as if t o quiet us saying, "If bare to the burning fury of the sun, and he was you'd like to know the story, I'll tell it to you."
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Here is the story we heard one baking afternoon in the wilderness fastnesses of Utah * * *
Nathan Greenford (he was the man you saw up there) lived in a lonely farmhouse in the desert with his wife, Sarah, and their young son. Na than ( I knew him very well) had had a hard life ever since his childhood. Suffering was part of him
He was a descendant of one of the leaders of the great Mormon caravan which had fought its way across the country so many years ago. His father had left Ogden and moved out into the foothills of these mountains when Nathan was a boy, and ever since it had been a struggle to wrest a livelihood from the alkaline soil of the valley in which the farmhouse stood. Twice his home had been destroyed and rebuilt. The farm was worn from slip-shod cultivation, and it was hard to make it produce even the most meagre of crops . His first son had died while still a baby
Now his second boy was eight years old, and Nathan and his wife were determined to give him the best that life had to offer. Their own hard times had made them zealous to give him all he desired. He grew up as ruler of the household. His wish was their law and never was he crossed. Martin ( that was the boy's name) was always bought the finest gifts when they went to a nearby fair . He did as he wished about the house and was rarely if ever scolded by the proud parents. They thought Martin the finest boy of the parish and never tired of telling their infrequent visitors about his "cute" tricks such as breaking chairs or windows.
He was soon notorious among the neighbors because of the delight he seemed to take in killing sheep. He had developed a hard and vicious nature that carried with it none of his parents' gentle refinements. They , poor people, only began to realize their mistake in his upbringing when it was too late. At eighteen it was impossible to control his desires He stole constantly from his parents and showed callously his contempt for their desires He spent little time at home and did no work, whatsoever. His days and nights were spent in drunken debauchery in the gambling dens and saloons of the frontier towns.
His father, still a devout old Mormon, felt as if his life was wrecked. His favorite son had turned to ways of untold evil. Nothing the father or even the devoted mother could do or say would restrain Martin. No longer were they the parents of a fine son; they were the slaves of their own mistakes.
Late in October on a stormy autumn afternoon Martin asked his father to get out the old horse and buggy for him. "I want to go into Burntown to the rodeo," he declared.
Nathan, used to serving his son, pulled on his slicker and sloshed out through the barnyard mud to the stable. "If Martin does not return as a gentleman this time," he thought to himself, "something will have to be changed." Working in the pouring rain, he harnessed the farm's only work animal to the dilapidated buggy and led it back toward the country homestead. On arriving at the house he called Martin to say the rig was ready.
The tall, good-looking boy took five dollars from his mother who stood by in a strained silence, and perfunctorily kissing her good-bye, he dashed out into the rain. He leaped into the buggy, and picked up the reins, but he did not start immediately.
His father had laid a restraining hand on the reins and was looking directly up at him in a stern way. "Son, I don't want to have any trouble this week-end and - "
His son cut him off sharply, "Don't worry, Dad. I'll be back in fine style." He touched the horse and started slowly off into the gathering dusk leaving his father standing in the rain, staring after him.
The next few days passed slowly for Nathan. His heart and mind were in a turmoil. He felt as if the crisis of his life had been reached. As he plodded up and down the soggy fields with his inadequate cultivator in his hands, he wondered what to do.
Toward sunset of the third day a tired figure dragged down the road and came into the house. Nathan knew from far off that his son was back with neither horse nor buggy. He had thrown them away for a few moments of pleasure in Burntown.
That evening the father and son were forced close to each other by their mutual needs, but something deeper kept them apart. Nathan felt within himself an awful horror of that which he had created. He was heavy with a sense of failure . He felt that the time had come for a final settlement. Before his early rest he spoke a few short words to his son
"Martin, we cannot go on like this Your mother and I feel that we have been fair and lenient in all things . You have not fulfilled your obligation to life, and your next error will force you to face your mother and me " No other words were spoken in that lonely home all evening.
[ 25]
These events were telling on the mother. Her love for her son and her desire to do good were clashing. The father's threats had left her frantic with fear for her son. Her dilemma forced upon her a feeling of utter futility and waste.
Sometime later at sunrise Nathan was once more laboring in the fields far from the farmhouse in the valley. Suddenly he heard a piercing cry from his house. Swiftly he turned from his work and raced to the house. He found his wife unconscious on the bedroom floor with the contents of her empty drawers scattered about. Martin was nowhere to be seen, and so he gave his attention to Sarah.
She was bleeding from a cut on the temple, and appearances suggested that she had been in a struggle.
"Sarah, Sarah, who did this to you?" Nathan asked when he had restored her consciousness a little with cold water.
She spoke in a stifled voice with fear in her eyes, "Oh, Nathan! it was Martin. He asked me for some money, and when I reminded him of your warning, he became furious and attacked me. He must have taken all the money from the drawer. He said he was going to Enterprise, and I am afraid you must follow him."
The old pioneer nodded, saying, "The time has come. We must speak to Martin together." Then he set off on foot over the dusty trail to Enterprise. (It's the very trail we are on now.)
The father and son faced each other in the Trail's End Saloon. It was a firm, cold meeting. The old man's faded blue eyes held the young pleasure seeker in his tracks. The father's tone was forceful, yet gentle, when he said, "Martin, you had better come home with me."
The father's demeanor had had a strange affect upon the boy, and his voice was deadly serious when he replied, "All right, Father, I will." Those thirteen words were all that passed between the two in all that long trip over these very mountains.
Nathan walked in lonely silence, wishing for the companionship of his son. He thought of his boyhood under the stern rule of his idealistically fanatic father. Nathan had inherited much of his burning desire for the perfect life. His fervid hate of falsehood, his uncompromising nature with regard to right and wrong made him passionately fierce toward transgressors of his moral code. And now his son-may God forgive him.
When they walked into the farmhouse, the
father ordered Martin to sit down on a stool, and he and Sarah sat facing him in their chairs. Night had fallen, and the blank, staring eyes of the windows looked in on a strange scene. The little family seated near the dying fire in the bare room in which they had always lived was like a sacred tribunal before the Almighty.
The mother spoke first, "Martin, your father and I have brought you here to tell you of our desires for you. Your life thus far has been one ruined by hate and crime. We believe in you, and we-''
Firmly Nathan broke in, "Sarah, the boy has been told of this before. This is the final scene. Martin, you stole from your mother. Do you wish to explain why you did this?"
The silence in the little room was oppressive. "Then," spoke the father, "your life rests in the hands of your Father in heaven. We will pray."
The two knelt down and poured out their supplications to God in silent prayer for the erring one. All this time, Martin was standing motionless with an empty look in his eye. When they arose, Martin was immediately sent into his room, where he quickly fell into a restless sleep. Sarah went also to bed, but Nathan still kept a lonely watch by the fire.
At last in the small hours of the morning he arose and stole into Martin's room. He bandaged his son's mouth and bound his limbs so that the boy was helpless. He carried him out into the pitch black desert and buried his living son deep in the sand. Kneeling by that terrible grave, Nathan once more invoked God's blessing for the boy's soul and asked for mercy for himself.
His wife, Sarah, lived only a week after the death of her thoughtless, yet cherished son, and the father and husband laid her forever beside him in the desert.
Nathan's soul was shattered. He disappeared for a week, and then one morning he was found seated here in the mountains staring down at the desert where his wife and son were buried. For eight years now he has maintained the vigil of death although he can see no man nor anything. * * *
We rode on in silence and reached Enterprise that afternoon. When we noticed the Trail's End Saloon there and were told that the only hotel in town was above it, we decided to move on to the next town that evening.
BOOK REVIEWS
Embe zz led Heaven , by Franz Werfel, translated by Moray Firth. New York: The Viking Press, 1940 . $2.50.
In reading Franz Werfel's Embezzled Heaven we are reminded of Dorothy Thompson's statement that practically everybody who has stood for German culture is now a refugee. This Austrian writer is regarded by critics as one of the most outstanding contemporary men of letters in the German language. Dealing with his work before the second World War, they spoke of his sympathy for mankind, his treatment of universal problems, his leadership towards a more humane and inspired life, and his endeavor to point the way to a better world order.
They were confident that the author of such works as the Goat Song, The Forty Days of Musa Dagh, and the Eternal Road would produce more important books. He has done this in Embezzled Heaven , but it comes from a writer in exile from his own country and at the present time one of the many seeking refuge in the United States. All of this furnishes a more vital and absorbing background for the book because we are interested in reading everything that comes out of these wartorn countries and especially a work by a recognized creative artist like Werfel. We are anxious to know what men who are thinkers and writers are doing, and how the present situation is affecting them.
Consequently, it is somewhat of a surprise to find that, out of the chaos and disintegration of his world, Werfel has chosen such a simple theme - the story of a plain, Austrian cook, Teta. It seems a strange story to be coming from that part of the world, but Teta is more than just an ordinary peasant woman who is trying to insure herself a room in heaven by paying for her nephew's educaton for the priesthood. She is the symbol of all the people who are struggling to understand the mystery of the human soul. This serving woman stands out in sharp contrast to her aristocratic employers, the Argans, her crafty nephew, the chaplain Seydel, and Theo, who is the spiritual counterpart of W erf el. They all represent different approaches to the problem of living. Her personality is so strong and vivid that she dominates and influences each one of them in some way, and it was for this reason that Theo was constrained to write her biography.
He realized that "her whole life was adjusted solely with regard to that which is permanent." For her alone death had a place in the ordered universe. The telling of this story is simple but powerful because we understand that it is something that Werfel feels intensely. To him it seems that the troubles of the world have been caused by a too materialistic philosophy and that only a belief in the simple fundamental values will save us. "The Heaven of which we have been defrauded is the great deficit of our age."
- MAYME O'FLAHERTY, '41.
* * * *
You Can't Go Home Again , by Thomas Wolfe. New York: Harper Brothers, 1940. $3.00.
No one would have believed that the immature college boy, whose constant restlessness drove him to stand impatiently through university games, could show the depth of wisdom and experience revealed in You Can't Go Home Again.
A few men who knew Tom Wolfe in his college days, find it inconceivable that this gaunt, lanky, unruly-haired man of their youth, could write on reality with such a disturbing grip. The giant in stature and intellect, at last reached a peak in American literature, through his individual style, a sweeping force of words and a magnetic rhythm that rushes words unceasingly onward.
Perhaps Tom Wolfe himself would be surprised to find he is considered as a literary master at a certain women's college. A Vassar English professor has given several months each year to a study of Wolfe's works, personality, and place in the world literature of today and tomorrow.
It is undeniably true that the North Carolinian, Southerner, American, are all merged into a magnificent individual who is universal, not only in scope of intellect, but in realization of the unlimited boundaries of human thought and emotion. Readers who have enjoyed Look Homeward, An1el, The Web and Th e Rock , and other earlier books, but who felt dissatisfaction over the reading of life, are now awakened to a new sense of pleasure and philosophical arrival. The strongly drawn characters, especially that of George Webber, answer the appeal of cosmopolitans searching for boundless reality. The episodes of creative powerfulness surpass in beauty those of his previous books; he fashioned words to be remembered not for grotesque falseness, but for serene inspiration.
Into the heart of George Webber he put ideals that he had been striving for throughout his life; [ 27]
he seemed finally to reach an inner understanding with man, and best of all, after years of idle, useless wanderings, with himself. George Webber is a great character, but his unconscious greatness is the incarnated spirit of Wolfe, seeking recognition among his fellowmen.
You Can't Go Hom e Again sums up Wolfe's entire philosophy, which is simply that you can't go home again. None of us can go back to our youth, or to the days of our carefree childhood; we can never go back to what was. Instead, Wolfe believes that it is our destiny, we here in America, to go continually forward, for our great work lies ever before us. He thinks of America as being immortal and the people in it deathless, because the greatness of our land is yet before us. It is this philosophy, in its essence, that he expresses as a glorious assurance that man's dreams will be accomplished in the years to come. ·-
'41.
Come Wind , Come W eath er, by Daphne du Maurier. New York: Doubleday, Doran and Company, 1941. $.25
" The spirit of Old England still lives!" The true selfless gallantry of Drake, Nelson, and Hawkins has always been the only answer for England, and is today. We of America must realize this fact in the world crisis. England survives only because among some of her ordinary men and women prev ails a spirit of unselfish consideration, honest self-analysis, and repentence, resulting in a triumphant solution to their problems.
There is a new book, a different book, Come Wind , Come Weather by the author of Rebecca , Daphne du Maurier. You will all want to read it, for it has this new message within its covers which will capture your interest. In Miss du Maurier's direct style she tells us thrilling, true stories of these men, women, and children who have found the solutions to their own and other people's problems in everyday life among bombs, destruction, and suffering, by a new spirit of selflessness which has come into their lives. It is a collection of real dramas behind the scenes in England and Europe where MORAL-REARMAMENT is strengthening the inner defenses of nations. As each of the characters in the stories overcome his troubles each has a new faith in God. They know, as we must, that absolute honesty, absolute unselfishness, and absolute love are the first lines of
defense. "The Admiralty Regrets" is the story of a mother with two sons. She had a constant fear of receiving a yellow slip announcing the deaths of her sons. Then, one son's ship sank, and all passengers were reported to have been lost. Finally after an inward struggle, she awoke to the fact that there were thousands of heartsick mothers while she was but one; her place was not to bewail her misfortunes, but strengthened by her sacrifice, to carry on the cause for which her son had died.
This little book of short stories has meant more to the English than we can ever imagine, for it contains the message that they seek. When they find it their hope is renewed, for they are one nation united by the gallant spirit of all England.
- DEMIE BROWNE, ' 44.
LINE PROFILES
Joe Wornom, the President of P.D.E., in his tribute to Dr. Boatwright, has turned his journalistic ability to an appreciative biographical sketch . " /inky" Thompson sophomore from Westhampton, has combined her interests in music and writing to produce her current article for THE MESSENGER. The right honorable Editor-inChief of Th e Coll egian , Edgar Mullins Arendall, who needs no introduction, joins our contributors with a mystery-horror story , reminiscent of Poe . Bob Carter, an unsung hero, displays real artistic ability in his illustrations for this issue.
Tony Wirth , from Thomas Wolfe's home town, gives a personal touch to her review of his last book. Her poetry has a Ted Malone quality ... . After having taken part in almost every phase of college students' activities, Mayme O' Flaherty now reveals her writing ability in a firm and appealing review of one of the newer books.
Lucy McDonottgh found time in the midst of the Junior Prom and other presidential duties to write a story which shows originality and ability for dramatic description. . . . Having received a copy of Com e Wind, Come Weath er from England, Demi Brou 1ne 1 freshman reviewer, writes not for an assignment nor solely for literary attempt, but in her own words: "So that everybody will know about this book and realize, as I did, the gallant spirit of every individual that is making England undefeatable."
EXTRA COOLNESS
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"SMOKING OUT" THE FACTS about nicotine. Experts, chemists analyze the smoke of 5 of the largest-selling brands find that the smoke of slower-burning Camels contains less nicotine than any of the other brands tested.
By burning 25% slower
than the average of the 4 other of the largest-selling brands tested-slower than any of them-Camels also give you a smoking plus equal, on the average, to 5 EXTRA SMOKES PER PACK!
R. J Reynold s 'l'obacc:o Company, Win ston - Sal em, North Carolina
