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Read Ebook: The Little Review January 1915 (Vol. 1 No. 10) by Various Anderson Margaret C Editor
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Ebook has 382 lines and 36948 words, and 8 pages
Editor: Margaret C. Anderson
THE LITTLE REVIEW
MARGARET C. ANDERSON EDITOR
JANUARY, 1915
The Allies Amy Lowell The Logical Extreme George Soule Little Flowers from a Milliner's Box Sade Iverson My Friend, the Incurable: Ibn Gabirol On Personalities: Villon, Verhaeren, Parnell, Rolland, Dostoevsky A Note on Paroxysm in Poetry Edward J. O'Brien The New Beauty Nicolas Beauduin The Artist as Master Henry Blackman Sell Evolution versus Stagnation Herman Schuchert Dawn in the Hills Florence Kiper Frank The Bestowing Virtue George Burman Foster Editorials and Announcements Mrs. Havelock Ellis's "The Love of Tomorrow" Herman Schuchert London Letter Edward Shanks New York Letter George Soule I Am Woman Marguerite Swawite Albert Spalding Herman Schuchert Book Discussion Sentence Reviews The Reader Critic
Published Monthly
MARGARET C. ANDERSON, PUBLISHER FINE ARTS BUILDING CHICAGO
.50 a year
Entered as second-class matter at Postoffice, Chicago.
THE LITTLE REVIEW
Vol. I
JANUARY, 1915
No. 10
The Allies
AMY LOWELL
Into the brazen, burnished sky the cry hurls itself. The zigzagging cry of hoarse throats, it floats against the hard winds, and binds the head of the serpent to its tail, the long snail-slow serpent of marching men. Men weighted down with rifles and knapsacks, and parching with war. The cry jars and splits against the brazen, burnished sky.
This is the war of wars, and the cause? Has this writhing worm of men a cause?
Crackling against the polished sky is an eagle with a sword. The eagle is red and its head is flame.
In the shoulder of the worm is a teacher.
His tongue laps the war-sucked air in drought, but he yells defiance at the red-eyed eagle, and in his ears are the bells of new philosophies, and their tinkling drowns the sputter of the burning sword. He shrieks, "God damn you! When you are broken the world will strike out new shoots."
His boots are tight, the sun is hot, and he may be shot, but he is in the shoulder of the worm.
A dust speck in the worm's belly is a poet.
He laughs at the flaring eagle and makes a long nose with his fingers. He will fight for smooth, white sheets of paper and uncurdled ink. The sputtering sword cannot make him blink, and his thoughts are wet and rippling. They cool his heart.
He will tear the eagle out of the sky and give the earth tranquility, and loveliness printed on white paper.
The eye of the serpent is an owner of mills.
He looks at the glaring sword which has snapped his machinery and struck away his men.
But it will all come again, when the sword is broken to a million dying stars, and there are no more wars.
Bankers, butchers, shopkeepers, painters, farmers,--men, sway and sweat. They will fight for the earth, for the increase of the slow, sure roots of peace, for the release of hidden forces. They jibe at the eagle and his scorching sword.
One! Two!--One! Two! clump the heavy boots. The cry hurtles against the sky.
Each man pulls his belt a little tighter, and shifts his gun to make it lighter. Each man thinks of a woman, and slaps out a curse at the eagle. The sword jumps in the hot sky, and the worm crawls on to the battle, stubbornly.
This is the war of wars, from eye to tail the serpent has one cause:
PEACE!
The Logical Extreme
GEORGE SOULE
CHARACTERS:
GENERAL HEINRICH VON BUHNE MARYA RUDINOFF
SCENE:
A private dining room in the General's house in Berlin. It is decorated in black and white, and designed to impress one with the luxury of austerity. A chaotic but strong cubist bust in black onyx is at the left. The dining table, right center, is prepared for a meal. The effect of the room is that of a subtle beauty compressed and given terrific force by a military severity. There is a door at the rear and an entrance for servants at the left.
The General enters rear, followed by Marya. He is tall, with a large mustache and gray hair; his face and figure are in striking harmony with the room. A man of high intellectual quality; the lines and angles of his jaw, his mouth, his brows, are almost terrifying in their massiveness. He is in evening dress, and wears a single crimson order. Marya likewise is tall, a young woman with dark hair, and of a tense beauty. She is subtle, yet apparently lacks utterly fear and the softer qualities. She moves about with an unemphasized superiority over her surroundings. She wears a red evening gown, low cut to show her superb shoulders, yet without daring for its own sake. One feels that she would be equally at ease as a nude Greek goddess.
The General seats her at the right of the table, bows, and sits opposite her. Two servants enter with appetizers; they continue serving the dinner as the dialogue progresses.
GENERAL VON BUHNE . To a good day's work. Fr?ulein Rudinoff, you are superb! I do not refer to your beauty; any dog could see that. I don't believe in praise. But as a sculptor to his statue, allow me to say that of the many secret agents I have employed, you are the most subtly efficient--cold as ice and blazing as fire.
MARYA. Please, Heinrich! I don't believe in praise either.
GENERAL. Not even when it is for myself? But you are right. Man does not become strong until he ceases to wonder at his strength.
MARYA. That is your secret, I believe.
GENERAL. My secret, Marya? I do not have secrets. A secret is something guarded, kept. My mystery, perhaps, yes. That is something which the many are incapable of discovering--even when it is flaunted in their faces.
GENERAL. No, we stand for everyone to see. My enemies think you are their spy, and I--know what you are.
MARYA. And so, we have them at last where your iron fist can close on them.
GENERAL. Yes, I have them, thanks to you. The poor visionary fools shall not assassinate the chancellor and blow up the churches.
GENERAL. You are right, Marya. I love them, too; that is why--I crush them. And perhaps that is why I dominate you. It is not an effort; it is an instinct. There is something--inevitable--about our love. That, I think, is because I--am inevitable.
MARYA. When I first came to you, Heinrich, I hated you. I think I do still, a little. There is always the zest of hate about the greatest love.
GENERAL. How you echo me! Would it surprise you, my beautiful one, to know that I, like you, was once an anarchist?
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