The Reader Critic
“Gaudeamus”:In these historic days I cannot think of your September issue in other terms than as of a Zeppelin hurling bombs into the enemy’s strongholds. From the first to the last page (yes, even the letters!) I read the copy to an imaginary beating of drums, blasting of trumpets, fluttering of banners. When I reached the last line, I relaxed in nervous expectation of the results of the grandiose charge: Will there be no explosion, no earthquake?I ask this question in dead earnest.The Little Reviewhas become definite in one point—in its uncompromising warfare against the rotten features of the existing order. In this one issue you have attacked with the fervor of unhesitating youth some of the stanchest fortified dunghills of American life and art. FromArmageddon, that merciless bomb into the camp of provincial complacency prevailing in this country, through the execution of academicalGrocers, through the venomousDemocratthat reveals the beauty of constructive hatred, down to the palpitating letter of the “Boy-Reader” who deals a tender death-blow to the despotic authoritativness of parenthood,—I scent war powder! And with hope and anxiety I put the question once more:Will there be no response to the call of the clarion? Will your battle-cry not be echoed by young America, who for the first time hear a free unmercenarized word? Will your courageous gospel not stir the hearts of college men and women, those who have not yet been completely philistinized by their “vocational guides”; college men and women who in other countries have always been the torch-bearers, the advance-guard and martyrs in the fights for truth and ideals? WillThe Little Reviewnot succeed in creating aDrang und Sturmepoch?A negative answer would spell a death-verdict for the future of this over-dollarized land.An Interested Reader, Chicago:The Little Reviewbubbles over with enthusiasm and love of life. Here is an instance of a losing fight with life—perhaps it may interest you.A childhood spent in the slums of a large city—not in the camaraderie spirit of the slums but within the close bounds of a little clean apartment presided over by an aristocratic-notioned mother. Absolute barrenness of childhood experience—not a toy, never even a rag doll, not a tree, not a flower, not a picture of any beauty—a household of petty quarreling and incessant scrubbing and cleaning, and strict adherence to duties. As the child, now grown, thinks back, she knows that there was always a subconscious feeling of revolt. She would often go off for many hours knowing that punishment would follow; she destroyed much that caused tears in her efforts to create, she craved and found affection where life was a little richer.And then came books—avid, unsystematic reading. But life was never touched intimately and directly from any angle but one of barrenness, pettiness. A routined school course enriched living by a deep and lasting friendship. Continually the inner revolt and the outward conforming dragged along together. And then came a time of complete awakening, of burning whys, with realization of a dual existence and adesire for sincerity in living above all things. Life demands some sort of a medium of expression which has its beginning in childhood experience. A maturing mind just beginning on impressions that should have come in childhood is a sorry spectacle. Its desires are so out of proportion to its human possibilities that it flounders and does nothing. It finds in itself capacities dulled for want of stimulation, it looks on things and sees them out of relation to itself. One grows to despise human beings, to hate living—to see that there is beauty and radiance in the world only for the chosen ones who respond to it intimately and not only through day dreams.Youth is not always synonymous with love of life; the gutter does not always hold a reflection of the sky, and a conversation or even understanding with one’s parents but seldom solves the problem of soul imprisonment. Breaking the bars of immediate environment is not so wonderful a thing for an independent adult, but how is one to overcome the barriers of a wasted childhood?C. A. Z., Chicago:What splendid letters those are from George Soule! Every one has been really worth while and inspiring. Especially the advice and warning he gives in his last: “Let us go to the theatres next fall prepared to trace the beginnings of a new stage art in this country; in the meantime, however, not hoping to escape the flood of cheap and artistically vicious stuff with which the commercial managers will attempt to drown our sensibilities.”Perhaps after this warning one ought not become agitated or angry with any of the productions of those showmen who are frankly in the business for the sake of revenue. However, when the “super”-showman, who is said by the press-agent to possess unconquerable ideals, does something that is supposed to be the uttermost of stage production—and fails—well, then one can’t help becoming irritated. In a production ofJoseph and His Brethrenwhich I saw recently there is evidence that he is aware of the presence of new ideas in the theatre. But nowhere is it perfect enough or fearlessly new enough to be satisfying. What new ideas are used are swamped under, in their imperfection, by the mass of “excellent mediocrity” that Mr. Soule speaks of. In every act is present that hideous compromise—rank mixture of the old theatrical devices with a cautious lifting of some daring modernists’ best ideas. But the pictures received applause. Most came for the scene that jarred most. It was a moon-light garden scene. The backdrop and sense of distance were perfect, but stuck prominently in the foreground, on either side of the stage, were huge clusters of pink blossoms. The applause for that was great—just as Soule predicted.Mixing ideals—so-called—with the business of attracting the crowd for what it brings to the box-office may produce a super-showman and make of him a millionaire, but it does not advance the cause of the theatre. Not only is the production to be quarreled with, but the drama itself is of mongrel character. Everywhere is evident that catering to the ordinary theatrical taste:—entire speeches from the bible alongside those of modern idiom and thought together with re-arrangements and useless additions to the already satisfying detail of the scriptures.After a “smashing” finale with the gorgeously garmented multitude waving dusty palms in a private house I decided to dismiss the entire show as fruitless, so far as the “new note” was concerned. However, one critic writes that the German and Russian moderns were suggested in some scenes and that the chief femalecharacter might have been costumed by Bakst himself! That arouses one to the danger of the thing. Is this the final word in the theatre and what we are to expect as the best this season?Marion Thayer MacMillan, Cincinnati:The July number ofThe Little Reviewis before me, and the demure brown cover brings a smile as I recall the stimulating sparkle and scarlet audacities hidden beneath. After Nietzsche’s notion of the Wagnerite, it is at least interesting to read Mr. Brooke’s description of pâte de foi-gras at the opera. The talk of Dr. Brandes and the tedious speaker is a gladsome thing, but most of all I was held byThe Renaissance of Parenthood. It is a large subject for one article and too large for a letter; nevertheless I must quarrel with one of your implications. I refuse to admit that one can deduce anything whatever from the writings of Mr. George Bernard Shaw. Don’t mistake me: I feel sure that I agree with everything you think about him—“aye more.” But I deny that you can justly follow any statement of his with “hence.” When a man takes his authorized and adoring biographer and tells him “Lo! here is the house where I first saw the light,” and, when the adoring and authorized one comes a cropper because he deduces from this remark that the self-same house is the birth place of his idol, it behooves one to walk warily with this God! No doubt to read the profound and playful prophet philosopher is to conclude that he believes “the old-fashioned game in which the mother sacrificed everything was unfair and unnecessary and wasteful.” Equally, however, there is no doubt that G. B. S. himself holds an entirely opposite point of view since he emphatically affirms: “When others thought I should be working to support my mother, I made her work to support me. Five years after I was entirely capable of earning a living, I kept her at it so that I could learn to write English”; and, to prove his rightness, he cries: “And now look who’s here!”
“Gaudeamus”:
In these historic days I cannot think of your September issue in other terms than as of a Zeppelin hurling bombs into the enemy’s strongholds. From the first to the last page (yes, even the letters!) I read the copy to an imaginary beating of drums, blasting of trumpets, fluttering of banners. When I reached the last line, I relaxed in nervous expectation of the results of the grandiose charge: Will there be no explosion, no earthquake?
I ask this question in dead earnest.The Little Reviewhas become definite in one point—in its uncompromising warfare against the rotten features of the existing order. In this one issue you have attacked with the fervor of unhesitating youth some of the stanchest fortified dunghills of American life and art. FromArmageddon, that merciless bomb into the camp of provincial complacency prevailing in this country, through the execution of academicalGrocers, through the venomousDemocratthat reveals the beauty of constructive hatred, down to the palpitating letter of the “Boy-Reader” who deals a tender death-blow to the despotic authoritativness of parenthood,—I scent war powder! And with hope and anxiety I put the question once more:
Will there be no response to the call of the clarion? Will your battle-cry not be echoed by young America, who for the first time hear a free unmercenarized word? Will your courageous gospel not stir the hearts of college men and women, those who have not yet been completely philistinized by their “vocational guides”; college men and women who in other countries have always been the torch-bearers, the advance-guard and martyrs in the fights for truth and ideals? WillThe Little Reviewnot succeed in creating aDrang und Sturmepoch?
A negative answer would spell a death-verdict for the future of this over-dollarized land.
An Interested Reader, Chicago:
The Little Reviewbubbles over with enthusiasm and love of life. Here is an instance of a losing fight with life—perhaps it may interest you.
A childhood spent in the slums of a large city—not in the camaraderie spirit of the slums but within the close bounds of a little clean apartment presided over by an aristocratic-notioned mother. Absolute barrenness of childhood experience—not a toy, never even a rag doll, not a tree, not a flower, not a picture of any beauty—a household of petty quarreling and incessant scrubbing and cleaning, and strict adherence to duties. As the child, now grown, thinks back, she knows that there was always a subconscious feeling of revolt. She would often go off for many hours knowing that punishment would follow; she destroyed much that caused tears in her efforts to create, she craved and found affection where life was a little richer.
And then came books—avid, unsystematic reading. But life was never touched intimately and directly from any angle but one of barrenness, pettiness. A routined school course enriched living by a deep and lasting friendship. Continually the inner revolt and the outward conforming dragged along together. And then came a time of complete awakening, of burning whys, with realization of a dual existence and adesire for sincerity in living above all things. Life demands some sort of a medium of expression which has its beginning in childhood experience. A maturing mind just beginning on impressions that should have come in childhood is a sorry spectacle. Its desires are so out of proportion to its human possibilities that it flounders and does nothing. It finds in itself capacities dulled for want of stimulation, it looks on things and sees them out of relation to itself. One grows to despise human beings, to hate living—to see that there is beauty and radiance in the world only for the chosen ones who respond to it intimately and not only through day dreams.
Youth is not always synonymous with love of life; the gutter does not always hold a reflection of the sky, and a conversation or even understanding with one’s parents but seldom solves the problem of soul imprisonment. Breaking the bars of immediate environment is not so wonderful a thing for an independent adult, but how is one to overcome the barriers of a wasted childhood?
C. A. Z., Chicago:
What splendid letters those are from George Soule! Every one has been really worth while and inspiring. Especially the advice and warning he gives in his last: “Let us go to the theatres next fall prepared to trace the beginnings of a new stage art in this country; in the meantime, however, not hoping to escape the flood of cheap and artistically vicious stuff with which the commercial managers will attempt to drown our sensibilities.”
Perhaps after this warning one ought not become agitated or angry with any of the productions of those showmen who are frankly in the business for the sake of revenue. However, when the “super”-showman, who is said by the press-agent to possess unconquerable ideals, does something that is supposed to be the uttermost of stage production—and fails—well, then one can’t help becoming irritated. In a production ofJoseph and His Brethrenwhich I saw recently there is evidence that he is aware of the presence of new ideas in the theatre. But nowhere is it perfect enough or fearlessly new enough to be satisfying. What new ideas are used are swamped under, in their imperfection, by the mass of “excellent mediocrity” that Mr. Soule speaks of. In every act is present that hideous compromise—rank mixture of the old theatrical devices with a cautious lifting of some daring modernists’ best ideas. But the pictures received applause. Most came for the scene that jarred most. It was a moon-light garden scene. The backdrop and sense of distance were perfect, but stuck prominently in the foreground, on either side of the stage, were huge clusters of pink blossoms. The applause for that was great—just as Soule predicted.
Mixing ideals—so-called—with the business of attracting the crowd for what it brings to the box-office may produce a super-showman and make of him a millionaire, but it does not advance the cause of the theatre. Not only is the production to be quarreled with, but the drama itself is of mongrel character. Everywhere is evident that catering to the ordinary theatrical taste:—entire speeches from the bible alongside those of modern idiom and thought together with re-arrangements and useless additions to the already satisfying detail of the scriptures.
After a “smashing” finale with the gorgeously garmented multitude waving dusty palms in a private house I decided to dismiss the entire show as fruitless, so far as the “new note” was concerned. However, one critic writes that the German and Russian moderns were suggested in some scenes and that the chief femalecharacter might have been costumed by Bakst himself! That arouses one to the danger of the thing. Is this the final word in the theatre and what we are to expect as the best this season?
Marion Thayer MacMillan, Cincinnati:
The July number ofThe Little Reviewis before me, and the demure brown cover brings a smile as I recall the stimulating sparkle and scarlet audacities hidden beneath. After Nietzsche’s notion of the Wagnerite, it is at least interesting to read Mr. Brooke’s description of pâte de foi-gras at the opera. The talk of Dr. Brandes and the tedious speaker is a gladsome thing, but most of all I was held byThe Renaissance of Parenthood. It is a large subject for one article and too large for a letter; nevertheless I must quarrel with one of your implications. I refuse to admit that one can deduce anything whatever from the writings of Mr. George Bernard Shaw. Don’t mistake me: I feel sure that I agree with everything you think about him—“aye more.” But I deny that you can justly follow any statement of his with “hence.” When a man takes his authorized and adoring biographer and tells him “Lo! here is the house where I first saw the light,” and, when the adoring and authorized one comes a cropper because he deduces from this remark that the self-same house is the birth place of his idol, it behooves one to walk warily with this God! No doubt to read the profound and playful prophet philosopher is to conclude that he believes “the old-fashioned game in which the mother sacrificed everything was unfair and unnecessary and wasteful.” Equally, however, there is no doubt that G. B. S. himself holds an entirely opposite point of view since he emphatically affirms: “When others thought I should be working to support my mother, I made her work to support me. Five years after I was entirely capable of earning a living, I kept her at it so that I could learn to write English”; and, to prove his rightness, he cries: “And now look who’s here!”