Auguste Rodin. Original
drawing by A. Delanney
How desperately he struggled
for control; now answering some casual remark of his
friends, now breaking out into cold sweat of dread as he
felt the rudder slipping from his hand; called back to
sanity again by some laughing remark, or some blessed
sound of ordinary life, and then, again, swept off his
feet by the icy flood of sliding memory and dreadful
thronging imaginings, with the awful knowledge behind
knocking at his consciousness that he was already mad, mad
— never to be sane again, mad — that the awful despairing
effort to hold on to the slippery rock and not to slide
down into the depths was all in vain, the he was slipping
in spite of himself, in spite of bleeding fingers, falling
— falling. . . .
Hell has no such horror!
There in that torture chamber did his agony last but a
minute — he paid all debts, poor, hounded, hunted creature
with wild beseeching eyes, choking in the grip of the
foulest specter that besets humanity. . . . And all for
what? For another mad hour with the "bourgeois de plus
grand chic . . . d'ume beante remarquable," all for
another kiss from the stylish lady of really remarkable
beauty, "to whom he was always glad to say good-bye."
The worship of the great
goddess Aselgeia is sweet indeed honey to the lips; but
the price she exacts from her devotees is appalling. How
many of them I have known, and how brilliant they were;
her victims are taken from the most gifted of the sons of
men. Heine fell to her and Maupassant and scores of others
whom for pity's sake one does not name — young and gifted
and lovable. As the clown says in "Twelfth Night," —
Pleasure will be paid some
time or other.
From Contemporary Portraits, published by Mitchell
By Frank Harris
to me the creature of his works; the bodily presentment
even is a true symbol of his soul; a French present in
figure — a short, broad man with heavy shoulders, thick
thighs and great, powerful hands. There is realistic
likeness in Tweed's bust. The neck is short and thick, the
nose large and fleshy; the forehead high but retreating;
the eyes grey, by turns reflective and observant. There is
an air transparent sincerity about the sturdy little man,
with his careless grey beard and worn clothes. Always I
see the large, strong hands, the short neck and lumpy
shoulders — a master craftsman with a tremendous sensual
Art and Our Village
chaotic conditions prevailing in the American art world of
today are but a true replica of what is going on among the
artists of our village. The times of Babel seem to be here
again. The great individual efforts towards the one big
achievement seem to be perturbed. Everybody is working as
hard as he can and trying and failing and starting out
again with new energy . . . . but he seems to do it in his
own language, a different language from that of the
universe. And everybody else fails to understand him. I am
not talking now about artists who are busy getting out
orders for magazins and commercial purposes, and I am not
thinking of imitators and who are trying to create
sensations with the empty language of others who really
meant sincerely what they presented to the world.
There are men and women among us trying to do one thing or
the other, who are using their paints and brushes for no
other purpose but self-expression. They are people who
will have found themselves in the course of the coming
ten or fifteen years, and who
will really have something to give, to a generation which
will have grown with them in the meantime.
Almost as many studios as we have down here — just as many
different ways and means of expression of impressions "to
the world" do we have. And these creations drift
eventually uptown and are exhibited in "leading" galleries
on the Avenue. Shall and can experiments be taken
seriously? Shouldn't those in authority, especially the
keepers of galleries refrain from using their walls for
experimental purposes, especially when the artist today
might laugh at his creation of yesterday? Must the public
be the goat here, too, as well as in the other branches of
the free arts for mere commercial reasons?
The individualistic expression of a man is of course, the
most ideal way to attempt the big. But if he uses, in
order to express himself, a language not understood by
anybody else, and if he is not able to compile at the
present time a dictionary to be used by those interested
and eager to understand, because in most of the cases he
doesn't know himself what he wants, why not refrain from
exhibiting? Why not take the consequences of the
prerogative of the self-expressionist: "I don't care what
you think about it — if you can understand it or not; it
is just exactly as I see it and that is sufficient unto
me," and keep his creations unto himself until such time
arrives where either he shall have found a medium which is
not strange to our eyes and which we really can see or
feel, or our posterity shall have adjusted their focus, in
the course of the progress of the world, which will enable
them to see and to feel.
The grotesque seems to be favored at present by magazines
who are willing to pay large prices for something that
outdoes this week the unbelievable of last week.
Money is the great lure in the career of our artists.
Do away with the money which can be gained by the act of
production everybody seems to aim at present, and most of
the members of our hopeful colony of geniuses will return
to the diligent study of drawing.
And now be honest to yourself — What is the most wonderful
idea worth and the most glorious and impossible color
scheme, if you don't know how to draw and if you think
that composition is something that one can do away with?
tongues spin webs of scandal — odd bits of laughter,
knowing winks — earnest "Too bads" — fragments of a
resurrected past, all woven artfully to give a moments
pleasure to the weavers.
And the girl, the motive of their pattern — what of her?
She faces them defiant for a time. Then frightened and
unstrung, draws gradually within herself. Friends drop
away — her house grows dark. At last, in bitterness she
quits the tow, and tries to lose herself in the turmoil
and rush of cities.
"Ah! what did we tell you," the weavers cry. "Her mother
went that way before her — wait, just wait."
Bit by bit they carry their tapestry of lies into the
city. She begins to meet questioning looks — a little
coolness here — a practiced insult there. Men treat her
boldly. She sees the snares with reddening eyes. Long days
and weary nights are hers. Prayer and religion fail her.
Books bring only fleeting solace. Exasperated — nervous —
at bay — she plunges into the social whirl. An act of
impulse — a false step — then — down — down — down —
Chatter, chatter chatter
her in, a shattered small Cacoon,
With a little
bruised body like a twilight rune.
THEY gave her
hurried shoves this way and that,
shock-abbreviated as a city cat,
She lays out
listlessly like some small mug of beer gone flat
L. P. Morgan
"Nice chair, Sir, you have there. How much will you
take for it?"
God had planted love in the human heart, the devil spat
upon it, and lo! it became lust.
"The dictates of fashion" are mostly in fashion with those
who haven't gotten into the fashion of being on good terms
with common sense.
Your character is the treasure of what you are, while your
reputation is merely the report of what you seem to be.
The sage is he who obtains his experiences vicariously,
permitting the fool to pay the price.
Usury is the interest that necessity pays to merciless
RICH, day laborer, was betrayed shamefully by his
betrothed. With the explanation that his income was too
uncertain to risk upon it a marriage, she handed him,
after seven years courtship, his walking papers. Mr.
Rich was hurt to the roots and he vowed revenge. A very
peculiar one. He decided to become a criminal. Not a
very desperate criminal, but still one whom they would
lock up. And if his betrothed would have only the
slightest inkling of a conscience and recognize that it
was she who had caused his downfall, her tortures would
be terrible. At the same time he wished to combine the
pleasant with the useful and to have as good a time as
he could. Therefore he chose the profession of a crook
and started upon his new activities by entering an
automobile factory, He said: "My name is Rich, formerly
day laborer. I wish to get an automobile with as many
horsepower as you can put in it."
"Just as you please,"
replied the very polite salesman, "Do you wish to pay in
cash for it?"
"Not right now," replied Mr. Rich
frankly. "At first I would wish to get it on credit. I
just happen to be out of work, you know."
The polite salesman was very sorry not
to be able to oblige Mr. Rich and advised him to go to
the competitor across the street. He followed the advice
but here, too, they did not seem to be very eager to
count him among their customers. Everybody simply
refused to trust. This astounded Mr. Rich. He always had
heard and read how easy it was to get credit, and still
two people had refused already to sell him an
automobile. But this could not discourage him. He went
to a bank. He introduced himself as Mr. Rich, day
laborer, and asked for a loan of ten thousand dollars.
But here, too, the result of his expedition was very
sad. The manager of the bank gave him even a lackey who
should show him out of the building. But that was all he
was willing to give him.
In the meantime, his monthly room rent
became due. Mr. Rich was not able to pay and informed
Mrs. Mclntyre, the keeper of his boarding house, to that
effect. He assured her at the same time, that he was
willing to take from now on in addition to the
breakfasts included in his rental, dinner and supper
with her. Mrs. Mclntyre didn't seem to approve of this
new business arrangement.
"The devil git ye!" did she scream at
the top of her voice, "Do yez think Oim crazy?" and she
gave him a push and down the stairs he went. All four
flights at once. His possessions she forwarded to the
sidewalk where he had landed, through the window.
"It's just my luck," he philosophized.
And now it had become most urgent to turn some trick or
another because his thirst for revenge was diminishing
from day to day.
His last recourse was the cook. These
beings are supposed to have savings. He wanted to get a
hold of them, promise marriage, he wanted to have a good
time and then he wanted to welcome his fate no matter
what might come. But nothing came. Mr. Rich, day
laborer, remained an honest man. Even the cooks wouldn't
give him anything. And so he was at the end of his wits.
He knew nothing more! To take away the pennies from
little children which they kept in their hands, if sent
to buy something in the nearby grocery store, seemed
even to him in his desperate mood, too dastardly.
And again he become a day laborer. But
if ever anybody mentions to him how dead easy it is to
get the best of credulous people, he will declare it
emphatically as pure invention and just newspaper talk.
After the German,
author not named, by Guido Bruno
By Alan W. S. Lee, Wuhu,
WEEK ago I went to the garden of one of the Professors to
sketch. It was a beautiful place, a huge garden full of
lovely trees and shrubs, with a fine view of the Gon Len.
The only flowers out then were violets, but there were
masses of them — sweet and fragrant. It was an immense
relief to work here without a hundred pairs of eyes
staring grimly at me, as is my usual fate when I try to
sketch. As I worked I noticed a small black bird hopping
about among the violets — and every once in a while he
would leave his hunt and fly up onto a branch and sing — I
never heard a bird sing so gloriously, not even a
nightingale at home, for this was no lament, but a song of
joy and triumph.
Professor Meigs came out after a while to watch me dabble
and he told me about the little black bird. He is a robin,
a jet black robin, and he glistens like line lacquer. He
is smaller than an American robin, but larger than an
English one, and he sings to beat both. He has just the
same jaunty hop, and impertinent thrust of the head, just
the same quick jab after a worm, and the bracing of his
black legs when he gets it. He is a very rare bird, even
here, but this one comes every year to the Meigs garden,
and they think a great deal of him. I have been reading
Algernon Blackwood's "Centaur" and I think no book ever
got me so completely. It is so full of sheer beauty, and
exquisite phrasing, I found in it that bit of verse I
liked so well that I found in an old number of the
"What dim Arcadian
Have I known,
That out of nothing
a wind is blown
Lifting a veil and a
Showing a purple sea
And under your hair,
the fauh's eyes
Look out at me."
The story is a powerful protest against the civilization
of today, a denouncement of materialism and pure
intellectualism, and makes a plea for a fairer and larger
life, for nobler interests, for a life of harmony with
nature instead of feverish and unsatisfying struggling for
little imaginary pleasures. Blackwood regards men and
animals, flowers and trees as possible projections of the
Earth's consciousness, even as she herself is perhaps a
projection of the great Consciousness of the Universe. But
what am I trying to do — tell you all about it in my
feeble words? I will get another copy in Shanghai and send
it to you.
There is a Chinaman singing outside the garden, I wish you
could hear him, many of the Chinese songs are really nice,
but this reminds me of the guinea pig Ruth St. Denis used
to let loose upon the stage just before she did her cobra
All our bamboos are full of turtle doves now, and they coo
and coo. The groves are full of birds, and they sing
amidst the small green leaves that rustle and blow in the
west wind that comes whispering across the fields, calling
the flowers to wake from their long winter's sleep. There
are no trees quite so frivolous as young bamboos; they are
frivolous even when they grow up and all the other trees
Thoughts of Suicide — III
This cold steel thing of which I am
Can in a flash free me from every wolf
at my heels
And set my soul before the throne of
I'll take my chance, for if the world
He knows what tortuous paths my feet
The ring of steel like ice behind my
Each heart-beat like a blow, each
breath a prayer to
still my trembling
And make my death as sure as my
Dry-throated, gasping, icy-cold with
After that crash, where will I be —
Good-night for I must sleep.
Yes sleep, and know no waking to this
pain of living.
I must rest.
I give you back my life, and giving
For the first time peace lies within my
A coward badly beaten.
Yes, and a weakling too — I can bear no
It is too long.
I give you back my life, and giving
For the first time I knowingly do
I am too tired to pray, but dreams will
Me company — what scent is that? — when
is often made of Grub street writers and Grub street
publications, but the terms are little understood; the
following historical fact will explain them; during
the usurpation of Cromwell a prodigious number of
seditious and libelous pamphlets and papers, tending
to exasperate the people, and increase the confusion
in which the nation was involved, were from time to
time published. The authors of these were, for the
most part, men whose indigent circumstances compelled
them to live in the most obscure part of the town.
Grub Street then abounded with mean and old houses,
which were let out in lodgings, at low rents, to
persons of this description, whose occupation was the
publishing of anonymous treason and slander. One of
the original inhabitants of this street was Fox the
martyrologist, who, during his abode there, wrote his
Acts and Monuments. It was also rendered famous by
having been the dwelling place of Mr. Henry Welby, a
gentleman of whom it is related, in Wilson's
"Wonderful Characters," that he lived here forty years
without having been seen by any one.
By Henri Fomet
Translated from the
French for Bruno's Weekly by Renee Lacoste
(Continued from last
next day she called on him. He had spent the whole day
arranging his room so it would appear pleasant and
precise. Little Roma entered shyly, tiptoeing around
and casting glances about her. As she saw that he was
respectful and embarrassed, she gradually became
reassured enough to sit by him on the divan. Then, in
a very earnest manner, she made this little speech to
"Do not think I am here through childishness. I am
well aware of what might happen to me, but I don't
fear anything. I don't think I am imprudent or crafty.
I like you very much. I imagine that you will perhaps
understand me. Consequently, I wanted to know you."
And so they spent a very pleasant afternoon. He showed
her the books which he had patiently collected and
carefully bound. She was intelligent in her
admiration, recognizing some volumes like those she
had seen at her father's. She looked through his
papers, too, and read a few scattered notes, here and
there, and wondered at two or three phrases.
"Have you written this?"
"Certainly. Do you think me incapable of it?"
"No, no, but it causes me so much pleasure . . . Tell
me, do you draw?"
"So much the better! Because — I must tell you, seeing
that you are asking me no questions — I draw, too,
sometimes. It is the only serious work I can do.
Therefore, it is advisable for one to turn to
something else. Otherwise it would become a bore!"
I Am Satisfied
Swiftly, the Heart of Things
Love in a flash,
Holding my heart and senses:
swift cut with Sorrow's Knife
tears of Flame,
Joys which briefly
Held me utterly,
Heart of Things.
She walked up and down
the apartment a few times; then resumed her seat:
"It looks all right"
"Now that you have inspected my premises, it is your
turn to tell me something.''
"I don't know. You wanted to know me. As for me, your
name would almost suffice. However, if you would be
obliging enough to add an inscription to it . . ."
"Ask me questions. . . Become inquisitive."
"Well, young lady, tell me what you know about life."
"Sir, you speak of banalities. I thought you had no
patience with them. . . Life doesn't exist. It is only
an illusion. There are words, noises, sunsets and
melodies. We have put a frame around all this to make
it into a whole. But it is our work. I will add that
it isn't worth the rest of it. There! Have I answered
"Not badly. Kiss me!"
Roma Lucida let him kiss her. She did not without
embarrassment but without great pleasure. Then she
began to play some of Cesare Frank's music to prove
that she was a musician too.
When she was leaving, he detained her near the door
for a minute, and, taking both her hands in his, said:
"Roma, Roma Lucida! My little girl! Is it possible
that there is a Roma Lucida on earth. . . Do not go so
She smiled sweetly at him and responded to the
pressure of his hands.
He continued in a lower voice:
"Listen: I want to be happy, at least tor an hour. I
ought never to have seen you. Now it is too late; you
must give back to me all you have taken from me. You
will be in my thoughts until your return. Now go! But
think of me. When you come back here, it will be
because you wished it."
She was going to answer a little hotly; but he put his
hand over her lips:
"Don't say anything. I know all you could say to me.
Go! When you come back here, it will be because you
She left. He spent the rest of the evening going over
the few phrases of the sonata in A which she had
played. When night came it was a pleasure for him to
repeat her name many times in succession, as in
She didn't come back the next day, nor the day after
that. As he didn't know her address, he could only
wait for her sadly. At last, on the third day, she
knocked at his door. He saw by her eyes that she had
spent several nights dreaming about him. He took her
in his arms and undid her blonde hair, which fell over
him like a shroud. They didn't say a word to each
other the whole night long.
The next day she was crying. He knelt in front of her
and pressed her in his arms:
"Pardon me, my Roma. It isn't my fault."
"I don't bear you with ill-will. I came of my own free
will and I regret nothing. I don't know why I am
"Are you happy now? You wanted to have me. I am yours,
but you aren't happy! I wanted to love and to suffer —
and I weep. Why should we struggle against it? We must
part as we met" — and she added, smiling — "In the
He made no answer. Roma dressed quickly. She fixed her
hair and put on a red hat. In the glorious morning
sunlight she seemed to be the same he had seen roaming
the streets of Paris. It was the same face, the same
quiet eyes; the same little black spot over her lips.
But she was not the same; the real Roma Lucida seemed
to have gone very far away and her voice reached him
He didn't try to stop her. When he looked up, she was
no longer there. The sunlight swept over the furniture
as if clearing the room of the least remembrances. All
that was left of her was a faint perfume. That same
evening it was gone. In the course of the following
days, he forgot her voice, then the shape of her face
and in a few months he only recalled her name.
Bruno's Weekly, published
weekly by Charles Edison, and edited and written by
Guido Bruno, both at 58 Washington Square, New York
City.. Subscription $2 a year.
Entered as second class matter at the Post Office 6f
New York, N. Y., October 14th, -1916, under the Act of
March 3d, 1879.