on earth, good will toward men" —
words, that were empty thenl
Two thousand years have
And still men give their God the
And still men battle and men die;
And still they flay with flail of
Till earth is red and sea is red
And heaven is crimson overhead.
"Peace on earth, good will toward men" —
When? And the echoes answer: when? H.
Village in Historical Novels
IThe Goede Vrouw of Mana-ha-ta
At Home and in Society,
John King Van Rensselaer
ALEXANDER had purchased a beautiful spot that commanded a
view of the bay of New York, and she hoped to engross her
husband's attention in superintending the building of the
house and laying out the grounds, and in this way distract
his mind from the troubles that had agitated him for so many
years. Small-pox was raging in New York, and the assembly
was holding its meetings in Greenwich, that salubrious
hamlet on Mana-ha-ta, which lay at least three miles beyond
the city limits, and which was always the haven of refuge
when yellow fever, cholera, small-pox and other dreaded
scourges visited New York, introduced there by sailors who
carried these diseases from port to port. The center of Greenwich
was about on the spot that the Indians called Sapo-Kanican,
which was the site of one of their villages. Minitie-water
(or little brook) joined Bestevaar's Killitje or Grandfather
(Van Cortlandt's) Creek, and ran through the place and part
of it had been the farm of Mme. Oloff Van Cortlandt, that
she called "Bossen Bowerie," or Bush farm. The English name
was given to the place out of compliment to the palace
(which was the haven of sailors, after it was no longer used
by the king), when Admiral Sir Peter Warren, who for many
years stationed in these waters, brought the adjoining
Mr. Alexander received the news of the death, at his family
estates in England, of the great-grandson of the first Earl
of Stirling, who was Henry, the fifth earl who had died
without male issue, leaving as heirs to the untitled
property the wives of William Philips Lee and Sir William
Trumbill. According to the grant of the original title, it
would now pass to the eldest male heir, through John of
Gogar, the great-grandfather of James Alexander of New York.
York, Charles Scribner's Sons. 1898
Copyright 1916 by Guido
By Guido Bruno
raining, raining and raining on a late Sunday afternoon once
years ago in London. I have forgotten the name of the street.
But it was a rather stately looking row of stone mansions,
whose doors were shut and undoubtedly locked. The house on the
corner of the narrow side street was gray, window boxes with
withered plants distinguished it among all others. The shades
of the window were yellow and drawn. The house seemed
unoccupied, but, strangely, the very large doors were wide
ajar. The doorway was a welcome refuge for me as I hurried
without an umbrella to the nearest tube. Many men and women
with rain wet overcoats stood in this doorway, which led to a
courtyard deserted as well as the other part of the house.
Some of the men were pacing up and down nervously. Some were
near the door looking with resignation up to the clouded skies
which poured continuously enormous buckets of water upon the
for once white-washed sidewalk. Others exchanged commonplaces
about their unfortunate experience: to have been caught in the
rain, just this afternoon, while they had been in a hurry to
get to some place or another where their presence was most
necessary. Still others were on the outlook for a cab.
Against the grey wall leaned a girl in a green raincoat She
had a red hat and a lot of obstinate blonde hair. She stood
there lazily. She seemed to be real happy. She was watching
the rain drops which splashed upon the stone of the sidewalk
and looking up to the roof of the house across the street,
from where little waterfalls poured . . . . she seemed to
enjoy it. She seemed to enjoy the impatience, and the wrath
and the anger of fellow refugees. And tor a long while she
observed with happy contentedness the tree in the back yard of
the house, with its naked branches and the stone bench beneath
She had big blue eyes.
She smiled as our eyes met. I looked tor a long time into her
eyes; her smile vanished slowly — scarcely noticeably, before
she turned them to the dripping umbrella of a new arrival. Our
eyes met again. Just for one moment. And then someone whom she
knew came with an umbrella and she left.
I did not look into her eyes for longer than a small fraction
of a minute. But it seemed to me like a long lifetime, with
all its longing, its promises, its disappointments, its joy .
. . . with its inevitable parting.
Years have passed. But often on a rainy afternoon or in the
twilight of a quiet hour or in the radiant sunshine of a
glorious summer day do I think of the big blue eyes beneath
the blonde curls and the red hat. Cats'
WHAT a cat
enjoys apparently the most is to lie down in a warm place and
just breathe and think. He can breathe any way he wants to but
knows it is better to breathe through his nose so he does. He
lets the air come in and go out just as it will. And if he
wants to feel real pleased, he sings to himself. How he does
it is to raise his soft palate and keep it raised so that the
air in passing by it will make it vibrate. When the palate
vibrates it makes vibrations in the air all around the cat and
anybody who is close enough can hear them.
The same air each time is
used twice: it makes vibrations as it goes in and it makes
more as it comes out. The sounds it makes are different; for
as it is inhaled it takes most of the vibrations on into the
When the cat sings, it is
supposed to be a sign of appreciation or contentment. But the
cat probably doesn't know what appreciation is, and if it did,
the cat would have no reason for thinking that its singing
would show it. And if it were already contented, the cat would
lie still that way and not bother to sing. The truth is more
likely this: the cat is comfortable and feeling well and
something starts the animal thinking it is happy. This makes
the cat want to be more happy, so it begins to sing. In this
way it soon has itself persuaded into the belief that it
really is happy and of course this makes it contented.
Whether or not the cat ever
sings when it is off by itself, nobody knows. But the
probability is that the cat does. Dapple Grey
Gone is the day of
true love has grown up;
Now she sighs for
wants a silver cup.
Be it silver cup or gold
steals my love away —
No Prize is worth the
she loses Dapple Grey. G. G. A Woman's Revenge
By Guido Bruno (Concluded)
Her voice sounded deep and quiet. "You
are dying. You know it and I know it. We have been married ten
years. Nine years we have been living together as strangers.
You have taken my youth and destroyed my faith in humanity.
You have made me poorer and more pitiable than the beggar on
the street, for he has perhaps somewhere a heart that beats
with love for him. And now that you are going — going forever
— I will tell you how I hate you."
"I despise you . . . .I
loathe you . . . . Don't speak! I know everything and I have
known everything all along. I could name them to you, one by
one; the women through whom you have shamelessly betrayed me.
There was the wife of your friend, Hans. There was the circus
rider who bore you a child, there was the young sales woman
who because of you drowned herself, there was my chambermaid.
I discharged her and you settled her in quarters of her own.
Then came the teacher. She was the only one for whom I felt
any sympathy. She loved you honestly, and when she found out
that you had a wife at home she gave you up. And then others
followed in motley, quick succession. You took whatever
crossed your path: decent women that suffered for their sin
all their lives and girls whose customer you were. You led
astray the wives of your friends and dishonored the daughters
of your acquaintances."
"And now Fate has overtaken
you . . . . . how coarse and relentless! No beauty, and none
of the romance that you always loved and for which you lived.
Oh, yes! . . . I know that, too! The last one — the very last!
The beautiful wife of a motor-man attracted you. You
overlooked her labor hardened hands and you took her. And for
that the motor-man burst open your head with his crank. Ha!
Ha! Ha! I must laugh, must laugh at your prosaic finish."
Like the gloating of the
Furies when they laugh over a misfortune that they have passed
and done with, sounded the laugh of this woman who was taking
revenge for nine heart-breaking years.
Imperturbable had become the
face of the dying man. But the more excitably, the more
harshly, the more maliciously the woman spoke the more tender
and the more loving grew his look. He embraced her body with
He saw the girdle between
skirt and blouse, the watch chain with the gold locket hanging
from it. He had given it to her during their honeymoon. His
picture was in that locket and half of a four-leafed clover.
He looked in her eyes, in the
wonderful, deep violet eyes that were true, so true.
What he had not known for
years he realized now: "Mia Mia! I have loved you always. You
did not understand me. You did not try to understand me. I
sought forgetfulness with the others. I drifted from one to
the other. I was always searching for you and you were lost to
me. Forgive me . . . Mia! . . . . Mia, I love you dear . . . I
. . . always loved only you . . ."
"Harry, you lie! Tell me that
you are lying! God in heaven! Don't go from me with a lie on
your lips! That cannot be the truth!"
She sobbed. She wept. She
fell on her knees beside the bed and threw her arms about the
A soft rain beat against the
window panes. The silver scissors and knives that lay on the
dressing table and waited in vain to care for the hands of the
master glittered nobly. The blue and yellow vials on the
medicine table sparkled like oddly cut semi-precious stones.
The quiet of an unchangeable
misery lay over every object in the room.
Soundless tunes of an
unplayed sonata of Beethoven diffused through the air.
A woman had taken revenge. London
London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY
18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington
December 27th, 1915
of Stephen Phillips takes from us another figure of the
'nineties and a man who by temperament at any rate was far
more of a poet than many of his contemporaries upon whom
fortune smiled more smugly. As Phillips said himself, he was
not respectable enough for a Civil List pension or for one of
those sinecure offices often given to men of letters. The man
who had two or three poetic plays running in London at the
same time and was the most successful literary dramatist since
Wilde, came down to hawking his poems in person at newspaper
offices. During the last year or so he had been editing the Poetry Review, a little
literary journal subsidized by the Poetry Society.
It is to be supposed that
Phillips died of alcoholism and regret —like most of the poets
of his decade. One can see now the price those poets of the
'nineties had to pay for their few years of glory and the
little ardor they brought back to our numbed and paralyzed
literature. Dowson, Francis Thompson, Davidson, Lionel
Johnson, Wilde — their lives are sad and bitter. They enriched
the end of the century with a little fleeting beauty, but they
gave it to us out of their hearts and hopes, or perhaps rather
out their despair.
For the characteristic thing
of the Renaissance of the 'nineties in England was its
despair. It had something of the fever of music or revelry at
a feast where time is short and the end is at hand. All their
art suggests an intermezzo, beautiful but desperate.
All these poets and artists
of the 'nineties seem on beholding the life of their time to
have exclaimed in a kind of hopeless terror "Oh Lord!" and
then to have alternatively sung or drunk, in unthinking
They were artists, as good
artists as their environment allowed them to be, but they were
poor builders for any art of the future. That is, they had no
conscious appreciation of their position in the society where
they found themselves. They knew it was disagreeable and
antipathetic to their art, but that was the extent of their
analysis. It led them for the most part to miserable ends.
Most of the books which are
appearing at the moment are Christmas books, ornate and heavy
tomes wherein indigestible thoughts lie like raisins in a plum
pudding. Almost literarily they are sold by weight. They are
very expensive and solid, and are bought by thousands. A
notable book though shows its head here and there. Such an one
is the translation of Romain Rolland's Au Dessus de la Melee,
which is to be given the title of 'Above the Battle' and is
published by Allen & Unwin. The book is also to be done in
America, I hear. I have been acquainted with the French work
for some time, having read the articles as they originally
appeared in the Journal de
Geneve, where Rolland is now living in exile. The
publication in France of Au
Dessus de la Melee was for some time forbidden by the
French Government. It is not easy to see why, here in England,
where we still enjoy a greater liberty of expression than they
do in France. Any of these articles of Rolland's might have
been published in any paper here at any time during the war,
for the patriotism which inspires them is undoubted, and it is
only a plea for reason and the intelligence which the author
of Jean Christophe
offers us in these beautiful pages. Here that spirit of
reason, of humanity, which has found here and there in America
some admirable expressions, crystallizes into a poignant form.
I can only urge everyone to get this inspiring book where the
intelligence of Europe that is gravely wounded and in agony
finds an expression not unworthy of its glorious past. In the
introduction we read, "A great nation assailed by war has not
only its frontiers to defend. It has also its reason. To each
man his task: to the armies the guarding of the soil of the
fatherland. To the men of thought the preservation of
Rolland protests against the
brutal orgy of lies, of defamation and of panic hatred which a
war produces among the baser intelligences of a people, and he
asks the elite of the warring nations if they cannot still be
good patriots without ceasing to be traitors to that European
conception of humanity, which, up to the fatal moment of
August 1914, had been their ideal.
Nor does he despair that for
a legacy all that the war will leave will be ruin and chaos.
"They are mistaken who think
that the ideas of free human brotherhood are suffocated now! .
. . I have no doubt of the future unity of European society.
It will be realized. This war is but its baptism of blood."
In the Role of the Elite, The Idols,
and Inter Arma Caritas, Monsieur Rolland says some
brave and uplifting words.
Edward Storer Charles
Edison's Little Thimble Theatre
MISS VOLNOVA, who appears this
Thursday for the first time before a New York audience, a
young Russian girl who came recently to America, has the aim
to interpret with her dancing what the great masters expressed
on canvas or in marble and to give to our eyes what the music
of her accompaniment gives to our ears. She will present a
dance of the Orient, "A Vision of Salome," by G. B. Lampe.
"War Tragedy" is the dramatic interpretation of the horrors of
war. It is a
recent composition by E. R. Steiner. All that entrancing
rhythm of Mendelsohn's "Spring Song" she sketches for the eye
with her graceful, lithesome body.
Miss Volnova is an idealist who believes that dancing is an
art which should be presented to the masses of the population,
in its highest and most refined development. The goal of her
ambition is to dance before "all and everybody" and to bring
joy of life and sense of rhythm to those who need it most.
Mr. Alfred E. Henderson, who will introduce Miss Volnova in
the coming season to art loving New York, will appear on the
same program in his Henderson Trio with Agde Granberg and Miss
Roelker. Miss Granberg will interpret by pantomime Oscar
Wilde's "Happy Prince," which Mr. Henderson will read,
accompanied by Miss Roelker on the piano.
What Is the Matter?
One can hardly believe that with so many real good, far above
the average singers, piano players and instrumental artists
extant and looking for engagement the offerings in our music
halls and concert rooms of smaller caliber maintain a standard
so far below the average. Real tragic are very often the tales
of artists who apply for an appearance on the stage of Charles
Edison's Little Thimble Theatre of their sad wanderings from
managers to impresarios, from impresarios to press agents and
all efforts to gain a public appearance strand upon those two
requirements which to achieve they don't get a chance, money
or reputation. Culture is all that that is left
after we have forgotten what we learned.
A real woman respects, above all,
strength in a man.
Guido Bruno In Our Village
you are really one of those easily impressed and you have the
energy to follow your first impulse after reading a newspaper
article and to investigate for yourself, come down to
Greenwich Village in the evening. Then it is that village of
which you read, the background to so many big things, the
essential in so many big lives, — the one part of the city
where you can forget city and six million co-inhabitants of
yours: there is the Arch with its simple architecture, the
monumental gateway to the Square, between the naked branches
of trees and bushes, houses big and small, with large windows
and just stingy openings to let in the light. Lights here and
there. High upon the tower of a hotel, an electric lighted
cross and still higher above, a few stars, and if you are
lucky and the night is clear, the moon. And then you cross
over to the other side of the Square and there are the small
narrow streets. The Square is deserted and only a few
passengers waiting for the next bus make up the small group
beneath the arc light. But the streets are peopled with men
and women who stand around the Italian grocery shops and
pastry bakeries; they worked all day and kept silent and now
they live their real own life. There are cafes as you can see
them on the rivas in small Italian coast cities where you
really eat pastry and drink coffee and play dominoes. And then
turn in one of those streets and unexpectedly, like the
background of a miniature play-house, a little chapel looms up
before you. The doors are open, candle before the altars are
testimony that the saints are not forgotten. Women are sitting
on the stairs selling rosaries, little statuettes and paper
flowers; and men and women and children are passing in and
passing out. They then follow the thundering elevated and turn
again to the Square. As many windows as you see lighted in
these mansions of yore are now used as rooming and lodging
houses — as many homes do they contain.
Can you help thinking it: if I were a poet or an artist, would
I surely live here and nowhere else?
But, dear reader, because you are living here you aren't
necessarily a poet or an artist.
John Masefield returned to New York for a short stay and I
hope he won't forget to visit the village where he spent so
many years of his life, long before the day of his fame and
recognition. He will speak on Sunday, the 16th, before the
MacDowell Club. An extended lecture tour through the United
States is before him.
Captain Hall's exhibit of marine scenes, forest scenes and
especially his portraits of Lincoln and Nancy Hanks along with
Lincoln's mother, are proving of great interest especially to
those connoisseurs of art who are quite at a loss if
confronted by something sincerely original but rather strange
to the focal capacity of their eyes. The exhibition will
continue on the walls of Bruno's Garret until the last week of
Sadakichi Hartmann will read in Bruno's Garret on Tuesday
night, January 18th, his dramatic masterpiece, "Christ," and
on Wednesday night "Buddha." The readings will start at 8:15
sharp. Admission is by ticket only. Because the seating
capacity is limited it is necessary to close the garret if
this limit is reached.
Mrs. E. C. Moloney, of "M. Y. Q." fame, recovered from a
serious case of blood poisoning. She is contemplating a very
busy social season during the coming month of balls and
Rossi Bros.' tea room right under Bruno's Garret is busy as
ever selling stamps to those who do not wish to walk to the
nearest post office station, which is very far off. There is a
sub-station somewhere on Bleecker street, but outside of the
sign indicating that there should be a post office, one cannot
detect anything of its existence. Greenwich Village should
have a post office of its own known as the "Greenwich Village
Station," and no better place could there be for its
establishment than in Rossi's, where everybody does his letter
Charles Keeler is at work on a new book of poems — "The Mirror
of Manhattan." They are realistic glimpses of scenes and
people in the city, written in free verse, with reflections
from many angles of life, high and low. Many compressed
stories are suggested in the familiar settings of New York,
and there are hints scattered through the work to make one
think of the meaning of it all.
In a recital at Bruno's Garret on the evening of Monday,
January 24th, Mr. Keeler will read a selection from this new
work. He will give a program, with one or two exceptions, of
numbers that have not hitherto been heard. Among them are his
Knight Songs for children, and a group from "The Victory,"
including picturesque and musical numbers in marked contrast
to the realistic note in his poems of New York life. Tragedy
My soul was fashioned quick as fire
From struggle, love, and pain.
You took it in its glow and strength
Beside your own to reign.
Your own was dull and clogged and dim,
And made for sordid day
One night my young soul flared too far;
Quivered, and fled away.
KATHARINE S. OLIVER Regarding Clara Tice
I would not be unkind
as G. G. was to Clara Tice,
He said her drawings
were not nice —
I couldn't be so rude,
But still I hope some
day she'll draw a nude with pulchritude.
And more abundant
Those skinny nymphs of
hers get on my nerves.
R. A. Christmas
Toys By Charles Keeler
LITTLE child, with nose flattened against the big plate glass,
With eager eyes is peering in from the street,
Devouring the fairy toyland there displayed,
For it is holiday time and Christmas will soon be here!
There are dolls and blocks and elephants,
And barking dogs and jumping frogs
And books and games and Santa Claus.
Through the cold and the slush of the streets,
The passing crowd sweeps by,
But the little face is pressed against the pane,
Spelled by the wonder and joy of the scene.
So, I fancy, God peers in at the show window of the world.
Fascinated by His toys — His clowns and jumping jacks,
And dreams wondrous dreams about them. ''I
Don't Want a Kitchenette. I Want a New Saddle for My
Horse" said Alice
evening you can see them, leaving stealthily their elevator
apartments or their hotel suites, mounting a bus, with
upturned collars and the hat deep into the face to protect
them against the sharp wind, pilgrimaging down to the dear old
haunts in the village. Years ago they used to live here in
some obscure rooming house or in a "studio," right under the
roof of a dilapidated mansion. Gonfarone's used to be their
Delmonico, in their times of ebb. But their tea pot on the
window sits and the grocer around the corner on Sixth Avenue
could tell you of a good many breakfasts, lunches and dinners
And then came the times when
tea pot and grocer were forgotten; and some good luck, and
they moved up town.
But the longing for those
good old days returns sporadically and overcomes them and they
cannot resist the call of their hearts, and down they go to
the places that the quite modern lust at large for
"Bohemianism" made grow over night like mushrooms. They eat
roast chicken and drink red wine somewhere at a small table in
a dimly lighted, badly decorated spaghetti house with bad
music. It isn't as it used to be; they miss something. And
they speak about the good old times. But all is the same as it
was, only they themselves have changed and they never can be
the old ones again, because they have tasted their chicken in
Delmonico's and know their imported wine lists by heart. And
they remember their good old quarters with tea kettle and
delicatessen. And for the atmosphere they did not bring with
them to the spaghetti houses they are searching in apartments
A kitchenette! When two are
just married and have no other object in life but to spend
every minute possible together -— all apart from the world,
and if they don't wish to have intruders (guests) or if they
cannot afford to have an establishment of their own, how nice
it is to have this kitchenette; in those days when eating is
nothing but a necessity to furnish nourishment to the body,
when to be alone means more than the culinary offerings of the
finest chef. But later on in life, when many ideals are so
near in reach that they are almost forgotten, when one has
developed the ability to enjoy a meal as an art creation, the
coziness of a kitchenette affair is something that really
exists so long as you don't try it.
What these apartment dwellers
are really searching for and cannot find is their old dear
But why not be satisfied to
place flowers upon the grave of a beloved one? Why try to dig
out the coffin and look at the corpse?
That new self of theirs,
which has so much sentiment and so many good thoughts for
their own self of bygone days, is surely just as good — if not
Spaghetti houses have usually
soiled linen and not very clean silver. If there is a
kitchenette, someone must peel the potatoes. And dinner tastes
ever so much better after an hour's ride on horseback, and
anyhow, holding onto the reins doesn't spoil one's hands. What
a pity, if they are such nice hands! Books and Magazines of the Week
seem to be in vogue. Especially the poets of the good old
school of jingles and rhymes, who have to keep up with the
procession and nod grudgingly acknowledgement to vers libre and imagists
and all other individualistic expressions foreign to their anima laureata seem to be
busy making compilations of other men's work and sitting as
judges upon the poetry of last year.
Old man Braithwaite, the anthologist of the Boston Transcript, spoke
the far reaching words of this year and the diamonds he
selected from periodicals and magazines are sparkling in his
anthology recently published by Lawrence J. Gomme. Others
whose names are household words to the readers of monthly and
weekly advertising mediums called popular magazines, had their
selections published and now after the fields of current
poetry are well-pastured, the short stories of 1915 are a
welcome tooth-sharpener. The mere idea that a man would read
two thousand two hundred some odd short stories in about five
months in order to detect the best among them makes one
shudder. But Edward J. O'Brien did it, and he had enough
strength left after this rather herculean exercise to sit down
and write an article about the American short story of 1915
and write a compilation of the best stories among them. The
anthology was published in the Boston Transcript of January 8th and a
selection of the stories, with stars, will appear in book
form, similar to the anthology of Mr. Braithwaite. If there
has to be a judge of the best performances of American writers
in periodicals and newspapers, Mr. O'Brien, who is a young
poet of no mean abilities himself, an idealist, surely must be
welcomed. Just think what would have happened if Brander
Matthews, the simplified speller, or William Dean Howells, the
old stand-by, or some other dried-up representative fossil of
American letters had been chosen in his stead!
But heartily do I agree with Mr. O'Brien that the worst story
of the year was published in the Saturday Evening Post, and I
would not hesitate to express my opinion in the plural and say
that the worst stories not only in 1916, have come from that
seat of culture in Philadelphia.
Mr. Alfred A. Knopf announces for publication in March 1916,
an anthology of the new verse from Others, edited by Alfred Kreymborg. Fifty
men and women have contributed to Others during 1915 and the best of their
work was chosen for this anthology. I hope Mr. Kreymborg will
not forget himself. I still contend that a few pages on which
he printed his own poems in his magazine are those most worth
The guarantors, the contributors and editors of POETRY will
assemble on January the 23rd in the club rooms of "The
Cliff-Dwellers" in Chicago and celebrate the recent beginning
of the fourth year of this publication, which has been the
standard bearer of poetry a la mode in America. "Poets of
Illinois and other states will read new poems and guarantors
will, it is hoped, express their feeling about the art and the
magazine." Reservations are $2.50 a plate! Think of poets
dining at $2.50 the plate! I'd like to see those guarantors
express their feelings about the art and the magazine. Pass
the plate, please!
The third number of this new periodical of Washington's schola poetarum contains
the first installment of a series of "Silhouettes of the
City," by Harold Hersey, which are exceptional pen sketches of
everyday incidents, as we can see them "as we walk out on the
street." I find among the editorials a very good suggestion
for Vachel Lindsay to have a few of his rag-time jingles set
This newcomer among the small magazines calls itself "a
monthly magazine of truth" and is edited by Alfred E.
Henderson, of the Society of Expressionists. A dramatic
playlet by the editor "The Call of Love" contains a charming
little poem, "The Face in the Fire."
Marinetti re-christened his
painting, "The Carnival of Paris" into "The Bombardment of
the Cathedral of Rheims," by Blix, from "Simplicissimus." Bulletin of the New York
Bulletin for December, which just reached our desk contains a
list of works in the New York Public Library pertaining to
prints and their production, by Frank Weitenkampf, chief of
the Art and Prints Division. "The object of the list,
naturally and primarily, is to show what the library has of
the literature of a subject the interest in which is steadily
Otto Lohr, the editor of this literary and historical weekly,
is publishing very unique poetry in the pages of his magazine.
A poem by Prince Karolath in the current issue shows the
poet's creative genius.
The Macbeth Gallery publishes "in their own interest and the
interest of American Art" a handsome little monthly magazine
with good reproductions of paintings in their possession. Zippa, the Mosquito This is one of
the short masterpieces by Paul Scherbaart the co-editor of
"Der Sturm," the review of the small group of Futurists in
Germany, who died recently. Translated by Guido Bruno.
COME, come nearer to the lamp," gleefully exclaimed Zippa. Her
wings fluttered and two hundred little mosquitoes followed the
invitation of little Zippa, happy, joyful, without hesitation,
Under the lamp, which was covered by a green silk screen, sat
an old man eating his supper.
And there came Zippa with two hundred mosquitoes, and Zippa
felt hilarious like never before.
"Dying! Dying surely is the sweetest thing in life! How we do
wish to die! Just to die!" And all the mosquitoes repeated
With merry laughter they fluttered against the hot chimney,
and soon they lay convulsed with pain next to the supper
dishes of the old man. He wanted to kill quickly the dying
mosquitoes so that they would not suffer a long death agony.
But Zippa cried while she shook her burnt wings. "Just leave
us alone. We are happy to die — dying is so beautiful!" And
again all the dying mosquitoes repeated what Zippa had said.
And everybody was laughing — and died.
The old man continued his supper.
He was hungry. Maude: A Memory
By Guido Bruno (Continued from last issue)
had entered the room noiselessly and approached Kenneth. He
talked to him for a few seconds in a low voice.
"Courtland," said Kenneth, "Maurice informs me that one of
your office nurses would like to talk with you on a very
important matter. If you do not wish to communicate with her
just now, let me tell her so."
"It will distract my mind," answered Courtland, "I would
rather hear myself what she has to say." He went to a little
table in a corner of the library. He took the receiver from
the hook of the extension phone. He listened for several
minutes. The peaceful quietness of the room was suddenly
"What!" he shouted into the instrument and jumped from his
seat holding the receiver tightly to his ear and talking
intently info the mouthpiece. "Repeat that name! Tell Mrs.
Regan that I will be at the office presently. It will not take
longer than thirty minutes to get down there. Are there any
newspapers in the office? Don't let her see them under any
circumstances! Do you hear? Under any circumstances!" was the
abrupt sounding order Courtland gave after the nurse had
answered at the other end of the wire.
Kenneth was near his friend. He tried to look uninterested but
every fiber of his face seemed to vibrate and the big question
was written on his face. A few seconds passed in silence.
Courtland turned to his friend. He appeared calm and quiet.
His voice, tired and disinterested only a few minutes ago, had
the old metallic ring of a man possessed of his ability to
"Will you please let me have your car, Kenneth? I am sorry for
your chauffeur. I hate to discommode people when they think
they are through with their day's work."
Kenneth rang the bell, gave Maurice the order to phone to the
garage to have the car ready. After the butler had gone,
Courtland approached Kenneth. He stepped near him. He looked
into his eyes in an imperative way. "And now, Kenneth," he
said, "I invite you — unless you prefer to stay at home and
retire — to come with me and meet the woman you defended a few
minutes ago. A woman who has the face of a true ideal
companion for a man who has longed for her all his life, who
has the soul of a liar and a deceiver! She wishes to speak to
me — to me the physician. Maude Regan is waiting in my
The elevator man was asleep in a comfortable chair he had put
in the car. The halls of the big building resounded with the
footsteps of the two late visitors. Only a few electric lights
shone mistily in the corridors. Mechanically the elevator door
was shut by the sleeping guard and in no time they had arrived
at the sixteenth floor. The doors of the anteroom were open.
Courtland and Kenneth entered. They took off their coats and
hats and threw them upon the canopy. One of the nurses came
out. She whispered for a few minutes with the doctor.
Courtland's face was rigid. A severe sternness had settled on
his forehead. His eyes were hard as Kenneth had never seen
them before. He passed the door of the reception room where
she waited. He went into his own den.
Contrary to his custom he turned on the big candelabra in the
middle of the ceiling. He turned on the lights on the walls
and turned on the different lamps on the tables and on the
mantel. "I want light, Kenneth," he said, "light and truth are
friends. Dreams, darkness and twilight are always companions.
Dreams and twilight disappear; submerging in darkness, leaving
nothing behind but disappointment and despair."
He rang the bell, the nurse opened the door leading to the
operating room. "Tell Mrs. Regan I am at her disposal."
The highest tension of a peculiar dramatic climax seemed to
lie in the air of the daylight illuminated room. Comfort and
peace seemed to be everywhere. Kenneth, his back turned to the
door and to his friend, looked intently at the miniature
painting of some strange looking woman in the attire of a
court lady at the time of Louis IV. It struck him funny to
look at the severe features of the young face and he admired
the exquisite detail work of the artist who, perhaps, had
spent months to bring out the real lace effect of the Stuart
collar, draped graciously around the lady's neck. He did not
understand the strange behavior of his friend and he wished
for seconds that he might be at home in his library to finish
the book he had started early in the afternoon.
But again he recalled the helplessness of Courtland down on
Michigan Avenue in front of that jewelry store where he had
first seen that picture of the woman on that dreadful pink
page. Sympathy for the man standing there expecting to face
the hardest situation a man is ever called upon to face, swept
through his heart, and while still feeling like an intruder,
he was glad he was in the room.
She wore a black tailor-made suit The white lace ruffle around
her neck, the white lace cuffs over her black kid gloves,
relieved the somewhat severe impression of her attire. She
wore a black felt hat with a very small brim.
Courtland had forgotten to answer her greeting. He startled
her like the creation of another world. She had started to
explain her presence in his office at this late hour. She
noticed the extraordinary actions of the doctor. She stopped
in the middle of a sentence and looked helplessly back and
forth from Kenneth to Courtland, and then into Kenneth's face
whose big eyes were staring at her. Kenneth looked at his
friend, torturing his brain for some remark, a word that would
relieve the situation.