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A Philosopher Among Russian Dancers
An Interview with Adolf Bohm

THE tumult and the shouting dies, the press-men and the veils depart — and what is left? — Some cosmetic errors, the sound of the stretching of the arch of multitudinous feet and Adolf Bolm.

He it is who has discovered himself next to Najinski, now that Najinski has gone. He is the pampered, over familiar Le Negre, of the chosing of that top heavy though attractive high-hipped Zobeide. He, who is Chef guerrier of Le Prince Igor, not forgotten in Les Sylphides and still on view in La Princess Enchantee and Soleil Du Nuit.

He comes through the melieu of the Ballet with the smile of the man who suffers in three languages.

"Bakst ah, there you have not only the savage, you have also the artist. I have often thought, how dreadful to be the picture — you know what I mean? No? I shall explain. Notice the eye of the connoisseur of arts, then imagine yourself their goal. See? It is so with the costume. Therefore, I say, how dreadful to be the picture but how still more lamentable to be the costume."

"Bakst is a successful organ; he has a keen appetite, a nose for cafes, a delightful sense of humor, an impressive style of flirting. His advances are of a marked and successful nature, considering his natural inborn plainness. Of his retreats one might say they are masterly. He sails a boat and drinks tea with graceful repugnance."

"He has however one fault — ah, an immense trifle — his headgear the hoods, the turbans, the what-nots that he conceives for the heads of his disciples — Beautiful? Yes, as only ugly and vulgar things are, — but —"

He paused knocking his gold cigarette case upon his palm. "But my friend Leon forgets that in the classic arts the feet should have pre-eminence."

"Is Bakst new, is his art the art of the creator? Often I am asked that, very often I hear others asked that. There is an answer. The tragedy of man — there had been a past; the tragedy of nature — there will be a future."

"Without your yesterdays all would be great today. No, of course, Bakst is not new. Egypt may have been built on the dust of an older Egypt, Rome may have fallen once again on Rome."

"In Russia there are other Russians — better perhaps, and also, perhaps not. Bakst happened to come when he was needed, when the world was ready for him."

"It is harder, I admit, to become known for what one has not done than for what one has. Bakst took the easiest way, he became known for what he did. Not for his restraint, but for his vigor. One can say of him what Wilde said of Hall Cain — he creates at the top of his voice."

"Therefore it is that one should not say Bakst dares, one should say Bakst dares again."

"Some of his designs are purely graphic. From the mind, for the paper. These are the kinds I have reference to, when I say how painful to be the costume. I have had to outrage Bakst, because Bakst has outraged me."

"He invents, say, something he considered decorative, but imagine trying to dance entangled with all the intricacies of Bakst's mind."

"Well, we have made our concessions each to the other" he added.

When I asked him if America could appreciate Russian art he answered:

"You are not asked to understand Russia. You are asked to feel. One does not understand death, one only reacts to it."

I said that the whole production had struck most of us as art under the skin. "A matter," I added, "of gastric acoustics, arteries and undressing or over-dressing," also concluding, "but only of the kind we lament because that savage sharpness, that peasant betterness and vitality given us so richly in the literature of the Russian and in the Russian history, is missing."

"In other words they seem to be economizing on perspiration." I finished.

"He has fallen into the estate of the man who forgets that destruction is more necessary than construction. The rich perversity of a decaying flower is only transcribable in the still richer, still more perverse flare of the decaying art. The happier midways of life and death. The conception that feeds on itself, — that is the most beautiful and the most destructive. Bakst has forgotten, it seems to me, and has instead tried to make something too new, and in consequence has made it too raw. Wounds are all very well but only in that they bleed. Bakst is a wound in which the arteries refuse their waters."

Bolm shook his head "Yes and no, as the peasant says. I admit that he is not always simple. That is what I tried to point out just a few minutes ago. It is his insincerity that sometimes gets in his way, nevertheless his art is a fine thing and the world is coming to know that, and then there will be others.

"Now let me say something that touches America. You want too many doctors. Only people who go around with the assurance given by medicins could expurgate so freely your books and shave down to so fine a point, your arts. When you have ceased to have stomach troubles you will not mind the hard and healthy spleen of the children of L'Apres-Midi d'un Faune."                                                                                                                                                                            Djuna Barnes

            Whoever will be free, must make himself free:
    freedom is no fairy's gift to fall into any man's lap.

                                        Friedrich Nietzsche

London Letter
London Office of BRUNO'S WEEKLY,
                                      18 St. Charles Square, New Kensington
                                                                                                January 10th

IN my letter this week I must give you some Irish news, for I have been spending a few days over in Dublin and the vicinity. I paid a visit to the Irish poet, Joseph Campbell, who lives out at Enniskerry, in the Wicklow Hills. Going down in the train from Harcourt Street station, I looked at Synge's, In Wicklow and West Kerry. It was in Wicklow that the author of the Playboy picked up so much of that picturesque mixture of folklore, racy idiom and incident which make the quality of his comedies. "A great country for tramps," he says, "and for tinkers. The abundance of these folk has often been regretted, yet in one sense it is an interesting sign, for wherever the laborer has preserved his vitality and begets an occasional temperament of distinction, a certain number of vagrants are to be looked for."

Driving through this gray and rather desolate country-side and coming across the low snuggling inns or the country 'characters' in the lanes, one could not escape thinking of Synge at work with his fine mind among this peasantry and tinkerdom. I could picture to myself how he did it, and when we passed one old fellow, whose face suggested a wealth of racy reminiscences by its character and quaintness I said, "Now if we were Synge we would stand that old fellow a drink and draw him out."

"And well amused he would keep us, too," my friend replied.

Passing through this Wicklow country revealed Synge to me in a new way. I saw how lonely and miserable the poor fellow must have been in spite of all the glamor and courage he has put into his pages.

Campbell is well known in America, I fancy, as the author of Irishry, The Gilly of Christ, The Man Child, etc., and many lyrics in Miss Harriet Monroe's Poetry. He is one of the most vigorous figures of the younger Irish school, and has added his name to the list of authors who have written plays for the celebrated Abbey Theater. Campbell feels strongly on the subject of the modern Irish theater. He told me he believed that one might say that the Abbey, considered as an art theater, was dead. It has worked out its ideal and there was no fresh one arising. The plays that are produced there now are only comedies or satires. It is true that they are given in rather a better spirit than at the ordinary commercial theater, but that is all. Of all the plays produced there, only those by Yeats and Synge will last. The point that Campbell particularly made was that what Ireland wanted at present most of all in her theater was the drama of beauty. And that of course is very true, not only of Ireland, but of any country. Slightly pessimistic as such intimations are, it is plain that as an art producing country Ireland is at the moment superior to England.

A visit to the Abbey — so often heard of yet never seen — confirmed my views. There were two pieces — The Suburban Groove, by W. F. Casey, a young man I remember meeting in London some years ago, and a new playlet, Fraternity, by Bernard Duffy.

One has heard so much of the Abbey Theater — it is a little Bayreuth of modern English theatrical art — that to visit it for the first time is quite exciting. It was once a courthouse of some kind, my friend tells me, and the interior of the building preserves still a little of the judicial sternness. It is very severe; the proscenium admirable in black and gold lines against a dull white. A few bronze escutcheons rise in high relief from the walls. It is all very simple and unpretentious. The audience contains a much greater proportion of young men than one would find at any time in a London theater. Obviously, theater going is differently regarded here. The seats are very cheap and we sit in the cheapest — my companion, a young Irish painter, and myself.

The Suburban Grooves proves charming. It is a volatile trifle, a comedy of suburban manners, delicately written and delicately acted and admirably true to life. Yet it would not stand a chance at the commercial theater. It would be too simple, too natural. The whole play has nothing remarkable about it except that fact that it is a genuine little play, written for the love of the thing, by a whole man who had not sold himself to the devil. The novelty of the evening proved to be very amusing, too. It was a satire on the Ancient Order of Hibernians. To judge by the comments around me it did not seem to please the audience very much.

To turn to English news, Thomas Beecham has been made a knight and Henry James has been given the Order of Merit. Decorations are always showered in England at the New Year upon a number of people who have spent the previous twelve months, or longer, deserving them. Sir Thomas Beecham has done a good deal for music in England if not for English music. Indeed, his work has been chiefly in connection with Russian opera and ballet. The name Beecham is closely connected with those delightful evenings we used to spend in the great gallery of Covent Garden or Drury Lane a couple of years ago. That was the full flowering of an art form which a year or so earlier in the less gross atmosphere of Paris had blossomed most perfectly. Behind all that fantasy and luxuriance were the hard lives and the little realized ideals of the Russian composers Mousorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakoff and the brethren of the famous Band. They dreamed their dream of a Russian national music in St. Petersburg about 1860, and about fifty years later their art expanded to its fullest. By the way, an excellent little book on modern Russian music appeared here some short time ago by Montagu-Nathan. Lane, I think, is the publisher.
                                                                                                  Edward Storer

Eternal Minutes

By Guido Bruno
(Continued from last issue)

"Well, I gave her up. I gave it all up. I didn't have the heart to induce her to give up the surroundings she loved. I know she would have been willing to do the conventional thing but I didn't dare do it. I loved her so much. I sacrificed everything for her sake. Life is worthless for me. I'll never see her again and I'll never again feel warmth in my heart I'll never see her again in my life and I shall long for her until I die."

"I might be happy at that . . . if it is happiness: the consciousness of my self-sacrifice."

The man with a sad, resigned face looked forlornly out into the darkness. There was a long silence. His companion did not move. It seemed an eternity, but it surely lasted an hour. Neither did his companion take his eyes away from the face of the man who was speaking. He seemed to try to read his mind and look deep into his heart. He was studying the features of his face and making comparisons.

And suddenly all the relaxation disappeared. He seemed active, dynamic. He lay back in the garden chair. He stretched his legs and arms, conscious of his strength. There was a vigorous exhalation from his powerful lungs that blew out the light.

. . . "Fool! . . . I would have taken her. I would have made only one appointment with her and that would have lasted for life. I would have made her forget her surroundings and her furniture. I would have made her sit with me in my lonely quarters. I would have passed to her a part of my own dish. I would have brought her happiness in return. I would have sacrificed everything but her, and conscious of that I would have been happy."

A glaring white lightning parted the dark skies. Thunder resounded from all corners of the earth. Heavy drops of an unexpected rain beat against the roof. The two men hurried back to the big lighted house.

A Little Tale by Feodor Sologub
Translated by John Coumos
Captive Death

A LONG time ago there lived a brave and invincible Knight.

One day he happened to capture Death herself.

He brought her to his strong castle, and put her in a cell.

Death sat there — and people ceased to die.

Thp Knight was overjoyed, and thought:

"Now it is well, but it is rather a worry to keep a watch on her. Perhaps it would be better to destroy her altogether."

But the Knight was a very just man — he could not kill her without judgment.

He went to the cell, and, passing before the small window, he said :

"Death, I want to cut your head off — you've done a lot of harm upon the earth."

But Death was silent.

The Knight continued:

"I'll give you a chance — defend yourself if you can. What have you to say for yourself?"

And Death answered:

"I'll say nothing just yet; let Life put in a word for me."

And the Knight suddenly saw Life standing beside him; she was a robust and red-cheeked but expressionless woman.

And she began to say such brazen and ungodly things that caused the invincible brave Knight to tremble, and he made haste to open the cell.

Death went out — and men began to die once more. The Knight himself died when his time came — and he told no one upon the earth what that expressionless, brazen woman, Life, had said to him.
                                    From "The Egoist," London

Balkan Stories
The End

"IN Our Village" a Turkish officer said to me, "we have no graveyard."

"But where do you bury . . . ?"

Interrupting my question he said:

"Our people are always shot or hung somewhere else."


ON the morning of my departure from Constantinople I gave the letter carrier who had brought my letters during my sojourn here, half a medshid as a tip.

In the afternoon a man came up to me and said: "My lord, I am a stranger to you. You never received a telegram. But may it please you to know that I am the telegraph messenger. May it please you to know that it was up to me to deliver telegrams to you, if such had been received for you in our office. I surely would have brought them to you most quickly. I know you will be just and you will not harm a man who has always been ready to serve you; I cannot be blamed that I have never been called upon to be of service to you. I too deserve half a medshid."


IT is widely known what an interesting way King Nicholas once knew to get hold of half a million in ready cash. He sent a trusted man to Triest addressing to him continuously postal money orders from Cetinje. The trusted man received payment for his money orders at the Austrian post office and returned home with the cash to the Black Mountains. King Nicholas never reimbursed the Austrian postal government This episode caused a good deal of talk about the postal conditions in Montenegro.

Before I left for Cetinje my friends asked me not to forget to bring back Montenegran postage stamps of all denominations I could get obtain. At the post office of Cetinje the clerk gave me stamps in the denominations of one, two, three, five, ten and twenty heller. "But should you also wish stamps for fifty heller apiece," he said, "you will have to go up to the palace and see the king. The fifty-heller stamps are being kept in His Majesty's private cash box."
                                        After the German of Roda Roda, by Guido Bruno

God Save the King!

    SCREAMING in agonies of Hell
        The volunteer from Dublin fell.
    The lead tore hotly at his gaping lung
    A withering thirst choked thick his blackening tongue.

    And yet, when later in the day
    They found the muddy hole in which he lay,
    He smiled up at the surgeon at his side.
    "Hero or fool?" he questioned, then he died.
                                        Tom Sleeper

Lions' Roars

By D. Molby

WHENEVER one is out in a kind of desert country, at night, where there are some lions and one of them is roaring, one is likely to get quite a fright. If the lion roars as loud as he can, one can hear him a long ways. How far, depends on what kind of a night it is and on whether he is back in some hills or is on the front of one. If it is a clear night and there is a moon and the lion is standing on a rock that looks out over a valley, the sounds will go several miles before they stop.

The reason he can roar loud is that his neck is big and his vocal cords are strong and his chest powerful. When he roars and the echoes come back, he knows that he has every other animal for miles around scared so bad that he can't move. He is the king of beasts and he wants them to know it. And the vibrations in his chest and the firmness in his legs bring him the conciousness of his power.

When he roars this way, he makes the Earth tremble under his feet, or if he is on a rock, it jars the rock. The night is his and the hills are his, and he rules them with his roar.

Prithee, To What Purpose?

THE speckled hen in the back yard scratches, feeds, and lays an egg which is destined to become a speckled hen which in the back yard scratches, feeds, and lays an egg which is destined to become a speckled hen which in the back yard scratches, feeds, and lays an egg which is . . . . an egg . . . become . . . feeds . . . speckled . . . .
                                        Tom Sleeper

A Dream

IN heaven a white-robed angel laid aside his harp and going to the Lord, said, "Father, I would sleep again."
Tenderly smiling, the Almighty replied, "It is permitted."
On that morning a child was born.
                                                        Karl M. Sherman

Kipling Drawing
Original drawing by Rudyard Kipling (Size reduced)

From the Collection of Mr. Patrick Madigan

War and Books

THERE is an intimate relation between war and books. This may not be apparent because the effect does not follow the cause immediately. Nor directly. The Welt-geist is prodigal of means when the end is not in sight. It accounts to no one. And it has plenty of time.

That there is an intimate relation between wars and books is evidenced in the nature and amount of literature after the conquests of Julius Cæsar. After the struggle of Russia with Poland. After the French Revolution. And after our own two greater wars.

The conditions governing the output of books in these several instances are so varied as to preclude the possibility that the mere vitality of periods of reconstruction could fertilize a barren soil of letters.

It is true that Rome was rich during her Golden Age. And America by sheer force of her natural resources, was prosperous after her two wars. But the increased confidence due to restoration of order following disturbed conditions, as little explains the most brilliant period of Latin literature and the sudden leaps in American cultural activities, as it accounts for the great dramas of poverty stricken Russia or the famous novels of a bankrupt French republic.

Just what happens one can never know.

It is as simple and natural, doubtless, as the change of a larva to a pupa. And as the transformation of the pupa to a winged butterfly. Metamorphoses are effected in darkness and under conditions that preclude observation.

But at least something like this occurs.

During war times the voice of the people is heard. Petty differences are forgotten. Men gather in the streets and shout in unison. They hiss and they cheer. And at each explosion there can be no doubt as to whether it is a hiss or a cheer.

And it follows that in the white heat of some noble excitement a pamphlet is printed. Some individual writes it but the people have created it. And in passion and in exaltation songs are struck off.

Everybody reads the pamphlets and everybody sings the songs. They are active, timely, popular. That is to say that both these expressions of a feeling — pamphlets and songs — came from the people and are again absorbed by them.

This is creation, fecundation, germination.

After peace is declared these songs are forgotten. The pamphlets once sold at a penny are exchanged for dollars in auction rooms, as curiosities. Maybe as historical evidence. But the folk idea behind the little book and the verses live in the people. It grows and spreads.

After a while a restlessness is generally apparent. A feverishness that means a generally diffused desire for expression of something not yet clearly defined.

A hundred poets and writers, too feeble to make the sound that can be heard and the gesture that can be seen, try to embody concretely what everybody feels is in the air. The ninety and nine fail.

Then come the men that will be heard: Marcus Aureius, Sienkiewicz, Zola. And for us the poets and novelists that wrote between our wars and after them, whose sentiments can be traced: pamphlets of Franklin and Payne. And to those of the abolitionists.

Uncle Tom's Cabin and the more pretentious poems of the standard American poets are reflexes of and reactions from war feeling. And who can estimate the number of novels related to each other by kindred sentiments that were inspired by recorded expressions of popular feeling during the civil war? The tragedy of brothers meeting face to face in opposing battle array: the horror that an agricultural people would feel at the shooting of a spy: the beauty of reconciliation. These were the themes of the novels and poems.

As to just what will be the general trend of the literature that will record the true feeling in these days when our news stands are overflowing with extra war editions, it would be interesting to speculate.

Doubtless, horror of the incredible spectacle of the foremost nations sacrificing human lives by the thousand in the name of the Almighty, to uphold an abstraction, prejudices all our conclusions.

But it's safe to say that no sentiment in the present crisis will inspire a woman to write a Battle Hymn of the Republic.
                            Cora Bennett Stephenson

Books and Magazines of the Week

A very interesting pamphlet was sent to us by C. Alphonso Smith, Edgar Allan Poe, Professor of the University of Virginia. It is called "Ballads Surviving in the United States" and it appeared in the Musical Quarterly, 1916. Professor Smith, its author, was Roosevelt Professor in Germany several years ago and wrote at that time the only authentic history of contemporary American Literature extant in the German language. He is writing at present a biography of O. Henry which will clear up a good deal of the mystery and the fantastic stories connected with the personal life of America's greatest short-story writer.

"Every student of folk-lore has noticed that the last few years have witnessed a remarkable revival of interest in the folk-song. This interest has not been confined to the United States, but is probably more manifest in the United States because it has here assumed its most definite form. The American people, not having the rich store of antique ballads found, for example, in Germany or Scandinavia or Serbia or Spain, have gone zealously to work to collect the ballads that drifted across with their forebears from England and Scotland and Ireland. The Bureau of Education in Washington issued a bulletin in January 1914, containing a list of the three hundred and five English and Scottish ballads and urged the teachers of the United States to form ballad societies in each state for the purpose of finding and thus rescuing these valuable folk-songs before it is too late."

The Cheerful Liar
New York has a new paper. It guarantees that:

"it can lie better than any other newspaper published. We are Champion Liars. If the public is foolish enough to spend their money for a bunch of unreliable news, we propose to get into the game also and get some of the coin. We are honest about it and tell you by the name of this newspaper what you can expect. There is no attempt made to obtain your money under false pretenses. Only our advertisement columns are genuine. They all guarantee their goods to be as represented."

There is just one exception I would take with its editor. Where is the cheerfulness in their lying?

Bookplates of John E. and Samuel Pepys

Howard C. Levis' new work dealing with the somewhat humorous passages in the diaries and correspondence of the two famous seventeenth-century virtuosi, John Evelyn and Samuel Pepys, which touch on the subject of engraving, will be published shortly by Messrs. Ellis. There are chapters on Evelyn's own etchings on the bookplates and bookstamps of the two diarists, on their portraits and the portraits of their wives and on the frontispieces and illustrations of their works, together with a short bibliography and an index.

Der Sturm

The editorial staff of this organ of the small futuristic group of German internationalists suffered another loss, as I see by the last issue, which just reached our desk. August Stramm, the poet whose works created such a sensation in England just before the outbreak of the war, upon their appearance in English translation, was the victim of a hostile bullet, in the Belgian trenches.

The New Review

The New Review Publishing Association, which publishes the "New Review," the theoretical magazine of American Socialism, announces its entrance into the book publishing field. Its purpose is to publish books dealing with current events and problems.

In Our Village

THE 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 and doing his best . . . . 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 magazines and commercial purposes, and I am not thinking of imitators 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 the 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 a 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 sort of production everybody seems to aim at 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?

The exhibition of paintings, marine scenes and forest scenes, including portraits of Abraham Lincoln and of Nancy Hanks, Lincoln's mother, by Captain George Edward Hall, will continue on the walls of Bruno's Garret until the last days in January.

A group of Russian artists will have a joint exhibition of their work from February 3rd to February 10th. They comprise impressions of everyday life, landscapes and portraits.

Sadakichi Hartmann is back home in East Aurora. Keeping dates is something unknown to him and engagements are always optional with him reserving himself the right to cancel whenever he should see fit to do so. But this time really serious illness prevented him from reading his "Christ" in Bruno's Garret as announced.

Monday, February 7th, is set aside for a poetry reading of H. Thompson Rich, whose war poems, "The Red Shame" found favor in the eyes of editors all over the country, evidenced by their various reprints in newspapers and magazines. The reading will start at 8 :15. Admission by ticket only.

Tom Sleeper, well-known to the readers of these pages, is living at present in the seclusion of the New Jersey mountains and plains and only rarely descends to the regions of our village. He has promised for the near future a few of his "Pastels in Prose," which are really gems, set in platinum — even though he claims that nobody outside of himself knows their real meaning.

The Candlestick Tearoom, right around the corner from The Thimble Theatre, has put new shades on all its candles — some very interesting silhouettes which look very much like life.

Charles Edison's Little Thimble Theatre

A Performance On Ellis Island

THE Thimble Theatre went a traveling last week. The entire ensemble of last Saturday night followed an invitation of chief clerk, Augustus Sherman, of Ellis Island, and repeated the performance for the benefit of the immigrants detained at present on Ellis Island. More than four hundred men, women and children from all parts of the world listened to the music, this international language of humankind which finds its way to heart and soul and was reflected in the faces of all those whom the United States did not welcome to her shores. There were well-dressed men and women of Northern Europe right next to the mannish, hard-set faces of Russian peasant women. Next to a countenance upon which was written the simplicity of mind sat a man whom you would not wish to meet at night in a dark alley. There were hosts of children, of all ages. Mr. Sherman explained that some of his charges had been ordered deported as far back as eighteen months ago, but on account of the present European complications most of the orders cannot be carried out. The people seem happy and contented as much as they can expect to be, with the uncertainty of their fate hovering above their heads.

The Sunday afternoon concerts are held in a building whose size is similar to that of an armory. The acoustics are rather bad, but the audience was very appreciative and the artists did their best to add a few pleasant hours to the lives of these poor, involuntary residents of the Island. Especially the Irish Ballads sung by Miss Foster and the folk songs by Miss Edens evoked the enthusiasm of the listeners. Mr. Keeler's recitation of children's poems and nursery rhymes, with his phonetic interpretation of sounds dear to the ears of the little ones, which evidently must be the same all over the world, gathered around him girls and boys who wanted each time just a little bit more and his recitation lasted quite longer than had been intended.

The concert on the Diamond Disc, a selection of operatic airs in several languages, old hymns and chorals, concluded the program. It was amusing to watch the little ones seated in the first rows and nearest to the instrument. They didn't know where the voices and the music came from and it is doubtful if their parents, whom they questioned wonderingly, were able to give a proper answer.

The Sunday afternoon concert, one of the many humanitarian innovations Mr. Sherman has put into effect, is looked forward to eagerly by the detained immigrants; this is one more proof that music, good music, finds a quick repsonse in the heart of every human being, even if he doesn't know the technical meaning of what he hears and of what appeals to him.

This Week's Performances

A piano recital by Miss Sarah Shapiro, a young artist from Waterbury, Conn., will be not only interesting as an interpretation of some of the best music of Rachmaninoff, of Chopin and of Mendelsohn, but on account of her playing for the first time before a public audience compositions of her own. Miss Shapiro is known as a concert artist in her home town but wishes to enter upon a New York career.

Mrs. Lila Collins will sing "Aria-Enfant Prodigue" by Debussey, "Dearest" by Homer, and "Spring Morning" by Wilson, as a selection of her repertoire very highly appreciated in the West and the Middle West, where she is well-known as a concert singer. Recently she came East and her appearance this week in the Thimble Theatre will be her first attempt to conquer the New York public.

Richard T. D. Stott, a concert singer for some time is preparing for a career in light musical comedy (operetta), where he will have a chance to do both singing and dancing. Among the numbers in his repertoire for this week are, "O du, Mein Holder Abendstern" by Wagner, "Mother Machree" by C. Olcott and Ernest R. Ball, and "A Song of Sleep" by Lord Henry Somerset.

The Story of Oscar Wilde's Life and Experience in Reading Gaol

By His Warder

I am indebted for this story to Mr. Patrick F. Madigan, who has the original, in the handwriting of Oscar Wilde's warder, and also the two manuscripts mentioned in this story.

"The only task Wilde was put to was to act as 'schoolmaster's orderly,' which was in the nature of a great privilege, for it meant that he could take charge of the books and go round with them to other prisoners, besides having the pick of the literature for himself. Strange as it may seem considering his literary bent, he failed to accomplish even this task satisfactorily."

"Chiefly he remained in his cell occupied with his books, of which in his cell he had a large supply, consisting of poetic works and foreign authors. On his table was always a manuscript book — full of writing in some foreign language — French or Italian I believe, and Wilde often seemed satisified writing in this."

"I think this must have been 'De Proftmdis' — the work of self-analysis that has just been published."

"His hair was always kept closely cut until about five months before his discharge, and I remember when he was told that it need not be prison-cropped any more owing to his impending release, how pleased he seemed. And he was a man who so seldom lifted his bowed head of shame to smile."

"Wilde was superstitious to a degree, and I recall one striking incident that proved his superstitious fears to be well grounded."

"I was sweeping the walls of his cell, for he seldom followed the prison regulations with regard to scrupulously cleansing his cell daily, and I disturbed a spider which darted across the door."

"As it made off I raised my foot and killed it, when I saw Wilde looking at me with eyes of horror."

" 'It brings bad luck to kill a spider,' he said. 'I shall hear worse news than any I have yet heard.' "

"At the time I paid little attention to it, but the following morning he received the news that his mother, whom he had deeply loved and honored, had died, and that his shame had hastened her end."

"The saddest story I know of Wilde was one day when his solicitor called to see him to get his signature, I think, to some papers in the divorce proceedings then being instituted by his wife — a suit which, of course, Wilder did not defend.
(To be Continued)

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